Body
Rev. Brian Strassburger arrived at the Rio Grande Valley in 2021 to lead Del Camino Jesuit Border Ministries, a trio of Jesuit priests tasked with providing sacraments and pastoral care to people caught in the migration flow. At the height of the COVID‑19‑era surge, he celebrated Mass in crowded shelters in McAllen, Texas, and in makeshift camps across the border in Reynosa, Mexico, where thousands of asylum‑seekers slept in tents.
The landscape changed dramatically after President Donald Trump’s 2025 declaration of a national emergency at the border. According to immigration officials, “Nearly 2.5 million people crossed the border illegally or legally from May 2023 until January 2025, when the emergency was announced,” a period that saw a steep decline in illegal entries once the new enforcement regime took effect. Strassburger observed the shift from throngs of newcomers to far fewer arrivals, yet he says his ministry “remains centered on embodying the Christian message ‘that God is accompanying you on your journey.’”
“The journey, whether it’s northbound or southbound, involves a lot of suffering,” Strassburger told the Associated Press. “We have a faith that speaks to us amid that suffering. We have a God who says, ‘I want to be one of you.’” Those words echo the sentiment of Sandra, a migrant who, after a recent appointment cancellation, lifted her hand and said in Spanish, “The last thing we lose is hope.” Strassburger recalled, “She doesn’t place her hope in a smartphone app or a presidential administration; she puts her hope in the Lord, and that is a hope that doesn’t disappoint.”
In recent months, the priest’s focus has shifted north of the border. He now celebrates regular Masses at two large Texas detention centers and travels to Matamoros, a Mexican city that houses a shelter for people who have been deported after decades in the United States. One resident, a woman who spent 29 years in the U.S. before being arrested at an immigration court check‑in, said, “I keep thinking—was it a mistake to try to regularize my status? If I had not gone to court that day, would I be celebrating Christmas with my six kids?” Strassburger noted that such stories surface “every day.”
William Cuellar, a man deported back to his native Mexico after five years in the United States, describes Strassburger as more friend than priest. “When I met Father Brian, I was like, ‘Cool, I can communicate in English with someone else,’” Cuellar said. “He provides me with the time to hear me out.” The priest’s presence, according to Sister Carmen Ramírez, who runs the Casa del Migrante shelter in Reynosa, “brings hope to people. These men bring the Gospel, a glance of empathy, of compassion.”
Strassburger’s own path to the border was unexpected. Raised in Colorado, he first considered a career in teaching before volunteering with Augustinian missionaries in South Africa and caring for AIDS patients. After joining the Jesuits in 2011, he spent two years in Nicaragua, became fluent in Spanish, and later worked at the Kino Border Initiative in Nogales, Arizona. “I couldn’t have said yes fast enough,” he recalled of his superior’s invitation to serve in the Rio Grande Valley. “He said, ‘Read the reality and respond to it.’ And that’s what we’ve been trying to do since then.”
As border crossings continue to dwindle, Strassburger’s ministry underscores a broader truth: humanitarian care does not vanish with policy shifts. While the numbers may fall, the need for spiritual accompaniment, listening, and community persists on both sides of the river that separates two nations.