Marlin & Sally in Jerusalem

A Pretty Ordinary Death

Our Dad died yesterday (Monday).  He died in his own bed, quietly, at peace, and with Mom, Tony (my older brother) and me around him.  We kissed him good-bye and then he was gone.  A pretty ordinary death for a pretty ordinary man who lived a pretty ordinary life, a life distinguishable only in that it was a life lived in faith and with extraordinary loyalty.  These two traits are what set dad and so many others like him apart, I think.  Nothing fancy or fanciful about Pete Vis – outside of always trying to do the right thing and raising children committed to the same ideal.  What you saw is what you got – a principled, opinionated man who embarrassed his two sons on many an occasion by saying what was on his mind no matter the cost.  It didn’t matter if you were his best customer (dad and mom ran a small town grocery store), the town tough guy, the mayor, the preacher or whomever else, Dad spoke his mind.  And God help the hypocrite, because if there was one thing Dad could not stomach was anyone who acted as if he/she was above sin, or in any way better than any other sinner.

To be sure, like all pretty ordinary men, Dad has his demons, but he owned them, and fought them, and even when beaten by them, he would fight on.  What I admired most about my father was his honesty concerning his own weaknesses, something pretty rare, I think.  And because of this, the longer he lived the stronger he grew, until, in his final days he had the strength to die without a word of complaint or a hint of fear.  They say that when you come to your last days, you are stripped of all the masks you’ve worn, all the pretense wrapped around you in life, the collected baggage is blown away, and what is left is who you are at the core of your being.  If this is so, then our father was, at his core, a man of great courage and uncommon goodness.  Of him mom would say, “He’s so good, so good.”  And he was good, our Dad.  Pete Vis was a good man.  If you and I can have that said about us after we are gone, well, that’d be good enough, wouldn’t it?

My brother and I watched the women who cared for my dad in the assisted-living home come to say good-bye to him.  The tears they shed were testimony to the goodness of the man for whom they wept.

Dad is gone.  And as will be true of each of us, all that is left of Dad is that which is buried inside those left behind, especially our children and grandchildren.  Dad’s circumstances were such that he was not able to invest in his own education, so he invested in ours, and in our children’s.  Dad only had an eighth-grade education.  He had to leave school and work so as to help his family.  Both my brother and I graduated from college and have advanced degrees.  Each of our children has done the same.  Between us all, Tony and me plus our five children, there are seven master’s degrees, a degree in medicine, and one soon to be earned Ph D in the Old Testament.  Now there are many factors involved in this, and many people who contributed to these achievements, but none or no one more important than our Dad.  Dad would be the first to say that all this education is worthless if not used to help others in some way or another.  And so in Dad’s wake come four pastors, a school social worker, a doctor, and a professor of religion.  Not bad, Dad, not bad at all.

Dad loved Jesus, by the way.  I won’t make a big deal out of that, because for Dad that was simply a given.  His father and mother gave it to him, and he gave it to us, and we give it to our children and they to theirs and the gift goes on giving – right?

Thanks Dad.

Buicks

(Our dad died today.  This is one of the last conversations I had with him.)

“You can’t beat a Buick.”

My dad said this while we were watching the Bears and the Eagles play football.  My dad and I both love cars, and love to talk about them.  Dad went with me when I bought my first car, a 1959 white Chevy Impala.   Remember those big fins?  I wanted that car so badly.  But it cost $200 more than I could afford.  Dad said to the dealer, “Tell you what, you pay $100 and I’ll pay $100, and the boy will have his car.”  The dealer said, “Fair enough.”  And I had my first car.

“You love those Buicks, don’t you Dad?”

“Best ride on the road, Buicks.  American made too!”

“I don’t know about that Dad.”

“Buicks are made in America,” he insisted.

“No, I mean about Buicks being the best ride on the road.  I don’t know about Buicks being the best ride on the road.”

“Don’t argue cars with a dying man,” he said.  That’s what he said, “Don’t argue cars with a dying man.”

I laughed.  “You think you get to win every argument now because you’re dying?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I think that’s right.”

“Okay then,” I said.

“Okay then,” he said.  “Buicks got the best ride on the road.”

“No doubt about it,” I said.

He reached up, adjusted the oxygen tube fitted into his nostrils, looked over at me and turned up the sides of his mouth in the tiniest of smiles.  “Love those Buicks,” he said.

Brother Tony's Words

My brother Tony is a preacher -- just to warn you!  These are some words he sent out to a colleague:

"My thoughts and prayers are with you as you develop a sermon on 'the resurrection of the body.'  The wonder and significance of our Christian belief in and God’s promise of the resurrection of the body became very real to me a couple of days ago while visiting my father.  My brother, Marlin, and my sons, Aaron and Andy, and I were with Dad and Mom in their apartment.  We were looking at old photo albums.  As I sat with an album on my lap containing pictures of my father as a young man, I looked up to see my father as an old man—my father in his last days.  Of course, there was a striking difference between the young man and the old.  The young Peter Vis with his arm around the woman who would soon be his bride, a handsome couple they were.  Sometime in the not so distant future we will lay to rest the body of the old Peter Vis, and over time his body will decay—dust to dust, ashes to ashes.  It happened to his father before him and will happen to his sons after him.

"But I believe 'in the resurrection of the body.' My comfort and my hope is in this belief.  One day—the day when Christ returns—'the dead in Christ will rise.' (1 Thessalonians 4:17)  And on that day I will see my father, not the old Dad whose hands now shake from the affects of Parkinson’s Disease … not the old Dad whose body is now racked with pain from the cancer that is slowly taking over his body… no, not the old Dad, but I will see the 'young' Dad whose body will be alive and vital once again … and more alive and more vital than ever before—glorified, risen like Jesus, risen with Jesus, risen because of Jesus.  I will see him and recognize him and know him.  Oh, today, how I long for that day.    I want to walk with my Dad, and he without the 'walker' that has been his constant companion in these later years.  And I want to run with my Dad—side by side, I want to run with my Dad.  And I will!  Yes, I will!  I believe 'in the resurrection of the body.' Thank you, God, for this hope that is ours through Christ Jesus our Lord.

My Niece the Doctor

My niece, the doctor, was talking with her grandfather, the dying patient.

Her grandfather, the dying patient, said: “I feel bad that your dad and mom aren’t going on the trip because of this.” (“The trip” is a three-week pilgrimage to Jerusalem that my brother and sister-in-law had planned for some time.  The “this” is the lymphoma that is killing our dad.)

My niece, the doctor, said: “There will be another trip to Jerusalem.”

Her grandfather, the dying patient, said: “Yeah, but I won’t get to hear about it.”

Dad

The Oncologist said: “It’s lymphoma, the aggressive kind.  It could be weeks.  It could be next week.  Tell your brother to come NOW!”

My brother said: “Come NOW!”

I said: “I’m coming.”

My wife said: “I’m coming with you.”

My mother said:  “I want to go with him.”

My Palestinian Muslim neighbor, himself an old man, said: “We all die.  Your father is in the hands of Allah.”

My Palestinian Christian (Greek Orthodox) neighbor, likewise old, said: “First he dies, then he lives. Go to the church and light a candle.”  He meant his church, the Church of the Resurrection.  I went.  I lit a candle.  Right next to the empty tomb, I lit a candle.

My daughter said: “Is grandpa in pain?”

My son said: “Can grandpa talk on the phone?”

Sunday’s preacher said: “Your sins are forgiven!”  She said it like she believed it – said it over and over again – “Your sins are forgiven.”  Maybe she said it like she believed it, and over and over again, because she really didn’t believe it, but wanted to – or at least wanted us to.  But she said it.  “Your sins are forgiven!”

My father said: “I’m ready to go.”

My mother said: “I don’t want you to go.”

My brother said: “I’m glad you’re here.

I said: “Damn.”

You said what?

I said: “Damn.”

Damn?  To your mother?

Yes.

What did she say?

Nodding and crying, my mother said: “Yeah.  Yeah.”

And my father’s Father in Heaven, turned to the Son, and said: “He’s got that about right I guess.”

And the Son said: “Yeah.  Forgive him, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

And my father’s Father in Heaven said: “Yeah he does.  And yeah, I did.”

A Letter from the 'other guys'

Remember when you were a kid, a little kid, and you were the third in a triad of friends?  You were the "other one," the one who was "just out," and who wanted to be "just as in?"  You remember that, right?  When you could only have one "best" friend at a time?  When you were a child?  Remember?

Enclosed in today's blog is the first two pages of a letter sent from the "other one" in the triad of monotheistic faith traditions -- the one who is "just out," and who wants to be "just as in."  The entire letter is attached -- Download a_common_word_letter.  This letter is from 138 leaders in the Islamic world to the various heads of the Christian Church.  It is the follow up of a letter sent last year to the Pope.

I've taken the time to read the entire letter -- it is about 20 pages long -- and hope you will too.  And here's why:

• It's helpful to note what passages of the Qur'an these leaders of Islam chose to highlight in a message to the leadership of the Christian world. (It's helpful to notice how they spell Qur'an!)
• It's interesting to note what passages of the New and Old Testament these leaders of Islam chose to quote back to the leaders of the Christian world.
• It's extremely helpful to read, beginning on page 14,  the direct appeal made to Christians, and to note again what Scripture passages are being quoted.
• Finally, I think it is important that we ponder the fact that this letter is only written to Christian leaders.  Why weren't the Jewish leaders included?  I ask this question knowing that it will tick off my friends in the Muslim world, and some others as well.  (Just posting this letter will tick off my friends in the Jewish world, and some others as well -- but such is the nature of my work.)  I also ask this question because it is the elephant sitting in the middle of the circle of friends.  It's a fair question, I think.

Here it begins with the words:

In the Name of God, the Compassionate, the Merciful.

A Common Word between Us and You

Muslims and Christians together make up well over half of the world’s population. Without peace and justice between these two religious communities, there can be no meaningful peace in the world. The future of the world depends on peace between Muslims and Christians.

The basis for this peace and understanding already exists. It is part of the very foundational principles of both faiths: love of the One God, and love of the neighbour. These principles are found over and over again in the sacred texts of Islam and Christianity. The Unity of God, the necessity of love for Him, and the necessity of love of the neighbour is thus the common ground between Islam and Christianity. The following are only a few examples:

Of God’s Unity, God says in the Holy Qur’an: Say: He is God, the One! / God, the Self- Sufficient Besought of all! (Al-Ikhlas, 112:1-2). Of the necessity of love for God, God says in the Holy Qur’an: So invoke the Name of thy Lord and devote thyself to Him with a complete devotion (Al-Muzzammil, 73:8). Of the necessity of love for the neighbour, the Prophet Muhammad said: “None of you has faith until you love for your neighbour what you love for yourself.”

In the New Testament, Jesus Christ said: ‘Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One. /  And you shall love the Lord  your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength.’ This is the first commandment. / And the second, like it, is this: ‘You shall love your neighbour as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.” (Mark 12:29-31) 

In the Holy Qur’an, God Most High enjoins Muslims to issue the following call to Christians (and Jews—the People of the Scripture): 

Say: O People of the Scripture! Come to a common word between us and you: that we shall worship none but God, and that we shall ascribe no partner unto Him, and that none of us shall take others for lords beside God. And if they turn away, then say: Bear witness that we are they who have surrendered (unto Him). (Aal ‘Imran 3:64)

The words: we shall ascribe no partner unto Him relate to the Unity of God, and the words: worship none but God, relate to being totally devoted to God.  Hence they all relate to the First and Greatest Commandment. According to one of the oldest and most authoritative commentaries on the Holy Qur’an the words: that none of us shall take others for lords beside God, mean ‘that none of us should obey the other in disobedience to what God has commanded’. This relates to the Second Commandment because justice and freedom of religion are a crucial part of love of the neighbour.

Thus in obedience to the Holy Qur’an, we as Muslims invite Christians to come together with us on the basis of what is common to us, which is also what is most essential to our faith and practice: the Two Commandments of love.

Unholy Things for a Holy Month

Unholy Things for a Holy Month
Maria C. Khoury, Ed. D.

Maria Khoury is a friend who serves with me on the World Vision regional board.  She lives in Taybeh, a Christian village in the West Bank.  Her husband is the mayor of Taybeh.  Taybeh is the Biblical site of Ephraim, but is famous here for making the best beer in the Middle East.

The holy month of Ramadan in the Islamic calendar came in loud and clear in our Ramallah area.  For the first time in the last twenty-five years I was shocked to hear that you could receive ticket or be sent to jail if you are found eating before 5pm in public, never mind in the streets, most restaurants were given strict orders not to serve food.  This was completely shocking to me since I was under the impression we were working for a free Palestine, a democratic Palestine; a Palestine that could be modern and secular to encompass all faiths and ethnic groups.  But to do so, we must struggle with the fanatics on all sides.

The unspeakable and shocking violence that happens during holy days is incomprehensible.  I am happily sitting at the printing shop trying to get the new copy of “Coloring with Christina”, a little coloring book version based on the original Christina Goes to the Holy Land helping promote our Christian presence in the Holy Land.  Something to keep myself productive as I have failed to bring big money or any money to the International Academy of Art Palestine project which I have been working for the last year.

Shocked to see what is coming off the printing press is the photo of the recent tragic death announcement of 30-year-old Rami Ayyad in Gaza, a son, a husband, a father of two preschool sons and minority Christian worker in Gaza for the Bible Society.  Kidnapped at 4 pm on Saturday, October 6, 2007 at his Bible Society office called “The Teacher Book Shop” he was returned dead early Sunday morning with a bullet to his head and shoulder, four knife wounds, and a deep slash to his forehead with what might have been a heavy duty wooden object which apparently tortured Rami prior to his death. 

Rami being the secretary for the Bible Society worked on promoting the OPCY (Operation Palestine Children and Youth) programs in Gaza in addition to other Bible Society work for women, children, youth and relief work.

Imad from the Bible Society office in Jerusalem said the whole staff was in complete shock since there are nine people working for the Bible Society in Gaza and they will like to keep their presence and witness since they are the only Christian Palestinian organization working with marginalized groups in Gaza.  He recently talked to Rami’s wife to express sympathy as she is four months pregnant and was emotionally moved to hear her say that if the baby is a boy she will name him “Rami.”  No one has taken responsibility for the torture and death of Rami Ayyad.  It was a brutal and atrocious killing. Nine-day memorial services will be held this Friday and surely our prayers and deepest sympathy is expressed to this innocent and young humanitarian worker.

It is during these moments that especially we must remember our Christian values and traditions reflected in Matthew 5:43-44  “You have heard that it has been said, thou shall love thy neighbor and hate thy enemy.  But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you.”

Not personally knowing Rami but knowing the loving caring work of the Bible Society by personal experience and knowing the witness for Christ that staff members live, I can only say that Rami is a martyr for Christ in my eyes.  All of the members of the Bible Society that have generously given their time over the years to do excellent programming in Taybeh for our children express Christ’s love and peace for humanity.  When over fifty organization were contacted for emergency help in Taybeh for fourteen burned homes, the Bible Society was one of the few in matching donors to help all fourteen families in relief efforts for their tragic loss.  We are outraged by this tragic action in Gaza targeted at a Bible Society employee and call upon all loving human beings of all religious groups to condemn such killings and foster understanding and reconciliation of Christian organizations in fanatic environments. 

I find hope in small things and the only thing that can encourage me at the moment that I can have a future as a Christian woman living in Palestine is the beautiful large photograph that I saw of the Holy Nativity Church in Abu Mazen’s office, the president of Palestine, Mr. Mahmoud Abbas on the day I was honored to meet him last month.  When I saw this wall size photo along side the Islamic holy site, I was encouraged that Palestine means Christians and Muslims peacefully living together and co-existing for a better future than the recent bloodshed that has lasted over seven years now under Israeli reoccupation of the Palestinian Territories.

I can only find comfort in Psalm 34:14-15 “Depart from evil and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.  The eyes of the Lord are upon the righteous, and his ears are open unto their cry.”  Thus may the Lord hear and save His people.”

"I'm just saying ..."

It is “Lilat Al Gabr,” the “Night of Destiny,” 27 nights into Ramadan, and thousands of Palestinian Muslims are heading for “Al-Harem Ash Sharif,” the place Jewish people and most Christians refer to as “The Temple Mount.”  (Thank you “google.”)

Sally and I are in the crowd.  It is incredibly noisy, and people are literally rubbing shoulders with their fellow pilgrims.  I’ll tell you this:  Palestinian women know how to use their hips in a crowd, and some of the village women are as hard as nails, and a whole lot tougher.  They remind me of Iowa farmwomen.  And this I say as a compliment to both.  One woman, about 60+ I’d say, is carrying a 2-litre bottle of water on her head.  And I kid you not; I had to trot to keep up with her in order to get a picture.  The Palestinians, especially those from the villages, are an extremely adroit people, very skillful and athletic.

Now, I know that I can’t do justice to any kind of description of the Muslim Quarter of the Old City on a Ramadan evening, especially this evening, Lilat Al Gabr, the night “the heavens are opened.”  Impossible.  You’d have to see it for yourself.  It’s loud and chaotic, and unless you know something about these folks, it can be a little scary too.  It doesn’t need to be, but it can be, and for some it just is.  The narrow street connecting the Damascus Gate with Al-Harem Ash-Sharif and the Western Wall is filled with smoke from cooking meat.  We’re walking through this main artery of the Old City right at the time of the “if'tar,” the breaking of the fast, and everyone is sitting and eating and drinking and smoking and talking, everyone at the same time, and nobody in their “quiet voice.”  Families are walking – fast -- toward the Al Aqsa Mosque and the Dome of the Rock, both of which are located on the Temple Mount.  Men and boys have prayer rugs tossed over their shoulders.  One small boy is wearing his like a superman cape.

“This must be like Mardi Gras in New Orleans,” says Sally.

“Except nobody’s drunk and the women are covered head to toe,” say I.

“I’m just saying …” says she.

“Right, it’s festive,” say I.

“Yeah, festive, like Mardi Gras.”

“Except none of the men are dressed in drag,” say I.

“Are you done?”

“I’m just saying …” say I.

There are Israeli soldiers and police all along the route.  I see an older policeman coming out of a Palestinian shop.  He turns, smiles, and waves at the shopkeeper inside, and I get a mini vision of what could be.

It’s a good night for Jerusalem.  We walk all the way to the Western Wall, which is the sacred place of prayer for the Jewish people, and is located just below Al Aqsa Mosque.  We think maybe we could hear the festivities on the Mount above, what with all the people up there and all.  But, we couldn’t.  We head back the way we came and found that soldiers by the entrance to the Western Wall are now keeping all tourists and Jewish people out of the street through which we just passed.  I ask one of them why. 

He says, “This is their night and we want to respect that.  We do the same to them on some of the Jewish holiest nights.” 

“Right,” I say.  “Okay, that’s good.”

A young man standing nearby, says, “Yeah, well, you don’t want to be on that street tonight.”

“Why is that?” ask I.

“It’s filled with Arabs,” says he, and what he means is more than what he says.  And you know what he means.

“What?” say I – it’s not a question.

“It’s not that,” says the soldier, glaring at the young man.  “It’s not that,” repeats he.  “It’s their night.”

“How do we get back to our home?” I ask the soldier.

“You live on this side of town?” The other young man asks.

“Yes,” I say.

“Go be with them, then,” says he.

I say nothing, because I don’t know what to say to that.  What does that mean anyway?  Pick a side?  If you’re with them then you can’t be with us?  If you're with us then you can't live with them?  What does that mean?  What I love about tonight is that the Western Wall is filled with Jewish people praying, and right above them the Muslims are doing the same.  I don’t know what all the praying is about, but I’m thinking it’s a good thing – excepting those prayers asking God to pick a side.  Heaven may be open tonight, but not for prayers that ask God to favor one people over another, or worse, prayers asking God to destroy one people in favor of another.

The soldier is working hard to keep our eye contact.  He wants us engaged with him, and not with the young man to his right.  “Come,” he says, “I’ll show you.”  We know several ways back to our home, but we don’t tell him that.  He wants to help us, and we want to let him.  “Go this way,” he points.  “Then take two rights and you’ll be on a road parallel to this one.  It will take you back to the Damascus Gate.  Okay?”

“Okay, thanks.”

He must have radioed ahead to soldiers along the way, because when we would get to a corner, a soldier would say, “Here, you go this way.”

We walk home side-by-side, and silent.  Each of us is lost in our own thoughts.  As we walk up the steps outside the Damascus Gate and onto the busy street – there are still thousands of people streaming into the Old City – Sally says, “It’s kind of like Mardi Gras.”

“Yeah, kind of.  Yeah, I guess.”

“Except?”

“No trombones,” say I.

“Trombones?”

“Yeah, you see any trombones in there tonight?”

“Trombones?”

“Yeah, Mardi Gras has lots of trombones.”

“This is not New Orleans,” says she.

“That’s what I’m saying, except in New Orleans you’d still hear someone say, ‘You don’t want to go down that street, there are …’”

“Right.  There is that.”

“I’m just saying …”

Move Toward the Singing!

The sweet sound of children singing, that’s what I heard early on a Monday morning – the sweet sound of children singing. 

Head down, heading home from an errand on the west side of town, and “What’s that?”

“What?”

“That.” I’m actually talking to myself here.

“Sounds like children.”

“Definitely sounds like children.”

There is a door half-open, like a glass half-full, I think, so I head toward it.  The singing is coming from the other side of that half-open door.  I look in.  You just don’t walk through doors here – half-open or otherwise.  I can see steps leading up to a playground.  I can see the swings and slides.  I can see the heads of a couple of children.  And I can hear the singing.  God, it has been a long time since I’ve heard children singing these songs.

Finally, I just ease myself through the door and up the steps.  There they are, the children, the singing children.  They are absolutely beautiful, just absolutely beautiful.  I get a lump in my throat, I am so happy to see them, hear them.  A nun in a white habit -- I think they still call it a 'habit,' but I'm not sure -- a nun in white is dancing hand in hand with a small girl.  I am frozen in place.

"Is this heaven?"

"No, Jerusalem. Not heaven. Not even Iowa."  It's me again talking to me again.

The white nun sees me, drops the hands of the little girl, and heads my way.  She does not look happy.  An unhappy looking sister is a scary sight on a Monday morning.  She looks like God might look when God is about to kick somebody’s butt.  I smile.  She doesn’t.

She says something to me in French.  This is not good.  French nuns are tough, I think. 

"Right?"

"I'm pretty sure that's right."  It's just me.

I say that I only speak English and a little Arabic.

“What are you doing here?”  She asks in French-accented English.  It would sound quite lovely if it were not for the fact that she looked ready to slap me around a little.  In my day I’ve seen this look on the face of many an Iowa elementary teacher.  It brings back very bad memories.

“I was drawn to the children’s singing,” I say.

You know how sometimes you just say the right thing at the right time.  Bingo.  Right answer, right?  You know what I mean?  Well, bingo, right answer.  She smiles and she is truly a thing of beauty.  “Aren’t they wonderful?” she says.

“Yes,” I say, breathing again.  “Who are they, these children of yours?”

“Oh,” she says, “they’re not mine.  They’re God’s.”

“Yes,” I agree.  “But are they all Christian?  That was ‘This Little Light of Mine,' they were singing, right?”

She reached over to touch my arm, “You’re a Christian.”

“Yes.”

“They are mostly Muslim, but we are Christians and they are glad to have their children in our school, so we sing Christian songs.”

“And you dance too,” I tease.

“Yes,” she laughed.  “Some children need a little dancing to get them relaxed on a Monday morning.”  I'm pretty sure that's what I needed when I was a kid.  Didn't you?

The teachers and children are all looking our way now, clearly waiting for the boss.  “I have to go,” she says.

“Right, me too.  Thanks for not kicking me out.”

And I got this beatific smile.  I mean how else would you describe the smile of a 70+ year-old French mother-sister-nun in a white 'habit' bestowed on a lonely American on a Monday morning?  Just give me beatific, okay?  She gave me this beatific smile, and said:  “Always come to the sound of children singing -- always.”

“Yes,” I say.  “I’ll remember that.”

And I will.  Thank you Lord.

Amen?

“Almighty God, with your mighty right arm, strike down all who stand against the people of Israel.  God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, drive from this your land every man, woman and child who is not numbered among your people.  Drive them into the sea, O Lord.  Do it today.  Do it now.  We stand by your people, the children of Israel, and pray for your righteous retribution to fall upon the ungodly – fall with fire, O Lord, with fire!  Amen!”

“Amen, brother.”

“Yes, Lord, yes.”

"So be it, sweet Jesus, so be it."

“Amen.  Amen.  Amen.”

The man praying this prayer is standing near the Western Wall in Jerusalem.  His arms are raised to heaven, his passion-filled voice loud and clear so that his gathered flock, along with any standing nearby, can hear his heartfelt petition to God.  He is around forty, I would guess, clean-shaven and wearing a crisply starched white shirt, accented by a maroon and white striped power tie.  He doesn’t look crazy.  He looks normal.  And yet …

Is his prayer the prayer of a man in touch with God?  “…. strike down all who stand against the people of Israel.”    What does “strike down” mean?  And who is included in “all who stand against the people of Israel?”  And who is numbered among the people of God?  If God were to answer this man’s fervent prayer, and I mean right then and there as the man requested, with whose bodies would the earth be littered?  Would I be left standing?  Would you?  Would he?

I assume that he thinks he would be just fine.  I assume that, if he knew me, he’d expect that I wouldn’t be just fine.  I assume he thinks his prayer to be as righteous as the God to whom he lifts it.  I assume otherwise, of course, and only God knows which assumptions are right and which are presumptuous at best.

He is a Christian Zionist here for Succoth, the Jewish Festival of Booths.  He is among several thousand Christian Zionists who participated Tuesday in a march around the Old City of Jerusalem.  I stood and watched this annual event, several thousand Christians, some of them armed and looking rather dangerous, (don’t ask me where they got the guns because I don’t know), tramping around the old walls, glaring at the Palestinians who stopped with me to watch – many of them silently thanking Allah that they are Muslim and not Christian.  The Christian throng sang songs and prayed prayers, and mostly looked up to heaven, because, of course, the God they came to honor is more heavenly than earthly. 

I remembered him from then, and am trying to forget him now.  I’m hoping that writing about him will help me move past what I saw in him – the piety, the passion, the prejudice, the ego, the desire to be right and on the right side, the assumption or perhaps presumption, that his side is right because God is on his side.  If he were to look on me, he would see the same in me, and that is why I’m trying to move by him, I suspect.

Most Christian Zionists are not like this man, or at least that is what I want to hope and pray.  Most Christian Zionists are motivated by a desire to support the Jewish people, and give to them an opportunity to be safe and secure in a land with which they have a biblical and historical connection.  I can understand that.  I can support that too, and I do support that.  But asking God “to strike down every man, woman and child – CHILD! – not Jewish, or not right-thinking Christian?  Strike down, kill, drive out, render as orphan and refugee every man, woman and child – CHILD! – who, along with their Jewish cousins, dare lay claim to this land?  What is that?

Sally reached out and put her right hand on my right bicep.  She squeezed gently and said, “Shhhhhh.”  I looked at her, blinked once, then a second time.  She said it again, “Shhhhhhh.”  She didn’t have to shush me.  I wasn’t going to say anything to this man.  I’m not stupid.  Well, okay, but I’m not THAT stupid.  He can pray whatever he feels led to pray, and he can pray wherever he feels led to pray his led-prayer, even here at the Western Wall, this Jewish Holy place, and even during this Jewish Festival set to remind the Jewish people of their slave-days, and even among this large gathering of Jewish folks, most of whom would find his prayer odious at best.  He can go ahead and pray …

But he’ll get no "Amen" from me.