He doesn't speak Spanish and has no idea what America should do about illegal immigration, but Rev. Larry Kreps knows he's now on a list somewhere of people willing to help illegal immigrants in a time of crisis.
It started out small enough. Months ago, a member of Kreps' suburban
Days later, with just a phone call for warning, dozens of desperate immigrants fleeing a massive raid on a nearby poultry plant turned up on the church's doorstep, seeking sanctuary.
Kreps let them in, and members of his overwhelmingly white congregation sprang into action. Some brought food, some set up space in the gym and a choir room for the immigrants to sleep.
"Someone slipped me $100 to buy stuff," Kreps recalled as he stood in the now-quiet church kitchen where the meals were prepared. It was a tense night as scared families and Kreps himself worried police or federal agents might come knocking.
"I wasn't real clear legally whether authorities could come into a place of worship," he said. "But we saw it as 'What would Jesus do?' in the simplest way -- that you help first and you ask questions later."
But helping illegal immigrants has become an unpopular business in