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With fears of immigration raids mounting among undocumented residents, churches in the Bay Area and elsewhere are vowing to protect vulnerable parishioners, opening their doors — and arms — even though it puts them at odds with federal law.

Dozens of Bay Area churches have declared themselves “sanctuary churches” in recent months, as tensions grow with the Trump administration over its hardline immigration policy.

A mother of four facing deportation took sanctuary in a Denver church this week, setting up the first showdown between the government and an increasingly defiant clergy.

“We’re just doing what we’ve historically done as churches…provide a safe refuge for a family or an individual that has found him or herself in a situation where there is no other recourse for them to deal with that,” said the Rev. Jon Pedigo, director of projects for peace and justice for the Diocese of San Jose. “So it’s only natural that an immigrant community would turn to their churches for support, counseling, rent assistance and food assistance.”

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While religion and politics are hardly strangers, the practice is forcing a deep and sometimes uncomfortable debate among religious institutions, with some religious leaders opposed to churches becoming sanctuaries for undocumented residents.

But others like the Primera Iglesia Presbiteriana Hispana in Oakland are welcoming them.

When Julissa Oliva and Jose Manuel Flores first arrived at the church last May in Oakland, they had nothing to their names.

Fleeing what they described as months of extortion from gang members in Tegucigalpa — the capital of Honduras and one of the most violent cities in the world — the undocumented couple left with their two young children and $300 in their pockets, making a treacherous 30-day journey through Mexico.

They eventually found refuge in Oakland, where Oliva has a sister and where the Presbyterian church on High Street offered them hope and the necessities they needed to survive in an unknown land.

“We’re starting at zero. Their support helps a lot, both morally and economically,” Oliva said in Spanish. “But we’re up in the air. I’m not in a detention center but I do feel as if I’m imprisoned because I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

The Olivas are some of the more than 100 undocumented residents that Primera Iglesia has helped in the past two years, offering resources ranging from temporary housing to legal referrals. An estimated 400,000 undocumented residents live in Santa Clara, Contra Costa and Alameda Counties combined, regions with some of the state’s largest undocumented immigrant populations, according to the Public Policy Institute of California.

In the South Bay, more than 30 congregations of different denominations are determining how they can help those seeking refuge. “The number of congregations seeking to help our network increases by the week,” Pedigo said.

The role of churches as refuges grew dramatically in the 1980s, when thousands of Central American refugees flocked to the U.S during a devastating civil war. In what became known as “The Sanctuary Movement,” churches formed an underground railroad for refugees, arguing that God’s law to shelter and protect strangers outweighed civil law.

“Churches, mosques, or synagogues offering sanctuary do so in the name of just law — a distinction at the heart of Dr. Martin Luther King’s nonviolent civil disobedience,” said Bill O’Neill, a professor at Santa Clara University’s Jesuit School of Theology in Berkeley.

Not all faith communities are on board.

Pastor Dick Bernal of the Jubliee Christian Center in San Jose said that while he sympathizes with undocumented residents and hopes the Trump administration passes just immigration reform, he wouldn’t necessarily provide them sanctuary.

“I’m sure a lot of (our church parishioners) are not documented, and it’s not my business to interfere with that,” he said. “Would I hide them? No. Would I stonewall U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement? No. I’m a law-and-order guy.”

At a recent forum on immigrant rights at Primera Iglesia Presbiteriana Hispana, dozens of faith leaders and organizers from across the Bay Area brainstormed ways to become sanctuaries in their own communities.

In the chilly, small church the group discussed how they would stand up for undocumented immigrants, with some participants saying they would be willing to hide them from federal officials to keep them in the country. In Berkeley, a church actually has built a “sanctuary apartment” in its basement, ready to house an individual or a family.

“Praying is good. But sometimes words trail off. We need to do something concrete. We need to act,” said Irma Hernandez, a naturalized U.S. citizen who fled El Salvador during the civil war and now assists other immigrants at the Presbyterian church. “The families outside our doors are crying, screaming out for help.”

In Denver, Jeanette Vizguerra, fearing immediate detention and quick deportation, sought sanctuary at the First Unitarian Society of Denver to avoid a scheduled meeting with immigration officials.

“It was a very brave action that she has taken and I’m so happy that there is an organized sanctuary coalition in Denver that has been able to offer an alternative choice for her, rather than just her walking into her own deportation,” said the Rev. Deborah Lee, immigration program director for the Oakland-based Interfaith Movement for Human Integrity. “I think ‘sanctuary’ provides another community alternative for people.”

Oliva and Flores sought sanctuary after a harrowing journey to the U.S, in which they were robbed. They recall begging for food, sleeping at bus terminals and narrowly avoiding other encounters with criminals who often prey on Central American immigrants passing through Mexico. Exhausted and out of options, they turned themselves in to immigration officials at the border.

Oliva, 29, and her children, Liz, 5, and Hector, 1, were released after just a few days while Flores, 35, was detained for two months. They now await pending court dates.

The family currently lives in a house in the Fruitvale district, lent to them and another immigrant family by a local parishioner.

“We don’t come here to do harm to anyone. We immigrated from one country to another in search of better opportunities,” Oliva said. “There are lots of opportunities here, but there are also many difficulties. I don’t know what’s going to happen, what awaits us.”