The Quietest Outcry: Reverend William Barber and the Prayer That Was Too Much
We live in times when a silent prayer in the halls of power is seen as a threat. Times when even words of faith, carried by a weary, upright man, are surrounded by uniformed officers, as if they were an uprising, not a plea.
On the afternoon of April 28, 2025, as heavy light fell upon the columns of the U.S. Capitol Rotunda, Reverend William Barber knelt down. Together with Reverend Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove and Steve Swayne, director of the St. Francis Springs Prayer Center, he began to pray. Within minutes, they were encircled by dozens of police officers, plastic handcuffs at the ready.
They prayed in turns, their voices rising like a faint breeze against a wall of suspicion:
"Against the conspiracy of cruelty, we plead for the power of your mercy."
As the police moved closer, Barber declared:
"When we cannot depend on the courts or the legislative power of human beings, we can still depend on the power of your love, your mercy, and your truth."
It took only fifteen minutes before they were arrested. Three men, three prayers — and a government so fragile that it could not withstand the whisper of justice.
While it is not unusual for demonstrators to be arrested inside the Capitol, this time the response was dramatically severe: after verbal warnings, police cleared the entire Rotunda, locked the doors, and expelled even credentialed journalists, cutting off any view of what was unfolding. Reporters and visitors were instructed to leave the entire floor.
Barber, who suffers from a chronic illness that limits his mobility, later described his interaction with the officers as "cordial," although the ordeal left him in significant physical pain. His detention was brief, but the significance of his arrest reverberated far beyond the marble walls of the Capitol.
Because this was not about noise. It was not about disruption.
It was about a stubborn, silent prayer against a Republican-led budget that would strip millions of their basic protections — a budget threatening access to Medicaid, social programs, and school meals.
Barber, founder of the Center for Public Theology and Public Policy at Yale Divinity School, had earlier spoken from the steps of the Supreme Court, marking the launch of a new phase of his "Moral Monday" movement: weekly protests, rooted in the conviction that silence is complicity.
"If their foolish budget plans could strip healthcare from 36 million people ... if they would take school lunches from millions of poor children ... if they refuse to raise the minimum wage to $16 an hour — then we must pray: God, give us the courage to stand!" Barber had cried at a "Hands Off" rally earlier in April.
And again in the Rotunda, he lamented:
"To think that we came into the Capitol to pray — to pray against a budget, yes, but still to pray — and now prayer is treated as a violation of the rules. If we do not stand for justice now, soon there may be no voice left to hear."
The police defended their actions: demonstrations in congressional buildings are prohibited, they said — including sitting, kneeling, group praying, singing, or chanting. Even the press, they insisted, had no right to remain during an unauthorized event inside the Rotunda.
Yet the contrast was glaring: in March 2023, far-right musician and activist Sean Feucht led a worship service in the very same space, joined by lawmakers like Lauren Boebert. No arrests were made then.
Why are some allowed to pray and others not? Wilson-Hartgrove asked after his release.
"I pray as part of my pastoral responsibility."
The arrest of Barber was even more striking given that just days earlier, President Donald Trump had announced a "Task Force on Anti-Christian Bias" at the Department of Justice, led by Pam Bondi.
"How can a government claiming to protect Christians arrest a man like Barber for praying?" asked Anthea Butler, professor of religion at the University of Pennsylvania.
Reverend Paul Raushenbush of the Interfaith Alliance added:
"They aren't interested in protecting Christians — only those Christians who are loyal to Trump."
The rally preceding the prayer session was organized by Barber’s group, Repairers of the Breach. Speakers included Teresa Hord Owens (Christian Church, Disciples of Christ), Sheila Katz (National Council of Jewish Women), Imam Talib Shareef (Masjid Muhammad), and Marc Morial (National Urban League), who condemned the devastating effects the proposed budget would have on women, children, and workers.
But for Barber, it was never merely about statistics or policy lines. It was about the soul of a nation.
"Someone must speak. Someone must oppose this budget."
He marched with clergy from the Supreme Court to the Capitol, determined to remind the people's house whom it was meant to serve. Dozens of officers were already stationed at the entrance before he arrived.
Thus, April 28 did not simply become a day of arrests.
It became a silent uprising — against a new definition of loyalty that tolerates faith only when it serves the powerful.
Barber himself left no doubt:
"Just as Jesus overturned the tables of the money changers, we must be willing to put our bodies on the line to awaken the nation. Not for the sake of being arrested — but to arrest the attention of a country that is forgetting its soul."
And as the dome of the Capitol gleamed in the fading sunlight, something lingered in the shadows of its columns:
the echo of a prayer, stronger than the chains meant to silence it.
posted by Rainer Hoffman
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