Danville Mayor Declares Day of Fasting and Prayer to Combat Rising Crime

Rickey Williams Jr., the mayor of Danville, Illinois, spent a Wednesday in May hungry by choice. Violence and crime were climbing across Central Illinois, and Williams had declared the day one of fasting and prayer—a spiritual response to a material problem that, he believed, had limits to what policy alone could solve.

"I feel a little bit hungry, but I'm very thankful," he said. The hunger was deliberate. Every time his stomach growled, he prayed. He prayed for the safety of residents. He prayed for the officers who patrolled the streets. He prayed for wisdom for himself and the city council, whose decisions would shape whether Danville could thrive. This was not his first such day. He had declared one every year since taking office, and he would do it again, despite the pushback he sometimes received.

The city had not been idle. Danville had installed neighborhood cameras and license plate readers. The police force had grown from 54 officers to 67, with authority to hire three more. The department had created specialized units. These were concrete measures, built with money and intention. But Williams believed they were not enough. "We've worked really hard to fight crime," he said. "We've made lots of effort to make Danville safer and more prosperous, and we are trekking in the right direction, but there are some things we cannot do on our own."

He was careful about how he framed the invitation. The proclamation he issued did not invoke a specific god or ask people to pray in any particular faith's name. He knew the separation of church and state was a real concern for some residents, and he wanted to respect it. For those who did not share his faith—or any faith—he offered an alternative that was still rooted in the same impulse: take the time you would normally eat and give it to the community instead. Volunteer. Plant flowers. Help a neighbor. Do something that would make a difference.

What Williams was articulating, beneath the spiritual language, was a recognition that a city's safety depends on more than enforcement. It depends on neighbors knowing neighbors, on people investing in the places where they live, on a shared sense that the community's welfare matters enough to sacrifice for. The fasting was a symbol, but the work—the cameras, the officers, the special units—was real. And so was the gap between them. Williams believed that gap could only be closed by something outside the machinery of government. Whether that was prayer or volunteer work or the simple act of showing up for one another, the point was the same: Danville needed its people, not just its systems.