Pilgrimage

Many of you know that I am working on my doctoral studies on pilgrimage.  I'm leading a group back here to Israel/Palestine in April 2013.  Is there a pilgrimage in your future?

Here are a few things to ponder. . .

Longing               What is being stirred up in me?

Motivation           What is it about this place and people that draws me? 

Timing                Why at this time in my life?

Surrender            What do I need to let go of?

Ritual                  How can I attend to the Holy through prayer and reflection?

Embrace             What is God's invitation?

Synchronicity     What are God's surprises and gifts?

Storytelling          How will I share what I've experienced?

This is not a tourist trip but a journey with God and a community of believers for the sake of deepening one’s relationship with the Holy One. For pilgrims, there is a commitment to pay attention to God’s presence and God’s invitation through the disciplines of prayer, worship, bible study, and engagement with the world. Pilgrims are invited to pay as much attention to the unexpected gifts God may bring as well as how God may be speaking through aggravation and suffering, their own and that of others. 

To this end, the pacing of these pilgrimages is different. We start the day with contemplative worship and prayer before we ever get on the bus. Then, at the sites, we read scripture, worship together, and grant time and space for wandering, exploring and reflecting. Generally we are done "site seeing" after a late lunch which gives everyone the freedom to shop, explore further or take time to absorb what they are seeing and experiencing. Before dinner, there is an optional 30 minute lecture/conversation that I facilitate that might include a discussion about theological issues that arise as well as in-depth treatment of the biblical text. Evenings are free for conversation and fun.  

If God is nudging you to consider joining us on the April pilgrimage, I hope you will check out the link from the First Presbyterian Church of Berkeley web site. We can only take 20 folks with us on the trip. Are you one of them?

http://www.fpcberkeley.org/pilgrimage.asp 

شكر Thanksgiving

Bless us, O Lord and these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty

Salloom and Joanna Shreydeh and Adele Ralston

This must have been one of the more memorable Thanksgivings I have ever experienced. Never in my wildest imagination would I have envisioned being on Palestinian soil celebrating America's manifest destiny. The parallels to the Israeli Occupation are obvious: land grabbing, ghettoizing people according to different religious beliefs and practices, establishment of frontier settlements - all justified by biblical rhetoric. But that is a conversation for another day.

Cooking the Thanksgiving meal was quite the challenge here in Bethlehem. Many of the key ingredients are not readily available. Turkey is not part of the diet here and this seemed to momentarily stub the resourceful Iyad. His favorite phrase to my many crazy requests is, "Give me 20 minutes. I know a guy." His poultry broker didn't have whole turkeys but his buddy Johnny thought I might be able to find them in East Jerusalem. The problem was that I was avoiding the checkpoints while the cease fire was being negotiated with Gaza. Going to East Jerusalem wasn't an option. So here it was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving and I didn't have the centerpiece to this American feast. What to do. Of course I turned to facebook! I don't know why I thought my California friends could help me find a turkey in the West Bank but the request went out! There were lots of suggestions but the best one came from right next door. Ashraf, a Palestinian pastor friend, suggested the "butcheries."

a buthcherie near Manger Square

Butcher shops are not like those in the supermarkets in the States. In fact, there is nothing resembling a supermarket in the West Bank. More like the markets in Europe, each small shop specializes in either meat, poultry, fish, dry goods, spices, or produce. At the butcherie, the entire cow and lamb is hung from the ceiling and cut to order. This is probably a boon to those of you who are chefs, but to be honest, I'm a bit baffled by the concept. I'm used to labeled cuts of meat beautifully displayed in a glass case. So I confess that I have avoided buying meat of any kind, preferring hummus, eggs, and dairy as my main proteins.  

When I began talking to the butcher, it was clear that the language barrier was going to be a problem. Ever try describing a turkey with just your hands? I was relieved when he nodded, indicating that he understood. But then he told me he had one that weighed 33 kilos (77 lbs). He thought this crazy American woman had ordered a pig! After another round or two, I remembered I had my iPhone with me and an internet photo solved the problem. He then spent about 20 minutes of the phone wheeling and dealing with his suppliers until he finally found a turkey which he arranged to be slaughtered and delivered within the hour. That's what I call fresh!

with all the fixings!

Since I don't have a working oven in my apartment, Claudette helped me cook the feast in hers. We made the typical accompaniments for the meal: mashed and sweet potatoes, stuffing, green beans, and a version of cucumber and tomato salad that is so popular here. My hunt for pumpkin came up short so it was apple pie for dessert.

It was interesting to watch the reactions of folks as we sat down to eat. Iyad's family looked a bit skeptical as many of these dishes were new to them. "Gravy" got lost in translation and was only embraced when we finally came to the mutual understanding that it was sauce. Gazing at the traditional fare, my American friends, Sarah Miller Ralston and Jes Steinberg, enthusiastically exclaimed, "It looks just like home!"

And it was like home in many ways. While food may evoke memories and traditions, it is the people around the table who make it home for me. Good conversation, playful teasing, and children scrambling around are among the many things that bring me joy.

I am blessed with the good fortune of time away from Berkeley and the time here in the West Bank. This sabbatical gift allows me to savor each moment in this unique place among these wonderful people. Of course I miss my family and friends back home - more than you can imagine. But on this Thanksgiving day, I am content, I am happy and I am grateful.  

Baraka!

Iyad carving up the bird

Vulnerability

the separation wall outside a friend's shop in Bethlehem

Being in Israel/Palestine during operation Pillar of Defense has been interesting to say the least. Friends and family in the US have been understandably worried while I, on the other hand, have scored a fear factor of zero on the richter scale. Even though I've navigated driving through some dicey demonstrations, I have not been afraid. Demonstrations are not the same as military incursions. The intent is different. The Palestinian protests are an expression of support for Gaza and ongoing frustration about the Occupation while Pillar of Defense involves massive military bombing and rocket strikes that are targeting areas that are not proximate to where I am. Those rare rogue rocket strikes have not concerned me a bit.

Even though my fear has not played on my emotions this past week, I have been aware of a heightened sense of vulnerability. For Palestinians, living in the West Bank is a daily experience in assessing the susceptibility and survivability of the Israeli Occupation. One must always be aware of where you are, the restrictions incumbent on that location, and who has power and how night they use (or abuse) it. My American passport grants me many exceptions to these restrictions and provides the promise of protection. Choosing to live in the West Bank means that I walk alongside those who constantly assess their viability within this unjustifiable crusade. So I have felt more vulnerable, sharing the potential impact of political realities which are outside of my control.

Vulnerability is something all of us live with to varying degrees. We constantly evaluate the risk we feel emotionally, physically, and nationally as it relates to our environments and social networks. When we find the level of vulnerability tolerable, we can act with courage, master new ideas and skills, and enter into uncharted territory in relationships. Tolerable vulnerability can catalyze change in positive ways. But when we assess the risk and the danger at too high a level, we become fearful. This leads to stalled and broken trust. Our response is often fight, flight, or freeze.

So what goes into determining tolerable levels of vulnerability? Temperament certainly plays a role but so does environment and freedom of choice. Anyone who has been abused or oppressed individually, racially, or politically knows that when choice is taken from you, vulnerability is off the chart. In situations like these, the perception of choice is often manipulated. Finding freedom and voice within such an environment reduces the level of vulnerability and empowers victims. When standing in solidarity with others who share similar experiences, definitions of dignity, integrity, and value are realigned with the biblical concept that all created in the image of God and therefore all people must be treated justly.

The discovery of God's value and the freedom found within that love is what the incarnation is all about. God's vulnerability as a small infant babe demonstrates the ultimate reversal of power. God becomes like us and risks all forms of rejection, physical limitation, religious marginalization, and political corruption. Following God's example in Christ, we must come to terms with our maligned sense of invincibility and accept vulnerability as a way of truly experiencing the world. The bible tells us that the illusion of controlling our lives, masterminding our relationships, manipulating our competence for self gain will be exposed and we will tumble off our platforms of power.

the separation wall in Ramallah

By grace, something shatters the mirror and instead of exclusively seeing ourselves, we inclusively see others. We perceive a resilience not determined by policy, categories, or despair. Worth is granted by God.  In the vulnerability of the marginalized, we recognize our own powerlessness, reminding us that every day is a precious gift. No amount of fear can prolong our days. It fact, fear usually hastens the end.

For those of us with societal power, embracing vulnerability can invite us to go deeper. The helpless babe reminds us to trust something beyond ourselves to meet our needs, provide protection, and immerse us in love. Vulnerable, open, trusting, yielding. It takes courage to admit we live with a certain level of fragility, acknowledging that control is an illusion best counterbalanced by entrusting ourselves to divine love that enfolds and protects us.

So I'm learning to let go, to look and listen more deeply to those around me. The Palestinians, who have very little political power, are teaching me to live fully, freely within this smothering zeitgeist of occupation, whatever form it may take. They are showing me the redemptive quality of living with vulnerability. But I am also reminded that living vulnerably is never an excuse to accept the inevitable human seduction towards ignoring suffering or, even more heinous  causing others to suffer. To live vulnerably is to not only see as God sees but to act as God acts. It means risking loving well and loving all.

Identity

Identity is a constellation and collective of the distinctive characteristics and values that one shares with others as well as those concepts and ideals that distinguishes a person or a group from one another. As we've seen in the recent political conversation, when identity is challenged or diminished, or even affirmed, it stirs up strong emotion and reactionary behavior. It can further entrench one's identification with a group even while one's perceived role in society is shifting. For some, the movement may be from having power to being victimized and for others, from diminishment to empowerment. So what happens when God enters into that mix? Can God reorient us to another more transformative identity?

  icon at the Church at Jacob's Well

I found myself asking such questions the morning my pastor gal pals and I headed off to Nablus in the north-central part of the West Bank. We were in search of the elusive site of the Women at the Well story. This had been Wendy's request since it was the sermon text of her ordination service 11 years ago. I say elusive because this site doesn't show up on many (if any) Holy Land tours we found on line and Google was of little help. Several days before our trip, Iyad had looked at me incredulously when I told him we had had trouble locating the spot. He said, "Why didn't you ask, I was born there!" Of course my personal savant of all things holy in the Israel/Palestine would know exactly where it was! How silly of me not to have asked him about it months ago.

Very early, three of us gals jumped in my car and started driving north. I considered it a grand success that we only got lost twice. Have I mentioned that our stateside navigational tools don't work in the West Bank? That includes my IPhone Maps, Google Maps, or the Palestinian GPS tracker I bought here. And accurate, detailed maps are something neither the Israelis nor the Palestinians seem to value much.

Once through the various checkpoints and out of the traffic of Jerusalem and Ramallah the drive turned out to be very beautiful. The rolling landscape is dotted with olive trees, Palestinian villages, and, unfortunately, many rather large Jewish settlements. It was disheartening to see so many distinctive red roofs in the heart of the West Bank.

We arrived in Nablus about 8:30 am and immediately went looking for coffee. Unlike Bethlehem, a city that caters to tourists, in Nablus there are no internet cafes and no "Stars and Bucks" on the main street. There are automotive shops, an open air farmers' market, dozens and dozens of bakeries, offices and stores but no discernible places that sold coffee. We finally parked and decided to try our luck walking. We spied some men drinking coffee outside in an alley and we all but tripped over ourselves to see if someone sold coffee nearby. Fortunately for our caffeine deprived brains, a little shop sold the Turkish brew. We were offered the chance to smoke flavored tobacco with a hookah, something we declined.  I mean, really, who can smoke that early in the morning?

Muslim women in Nablus

I must admit, it was a bit disconcerting to be the only women in the vicinity. We sat huddled around the one table inside the shop leaving the men to their male bonding ritual outside. It was clear we were intruding in their space. If that wasn't enough, what made us all the more "foreign" was the fact that we didn't have our heads covered. What dawned on us in the morning proved to be true throughout the day - we were the only women we saw not wearing the traditional Muslim head covering. Given that we were in a city of 130,000, this made us obvious outsiders.

After quickly downing our Turkish coffee, we headed to the Church of St. Photina, the Greek Orthodox Church built over Jacob's Well. Once inside the church, we were dazzled by the beautiful icons and were delighted to meet the priest who painted them. We read the story from John 4 noting that this is one of the longest dialogues Jesus has in the gospels and, surprisingly, it was with a woman! We drank water from the well imagining what Jesus' words of supplying living water might have meant to her. It very was meaningful to me.

Like us, Jesus was also an outsider here in this ancient Samaritan city. He came to people who were hostile to his beliefs and his way of life. They spoke different languages, engaged in different worship practices, and had very different and competing perceptions of one another. When he arrived at Jacob's Well, he displayed his lack of cultural sensitivity by doing something unthinkable: he spoke to a woman. To make matters worse, this woman was also his enemy. When asking for help to retrieve the water, he expected kindness when antipathy should have anticipated. When discussing religious differences, he showed personal concern when animus would have been normal. When zeroing in on the woman's deep longing for God's true hope and grace, he generously reveals himself as the One who brings reconciliation. In Jesus, the insider/outsider distinction is shattered. He offers her and those like her a new identity, one that is centered in him. In Jesus, no one is in or out. They are just accepted, loved, and transformed.

Today as I write this, Israel and Gaza are lobbing rockets at one other. A few of them have landed not too far away from where I'm living. Operation "Amud Anan" literally means "Pillar of Cloud" so named after the divine cloud that served as a compass for the children of Israel during their exodus from Egypt. Concerned that the biblical reference might be lost on the Americans, the military has translated this phrase into English as "Pillar of Defense" in order to justify Israel's actions.

flooring  at the Church at Jacob's Well

From my perspective, such naming is an exigent expression of defining who is in and who is out. The competing narratives between the Israelis, those in Gaza, and the rest of the Palestinians are difficult to sort through. Each side has multiple perspectives and the definitions of justice are quite different for each. The human proclivity to blame, defend, and claim victimized status without taking any responsibility is evident on all sides. When each group feels justified, it is not surprising that retaliation escalates into extreme violence. Even so, there are gross power imbalances here. And I in no way intend to suggest that the Israelis, the Gazans, and the Palestinians are equals in this conflict. They are not. But while not of equal power, influence, or might, it is still is true that everyone in this conflict has legitimate perspectives and complaints. All sides have some responsibility for causing others to suffer.

icon at the Church at Jacob's Well

So I find myself wondering what would happen if instead of the "pillar of defense," all the players in this drama would seek the pillar of cloud of God's presence. Would not God expose the dehumanization, the oppression, the myth that peace and protection can be achieved only by violence? Could trust be rebuilt through empathy, confession and grace? But here, even such discussions would be staged in tactical terms and would not be conducted with any kind of commitment towards a love that transforms. Hope is measured in minuscule and often indiscernible increments of strategic "wins." Progress is elusive and, when perceived as long overdue entitlements, is rarely acknowledged or celebrated. How does my life mirror such brokenness?

Jesus knew what it was like to be an outsider even though he was the One who had all power and truth. His ministry functioned beyond the limits of the religious elite of his day and he purposely identified with those who were marginalized. In the story of the Woman at the Well, Jesus intentionally approached her as an outsider. This woman, who was an outsider within her own village, was immediately affirmed as the insider when Jesus spoke to her. She was given the upper hand, one that afforded her power and insight. After all, this was her territory and Jesus was the "invading" one. Somehow, through this reversal from marginalized among her villagers to a valued interpreter of her religious tradition, she came to perceive herself as she truly was. This heightened her own existential thirst and need and primed her receptivity for something new and healing. Her defenses dissipated and she experienced contagious grace centered in Christ.

Given the complexity of the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, and so many others that are heightened here in Jerusalem (think ecumenical conflicts at the various holy sites), it may sound trite to say we need to look to Christ. I know it can seem so in the complexities of my own life. However, Jesus demonstrates the importance of approaching such complexity with the stance of an outsider.  Laying aside a claim of superiority or self-righteous justification, he also refuses to define himself as a helpless victim. Instead, he empathizes with the one in temporary power, ultimately challenging the other's identity and world view. This first century Palestinian Jewish Son of God is the only one who can both affirm and expose our distorted identities, unveil our true longings, and offer permeating grace and transformative change.

I want to believe that such transformation is possible - for the Palestinians and the Israelis. Yes, even for the Catholics, the Armenians, and the Orthodox. And even more so, for me and for those whom I have left out in the cold. But this is only possible if I, if we, follow the leading of the divine pillar of cloud and not the pillar of defense we have re-created and manipulated to shore up our old, outdated and faulty sense of self.

May God have mercy on us.

stained glass window at the Church at Jacob's Well

Sunday Morning in Jerusalem

One of the great delights of my time here is that I get to wander around, exploring places and stories. If I see or hear about something of interest, I have the freedom and the time to pursue it. Sometimes I'm attracted by something external like a sign, an open door, or a crowd. But more often than not, it is an internal question or prompting that I respond to. With little pressure to produce, I can attend to the slight whispers that nudge my soul.

Last Sunday morning, I took Iyad into Jerusalem. My American passport at the checkpoint meant that we could breeze through in 2 minutes instead of the 2 hours it might take him if he was on his own. For this brief jaunt into the Old City, I was rewarded with a scrumptious buffet breakfast at the Grand Court Hotel, the chance to meet many of Iyad's tour guide friends and drivers, and no agenda until church in Beit Jalla at 10:15 am.

With several hours at my disposal, I decided to go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Early in the morning, the church is less crowded and often one can pray without having had to endure long lines and pushy pilgrims. As you might know, joint custody of the church is jealously guarded by the Eastern Orthodox, the Armenian Apostolic, the Roman Catholic Church as well as the Syriac, Coptic and Ethiopian Orthodox. Often, you can watch the precise changing of the liturgical guard as these faith traditions hand off worship at the tomb of Christ. As I expected, the Syriac Orthodox were holding their own mass, the Armenian monks were chanting, and Russian Orthodox men and women were thrusting their way into the tomb.

To avoid the religious raucous, I ducked into the empty Franciscan Chapel of the Apparition and found myself praying the stations of the cross, employing the most exquisite sculptures as my prayer prompts. It was Good Friday enfolded into 14 depictions of agony. It got me thinking much more about Christ's suffering and death, the deep grief of so many back home, and the challenges I see daily in the West Bank.

I made my way to the anointing stone where Christ's body was prepared for burial. I knelt and touched this sacred spot and was reminded of the concreteness of death and its rituals: a lifeless body lovingly washed and wrapped and laid in a tomb. In one form or another, this ritual is enacted thousands of times every day. Death brings grief. Grief brings healing. The mosaic icon behind this spot reminds us that even the angels wept for Christ when he died.

I left the church in a very somber mood. I ambled over to the Jewish Quarter hoping to find an open synagogue. I've been feeling confused and bitter towards the Israelis lately and thought I should get more in touch with the humanity of the Jews. With no synagogue available, I sat in the square and prayed and thought about their historic suffering. The Sunday before, I had been at the Holocaust Museum, Yad Yashem, which tells only one of many chapters of Jewish persecution. The stones of ancient Jerusalem depict other epochs. I walked by the 3500 year old wall of the Solomon's temple, saw the bombed out ruins of a synagogue from the 1948 war, then made my way to remaining vestiges of the Roman destruction of Herod's temple, the Wailing Wall.

I prayed for many at home who have lost loved ones, prayed for friends and family who have shared concerns with me, and prayed for peace for the people in this land that I am growing to love. I quietly wept, my head and hands against the wall.  

Baruch atah Adonai. Eloheinu melech ha'olam. Sh'hechayanu, v'kiyemanu,  v'higlanu lazman hazah. (Blessed are you, the Eternal One our God, Ruler of the Cosmos, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this moment.)

Ma'unatuna min 'indi r-rab.  Sani'i s-samawat wal-ard.  (Our help is from the Lord, Creator of Heaven and Earth!)

The birds that roost in the wall's clinging vines sang sweetly of life and resurrection. All morning I had been living in the depth of Good Friday and now it was time to remember Easter. I was eager to engage a liturgy of hope. Where would my wanderings take me now?

Making my way back to towards the car, I decided to walk down Christian Quarter Road. It was still too early for tourists and only a few shop keepers were beginning to set up for the day. One of them recognized me and invited me in for coffee. We sat and talked about his family, his politics, and his faith. I don't know why but I was surprised to learn he was Muslim - perhaps because he sells Christian memorabilia to pilgrims for a living.  

Then it was back to Beit Jalla for church. I got there early and had time to pray alone in the sanctuary. In fact, I got to pray a lot during worship since again it was completely in Arabic. This time, I didn't catch the scripture reading for the day so instead of meditating on the passage, I journaled.

Despite the clamorously competing narratives of the differing faith traditions, political views, and life experiences, I was aware of the unifying Spirit of the Holy One throughout the morning. Our common humanity, all of us uniquely created and loved into the image of God, encourages me to embrace hope. Our common suffering, all of us victims of circumstances and powers beyond our control, invites me to pray for healing. Our common sin, all of us perpetrators of injustice of one kind or another, reminds me to confess and receive grace.  

A wonderful, powerful, lesiurely morning. All before 11:30 am. On a Sunday.  

I'm clearly not in Berkeley anymore!

Wadi Qelt

the overlook of the Wadi Qelt

It's hard to describe the beauty of the denuded, wind-swept hills between Jericho and Jerusalem. Rolling and rising nearly 3500 feet in just a few short miles, the mountains stack steeply one on top of another in folds that resemble mounds of coarse white chocolate chip cookie dough. Between these hills are deep wadis, valleys if you will, that capture the rare rain water in streams and washes that nurture what little life this desert can sustain. In contrast to the cultivated fields of Galilee, one spies infrequent clumps of green dotting the landscape.  

Jesus spent lots of time out in this vast wilderness. Tradition holds that it was here that the Spirit sent him out to be tested after his baptism. From the time he was little, he made multiple pilgrimages to Jerusalem for the three big annual Jewish festivals. From Galilee, he likely traveled south along the lush Jordan rift valley towards the Dead Sea following the route of the Jordan River. At Jericho, the trail shifts to the west. The only way up to Mt. Zion is to hike through these desolate valleys and hills. It would have taken a day or two to make this steep trek and the Jewish pilgrims would have sung the Psalms of Ascent (Psalms 120-134) as they followed the rivulet up to the holy city.  

Sitting on the overlook, we began our time of extended silent prayer by reading Psalm 121:

St. George Monastery at the Wadi Qelt

I lift up my eyes to the mountains -

   where does my help come from?

My help comes from the Lord,  

   the maker of heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot slip -

   He who watches over you will not slumber; 

Indeed, he who watches over Israel

   will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is your keeper;

   The Lord is your shade at your right hand; 

the sun will not harm you by day,

   nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all harm - 

   he will watch over your life;

the Lord will keep

   your going out and your coming in

   both now and forevermore. 

In this broad unprotected landscape, God's protection was necessary. It was dangerous here. Thieves victimized the vulnerable. Wild animals threatened to ravage the weak. Water was scarce. No wonder Jesus set the story of the Good Samaritan on this same road. Only a fool would be traveling alone, unprepared for potential assault.  

the Judean wilderness from the Wadi Qelt overlook

We, on the other hand, found the spot peaceful, prayerful, and profund. Our only threat was the Bedouin trinket sellers who poped up out of nowhere fully prepared to take our money in exchange for bracelets, scarves, and fresh squeezed pomegranate juice. The intense pace of Jerusalem seemed eons away as the warm desert breeze gently embraced us. The stillness invited us to pay attention to slightest whisper. The vastness insisted we pause long enough to look deeply within.

Sitting on that hillside reminded me that the breadth and depth of God's love will never be fully mapped. It's impossible. Like the Yosemite granite that reminds me of God's undergirding strength or the ocean waves that gather up my tears and sweep them away with the tide, the Judean desert assures me of the concreteness of God's presence. I can't explain it but I know that God is real when I'm there. More than any cathedral or relic from the past, more than any holy site or ancient path that I've encounter here, the desert strips the senses down to what is essential and God is. I am. We are. Together. 

My friend Charlotte at the Wadi Qelt overlook in 2011
on our last First Pres pilgrimage

Lament

At times, I feel so caught between the conflicting narratives of this place. Questions, concerns, heaviness, all wrapped up in a bit of helplessness.  My intuitive, empathic personality is deeply affected by the despair. I am also, by temperament, a hopeful person. I'm generally optimistic, forward thinking, and believe that God will always find a way in the desert. In this land where conflict is the one thing you can always count on, I often feel bi-polar, quickly shifting perspectives from hope to despondency. How do I hold all these feelings and insights without throwing up my hands and disengaging?

On Sunday, I brought this spiritual mood disorder into worship at the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Beit Sahour. Earlier in the week, we had met the church's young, vibrant, newly ordained pastor, Ashraf Tannous.  As we made our way into church, I was feeling drained from our time in Jerusalem, my heart heavy from the hopelessness of the young underemployed men there. Ashraf's clear clarion call to worship challenged me out of my stupor:

ma'unatuna min 'indi r-rab.  sani'i s-samawat wal-ard.  

(Our help is from the Lord, Creator of Heaven and Earth!)

As he chanted and preached his way through the Lutheran liturgy in Arabic, I was again reminded of the warmth, honesty, and practical wisdom of the Palestinian people - particularly the Christians in the West Bank. While hopeful, Ashraf doesn't mince words when talking about the occupation or his desire to see injustice reversed. Passionate and buoyant, he reminded me of Paul's testimony to the Corinthian Church in 2 Cor 4:7-9, 16-18:

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed.  

 . . .Therefore we do not lose heart.  Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day.  For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an external glory that far outweighs them all.  So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, what is unseen is eternal.  

Paul is not suggesting a form of positive thinking or even holy optimism as his orienting principle. That would be too shallow and thin.  Paul honestly names his suffering while at the same time refusing to let his situation define who he is. His identity in Christ grounds him in such a way that his circumstances can be not only endured but transcended. He will not be thwarted from God's call on his life. For him, the spotlight must remain on God's greater intention for humanity. His work is to bring the world into greater alignment with this good news.  

In other words, what Paul is modeling and what is helping me not to loose heart here is what the bible calls lament. Predominately demonstrated for us in the Psalms, lament is a prayer process grounded in vulnerably naming the crap situation one is experiencing and sees. In my case, it is daily encountering men, women and children who are suppressed and oppressed under unjust occupation and who are subjected to scourge and second class treatment. Lament addresses God in demanding relief and often retribution. It invites an openness to look beyond the circumstances, to remain more connected to the people God cares about and to ultimately trust the One who holds us all.

What I discovering is that when I lament with the suffering soul of the Palestinian people, I'm invited to recognize that something more is going on. Palestinian resilience far surpasses their scandalous circumstances. The Palestinians are an innovative, determined people who bring water to the dessert, creating something beautiful out of detritus and dust. Each of the small faith communities where I have worshipped have outreach programs. With little resources, they listen to God's call and then get on with doing their mission. No apologies, no excuses. In the words of Nike, they "just do it!"  One Palestinian refugee said to me that they take the long view of their station.  They do not focus exclusively on their current suffering, although they have to wrestle with it every day.  Instead, he said, they engage and work for longterm possibilities for their children and their children's children.  Their commitment is to the generations that follow.  

Perhaps that is why I was so blessed on Sunday to witness a baby dedication.  Let's not pretend that this baby boy has unlimited opportunities before him. As a Palestinian living in the West Bank, there are many strikes against him. By Israeli law, he will be categorized and therefore restricted by his nationality, his religion, his gender. His Palestinian community will counterbalance that message with love, education, and sacrifice to ensure his future. As a Christian, God will embrace and redeem him, uniquely gifting him and giving him purpose. No circumstances, no matter how dire, can strip him of him of his unquantifiable value as God's beloved child. This is the covenant his church will proclaim to him every day, week, and year of his life. Already at 38 days old, he is being held in the loving arms of his family of faith who know that nurturing his true calling is as essential as his need for sleeping and eating.   

Lament turns our perspective around. We complain, we lash out, we confess our despair, we acknowledge our helplessness. Then we discover something more true and honest.  After our emotions have exhausted themselves, only then do we gain the ability to recognize the small shaft of divine light in the midst of the darkness. Encouraged, we get back to work. God is calling us. We have a job to do. We need to make a more just world for little ones like him.

The Via Dolorosa -

Jesus consoles the weeping women of Jerusalem

Yesterday morning, we walked and prayed our way through the Stations of the Cross. It is a winding path through the narrow market place of the Muslim and Christian Quarters in Jerusalem. Some of the stations are marked with tiny chapels while others are simply indicated with an aging brass medallion on the white limestone wall. The slopping, slippery walk ends at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the tomb of Christ.  

I've walked the route several times in the past and have been surprised by the emotion it evokes. Stopping, reading the accompanying scriptures, reflecting and praying at each station has had a remarkable impact on me. I enjoy the contemplative meandering early in the morning before the crowds and shopkeepers begin their bargaining.  

This time as I prayed the stations, the question I pondered was, "What needs to die?" Not only is the question complex but my potential response is a tangle of self-promise and promotion. Confession and surrender marked this crucible path. I have much to give up and give away.  

Then came Station 8 which reminded me of a part of the story which is often overlooked during the Protestant Lenten journey. It asks us to pause and acknowledge Jesus' consolation of the women of Jerusalem. Matthew 23:27-31 narrates the story this way:

A large number of people followed him, including women who mourned and wailed for him. Jesus turned and said to them, "Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for me; weep for yourselves and for your children. For the time will come when you will say, 'Blessed are the childless women, the wombs that never bore and the breasts that never nursed!' Then they will say to the mountains, 'Fall on us!' And to the hill, 'Cover us!' For if people do these things when the tree is tree, what will happen when it is dry?"

As much as I love the man, I admit I thought, "how insensitive of Jesus." How could dried up wombs be a blessing? Did he miss the cultural cues here? He's talking to women in the 1st century whose purpose is not only to produce children but sons! Sons were a statement of investment in the future, the continuance of legacy, an assurance of God's blessing. It would be their shame to not give birth, an expression of condemnation and despair for the future. How is that consolation?

It got me thinking about the good and deep longings that each of us has: for relationships, for health, for community, for justice, for peace. Can the suffering be so unbearable that we can only find comfort in longing for the end? At the Wailing Wall, Wendy spoke to a Palestinian Christian tour guide who said he no longer prays for peace. Instead he prays for the Second Coming.  

Wow. That is not my daily prayer.  

But being here, I think I catch glimpses of the deep despair where one might deeply long for Christ to come again rather than trust that circumstances can change. Granted that the sample is small but every Arab man I have met here who is under the age of 30 speaks of the lack of jobs and opportunity. Every single one has earned a college degree(s) and is woefully underemployed or unemployed. There is a bitterness, an angry edge, and a hopelessness that infects them.  

Children are a blessing here. The culture celebrates and honors them. But given the suppression and oppression experienced here, I can understand Jesus' warning about the human condition that can "do these things when the tree is green, what will happen with it is dry?" Have we so distorted God's good intention for humanity that it would be better not to bring babes into this chaos and conflict?

Does my version of hope need to die? 

It sends me to my knees. Lord Jesus, come. I'm not sure if it is a second coming that is required but we need you to come. Come and intervene. Come and change us.

Change me.