I rarely wear a shirt with a clerical collar — or anything else that indicates I’m ordained clergy. In my little Mennonite congregation, everyone knows I’m their pastor, and besides, among the priesthood of all believers, we are all called, and I don’t want to look pretentious.

But when a colleague from another church asked me to join her for a prayer vigil outside the Immigration and Customs Enforcement facility in Broadview, Ill., on Oct. 3, I understood the assignment. I put on a cross necklace and dug a clerical shirt out of the back of my dresser drawer. And I prepared a borrowed gas mask, just in case.

For nearly 20 years, a small group of mostly Catholic Christians has gathered to pray outside the Broadview ICE building, located just outside Chicago, every Friday morning. But since September, when the president authorized the Operation Midway Blitz immigration enforcement initiative focused on the greater Chicagoland area, those faithful few have been joined by many others alarmed about the unjust and often terrifying treatment of our immigrant neighbors.

An eclectic crew of several hundred protesters gathered that morning, mostly congregating near the gates where ICE vehicles enter and exit the facility. Musicians with drums, horns and an accordion led chants and songs only a few feet from military veterans and Jewish and Christian prayer circles. Others carried signs and flags.

I’m sure it took all the self-discipline the protesters could muster to remain nonviolent in the face of the violent system on display. We were loud. Many shouted expletives. But the people at Broadview that morning — even the angriest of protesters — understood that we were going to be goaded to react. We remained firm, but we did not throw things, deface property, touch officers or display weapons.

At first, it was just Illinois state police, armed with crowd-control batons and riot masks, who lined both sides of the street, keeping the road clear for vehicles. But by about 9 a.m., ICE officers, as well as other militarized federal agents, including Customs and Border Patrol and the Federal Bureau of Prisons, joined their ranks, and the tension rose.

Drones buzzed just above our heads, pausing briefly every few seconds to aim their cameras at individuals in the crowd. The gunner in the turret of a BearCat armored military vehicle pointed his weapon at the protesters.

While most of the ICE SUVs entering and exiting the facility had their dark-tinted windows rolled up, one ICE agent looked me in the eye and smirked as he aimed his weapon at me through the rolled-down rear window. The militarized officers began to push the crowd back and up onto the lawn behind us, and the air turned electric.

I prayed as I stood on the curb, toe-to-toe with a guy wearing a bulletproof vest and a gas mask. As I prayed, I remembered my collared shirt was not a costume. I was every bit as much in uniform, signaling my allegiance, as the man in front of me.

This fall, hundreds of Chicagoans have been abducted. Many — including U.S. citizens — are living here legally. ICE and Border Patrol agents tackled, zip-tied and detained a member of our city council inside a hospital while she was checking on one of her constituents who had suffered a broken leg when ICE agents chased him.

They’ve targeted schools at drop-off and pick-up times, sometimes with pepper spray on hand. In the middle of the night, they detained dozens of residents of an apartment building as they conducted a military-style raid that included rappelling from helicopters onto the roof of the building. Crying children were zip-tied and separated from their families in the process.

In my neighborhood, when neighbors are detained or abducted by ICE, our neighborhood rapid response network is activated. Volunteers — including many people from Living Water Community Church, my congregation — rush to the scene to help however we can: We support any vulnerable people, record video of the incident and blow the whistles that thousands of us now carry to alert anyone within earshot that ICE is present. Volunteers patrol the blocks around all the neighborhood schools, watching for ICE and helping children and families get home safely.

Shortly before our morning worship service on Oct. 12, we got word that ICE had detained a neighbor about two blocks from our meetinghouse. Rapid responders, including several members of Living Water, rushed to the scene. Throughout Sunday morning, as ICE vehicles circled the neighborhood, hundreds of people, including many U.S.-born members of Living Water, patrolled the streets, warning and protecting our neighbors. They joined with other volunteers to form a human chain around St. Jerome’s, a predominantly Latino Catholic church a few blocks away. Meanwhile, Living Water’s children and our many vulnerable immigrant adults remained inside our meetinghouse, praying for the safety of all.

One of the things I love best about Jesus is that he lived among us in a human body. “This is my body, given for you,” he taught us to repeat every time we share the Lord’s Supper. Following Jesus isn’t just an intellectual or spiritual exercise, it’s embodied. Right now, as some of our neighbors are experiencing the brutality of a regime that is scapegoating immigrants, the body of Christ is here. We who offer our allegiance to Jesus stand here, too.

Kristin Loeks Jackson is pastor of Living Water Community Church, a Mennonite congregation in Chicago.