Goodbyes, Returns

“One thing more—prepare a guest room for me, for I am hoping through your prayers to be restored to you.” Philemon v. 22

Goodbyes and separations. I suppose they are a natural part of human life—the ebb and flow of comings and goings, departures followed by absences, although many times they feel anything but natural. And now I’ve come to the point in my year where I have begun to say goodbye to the things, places, and people that have become my world over the past eleven months. This time of farewell always hung vaguely around the edges of my conscious, as a distant, though inevitable, future reality, when each experience could be “the last time” and each exchange of two kisses, one on each cheek, might be the last…ever. Full well acknowledging the drama of this statement, we truly never know where life will take us, and if it will bring us back to places or reunite us with people that have instructed our souls through our encounters with them. Each culture and language has its own customs of greetings and taking leave, and in Arabic the response to “see you soon” or “I hope you return to us” is inshallah meaning quite literally, “God-willing.” If God wills it, we will be together again. If God wills it, I will return to you.

We finished school last week, and I said goodbye to many of the students and teachers who I’ve come to love at Helen Keller. I admit it was hard to release those hugs, since I was painfully aware that I might never see some of these children again in this life. I explained again and again in the still limited Arabic that I have that no, I was not coming back the following school year—not because I didn’t want to, but because it was a one-year program, a new volunteer would take my place, etc., etc. But it is hard for a child to understand all of that, or even to process what “goodbye” entails, so they give you hugs and kisses and hang on your arm, and continue to demand that you come back. All the while, I knew that goodbye was far more important to me, that my impact on their lives would be slight, though positive, inshallah, that I would likely be forgotten by many…and that that was okay. Their impact on me cannot be counted, and will scarcely be fully appreciable until I return back to the life I left last August and begin to notice the changes this year has wrought in me reflected in my thoughts and actions.

Return. Sometimes saying goodbye goes hand in hand with a return to places and people that saw their own goodbye not too long ago. Reading the verse that I opened this letter with speaks to me simultaneously of my desire to one day return to Jerusalem and the people here, along with my longing to be restored once again to friends and family in the States. This past week I had an amazing opportunity to travel to Mt. Sinai, the traditional site of Moses’ receiving of the Ten Commandments and the Law, as well as the traditional site of the Burning Bush. While many scholars dispute it’s claim as the authentic Biblical site, the mountain and St. Catherine’s monastery are nonetheless beautiful places, and important in their own right with a monastic and pilgrimage tradition dating back at least to the 6th century CE. Rachel, Anna, Jana, and I followed a Bedouin guide up the winding Camel Road by moonlight to a height of 2285 m. There at the summit we watched the stunning, fiery sunrise over the mountains, and regardless of the site’s authenticity, I understood more what the ancient Israelites might have witnessed: the glory of the Lord like a “devouring fire on the top of the mountain.”

We climbed back down by way of the 3750 “Steps of Penitence” towards the Greek Orthodox Monastery of St. Catherine, which claims to be located at the site of the Burning Bush. Stopping to take a break on a smooth, reddish rock in the shadow of the mountain, I flipped open to Exodus for a little refresher of this famous story when Moses first hears the voice of the Lord. And tucked into the face of a mountain, in the middle of the Sinai wilderness, swiftly approaching the end of this amazing year, this scripture found me once again (as scripture sometimes sneakily does)—a scripture read to us at our orientation as we prepared for missionary service last year.

“Oh my Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor even now that you have spoken to your servant; but I am slow of speech and slow of tongue.” Then the Lord said to him, “Who gives speech to mortals? Who makes them mute or deaf, seeing or blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now go, and I will be with your mouth and teach you what you are to speak.” But he said, “O My Lord, please send someone else.” Exodus 4:10-13

I thought instantly of a concern, a desire that has much occupied my thoughts over the past year, both in my writings and in conversations: the faithful transmission of my experiences over the past year, the faithful telling of the stories of people that I have met, wanting to be a faithful witness to the cause of peace and justice here. I have long felt that this was intimately tied to “the return,” because even as we are called in our lives to silence and listening, there also come moments when we are called on to speak. Indeed, moments when our conscience does not permit us to stay silent. And in acknowledging the power of words, this call to speak can seem daunting and intimidating…O My Lord, please, send someone else.

There are moments when I look at the fear, the oppression, the injustices and complexities of life here in Palestine-Israel and find myself straining for complete thoughts. Where to begin? While I in no way face anything like the awesome task set before Moses, we are all of us called to act in love in our own small ways in our own small lives—sometimes this means speaking up to our friends, families, coworkers, politicians, pastors, even strangers. Sometimes the things we have to say will be unwelcome and cause us to face rejection, even as we speak out of our deepest convictions of our hearts. As I move closer to returning home, my prayer is this:

For the wisdom to know when to speak, and when to stay silent. And when the moment comes to speak, that the Lord would be with my mouth, that the Holy Spirit might teach me in that moment what I am to say. That I might be a faithful witness to this place and the people I’ve encountered. That God might be with the people I leave behind, and bring us together again if it is His Will. That God might be with the people that I return to, and grant us all patience and faithfulness to one another as we share together what we’ve learned and how we’ve changed in the year we’ve been apart. Amen.

See you soon, inshallah.

Called By Name

“But we, the creatures are named, and our names are part of our wholeness… And I remember the times when I have been given a name—and to be given a name is an act of intimacy as powerful as any act of love. To name is to love. To be Named is to be loved.” -Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

Perhaps some of you have at some point made the mistake of addressing me as Mary, only to swiftly (yet tactfully) be corrected by me and told that my name is Mary Margaret, thank you very much, and I prefer to be called that. Call me Mary Margaret, or one of my nicknames, but not just Mary or just Margaret. Thanks.

That was one of the first things that had to go once I got here. My fervent insistence that I be called by both names, the instinctual cringe when someone “slipped up” and called me Mary, my explanation that I did not “feel” like a Mary—these well rehearsed lines did not have a place here. For the first time in my life, I introduce myself as Mary to new people, and allow people I consider to be my friends to call me Mary. The people in the international community still call me Mary Margaret, but to the teachers at school, I am Mary, and to my students, I am Miss Mary.

I’ve always liked my name, and as many people do, I connect my name to my identity. I connect it to the two women, my great grandmothers, who each gave me half of my name, contributing to my wholeness, their history becoming part of my history. I connect it to my mother, Mary Joe, who wanted one of her daughters to have a double name like she does. I connect my name to my southern heritage, and to a rather silly feeling of originality at having a rare name. We know the shape of our names written on paper, we can hear our names spoken quietly across a noisy and crowded room.

Part of learning and growing here seems to have a great deal to do with letting go, even of those things that we cling to as tightly as possible- our ideas about ourselves, our ideas about God, our ideas about the way the world should work and about the way it actually does work. Somehow this year is slipping away, and in less than three months time I will return to the States to begin some new, unknown thing. The question I’ve been asking myself recently is, what change is this year working within me? This place has given me a new name— so in what ways is it making me into a new thing? When I left my old comfortable, familiar environment, what elements of my identity did I let go of, and what new ones arose to fill the empty places. Do I feel I am more patient with myself and others? Yes. And yet, at the same time, do I feel angrier? Yes, absolutely. Witnessing such forthright injustice, discrimination, and hatred has brought a new kind of frustration and weariness to my world-view. Do I believe that I have gained knowledge? In some ways yes, and in others ways, I feel that I know even less what to say. Perhaps most significantly, do I feel that the act of loving and being loved by, and even trying to love people here is changing me? Yes.

Change happens within us in a way that is usually beyond clear articulation, and many things will probably only become apparent to me once I have left Jerusalem and returned home. Letting go, changing names, changing identities. Certainly this year will not leave me unrecognizable to those I left one year ago, but I know with certainty that the Mary Margaret who will return in July is not the one who set out in August. The truth is that we are all constantly going through a process of transformation, whether we are at home, or far from it. My prayer is that God is using my experiences to transform me more and more into who he wants me to be. Beyond Mary, Miss Mary, Mary Margaret, He has named us all in love—He has called us Child. And I think, or perhaps hope, that in many ways this working out of who am I?, how have I changed?, is a searching for this ultimate identity, our most important name.

Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name, you are mine. Isaiah 43: 1

Holy Week Finale: Easter!

Sunday, April 4, 2010, 6 AM

But on the first day of the week, at early dawn, they came to the tomb, taking the spices that they had prepared. They found the stone rolled away from the tomb, but when they went in, they did not find the body. While they were perplexed about this, suddenly two men in dazzling clothes stood beside them. The women were terrified and bowed their faces to the ground, but the men said to them, ‘Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here, but has risen. Remember how he told you, while he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’ Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest.

Luke 24: 1-9

6 AM

In the darkness of early morning, we carefully made our way across the grounds of the Augusta Victoria Hospital campus to a stone altar that was already glowing with the light of small tea candles. Our Redeemer Lutheran English Congregation choir did a quick warm up as we prepared to sing at the special Mount of Olives sunrise service. And what a beautiful service it was—the prayers and songs of Easter morning rising up along with the sun, as we gazed out over the Jordanian desert. Like the women who discovered with awe the empty tomb, we rediscovered and remembered the resurrection along with them in the glowing Jerusalem dawn. Easter is a time of great hope—a hope that we must cling to. We must believe that after the “Fridays” of this world-poverty, occupation, racism, abuse, exploitation, war, hunger, disease, injustice, and death something awaits on Sunday morning. Life and love- the promises of Easter.

9 AM

After a delicious Easter brunch on the Mount of Olives, we headed down into the Old City for another church service, this time a joint service between the English and Arabic congregations. I was glad to have the opportunity to celebrate Easter with the local community here that I have frequently worshipped with over the past eight months. Even though we sing and pray in different languages, our belief and proclamation is shared. Christ is Risen! Al Masih Qam!

7 PM

Later that evening we had a special meal with our English-speaking congregational community at the Brown’s home up on the Mount of Olives. Believe it or not, in a predominantly Muslim and Jewish place, we even managed to have ham for Easter dinner! The Redeemer Lutheran community has truly been a unique and special support for me throughout this year. Especially around the holidays, when I feel especially separated from the normal rhythms of celebrations at home, it forms its own eclectic family of sorts to do what families do— share food and conversation, and support one another. It has been a blessing, and one that I know I will miss when I leave in a few short months.

East Side Story

Two items about some sad realities of the Holy City. Jerusalem is anything but an undivided, united city, as I have learned over the course of this past year.

http://www.haaretz.com/print-edition/opinion/discrimination-is-flourishing-in-east-jerusalem-1.287733

An Al Jazeera video clip about what we commonly refer to as the "racist traffic light," which causes many a delay going from our neighborhood into the city center. No it certainly isn't a checkpoint, but it makes its mark on people's lives nonetheless.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQYKeYhDWa4

Holy Fire Saturday

Saturday, April 3, 2010, 2 PM

Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.’ John 8:12

My friend Jennifer and I went to the Old City the next day to celebrate a festival I had never even heard of before coming to Jerusalem: Sept An-Nur, or Holy Fire Saturday. Every year on the Saturday before Orthodox Easter, the Orthodox Patriarch of Jerusalem enters the “Tomb of Christ” in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He carries 33 small candles, representing the age of Christ at his death, and he is inspected before entering to ensure that he carries no implements to light a fire with. According to tradition, when he is alone inside, he waits until the candles he holds are miraculously lit, after which he emerges from the tomb and distributes the flame. The flame passes from person to person throughout the city, and then travels all over the world to Orthodox communities. Jennifer and I bought our little bunches of candles, and then squirmed our way through people and around police barriers, trying to find a place to wait for the fire. We ended up standing inside Jaffa Gate at the top of Christian Quarter Road, and finally I could hear bells in the distance. A short time later I spotted one little boy with a flame, and then in seconds it was everywhere. People carried multiple bunches, creating small blazes and then extinguishing them; I think the belief is that the candles are blessed by having been touched by the fire. Jennifer and I received the flame and found it more difficult to put out than expected, which resulted in brief alarm, followed by a good bit of laughter. I wanted to participate not because I necessarily believe that the Holy Fire is a genuine yearly miracle, but because I see it as a beautiful illustration of the Christian faith. From a single flame, Jesus, who lived and died in this place two thousand years ago, all the Christian faithful in the world trace their hope and faith back to this single source. Jesus said, “I am the light of the world” and because the flame has been shared with us, we too are called to be bearers of light, hope and peace in the world.

8 PM

The Light of Christ! Thanks be to God!

–Traditional Proclamation and Response of the Easter Vigil Liturgy

The Easter Vigil at St. George’s Cathedral was another reminder of the gift of light given in Easter. Beginning in the shadows in the courtyard of the church, we lit candles together and processed in. In this joint English and Arabic language service we began to retell once again the story of the resurrection, sing the Alleluias that were put aside during Lent, and prepare ourselves for the dawning of Easter morning.

Good Friday

Friday, April 2, 2010, 6 AM

[Pilate] said to the Jews, ‘Here is your King!’ They cried out, ‘Away with him! Away with him! Crucify him!’ Pilate asked them, ‘Shall I crucify your King?’ The chief priests answered, ‘We have no king but the emperor.’ Then he handed him over to them to be crucified. John 19: 14-16

In the early morning hours on Good Friday, the Lutheran and Anglican churches of Jerusalem held a procession along the Via Dolorosa, meaning the Way of Suffering, a route through the Old City which is traditionally held to be the path Jesus took from his encounter with Pilate to his crucifixion. We picked up where we had left off form the evening before, when we had a special Maundy Thursday service with a procession from the Old City out to the site of the Garden of Gethsemane. With scripture reading and prayer at the different Stations of the Cross, we sought to remember the last moments of Jesus life. Walking the narrow stone streets, it is hard to imagine the Jerusalem of Jesus’ time—Biblical historians remind us that the events of the Passion took place outside the city walls of Jerusalem, on spots that are now enveloped by the current 16^th century walls. Time and the march of history have changed this place drastically, and yet we continue to be drawn here by a memory that layers of stone and earth cannot cover.

10 AM

Those who had arrested Jesus took him to Caiaphas the high priest, in whose house the scribes and the elders had gathered. But Peter was following him at a distance, as far as the courtyard of the high priest; and going inside, he sat with the guards in order to see how this would end. Matthew 26:57-58

I found a quiet moment later in the day with my friend Brit at the Church of St. Peter in Gallicantu, a church built over the spot where it is believed the house of the High Priest Caiaphus stood. In a stony underground prison probably quite similar to the one Jesus was imprisoned in, if not the prison itself, we shared a quiet time of scripture reading and prayer, with particular focus on Peter. Peter, the rock on which the church would be built, but who showed his utter humanity in the courtyard of the high priest by denying Christ three times.

12 Noon

When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. Then Jesus said, ‘Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing.’ And they cast lots to divide his clothing. And the people stood by, watching; but the leaders scoffed at him, saying, ‘He saved others; let him save himself if he is the Messiah of God, his chosen one!’ The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine, and saying, ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ There was also an inscription over him, ‘This is the King of the Jews.’ Luke 23: 33-37

On to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the place widely believed to have been the location of the Crucifixion and Resurrection. My Protestant upbringing cries for skepticism about holy sites and relics, but I felt compelled to join the pilgrims of all different sects— Greek, Armenian, Syrian, Ethiopian Orthodox, Coptic, Latin, and Protestant in visiting what many consider the holiest site in all of Christianity. Stiflingly warm, smoky with incense, and packed with people, I wandered through the church. I stumbled upon a Coptic service that was being held at the back of the sepulcher structure, and quickly stumbled out when I realized I was in the way. I have visited this church before and have come to love it, not really because of any feeling of holiness or transcendence I find within the church, but rather because wedged between tour groups, scolded by scowling priests, I see the beauty of this mass, this mess of humanity that Christ came to save and that I am a part of.

1 PM

Now there was a good and righteous man named Joseph, who, though a member of the council, had not agreed to their plan and action. He came from the Jewish town of Arimathea, and he was waiting expectantly for the kingdom of God. This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Then he took it down, wrapped it in a linen cloth, and laid it in a rock-hewn tomb where no one had ever been laid. Luke 23:50-53

Later in the day I made my way to the Garden Tomb, a beautiful and quiet garden that is a proposed alternate site for the Crucifixion and Resurrection. The Tomb is believed to be from around the time of Christ’s life, so is interesting in imagining how the tomb might have looked, regardless of it being the actual tomb or not. Most wonderfully on this day, the garden provided a needed reprieve from the heat of the day and the thronging crowds of the Old City.

3 PM

From noon on, darkness came over the whole land until three in the afternoon. And about three o’clock Jesus cried with a loud voice, ‘Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?’ that is, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’ When some of the bystanders heard it, they said, ‘This man is calling for Elijah.’ At once one of them ran and got a sponge, filled it with sour wine, put it on a stick, and gave it to him to drink. But the others said, ‘Wait, let us see whether Elijah will come to save him.’ Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split. Matthew 45-51

I was drawn back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, not knowing what would happen, but wanting to be there nonetheless. I stood in the courtyard area outside the entrance, leaning against some police fencing, lazily watching a little girl who was eating a popsicle. The first thunderous sounding of the bell startled me back to attention, and I waited intently for more. The bells shook the stones, shook me, echoed hauntingly in the city, reminding me of the earthquake that shook the ground when Christ breathed his last. The starkness and sparseness of the ringing spoke of a certain finality, and I headed home at last with the words of Christ from the Gospel of John in my head: “It is finished.” It is something I’ve often pondered about the Crucifixion, perhaps more intensely here. How is salvation and reconciliation accomplished through his death- this real event that took place here, on this same hilly landscape of Jerusalem, under this same sky; how is it finished? I have no more answers then before I came here. There is a reason that we talk about the mystery of the cross; here in the place where reason and understanding fail us, the often whispering voice of faith catches us.

Passover

Monday, March 29, 2010, 7 PM

Then the Lord said, ‘I have observed the misery of my people who are in Egypt; I have heard their cry…Indeed, I know their sufferings, and I have come down to deliver them from the Egyptians…’ Exodus 3: 7-8

I found myself the day after Palm Sunday with three friends (Jeni, Colin, and Greta) in the Israeli coastal town of Nahariya, so far north the mountains of Lebanon were easily in view. An Israeli woman we met at a Women in Black peace demonstration had graciously invited us to her home to celebrate a Seder meal for the Jewish festival of Pesach, or Passover. Around our Seder table sat a group of strangers that Gila, our host, had drawn together in the spiritual act of hospitality to share prayer, food, and stories. We were from the USA, France, Sweden, Israel, and Canada; we were Jews, Christians, and inconclusive, but there was somehow easy truthfulness in our encounter. Filled with this year and this place, the message of Passover resonated in a new way within me. The function of Passover is to pass on the Exodus story, telling generation after generation that God rescued the ancient Israelites from the hands of their oppressors. Passover is a reminder that God delivers the oppressed, that he is faithful to his promises, that as a God of justice, he does not turn a deaf ear to the cries of his creation. We remembered in our Passover celebration that even as we offer thanksgiving for our own freedom, our joy remains incomplete as we consider that many in this world still languish under the oppression of crippling poverty, unjust regimes, and behind walls, real and figurative. Part of the Seder meal ritual involves diminishing of a cup of wine; a drop is spilled out for each of the plagues that befell the Egyptians. In our modernized, social justice-minded Seder, we also spilled drops of wine for ten contemporary plagues that temper our joy and happiness in today's world: Hunger, War, Crime, Disease, Racism, Abuse, Poverty, Homophobia, Pollution, and Indifference to human suffering.

I have been reflecting on the price of freedom and independence over the past two days while Israel has been celebrating its Memorial Day and Independence Day. Israeli flags have suddenly appeared everywhere one might think to hang a flag-- on cars, on houses, on lampposts, on people. Of course, the Palestinian neighborhoods of East Jerusalem are noticeably devoid of flags. Rather, the word Al-Nakba, "the catastrophe," is on the tongues of the Palestinians in this land. As the Israeli people celebrate the triumph of having declared themselves an independent nation in 1948, the Palestinians remember this same event as a time of suffering, displacement, disenfranchisement, and destruction. Attaining freedom is certainly a victory to be celebrated; the tragedy is the price paid for this freedom by the Palestinian people, a people that continues to live without freedom under an occupation that stretches on and on. My prayer is that as the Israelis commemorate their nationhood, that they might remember the people killed, displaced, and subjected so that their state could be founded. And keeping in mind their own liberties, I pray that they and indeed, all of us, might work to help ensure that all people live in freedom, out from the tight grip of oppression.

Palm Sunday

Al Masih Qam! Hakkan Qam!

Christ is Risen! He is Risen Indeed!

Grace and Peace to you in this Easter season! I hope that your holiday was full of joyful remembrances of all that God has done for us through Christ—overcoming death and the grave, dispelling the darkness of this world, and giving us cause to hope! I had a truly unforgettable Holy Week, spent in the city of Jesus’ triumphal entry, his final prophetic words, his last meal with his disciples, his agonizing hours of prayer, his betrayal, arrest, imprisonment, crucifixion, and finally in the quiet dawn of the third day, his mysterious and glorious resurrection. Instead of a huge single blog post, I will post little ones throughout the next week with different reflections on Holy Week.

Sunday, March 28, 2010, 2 PM

When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives…A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting,
‘Hosanna to the Son of David!
 Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord! Hosanna in the highest heaven!’ Matthew 21: 1, 8-9

The Palm Sunday procession down the Mount of Olives and into the Old City of Jerusalem was an experience unlike any other. I found myself holding my palm branch in a sea of Christians from all over the world, singing hymns in their own languages, bearing flags of different nations, carrying uniquely decorated palms, olive branches, and flowers. It was a stunningly beautiful reminder that the good news of Jesus Christ is for no particular people, for no particular language group, ethnic group, or gender group— it is for the world. I cannot help but think of the promise of God to Abraham from Genesis 22, that “in your offspring shall all the nations of the earth be blessed.” All the nations of the earth. These are powerful words of hope, and for a brief time during this procession, I did not feel the differences between us- Orthodox, Catholic, Protestant; Eastern, Western; local or foreign—we shared something in this march that transcended all of these outer trappings of identity. We were united by our faith, and by the call of the people that still echoes two thousand years later: “Hosanna!”

After telling you of how wonderful this day was, I regret that I must tell you a negative aspect of this day. Many Palestinian Christians from the West Bank and Gaza were barred from entry into Jerusalem for the procession, and 11 people were arrested at the Bethlehem checkpoint during a non-violent protest against these restrictions of access to holy places. A reminder that we are a long way from having the freedom to pray when and where we want in this and many places.

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem!

Grace and peace to you in this Lenten season! I apologize that it has been so long since my last update. While this delay is due partly to the busyness of the last month, which included a wonderful weekend trip to Jordan, a daytrip to the West Bank city of Nablus, and weekly gatherings for Lenten devotions, there is another cause for my hiatus of blogging. I find that the longer I live here, the more complex my reflection on this place becomes, and considering the rapidly changing political situation here, particularly over the past few weeks, I confess that it becomes harder and harder to process and put down into words all that is happening.

Jerusalem- this holy, beautiful, complicated city, and this place which has become home during the past seven months, is making headlines. No doubt if you have read or watched the news in the past two weeks you have encountered stories of the recent visit of VP Joe Biden to Jerusalem, the announcement of new settlement construction in East Jerusalem, the US criticism of this announcement, rioting and protest in East Jerusalem and the West Bank, Gaza marking 1000 days of siege by Israel, and as of yesterday, a man killed in southern Israel by a rocket fired from a Gaza militant group has prompted renewed air strikes against the Gaza Strip. Perhaps you have seen dramatic images of Palestinian youth in East Jerusalem, faces masked by keffiyehs, hurling stones through the billowing smoke of burning tires. Perhaps you have seen video of the Israeli riot police responding with tear gas, rubber-coated bullets, and stun grenades. I’d like to use this update to help direct you to some articles that you might find helpful regarding the current situation, as well as to give you some of my reflections, writing from the city about which there is so much to love, and yet so much to grieve and frustrate, as well. (Please click on the links included to read more...)

Last week Vice President Joe Biden visited Israel-Palestine to meet with Israeli and Palestinian officials, in a bid to begin proximity talks between the two groups. A little publicized aspect of this visit, but which caused hope and excitement to our international community of the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer here in Jerusalem, was the visit of Dr. Jill Biden to the Augusta Victoria Hospital, a project of the Lutheran World Federation. Augusta Victoria Hospital has been supporting the Palestinian population since 1948, when it gave crucial services to refugees. In the 1990s, the hospital reinvented itself to become the speciality treatment center for the Palestinians (especially those of the West Bank and Gaza Strip) in oncology, diabetes care, head and neck surgery, and pediatric dialysis, most specifically. Not only did this visit officially recognize the Palestinian presence in East Jerusalem, it also marked the announcement of a new linear accelerator (radiation treatment machine) sponsored by USAID. As Augusta Victoria currently has the only linear accelerator available for the West Bank and Gaza, the obtaining of a new machine will greatly increase their ability to help patients. This news is cause for prayers of thanksgiving, and was definitely a highlight of last week!

Unfortunately there has been little more to find such clear joy in over the past two weeks. During Biden's visit, Israel announced the approval for 1600 new housing units in the East Jerusalem settlement of Ramat Shlomo. While Israel considers all of Jerusalem their "undivided capital," East Jerusalem is considered occupied territory by most of the world, and therefore building there is illegal under international law. As the issue of settlement expansion is currently one of the greatest obstacles to restarting peace talks, this announcement was taken by the US as a slap in the face to Biden's purpose in the region. While the announcement was a frustration, the response of the US government was a source of hope for me; it was swift and strong. Biden, Secretary of State Clinton, and Obama all seem to be sending the message to Israel that while we remain friends and allies, Israeli PM Benjamin Netanyahu and the Israeli government must prove that they are serious about the peace process.

In light of recent unrest in Jerusalem, and in anticipation of protests over settlement announcement, Israel "sealed off" the West Bank for several days last week to Palestinians with "non-essential permits," cutting off access to Jerusalem for thousands, which also means in many cases cutting off people from work, family, medical treatment, and access to holy sites. They also limited access to the Al-Aqsa mosque in the Old City of Jerusalem so that only women and men over 50 could gain entry. It's strange how some of the features of occupation become a part of the landscape of life here, and then like a dip in cold water, you are shocked back into confronting what occupation means. Soldiers around the Old City are common, but as I traveled in and around the area this week the checkpoints at the gates to the city, police horses, and dozens of IDF and riot police toting guns and tear gas canisters were a sharp reminder of the military control over the movement and access to places for Palestinians. With people frustrated and tensions high regarding Jerusalem and some recent perceived threats to West Bank Muslim holy sites, I can't help but feel that these closures and restrictions aggravate the problem.

Indeed Hamas (the Palestinian militant political group that controls the Gaza Strip) declared Tuesday a "Day of Rage" to protest Israel's recent actions. The result was stone throwing and violent confrontation across East Jerusalem, spilling over into the the proceeding days to checkpoints and places throughout the West Bank. As the other teachers and I monitored various news sources throughout the day, I realized perhaps more clearly than ever what it means to live and serve in a region of conflict. The names of the neighborhoods where rioting was taking place were all familiar...because they are the neighborhoods where my students live. An entire busload of kids from the neighborhood of Elsawiyeh were unable to reach school because of road blocks and rioting on the streets outside their homes. The pictures I saw on the internet of masked Palestinian youth being arrested by undercover IDF soldiers were taken on a familiar road where I was walking unremarkably and without incident two days earlier. In the absence of directly encountering the clashes, the clammer of helicopters above our heads has been a reminder that something was happening, somewhere.

While I understand that people are frustrated, I could not help but be angered by Hamas' cry for "rage" when it seemed that at the moment, the Palestinians have clear support from the US and other governments regarding the call for a settlement freeze. Anger in and of itself is not the problem, as righteous anger is warranted at times, and manifests itself in strikes and non-violent protest here by Palestinians. But when anger manifests itself into violence, and even killing, as a rocket fired from Gaza into southern Israel did kill a man yesterday, it increases the extremely stereotypical perception of Palestinians as perpetrators of terrorism. I would like to say that over the past week, while I have not personally witnessed anyone throwing stones or acting in violence, I have seen hundreds of Palestinians trying to live their lives- going to work, going to school, walking to the store with their children. But the world did not see that- they saw the infinitely more dramatic images of young masked youth throwing stones at Israeli soldiers in the streets of Jerusalem. I say all this to emphasize the complexity of the situation here; while I frequently advocate for awareness about the Palestinian cause in my writings, actions by Palestinian groups can frustrate me just as much as moves by the Israeli government or military when they serve as similar barriers to peace and dialogue.

I am writing so much today because of a feeling of urgency and a need to speak. We seem to be at a crucial moment in US-Israeli relations, and I think it deserves our attention. Secretary of State Clinton has made specific requests of Israel to freeze settlement building in East Jerusalem, and extend good-will gestures towards the Palestinians. I also read this morning that the international Quartet for Middle East peace mediators has called on Israel to "freeze all settlement activity, including natural growth, dismantle outposts erected since March 2001 and to refrain from demolitions and evictions in East Jerusalem." Media sources are also reporting that Obama will meet with Prime Minister Netanyahu next week in the US . Some people believe that we are being overly harsh or demanding on Israel at the moment, but I ask that we try to see this in a different way. I have been reflecting a great deal over the past month on how being critical of Israel might be the most effective means way of loving Israel. Let me explain. While I have written about the more apparent inequities of the occupation on the Palestinian people, I have also expressed my belief that the occupation is also quite harmful to Israel. Joe Biden said during his visit last week that "sometimes only a friend can deliver the hardest truth," and a phrase that has come up in recent discourse on US-Israeli relations is "Tough Love." A recent Haaretz article by Israeli Gideon Levy describes the occupation as a harmful "addiction" that Israel is uninterested in giving up, but that the US has the potential to be the friend that helps them kick the habit. My roommate Anna directed me to the article, and if you don't look at any of the other links, please take the time to read this thought-provoking commentary.

Perhaps we are at a crossroads, and perhaps the US does have the opportunity to be a positive force in moving peace talks forward. I strongly encourage you to read more about the situation using the links and articles I suggested or other sources that you trust. Perhaps you'll reach similar conclusions as me; perhaps you'll reach different ones. I will be contacting my elected officials this week and encouraging them to support a "tough love" policy regarding Israel, and push for a full settlement freeze so that talks between Israelis and Palestinians can come to fruition. At this critical moment, I encourage you to pray over the situation and to contact your elected officials to express what role you believe the US should play in all of this.

I know this update has been lengthy and of a rather political nature, but in many ways, so is the experience of living in Jerusalem. I want to tell you about the daily reality of living here, and because the decisions being made will profoundly effect the lives of the people that I live and serve among, I felt compelled to write about it, simultaneously as I seek understanding in the midst of it. I have made an earnest attempt to write about some of the ups and downs of the past couple weeks, and I thank you for reading, as always. Please contact me with any questions, comments. I ask humbly for your prayers for this place and ALL of its people, for the leaders of the US, Palestine, and Israel, for the ministry of Augusta Victoria Hospital, and for a young student at my school who is facing severe medical problems.

The lives of others

This Haaretz article is well worth reading. I encourage you to take a look at what this Israeli Jew has discovered about the lives of Palestinians here, and why she simply cannot remain quiet about it.

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1150824.html

You've Got to Be Taught

On more than one occasion here, I have been reminded of the simple, yet powerful lyrics from one of my favorite songs from the Rodgers and Hammerstein musical, South Pacific: “You’ve Got to Be Carefully Taught.” An angry Lieutenant Cable, with dawning realization of his own limiting prejudices, says, “it's not something you're born with,” and sings, “You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear…It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear. You’ve got to be carefully taught.” He goes on, “You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late- before you are six or seven or eight—to hate all the people your relatives hate. You’ve got to be carefully taught!”

For those of you who haven’t seen the show, it’s underlying exploration of racism and prejudice in the plot is quite surprising, given its 1949 date. I think Cable’s song contains something crucial to remember, especially in conflict areas such as Israel-Palestine, where wounds run deep, and memory longer. There is no natural, inherent enmity between groups of people; Jewish children do not come out of the womb fearing Arabs anymore than Palestinian children do feeling anger and hatred towards Israelis. What is true is the sponge-like nature of children and the way they absorb ideas, opinions, and emotions from those around them, particularly from parents, elders and teachers.

When I look at my kindergartners at school, I marvel at their innocence. They do not care that I look different from their other teachers, or that I talk differently (though sometimes they giggle), or that I am from a strange place called America. They love me anyway and are perfectly content to hold my hand, play with me during free time, or talk to me earnestly as if I understood every word they said. Sometimes I think I’d like to freeze them in this moment of simple innocence. My kindergarteners are so very different from one student in the fifth grade who likes to use art class as an opportunity to quiz me about political ideas that he scarcely understands. Do I like Obama or George Bush? Do I love Arabs? Israelis? I attempt to tell him that I try to love all people even if I may not always like everything they do, and I hope he is starting to understand. It is likely that he is repeating things that he has heard from adults, taking on those perceptions and concepts as his own. You have to be carefully taught…but are you being taught in a way that will perpetuate conflict indefinitely, or in a way that leads to a society directed towards peace?

I remember a truly wonderful moment this Fall when a sixth grade girl, a Muslim, said to me in a combination of Arabic, English, and excited hand gestures: “I don’t think it’s good, Muslims over here and Christians over here (pointing in opposite directions). I am a Muslim (indicating herself) and you are a Christian (indicating me), and we love each other!” In a culture where people are often divided by racial and religious lines, where children are sometimes taught fear and hatred of the Other, this thirteen-year-old had the wisdom to recognize this beautiful idea: We are different, but we can love each other anyway. She is being carefully taught—but not hate and fear; instead acceptance and love.

While Lieutenant Cable’s song seems to be filled with anger, frustration, and negativity, I guess I can’t help but seek the hidden positive message buried in all the cynicism. It isn’t something you’re born with! Which means that change is possible; it all depends on what we teach and how we allow ourselves to be taught. It sounds idealistic, and well, it is. And I have to say, I think a dash of idealism could do the world some good.

Dear Lord, Please allow me to be carefully taught the way of love and understanding. Please guide all of us, especially parents, teachers, and mentors of children, to be careful of what we teach others through our words and actions. Inshallah, let us plant seeds that will grow into a future of peace and reconciliation in this and all places.

I will learn a song that imparts wisdom; I will then sing my insightful song to the accompaniment of a harp. Psalm 49:4

Merry Christmas!

In those days a decree went out from Emperor Augustus that all the world should be registered. This was the first registration and was taken while Quirinius was governor of Syria. All went to their own towns to be registered. Joseph also went from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to the city of David called Bethlehem, because he was descended from the house and family of David. He went to be registered with Mary, to whom he was engaged and who was expecting a child. While they were there, the time came for her to deliver her child. And she gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in bands of cloth, and laid him in a manger, because there was no place for them in the inn. Luke 2:1-7

 “But Mary Margaret, isn’t it a bit late for a Christmas post?”

 And now it’s my turn to surprise you and say, “Absolutely not, because here in Jerusalem, TODAY is also Christmas. Armenian Orthodox Christmas, to be precise. And for another little surprise- this is the third Christmas we’ve had, because January 6^th was also Christmas- Orthodox Christmas.”

So now that I’ve proven I am well within the Christmas season in writing this post, I want to tell you a bit about my Christmas this year, which I spent in a place I never even considered I could possibly spend this special day—in the place where the faith of Christians was quite literally born—Bethlehem.

I’ve ridden the bus into Bethlehem time and again, but December 24, Christmas Eve, was different. The bus filled up quickly with a combination of Palestinians going about their normal routines, local Palestinian Christians heading to Bethlehem to celebrate the holiday, and other pilgrims like myself. The energy was cheerful as we smiled at one another, and struck up the odd conversation among passengers. The girl sitting next to me was traveling alone for just a couple weeks, and when she found out that I had been here for four months, she began pumping me for information. A friend of mine from church climbed onto the bus along with a friend of his who was visiting. It turned out that neither my seat-mate nor my friend knew the route from the bus-stop to Manger Square, where the Church of the Nativity is, so when we climbed off the bus, I became the leader of my own little parade of pilgrims.

How appropriate, because a block from Manger Square we ran right into the annual Christmas parade done by the local scout troupes. Line after line of brilliantly colored flags, children of all ages proudly wearing their scout uniforms, the thrilling blasts of bagpipes, and the infectious rhythm of the drums. I stood up on a star-shaped fountain to get a better view, while the music echoed off the white Jerusalem stone, and vibrated through my own body.

As the end of the parade snaked by us, and the drumbeats faded, I headed straight into Manger Square to meet up with Rachel and Greta. We made a necessary visit to the Church of the Nativity, the traditional site of Christ’s birth, but soon slipped out of the dim, incense filled nave back into the cool, bright afternoon. Walking down another Old City street, we got caught up in the parade a second time, and so found ourselves running late to catch a taxi to Beit Jala. In Beit Jala, at the home of our country coordinator’s, Martin and Suzanne, we shared Christmas Eve dinner, and swapped Secret Santa gifts with the other YAGM. In an effort to bring a little bit of home (and the South) to the Holy Lands, I made my Mamoo’s sweet potato soufflé. While I was missing my family and our traditions, it was such a blessing to spend time with our wonderful team here for the holidays.

Directly after dinner we headed back into Bethlehem to attend a joint Arabic-English-German worship service at Christmas Lutheran Church. I really love these combined services; while it seems disorienting at first with everyone singing hymns and saying prayers simultaneously in their own language, it’s this simultaneous expression of faith that is so compelling. It’s hard to describe how I felt as the stained glass windows of the church slowly darkened, and we passed around small flickering flames from candle to candle until the church was full of dancing light. I was grateful and happy to be where I was, among friends, celebrating the birth of the Savior, singing, and rejoicing.

 The rest of the evening was spontaneous and exciting for me, made so partly by the childlike wonder I felt from standing under that same night sky in which the Angel appeared to the shepherds and from which shone the brilliant star that guided the Magi. We went from standing in Manger Square watching choirs perform, to eating delicious hummous and falafel in a little cave off the Square, to attempting to visit the Milk Grotto chapel (which ended up being closed, but this didn’t seem to dampen anyone’s spirits). As midnight drew closer, we decided to make a visit to the Shepherd’s Fields in Beit Sahour and headed down the hill away from Bethlehem. This first attempt was thwarted by a procession coming from the Shepherd’s Fields that was heading back up the hill. The torches, drums, and strumming of guitars proved to be too enticing, so we joined in for a while, walking along with them. Though we never quite figured out who this varied group of internationals actually were, they didn’t seem to mind our procession-crashing, and after deciding we didn’t want to go all the way back up the hill (trust me, those shepherds had a hike!) we said goodbye and left them to go on their way.

Once again we headed back down the hill in the direction of the Shepherd’s Fields, only this time we were stopped by a voice from above. Not an angel, no, but a little lady on a balcony, shouting, “Merry Christmas! Come up and drink tea with me! Please- I ask you from my heart! Come and drink tea with me.” And we did. At midnight on Christmas we experienced the joy of the hospitality of a total stranger and enjoyed tea with this very kind woman.

After saying thank you and goodbye to our Christmas angel, we headed once again towards the Shepherd’s Fields. Third time’s the charm, and this time we finally made it. Unlike Manger Square, the Fields were quiet and peaceful with few people milling around- the perfect place for us to stand together and hear the Christmas story read from the Gospels of Matthew and Luke.

It was now the early hours of Christmas morning as we walked through the silent streets of Beit Sahour, and I knew that this Christmas was solitary and unique from Christmases past and those yet to come. I pray that I can capture this memory and feeling in my heart and mind, and think of it each year as I hear those words read about Bethlehem, about the shepherds, about hope, and peace. And I pray that in some way you could also feel along with me the joy of Christmas in Bethlehem—of drums and pipes, flickering candles, tea with a stranger, and the vastness and wonder of the open night sky.

Merry Christmas and many blessings for the New Year!

Shutting Doors

What does it mean for a society when the kinds of people you are detaining and deporting are journalists and volunteers of the church? This is a BBC article about two people in the international community here that I know, respect, and care about.

Please pray for their safety, their peace of mind, and a positive conclusion to all of this. 

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/8458566.stm