Written after a trip to Israel/Palestine
with a class from
Candler School of Theology in January 2018
I
must admit, I began this trip a little distracted. I was all caught up in the Christmas hubbub, commissioning
paperwork, and all the things I need to do in my final semester of seminary
before I move across the country to an unknown destination and begin a job in
full-time ministry that I only marginally feel prepared for. My perfectionist character stresses at
the slightest thing out of my control, which feels like just about everything
right now. So when I finally
arrived at the airport in Atlanta about to board a plane that would take me to
Paris and then Tel Aviv, I hadn’t really spent much time considering the
journey on which I was about to embark.
My prayer was one of calm.
I hoped to just be present on our tour through the Holy Land. I wished to put aside my fears and
preoccupations about me so that I
could fully participate in a life that I could only view as an outsider.
I’ve
actually studied the situation in Israel/Palestine a fair amount. My call to ministry in some part stems
from a desire to learn how religion has been used to further both large amounts
of good and large amounts of pain in the world. In the words of Moshe Halbertal, a Jewish philosopher at
Hebrew University in Jerusalem, “when you bring in the religious dimension, it
absolutizes the conflict – you can divide the land, you can divide the
security, but the sacred is indivisible.”[1] Though not all people in
Israel/Palestine would admit that their motivations to live or relate to their
neighbors in a certain way is religious, all of the region (and all of the
foreign powers that are involved in the region) are implicated in a religious
conflict that is bigger than land, politics, and power alone. I took a class with Alex Awad, a
Palestinian Christian and former professor at Bethlehem Bible College. Alex instilled in me two things, 1) a
basic understanding of the Israeli occupation in the West Bank, what that means
for Palestinians living under occupation, and how issues of religion, money,
and politics are all mixed up in the problems and the solutions, and 2) a deep
sense of Christian compassion for all people living in the Holy Land.
The
sacred is indivisible, and as Alex often reminded me, the sacred is in each of
us as we are created in the image of God.
As I arrived in Tel Aviv and rode the bus to Jerusalem I couldn’t help
but notice how people here are like people everywhere. Though we might label and divide them
as Jews, Muslims, Christians, or as Israelis, Palestinians, tourists, we could
also probably describe them all as mothers, fathers, siblings, and friends, all
children of God. Immediately I
felt a tension emerge between the commitment to justice for the people living
under occupation and the placid reality that is most people’s lives. In the words of Dr. Beth Corrie, we
witnessed tension “between the good and the good.” This theme would permeate our travel as I thought about the
thousands of people who have, do, or will call this land home.
The
first day of our visit highlights a shift in my own attention and attitude
towards the trip. As I mentioned,
I set out distracted. I wish I
could say that I shook this distraction and was able to be truly present through
the entire trip, but that is not the case. After a busy day at Hope Secondary School, the Herodian, the
Nissan Brother’s olive wood shop, the Shepherd’s Field, Bethlehem Bible
College, Church of the Nativity, and Lutheran Christmas Church with Mitri
Raheb, all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and fall asleep. Instead, I joined the group for a
mandatory reflection meeting. Dr. Ellen
Shepherd opened the meeting by asking us all to think about where we felt close
to Christ and where we felt far from Christ in the day’s travels. I admit, my first thought in response
to that question was, “did I even think about Christ today?” No, I hadn’t really, not as a living
and real component of my life anyway.
I do recall standing on the Herodian and gazing out at the horizon,
thinking, “This is the land that Jesus walked on.” I did smile at Bethlehem Bible College where Grace told us
that Bethlehem means “House of Bread,” and that their mission was to bring
bread to the world with their eyes set on the Kingdom of God. I did appreciate Mitri’s articulation
that “hope is what we do” in the face of occupation. But I didn’t really think about the connection between my
experience and Christ. My heart
was removed. I wasn’t present.
As
I began to intentionally reflect on that day’s experience, I recognized Christ
in the Muslim call to prayer, in the hustle and bustle of Palestinian life as
we walked the tight alleyways of Bethlehem, in the faces of people I
passed. These people longed for
the real resurrection and freedom that Mitiri writes about for the people
living in the face of empire.
Jesus was born in this land, among these people. Slowly my attitude toward this trip
began to shift from being about me to being about the people I interacted
with. As Mitri writes, “If we
really want to understand the Bible, we need to start listening to it with the
ears of the people of this land.”[2] With this reflection a theme of
narrative emerged: my narrative, the Palestinian narrative, the Israeli
narrative, the Joshua narrative, the narrative of Christ, and more. All of these narratives are complicated
and nuanced. People are the
stories that compose their lives. As
we traveled, narratives were confirmed and questioned, often revealing tension
between the good and the good and sometimes the not good.
We
were intentional about listening to the Palestinian narrative. John and Elizabeth from the Methodist
Liaison Office and Daoud from Tent of Nations all articulated the struggle for
justice that they endured and worked for in their lives, day in and day out. Daoud’s narrative was as much a
testament to his family’s struggle against the heavy shadow of occupation at is
was a testament to the light of Christ and the good of humanity. “We refuse to be enemies,” he said,
“with separation no one can achieve peace.” The Palestinian narrative of oppression written on the walls
that separate the West Bank from Israel is not the only part of their
narrative. Daoud outlined the four
principles that the Tent of Nations is built on, 1) refuse to be victims, 2)
refuse to hate, 3) live our faith, and 4) believe in justice. Their journey is one of resistance as
they plant trees in faith, love, and hope for a future of peace. The voices of Anton, Mary, and Hagop
from Kids for Peace and the Youth Theological Initiative added to the
Palestinian narrative that I heard.
Though they lived amidst censorship, checkpoints, fear, and anger they
too hoped for a different reality just as they attended to the requirements and
necessities of their daily lives.
Though
we spent less attention on the Israeli narrative it nevertheless shown
through. Checkpoints and the
presence of Israeli soldiers maintained the narrative that 1) Israel is in
power and 2) Palestinians are a threat.
The Sea of Galilee put forward a blissful and happy partnership between
Jews and Christians who together share in remembering their historical and
religious ties to the land and to each other. The City of David, “where it all began” positioned itself as
the initial and rightful taking of what would be the city of Jerusalem, the God
ordained location of the Temple, and the Jewish people forever. This narrative of rightful ownership of
the land, then and now, permeated our time in Israel. Walls, ancient and modern, surrounded areas to keep in those
who “belong” and to keep out those who don’t fit a certain mold (nationality,
ethnicity, religion). And yet the
Israeli people were, like most of us, just people. Adults going to and from work, children playing in the
streets, concerned with all the normal things that they should be concerned
with. Occasionally members of the
Israeli Defense Force (IDF) would walk by with large automatic rifles, just
doing their job, children protecting their nation.
I
could not help but ponder the dichotomy between the biblical narrative that
“gives” the Israelites this land (cf. Josh. 1:2-6) and what my eyes were
seeing. The Book of Joshua, though
violent and puzzling at times, provides hope for a displaced people. Reflecting back on the text in light of
the current empire feels off. It’s
as if the State of Israel today is not the same people who were slaves and
escaped from Egypt and spent 40 years wandering in the wilderness before
settling in this land. Indeed,
even in the biblical account when the tides are reversed and Jerusalem is
capital of the empire, Jeremiah comes with word that God is “going to sling out
the inhabitants of the land at this time, and [God] will bring distress on them”
(Jer. 10:18 NRSV). It seems is if
Mitri Raheb is right, we must consider the longue
durée, of the land and the thousands of years, chains of empires, and
people of faith who lived in and outside of this region.[3]
Jerusalem
is the coalescing of narratives.
Here some narratives merge to tell new stories, other narratives stand
proudly as they are and resist influence.
Competing narratives display side by side, on top of or underneath each
other, all claiming the sacred as their own. Jerusalem is divided into quarters (Muslim, Jewish,
Christian, and Armenian) and yet no walls prevent these narratives from
mingling. This reflection would
not be complete without walls. I
spent a lot of time on this journey thinking about walls: remnants of walls
where biblical figures walked, walls that separate oppressed from oppressor,
walls that the president of the free world wants to build to keep dark skinned
people out. And then we came to
the Western Wall, the Wailing Wall, all that is left of the second Temple, and all
that is left of the building that housed the Holy of Holies. And in this spot, the closest we can
get to God, all I could think was “how could God reside in a wall?”
It
is fitting almost that Jesus wept from the hillside, outside the walls of the
city where he would die. We walked
the road that Jesus walked from the Mount of Olives to the Garden of
Gethsemane. We stopped on the
hillside that Jesus stopped on, gazing out over Jerusalem and the throng of
crowds all claiming the sacred land as their own. “As [Jesus] came near and saw the city, he wept over it,
saying, ‘If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that
would make for peace! But now they
are hidden from your eyes’” (Luke 19:41-42). I can’t help but think that Jesus would still be
weeping. We have still not found
the things that would make for peace.
We each have a role in putting our selfish humanity before love of God.
Perhaps
it was the bishop’s preaching, or any of the other (many) people in our group
who can also preach, but the narrative of Christ came alive in so many ways as
I became reacquainted with the importance of reading in context. Christ’s encounter with the Samarian
woman at Jacob’s well, Caesarea Philippi and the gates of hell, the Sea of
Galilee, and the path between the Mount of Olives and the Garden of Gethsemane
were just a few of the places where the narrative of Christ seemed to be
reborn. Just as Christ came to the
Jews living under Roman occupation, so it seems that Christ is alive amidst the
people living under Israeli occupation.
Though we walked through a land looking at dead stones, Christ is alive
in the remembrance of the stories that we tell at those stones. It’s almost sacramental in nature. As we remember the movements of Jesus
over the land we participate in those movements, just as we participate in
Christ’s death and Resurrection when we remember the story in the Lord’s
Supper. Christ’s narrative becomes
my narrative. I am part of the
story of the land, how will I use my part in the story that I tell?
Amidst
all of these narratives that I heard and saw, my own narrative refused to
disappear. My body’s reminder for
food, sleep, and time alone served as a personal reminder that we are all human
regardless of the story we tell.
My own selfish distraction may be what keeps me from recognizing the
other, but it is the same distraction that I share with the other. We are all created by God and called to
live into our humanity, in all its strengths and all its weakness. Yet despite that weakness, Christ is in
the stories of the people. Come
and see, go and tell.
Bibliography
Raheb, Mitri. Faith in the Face of
Empire: The Bible through Palestinian Eyes. Maryknoll, New York: Orbis
Books, 2014.
Rudoren,
Jodi. “In Jerusalem’s ‘War of Neighbors,’ the Differences Are Not Negotiable.” The
New York Times, November 18, 2014, sec. Middle East. https://www.nytimes.com/2014/11/19/world/middleeast/in-jerusalem-war-of-neighbors-the-differences-are-not-negotiable.html
[1] Jodi Rudoren, “In
Jerusalem’s ‘War of Neighbors,’ the Differences Are Not Negotiable,” The New York Times, November 18, 2014,
sec. Middle East, https://www.nytimes.com/2014/11/19/world/middleeast/in-jerusalem-war-of-neighbors-the-differences-are-not-negotiable.html.
[2] Mitri
Raheb, Faith in the Face of Empire: The Bible through Palestinian Eyes
(Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books, 2014), 97.
[3] Raheb, 98.
