The Biblical Zoo

You are the Lord, you alone;

You have made heaven, 

The heaven of heavens, with all their host, 

The earth and all that is on it,

The seas and all that is in them.  

To all of them you give life, 

And the host of heaven worships you.

Nehemiah 9:5-6

Biblical Zoo in Jerusalem

Let it be said that going to the zoo was not on my bucket list of things to do here in Israel/Palestine. I didn't even know there was one here. Since my sabbatical is all about unexpected discoveries, I responded enthusiastically when the Ralstons invited me to join them for a day at the Biblical Zoo on the outskirts of Jerusalem.  

The drive was easy. The zoo is only a few miles from where I live and involves a single checkpoint. Living on the Bethlehem side of the wall I forgot how different life is in Jerusalem. The streets are wider, the vegetation greener, and the signage is atrocious! I'm quite proud of myself for finding my way.  

The zoo is quite interesting. There is replica of the Noah's Ark, scripture references next to all the animal descriptions, and, of course, no pigs! Unclean animals are a no, no at a Jewish zoo! The setting is quite lovely, one of the few green spaces I've seen here. It was a visual relief from the stoney, scubby hills that surround Bethlehem.

Hamat Gadar in Galilee

Seeing the zoo from the perspective of a 2 year old is always inspiring. There is wonder and delight in recognizing and naming each animal one sees. Adele loves them all but professes a focused fondness for the crocodiles. I recommended the alligator park in Galilee - Hamat Gadar - where there are hundreds of these prehistoric beasts. I went there 4 years ago and to this day I can't quite figure out the Israeli fascination with this particular reptile. They certainly don't appeal to me.

Spider Monkey

We ended up at the children's zoo along with a handful of other international relief workers. On Friday afternoon, the zoo was fairly empty because many Israelis were getting ready for Shabbat. While Joshua and Adele engaged the animals at the petting zoo, Sarah and I got to talking about the formative role zoos play in child development. Adele's vocabulary and intellectual growth is stimulated by such field trips even though she may never remember this zoo years from now. We noted with sadness that many of the children in the West Bank don't have access to experiences like these. Many of Sarah's co-workers in Ramallah have never been to a zoo, the ocean, or to Jerusalem for that matter. Israeli law makes it impossible for them to get there. 

There is one small Palestinian zoo in the north-western part of the Palestinian Territorie in Qalqilya. Here the animals have thrived and suffered depending upon the political situation in the West Bank. As unintended victims of the Israeli suppression of the Palestinian Infatadas, some animals died from shell shock, bullets, and tear gas. Fortunately, the zoo is now seeing better days and the animals are thriving. Unfortunately, the trip from Bethlehem to Qalqilya is well over 3 hours each way for a Palestinian and involves multiple check points, a few that are not always open. For someone like me, who can navigate freely in Israel, it would take less than an hour to reach this particular zoo.   

Persian Leopard

So it got me wondering, had Iyad's children ever been to a zoo? The trip to Qalqilya is arduous and I assumed that the kids would not have had access to the Israeli zoo, When I asked Iyad about it, he told me that in the past year, the Israelis had loosened their grip (just a bit) on mobility restrictions for Palestinians during their high holy days. For Palestinians, entrance into Israel requires a special permit. For the first time in a long time, the government was generous in granting these precious passes. So last Easter, the family made their pilgrimage to the Biblical Zoo. Just like Adele, his kids enjoyed all the animals and celebrated the wonder of God's good creation.  

For me this symbolizes a resurrection of sorts, unexpected life where freedom was presumed dead. Were these uncharacteristic permits a reflection of the increased stability in the region? A slight change in Israel's approach to the Palestinians? A simple gesture? Whatever the complex set of motivations might be, I choose to see them as hospitable graces from God. Yes, I readily acknowledge that this is a small liberty in light of the ongoing constriction of occupation but this is still a gracious gift nonetheless. It reminded me that in the end, nothing can silence creation's chorus when praise is composed with wonder and awe. Nothing and no one. Not governments, not checkpoints, not hate, not conflict. As Nehemiah reminds us, we all will join this celestial celebration, praising God for all of what God has made. . . .  by whatever means is available. Baraka!

Noah's ark!

Serendipity

The field below my balcony

The mornings here are so still, quiet and calming for me. The light is bright, the sun intense. Sitting on my small little balcony, I take in the barren, rocky landscape. My rickety chair provides just enough support for me to close my eyes, put my head back, and drink in the wonder of the new day. Coffee and bible in hand, I open myself to the sacred silence of God's salutation. 

Last Saturday morning looking at my view, I noticed a Palestinian farmer up early working in his small olive grove. His donkey tethered, he was tending to his trees, weeding, and checking out his olives. This was the first sign I had seen of the pending olive harvest that provides an enormous boost to the Palestinian economy. Families from all over the West Bank return to their villages to help with the picking. Internationals come from all over the world to assist farmers who are constrained by the regional violence and politics. As I sat watching this one farmer care for his handful of trees, I longingly wished that I had some way of being part of this crucial harvest for the Palestinians.

Scheduled later that afternoon was a rendezvous with my good friend Will McGarvey. Will and I were neighbors in seminary and are pastoral colleagues in our Presbytery. While we rarely cross paths at home, I noticed his facebook posting that said he was in Israel/Palestine leading a group. I got in contact and we decided to meet up. When the group arrived on Saturday evening in Beit Sahour, the town next to Bethlehem, I met him at his hotel for drinks. 

Picking olives!

As soon as I arrived, people began introducing themselves and welcoming me. "Welcoming me to what?" I thought. "I'm not going anywhere with you guys." Will and I excused ourselves to the bar to catch up. We hadn't been there long when I discovered that Will and his group were here to pick olives as part of an international contingent with the Joint Advocacy Initiative, a program of the YMCA. The group of 50+ was having an orientation that night and were scheduled to start picking olives the next day. At Will's invitation, the organizers let me join their group! 

God's serendipity is like that. A whispered longing realized in an unexpected way. I'm rediscovering the nuance of God's breath, the light breeze dusting my soul with a heightened awareness of the Spirit's leading. The impacted schedule I left behind in Berkeley often exhausts me to the point that I have little time for attentive appreciation. I'm grateful for the spaciousness of time and place that invites me to remember to attend again. 

a sampling of the harvest

A, B C, D . . .

. . . and a little child shall lead them.  (Is 11:6)

Sunday afternoon was homework day for the Shreydeh family. 10 year old Joyce was working on geography, 6 year old Joanna was working on math, and 4 year old Salloom . . . well, Salloom was "working" on playing. After a bit, I recognized the Arabic numbers Joanna was working on and even figured out the nature of the math problems she was doing. Perhaps I should never have spoken up because it then became my time for homework!

Joanna tested me on the numbers that she and her mom had taught me the week before. Now it was my turn to see if I could solve some simple math problems. She carefully recreated some of her homework for me to do. She gave me a series of numbers and I had to put them in order from the greatest value to the least. Then I had to practice writing out my numbers including the correct pronunciation. First part, an A, the second part . . . let's just say I need some more practice.  

Then came time for my first lesson in the Arabic alphabet. I diligently copied my letters and we went to internet so I could hear and see their version of the "A,B,C" song. I only have a week before I'll be tested again! Yikes, my brain isn't geared to remember this kind of stuff anymore. We laughed and laughed at how silly I sounded!

We ended the afternoon the way we started - with the Barney song. When I first stopped by their apartment, the kids were playing with Barney toys. When I spontaneously started singing the "I Love You!" song, Joanna picked it up and, to my surprise, sang it back to me perfectly. Up until that point, I had never heard her say one word in English!  After all our lessons, Joanna gestured for me to write the song out for her to copy which she did. Then Salloom came over and showed me how he could write out his English a,b.c's perfectly. I have a lot of work to do to keep up with these kids!

Joanna gave me  a star on all my homework which is now proudly displayed in my apartment. Never have I had so much fun learning something new.  And I have never been so loved by my teachers. It melted my heart to have them sing to me:

I love you

You love me

We're a great big family!

With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you.

Won't you say you love me too!

I've never been so indebted to that wonderful purple dinosaur! 

A Tale of Despair and Hope

Stories are the fabric of our lives. They provide a reality check for our perceptions, help us envision what is possible and what we hope will never happen again, and often give us a dose of hope.

Today in my small Arabic Presbyterian Church, I heard the most remarkable testimony about forgiveness as activism. Pauline Ayyad was widowed exactly 5 years ago when her husband Rami Ayyad was kidnapped and brutally murdered by Muslim extremists in Gaza. At the time, Pauline had two young children and was 4 months pregnant with her third. Running the only Christian bookstore in Gaza, Rami was targeted for his unwillingness to renounce Christ.

Pauline described in vivid detail the anger and rage she carried not only towards God but intensely towards Rami's killers. She was provoked by Christians who immediately encouraged her to forgive and even to pray for the conversion of his killers. With little hope for justice, she sank into a depression as she lashed out in her deep grief and pain.

She told a tender story of how God transformed her hatred bit by bit into eventual forgiveness and love for Rami's killers. As the first year unfolded, she gave birth to her daughter, Heaven, named for her trust that Rami was with God. She heard a pastor talk about the Good Samaritan and was convicted that in her real-life version of the story, Rami's killer was the person in distress. She wondered if she would ever be able to play the role of the Samaritan and minister to his needs. Over time, she became more deeply aware that she was God's daughter which assured her that all of her life. including Rami's, was held in God's gentle embrace. "All things work for good" became a promise she began to trust. And then came the day when she was finally able to let go of her hate.  She spoke of an overwhelming sense of peace and freedom. Affection and love came much later.

While Rami's story depicts an extreme form of Islamic fundamentalism, it suggests some of the real challenges that Christians face here in the West Bank. In Gaza, where the population weighs in at nearly 1.8 million people, there are less than 3,000 Christians living there. While Bethlehem sports a Christian population of nearly 25%, in all of Israel/Palestine, the Arab Christian population is less than 2% of the total. Often caught in the economic and religious middle between the Jews in Israel and the Muslims in the West Bank, emigration is often perceived as the best option for the younger generation of Palestinian Christians. Sadly, this depletes the region of one its best assets. Christians are among the most educated and most politically moderate in this country. Israel/Palestine needs their wisdom, their bridge-building humility and grace. Tragically, in a land where Palestinian Christians were formerly a majority, many of churches on the various holy sites are now only shrines for pilgrims. There are few Christian congregations left to worship in these sacred places. A fear shared among the relatively robust Christian population in Bethlehem is that their churches will soon become religious relics rather than the vibrant worshipping heart of the living stones of Palestine.

This is why Pauline's story is so unique. Given the chance to emigrate, she has chosen to stay and is making it her mission to encourage others to forgive their oppressor and to remain in the West Bank as a vibrant Christian presence and witness. She believes that love will transform this land and this people.

I left church challenged to think and pray about who is on my "need to forgive" list. In my case, it is far less about individuals than it is about institutions and social/cultural constraints. I wonder if my complacency is holding me back from living more fully with God. Like a stopped-up pipe, my incalcitrance prevents a loving witness from flowing.  What would it be like not to have to deal with all this unforgiving backwash and to live more forgivingly, more graciously, more lovingly? How would God's justice prevail if we all followed Pauline's lead?

Turkish Coffee

In my old age, I have discovered that one of life's little pleasures is a perfectly brewed cup of coffee. Since I've been here, I've enjoyed the rich, thick delight of Turkish coffee. It has everything one would wish for in a great cup of joe: bold strong flavor, foam at the top, and, to my surprise, a bit of sweetness to counterbalance the bitterness.

After more than a week of searching out the best coffee in Bethlehem, which I must admit is served from Cloudette's dinning room table, I finally put my culinary skills to the test. I made my first cup of Turkish coffee!

I confess to being a long-time decaf coffee drinker due to a caffeine addiction that surfaced in seminary. For the sake of cultural engagement, I have discarded my non-caffeine rule and now enjoy quiet mornings here in Bethlehem with a demi-tasse cup of the caffeinated type.

Who knew that coffee was first discovered by an Ethiopian farmer named Kaldi who found that his goats got buzzed when they ate the berries from the coffee plant.  He took his discovery to the local monastery and the Abbot found that he could sustain longer hours of prayer on the stuff.

Apparently, it quickly spread its way through African and Arabic cultures only to be deemed a "bitter invention of Satan" when it arrived in Europe. Pope Clement VIII in the early 17th century tasted this bitter brew and declared it OK for Christians to drink.

In Arabic culture, coffee houses are often called "schools of wisdom" for providing opportunities for communal entertainment (music and chess), conversation, and political discourse. Today, no faithful Muslim will be found drinking alcohol in a bar but they will be hanging out and enjoying conversation and community at their local coffee hang out.

So joining the long tradition of spirituality and wisdom making, here is my version of the morning mud:

A Hope for the Future

Trust in the Lord and do good; 

dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture.

Take delight in the Lord,

and God will give you the desires of your heart.

Psalm 37:3-4

Salloom Shreydeh

One cannot spend more than a day in this part of the world without hearing about the importance of land. The Jewish claim to Eretz Israel is rooted in a complex understanding of biblical promises and national identity after centuries of horrific anti-semitism. Both secular and sacred, it is an emotional claim for self-determination, self-governance, and protection from hostiles who want nothing less than their destruction. On the other hand, the Palestinians see this land as their historic and ancestral homeland from which they were forcibly displaced. When family members can still remember being evicted from their farms, their homes confiscated without their choice or compensation, the pain sears the memory as unspeakable injustice.

I'm not sure I can fully understand how this pain is internalized for the Palestinians but I am gaining a clue about how important the land is culturally to them. Every time I've met someone here, they ask where I'm from. For them, this is not a question about where I currently live, it is a query about who my people are. It's like asking someone what their hometown is but over here, it establishes far more than regional geography. Home is a person's identity. It illuminates who they are, the family that formed them, the land that sustained them. And for them, they carry a conscious awareness of family that goes back not one or two but many, many, many generations.  

To a mobile west coaster, it is unimaginable to think about myself in this way. My connections are to the community where I find myself living at any given time. It seems many of us invest more passion in regional sports teams than a commitment to the places of our birth. Family is important, of course. But for many of us, grandparents and great grandparents are more often than not an occasional relational excursion we enjoy during the holidays. No so here.  

It is not unusual for people living and working throughout the West Bank to regularly return to their ancestral home. That may mean renting a cheap apartment in the city where they work and heading back home through multiple checkpoints every single weekend. Occupation amplifies the pain of separation when the politics restrict your mobility so that you cannot see your family for years and even decades. Unlike the young adults I know back home, here the young adults don't flee and flex their freedoms. In Palestine, one finds their foundation and fulcrum by returning to where they are known. Like homing pigeons, they would be lost to themselves without returning and roosting.

And where is it that they go? They go to their homes, their family homes. Arab houses are not really single family dwellings. They are family complexes with a separate floor for each generation. They are built in such a way that they just keep adding floors as the new generation matures. For many, sons, grandsons, and even great grandsons will bring their brides home to live in these shared family spaces. So important is this sense of land and its connection to family that the heads of these clans make great sacrifices to maintain their land and build the family house.     

Iyad's Faith for the Future

For you see, in this part of the world, conventional mortgages are unheard of. When one builds a house, you pay cash. That means you build the house in stages. First you purchase the land, then you build the exterior structure. The completion of the plumbing, the electrical, and the windows may wait for another year or two (or three or four) when you've saved enough dough. But you build what you can when you can on faith and in hope. Regardless of the economic uncertainty here in the West Bank, if you can only finish and inhabit one floor at at time, then you save for the day when you can finish a second, third or fourth floor so that your family can be together.Tied to identity, there is no greater or important legacy you can give to your children and their children than land and family.

And so with obvious pride and delight, Iyad showed me the home that he is building for his family in Beit Jalla. With views overlooking Bethlehem, Jerusalem, the Dead Sea and Jordan beyond, it is a symbol of hope, security, and, more importantly, of Palestinian confidence that nothing will ever break their connection to one another and to this land. With his young son, Salloom, by his side, it was a declaration that there will be a future for the generations to come. I pray this will be true.

the view from the future kitchen window

World Communion Sunday

Since my foray into a fully Arabic speaking congregation here in Bethlehem on World Communion Sunday, I’ve been musing on the nature of worship. In many ways, all Christian worship has the same elements: prayer, singing, reading the bible, preaching. But for me, the differences are what got my attention. That language barrier is in my face every day here.

This got me thinking about how churches in the US speak different languages, express their devotion in different worship styles, and have very different approaches to biblical interpretation. On most, if not all, Sundays, I’m not paying a bit of attention to all this diversity going on around me. And if I did, I’m quite sure that I wouldn’t give much thought to the diversity of Christian traditions. When was the last time that I envisioned World Communion Sunday as a celebration alongside my Eastern Orthodox, Armenian, Melkite, Coptic or Catholic brothers and sisters? Instead, I generally think of this particular Sunday in terms of nations and continents. In our church, the words of institution are recited in multiple languages but never have we considered an alternate liturgy from another Christian tradition. 

My experience of this small Presbyterian enclave in Bethlehem reminded me that all of us enter into worship from a particular cultural and religious point of view. On Sunday, I felt like an outsider of sorts.  I understood very little and was not understood at all. As I sat and stood, read and prayed, listened and communed, I realized that worship was deeper than comprehension and contribution. The community of faith is not a function of familiarity. It is about giving voice to the wonder of who God is, celebrating the good news of God’s love for us, and being molded more into the people God wants us to be. 

All of that happened for me on Sunday in part because I was unable to follow along or be understood. The service required that I be present to God and God’s people at deeper level: to be responsive to the Holy Spirit with cries too deep for groaning, to invite the Holy Spirit to pray through us, to allow the music to wash over and through me, to muse and meditate on the scripture text, trusting that what the Spirit was saying through the preacher was somehow in sync with what I was discovering for myself. 

And when we received communion, I was overwhelmed with affection for my brothers and sisters sitting around me. We were all receiving from the Lord a great gift of grace. I felt a kinship that each of us share in and through Christ. The conflicting expressions, the different languages, the complicated history faded as the reality of being one in Christ became more concrete through his body and blood for me, for us. It was worship.

Contrasts

Sarah, Adele and Joshua Ralston

Yesterday I ventured into Ramallah to visit good friends, Sarah (Miller) and Joshua Ralston and their daughter Adele. Navigating checkpoints, horrific traffic in Jerusalem, and driving without any kind of map or GPS was an engaging adventure. Fortunately, nothing in this region is that far apart, geographically speaking that is. And when trying to find Ramallah, all you do is head north until you see a security wall. 

Sarah and Joshua have been in this part of the world for well over a year for Sarah’s position advocating for justice, empowerment, and services for the Palestinians with CARE International, thus providing Joshua a great opportunity to write his doctoral dissertation. They decamp for the US by year’s end for Joshua’s new position as a theology professor at Union Seminary in Virginia. It was a bit disorienting for all of us to see one another here in the Middle East as we have always had a West Coast relationship. Both of them served on staff (Sarah as an intern and Joshua as College Director) at First Pres nearly a decade ago. They come back often to visit, Joshua more so than Sarah, due to our sponsorship of Joshua for ordination in the PC(USA). But as mind-bending as it might be to see friends here in the West Bank, that cannot even begin to match the contrasts I’ve experienced in the past 36 hours.

First - LANGUAGES
I was astonished when eighth grader Michael, Cloudette’s nephew, spontaneously translated my English into Arabic for his cousins. The Ralston's two-year old Adele speaks fluent Arabic which blows me -  and everyone else who meets her - away. All the Palestinian kids I’ve met study Arabic, English and either German or French beginning in first grade! In the US, most kids don’t start even one foreign language until middle school. First thing Iyad and Cloudette’s children wanted to know was how many languages I spoke. A big moment of shame because biblical Hebrew and Greek don't count and my college French is very, very rusty.

Mara

And another surprise: FEMINISM, PALESTINIAN STYLE
As soon as I got to Ramallah, Sarah mentioned that she needed to go to Jericho for a road rally of sorts. So off we went to watch Marah Zahalka, a Palestinian women from Jenin who grew up in a refuge camp. She taught herself how to drive at 12 years old while watching her mother give driving lessons. Now 20, Marah is one of only a few women in the West Bank who races cars. In a makeshift arena filled with hyped-up testosterone-driven men, Marah placed in the top ten. I found it amusing that a news reporter cornered us for an interview because she was surprised see foreigners at the race. Frankly, I was more astonished that we were among only a handful of women watching the races in a crowd of thousands of men. Let me just say that is a lot of male energy! Sarah told me that CARE was sponsoring Marah’s car as a symbol for women’s empowerment. In this patriarchal culture, this was one unusual and unexpected experience! Check out the story about this “speed sister” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HNMXtAq5jX0

And if that wasn’t enough, today we went to Oktoberfest in the Palestinian town of Taybeh. Yes, you read that correctly.  Oktoberfest in the West Bank. I must admit that I never expected to see a German beer festival in this predominately Muslim region. But since Taybeh is the only 100% Christian village in the Palestinian Territories, it stands to reason that only a non-muslim locale like this one could and would host the only brewery in all of Palestine.  

donkey rides

The festival was fun. I saw the Palestinian book-mobile, a traveling library for kids who don’t have much access to books. Adele had her face painted as you might have noticed in the photo above. We ate great street food and I bought good Palestinian olive oil. There was a family friendly parade featuring clowns and human butterflies. And for those 
of you who traveled on our last pilgrimage, there were “donker” rides. This was not a drunken brawl by any description but good Christian fun! Anyone think Oktoberfest might be in First Pres' future?

But as great as it was, it was sobering for me. This little community of 1,400 people is facing huge challenges. They have no economy to speak of, water is available only two days a week (a hardship if you run a brewery), and most of its young people are emigrating for hope of a better life. The question facing this vulnerable village is will there be a next generation to carry on its tradition and witness. The village boasts three active churches,  Roman Catholic, Greek Orthodox, and Melkite, as well as the ruins of a 5th century Byzantine church that has the most beautiful stone baptismal font I’ve ever seen! Their claim to fame is that they are the biblical town of Ephraim where Jesus and his disciples went for respite after Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead.

Jesus therefore no longer walked about openly among the Jews, but went from there to a town call Ephraim in the region near the wilderness; and he remained there with his disciples.  (John 11:54)

In this place of ancient retreat and rest, I’m praying that the Lord will continue to support and sustain this small but salient Christian outpost. 

me with Adele!

Couldn't sleep last night. Could have been jet lag, nerves, or excitement. Don't know, don't care. All I know is that I was dragging this morning. Prayed at the Wall in Jerusalem and then, with a jolt of strong Arabic coffee to get me going, I secured my rental car at the American Colony Hotel and headed out to Bethlehem. The checkpoint into the city was surprisingly easy. All of that anxiety and worry wasted on what turned out to be a non-event.

I immediately met Cloudette, Iyad’s wife, on the Palestinian side of the wall and she hosted me throughout the entire day. Here is what I did:

Iyad and Cloudette Shreydeh with their kids:
Joyce, Johanna, and Salloom

• Got keys to my apartment. Why can't there ever be enough plugs? Just sayin!
• Shopped for towels, was overwhelmed in the grocery story, exchanged money.  
• Played with Iyad and Cloudette’s kids which included showing them photos like this one that I took 18 months ago. These kids are crazy about American cartoons. Felt odd to be watching Tweety Bird and the Smurfs with Arabic sub-titles. Even more so to be playing with a stuffed version of Barney the purple dinosaur!
• Ate lunch at Cloudette’s parent’s home with her sister and her kids. Food was traditional Arabic fare and it was fantastic. I hope to have my first Palestinian cooking lesson on Saturday. Rumor has it that Cloudette is an even better cook than her mother!
• Watched the Arabic cooking channel (who knew that when making a cake, you combine the butter and milk together before putting it in mixing bowl)
• Unpacked and settled into the apartment which is only one flight down from Iyad and Cloudette’s. I moved all the furniture around and now the place is starting to feel like home – well, kinda. No Carol Aust paintings on the walls. No Misha. 
• Napped
• Had a pleasant dinner with the family after Iyad arrived home from a long day of tour guding. It was good to finally see him and thank him for all he has done for me.

On one hand, this was a rather ordinary day of errands and family for Cloudette but it was no ordinary day for me. Everything was overwhelmingly new. I enjoyed it all - the people, the crazy drivers, the energy of this little town. It goes without saying that navigating the zigs and zags of Bethlehem with all its small alleyways and markets will be a challenge for someone like me who is acclimating to this culture. I intimately feel the estrangement of being a non-Arabic speaker. I cannot read the signs, talk to the shopkeepers, or, for that matter, converse with many in the family. All the same, everyone has been so helpful and patient. Iyad was gone at work all day and yet he still managed to call me at least a dozen times to check in and make sure I was feeling well cared for. When I arrived in Jerusalem, his first words on the phone to me were, "Welcome home!” While that surprised me yesterday, it feels more true today. I am being generously enfolded into this warm Palestinian family. Love has its own fluency and I'm discovering that language is no barrier. What a gift!

From our gathering today, here is a snap shot of three generations – grandma, daughters and some of the grandkids. Who knew this was going to be so much fun!

Jerusalem at Last!

Upon my arrival in Israel earlier today, I feel like I have officially disembarked from the working aspects of my life. The immersion into Palestinian rhythms and culture brings a sense of concreteness to my necessary separation from all things West Coast. But to be honest, the transition didn't begin when I boarded Delta flight 268 to Tel Aviv. It really began last Friday when I boarded a plane to NYC to preach at the installation of my dear friend Dale Southorn. It was a great weekend that included extended time with my daughter, Allyee, who is at Hunter College in Manhattan, and Dale and his wife, Elisabeth, my best friend for nearly 40 years. Laughter, tears, and the wonder of being loved and known by good friends and family -- it was a sweet way to start the sabbatical.

Having landed mid-day, I spent the afternoon getting reacquainted with Jerusalem, this ancient citadel of the sacred. The city was overrun with pilgrims celebrating Sukkot, the Jewish holiday for remembering the 40 years of wandering in the desert. Both a deliverance and provision festival of sorts, this one comes right after Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Cleansed from sin, the pilgrims pray for God's provision and deliverance from their perceived oppressors.

As promised, my first order of business was to walk to the Western Wailing Wall where I joined thousands of pilgrims in offering prayers. When I left California last week, my heart was and continues to burdened with the challenges facing so many people I care about. There are marriages that are falling apart, people who are grieving, and folks facing threatening illnesses. There are laments of loneliness from many of our single congregants and epidemic uncertainty among our college students. There are lost souls questioning faith and those who have given it up. There are communities that are suffering unimaginable pain and betrayal. I couldn't read the New York Times over the weekend without thinking about about Albany, Goma, and the West Bank.

And so I stood beside the Wailing Wall slipping paper prayers between the cracks. I longed for God to answer these simple written petitions. The lilting cadence of Hebrew buoyed my spirit. The Wall echoed back the whispered requests of the hundreds of women who surrounded me. You could feel the energy and earnest hope. It was palpable. I was deeply moved and sensed the presence of the Divine holding far more than my small but significant list of prayers. I was in awe.

So when I finally turned to leave, why did I feel sobered, daunted, and even a bit discouraged by the whole experience? As I passed through the labyrinth of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim neighborhoods that make up the old city, I found myself wondering how God sorts out the many prayers offered for healing and peace when prayers for God's shalom and justice take on very different manifestations depending upon your religious and cultural point of view? As the sun went down, I clearly heard the conflicting call of the shofar, the muezzin and church bells. How does God hear and respond to this concentrated cacophony of concern?

Disquieted, I headed over to Shewar's, my favorite hole-in-the wall coffee shop in the Christian Quarter. It has been over 18 months since I have had coffee there and over 3 years since my first introduction to the owner and his delectable pastries. When I entered, Shewar tilted his head and said, "I remember you. It's been a while since you've been here." I was floored. With the crowds of family, friends, and tourists that pass through his shop everyday, how did he remember me? He made me a cup of his good, strong coffee, plied me with his jam-filled cookies, and eventually sent me on my way without letting me pay. His reason? He said it was good to see an old friend and to come back again soon.

Shewar's generous hospitality reminded me that as I start my sabbatical what I am seeking is not answers to unanswerable questions. Instead, what I deeply long to hear is God's gracious welcome, "I remember you. It's been a while. . . . Come back again." Having worked far too many hours these past few months, I have been operating in a spiritual deficit. I'm tired and soul-weary. Maybe what I need to remember is that I'm remembered and welcome.

Tomorrow, at first light, I will revisit the Wailing Wall before heading off to Bethlehem. In addition to all the prayers I am offering up for others, I will slip one of my own into the wall.  God, please bring me back home.