ICE

When a Word Turns Cold

We are living in a time when the word ICE has taken on a whole new meaning.

Not long ago, if I said the word ice, you might have thought of a cold drink on a summer day, a frozen pond beneath winter skies, or even the brilliance of finely cut diamonds. The word carried chill, yes—but also beauty, refreshment, stillness.

But words can be reshaped. And this one has been hardened.

Today, ICE no longer melts easily on the tongue. It is spoken in whispers and shouts. It has become synonymous with fear and flight, with masked men and unmarked vans, with pursuit and disappearance. It echoes with images we once promised ourselves belonged only to history books and black-and-white documentaries.

What we are witnessing feels unreal—like a scene pulled from a horror film. Men running through streets. People seized not for what they have done, but for how they look, how they sound, how they speak. It feels cinematic. But this is no movie.

And yet, perhaps life is a kind of moving picture—one long or short unfolding scene—where we are all cast into roles we did not audition for. Some are forced into the role of the victim. Others willingly step into the role of the antagonist. And many of us sit quietly in the dark, hoping the scene will pass, wishing we could change the channel, walk out of the theater, or simply cover our eyes.

But when we open them again, we are still here. And the darkness is still present.

We have read about cruelty before. We have studied persecution in distant lands and distant centuries. We have watched documentaries and shaken our heads, telling ourselves, “Never again.”

And yet here we are.

For all its contradictions and broken promises, we were taught to believe that something called the Constitution stood as a moral anchor. That it meant something. That it restrained power. That it protected the vulnerable.

But perhaps it has always only meant what we allow it to mean.

When inconvenient, it is avoided. When restrictive, it is reinterpreted. When demanding, it is ignored. When it conflicts with desire, it is explained away.

An oath? Just words. A pledge? Just words. Justice? Just a word. ICE? Just a word?

No.

Words become systems. Words become actions. Words become weapons—or shields.

And so the question before us is not merely political. It is not merely legal. It is profoundly moral.

Each of us must ask—not only who we are—but what we are becoming.

Because history does not only remember what was done. It remembers who remained silent. And who chose to stand.

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God?”— Micah 6:8 (ESV)