Marlin & Sally in Jerusalem

Another Lost Child Story

(This is about a 10 min read.  Long, I know for this space, but this piece is special.  I think you will agree.)

“On a cool October day in the oak-forested hills of Lorena Province in Iran, a lost child was saved in an inconceivable way.”

This is the first line in a stunningly beautiful story written by Barbara Kingsolver in Orion Magazine.  The story you are about to devour is true.  There are numerous eyewitnesses to it. It happened, and you will be forced to think again about friend and foe.  I thought about rewriting it, but I can’t do nearly as well as this.  I thought about chopping it up in smaller segments and stretching the story out over a few days, but I couldn’t bear it.  So here is the story, minus only Kingsolver’s comments over it.

You’ll find the entire article by clicking here: Small Wonders.

Kingsolver pictures it happening this way: “The story begins with a wife and husband, nomads of the Lori tribe near Kayhan, walking home from a morning's work in their wheat. I imagine them content, moving slowly, the husband teasing his wife as she pulls her shawl across her face, laughing, and then suddenly they're stopped cold by the sight of a slender figure hurrying toward them: the teenage girl who was left in charge of the babies. In tears, holding her gray shawl tightly around her, she runs to meet the parents coming home on the road, to tell them in frightened pieces of sentences that he's disappeared, she has already looked everywhere, but he's gone. This girl is the neighbor's daughter, who keeps an eye on all the little ones too small to walk to the field, but now she has to admit wretchedly that their boy had strong enough legs to wander off while her attention was turned to -- what? Another crying child, a fascinating insect -- a thousand things can turn the mind from this to that, and the world is lost in a heartbeat.

“They refuse to believe her at first -- no parent is ever ready for this -- and with fully expectant hearts they open the door flap of their yurt and peer inside, scanning the dim red darkness of the rugs on the walls, the empty floor. They look in his usual hiding places, under a pillow, behind the box where the bowls are kept, every time expecting this game to end with a laugh. But no, he's gone. I can feel how their hearts slowly change as the sediments of this impossible loss precipitate out of ordinary air and turn their insides to stone.

“So this is how the two parents searched in Lorena Province. First their own village, turning every box upside down, turning the neighbors out in a party of panic and reassurances, but as they begin to scatter over the rocky outskirts it grows dark, then cold, then hopeless. He is nowhere. He is somewhere unsurvivable. A bear, someone says, and everyone else says No, not a bear, don't even say that, are you mad? His mother might hear you. And some people sleep that night, but not the mother and father, the smallest boys, or the neighbor's daughter who lost him, and early before the next light they are out again. Someone is sent to the next village, and larger parties are organized to comb the hills. They venture closer to the caves and oak woods of the mountainside.

“Another nightfall, another day, and some begin to give up. But not the father or mother, because there is nowhere to go but this, we all have done this, we bang and bang on the door of hope, and don't anyone dare suggest there's nobody home. The mother weeps, and the father's mouth becomes a thin line as he finds several men willing to go all the way up into the mountains. Into the caves. Five kilometers away. In the name of heaven, the baby is only sixteen months old, the mother tells them. He took his first steps in June. He can't have walked that far, everybody knows this, but still they go. Their feet scrape the rocky soil; nobody speaks. Then the path comes softer under the live oaks. The corky bark of the trees seems kinder than the stones. An omen. These branches seem to hold promise. Lori people used to make bread from the acorns of these oaks, their animals feed on the acorns, these trees sustain every life in these mountains -- the wild pigs, the bears. Still, nobody speaks.

“At the mouth of the next cave they enter -- the fourth or the hundredth, nobody will know this detail because forever after it will be the first and last -- they hear a voice. Definitely it's a cry, a child. Cautiously they look into the darkness, and ominously, they smell bear. But the boy is in there, crying, alive. They move into the half-light inside the cave, stand still and wait while the smell gets danker and the texture of the stone walls weaves its details more clearly into their vision. Then they see the animal, not a dark hollow in the cave wall as they first thought but the dark, round shape of a thick-furred, quiescent she-bear lying against the wall. And then they see the child. The bear is curled around him, protecting him from these fierce-smelling intruders in her cave.

“I don't know what happened next. I hope they didn't kill the bear but instead simply reached for the child, quietly took him up, praised Allah and this strange mother who had worked His will, and swiftly left the cave. I've searched for that part of the story -- whether they killed the bear. I've gone back through news sources from river to tributary to rivulet until I can go no further because I don't read Arabic. This is not a mistake or a hoax; this happened. The baby was found with the bear in her den. He was alive, unscarred, and perfectly well after three days -- and well fed, smelling of milk. The bear was nursing the child.

“What does it mean? How is it possible that a huge, hungry bear would take a pitifully small, delicate human child to her breast rather than rip him into food? But she was a mammal, a mother. She was lactating, so she must have had young of her own somewhere -- possibly killed, or dead of disease, so that she was driven by the pure chemistry of maternity to take this small, warm neonate to her belly and hold him there, gently. You could read this story and declare 'impossible,' even though many witnesses have sworn it's true. Or you could read this story and think of how warm lives are drawn to one another in cold places, think of the unconquerable force of a mother's love, the fact of the DNA code that we share in its great majority with other mammals -- you could think of all that and say, Of course the bear nursed the baby. He was crying from hunger, she had milk. Small wonder.”

There are a number of moral lessons to glean from this story, but only one overarching heart-piercing truth, I think.  And that is this:  There is a thread that weaves its way through creation.  This tread is grace.  The gift of grace comes to us out of surprising events in the daily lives of people like you and me.  The story of Maia falling asleep in the arms of a Palestinian woman – a gift of grace reminding us of the trust capacity in all our child-like hearts.  The Settler child, found and cared for by the very people the settlers have caused so much pain and upheaval – a gift of grace showing us how far we are from the desire of God for all his children to want to play together.  And even more than that, a snapshot of the true hearts of a good people, a people who have been demonized by the media who unwittingly stand behind the settler movement.

If we are wise, and I think we are more so than not, then we will treasure these small gifts, and let them keep alive in our nearly hopeless hearts, a hope for peace and justice in a lost and broken world so loved by God.

A Word from My Pastor

(Pastor Russ Siler is my pastor.  He is also my friend.  Russ and Anne, his long-suffering wife – now don’t be bringing Sally into this – have been in Jerusalem for almost 4 years now.  They serve the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, Jerusalem, Old City.  Russ writes, and Anne edits, a monthly reflection on life here.  I’ve posted this his 35th such offering.  Along with being an ordained pastor in the Lutheran Church (ELCA), Russ is also a lawyer – a helpful addition to any pastoral profile, I think.  So his writings reflect a worldview that my writings do not  – a more analytical look at life here.  As you know, I’m a storyteller.  Russ is that too, but more than that, Russ is a student of the politics here.  I should also mention that Russ worked in D.C. for many years before coming to Jerusalem.  I think you’ll benefit from his insights.  I did – and I do.  This piece is a little longer than normal for this page, but I think you’ll find it worthy of your time.) 

“Friends, the government of Israel is afraid…very afraid. No, the administration does not fear for its existence, its security, or even the loss of its annual gift of $3.1 Billion, no strings attached, from the United States . Rather, its anxiety is growing that it may actually have to negotiate its borders, the continuation of its illegal settlements on Palestinian land, its total control over Gaza , its stranglehold on Jerusalem , before it has eaten all the land, water, and roadways it can digest politically. Israel’s creeping occupation of the land still remaining to the Arab inhabitants of historic Palestine before 1967—just 22% of that area, by the way—is  based on its ability to keep its tactics just below the level of international sensitivity and outrage.

“Thus, it is always to its advantage when Palestinians are seen by the rest of the world as causing a violent crisis or confrontation. So, just what is happening now? In January 2006, Palestinians elected its legislators. To just about everyone's surprise the Hamas party gained a clear majority. While a bewildered Hamas—which never believed it would be forced to govern at the present—wandered through the first weeks, and a dazed, defeated Fatah pondered its future, Israel and the United States leaped into action. First Israel announced that it would impound $55 million per month in funds that belong absolutely to the Palestinian government, thus making it impossible for the new Hamas government to pay its workers. Then the United States proclaimed that it would not deal with Hamas in the smallest transaction, imposing draconian restrictions on any entity who worked with Palestinians using U.S. funds. Israel followed these initial steps by refusing to allow Palestinian legislators even to meet in a body. Then they arrested 38 Palestinian legislators and imprisoned them. Those men remain in Israeli prisons to this very day, and they have never been charged with a crime. Then came the harshest step of all: Israel reduced the flow of food and medical supplies into Gaza to a trickle, just large enough to stave off starvation and epidemic. Previous to these actions they had announced to a "grateful" world that Israel had ended its occupation of Gaza , neglecting the tiny detail that its armed forces maintained absolute control over air, land, sea, commerce, and borders of Gaza . It was a more brutal occupation than existed before the so-called "disengagement" of 2005. One Israeli "journalist" had the gall to write in a local newspaper that Palestine had been given a Sovereign State . Some even believed her. Everybody seemed to ignore the injustice inherent in these acts, because the all-powerful mantra of "Security" was chanted every time a question was raised.

“My question at this point is a simple, rhetorical one: Is there any doubt that Israel and the United States were consciously pushing the Palestinian people toward civil conflict? They were eminently successful…for a while. For a time there was open warfare. Innocent and guilty people alike suffered mightily. Far too many died. But now that is ending. Fatah and Hamas have agreed on a way to move forward together. Predictably, Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice has already voiced her skepticism. Both Israel and its great ally the United States are nervous. The cessation of hostilities means that the specter of internecine violence will no longer provide a ready excuse to avoid substantive negotiations. They are afraid that, as I mentioned above, their tactics may well exceed the world's level of tolerance. People might learn that Hamas is not the only party or entity to claim the whole of historic Palestine for its religion. Nearly a dozen years earlier the Likud Party declared that all of that same land belonged to Israel and the Jewish people. Or people may support the demand that Hamas "recognize" Israel 's right to exist, but they may also make a reciprocal demand that Israel and the United States "recognize" a Hamas-led government as the legitimate, elected representative of the Palestinian people. If there are no scenes of bloody violence the world may seize this moment to demand that negotiations begin in earnest for lasting peace with real justice for all.

“All of us can understand when people are afraid. We, as God's people, will stand solidly with them, but we must not, we dare not stand with any who would use the tools of the oppressor to drive away our hopes for peace. Now is the time for all people who see worth in all others to join together in the direction which will result in two states, two peoples, with security and justice and freedom for both.

“And yet one thing more: the issues I spoke of above are the kinds of questions that will only be resolved when all sides agree to respect the others and to work together for answers acceptable to all. If I remember my history correctly, that's the way we have always acted when we truly desired peace with justice.”

Russell O. Siler, Pastor
English-speaking Congregation
Lutheran Church of the Redeemer
Jerusalem , Old City

Lost

(A four minute read. The first photo is the Hebron street in question – the “no-man’s land” that the little girl somehow crossed.  This separation line is less defined in other places and one of those is probably where she got lost.  But you get the idea.  The last two photos are from a bronze door to a chapel in Florence, Italy.  This panel in the door represents Cain killing Abel.  Look at God in the depiction.  Amazing!)

A 3-old-year old Israeli girl is lost.  She wandered away from a daycare person who was taking a group of children for a walk through the Jewish section of Hebron.  Hebron is located in the West Bank of Palestine.  Approximately 450 Jewish settlers live among 150,000 Palestinians.  In the mix are scores of Israeli military guarding the 450 settlers from the 150,000 Palestinians.  Or perhaps it is the other way around given the fact that it is the settlers who have the guns.  But that’s a different story.

This story is about a lost little Jewish girl.  She crossed the line.  I mean that literally, she crossed the line separating her from the Palestinian children she saw and wanted to play with.  She walked over that stupid line and did just what nature endowed her to do – she played with other children.  It didn’t matter to her that these children were not of her kind, whatever the hell that means given the fact that both Jews and Palestinians have the same roots – “A wandering Aramean,” Abraham, is father to both these peoples.  In point of fact, this wandering Aramean is buried in Hebron, and because of that very fact, both Muslims and Jews hold the site to be holy.

The line is a street, a kind of no-man’s land between the two places. I’ve been there and I’ll tell you plain that it is an ugly, evil sight -- this deserted street patrolled by army jeeps and soldiers.  This little girl crossed the line and got lost.  The Palestinians found her, of course, and get this now, you are going to love this -- the Palestinians thought she was one of their own.  And why wouldn’t they?   Family is family whether you are loath to admit it or not!

The Palestinian police put out a call in all the local mosques asking the child’s parents to come get her.  The Israeli military heard the call and realized that the child in question was the child they were looking for on the other side of the line.  They asked for her back.  The Palestinian police gave her back.  She is lost no more.

But, God help us, we still are!

When something like this becomes newsworthy then we are the ones who are lost.  Although, at least it is a good news story and I’ll take one of these over the dozens of others any day of the week and twice on Friday, Saturday or Sunday, depending on which of these days is holy to you.

When little Jewish girls are kept by a line, and by the prejudice represented by such a line, from playing with little Palestinian girls, then we are the ones who are lost.  And if all of this does not shame you and me into seeking to be found then we will stay lost for a long, long time, at least until the time that Jesus comes back. And God forgive me this little blasphemy, but I’m afraid that when Jesus does return, Jesus will resemble that lost little girl.  The Messiah will not know who are his people because for all the world they will all look the same to him, which of course is not what any of the fundamentalists on any of the sides believe, or for that matter want to believe. Because what fundamentalists – right-wing or left-wing (they look pretty much the same to me as well) – want to believe is that they are the only ones the Messiah will recognize.  But nonetheless, it is what I believe, and the fundamentalists can just go to Hebron if they want to see what hell looks like so that when they get there later they will know where they are.  And guess what, none of them will be surprised to see the other there, but they will all be shocked to find that the one thing they all had in common was that they were lost, and that they were leading others in the same direction.

And that’s a damn shame.  And I mean damn in exactly the way the word was intended to be used, as in “damnable.”   We ought to stop following them, I think.

Friday Prayers

(First the Lections for this Sunday, and then an offering of prayer.  The right order, I think.)

Deut. 26:1-11 – “A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; …”
Romans 10:8b-13 – “… if you confess with your lips that Jesus is Lord and believe …”
Luke 4:1-13 – “Jesus, full of the Holy Spirit … was led by the Holy Spirit in the wilderness …”

Psalm 91:1-2, 9-16

     ¶ You who live in the shelter of the Most High,
    who abide in the shadow of the Almighty,
    will say to the LORD, “My refuge and my fortress;
    my God, in whom I trust.”
 
     ¶ Because you have made the LORD your refuge,
    the Most High your dwelling place,
    no evil shall befall you,
    no scourge come near your tent.
 
     ¶ For he will command his angels concerning you
    to guard you in all your ways.
    On their hands they will bear you up,
    so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.
    You will tread on the lion and the adder,
    the young lion and the serpent you will trample under foot.
 
     ¶ Those who love me, I will deliver;
    I will protect those who know my name.
    When they call to me, I will answer them;
    I will be with them in trouble,
    I will rescue them and honor them.
    With long life I will satisfy them,
    and show them my salvation.

Let us Pray:

God of rock and refuge, breath and blood, we, your cherished children, stand under the shadowed shelter of your ever spreading wings, and we thank you, God Most High, for every angel you have winged our way, whether come to protect us, lead us, comfort us, challenge us or correct us.  God, in whom we trust, deliver us from doubt.

God who answers all prayers, even and especially those that are sighed out of slack jaws or spit out from grit teeth, we call on you to guard us from the evil one, and alert us to the ease with which the evil one moves within and about us.  Mighty Lord, you who gave sight to the blind and sound to the deaf, give us eyes to see the tempter’s web, and ears to recognize the serpent’s lies.   The fruit looks good enough to eat, and we are famished for something to satisfy our deepest appetites, but it is fruit that carries within it the seeds of death – ah Holy Spirit, give us eyes to see.  The split-tongued promises are big and breath-stealing – the whole world is ours to take or keep, or so the powerful tell us as we sit spell bound, or fear frozen under the daily onslaught of their constant spinning web-like words. Ah Holy Spirit, give us ears to hear the lies that liars believe and tell, even and especially those lies that we believe and tell ourselves.  And give us courage to follow Jesus instead, as during this time of Lent, Jesus leads us into the wild and wonderful wilderness of temptation, and then Spirit-strengthened, out again and into busy, demanding and distracting Galilee to speak and practice truth among people who hunger and thirst for something real and recognizably honest.  Let us eat and drink of you, gracious Jesus, and then be meals ourselves to those who want flesh and blood instead of smoke and mirrors.

And above all else, merciful Lord, help us remember the poor and the oppressed – the widow, the orphan and the migrant worker living in our midst.

Amen!  

A Sleeping Beauty

(Less than 4-min read.  You will love this story.)

Maia is three-years-old, and along with her little brother Asher, is the surrogate grandchild for all the Internationals of the English Speaking Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, Old Jerusalem.  It is Ash Wednesday Eve and we are gathered in the apartment of our pastor and his wife.  The service has begun and Maia lies in her father’s arms, sleeping – a beauty is she.

Where she now lies sleeping is not where she fell asleep.  She fell asleep on a Palestinian bus and in the arms of a Palestinian woman.  The bus was full.  The family sat on the steps.  Little blond-haired Maia on the top step, by herself almost.  She sat in easy reach of her parents, of course, and yet alone too -- vulnerable.   A Palestinian woman, (the father told me that she would have been about my age – young for one so old) – leaned over and put out her arms.  It was a common language, this gesture, this invitation “to come to me, be held by me, embraced by me, and maybe even loved by me – come if you will – please come.”  To the surprise of everyone, except perhaps the Palestinian woman, Maia climbed right into her arms.  Just like that – can you picture it please?  She just crawled into this grandmother’s lap, and she fit there like she belonged there. Two minutes later and Maia was fast asleep.  The woman, dressed in the hijab and long coat of a religious Muslim, rocked her gently, and now and then leaned in to plant a butterfly kiss on Maia’s forehead.

When they came to their stop, the father reached over to take his daughter, and as he did the Muslim woman gave Maia a farewell kiss, and in Arabic said, “May God keep her.”

“May God keep you,” the father responded.

May God keep us all, is my response.  May God keep us all.

It is exchanges like this, which happen a hundred times a day here, and millions of times each day throughout the world, that hold the promise for peace among peoples.  Getting out and getting into buses in strange-for-us places is a way to engage the world with a different kind of preemptive strike.  We come to you unarmed and even with our children in our arms.  We come to you with a willingness to get to know you and to be known by you as well.  We come in the name of Jesus to the land of Jesus to be with Jesus in this his favorite spot on earth.  We come with the gospel of peace and justice.  We know you do not trust our motives, and therefore you do not trust us, and the US that we represent to you.  But here we are and we are not so strange, are we?  In fact, we are a lot like you, aren’t we?  You like Maia too, don't you? 

A child – what’s not to like?  Well there are times, huh?  But come on, a child, a child – unto us a child is given – a child, among us a child is born.

After the Ash Wednesday service is over, Maia wakes up and looks with wonder at all these folks with black crosses smudged on their foreheads.  Soon she has one too.  Ah, that cross, that awful, wonderful cross, that cross on which the Child of God died in this his favorite spot on earth.  Maia is wearing that cross on her forehead.  Earlier she was wearing it on her sleeve.  Vulnerable, open to being invited into embrace, relationship, and believing that under the watchful eyes of her father and mother she could surrender to someone she didn’t know, someone who looked for all the world like someone who didn’t belong to her world, and yet, who did after all.  Maia fell asleep in the woman’s arms, mind you now! – asleep.  And the entire bus was moved by this little drama, this redemptive activity. 

I don’t know what to make of all of that, or of all this musing of mine to come out of all of that, but I know that the vulnerability of Maia, her willingness to engage with strangeness, and a stranger as well, is important to the season of Lent, and more importantly, Maia’s child-ness is important to the redemption of the world – starting in this, Jesus' favorite spot on earth.

“… like a child …”

Tradition

(Less than a 5 minute read.  The first photo was taken in the Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem, the second at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the traditional site of the Crucifixion of Jesus.  The last picture was taken on the Bethlehem side of the Separation Wall.  The old tree is standing there in spite of every effort to uproot it.  This old tree reminds me of the Palestinian Christian Community who are trying to remain standing as well.)

I learned something again yesterday, pointing me again to the realization of how much I have to learn.  I learned about “tradition.”

I made a loaf of olive bread on Sunday.  I brought it into the office on Monday.  We’ve just begun working there and I thought it would be like an office-warming kind of thing.  The two Palestinian Christian women working in the front office looked it over with discerning eyes.

“You made this?”  There is skepticism in her voice.

“Yes,”  I say with pride.

“What’s in it?” one of them asked.

“Flour, water, yeast, salt, olive oil, and olives.”

“No eggs?” She asked.

“No eggs.”

“Milk or butter?”

“No,” I said.

“Good,” she smiled, “then I can eat a slice.”

She’s not on a diet; she’s fasting for Lent.  Her fasting began that day, Monday, and continues through the season of Lent – no dairy or meat.  Her office mate begins her fast on Wednesday, Ash Wednesday – no dairy or meat.

Fasting is a big part of religious life here in Jerusalem.  Not that long ago we experienced Ramadan, the Muslim Holy Days, thirty days of fasting during the daylight hours – no food, drink, smoking or sexual relationships from before sun up to after sun down.

The Jewish Days of Awe include fasting as well.  The fast of Gedaliah is just one such day of fasting.  Marking the close of Rosh ha-Shanah, the Jewish New Year, the fast of Gedaliah remembers the death of Gedaliah the son of Ahikam who is commemorated as the last righteous man killed before the ultimate Exile (2 Kings 25:22-25).  “The death of a righteous man is as hard for the Holy One, blessed be he, to bear, as the day when the Temple was destroyed” (Maimonides, Hilkhot Taanit V.2).

Every Sunday in our church, the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer, Old City, Jerusalem, we say the Lord’s Prayer, repeat the Apostles’ Creed, and celebrate the Lord’s Supper – every Sunday.

My point, of course, is that tradition matters in this place, and I think part of the reason is because the traditions provide stability in a place that is anything but stable.  You cling to the old ways in the same way that you cling to a worn path because you know that this path will get you home safe and sound.  You go to worship and you don’t want a lot of surprises because you get enough of those all week long.  You want stability, security, an anchor, a rock.  You want tradition.  You want the tried and true, the old standards.  During Lent, you fast and pray, fast and pray, pray and fast, because that’s your tradition, your past, and therefore that’s your identity, your mark on the forehead – that’s you!   And if you are a Palestinian Christian, and you live among people who want to squeeze the Christ out of you, push you out of this land that you so love, the land of your ancestors, the Land of Jesus himself, then you need the traditions the way an old farmer needs his bib overalls and John Deere cap.  You need these old things not to remind others of who you are, but to make sure that you remember yourself, and also so that you remember to remind your children and grandchildren as well.  You are a follower of Jesus.  This is your home, your land too.  You belong to the church, the old church, the communion-of-saints church, the Acts' Church, and therefore you belong to God, and to this place where Almighty God birthed the Son through a Virgin.  Traditions matter a lot to a people who don’t appear on the outside at least to have a lot going for them.

“I don’t fast,” I say, “I pray a lot, but I don’t fast.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.  I just don’t.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Okay, then.”

“Okay.  Want a piece of bread?”

“Of course, why not?”

And we break bread together, we three -- one of them Eastern Orthodox, the other Greek Orthodox, and me, Dutch Reformed and Western through and through.  Pretty good mix, this bread.  I don’t miss the eggs or the milk or the butter.  And I love the company I’m keeping here in this place, a good mix too, I think.  A mix that I don’t want to miss, not here in this place, not ever.

Home for the Holidays

He is 32 years old.

He is married.

He and his wife have two children.

He is a citizen of the United States of America.

He is Palestinian, born and raised in the city of Bethlehem.

He is a follower of Jesus.

His father and older brother are pastors in Bethlehem.

He is a friend to Sally and me.

He wanted to come home for Christmas.

He bought a plane ticket.

He arrived in Ben Gurion Airport three days before the celebration of the birth of Jesus.

He was given the VIP treatment – no, that does not mean Very Important Person – but you already knew that, didn’t you?  He was taken to a small room and held there for several hours.  He was searched thoroughly and asked a variety of questions -- over and over and over again.

He showed the Israeli authorities his United States passport, pictures of his wife and kids.

“Where were you born?

“Bethlehem.”

“You are a Palestinian.”

“Yes, I am.   And I am a citizen of the United States of America.”

“You cannot enter without your Palestinian Identification.”

“I don’t have it with me.  I only brought my United States passport.”

“You cannot enter.”

He was escorted to an airplane. 

His United States passport was handed to one of the stewards of the airplane.  The airplane delivered him back to the United States.  The steward of the airplane handed our friend’s passport to a United States Immigration Official in Newark, New Jersey.

He stepped off the airplane and was met by the United States Immigration Official. 

She was holding his passport in her hand. 

She smiled at him, handed him his passport, and said:  “Welcome home.”

He said, “I almost cried.”

Me too. 

Okay, we have our faults, but by golly, we get a lot of it right too.  God bless America!

Friday Prayers

“Every time I feel the Spirit
Moving in my heart
I will pray …”

Lord, our God, ruler over and in all things and all peoples, we bless and thank you for the gift of this day, and we stand in awe of your gracious invitation to join with you in the work of saving ourselves, our neighbors, and our world from error, sin and evil. We are grateful that this invitation includes the promise of power to do the saving work that will be our work in this day.  We thank you for the Word of truth found through searching the words of scripture, and for the Word made flesh in the person of Jesus of Nazareth, who is found by waiting and wanting to be found, found also by traveling on paths familiar to Jesus, which include dark and dangerous roads less traveled by.  We thank you for Jesus’ teaching, for Jesus’ touching, and most of all, for Jesus taking every person he met as seriously as he expected to be taken himself.  You are, indeed, God most high and mighty!

God of peace, we pray for peace, and as we pray for peace we offer ourselves as workers for peace.  Make us peacemakers, O Lord.

God of justice, we pray for justice, for without justice there can be no peace, and without peace there can be no heaven on earth or anything that even looks and feels like it might be heaven on earth.  We pray that you will sow in us seeds of righteousness, and in so doing grant us contentment only when we are seeking righteousness for ourselves, for our family, for our neighbor, for our country and for the world you so fiercely love.

We pray for people living in the midst of war, as well as for those who live in constant fear because of the daily rumors of war.  We pray for the people of the Sudan, Afghanistan, Iraq, Rwanda, and Palestine.  We ask you to protect those who protect the innocent.  We call on you to penetrate the hearts of those who prey on the innocent so that they might be warned that what they do to the innocent they do to you and that one day, you, the Mighty One, will balance the scales of justice and serve bitter wine to those who tread on the necks of the weak and powerless.

We pray for the sick, asking for your healing touch. 

We pray for the dying, asking for your comfort as they pass through the door of death into that which we can only see through eyes of faith, and only experience for, and by ourselves.  We pray for those who stand by and support the dying one and along with them, the ones the dying one leaves behind.  Give these, the merciful, everything they need for the caring activity, and then give them more and more and more, until the merciful are filled to overflowing with your divine breath, containing all the warmth and sweet smells that come along with it.

Holy Spirit, keep us vigilant, always aware that you are with us and in us and around us and for us.  Holy Spirit, let us see you living in the lives of those with whom we live today.  And in seeing you in them, Holy Spirit, give us hope – always, give us hope.

We pray in the name of Jesus and by the power of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

Valentine's Day Thought

It’s Valentine’s Day night and Sally and I are in bed.  She has her back turned to me and is not asleep.  The tenseness and position of her body, near to me, but still with some distance, tells me that once again, on Valentine’s Day night, she is thinking about him.

The day before Valentine’s Day is her father and mother’s wedding anniversary.  Her father has missed a good many anniversaries and Valentine’s Day nights now.  He died 13 years ago.  Gosh, has it been 13 years?

Just before coming to bed, Sally talked with her mother.  Her mother told her that just last night, the night before Valentine’s Day night, her and Dad’s anniversary, she heard his voice as clear as if he were in the room with her.  “Margaret, I’m going to get a glass of milk.  Do you want one too?”

She said, “I said, ‘Yes,’ and then I realized that he wasn’t there.”  Milk?  He was a dairyman all his life.

I crawl in close, put my arm around Don Hoekstra’s daughter, and say, “You’re thinking about your Dad, aren’t you?”  I can feel her head nodding in the darkness.  “Good,” I say.  Another nod.  And ten minutes later, I’m asleep.

You think I should have said something more?  Done something?

No, she doesn’t need me to say anything – do anything.  I pull her close and go to sleep.  I hold her in my arms as she holds him in her heart.  It’s good for her, I think.

The dead are on my mind this morning.  Yesterday, Valentine’s Day morning, I went to a memorial service held in the city of Ramallah.  Eight people had been killed in a tragic explosion at a gas station there – a terrible accident.  Three of the dead are a woman, her son, and her sister’s son.  We are privileged to work with the woman’s father at Saint George’s College in East Jerusalem.  The service was a Greek Orthodox service.  I didn’t understand much of what was being said, but you didn’t have to know Greek or Arabic to know that the words from tongue to heart are heavy, weighted words – heavy as in Holy.  Holy words are heavy words, like anchors, and like nails too, bloody nails pounded into a tree – see? Heavy – right?

At a lunch reception following the service, the tired father and grandfather came and sat near me, as I sat near the staff of Saint George’s College.  These people, mostly Palestinian Christians, clearly loved and revered this grieving man.  He told them how last night, the night before Valentine’s Day night, he talked with his son in the States.  His son wanted to come to the funeral of his sister, but could not get a visa.  Such is life for a Palestinian living anywhere.  He or she cannot come home unless the occupier says he or she can come home.

“My son told me that his sister spoke to him last night.  He heard her voice.  She told him not to cry.  She said that she was okay, and that she had her son and her nephew with her.  ‘Don’t cry,’” the family patriarch said his son said his sister said to him.  “Don’t cry.” Then the old man began to weep.  Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, he finished the story.  “I thought it was good of God to let her speak with her brother last night, don’t you?  He can’t come, you know?”  We nodded.  We knew.

From time to time, I think it is good for us to stop and listen for the voices of our dead.  Real or imagined, and I’m not sure there is much difference between the two, the voices of our dead can help connect us back to them, and also remind us of who and what we will always be.  Sally is dairyman Don Hoekstra’s daughter, and wherever she goes, a part of him, and a part of that old, red milk barn, filled with the cows and her dad, goes with her.

“I’m going to get a glass of milk.  Do you want one too?”

“Don’t cry.  I’m okay.”  The little brother in the States is reminded as well that there is home, and there is home.  He is not home.  His sister is home.  He is not okay.  She is.  The situation that does not allow him to come home to be with his family during such a time as this is not okay.  But his sister’s situation is not this situation, not anymore, and her situation is okay.  She is okay.

“Don’t cry.” The father’s reaction is to do just that – cry.  Because he has something to cry about, doesn’t he?  His daughter and two of his grandsons are tragically dead, and his son can’t be with the family because he is a Palestinian and therefore not allowed to come home.

And that is not okay.  Is it?

"Our Father"

“Hello.”

“Double hello back to you.”  The amplified greeting is part of the standard Arab greeting.  It is respectful to respond this way when your host greets you.  And the host greets you first.  Sally and I are the host for the evening.  She is our teacher.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Sad” (or could be mad – the word she chooses could mean either.)  She’s sad.  I can see it in her eyes, the slump of her shoulders forward and down.  She’s sad.

“Why sad?” I ask.

She looks at me as if I had just asked the dumbest question I could ask. Of course, I had an idea what was making her sad, but I wasn’t sure.  Maybe it wasn’t the “situation.”  Maybe something had happened to her.  Maybe she knew the Christian family from Ramallah who lost several loved ones in a tragic accident at a gas station.  For people like me there is life outside of the “situation.”  But for those who have lived their lives under Israeli occupation, there is nothing much outside of the “situation.”

Israelis are digging near a holy site.  Palestinians are demonstrating against the digging.  There is violence on the streets of East Jerusalem and Bethlehem, and she is sad, disheartened, beaten to a non-bloody pulp.  (By the way, as a gift from the States we gave her a Country Western CD -- Carrie Underwood.  We figured the music might give her a grieving outlet.  Seriously.  No, really.)

As concerns the Palestinian Christian community – and more than just them I think – the primary emotion is sadness, and a deep tiredness that no amount of rest can refresh.  Our teacher is tired.  Our teacher is sad.

We have a good lesson though.  Some laughter.  Some release for her, we hope.  An escape from everyday life.  A refuge place with us.  Maybe a little hope.

As she readies herself to leave, she reaches in her stack of materials and pulls out two sheets of paper with Arabic writing on them.  She hands one to me and one to Sally.  With a slight, proud smile, she pats my copy and reverently says, “The Our Father” (The Lord’s Prayer).

We nod.  She goes on.  “I want to teach it to you in Arabic.  Then I want to teach you to sing the ‘Our Father.’”  Then she begins to sing.  No Country Western sound here, but Eastern, Orthodox. Voice cracking with emotion at times, our teacher sings us the “Our Father” – in Arabic, of course.   As she sings them, she traces her finger under the words so that Sally and I can follow along.

When she finishes, we are silent, each of us caught up in our own thoughts and feelings.  Our teacher is smiling, a gentle, loving smile.  She loves the “Our Father.”  She loves the Father.  She loves us.  It’s a pretty good moment -- unplanned, unexpected and with God in every part of it.  You have those moments too.  You just don't recognize them for who is in them.  Today you will.

This morning, as I write this, I am mindful of the different paths taken to find strength and healing.  In the West, or at least in much of the Western church, we don’t sing the “Our Father,” or even say it much any more.  I do not mean this as a criticism, I really don’t.  Here, in this conflicted place, Palestinian Christians find their solace in the ancient songs and prayers, and places too.  I think it is because everything else is changing around them.  All is chaos in their world, hopelessly so, and they feel helpless to do much about it.  But they can go to the old places.  They can pray the old prayers.  They can celebrate the Lord’s Supper.  They can say the Creeds and find in these an anchor, a source of hope for the future, a reminder to them that as evil passed way in the long days gone by, so shall evil pass away in the days to come.  And make no mistake about it; this occupation is just that, and even more than that – evil.  Not the occupiers, mind you, but the occupation, the oppression, the injustice in this, the racism – it is evil, and must be named as such. Or else, how can we pray ...

“Our Father who art in Heaven … deliver us from evil.”