Jesus arrested by ICE - EVRYBDY News: August 6, 2025

Good morning, everybody! Today is Wednesday, August 6, 2025 and you are reading EVRYBDY News—news for everybody, about everybody.

This is what everybody (should be) talking about this morning:

Jenny Wright

As U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) continues to terrorize non-citizen residents across the country, agents managed to round up Jesus—not the Son of God, but a 35-year-old carpenter living in Western Pennsylvania.

Jesus Teran spent his mornings before work tending to tomatoes and flowers in a Western Pennsylvania community garden. Twice a week, he'd show up with tools in hand, watering the plants he'd helped put in the ground. When the tiller broke, he fixed it. When volunteers needed refreshment, his daughter would arrive with homemade watermelon juice.

This was the man ICE agents detained on July 8 during what was supposed to be a routine check-in. Teran is a man dedicated to God, his family and his community who had been showing up to every appointment for over four years, building a life one repaired tool and watered plant at a time.

The engineer who became a carpenter

Teran arrived in the United States in 2021, fleeing the economic collapse that has devastated Venezuela. Back home, he was a civil engineer. Here, without recognized credentials, he started over. He worked at convenience stores. He drove for DoorDash. He took whatever jobs he could find to support his wife and two daughters.

Last winter, things finally came together: Teran was accepted into a carpentry apprenticeship. After years of survival jobs, he was finally using his hands to build again—not the infrastructure projects he'd engineered in Venezuela, but the foundation of an American life.

"He was building a life for himself and his family," said Chris McAneny, Director of Housing for the Wellness Collective, which installed the community garden where Teran became a fixture. "He's been contributing to his community and he's well-respected within this community. He wanted to be a part of the community garden, and he was a big part of it."

Additionally, he was the sole income for the family of four. With his detainment, his wife and children are left to rely on others to even have their basic needs fulfilled.

Sunday mornings and soil-stained hands

The Teran family were regulars at Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal Church in Meadow Lands. Jesus, his wife and their two daughters would arrive for Sunday services, then often head to the community garden afterward. While Jesus worked the soil and tended equipment, his family planted flowers and vegetables. It was their rhythm: church, garden, community.

"And when we put in the plants, he was here two days a week watering them," McAneny said.

For over four years, Jesus balanced this life with the requirements of his immigration case. Every appointment with ICE, he showed up. Every form, he filled out. Every protocol, he followed. He was, by every measure, exactly the kind of immigrant integration success story that politicians claim to support.

"It's been a heartbreaking experience," said Rev. Jay Donahue, Senior Parochial Vicar at St. Oscar Romero Parish, one of several Catholic churches within the Archdiocese of Pittsburgh supporting Teran and fighting for his release. "He's been faithfully appearing at ICE appointments for more than four years, he was following the protocols of ICE, he was complying with everything he's supposed to do. All of a sudden, he's detained."

A family separated, a community mobilized

Now Teran sits in the Moshannon Valley Processing Center in Phillipsburg, Pennsylvania, three hours away from the garden he watered, the church where he worshipped and his young daughters who made watermelon juice for neighbors. The facility is run by the for-profit GEO Group, turning his unwarranted and unconstitutional imprisionment into someone else's profit.

His wife and daughters have not been allowed to visit Jesus. They're limited to expensive daily phone calls to hear his voice and reassure him that people are fighting for his return.

The local Catholic community has rallied around the family during this difficult time. Active members of the Diocese have written more than twenty letters on his behalf.

"Jesus is not someone who should be subjected to this undignified experience that he's going through," Donahue said. "It's a shame the way they are treating him; it is inhumane.”

The cruel arithmetic of immigration

Teran's previous attempt to enter the U.S. in 2015, before he successfully made it in 2021 may possibly work against him in his asylum case. Immigration attorney Charles Kuck explained that under the previous administration, even some denied asylum seekers could receive "withholding of removal" if they demonstrated good character and community ties.

However, character doesn't seem to amount to much in Trump’s America. Teran's clean record, his church attendance, his community garden work, his compliance with check-ins couldn’t prevent his arrest.

Former Pennsylvania Rep. Conor Lamb said what everyone should be thinking, "Maybe this breaks through to Christians. In my old district union carpenter—literally named Jesus—behind bars. Good record, kids, church, job. Came from Venezuela 2021, the year TPS granted for them. This is insane."

Waiting and hoping

An attorney has filed for Teran's release, but there are no guarantees. His supporters maintain hope while acknowledging the urgency. Every day he remains behind bars is another day away from the life he was building, the garden he was tending, the family he was supporting.

As of Wednesday afternoon, ICE's database showed no record of Teran's detention, adding another layer of bureaucratic opacity to a case that highlights how immigration enforcement can tear apart the very communities it claims to protect.

The community garden still needs tending. The tiller might break again. But for now, the man who fixed things and watered plants sits in a detention center, while his daughters make watermelon juice without him.

The story was published in collaboration with Stateline

Jenny Wright, EVRYBDY News and Anna Clare Vollers, Stateline

For patients like Tammy, access to healthcare seems out of reach. She has been waiting eight months for a follow-up appointment with a specialist at her local nonprofit healthcare system. But don't worry, at least she can drive by the local stadium and see her hospital's shiny new logo.

"I keep calling and they keep telling me the next available appointment is months away," Tammy says. "But then I see their name on the ballpark downtown and I'm thinking, 'Wait, you have money for that but not for more doctors?'"

Welcome to America's latest healthcare scam: nonprofit hospitals spending millions on stadium naming rights while patients get the runaround. It's playing out all across the country, a coast-to-coast showcase of screwed-up priorities that would be hilarious only if it were white cards in a Cards Against Humanity deck.

Here's how the scam works: Nonprofit hospitals get massive tax breaks because they promise to serve lower income communities, disabled folks and elderly people on fixed incomes—basically your average Medicaid and Medicare subscriber needing charity care.

Apparently, nobody told them that slapping your name on a basketball arena or ballpark doesn't count as "community benefit."

A typical stadium naming deal runs $2-5 million per year. That's enough money to fund free clinics for 15,000 uninsured patients, hire 30 social workers or provide transportation vouchers for 50,000 medical appointments.

Instead, patients are left to deal with health disparities and disgust as minor league baseball stadiums and NFL training complexes are being renamed.

Research published in Health Affairs found that nonprofit hospitals spend just $2.30 of every $100 in expenses on charity care. Johns Hopkins researchers found that charity care and tax breaks are "badly out of sync."

Studies show that more than half of government hospitals and 36% of nonprofits provide less than $1 of charity care for every $100 they spend. Some nonprofit hospitals spend close to 10% of their expenses on charity care while others spend as little as 0.1%.

When people can't get regular care, they end up in emergency rooms for stuff that should've been handled at routine appointments. It's more expensive, less effective and clogs up emergency departments for actual emergencies.

Gotta give credit where credit is due. Some local officials are pushing back. Weston Wamp, Republican mayor of Hamilton County, Tennessee, didn't hold back when his local hospital bought naming rights for the Chattanooga Lookouts baseball stadium.

"When the County supported Erlanger's transition to a nonprofit hospital, we didn't envision multimillion dollar deals for stadium naming rights," Wamp said.

But the most spectacular blowback happened in California, where Valley Children's Healthcare dropped $10 million over 10 years to name Fresno State's football stadium.

Valley Children's deal prompted a backlash throughout the community, with residents saying the hospital was "squandering funds," particularly after holding public fundraisers to solicit donations. Two Fresno City Council members have called for a state investigation.

Hospital executives have their talking points ready: stadium sponsorships are about "brand building" and "community engagement."

Valley Children's, when called out for their $10 million deal, claimed that "our sign on the stadium is certainly the most visible part of the partnership, it is not the most impactful." They defended the move by saying the money comes from marketing budgets, not donations. Additionally, supporters including Angeline Close Scheinbaum, a professor of sports marketing at Clemson University acknowledged that stadium naming rights can be a good use of a health system’s marketing budget when done judiciously.

“Sponsorship is more than just slapping your name on something,” Scheinbaum said. “It should be part of a holistic package where you’re giving back to the community.”

For example, it can allow a hospital’s providers to offer more on-site educational events during games. In recent months, Erlanger has hosted events during Lookouts games focused on women’s health and on preventing strokes.

Critics of the measure also point out the irony of hospitals naming arenas after themselves for sports where injuries and concussions are common.

The audacity is not new; the research is just revealing the decades-long issue that is happening in several states including California, Florida, Georgia, Indiana, New York, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, South Carolina and Tennessee. North Carolina led the charge back in 2008 when what’s now First Horizon Stadium was branded WakeMed Soccer Park—a name that stuck until 2017. Pennsylvania followed suit, just a year later, Jerry Uht Park in Erie was scrubbed clean and rebranded as UPMC Park, trading community legacy for a hospital logo that remains 16 years later, even staffing shortages persist and patients receive inadequate care at many of its hospitals.

The New England Journal of Medicine concluded that "many nonprofit hospitals don't provide enough charity care or have a substantial enough Medicaid shortfall (relative to for-profit hospitals) to justify their favorable tax treatment."

Surveys show that patients, especially those on Medicaid couldn't care less about seeing their hospital's name on a scoreboard. They want appointments that don't require waiting months. They want help with insurance. They want someone to answer the phone.

Federal law supposedly requires nonprofit hospitals to prove they're giving back to communities to keep their tax breaks. But there's apparently a loose interpretation of what counts as "community benefit."

The question isn't whether hospitals should advertise, it's whether institutions that don't pay taxes because they promise to serve communities should be dropping millions on vanity projects while those same communities can't get basic healthcare.

Jenny Wright

When the Gifford Fire ignited near Highway 166, it moved with terrifying speed. For the ranching families who’ve worked this land for generations, it felt like losing a piece of their soul.

Joseph and Heidi Sill watched flames consume the land they’ve built a life on. “We’ve seen a million fires,” Joseph said, his voice quiet with disbelief. “But I’ve never seen anything like this ever.” They had moved their cattle from one side of the highway to another in hopes of saving them, only to have the fire jump their last line of defense. “We moved all of our cows from this side of the road over here because at least they’d have grass,” Heidi said. “But all the fences on the back side burned up.” The Sills are now left with injured or dead animals, scorched pasture and a long road ahead.

Evacuation orders and warnings remain active for Upper and Lower Tepusquet Canyon, parts south of Highway 166 and areas around Cottonwood Canyon Road.

Temporary shelters, including Benjamin Foxen Elementary in Santa Maria, are serving as gathering points for displaced residents. The American Red Cross is actually doing something to help (for once), by offering mental health resources and coordinating animal evacuation aid for large livestock.

Another key player providing relief is Direct Relief, a Santa Barbara–based nonprofit with a solid track record during wildfire emergencies. Though they are known primarily for medical support, during fires like the Palisades Fire earlier this year, they’ve distributed critical supplies including masks, clean water and funding to health clinics serving evacuees and first responders.

For those trying to get back to their ranches to care for surviving animals, access has been another heartbreak. In previous California wildfires, ranchers reported being blocked from their land for weeks, some for months, while their cattle waited hungry behind burned fences. There are systems like the Ag Pass program meant to let them back in, but confusion and red tape often make it harder, not easier.

Even after the smoke clears, the recovery drags on. Some grazing lands are under federal jurisdiction and policies often require ranchers to rest the land for up to two years before cattle can return. That means a family could lose not just this season’s income, but their entire operation.

This is more than a wildfire. It’s an upheaval of lives built on the contour of these hills. With only 3% containment, the fire continues and so does the uncertainty. Still, community remains. Shelters have opened. Volunteers have come. People have shown up with hay, trailers, meals and hugs. In the face of destruction, there’s also a quiet defiance—an insistence that home will still be here, even if it has to be rebuilt from the dirt up.

Jenny Wright

In a city where cracked pavement and summer heat often collide, Birmingham’s newest sustainability effort is planting seeds, literally and figuratively, for a cooler, healthier future.

Launched in 2023, the city’s ambitious green infrastructure plan aims to tackle the everyday challenges locals face, like blistering urban heat, flooding from heavy storms and the lack of accessible green spaces in the city’s most underserved neighborhoods. One of the most visible changes is already taking root: trees. Lots of them.

The positive impacts of more greenery can already be felt for residents like Keith Smith, “I didn’t even know what they were for. I thought they were just adding more beauty to the neighborhood because it’s a historic district, but now understanding why they’re there, I think it’s a perfect idea.”

The goal? Create not just more trees, but stronger neighborhoods. Trees help reduce heat in overbuilt areas, absorb stormwater runoff and boost mental health. They also make communities more inviting, which city officials say is key to long-term economic vibrancy.

Other cities are watching Birmingham’s plan with curiosity and inspiration. But for the arborists of Cool Green Trees, it’s not about setting trends. It's about creating a city where people feel good walking down the street, where kids can play under shade and where the air just feels easier to breathe.

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