Warning! Danger Ahead!

Labels are shortcuts that help us analyze, categorize, and instruct. When shopping at the grocery store, labels help the consumer determine the nutritional content of a product, position its placement on the food pyramid, and may even issue a warning of one kind or another.

Labels also serve as shortcuts to identify groups. We use them to sift and sort out commonalities and assumptions - some for good and some, far less so. We categorize people by gender, ethnic origin, nationality, religion, economic status, and the list goes on and on. In a place like Berkeley, we argue endlessly over the dangers of such labeling since stigmatizing and stereotyping are rampant when tagging others this way. This is particularly true when the people doing the labeling are in power over those being classified.

As you might imagine, here in Israel/Palestine, such conscriptions reinforce the long-held views that one group holds about the other. In this conflict, the way another group labels you is almost always the complete opposite of how you might perceive yourself.

When I moved here for my sabbatical, I intentionally decided against living a tourist lifestyle. Tourists are often coddled and shielded from the realities of life here. Most visitors parachute into the West Bank for no more than a few hours to see the holy sites in Bethlehem. And many pilgrims don't even to that. They are afraid to cross the border. Why? In part, because most have been told that it is not safe. 

One choice I made was to lease a car and drive myself. People told me I was crazy but how could I experience Palestine if I was always in a taxi? 

When I first arrived, I wanted to see as much of Palestine as I could.  Flexing my fledgling driving wings, I immediately got out and drove on the open road - first to Ramallah, then to Jericho, and finally, a Sunday drive somewhere south. You know, I really have no idea all the places I went that first weekend.

It was a challenge trying to figure out the traffic, the cultural rules (it is expected that you will honk), and the various road signs.  Out of the city and in the more rural areas, I began to notice tri-lingual signs like these leading to all the Arab villages:  

Given my naiveté, I was a bit freaked out when I saw them. What would happen to me if I accidently drove into one of these villages with my Israeli-plated car? Given that I can’t speak Arabic, would I be mistaken for an Israeli? Alone and a woman, could I be hurt in some way? So I drove past them as quickly as I could, praying that my car would never break down in such an area. I secretly vowed that I would never tell my family that I had been foolishly driving around without an escort!

It didn’t take too long for me to figure out how utterly unfounded these fears had been. Quite the opposite. Palestinian hospitality is generous and embracing. If I had wandered into one of these villages, they would have found someone who spoke English, invited me to dinner, and I would have dozens of new best friend.  Never have I had anything but the warmest welcome while wandering around the West Bank.

So why the warning signs? 

I had always assumed these signs were placed by the Palestinian Authority, the message being, “Israelis keep out or else!” After all, these signs are on Palestinian land and mark the entrance to areas under Palestinian governance and military control, the well-established “Area A.”  But this is not the case. What I discovered just this past week iz that it is the Israeli government who puts up these signs. For what reason? Apparently this reinforces the Israeli stereotype that Palestinians are hostile and threatening.  These signs serve as a warnings that entrance into any Palestinian town is dangerous to non-Palestinians - something that I know to be blatantly untrue!

So imagine my amusement when some Israeli and Palestinian women decided to create their own form of non-violent protest, choosing instead to place a different kind of label on those entrance markers. They covered these defamatory signs with ones that more readily reflects Palestinian hospitality.

I really like the last line:  "Refuse to be enemies."

Now that's the kind of label I think even Jesus would like.

Mar Saba

Sometimes you have to travel around the world to meet one of your neighbors. And sometimes it’s the only way to see your friends.

with Jes Steinberg at Mar Saba

When I was on Sabbatical here in Palestine, several people told me about a teacher from the East Bay who had moved to Jerusalem to teach English. After a few scheduling fits and starts, Jes and I finally met and bonded over a bacon-laden meal. We get together whenever I’m back in Israel. My crazy schedule prevented me from seeing her when she was briefly back in the Bay last summer.

My first order of business when I arrived a few weeks ago was to dial up old friends and plan an adventure or two. Jes claimed that first weekend and so in the early quiet of Saturday Sabbath, we headed off to the wilderness. 

Our first stop was the Mar Saba Monastery east of Bethlehem. We wove our way through the mountainous terrain until we were perched on the edge of a vast canyon, the monastery clinging to the cliff below us. Away from the hum of civilization, the stillness is quite a contrast. It is difficult to put into words the beauty, the spaciousness, the desolation of this place. Chatting ceases, inner voices go silent, and the soul begins to expand.  

Mar Saba in the Judean Wilderness

Soon you notice details. You are drawn to the sound of water and suddenly spy the wadi steam below. The birds soar overhead landing on the crosses gracing the tops of the monastery chapels. Across the canyon, there is an ancient and worn path cut into the rock. You follow its trail and realize that you are looking at the entrance to caves where you presume monks live.

path to monk's cave

I wish I could say the Monastery echoed these sensibilities but I will never know what the inside looks like. Jes and I were forbidden entrance. Only for men, oblates with ovaries have never been welcome. So we created our own holy space opening ourselves to the sacred from other sources. The glory of God’s creation was our chapel and the temple for our prayers.

I’ve been in the Judean wilderness on many occasions and have always had the same reaction. 

Awe. 

Every time, though, I have been with colleagues, family, pilgrims or friends. I’ve never been alone, truly alone in this vast, rugged landscape. I think it would scare me to feel so unprotected and vulnerable. Would God seem as present if I were unprepared, anxious and alone? 

I don’t know the answer and I’m not quite ready to volunteer for a solo trek into the Judean Wilderness. I do know that on this particular day, sharing this experience with a good friend was God’s gift. Conceivably that’s why the ancient pilgrims traveled in groups as they camped and climbed their way through these desolate mountains up to the holy city. It was safer to travel in packs and the songs they sang as they ascended bolstered the spirit. We can weather challenging terrain when we have companions on the journey.

Sometimes I have to travel around the world to remember this.

Those who trust in God

are like Zion Mountain;

Nothing can move it, 

a rock-solid mountain

you can always depend on.

Mountains encircle Jerusalem, 

and God encircles his people-

always has and always will.

Psalm 125:1-2

Sacrament

My soul has been in bad shape these past few months. I've felt dried up and shriveled deep within and I’ve wondered if I could find my way back into some semblance of joy. I’ve been through drought and wilderness before but this season has been particularly difficult and prolonged. What happens when pastors lead from such deficit? Who are their confessors? Who carries them along the scarred and sacred path when they have lost their way?

I came to the Holy Land to lead two trips and have a bit of vacation time. The small band of disciples who attended the Christ at the Checkpoint with me had little need of my pastoral guidance or care. In many ways, these folks took the lead on setting up meetings, networking, and debriefing the various sessions. When discussing the Palestinian/Israeli conflict, I can pretty much run on autopilot. I know the issues well, the emotions the occupation evokes, and many of the Palestinian church leaders are acquaintances and friends. Even so, the Christ at the Checkpoint conference was intense and allowed little time for reflection and rest. As soon as it was over, I rushed to Tel Aviv to meet my Filipino pilgrimage group with limited emotional, physical and spiritual reserves.

How was I going to lead a pilgrimage when I was so desperately thirsty for spiritual renewal myself? As with all my groups, our first gathering was an orientation to the questions to be asked during our sacred time together.

1)    What are your longings?

2)    What do you need to surrender?

3)    How is God present to you?

How would I answer these questions? If musing on these questions proved to be too difficult, I wondered how does one survive when the spiritual domain is a desperate, desolate desert?

Answer?  Find shade.

After a few days, my physical exhaustion began to lift. Eight hours of sleep can really be a gift. The quiet of our morning meditations helped gratitude seep into dry and cracked ground. Soon the silence, the sites and scripture coalesced into a life-giving trickle.

The gnarled and twisted soul was healing but would I find my pastoral heart?

In Capernaum, the celebration of communion, the canonization of bread and cup, left me hungry for more. In Cana, the group renewal of marriage vows reminded me of my own matrimonial losses. The grief lingered as our group entered the West Bank. A lovely conversation in Sebastia reminded me that I have not lost my pastoral sensibilities. At Jacob’s Well I remembered that God chooses women who struggle to lead. But it was at the baptismal site at the Jordan River that something broke open and apart. Somehow pouring that muddy water over the heads of my eager pilgrims helped me hear God’s ancient affirmation, “You are my beloved in whom I am well pleased.”

Baptism has always been more about God’s commitment to us. God is the one who promises and calls. Nothing about my effort, my brokenness, or my circumstance can change God’s binding grace and love.  

I am God's beloved  . . . also broken . . . and given as a blessing.

By the way, did I mention that the spot on the Jordan River where John baptized is located in the middle of the wilderness?

The Land of 12,000 Guides

It may surprise you but one of the most obvious things about the Holy Land are the busses. Tourists spill out of these bug-eyed monstrosities by the tens of hundreds, even tens of thousands. As a pilgrimage leader, one of the first things I do when I get to a site is count the number of busses. This tells me whether the site will be crowded or not. Given the All-American pastime of always trying to be in the shortest line, arriving at a holy place with only a handful of busses can be a delight.

Along with all those busses come tour guides. They are everywhere – well at least everywhere where I seem to be. With their groups, large and small, they explain, protect, and herd their people from one destination to another. These modern day shepherds can winsomely and efficiently coax even the most leisurely and picture-taking tourist to keep up.

To be an effective tour guide, you have to have an outgoing personality, one who likes people and can make a connection quickly. The best guides immediately size up their groups and modify and manage expectations and programs on the spot. In many ways, they know how to give the people what they want but the great ones also want to give them something more. The “more” depends on the guide. For religious tours like mine, the guides bring alive the ancient biblical text and culture. For other groups, the agenda may be more political. Putting a fair and human face to this conflict is no small feat. Very rarely do people leave this place unchanged. And this rebirth is often because of these tourist midwives.

This got me thinking about my role as a pastor. I could learn a lot from these tour guides. Although much of what they do is provide information, the essence of their work is relational. They are with their people daily, face to face. They know each person by name and, by the end of the journey, they know their sensibilities and shortcomings. And even though the guides lead the trip, the agenda is not theirs. They take a group of ruthless individuals and shape an experience of the sacred into a life changing experience.

Sounds like good pastoring to me.

I know a guy

Knowing someone in this part of the world has always been part of this culture. It is the currency that undergirds all transactions. Going to the butcher is a relational endeavor. You go to the shop of the family your family has known for generations. Need to rent a car? Someone will “know a guy” who you can trust to give you a good deal. Even when buying something as straight forward as purchasing a SIM card for your phone, the connection will be through a friend.

Today, it was not lost on me what a difference it makes to have someone in the know when you are visiting, of all places, a holy church.

woman at the well

The Church of Photini in Nablus is one of my favorites in the West Bank. This is the location of Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman at the well. As one of the first evangelists, she tells others about her conversation with Jesus and many in her village come to faith in Christ. This is astonishing not only because the woman may have had a rather damaged reputation but also because the Samaritans were enemies of the Jews – two very valid reasons for her fellow villagers to reject not only her testimony but to doubt the credibility of the One who was offering living water.

When you walk into the church, the first things you notice are the stunning icons that beautify the walls. The colors are vibrant, engaging, and you want to lose yourself in each and every one of them. Unlike so many Orthodox churches that sport only one female figure - the Virgin Mary – this church is filled with images of women throughout. It is like a who’s who of biblical women. There are stained glass windows of the Rachel and Deborah, among others, as well as multiple icons of the woman at the well. What a delightful and meaningful reminder that God has always chosen women to serve in extraordinary ways.

Abuna Justinus

Father Justinus is the Orthodox priest who has served this church since 1980. He may not be a man of many words but he is a man of extraordinary vision and talent. He was appointed to serve here following the tragic death in 1979 of the previous priest, St. Philoumenos, who was murdered while defending the church against Jewish fanatics who wanted to claim it for Israel. Long before Jesus’ time, Genesis records that Abraham's grandson, Jacob, dug this well making this site holy to the Jews. When Father Justinus arrived, he realized something beautiful needed to be created on this spot. Amid the crumbling structure that surrounded the ancient well, he rebuilt the magnificent church, painted all the icons that adorn the walls, and created the mosaics that cover the floors and walkways.

So what does this have to do with “knowing a guy?” In the past 18 months, I have been to the church many times. I first saw it with my dear pastor colleagues while on sabbatical. I visited here often with friends from Jerusalem. I took my kids to see it when they were here at Christmas time. I’ve added this stop to my pilgrimage programs. And last week, I brought our small band from First Pres who were here for the Christ at the Checkpoint conference. Every time I enter the church, I have tried to speak to Father Justinus to thank him for what he has done in the church. Most of the time, he either hides out in workshop or quietly ignores me.

one of the many images of biblical women

So today, just 10 days after I was last here, I arrived at the church with my pilgrimage group from the Philippines. This time, I had Iyad, my dear friend and tour guide, with me. To my surprise, the Father greeted me like an old friend, even made a joke about how tall I am. You see, Iyad has known this priest since he was a little boy. The affection that they share is as obvious as it is endearing. So Father Justinus warmly welcomed us and off we went down to the well where we sipped the living water from the very same well where Jesus offered living water. Usually forbidden, the good Father allowed us to take photos. And on the way out, he told another joke about short and tall people. Laughing and smiling, he was clearly enjoying the conversation. It was a delightful connection.

Knowing someone, or better yet, being known by someone is one of the gifts we give to one another. But the greatest gift is when we are known and, despite our shortcomings, we are loved. The woman at the well experienced this kind of love from Jesus. Transformed, she enlarged the circle by vouching for our Lord until others experienced that love as well. Because she knew, or more accurately was known by someone, her story invites people to embrace Jesus even to this day.

Today, at that same well, I touched one aspect of that fragile and loving circle. All this was possible because, after all, “I know a guy.”

with Iyad at Jacob's Well

Tagging the Wall

Bansky on the Wall near the Aida Refugee Camp in Bethlehem

When I was here on sabbatical at the end of 2012, I briefly talked to a young Palestinian man who runs the Bansky shop here in Bethlehem. I had seen and admired Bansky’s graffiti on the wall but really didn't know who he was. When my daughters visited at Christmas time, they explained his form of political protest to me. Creative, whimsical, and poignant, Banksy “tags” places all over the world, leaving an indelible mark on the landscape. His identity is unknown but his art is one of the most recognized forms of artistic protest in the world.

Graffiti has always been a prevalent art form in Palestine. You often see all kinds of buildings tagged with political slogans. But the separation wall boasts a style and flare all its own. The work is often on a grand scale and predominantly pictorial rather than word based. Found only on the Palestinian side of the wall, the graffiti provides a political outlet for rage, a platform for memorializing heroes, and broadcasting calls for justice.  

Can you find the artist, Moodie, in this picture?

So it was with some confusion that I spied a rather whimsical piece of art on the wall a block away from my hotel. It carried no apparent political meaning at all, at least none that I could decipher. I put it out of my mind until, by chance, I ran into the artist. It was none other than the young Palestinian man, Moodie, who runs the Banksy shop.

When you meet Moodie, you can't but be inspired by his intense, infectious enthusiasm. His laugh emanates somewhere deep in his being and can easily dominate the room. He loves Palestine and, in just a few minutes, he will give you a myriad of reasons to fall in love with it too. I was amazed by his youthful optimism, rare in this place where so many men his age are without meaningful work. But Moodie is all about inspiration. In his speech, in his art, in his countenance, in his workout routine, he wants you to know that life is worth living to the fullest. So when I asked him about his artwork, it was no surprise that he told me he only likes to paint happy images on the wall.

Men like Moodie give me hope for this country. He is unwilling to surrender his soul to the occupation. He is not unrealistic about the challenges that he and his country are facing but he will not let anything defeat him. Perhaps his colorful and happy pieces are a form of political protest after all. When the heart is filled with joy, no one can be imprisoned. 

Moodie at work