For My Friends in Palestine

(this poem was edited March 9, 2022)

(Sorry for another edit. Will there be more? Possibly?)

I talked and spoke of Palestine
for eight long years now, no for nine. 

The times I spoke I felt as if you
couldn’t hear, or ’d chosen not to.

I explained down to the detail
how injustice on a deep scale

ruins hopes and dreams of those
who live a life they never chose.

I pointed out how it’s not right
when soldiers enter in the night

And take away the only sons
of mothers left with empty arms

or shoot a boy for throwing stones
or confiscate entire homes.

“They’re terrorists,” you contemplate
they somehow must deserve this fate.

But when the Russians’ inhumane
and vile invasion of Ukraine

is broadcast on the nightly news
with photographs and interviews,

you feel enraged, they went too far!
Someone needs to stop this war!

And you are right! They did! They do!
But might I ask one thing from you?

When you decide what’s right and wrong
and whether you should go along

with deeds at home or far away
or protest, march, and have your say

against injustice and oppression,
conflict, or discrimination,

whatever you decide to do
I  would humbly ask you to

implement those same guidelines
for my friends in Palestine.

Christian Pastors

There are Christian pastors we hear about who hoard money, live in mansions, drive fancy cars and even have private jets. They write books and have fancy quotes all over the internet. They photograph well and look trendy. They have mega churches and mega followers. Because we hear so much about them, sometimes we think they are normal but I’d like to tell you about a different kind of pastor. 

There are pastors who believe that they have been called to serve. Most of them never pastor a large church, though some may, but this type of pastor does not expect to become rich from a career. They answer the call out of love, not out of ego or a narcissistic desire to be elevated above others. They pour their lives out for other people. When they hear that your grandchild is having surgery in another city, they go to the airport to say a prayer and see the family off. They leave their family’s Christmas Day celebration and drive three hours home in an ice storm to sit with your grieving family whose mother died that morning. They go to the airport to welcome you home with your newly adopted children. They believe hungry children are more important than new carpet or the church parking lot. They do not abandon you when you are an addict, have had an abortion, are transgender, or question your faith. They may not be eloquent in speech, but they stand up for the vulnerable and speak out when others are silent, even if it means they stand alone. They make mistakes, sometimes big ones, but they never stop caring about others and never put themselves first. They take seriously the call from Jesus to take up their cross and follow his way even though they know very well the cost. And when retirement day comes, their hearts are tender and eyes filled with tears because this was not a job to them. These people are heroes and even though their families have had to make the sacrifice too, they look back with fondness because they know every sacrifice was worth the love that makes them more wealthy than any amount of money could.  

When you think about Christian pastors, don’t think about the first kind, and decide they are all the same. Think about this second kind, the ones who truly love you, no matter who you are, where you live, what religion you follow or don’t follow, or who you love. 

Am I A Liberal?

I’m neither Democrat nor Republican but I recently told someone I was a liberal. They asked me what I meant by that. It was a good question and one I needed to ask myself. So I did. And here are the things I came up with. 

1. I am for the rights of women. I am for all human rights for women, but especially the right to make choices for their own bodies. I don’t like the idea of abortion any more than anyone else, but hear what I have to say. I have never been in the position where I believed abortion was my only alternative. I’ve always had access to affordable birth control when I needed it. I’ve never been impregnated against my will. I’ve never had severe health issues that demanded I make this horrendous choice. I’ve never experienced the terrifying grip of addiction, myself. I’ve never been a victim of human trafficking, I’ve never been treated as if I am not a human being but merely a commodity, I’ve never found myself in a position where I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone another human being. But if I did come to one of these points in my life, I would want to have the right to make whatever decision I, with wise counsel, hopefully from at least one person who loved me, decided was best for my situation. I would not want that decision to be mandated to me by those to whom I am unknown, just a statistic. I remember in the 60s and 70s when women were dying because they were trying to self- perform abortions. Does anyone wonder what in the world could bring a person to this point? I wonder about it often. And my heart hurts. I knew that it was one reason why safe, legal abortions came about. I feel sad seeing things headed back in that direction. I believe with all my heart that this issue is more about control than it is about saving children. There are so many issues involving children that don’t receive the same amount of passion. The abortion issue ties directly to the following issues as well. The rich will always be able to buy these rights while the poor are denied them. If saving children were the issue then what about immigrant and refugee children? And if all women had access to good healthcare including birth control, the abortion rates would go down. So I feel strongly about abortion as an issue itself and because it is tied to other issues for which I feel equally strong. 
2. I have compassion for the poor. We have neighbors, my friends, who are not mentally capable of holding down jobs. We have neighbors who are suffering from debilitating mental illness and disorders that keep them from carrying on with life the way we do. We have neighbors who work one, two, three, and more jobs and still struggle to make ends meet. We have neighbors who need our help. There is not one thing wrong with public programs that use our tax dollars to help our neighbors in need. 
3. I have compassion for refugees and immigrants. I have been in a position in my life to come in close contact with refugees and immigrants. I have never been afraid or threatened by any of them. I have been overwhelmed by their generosity and their welcoming spirits. I have recognized the face of Jesus in them. They have been demonized by those in high places and have been harmed because of it. I do not believe in open borders but I believe a better system is possible, one that values human beings. 
4. I believe every human being deserves affordable health care.  I care for my neighbors. I want them to be healthy. I’m okay with my tax dollars going to help people get the care they need.
5. I believe all people have great value. I believe that black lives matter and I believe I need to say that specifically because many times they are not treated as if they matter. I believe if someone tells you that they are being hurt, you should never say, “no you’re not” or “you’re just taking it wrong.” I believe that you should be sorry that something you have participated in has hurt someone and you should try to find ways to make it right. I do not believe some people deserve more than others or better treatment than others. I believe this about people of all colors, of all socioeconomic levels and no matter who they love. I believe we should always listen more than we speak and love more than we condemn. I do not believe discrimination should be legislated nor should it be tolerated. I know that I have received some benefit from the suffering of others. I know that I have a lot to learn. I continue to strive to learn more and to treat people fairly and I believe strongly in speaking out when I see people being wronged. 
6. I do not support war. I am not okay with my tax dollars being used to commit mass murder or to conduct drone strikes. I am not okay with sending young American soldiers into harm’s way just to line the pockets of the already rich. I do not wish to sacrifice our youth for this purpose. I do not disparage our troops. They are young people mostly from the working class. I do disparage decisions made by the powerful who put those troops in danger. I very much disparage that. 
7. I believe we should beat our weapons into tools. We should build up rather than tear down. I don’t believe there are as many people who want to hurt me as some would like me to believe. I do not believe I, personally, need to own military grade weapons. I do not believe the answer to a bad guy with a gun is a good guy with a gun. Bad guys have a plan. Good guys are forced to react in the moment. I am not convinced that this has a good outcome very often. I do believe that the more weapons there are, the more people are killed by weapons. I believe in common sense gun laws, background checks, permits to carry, etc. I do not want to see the streets full of people with guns. 

I’m not sure if these beliefs and thoughts make me a liberal. I’ve had people tell me I have changed over the years. I feel that I have tried to educate myself and learn but I don’t think I have changed that much. These are basic beliefs I have held pretty much all of my life. I grew up believing these were Christian principles, things that Jesus taught. So if I am a liberal, I’m okay with that.

Losing My Voice

These words have been preceded
by a thousand blank pages
Deleted
in frustration
from a lack of articulation
on my part

I was muted.
Thrown off balance, my thoughts diluted

by chaotic waves of that movie score,
You know the one,
played in a minor key
Right before the felony?
Dissonance engulfing me, strangling me,
emphatically
muzzled me.

I was confused, things were different than they were before.
People supported what they say they abhor.
Because no matter how low and undignified
No matter what the behavior implied
It was never as offensive as the other side.

The other side… the enemy
Of all things decent and good
An imminent threat to our neighborhoods

But the other side
Is where
I stood

I am not the enemy. I am me
You’ve known me for an eternity
You’re my friends, my family

We went to sunday school, camp, and youth
We learned that Jesus spoke the truth

How all deserve equality
From women to the refugee
And everybody in between.
I have held to these beliefs
and i thought you agreed with me

But when the winds began to blow
I wasn’t sure which way it would go

I’ll never forget how I felt the day
I opened my social media page

Stunned that I was looking at
you
waving that flag and
wearing that hat.

I tried to keep my footing but the storm was much too strong
And I was thrown headlong
into the deep
Wind knocked out of me
Gasping and sputtering desperate pleas
Please.

I begged
for some direction.

What kind of vile, corrupt deception
silences
even
God?

But this silence is not tribulation. No.
This is just an indication
That it is time for me to rest.
It’s time for a vacation
To distance myself from the conversation
About what is happening in this world.

And when my time of meditation
Heals the fear and consternation

And I can stand on my feet again
I’ll rise and and lift my voice
And then

Despite the tears and scars and pain
And that so much in our lives has changed.

I won’t give up on equality
for women and the refugee
But I’ll continue following to the best of my ability

The Way of Jesus to the letter.
I won’t give up on us, my family, neighbors, and my friends
I’ll love you like I did back then
Wait, no, I’ll love you better.

Pandemic Ramblings on Good Friday

You might say I was born into Christianity. I used to think of religion as something you choose or don’t choose. But I can see now that most people are born into faith beliefs or non-beliefs due to the influences of our cultures, families, and communities. Of course one can choose to follow or not to follow the religion they are born into, at least in most parts of the world, and one could certainly claim a religion without practicing the elements of it. Anyway, today is Good Friday during a pandemic and I’m at home doing a lot of thinking.

I was raised in the Evangelical flavor of Christianity. We believed passionately that people receive salvation (from spiritual and physical death and eternity in hell) by accepting a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. It was very simple really, just repeat a prayer in which you admit you are a sinner in need of a savior and ask Jesus to live in your heart (and really mean it). I witnessed many debates about whether you could do something bad enough to lose this “fire insurance policy” of salvation and need to do it all again or you were good until death and just periodically need to adjust your behavior. This salvation experience brought with it the requirement to try to get others to say this prayer and really mean it (evangelism). Because if you truly believe that someone will burn forever in hell, you would be desperate to try to get everyone you know and love to avoid that awful fate.

I don’t want to belittle Evangelicals because some of the best people I know belong in this category. And it is possible that I have reduced it to a simple sarcastic paragraph and maybe I’m being unfair. But I am uncomfortable when people are reduced to numbers such as 12 people made a decision for Christ, 24 people were saved, or 8 people joined the church. This is how success seems to be measured, even in churches that don’t claim to be Evangelical. When Donald Trump became president of the U.S., Evangelical Christians rallied around him. They claimed he had “made a decision for Christ” and that he was a baby Christian, still learning, but he had repeated the prayer and so we should trust him to lead our country with the best interest of the people at heart.

When I think about how what we call “the Gospel” ( which means “good news”) is reduced to merely the repetition of a prayer and some type of numbers contest, I become saddened. What is this Good News? And if it is truly good news, it should be good news for everyone, right? Not just good news for some and terrible news for others. I believe the essence of the Gospel is love. It’s in John 3:16, for God so loved the world. The Gospel message is not “repent or burn,” it’s “Hear this good news, you are loved beyond measure!” Period. The end. You don’t have to accept this love to receive it. It’s just there, existing all around you. And as proof of this love, God gave himself for you. I don’t like to use the phrase, God sent his son. Before you start beating me with my own Bible, hear me out. The central idea of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is that God gave himself. When someone asks “where is God in all this mess?” The answer is, God is on the cross suffering beside us.

Once we realize that God has shown us the ultimate love which suffers alongside us, we are compelled to show our fellow humans the same kind of love. The Gospel does not reveal that God wants us to have an abundance of wealth and possessions or that God wants to give us ultimate success in business or politics. God does not give presents to the good or those who work the hardest. Many people work very hard and give of themselves for others but also live very simply. Repeating a prayer and hoping God will bless you materially is a formula for failure. All parents know there is a difference between good behavior in order to receive gifts and truly caring about others. When we realize we are valued, we begin to value others. We can’t pretend to value others in order to receive something for ourselves. Have you ever been disappointed in God when something bad happened? Why did my mother-in-law die at 56 years of age? She was dedicated to helping others. I struggled with this for years until I realized that God is not a vending machine handing out blessings and favors for those who serve others. We don’t love because we’ll get something for it. We love because we are loved. It isn’t a reason, it’s a result.

Jesus said we can recognize his disciples by their love and by the fruit that they bear, not whether or not they repeated a prayer after someone. And so, if James Dobson tells me that Donald Trump repeated the “sinner’s prayer” just before he was elected in 2016, I believe he did. But on this particular Good Friday, I find myself looking deeper than another number who repeated a prayer. And I’m afraid I’m coming up empty-handed.

Look Up!

If you had told me just a few years ago that in the summer of 2019 I would be planning our fifth trip to the Holy Land, I would have laughed at you. Life has a way of surprising us, doesn’t it?

We had an opportunity to go way back in 1985 when we were first married. Mike was in seminary and a trip was being planned for students. I said no. We really didn’t have the money but mostly I was afraid. So neither of us went at that time. Four churches and three children later, in 2012, we were offered a trip to the Holy Land. It was a gift. There would be no cost to us. Now, I don’t know about you but when someone presents an offer like that to me, I don’t take it lightly. How can you accept such a monumental gift? And how could you turn it down? We humbly accepted the gift not realizing how it would change our lives.

It seems odd to me now that I was so afraid of going there. I think it’s because we only know what we have seen and heard. What I had seen and heard about Israel/Palestine was war and bombs. There was so much I didn’t know. We fear the unknown, don’t we?

That is the reason why I try my best to get first-hand knowledge about issues. If I can’t see for myself then I try to talk with people or read people’s first-hand accounts. That is how I make decisions about issues. I don’t listen to the news. I ignore social media memes and I take breaks from Facebook fairly often. It’s good for my soul and relieves anxiety and then I can go back and share and love my people well.

I want to encourage people who are going on a trip to the Holy Land to enjoy the Holy sites, feel those deeply religious feelings about walking where Jesus walked and learning more about how he lived on this earth. But I also ask you to look up and around at the people living there today. Ask about their lives. Get to know them. Don’t just look at ancient stones but look at the living stones! Your trip will be much richer if you do. And this is true anywhere we travel, isn’t it? Even if you stay in your own country. There are beautiful places all over the world but don’t forget the beautiful people!
The following is a poem I wrote about this.

Look up.
Look up from Holy places.
For the sacred may surprise you.

Can you see them there, beyond the shadows of barriers, iron bars, razor wire?

Look up!

Seek and you shall find that they are not faceless and nameless.
Holiness personified, they live and breathe, hope and love.
They greet you with a kiss and warm embrace.

Knock and their door will open to you a brand-new world of understanding.

Not bystanders nor aesthetic scenery, but hearts beating out the rhythm of the land,
deeply rooted in exile.
Misrepresented.
Misunderstood.

Fragile hearts threatened from birth,
planted in struggle,
nurtured by identity,
girded with steadfastness,
wounded but unbroken,
the old die but the young do not forget,
and never lose hope.

These are your sisters and brothers.

In the name of all that’s holy,
Look up!

Tribute to a Friend

I took some time away from Facebook during Lent. It was a nice break, but I always miss interacting with people that I never see except in that space. While I was away, I tried to allow myself time to meditate, contemplate, and rejuvenate my heart and mind. It was a good break and I’m glad I took it. When I take time away from Facebook, it gives me the opportunity to evaluate and I seem to be able to look at things differently. I have to resist the urge to share my thoughts and feelings about events right at the moment. I have time to think, feel, and truly experience passing through the event without expressing my feelings about it immediately and openly to everyone I know. Even though I love interacting on Facebook, I really appreciate time away from it.

I did experience a significant event while away from Facebook this time. I lost a friend. He became sick, couldn’t recover and passed away. I didn’t see him in person very often, but we interacted on Facebook frequently. And we almost always disagreed. Our last conversation on Facebook went on most of one whole day. It left me sad and exhausted. But through all of it, we always made sure to let each other know that we loved and respected each other. That means the world to me now. And even though we disagreed about almost everything, there were things we had in common. We both loved sunsets and once in a while we would tag each other in our photos of them, there are many happy memories of our youth,  and we both love and treasure many of the same people.

Because of some family issues, I wasn’t able to attend Mike’s memorial service. But here are a couple of memories of Mike that come to my mind: First, I met Mike because of a practical joke. I was maybe 16 or 17 and living in Kansas City with my parents. I listened to the radio constantly. A certain radio station in KC, WHB I think, used to call random people and if you answered the phone by saying “WHB plays the best music!” you would win a prize. So one day our phone rang and I answered it, “hello.” A deep, male voice told me if I had said the right words I would have won a prize! I don’t remember my exact words, but it was some sort of disappointed surprise. I found out later that it wasn’t the station who called, but the voice was Mike’s. Some mutual friends had put him up to calling several of us from our church because we didn’t know him and wouldn’t recognize his voice. They had recorded all our responses. After I got to know him, I learned that this was typical of his personality. He loved to joke around and make people laugh. I’ll always remember his imitations of Robin Williams as Mork from Ork. He was so funny. Another vivid memory I have of Mike happened at a youth Bible study. I was wearing a sweater that had a small slit at the neckline which was tied together by a ribbon. We were sitting on the floor in a circle, Mike was across from me. He flipped his pencil up in the air and it came toward me and took a perfect nose-dive right into that slit and down into my sweater. Everyone laughed and I was so embarrassed but also impressed with the accuracy of that pencil! Those youth group Bible studies were great and even back then we did quite a bit of debating back and forth.

I can’t write this without choking up because it’s still so hard for me to believe that Mike has left us and I’m definitely going to feel his absence even though I didn’t see him very often. If you participate in social media, I’d like to ask you to consider your words when disagreeing with someone. I know we all get stuck sometimes, not knowing when it’s time to speak up or be silent. And I’m not asking you to be silent about your convictions, I don’t intend to do that either, but I do ask you to measure your speech and comments, not only what you say directly to others, but also things that you share. I know that I sure am going to try to be more careful and more sensitive and I’m sure going to miss my old friend chiming in with his opinion.

Trump Rally

My plan for this morning was to be writing a blog about my experience at the Trump rally last night. I didn’t actually get into the rally, but here is a description of my experience trying. I had decided to go just a day or so before. When I heard he was coming to town my first inclination was to either protest or be far, far away. To be honest, I couldn’t bring myself to join the protesters, not that I don’t vehemently oppose most of this administration’s policies and this president’s way of communicating and almost everything about his behavior. I’m also not comfortable with protests that name-call and take potshots at the way people look. During the eight Obama years, I observed so much hate-filled rhetoric, (I don’t agree with everything from his administration either, by the way) name-calling, ugly memes, insults,  I just knew I didn’t want to do that.

 

So being far, far away seemed like the best choice. But then I began to think about a rule that I try to live by: get first-hand information when possible. Since I am a citizen of this country and so many of my friends seem to support this presidency, I decided that I needed to see with my own eyes and hear with my own ears.

My friends didn’t want me to go alone, so our good friend, Bob, agreed to go with me. I had no idea what to expect about waiting in line. I knew it would take time to get in considering the heightened security a rally with the president would require. The rally start time was 6:30 so we decided to arrive at 5:00. My husband was our driver and dropped us off because we didn’t want to waste time looking for parking. He got us as close as possible and we walked the rest of the way. We made our way toward the arena and happened to be near the street where the presidential motorcade came by.  I’m not going to say it wasn’t exciting, it was.  Law officers of all sorts, state troopers,  Springfield city police, county and even police from other towns were stationed about, performing their duties. The motorcade included a group of police motorcycles, various military and government-looking vehicles, the long, black limousine which everyone believed was carrying the president himself, and an assortment of emergency vehicles with flashing lights.

The crowd was large. A jumbotron provided Donald Trump’s website address and promised to be a source of “real news.” We began searching for the end of the line. We could see people standing in what seemed to be several lines but the end wasn’t in sight. We finally realized that the multiple lines were actually the same line which was snaking around the buildings and streets of MSU campus. As I looked at all those people in red maga hats, red clothing, I’m not gonna lie, my heart ached.

I felt like an infiltrator. I saw someone I knew and they said, “What are YOU doing here?” But these were not my enemies. They were friends. It was a lovely crowd of people, respectful and kind. They were Springfield neighbors and folks from small towns. They work at Modot and sell real estate. They sit next to you in church. They dress their children in red, white, and blue tutus and take videos of them dancing. They are mild-mannered, that is until a protester walks by. They can get fired up, and that’s when I felt a bit uneasy. I began to imagine my eulogy, “trampled to death at a Trump rally.”

Okay, so so I can get overdramatic.

The truth is, Bob and I spent nearly 3 hours with these neighbors, never making it to our destination. Despite the humidity and the actual reason these people were all gathered, at times the journey seemed almost pleasant. By the time we got near the door, it was nearly 8:00 and the rally was winding down. We did hear a little bit of Donald Trump’s speech over a loudspeaker. I don’t know why it wasn’t live-streamed on that jumbotron. It was just as well, though, because even though the crowd of Trump supporters seemed to be good, honest, well-behaved people, what I heard from that speaker was ugly, hateful, dishonest, half-truthed and ill-behaved and I still grieve for my country.

Home

I’ve never owned a house or land. My parents owned a home when I was a small child, but for most of my life, I’ve lived in parsonages or rental homes. “Home” for me means something different than for my husband, who spent most of his childhood years on a family farm.

In the past, I have dreamed of owning a home. In my dream, I would have dogwood and redbud trees, and a lilac bush in my yard. I’ve lamented my lack of home ownership, but I have appreciated the freedom that comes without it. My husband and I agree that it doesn’t seem practical to think about buying a home now that we are close to retirement age. We do realize, however, that it makes for uncertain future.  

I’ve been reflecting a lot lately about what it means to be “home.” We are currently living in a nice little duplex. Someone (we assume the owner) recently planted a redbud tree in the backyard. I received this blessing with much gratitude and glee. I saw it as a little gift from heaven. But as I look back, I guess it wasn’t really done for my pleasure. Nevertheless, I found happiness in it.

Last week we returned from a trip to Bethlehem to pick up our mail and find a notice from our landlord. The owner of our duplex is planning to sell it and we are required to move out by June 30. The day we picked up our mail was June 11. The news rattled me. I began to panic and to lament because I love our duplex, I just moved last summer and this is not enough time! The first couple of houses we viewed had me in tears, I always think I can be like the Apostle Paul, content in any circumstance, but when it comes down to it, I’m much weaker than I like to admit.

We were happy to find a place only three houses down the street with the same basic layout as the one we live in now. As I think about our home, moving, and how much this is going to stress me, I can’t help but think about the 65 million displaced persons in the world. As stressful as this seems to me, I can’t imagine the feeling of leaving everything familiar behind and fleeing for your life, knowing that there are not many places that will welcome you. What would home mean then?

And I think of my beloved Palestinian friends. We spent time with one family who lives as refugees as a result of their parents and grandparents displacement from their homes. This family is being forced to move from their home in a refugee camp and rent an expensive apartment in a particular area so the mother can keep her specific type of ID. Otherwise, her ID will be revoked. What does home mean to them?

World Refugee Day was just a few days ago. Families are being separated at our borders even as our government pulls out of the UN Human Rights Council. The US President relented to pressure and signed an executive order to prevent further separation of families, which was the result of his own zero-tolerance policy. Of course, that one act does not solve the horrific problem. By horrific problem, I don’t mean our country’s problem of an influx of immigrants. I mean the horrific problem that there exist 65 million displaced persons in the world. It seems to me that if most Americans would forfeit just a tiny bit of our own comfort, we could make room for those who need shelter. Couldn’t we, though? How would that change our idea of home?

All of these thoughts have led me to despair. I can find the strength to overcome my own slight discomfort. However, I am having every difficulty not feeling anguish for the world. I find myself relating to Ecclesiastes, “Whatever is crooked cannot be straightened.”  It seems most governments, especially my own, view immigrants as a threat and have stoked so much fear that there isn’t any compassion left. Do those 65 million people include some dangerous people? Of course, as does any group of 65 million people in the world. Are some immigrants criminals? Of course, as are some of our neighbors. Would I invite my duplex neighbor into my house while my husband is gone? No. But I also would not try to prevent him from living there just because he might possibly be a criminal.

My faith has been severely tested this year. Many times I have decided to throw it all away. I can’t align myself with the new policies of my government and I can’t understand why so many of my loved ones are able, not only to support it, but also to call it Christian. If it is Christianity to discriminate, to disrespect, to bully, to deny basic human rights of the most vulnerable among us, to consider my own wellbeing as more important than the hurting and oppressed, to consider the letter of the law above the humanity of our brothers and sisters, if that is what Christianity has become, then it is not for me. But I know this is just a cheap imitation, ugly tarnished brass, with hardly a resemblance of the genuine humility of unconditional love. The true, beautiful Gospel of Jesus doesn’t look anything like this.

The Way of Jesus is living and loving regardless of the political climate. As chaos swirls around it, this way gets up every day and reaches out, bestowing the Kingdom of Heaven on the poor in spirit, comforting those who mourn, declaring that the entire earth belongs to the meek, quenching those who thirst for righteousness, showing mercy to the merciful, showing God’s face to the pure in heart, and blessing the peacemakers. This is the way of Jesus, and this, my friends, is home to me.   

Sadness

Tuesday, May 15

All morning yesterday I tried to find words, any words. I have been reading the news headlines, the blogs, the Facebook posts. I have been sorting through my feelings of sadness and sorrow. Our current president and I agree on almost nothing. Although I am free to voice my disagreement, it seems worthless. My words seem to dissipate into the wind, evaporating into nothing.

The free and elite dance and toast while the oppressed offer their objection to having everything taken from them, even to their very deaths, picked off the earth like ripe olives falling to the ground. Nothing, they are nothing. How dare they object to what God has ordained? God has ordained their suffering, say some. Signs read “kill them all.” Some (not all, for sure) of the very ones whose grandparents endured unspeakable atrocities are blind to the suffering of others and are willing to snuff them out like a candle at dusk.

Unfortunately, the news media only provides a very small slice of the entire situation on the ground. When I watch the news and see Israeli and American politicians, I think of Israelis and Jews around the world who do not agree with this. When I see the young Palestinians hurling stones and burning tires, I think of my dear friends who greet me with a kiss and only want to live their lives in freedom and without fear. And I want to introduce all Americans to these precious ones who suffer because of the decisions of the rich and powerful, and sometimes it feels like almost everyone agrees that it is okay that they suffer, that they somehow deserve it. They must be terrorists. They must be intrinsically evil. And yet, those same people claim their rights to own weapons of war because they would fight to the death to protect their own homes, property, and families.

The following is a Facebook post from my friend, Mercy, who is currently living in Bethlehem, and has given me permission to share:

“I write this to the sound of tear gas and ambulances outside my window. Bethlehem is all closed due to a general day of mourning as our Palestinian friends commemorate the deaths in Gaza yesterday and the 70th anniversary of the “Nakba” (the tragedy) today. This anniversary just “happens” to coincide with the opening of the US embassy in Jerusalem, which is bitter salt in an open and bleeding wound that is less resolved and more precarious today than it was yesterday.

70 years ago, over 400 Palestinian villages—Muslim and Christian—were ethnically cleansed and destroyed, some 750,000 inhabitants forced out or fleeing for their lives in fear after several villages had been massacred by Jewish militias. Today these villages are mostly erased from memory, planted over with trees or rebuilt as Jewish towns with quaint and expensive “old homes” whose former owners “mysteriously disappeared.”

Many of the people who fled are now exiled from the land of their birth and not allowed to return home — essentially because they are the wrong ethnicity. They live scattered around the world but they have never lost their longing for the home of their parents or grandparents.

Others were moved off into refugee camps that have become new versions of the “reservations” that my forefathers put the first nations people into, only some of these are surrounded completely by walls. 70% of Gaza, for example, is refugees and their descendants. The reservation/ghetto that they have been locked into is jailed from the outside.

Although the hope of early Zionists was that the Palestinians would eventually forget and move on, the opposite has occurred. Palestinians are as tenaciously and fervently connected to living in this land and its holy places as Jews were for 2,000 years in diaspora. Will we have to wait 70 more years and countless more lives taken before this bleeding wound is healed and resolved in a righteous way? “The old will die and the young will forget” was the Zionist idea of how Palestinians would process the Nakba, but here we are 70 years later and that adage has decidedly not come true.

Friends of Israel, friends of Palestine, I beg you to commit to the principle of equality and justice for all under the same law in this land. Work out your conclusions from that starting point, but not before that. If we don’t, I can guarantee that war will continue here. Where there is no justice, there is no peace. That’s an irrefutable law of nature and history.

Unfortunately, Western Christians have not helped this situation as a whole, but rather enabled the dysfunction here, thinking that they were fulfilling biblical prophecy. I beg you to rethink your eschatology if you are of the persuasion that perpetual war is the prophesied future of this land and nothing can be done to stop it.

Most of all, please pray for everyone here in this land, whether Muslim, Christian, or Jew. I love the people here so much I feel I would tear out my own heart for them, any of them. And my time here has convinced me that their prosperity and peace is tied up with each other and not apart from one another. If you love them too, or even just “some” of them, know that you can only help some if you are willing to love and work for the equality of ALL. (And of course that lesson is not just here in this land but also true across this tiny planet).”