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

Sons

I spent the International Day of Women in Ramallah visiting sons. Now I know that I should have found some girls to visit, but to be honest, except for the quick glance at the Google logo that morning, I had forgotten all about this call for justice. Odd, I know, since part of the reason I’m here in Palestine is to investigate potential projects for advocating for women’s empowerment among the refuge population here.

Sons are precious in this part of the world. In a society where men carry much of the responsibility outside the home, there is pride when sons are born and joy in their successes. With that privilege comes the promise of protection for sisters, affection for mothers, and commitment to future wives. And while, at times, it rubs my feminist sensibilities the wrong way, I have actually seen less cultural distain for women than I often see in the States. Women are celebrated and treasured. Among the Christians I know here, women are deeply respected and are powerful leaders for change. And one of the ways they influence the future is by raising good sons.

So it was with great anticipation that I went to Ramallah to visit 4 month-old twins Bishira and Francis, the adorable sons of Basma and Raed Shraideh. For Roman Catholics around the world, I imagine Francis will be a very popular name this year. Bishira, on the other hand, may not be as familiar. In Arabic, Bishira means, “to proclaim the good news.”

As we got reacquainted over a glass of fresh squeezed lemonade, Basma told me about her pregnancy and the birth of the twins. This dear couple acclimated to the instant doubling of their family by moving into Raed’s family compound in Nablus for a little over a month. His mother and father, brother and sister-in-law helped them attend to feedings, diaper changes, and requisite mid-night rocking. Raed and Basma look both exhausted and joyful in these early photos. Like all parents, the love they have for their sons defies explanation. What was obvious in those early photos was clear to me as I saw them both cuddle, feed, and delight in these two growing boys.

When looking through the boys’ baby album, the photos that captured my attention were part of a series that depicted Basma and Raed bringing the boys into church for the first time. Clearly this was a big event, one that reminded me of the pomp of weddings. There is a shot of Basma walking down the “isle” with baby bundle in hand. Another showed both parents presenting the boys to the priest.  In the background, you couldn’t help notice the beaming grandparents and the enraptured congregation! I vaguely knew something about this tradition as I had seen another version of it during my sabbatical stay here. Around the 40-day mark, newborns are brought into church to be blessed. What was new to me was the fact that this was also a celebration of the mother’s reentry into the community where she now has the treasured status as a mother.

The next series touched something very deep in me. Under a Christmas canopy housing the large nativity set, there is a photo of the priest lifting up each boy over his head, praying and offering each one to God. Francis and Bishara do not belong solely to this loving family. They belong to God and thus are dedicated to God’s mission in the world.

I studied these pictures, turning the pages back and forth several times. This was sacrament of a different order. Unlike our baptisms that are scheduled at the parent’s convenience or possibly not scheduled at all, in this culture, from the very beginning, before the babies are even 2 months old, Christian children are offered to God and for God’s service. No need to explain God’s covenant to these families, it is assumed. This is not a part of the world where children will eventually make choices about what faith tradition they may or may not embrace. It will be the responsibility of these parents to raise these sons to be men of God. Like the covenant given to the ancient Israelites on the very mountains surrounding their family home in Nablus, the children are swept up into a binding covenant with God. And this mother and father along with grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and congregants, will model the rhythms of faith in their home and in their worship. They will forge their identities with the ironclad conviction of their value as God’s beloved and expect them to contribute to their communities. They will nurture their loyalties to friends, open their hearts to the wonder of strangers, and immerse them in the intertwining and deep of love of family.

And what a better place the kingdom of God will be. These two boys will live into the promise of their names. As they live into the legacy of the saint call Francis, the good news will be proclaimed. It is clearly, already, good news to me.

some things never change

What is it about this place that touches my soul so deeply? On today's inaugural crossing of the checkpoint into Bethlehem, I immediately saw my friend Khalil. You may remember my sabbatical story about his selling coffee to me almost everyday when I crossed into Jerusalem. There he was, a smile on his face and arms wide open in welcome when he saw me. I was in the West Bank for less than 30 seconds and I already had my first dinner invitation! Soon a small crowd of vendors surrounded my car but Khalil shooed them away. This is my friend, he said, not a tourist. 

After exchanging numbers, I was making my way down the familiar entrance to Bethlehem. I needed to get my phone activated, exchange money and begin calling a few locals to see when we might get together. This place is so familiar and yet I know it will never be as it was when I lived here on sabbatical. So it was not that unexpected that my drive through town revealed signs of increasing municipal decay as well as the completion of a new shiny building or two.  

This morning, the 4:45 am call to prayer shocked me out of my jet-lagged slumber. Somehow I had forgotten about this ancient Muslim practice and had left my hotel window open. Nothing like a megaphone to remind you that each and every day here starts well before the sun comes up. Despite the intentions of the local muezzin, I'm afraid prayer was not my first response. And now, mid-morning, as I sip my coffee from the brand new Singer Café in Beit Sahour, the Friday sermon emanating from the local mosque has fractured my writing zen. 

Of course the changes I care about the most are those experienced by those who live here. No surprise that the rest of the weekend will be filled with reunions with friends. It will be wonderful to sit with them and hear the latest. While many things are fluid here, one thing stays the same. There is always news and friendship to share over a good cup of coffee. And whether from the checkpoint, a new coffee shop, or better yet, in the living room of good friends, there is a lot of life to share.  I’m eager to catch up.

Pondering Palestine Again

I realize I have a very strange relationship with my cell phone. Not my American-born IPhone with its icon user-friendly interface that clings closer than any friend. Rather it is my very simple Nokia phone that is wooing. It’s not because this phone is better than my IPhone. Quite the opposite. This phone is nearly impossible to use. Texts are sent by incessantly tapping the keypad until the right letter rotates through the display. I can’t retrieve messages or seem to access the address book. So why does it make my heart leap when I see it springing back to life after a long dormant season? It’s because reminds me that I am returning to the land of its origin:  Palestine. 

It has been a year since I was last in this Holy Land. A year since the lilting beauty of Arabic befuddled my comprehension. A year since I walked its ancient pathways and laughed and cried with friends who have welcomed me like family. A year since I led pilgrimage neophytes through the sacred paths where our Lord once walked.

A lot has changed in this year. The trunk of my soul has grown twisted and gnarled like the ancient olive trees that stand guard in Gethsemane. The changes and challenges in my work have exacted feelings that evoke Jesus’ Good Friday plea for better alternatives. All the while, new possibilities are emerging as my wise and gifted daughters have graduated college this past year and are now launching into the career-building portion of their lives. So like many years before this one, it has been a year of grief and gift, aggravation and gratitude. In other words, life has been unfolding.

And so it has been for many of my Palestinian friends. While new babies have been born, first communions received, and new homes built, my friends in Palestine still are in the numbing rhythm of the occupation. It has been a year where the political posturing for peace languishes amid the absence of any resolve for justice. They too hold the paradox of joy and injustice. Like me, like all of us, life continues to unfold for them. 

Perhaps it is this very contrast that draws me again to this part of the world. My Palestinian friends and I share the common human graces of holding out hope for our children, love for our communities, and a deep assurance that God is upholding us. And while I could make a claim to struggle and disappointment in this past year, I cannot begin to assert that I have suffered. I have choices and freedoms that are inconceivable in a Palestinian context. I and my children have opportunities and dreams that are rarely imagined much less realized for those living in the West Bank. And yet, God is calling me to go into the heart of this story, this suffering.  

And so I go to listen and love, witness and work. My faith demands that I not only love as Jesus loved but to speak up and advocate for justice for those whose humanity is compromised. I go as a visitor in this land but also a sister in Christ.  My expanded faith family is here and I come open and receptive to their wisdom. I wonder how we will all be transformed by this family reunion. Only God, our faithful father and mother, knows.