Marlin & Sally in Jerusalem

Making a Baby

The time for food and laughter has ended.  The three strangers stand with Abraham on a hill overlooking the Salt Sea and the city of Sodom.  No one speaks for a long time.  Although all share a collective dream, each is lost in private thoughts.  Abraham is thinking about creating a child.  The other three are thinking about destroying a city filled with children. Abraham imagines Sarah standing by the entrance of the tent eagerly awaiting his coming. The three envision the fire and smoke knowing that no one is waiting for them to come, because no one can imagine what they bring with them.  Judgment is a terrible burden.  Even these three feel the weight of it.

As Abraham walks on ahead, quickening the pace to match his haste to get back to Sarah, the three men quietly debate what, if anything, Abraham should be told about what is coming upon Sodom.  Judgment is a terrible burden.  Can a mere mortal bear judgment’s weight?  Finally the matter is settled by executive decision.  The LORD says:  “Shall I hide from Abraham what I am about to do, since Abraham is to become a great and populous nation and all the nations of the earth are to bless themselves by him?  For I have singled him out, that he may instruct his children and his posterity to keep the way of the LORD by doing what is just and right, in order that the LORD may bring about for Abraham what He has promised him.”

Apparently, old Abraham has not lost his hearing.  After the two men are dispatched to bring judgment to bear upon Sodom, Abraham stands alongside the flesh-and-blood embodiment of the voice he has been hearing for most of his life.  Abraham knew from the moment the three arrived that this was the LORD in his midst.  He recognized the voice.  Abraham also knew the heart behind the voice, so he knew he could speak boldly.  “For the sake of fifty innocents would you forgive?”

“For forty-five, would you forgive?”

“Forty?”

“30?”

“20?”

“10?  For the sake of ten innocents, would you forgive?”

“I will not destroy for the sake of ten.” (Gen. 18)

Abraham decides that he has pushed the LORD as far as the LORD will be pushed.  He’d be wrong, of course, but still, ten is good.  There must be at least 10 babies in the city.  Surely babies are innocent.  Apparently not!  The LORD has the final word, and then departs; going wherever it is the LORD goes after having the final word.  Abraham quickly walks to the tent he shares with Sarah.  She will be waiting.

Later, Abraham discovers what all parents discover somewhere along the way.  Making a baby is easy, even fun.  Raising one to be just and right?  Well that’s not quite so easy.

Getting Old

He never heard them coming.  “Must be getting old,” he later thought.

He was outside working on an old hoe that he and his family used for the small garden they kept near their tent home.  He is one of fifty residents of the Palestinian village of Susiya located in the West Bank.  Many have been driven off, but he has stayed.  The village of Susiya has been his family’s home for generations and he refuses to be frightened away.  At the age of 70+ he has no energy or desire to start over somewhere else.

The first blow was across the back of his shoulders and knocked him off the old bucket he was sitting on as he worked on that old hoe.   There were seven of them, their heads covered with hoods, only their eyes open to the world around them.  They had pipes and sticks and for several minutes they beat him and screamed obscenities at him in Hebrew.

What he remembered most was the soldier standing off to one side watching.  Dressed in army green and carrying that big gun, yet the soldier looked so young, about the age of one of his own grandchildren.  And the young man looked so bored, so disinterested in what was happening, almost as if he was watching an animal being beaten by a group of children, instead of a man old enough to be his own grandfather being beaten by men old enough to be his father.  The soldier looked so bored.

They didn’t want to kill him.  If they had, they could have done so easily enough.  They just wanted to terrorize him, scare him away.  The other villagers called the Israeli police, but the police did not come.  Finally, Ezra Nawi arrived on the scene and he was able to get the Israeli police to come and take a statement from the beaten man.  Nawi is a member of Ta’ayush, meaning in Arabic “life in common.”  Ta’ayush is an Arab-Israeli organization made up of Arab and Israeli citizens of Israel.  Nawi is Jewish.  Ta’ayush is dedicated to ending the Israeli occupation.

About 30 minutes later, Israeli soldiers appeared from a military checkpoint, 350 meters away.

The soldiers objected to the filming that was being done by one of the Christian Peacemaking Team.  They considered confiscating the camera, but decided against it.

The Red Crescent ambulance arrived to take Khalil Nawaja -- that's the old man's name -- to the hospital for treatment.  The soldiers refused to open the gate to an old Palestinian road that would mean a shorter ride to the hospital.  Ezra Nawi opened the gate himself.

The old man is badly bruised, but he’ll heal.  I wonder if the seven settlers and the bored, young soldier will fare as well. 

Being from the United States, I know something about hoods and beatings, and the authorities standing by watching.  Being Jewish, I would think that the settlers who administered the beating to this old man would know something of this as well.  The young soldier might not know, but surely, being Jewish, someone has told him about the history of his people when it comes to hoods and beatings, and the authorities standing by watching.

And I would think that these seven hooded settlers, and this bored, young soldier would know better.

"Mister, Mister ..."

This will be like the boy who walked into a room full of manure and stayed in there searching until he found the pony.  Stay with this story and you’ll find something alive and kicking.

Yesterday we were in Bethlehem again.  On the way back to Jerusalem you go through a large, elaborate checkpoint.  Having been born and raised in rural Iowa I know a cattle barn when I see one.  I’m sure the person who designed this checkpoint system has been to Iowa.

Israel is continually adding new features to this facility.  A few days ago as we passed through here, we noticed that something was being built on the Bethlehem side of the checkpoint.  We wondered over it for a little while, and then moved on.  One of the games that you play here is “I wonder what Israel will do next.”  Yesterday we could see what it was.  What’s next for the Bethlehem checkpoint is a dog run.  No, not really a dog run, but like a dog run, running from the barn entry to the bottom of a long hill – a 40-yard dog run.  I forgot my camera, so I can’t show you, but when I get you a picture, you’ll agree – dog run.

Adding to the degradation of all this, Palestinian laborers are building the addition – building a dog run to further add insult to injury!  Sally and I stand and watch as two Israeli policemen supervise the construction.  You could see the pain on the faces of the workers.  They desperately need the money so they take the job, but every minute is torture.  And what is most amazing to me is how hard they work to build this thing well.

It is painful to watch, and we can see that our watching is painful for the workers as well, so we head for one of the two holes (doors with turnstiles) in the concrete wall that allows us entry into the barn – I mean checkpoint, of course.  Never forget, this is all about security.

“Mister, Mister …” A small boy is calling out to me.  I hear him but ignore him because I know he wants money and I won’t give him money.  Palestinians ask us not to give money to these little guys, because Palestinians do not want to encourage begging.  More than that, they refuse to let the occupation turn their children into beggars. In small ways, Palestinians resist the oppression and humiliation that comes with occupation.  I can’t bear to look at this little guy so I put my head down and charge ahead.

“Mister, Mister …”  Keep walking.  Keep walking.  Don't look at him.  The door is just ahead.  Almost there now, almost there.  “Mister, Mister …”

Damn – wrong door.  We are on the wrong side of the newly constructed fence and the turnstile will not turn.  Damn.  “Mister, Mister …” I turn to look at this little kid, this boy, this child, and he says, “Not this way.  Over here.  Come over here.  This is where you get out.”  Did you hear that?  “…out” he said.  “This is where you get out.”

I walked back with him by my side.  I look down at him, into those eyes, those sad eyes, and he says to me, “I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.” God, I feel about as small as a man can feel in the presence of a child.

“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

He wanted to sell me some gum.  I didn’t buy any.  Honestly, I was so sad, so embarrassed, so ticked off, that I just wanted to get “out.”  I regret that now, but too late.

“I tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“We are doing this for the sake of our children and grandchildren.”  How often haven’t we heard those words, spoken those words?  And who are these children and grandchildren of ours?  Just who is my neighbor’s kid? Is my neighbor’s child, my child too?

Eyes that do not see.  Ears that do not hear.  Why don’t we see?  Why aren’t we listening?  What will it take for the children of the world to get our attention?

“Mister, Mister …”

Palestinian Women

Not that long ago, Bethlehem was a robust, vibrant city.  Now Bethlehem is poor.  Once, and again, not that long ago, Bethlehem and the surrounding cities of Beit Jala and Beit Sahour, were predominately Christian.  Now Bethlehem is mostly a Muslim city.  How that happened is a long and complicated story.  It happened, and for today that is enough to say on the subject.  Bethlehem is no longer robust, vibrant or predominately Christian.

Bethlehem is a sad place to visit, and a tough place to live.  The cars in Bethlehem are old and beat up, but still running.  The people are of all ages, and everyone of them is beat up, and also still running, still working, still trying to make a good life for themselves and their children.  As I have said many times before, the Palestinian people are amazing in their resiliency and patience.  They keep trying; keep hoping for a better day.

“I think of the struggle for freedom, for an end to occupation, as a tunnel.  Up ahead I see a light.  I can’t tell how far that light is from me, but I do see a light.  I think the end of the tunnel is a hundred-year walk from where I am today, but I keep walking, believing that every step that I take forward is an achievement of great worth and note.”

The woman who said these words is a Palestinian Christian with burning conviction in the coming of a better day for all the people in the region.  She doesn’t believe that she will see the day with her own eyes, but she believes that the day will come nonetheless, and so she works toward it with fierce energy and staggering faith.  Like old Abraham planting tamarisk trees, knowing that he will never enjoy the shade, but that his grandchildren will, this woman plants seeds for peace and justice, knowing that her children or grandchildren will reap the harvest.

Speaking to an audience of women, and me – a man in touch with his feminine side – she boldly pointed to the women of the region as the ones who were doing the significant work for the better day a comin’ … a comin’, ah dear Lord, a better day a comin’.

“Everyday, out of the most meager of resources, Palestinian women care for their children, and this is a great achievement that must not go unheralded.  Christian women live out of their own identity regardless of the pressure to do otherwise, and this too is a great achievement that must not go unheralded.  Muslim and Christian women join together to support one another, and do this is a thousand little ways, and this too is a great achievement that must not go unheralded.  In the face of everything that says there is no hope, we hold on to hope, and teach our children and grandchildren to hope as well, and this is a great achievement that must not go unheralded.  We are dying, but not dead, and with the life we have left we resist occupation and also the temptation to become what our occupiers believe us to be – weak and inferior – and this too is a great achievement that must not go unheralded.”

So I herald the little, everyday, heroic achievements of Palestinian women, and their sisters around the world.  In so doing, I remind you again, that in the eyes of God the work of the Kingdom is not being done only by the powerful and newsworthy, but also, and even more so, by the seemingly powerless, puny people who are visible only to those with eyes that see.

I see you!

LOST

Lost.

We saw him on the street near the market where we shop for groceries.  He was walking toward the Damascus Gate.  He was little, maybe four years old.  He was lost.

It is the last Friday of Ramadan, the month long Islam holy days, and anywhere from 500,000 to 1 million Muslims are streaming toward the Old City for Friday prayers.  The streets are full of people.  There are soldiers and police everywhere.  Huge buses have been arriving since early morning bringing pilgrims in from all over the area.  It is shoulder-to-shoulder people.

And just in front of us is this one little boy, and this one little boy is lost.  You know immediately that he is lost, because you know what lost looks like and you know what lost feels like.  I’ve been lost.  You’ve been lost too.  We hate lost.  It’s a terrible, paralyzing feeling, being lost.  This little guy is walking slowly, his head swiveling on thin shoulders.  He is sobbing and raking his arm over his nose and face, getting his brand new jean jacket dirty.  He doesn’t care about his new jean jacket.  He is lost and all he cares about is being found.

Sally eases up along side of him, leans down and asks him about his mother.  We don’t know the Arabic word for lost, so “Where is your mother?” is the best we can do.  We know enough Arabic to know that, through his sobs, he replied, “I don’t know.”   Then he does the most natural thing in the world, so childlike and innocent that his action takes my breath away for just a moment.  This little lost boy reaches up to take Sally’s hand.  She almost stumbles, so surprised is she by this little trust, this act of longing to be found.  You have to understand that the children here are curious about Sally, so blond and white, but they keep their distance.  They don’t reach out to her.

But when you are little and lost, well, that changes things, doesn’t it?

Hand in hand they walk.  Every now and then the little guy looks up into Sally’s face.  She smiles and nods at him, assuring him that he’s okay.  Soon, another woman, a Muslim woman carrying a baby, and with two little ones hanging on to her long, brown coat, notices Sally and the little boy.   She says something to the little boy.  We can’t hear what.  The little boy nods.  The woman looks at Sally and nods.  Sally nods back.  Now this little entourage, lost in a sea of people, is on a mission.  The Muslim woman is asking other women about the child.  They all give him a once over, ending with the little hand hanging on to Sally’s hand as if her hand was mooring him to land and safety.

The second boy just materializes out of the crowd.  Ah, big brother is here.  Two or maybe three years older and wearing an identical new jean jacket, big brother comes up to his sobbing sibling, bends his head to look right into little brother’s eyes, and smiles a big brother smile.  You know that smile, right?  “Hey, it’s okay now.  I’m here.  See, it’s me, your big brother.”  Arm around his little brother’s shoulders, he walks him through the crowd and to their mother.  She is talking with some other women, and when she sees the boy, she simply opens up his right arm and takes him fully into herself.

Found.

I doubt whether the mother was overly concerned with finding the child.  There is no child snatching here.  That thought probably never entered her mind.  But you could tell that she was glad to see him and happy to having his suffering end.  The big brother spoke to his mother and pointed over at Sally.  We are moving away from the scene, and we are getting lost in the crowd of people.  The mother has no problem finding Sally in this crowd – a blond American stands out.  You can see her brain working to put two-and-two together.  When it comes together for her, she smiles and nods her head – a universal gesture of gratitude, and motherly sisterhood.  Sally smiles back, and that’s the end of the story.

Well, not quite.

The big brother is suddenly walking in front of us, but backwards.  He is thrusting two loaves of bread into Sally’s hands.  She will not take them – WILL NOT!  “No,” she says.  “Please, no.”  The boy insists.  Sally resists.  I watch.  The crowd pushes past us.  Sally leans down to the little, big brother, and in a mother’s voice, says, “I’m a mother too.”  We get back into the flow of the crowd, hoping the boy understands and delivers that message to his mother.  “I’m a mother too.”

End of story.

You can’t think about this story and not think about Jesus’ stories of “lost and found.”  Or at least, I can’t.  A coin is lost; a woman searches.  A sheep is lost; a shepherd searches.  A son is lost; a father searches.  A little boy is lost; a big brother searches.  Jesus stories -- lost in the front-page stories of big important people, doing big important things, in a big important world.  The heroes in Jesus stories would not have made the news.

Jesus stories -- naïve, little stories of everyday people living everyday kind of lives.  Jesus stories -- lost in the real world.  Jesus got lost in that world as well.  Little, seemingly insignificant Jesus, an idealist who dared to cling to naïve notions of a God who primarily lived and moved among the everyday lives of ordinary people.

Today, don’t look on the front pages to find news of God’s activity on earth.  Look around you instead.

Another Bus Story

Sorry.

The bus was full.  Sally and I had to split up.  As always when this happens, Sally sits by the woman and I sit by the man.  Seldom do we have to make a different choice because if the empty seats are next to folks of the same sex, one will generally get up and go sit with the other person so that Sally and I can sit together.  We see men giving up their seat for women, younger women standing so that older women can sit.  And if a woman is pregnant or carrying a small child, she always has priority seating. Once I got up for an older man, and a man younger than me quickly got up to give his seat to me.  At first I didn’t want to take his seat, but he was insistent, and I finally realized that he was trying to show me respect, so I padded his shoulder, nodded into his eyes, and took his seat.  Every once and a while, last night for example, I see this young man and he always reaches out and taps my shoulder as we walk by. Such a little thing, that tap on the shoulder, and yet, you can’t know how big that little gesture is to me – huge.

Two nights ago, buying bread from one of our favorite bread places, I told the young baker that I appreciated the fact that his price for bread was the same for me as for everyone else, and that he charged me that price from the first day I was here.  He said, in English, “It is because I love you.”  Standing to my right was another young Palestinian man.  He laughed at this, and in Arabic, said to his friend, “You love this American.”  Without hesitation, the bread man said, “Yes, I do.  He’s with us.  I love him.”  He handed me my bread, nodded to me, and added, “You are welcome here.”

I realize that I’m rambling, but I’m now old enough to have someone get up and give me his seat, therefore I’m old enough to go on and on without having to worry about a thread weaving through my stories.

There is one though, I think.

Back on the bus, Sally is sitting next to a young woman wearing a bright blue headscarf (the hijab).  I am sitting on the aisle beside a stocky man who is wearing a black dress shirt and a black tie.  He is a little younger than me.  Across the aisle from me is a man wearing a worn grey suit, and on his head the traditional head scarf of a Palestinian man, black and white with a black band around the forehead holding the scarf in place.  He is in his 70s or 80s, I would guess.  I am in the second to the last row of seats.  Sitting in the back row, on the aisle seat – it’s like having an exit row in an airplane – is an old woman bent over with osteoporosis.  She is wearing a traditional Palestinian peasant dress – one with bright colors embroidered into the front.  I see many women like her on the streets, made small by their ailment, bent over almost double, and wearing that black dress.  Bent as they are you can’t see the colorful front so you think at first that this is a widow’s dress. Drawn to them, I am.  They remind me of my mother, and also of the gospel story of Jesus healing a woman who must have looked exactly like one of these – like my lovely mother.  I love Jesus all the more for that healing.  One day he’ll do that miracle again for my mother.

The man in the grey suit asks me where I am from.   In Arabic – please don’t be impressed – I tell him that I am from America.  He is delighted as he worked over 30 years with the UN and he loves the United States.  The woman, so bent that her head is in the aisle next to me, tells me that she is glad I am here as well.  I turn in my seat to face her and tell her thanks.  She says that life is hard for Palestinians.  I think maybe she is going to hit me up for money.  I brace myself, but it doesn’t come.  She just wants to talk.  So we do.  The man in the grey suit and the guy in black sitting on my other side help me with the conversation.  The man in black is an English teacher in Shufat.

As we reach our destination, the old woman leans forward – I worry about her falling on her face, so reflexively I put my right arm out to catch her.  She lays her hand on my shoulder – it is beautifully old and worn, like an antique -- and says, “You speak Arabic very well.”

She’s lying, of course, and I love her for it.

I thank her and we leave.  As we look back from the door of the bus, she smiles and waves. It’s a good moment, one that Sally and I thank God for, as it is moments like these that encourage us in our work.

It’s easy to become discouraged in this work.  You wonder if you are doing any good at all, and if the little good you might be doing is worth the resources taken to place you here. We see the enormity of the problem, the ongoing conflict between Israel and Palestine. It seems to us that the deck is stacked, the devil is dealing from the bottom, and anybody working for peace and justice through nonviolence is in a game with the odds against them winning one little hand, let alone the entire day.

The truth is we don’t speak Arabic very well, and worry whether we ever will.  We are still looking for a place to connect, an office to go to every day, a task to undertake.  Every three months we are forced to leave the country in order to have our visas renewed, and now Israel is often refusing to renew visas for folks like us, or giving only one week.  Israel doesn’t want us hanging around bent, old women, or anyone else who might put a different face on the people that they have managed to paint as less than human, less than worthy.  By the way, you should know that if a Jewish religious worker -- someone in the same category as me -- comes to American to work, that person is given a five-year multiple entry visa.  Israel gives many Christian workers, like myself, three months, and now they are giving us even less than that.  Why is that?

Why am I welcome in the Palestinian community, even loved by some, and yet so unwelcome by the State of Israel?  What makes a little, insignificant person like myself, so threatening to the State of Israel that they want me gone?  What is it they don’t want me to see and tell you about?  Why doesn’t my government challenge this policy by Israel?  Ah, but Marlin, there are bigger things at stake than one, bent over, little old woman.  Really?  Jesus didn't think so.

Okay, I’m done rambling for today.

Think and Obey

“So are you anxious for Ramadan to end?”

Ayman looked at me as if I had just used the “f” word in front of his grandmother.

“No,” he said, “of course not.  We love Ramadan.  We are in the routine now.”

Ayman is a small businessman who has a shop near our home.  I often stop by to visit with him.  He has three sons, the oldest two in high school, the youngest 12-years-old.  All three boys are preparing for college.  Ayman hopes that one of them will go to college in the States.  Ayman is a well-educated man himself.

Ayman is a friend.

Ramadan has being going on for 3 weeks now, and quite frankly, Sally and I are ready to have it end.  The blasted canon going off at 4:30 or 5 every morning has me back wetting the bed, and the noise on our downtown street is getting a little old.  Of course I’m also ready to have my favorite coffee shop open again in the mornings.  I miss my coffee shop.  People there know me.  They welcome me when I come in the door.  I’m Norm in Cheers.  My God, what’s happening to me!

Ramadan is driving me crazy.

Trying to find rational for 30 days of fasting all day and binge eating, drinking (not alcohol), smoking and visiting with family and friends every night, I ask Ayman, “Do you think Ramadan is good for you?”

I am seriously trying good Ayman’s patience.  “What are you saying?’ he asks me with this wonderful Arab male look of incredulity on his face.  A look that says, “You pagan you!”

“Well, you see Ayman, I’m just thinking that this not eating and drinking all day and eating so much at night is not good for your body.  That’s what I’m thinking.”

“Abu Issa, Abu Issa, you are always thinking, always thinking.”  (I am called after the name of my first and only son, Joshua, which is not an Arab name.  The closest to it is Issa, which is Jesus.  So I am Abu Issa, Father of Jesus – huge name, huh?)  “Abu Issa, we don’t do this because it is good for us.  We don’t even ask that kind of a question.  We keep Ramadan because Allah tells us to keep Ramadan.  Whether we benefit from Ramadan is not important.  We trust Allah, and in the Quran, Allah commanded us to keep Ramadan, so we keep Ramadan.  We obey Allah.”

When he says this I get a chill.  Partly because I’ve heard words like these before and not from anyone as good and kind as Ayman, but from extremists who use this logic to justify murder and mayhem.  “We obey Allah.”  I hear the same from Jewish folks who have the same logic and theology as this.  Why do you not eat pork?  Why do you observe Sabbath?  Why do you continue to expand settlements in the West Bank?  “Because we are the people of God.  We don’t eat pork because God commanded us in Torah not to eat pork.  We observe Sabbath because God commanded us in Torah to observe Sabbath.  We continue to grab all the land we can no matter the consequences because in Torah God says the land belongs to us.”

"But, but, people are being killed, innocent people."  "Never mind all that -- God says ..."

I’ve even heard a leading TV evangelist in the States, John Hagee, quote from Deuteronomy to justify the killing of Palestinian children and youth.  This Christian leader claims that God commands the Jewish people to kill anyone who will not leave the land of Israel on their own, or submit to the God-given authority of the Jewish people.  You have a chill now?  No?  Then you are not chill-able?

You have to respect this to a certain degree, right?  Christians like me – and Jews and Muslims like me as well – are all the time thinking, all the time trying to understand why the the Word of God says this or that.  What’s the logic behind this?  What was God thinking here?  What is behind Jesus’ words?  Paul’s?  Always thinking.  Always questioning.  It would be easier to simply pick your favorite words of Scripture and obey them to the letter.  Right?

When it comes to what we eat, or keeping certain days holy, or enjoying the feasts and festivals of our various faith traditions, then strict obedience has no downside that I can think of anyway.  No need to think about what God may have been thinking.  Just enjoy the party.  Why not?

However, there comes a time when God expects us to think, I think.  “Question me!  Challenge me!  Go ahead, I can take it.  Think!  Obey!”  I think you can do both.  I think God expects us to do both.  Or else why create a creature in your own image?  Trust and obey.  Yes!  Think and obey.  Yes!

Abraham did this.  Sarah did this.  Moses, Hannah, Samuel, the psalmists, the prophets – check out Jonah – all these questioned and challenged God.  And Jesus too, right?  I know, I know, Jesus was God in the flesh so it is God challenging God, but doesn’t that make you think as well?  It should I think.  "Father, Father ..."  Haven't you ever wondered about Jesus' need to pray?  You don't think there was ever questioning in those times of prayer?  Think again.

Peter, Paul, and all the thinkers and questioners who followed after these men, questioned and obeyed.  Why have we stopped?  Why have we stopped allowing for questions?

I love Ayman’s attitude toward his God and the word of his God.  I also know Ayman to be a man of peace and nonviolence, as he and I have had many discussions on the violence here and in other places as well.  I know that Ayman is a man who thinks and questions. So, with grace, I accept his chiding of me.  His point is well taken.  I do tend to think too much, question more than I should.  Just ask any of my old teachers.

But, I remind you, I am Abu Issa!

Seriously now, I’d remind you that the real Abu Issa is an expectant Father who wants his children to obey, yes, but not blindly or without questioning.  We can question God, challenge God without challenging God’s authority, the authority of God’s Word – a living, breathing organism, by the way.  We can do that, and I think we should do it with some regularity. And if we can question God, then certainly, we can question those who do not.

Suffer the Little Children

I follow an older couple on to the bus, she helping him every step of the way.  The three of us join the one other person riding that morning to Shufat, a community located just outside of Jerusalem.  She is a 20-something Muslim woman, stunningly beautiful in her white headscarf, the hijab.  I take a seat behind her and on her left.

I am on my way to meet Sally who is volunteering at an organization that works for peace and justice.  The older couple chat loudly to one other.  He says “huh,” a lot – I can identify.  The young woman and I are quiet, each lost in our own thoughts.  We come over a hill and see them gathered there around the bus stop, a couple of hundred school girls all dressed alike in their blue uniforms, the older girls wearing the hijab.  They are milling around in small groups of five or six, talking up a storm.  The bus stops and a pack of them pile in.  Soon the atmosphere in the bus is transformed from serenity into a noisy beehive of girl-talk.  I move to the inside seat and a small girl sits next to me.  She puts her pink school backpack on her lap and sneaks a peek at me.  I wink at her and she quickly turns back to face the front of the bus.  I’m hoping I didn’t just do something culturally insensitive.

I decide that this is an excellent opportunity to practice my Arabic, surmising that this little girl might have a little brother or sister at home who is at my language level.

“Good morning,” I venture.

“Good morning,” she ventures back, her tiny voice lost in the din.

“School is out early,” I say – in Arabic – (don’t be impressed please.)

“Yes, Ramadan.”  I have to lean in to hear her.  A couple of older girls who are standing in the aisles of the bus lean in to listen in, and the little girl looks up at them.  They smile and nod their head in encouragement.

“Where is your school?”

“In Jerusalem.”

“Where in Jerusalem?”

“In the Old City.”

“Where do you live?”

“Shufat,” she says.

So far so good.  “Do you like your school?”

“Yes,” big smile.  “I like my school very much.”

“Are you a good student?”

Shy smile.  “Yes,” she says.
“How old are you?”  I ask.

“I am 10-years-old,” she responds.

“I’m fifty-eight,” I say, “ and still a student.”

“Old,” she says.  I laugh at this, and she blushes thinking she has said something wrong. 

“It’s okay,” I quickly add.  “I am old.  I have a granddaughter in America who is four-years-old. I love her very much.”

Tiny smile and nod of her head.  We are at my stop, so I hit the “stop” button above my head and begin to gather my things.  She turns her body to the right in order to let me out.  “Thank you for talking with me,” I say.

“You are welcome here,” she says.

I smile and say, “I know, thank you.”

As I exit the bus I turn to look at her and I wave.  She lifts her right hand and wiggles her fingers at me in exactly the same way any little girl in America would wave good-bye.  I step off the bus and begin to cry.

I’m sorry if that sounds overly sentimental, but sometimes Sally and I are overcome with a mix of emotions, and quite frankly, it is difficult to discern where the tears come from or what they are about.  They just come and go.  As I walk toward my destination, brushing away the tears, I hear Jesus’ words of command: “Suffer the little children to come to me, and do not hinder them; for to such as these belong the kingdom of God” (Luke 18:16).

“Suffer” this little Muslim child to come to Jesus as well?  Do not hinder her?  In the past 7 months, the Israeli military has killed almost 70 Palestinian youth and children, while not one Israeli child has died at the hands of a Palestinian.  Not a word of outrage or condemnation from Christian American, only continued unconditional support for the State of Israel.  In the past few weeks hundreds of American Christians have turned up in Israel to march in support of the State of Israel as if the State of Israel was being led by Moses and Joshua, instead of by secular Jews who use religion as a pretext to do that which every religion condemns, including and especially Christianity.  And the Muslim community watches.  Do not hinder them?  Why would they come?  Why even pay the slightest bit of attention to anything we Christians have to say to them?

They don’t.  And I don’t blame them.

I know, I know, but what about Islam?  I don’t know about Islam.  I’m not Muslim.  I follow Jesus, and I have a passion for influencing the rest of the world to do the same.  And this I believe with every ounce of my believing self: that little Muslim girl is as important to God as any other 10-year-old in the world.  And if Jesus is to be trusted and believed, then that little girl is as much my child as my own grandchild.  And I ought to weep over her, because Jesus weeps over her with me.

"Suffer the little children" ... indeed.

Rice is Right

“I know that sometimes a Palestinian state living side by side in peace with Israel must seem like a very distant dream. But I know too, as a student of international history, that there are so many things that once seemed impossible that, after they happened, simply seemed inevitable. I've read over the last summer the biographies of America's Founding Fathers. By all rights, America, the United States of America, should never have come into being. We should never have survived our civil war. I should never have grown up in segregated Birmingham, Alabama to become the Secretary of State of the United States of America.
“And yet, time and time again, whether in Europe or in Asia or even in parts of Africa, states that no one thought would come into being, and certainly not peacefully and democratically, did. And then looking back on them, we wonder why did anyone ever doubt that it was possible.
“I know the commitment of the Palestinian people to a better future. I know firsthand the commitment of President Abbas and moderate Palestinians to that future. And I know the commitment of the people in this room and of the American Task Force on Palestine that one day indeed there will be a Palestinian state living side by side in peace with Israel.
“I can only tell you that I, too, have a personal commitment to that goal because I believe that there could be no greater legacy for America than to help to bring into being a Palestinian state for a people who have suffered too long, who have been humiliated too long, who have not reached their potential for too long, and who have so much to give to the international community and to all of us. I promise you my personal commitment to that goal.
Thank you very much.” (Click to see Secretary Rice's entire speech.  Keynote Address at the American Task Force on Palestine Inaugural Gala.)

No Madam Secretary, Thank You!

This is at least an acknowledgment that what is happening in this region of the world is an issue of civil rights and oppression, and that my friends, is huge.  And trust me, here in Israel that message got through.

By comparing the struggle of the Palestinian community with America’s struggle for independence, and by including the word “segregated” in her text, Secretary Rice, whether intended or not, hit a nerve.  What is happening to the Palestinian Community is a matter of civil rights.  There is racism involved and Madam Secretary connected the dots, albeit very carefully.  For that I am grateful.

There is much in her speech left to challenge, especially her failure to mention all the UN resolutions that Israel has blatantly ignored, all the promises broken, but I give her credit for using some language that makes matters here as much a matter of conscience as anything else.

I sat out the Viet Nam War.  I didn’t join my peers in fighting that fight, and I didn’t march in protest against the war either.  I sat out the Civil Right’s movement as well.  I kept silent.  I won’t sit this one out, and I’m hoping that you won’t either.  As followers of Jesus we have an obligation to get in the game and stand alongside those who are suffering injustice and oppression.  We don’t have to be anti-Israel to do this.  In fact, not speaking out against Israel’s oppression of Palestinians is as damaging to Israel as it is to Palestinians.  Those who live here can see that occupation is a bad for the occupier as it is for the occupied.

A week or so ago, I had a long conversation with a South African who lives and works in Jerusalem.  He told me that it was the American church as much as anything else that served to tip the scales of justice and bring an end to the evil of apartheid in South Africa.  I remember that.  Maybe you do to.

Maybe the American church can find her voice and tip the scales of justice here as well.  And maybe you can help.  Don’t sit this one out!

Listening

We are privileged to be around some pretty good people, who tell some pretty good stories.

Tuesday night we were at a gathering of Internationals, and with great pride and affection, a South African man told me this story about Nelson Mandela.

For many years after his release from prison, Mandela had a cleaning woman come into his bedroom at 6 o’clock in the morning, every morning.  No one knew what went on in that bedroom at 6 o’clock in the morning.  No one ever asked Mandela, and the woman refused to say.  That is, until recently.

When she entered the room she would find that it had already been cleaned, with the bed made up for the day.  Mandela would be fully dressed and sitting in a chair by a small table.  Across from the table was a second chair.  Mandela would invite her to sit.  Then, for the next hour, Mandela would listen to the cleaning woman tell of her life, and her views on South African life.  Mandela would ask her questions about her neighbors and how they lived and what were their views on South African life.  He would listen to her thoughts on events in South Africa and around the world.

Every morning for several years, this woman was someone who helped Mandela stay grounded to the common people of the land he loved.

Mandela listened to his cleaning woman.

The great preacher Charles Spurgeon read every one of his sermons to his chambermaid – before he preached them.  If there was a word she didn’t know, or a concept she couldn’t grasp, then he changed the word, or rewrote the concept in such a way so that she could understand.  Sometimes, this lowly, uneducated chambermaid would give Spurgeon a view on the text that he could never have seen from his position of power and influence.  And Spurgeon would incorporate her insight into his message.

Spurgeon listened to his chambermaid.

One of the problems with leadership is that leaders can get isolated in, and therefore from, the world they lead.  They begin to listen only to those who have the information, the ideas, the answers.  They don’t listen to the people who are most affected by the decisions they make.  They don’t listen to those who are weak and voiceless, the kind of people God sent Jesus to listen to the most.

American politicians, for example, come to this place and listen only to those living on one side of the separation wall, never bothering to cross over and listen to those on the other side.  Like the family of twelve who live in poverty 20 yards from an electric fence that separates them from their olive orchard.  This family can't pick their own olives because they have no permit to get out of Bethlehem.  They stand on the otherside of that fence and watch their olives rot on the trees.

They have something important to say to those who make the decisions that affect their everyday.  Who is listening to them?  More to the point, who cares what they say?