It happened in a San Francisco immigration courtroom. A judge was listening to three siblings from Venezuela tell their story—how they fled danger, how they hoped for safety here—when a message appeared on her screen. It told her she had been terminated. Effective immediately.
The judge tried to continue, but the shock was too much. She apologized, said she couldn’t finish, and stepped away with tears in her eyes. The attorneys froze. The siblings watched in disbelief. A room that had been heavy with testimony suddenly became heavy with something else: the realization that the system they were trusting might not be stable at all.
We talk about immigration courts as if they’re machines. Dockets. Delays. Policies. But the truth is more straightforward. People hold this system together. People who work long hours. People who carry the load when colleagues are pushed out. People who try to honor the stories in front of them.
This judge had already absorbed hundreds of extra motions after other judges were removed. Even knowing her position was unstable could not prepare her to be dismissed mid-hearing, in front of the defendants whose case she was trying to adjudicate.
Her tears were not a sign of weakness. They were a sign of a system cracking.
And it exposed something alarming: the system is not only failing migrants; it is cracking the very bedrock of justice that keeps our country together. What we are witnessing is not an administrative accident—it is a targeted pressure meant to destabilize the structures that uphold fairness. Fear becomes a message. Instability becomes a tactic. Those who try to serve with integrity are reminded that their footing is never secure.
Across the broader landscape, our institutions show signs of the same strain.
Congress sidesteps responsibility. Courts hand down rulings that shore up the powerful. The Executive Branch leans on disruption instead of steady leadership. Piece by piece, these failures create a slow unraveling—driven by those willing to trade their values for influence or wealth. What should be public service begins to look like a Roman Colosseum, where spectacle replaces substance and crowds are stirred to cheer for someone’s downfall. This isn’t governing; it’s the choreography of collapse.
And that’s why this story matters. Not because it’s surprising, but because it’s revealing. It shows what happens when we stop paying attention.
This Sunday marks the beginning of Advent. A season many of us imagine as soft light and quiet hymns. Yet the first words of Advent are direct and simple: stay awake.
Not “stay afraid.”
Not “stay angry.”
Just: do not drift into sleep.
The scene in that courtroom captures Jesus’ warning exactly. A judge trying to act with integrity was swept aside, disappeared. Migrants seeking safety were left with more uncertainty. A system meant to protect the vulnerable showed how fragile it really is.
Staying awake means paying attention to moments like this. It means refusing to call instability “normal.” It means recognizing when fear is used as a bludgeon. And it means holding onto the values that shape who we want to be, even when institutions fail to hold onto theirs.
The values we share are not merely spiritual ideals; they are essential tools for safeguarding our way of life. For Christians, Jesus offers a path of response rooted in dignity, compassion, and truth. Other faith traditions emphasize similar commitments.
If Advent means anything in a moment like this, it is an invitation to resist spiritual sleep—to stay alert to the ways justice can erode when no one is watching.
For those three siblings, the disruption of their hearing will mean more waiting, more uncertainty, more fear. For the judge, it marks the end of her role in a system she tried to uphold. And for the rest of us, it is a moment that demands attention.
The silence in that courtroom was not empty. It was a warning.
A reminder.
The Advent season calls us to remain vigilant: to keep our eyes fixed on the truth, to speak with courage, and to resolutely defend our dignity and hope.