This past week, the National Guard was called into Los Angeles to deal with “illegal aliens … criminals … and insurrectionist mobs,” according to U.S. President Donald J. Trump, in a post on Truth Social on June 8. In the same post, he promised that “Order will be restored, the Illegals will be expelled, and Los Angeles will be set free.”
Now, there is much to say about the president’s post, the protests in Los Angeles, the use of the National Guard and the question of state sovereignty. But I am neither a constitutional lawyer nor a politician, and while I have thoughts on these matters, I am neither qualified nor equipped to speak on them with any authority, let alone write about them in print. I am, however, a writer, poet, and pastor who spends a lot of my professional time with words, their meanings, and the ways we make sense of the world through language. So, when I read the president’s post, what struck me seemed, at first, innocuous — but upon further review, proved to be more than an issue of grammar.
Some might dismiss it as a typo, but I believe it was intentional. “The Illegals,” with a capital “I,” is not just poor grammar; it’s a rhetorical maneuver. In English, capitalization turns a general noun into a proper one — a name for a specific group or identity or person(s).
With a single press of the shift key, the president created a new kind of person: an Illegal.
It’s subtle, but it aligns with his broader rhetoric in which undocumented migrants are cast not as individuals, but as a lesser class, an anonymous, threatening mass. Nevermind that the Constitution enshrines due process for all “persons,” not just citizens. The issue at stake is the weaponization of language, language that strips people of their dignity and ultimately obscures the image of God that is their unique right.
The imago Dei is introduced at the onset of the biblical narrative. It asserts that humanity is made in the image of God, that all humans are to be treated as the divine image, regardless of nationality, citizenship status, or social category. All reflect something of God’s nature and are therefore worthy of dignity and care. Theologically speaking, the whole of humanity is the Imago Dei. In essence, “man is not an isolated individual but a person—an essentially relational being,” in the words of the International Theological Commission.
Our humanity is not simply a quality possessed by individuals, but a gift shared with the entire human race, each of us together bearing in our bodies the likeness and image of God, both in our personhood and in our shared life. To name someone “Illegal,” to reduce their identity to a legal status, is not only politically dangerous but also a theological failure. It is a dehumanizing act, essentializing their legal status at the expense of their God-given dignity.
The moment we reframe someone as something other than human, we legitimize the violence and inhumanity committed against them. We can strip them of rights like due process because, in demonizing them, we justify our dehumanization of them. Language becomes a powerful tool for all would-be oppressors: If you can call someone an animal, you justify treating them like animals. If you turn protestors into invaders, then you justify military force.
Mexican American, New York City pastor, and Los Angeles native Raul Sandoval III, reflecting on the ICE raids and Trump’s rhetoric, told me that “power warps our perspective. It transforms how people see themselves and others.”
And this is how it is felt and internalized by some of the Latino community in America. I also spoke with David Lopez, a Latino pastor to a predominantly Latino congregation in NYC, who highlighted the impact rhetoric like Trump’s has had on his community:
Even after countless contributions to American life, endless sacrifice, denying parts of ourselves to fit into the American mold, moments like this point to a sin deeper than the desire for security. This is hatred.
But if language is as powerful as we are arguing here, then the inverse is also true: The moment you recognize someone’s humanity, the moment you call someone neighbor, you are then bound to treat them as such. This doesn’t change because someone has a criminal record or an expired visa. Even then, we consider these facts in light of their humanity, not despite it. And yet, throughout history, we have found new and creative ways to turn our neighbors into unrecognizable others.
We have twisted language and weaponized rhetoric to serve our agendas, capitulating to the zero-sum games of powers and principalities.
Ironically, without the imago Dei, something like a democratic society where equality is normative is impossible. As Rowan Williams has argued:
Persons and minority groups of persons need to be recognized as belonging to the same moral and civic world as the majority, whatever differences or disagreements there may be. And I want to argue that a proper consideration of human rights has a better chance of sustaining its case if it begins from the recognition of a common dignity or worthiness of respect among members of a community.
In other words, our civic society is predicated on the idea that we all share in the imago Dei, that we are not simply an amalgamation of competing claims, but one family, expressed in a myriad of diversities and bound together inexorably by the image of God. This is why Jesus calls us to love our neighbor. Our neighbor is our neighbor regardless of origin, they are any person we find ourselves proximate to, neighbors because we share in the common life of image bearers.
In his potent treatise on Christian love Kierkegaard expands on this brilliantly:
Men think that it is impossible for a human being to love his enemies, for enemies are hardly able to endure the sight of one another. Well, then, shut your eyes—and your enemy looks just like your neighbor.
In light of this, any language that excludes someone from the demands of neighbor love is antithetical to the language of the cross, the crucified King, and the new human family born through his sacrifice. Human persons are not reducible to any myriad of qualities we might try to make essential to their nature; what is most essential about any human is that they share in the divine image and are in all circumstances worthy of that dignity.
The weaponization of language in our political rhetoric is, ultimately, a failure of imagination, a desecration of the divine image, and an inability to envision a world where the dignity of the other is not seen as a threat but as an invitation — a generous gift. If we cannot, in our language, acknowledge our shared humanity, then what hope is there for our civic society? But if we can reclaim the sacred dignity of every person, if we choose words that build rather than divide, then there remains a chance for healing, justice, and true community.
Neighbor is a far better name than Illegal.
