Cradle to the grave- One last cup of coffee

        I returned to the states yesterday morning. Our flight boarded in the very early hours when most of Israel and Palestine were in a deep sleep. I valued my last few hours of reading on the plane. I knew upon my return home I would face screaming children and minimal time to complete my required assignment for my multi cultural credit. I could not help but smile thinking about seeing my family waiting for me at the gate in Richmond, however.

I loved my time in Israel and Palestine. It opened my eyes to the culture and politics. It also opened my eyes to the stories I read that guide my faith and life. It made me think about who we are, what we do, and the bonds we share or often choose to deny. It also crushed many of my preconceived notions of what I knew about the world. 

This may be a two pronged assessment to some but it is an interesting perspective. People are people everywhere you go. I was fascinated by the offensive and abrasive manners of the most religious members of the communities I encountered in Israel and Palestine. It would seem that the most religious should be the most compassionate and polite. It was quite the opposite. It appeared the most devout and orthodox were truly the first to cast an offensive look or gesture, cut lines, even snatch food out of your hands (no, this is not an exaggeration). The politics in the region may be less centered in religious intolerance and perhaps most centered in the inability to act as people of God. Worship is a wonderful thing but practice is certainly key in any religion. It isn’t a mechanical practice but an action we take in life. The most compassionate and loving people I encountered were the most authentic. They were not always the best dressed (sometimes they were), they were not always the most pious, they were not even the ones that had the best manners, but they were authentic in their acts of kindness. 

My last night I asked our driver about coffee while we were having our last meal. Our driver was a Palestinian Muslim, who loves Elvis Presley. He was my favorite person I met there. We met authors, scholars, priests, community leaders, etc but our bus driver expressed everything I needed to know about my trip in his actions throughout. I pray I can see him again someday. During our last meal I asked him how to brew the coffee I had purchased to bring home (their coffee is VERY different from ours). He asked me what kind of coffee it was, Jewish or Arabic? I told him arabic and he explained the difference. After his explanation of the difference he gave me his slant on why arabic coffee is brewed in the manner he described. Now, much of what he told me I already knew of desert bedouin culture but he told it in a far more beautiful way than I had ever heard. He said that Arabs brew coffee by pouring the finely ground substance into a boiling pot of water. They then boil the coffee for 10 minutes and pour it into a small glass (like a juice glass) not a large mug like we do in the states. He then informed me it is only to be shared after meals. He then explained its health benefits which I wont go into detail over since they involve the finer points of digestion. 

The beauty of his explanation was in how this method of brewing coffee came to pass. He said that the English came into Palestine (not always the warmest relationship either, they are the first to assist in establishing Zionism in Palestine) and when they were invited into Palestinian homes the Palestinians wanted to make them feel welcome. He claims they knew the English loved tea and he said that the Palestinians wanted to share their coffee with the English. They began to brew their coffee as most English brew tea but with the grounds in the water. The result is a very strong and sweet cup of coffee. It is a potent concoction. In his explanation he described why it was so important to make others feel welcome. He explained that Arabs come from a bedouin people who required the mercy of others to survive. He said this was a proud history (all of which I knew). Then he explained that when someone is welcomed into your home, all that you have is theirs. He claimed that while it is rude to not accept everything that is offered it is of equal concern if the host does not offer items that are pleasing to one’s guest. It was for this reason that they attempted to brew coffee that they believed the English would enjoy. He told me that if I came to his house that the only desire he would have would be to ensure that I was pleased with everything I had received. He then smiled and told me that this was why he loves driving his bus and showing us his homeland. 

As we departed Jaffa (same port city Jonah left to go to Nineveh, ironically, modern day Mosul, Iraq) after a short tour of the old city and shoreline as well as dinner we passed through a checkpoint. The checkpoint was guarded by Israeli police who asked our driver to pull over. With the airport in sight a heated argument ensued between our driver and the police. All of my fellow travelers and I were confused and concerned. We had never seen him so upset. He was given a sheet of paper I would assume was a ticket as he stormed back onto the bus. Upon reaching the airport I attempted to assist him in unloading all of our bags. We all felt rushed and I felt cheated. More then ever I wanted to thank him for all he had done and for his gracious effort as our host. I approached him as I passed him next to the door of the bus. I told him I hope I can bring my wife with me the next time. I told him if I did I wanted to take him to lunch. I told him I wish he and his family all the blessings in the world and that I was thankful to have made a new friend. He was still angry and very upset (more than I could imagine him being). He shook my hand and as I retracted it I put my hand to my chest, bowed my head, and said Salām as I had done so many times in Iraq. He gave me a half smile for my effort in the midst of his anger and then gave me a hug. He looked at me and told me to please come back. He then returned to his angry and upset mood. 

It took me the plane ride home to figure out why that felt so empty. In the middle east you don’t hear a lot about thank you cards or other ways of saying thank you. I remembered my Hebrew Professor discussing this issue. He said there isn’t really a word for thank you because the closest thing would be “good job doing what you are supposed to do”. There is no need to show thanks because kindness and hospitality are the expectation in Bedouin cultures. Thank you is therefore a foreign sentiment. The whole thing made me sad. I realized why my time in Iraq was difficult (not finding fault or being political). Almost every time we entered a home we were offered tea and extended every courtesy. Yes there were exceptions but there were exceptions in Israel as well. We would alway respond to these acts of hospitality by searching for weapons, sometimes damaging property and belongings. Now, I am proud of my service and I was the member of a two man search team (we were the ones who always fulfilled this task). One of my best friends and I searched homes and we did it with as much courtesy as we could muster. We even had a few Iraqi’s who acted as if they liked us more when we left then when we initially came into their home. But there were times we had no choice but to break doors, cabinets, and other belongings or structures. I realized that gratitude is displayed in the act of fellowship with the host, enjoying the moment with the one hosting. We never enjoyed the moment with our host, we would just search.

I get a lot of criticism for it in seminary, but I am not a pacifist. I don’t think I ever will be. I believe we all (Abrahamic monotheistic faiths) practice a religion of peace, love, and justice. How those measures are achieved is not always through pacifism. I do believe that we must learn to offer hospitality more often, however. Thank you needs to become a word foreign in everyone’s vernacular. Not foreign because we lack gratitude but foreign because we take joy in the act of hospitality together. War, hate, anger, and violence are unavoidable that is the nature of original sin.  But just if we would spend a little more time offering our hospitality over a glass of wine, bread, or even a good cup of coffee maybe then we would have a little less. 

سلام  ,שָׁלוֹם ,Peace

Cradle to the grave - Servers needed

Because of my time in Iraq my sense of call has always been focused on military chaplaincy. I won’t rehash my call story because it is lengthy, complicated, and many of you may have already heard it before. The readers digest version is that I had a great Chaplain who came to me in a time of need. After months of combat operations, he came to me during a tense mission and shared the Eucharist with my platoon and I at great risk to himself. It was a time of violent, not sure I am gonna come out of this okay kind of need. I did come out okay and I give credit to chaps, not because he did anything magical but that in his sharing of the sacrament it gave me the focus and certainty to do my job. I wasn’t scared to die, not because I was brave but because I knew I was loved. That experience made me reconsider my childhood vow (the one many boys make) to not do what Dad did for a living or vocation. I knew I was called to chaplaincy. 

Yesterday I mulled over that call while talking with my kids on Skype. I love my children, all of them. They are by far the most precious gifts in my life. I love teasing them, wrestling with them, and laughing with them. I remember on my daughter’s birthday this past year she contracted a stomach virus. As most families can attest to, those bugs go through a household like wildfire.  She awoke in the middle of the night after making a mess (no details necessary). In the wee hours of the morning I gave her a hot bath, stripped the bed, remade the bed, grabbed my iPad (so she could watch cartoons), remade the bed, and then we laid in bed together. I was awoken sporadically as she became nauseated throughout the night and she would snuggle tightly watching cartoons on a loop. I knew I would also be sick shortly. My wife (pregnant at the time), my youngest daughter, and even my father-in-law (who was gracious enough to help us at this time) all fell ill shortly after. Looking back on that night when this miserable stomach bug struck our family, however, may be one of the most wonderful memories I have of my oldest to date. It was wonderful because she needed me and my love for her was precious to her. My love may have been as precious to her in her time of need as she is to me when she smiles at me everyday. My heart ached for her suffering but the solace she took in my caring felt like a true expression and understanding of the extent of my love for her. 

I preface my explanation with that story because it helped me understand how deeply I love my daughter at 3 am on what should be the worst of days. I do not believe my love for my child exceeds that of any other parent, but I am certain many other parents can understand and share a comparable story. This trip to Israel is the longest time as well as distance I have been from my children. Last night I went to the lobby to talk with my wife, mother-in-law, and my daughters (my son of course, cannot communicate yet). For the past few nights my youngest gets frustrated and upset as she kisses and hugs the screen of my wife’s device. At one point she even looked behind it. She almost seems angry with the mirage of a physical presence through modern technology. She almost seems angry with me for not being there. My oldest went to school yesterday and cried when my wife left her. This was a shocking surprise to me because my wife and I jest that she has always been the queen of the hive at school. She loves school, she loves her friends, she loves her teachers, and she seldom gives us so much as a second glance when we drop her off, much less a hug. Yesterday she cried, however, and when she cried and her teachers attempted to console her she told them she missed Daddy. My wife told me about it and then my daughter confessed that she had indeed cried at school over my absence. It has been a tough almost two weeks for them and I will admit, I do miss my family. 

At these times Jesus seems a bit insensitive. Calling disciples to cast aside their possessions is okay but family? Call me a bit of a pansy but after almost two weeks I really miss my family. When I served overseas I didn’t have children yet and although we were dating, my wife and I were not married. Now things are a little more difficult. On top of it all, the majority of the disciples, whose occupations we know of, were fishermen. Big whoop! What are they giving up?! I gave up 9 years in the same vocation with a mortgage and a family! I followed a sense of call in a ministry that could take me away from home and into harms way, again! I gave up a sense of security for a sense of uncertainty, dependent on the approval of a committee and the hopes I will enter back into the military without delay or error! What’d Peter give up?! Fishy smelling hands!?

I think it’s how we all read the story. Bunch of dirt bag fishermen hanging out with Jesus call in sick the next morning and then they duck out of town to hang out with the unclean (prostitutes, gentiles, tax collectors, etc) folk. They get a chance to hang out with a guy who won't even let a wedding run dry (in reference to a previous post; I like to picture a Jesus who is formal but likes to party). Sounds more like a cool hangout than a devoted following and calling. 

Yesterday and today I got a chance to see what these guys gave up. The sea of Galilee and the surrounding towns are beautiful and the ruins attest to the successful business of the region. These guys weren't pulling on coveralls and dropping crab pots (I’m not knocking modern fishermen, that work is tough) these guys were running the business. I have no idea what Peter’s work ethic was but he had two homes, one at Capernaum and one at Bethsaida. Even the ruins appear comfortable if not slightly lavish for that day and age (I am just judging by the outline of the foundations ruins). The home in Capernaum was most likely a home shared with family and perhaps a center for business and trade. These “fisherman” did have their own fleet of vessels and a payroll for their workers. So they in fact gave up quite a great deal. Successful business, homes, family, and a livelihood that they not only knew but was probably passed down to them. But they gave up even more than that, Jesus predicts they will give their own lives. As the story goes Peter does just that, before being hung on an upside down cross his own home at Capernaum becomes a church, one of the first if not the first. 

It made me feel better, in fact it made me feel like I knew perfectly what I was doing. After going for a boat ride on the beautiful sea of Galilee, snapping shots at a countryside that I could only imagine is comparable to Ireland, I not only knew what they gave up but I realized a little piece of what made them who they were. Jesus selected followers who had seen beauty, lived from the land, were bonded to the sea and the soil. Jesus selected these men, snatching them up from their vocations, their land, and their families because they knew what was at stake. The people were hungry and needed to be fed. If Christ was that food someone would need to serve. The people are still hungry, now I just pray God can help me learn how to describe the smell, the taste, and the satisfaction when we receive the bread given for us. The smell, the taste, and the satisfaction of my time in beautiful Galilee has been an 

incredible place to begin. 

      Peace, Shalom, and Salām-

Cradle to the grave -More than an action hero

These past few days were amazing, especially for a history buff, a veteran, and an outdoorsman. I had the opportunity to hike, explore military history and tactics, and the photo ops were spectacular. The Professor leading our trip told my fellow hiker and I that we had tackled a trail that only two others he has led into the Holy Land had tackled. It was less of a footpath and more of a climbing ascent. We looked back on the mountain and were so proud of ourselves! I even found a piece of pottery (not sure if it was Byzantine, Roman, etc but it was definitely a great find!) at the summit. We hiked the goat paths where David hid from Saul and it was amazing to think about the evasive tactics and guerrilla warfare in which the two engaged. The story came alive for me! David was like an action movie star, yippy ki yay, Saul! I couldn’t wait to blog about it!

Then today we started out our day at Qumran, the location of the caves where the Dead Sea scrolls were located. We discussed the apocalyptic texts. The anticipation of the people of Qumran (the Essene) in awaiting on a savior to lead the children of light against the children of darkness. Awaiting a leader to defeat evil and the Roman empire. After visiting the goat paths in which David led a small devoted army I realized why they too envisioned the same action movie star I did, except they were awaiting the return of this figure. 

After visiting Qumran we entered a strictly controlled checkpoint guarded by Israeli soldiers which led to the Israeli/Jordanian border. It was the Jordan river, specifically the  Byzantine site, which the Byzantine believed was the site of Jesus’ baptism. Like many things here, there is a great deal of disagreement and little certainty regarding the baptismal site of Jesus Christ. One thing can be said for certain, it is the same river. Another thing that can be said for certain is the river is disgusting. 

Now, as I have said previously, I have been to the middle east before. One irritating memory of mine was the flies. After my tour in Iraq I despised flies. Since I have been here, the flies have been very tame if not completely absent. Upon leaving the airtight sanctity of our air conditioned tour bus we exited into, not a swarm, but certainly a small posse of flies. They flew around our faces, crawled on our necks, and attacked our eyes. We passed by the gift shop that was selling tourists magnets and postcards and I noticed that most tourists were exiting the shop with oversized t shirts and flip flops. These oversized t shirts had an artistic vision of Jesus being baptized by John the baptist with two angels at his side. The listed price was eight dollars (they were even courteous enough to list the price in dollars as opposed to shekels which hints at their largest customer base for baptizing and re-baptizing) and it appeared to be the most popular item in the area. 

As we walked down to the Jordan we noticed more flies. At the top of the stairs we looked below and saw a small creek with concrete steps leading into the water. The “river” was surrounded by reeds, grass, and palm like plants. There was a priest below instructing those seeking baptisms the appropriate procedure. He instructed one young girl the proper procedure as she attempted to leave the river and she promptly reentered to ensure she got it right this time. After plunging into the water three times she gasped for air and turned to face him as he responded with a smile and a thumbs up. I watched as person after person walked into the water. 

As I observed each individual enter the water I was thankful that I was Lutheran. As Lutherans we believe in one baptism and despite the significance of this location I certainly did not want to get in that river. The water was disgusting. It looked like the chocolate river in Willy Wonka’s factory. It was abhorrent and disgusting. The flies seemed as attracted to it as those seeking baptism. We took part in a short affirmation of our baptism. When asked whether we believed in Jesus Christ we recited the apostles creed from memory, “I believe in Jesus Christ, God’s only Son our Lord..”. As I recited the words I looked down on the filthy water as I swatted away another fly. I looked across the water which was roped off 1/4 of the way into the water by a black rope/fence clearly marking the Israeli/Jordanian border. The whole situation was similar to my experience at some of the other sites. It felt commercialized and a little unclean

What was unlike the other sites is that this site should be unclean. There was a significant power in the sight of such an unclean place. The construction (which was fairly new) was nice but the water was repulsive and I envisioned God in flesh being baptized in a place not far from Massada (Herod’s luxurious fortress palace) with its luxurious baths. It wasn’t far from Qumran where the Essenes were taking ritual baths at least twice daily to remain pure. This place, however, is where Jesus Christ waded into water contaminated with filth. It was certainly just as muddy and unsanitary then as it is now. Certainly, based on our knowledge of John the baptist others had been baptized before Jesus. Whether it be water contaminated with filth of this earth or the filth of our lives, this is where God of our flesh comes to be baptized. 

As I mulled this over in my head I remembered the story and I considered the words “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased” (Matt. 3:17). I always wondered about these words when I read Matthew. In all the synoptic gospels this is one of the first events leading to Jesus’ ministry. He hadn’t really done anything yet. It is the first event, so as far as the story goes I always wondered, just what has he done to make God so proud at this point? Well, one look at the water and the surrounding luxury of the land and I realized. Israel was certainly an extravagant place. Roman extravagance was a prevalent sight amongst the privileged of that time and place. Yet here in this filth Jesus selects John to baptize him. It is so shocking that John is hesitant to perform the task. 

When we completed our short service I took a water bottle and plunged it deep into the water in hopes of capturing not only the water but it’s mud, silt, and filth. I was moved as I pulled the bottle out and held it up to the sun. It was disgusting. A fellow seminarian observed, “Your pretty happy with that filthy water aren’t you?” as I smiled. I assured him I was because it assured me of why I find hope in Christ. Jesus, God made flesh, comes to us and wades  into the filth of not only our human existence but our lives in spite of not only his superiority but our inferiority. He wades into our filth, surround by flies, intolerance, mud, hate, stench, and fear. He wades into my filth, not because he has to but because he chose to, in spite of it all. He isn’t the movie action star we wanted he was the Savior the world needed.

Salām, Peace, and Shalom  -

Cradle to the grave - Into the wilderness!

It’s the seventh day of this journey and today we went out into the wilderness. In fact it was the very same wilderness the Israelites wandered before coming to the promised land. The parallels between the Israelites and this tour group were interesting. A 6 am start time in the lobby was my first hint. Groggy, no coffee (I brought my trusty beaten up water bottle, super sized with coffee of course), and obviously very little sleep. We were handed boxed breakfasts and then we were informed it would be a tight squeeze into the jeeps our guides would use to transport us to one of the 26 sites proposed to be Mount Sinai. The mountain, Har Karkom, may or may not be the site of Mount Sinai but it is certainly the very same conditions if not the same area the Israelites wandered. Much like the Israelites our true colors were starting to show.

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Any time a group of strangers come together for an extended period of time it takes a few days to see true colors shine through. When it is a religious group you can usually add a day or two. As we wandered into the desert weaving between mountains and through rocky wadis I began to see how the Israelites turned on each other. The natural beauty of this desert was amazing. I had the opportunity to see and touch the plants from specific texts. I suddenly found I was the biblical botanical nerd of the group (never in a million years saw that coming). Despite the beauty of the place it was a tight squeeze in the Land Rovers the guides used and the terrain was very rough. Motion sickness, jabbing elbows, disrupted digestive tracts (middle eastern food is still taking it’s toll on some of us), and all around agitation was growing ever more prevalent. Upon reaching the mountain the varying levels of physical abilities became apparent as well. One group (I will admit, I was one of them) wanted to go ahead and split into two groups. We were gazing up at the peak of the mountain, anxious to reach it’s peak. The other group just wanted to have the opportunity to see this place and it’s history without feeling ostracized by the others. One group was concerned about themselves and the other group just wanted to have an opportunity to be apart of the experience. I grew as impatient as anyone. I have always loved the outdoors, hiking and backpacking, now I had the opportunity to hike in the land of the nomadic Israelites! I was anxious, excited, and uncaring about anyone else’s needs or feelings. We were all agitated and agitating each other. We still laughed and joked but we were beginning to pull away from each other. 

Now in defense of our situation, many of the seminarians did not come here to serve as tour chaplains. Many of us are here for not only the experience but we are taking this trip as a required credit for seminary. Many of us can hardly afford this trip and we want the most bang for our buck! The problem is if that bang for the buck is at someone else’s expense. Many of us (including myself) were beginning to lose sight of not only why we were there but truly WHY we were there. We weren't tour chaplains, but we are training for a life of ministry. Whether we are officially ordained or not it is important that we recognize that our (everyone’s) ministry doesn’t require ordination, it requires devotion. The same kind of devotion asked of the Israelites. Upon our return to our hotel (after another long and agitating ride back, roughly 3 hours out and 3 hours back) my roommate and I discussed the agitation in the group. We both laughed it off and observed an interesting fact, the Israelites spent 40 years we only spent 11 hours!

It is in the wilderness we are most often tested. In our testing that is when we most often find our faith. In our testing however, our worst characteristics come out in us. As we began to make our way up the mountain a new friend I have made from another seminary shouted jestingly  to the group that decided to stay behind “Don’t make any golden calf’s while we’re gone!” Of course we all found it humorous but today I realized we are all carrying our golden calf with us. Our own wants and desires come out all too often at the expense of others. It is all too often that our golden calf comes out in us when we are all together in the wilderness. 

Now, today was not really a wilderness journey as the Israelites experienced. When I reviewed the travels of the Israelites in Exodus (on our off road drive through the desert) I realized that the Israelite Land Rovers were only equipped with acacia wood seats and no four wheel drive. Their picnics, while certainly containing the same bologna sandwiches, hummus and olives we had, must have certainly lacked the chocolate chip cookie desert. No,they suffered at the hands of thirst, hunger, hostile groups, hostile animals, anything that you can associate with the dangers of wilderness in that time. As a result they turned, they turned on Moses, they turned on each other, they turned on YHWH. 

I have always loved the wilderness but this wilderness is not one the Israelites went and visited for a weekend. This was a wilderness of suffering. Perhaps the wilderness must be experienced in order to understand how we can truly be a people of God. I wondered as we sighed and grumbled through our experience what both Moses and YHWH thought as they looked upon this nomadic tribe of riff raff slaves. Perhaps they wondered if this was the best they could do? I think it was, after today. A group of faithful and devoted seminarians as well as several parishioners and pastors knowing the love and mercy of God went out into the wilderness and displayed their humanity amongst themselves. 

I was relieved when we all met up for dinner tonight. A few of us split a bottle of wine. We covered the usual topics, theology, the politics of this country we are deeply studying, and the adventure of the day. We began to joke and share stories as we polished off that bottle. At one point we were all laughing so hard all of our eyes were filled with tears. It was in that moment that I realized we have to learn how to love, laugh, and feast in the wilderness. If we can only share those moments in the time of plenty than what hope is there? Our God doesn’t share with us in the time of plenty, our God shares with us in the famine, the thirst, the doubt, the hate, the lies, the war, the pain, and the wilderness. 

Salām, Peace, and Shalom  -

Cradle to the grave - Light, Darkness, and a little bit of grey

Today we visited the Jerusalem Museum and Yad Vashem. The Jerusalem museum was a fascinating and interesting site. It opened my eyes and helped me to better envision the stories I have read since childhood. The Jerusalem Museum contains a a replica model of Jerusalem as it stood before the destruction of the second temple. I spent the largest portion of my time there gawking over the model and mapping out sites associated with the story. I proceeded into the museum after spending a great deal of my time at the model. The museum contained artifacts and artwork (mostly modern art). My time in seminary has given me a greater appreciation for art but I still have difficulty with appreciating modern art. After touring the museum I returned to the outdoor model to continue my scholarly study of second temple Jerusalem. As I returned I passed a piece of modern art at the museum. It is a permanent display at the museum and after my third pass through the display (one must actually walk through this piece of art to enter the indoor museum or exit the museum). It took three passes in order for me to find my appreciation for modern art. When I found my appreciation for this particular piece it peeled back layers of thought and helped me to process all the events of the day. It revealed something painful that perhaps is the most common and most devastating reality for humanity. 

Yad Vashem is a Hebrew term taken from a verse in the Book of Isaiah 56:5: Even unto them will I give in mine house and within my walls a place and a name (yad vashem). It is intriguing to exegete this text in light of the naming of this museum. This passage, found in deutero-Isaiah is an interesting basis for a name on this particular museum. While documenting the atrocities and the systematic slaughter of our Jewish brothers and sisters, the museum makes a distinct and persuasive argument for a Jewish homeland. The suffering of the Jewish people at the hands of the third reich is graphically and honestly detailed in Yad Vashem. Upon exiting the indoor museum a beautiful overlook of a rugged Jerusalem mountainside (incredibly beautiful) with construction of a modern Israel on the horizon. It is impossible to witness the plight and suffering of these people and not be immediately moved with hope for them as this seen rises up before you upon exiting the museum. 

As if this was not powerful enough we then enter the outdoor museum. The most powerful section of this outdoor display is the children’s memorial which appears as a maze upon entry. As one enters they are confronted with a haunting image carved in Jerusalem stone of an innocent young boy. As you turn the corner images of other child victims are reflected by mirrors through a window. The maze then turns to the right as you enter a dark room lighted by a single candle that is reflected off so many mirrors that the room feels as if you are walking among the stars in the sky. Each light reflected represents the life of a child killed during the Holocaust (or the Shoah, the “catastrophe”, as the Jewish community calls it) and as one walks through the display the names and ages of the children are read over a speaker. This memorial is indescribable in not only it’s simplicity but it’s beauty. As a father my heart truly ached and as a human being I was outraged and sickened at such a loss. It was powerful and moving. How can one not sympathize with the plight of Israel and the need for a homeland after such a powerful witness? As you exit the museum Joel 1: 2-3 is engraved into a pillar beside the door for all leaving to read and reflect on; Hear this, O elders, give ear, all inhabitants of the land! Has such a thing happened in your days, or in the days of your ancestors? Tell your children of it and let your children tell their children, and their children another generation. This passage when literally read is a reflection on the plight of locusts, drought, and fire upon the nation of Israel but when read in a historical context it is a metaphorical reflection on a military campaign that had encircled Jerusalem (most likely Sennacherib). The passage is used quite effectively to portray the importance of remembering the plight of a suffering people. 

After visiting these two museums we met with Professor Mustafa Abu Sway to discuss Palestinian/Israeli relations as well as Christian/Islamic dialogue. During our discourse with Professor Sway he was asked about terrorism and his feelings on violent acts in the name of Islam. It was obvious this question would arise during a discussion with Western Christians, especially Americans. Professor Sway’s response, however, was quite intriguing and unique from what I expected. He informed us that although he doesn’t approve of terrorism it is important to recognize that the worst form of terrorism is the terrorism of the state because of the imbalance of resources. I found myself wondering what would happen if the role was reversed and the Palestinians held the same resources the Israelis held. I wondered what would happen if over time the Israeli settlements became the oppressed isolated areas that the Palestinian controlled territories were. As I wandered through Yad Vashem I saw a parallel between these two situations. Roles had been reversed. It seems that suffering must always be validated and once validated reparations must be made. If other people suffer at the hands of those reparations it is then justified on the basis of the suffering of the individual. Does this mean the Palestinians would act differently if the role was reversed? Does this mean I support Professor Sway’s assessment? I suppose to an extent I understand his view but suffering is suffering and whenever it is at the hands of another it is an injustice. 

The situation here is odd. There is no right or wrong, only grey, only a very grey fear. As I wrestled  with these thoughts I wrestled with the understanding of good and evil, light and darkness. The passage in Isaiah (Isaiah 56: 1-8) does call for a house and walls but it is an inclusive verse that introduces something new to the Jewish people as they returned from exile. It introduces the importance of righteousness and the inclusion of those from outside the Jewish  community, the foreigner and the eunuch  (Is. 56: 3) who had previously been excluded (Deut. 23: 1-3). The passage is a call for justice to share as one people of God. The plight of the Jewish community has now been shifted upon the Palestinian community. Not necessarily with malice in the beginning but with fear. Fear of being a victim again, fear of the Shoah, fear of suffering. After my own fear, my own suffering, my own experiences of violence at the hands of war and hate, I thought just maybe that piece of modern art offered something of an explanation. 

This piece of art  is modeled after a passage from the Dead Sea Scrolls, it is found in  what is known as the War Scroll. It describes a battle between the sons of darkness and the sons of light. It introduces a sense of dualism between good and evil, light and darkness. This piece I was walking through has a fountain on one side shaped like one of the clay jars which contained the scrolls. It is a white fountain representing the sons of light with water trickling down the sides of the jar-like structure to signify the purity of the sons of light (good). On the other side is a black wall signifying the sons of darkness (evil). What was so intriguing was on my third pass, the sun had begun to set in the sky. As the sun began to set a shadow was cast and began to creep towards the white fountain. This brought me to the realization that a humanity with the purist intentions can fail to see those intentions fully realized. Perhaps the element that is so consistently missing is reconciliation. Without true forgiveness and reconciliation I am not certain any intention can be purely just and righteous. Without it that wall of darkness within each of us casts a dark shadow on the purist intentions. Those good intentions are no longer light or dark, but grey. Isaiah calls for righteousness in the passage where Yad Vashem gets it’s name. Deliverance is the reward for the righteous. Maybe we should stop seeking deliverance and validation. Maybe, instead, seeking justice and righteousness for each other. If deliverance isn’t in our hands perhaps it’s time we seek something truly in 

our power to deliver. 

Salām, Peace, and Shalom  -

Cradle to the grave - This place needs a little work

When visiting the Old City of Jerusalem there are many essential rules by which one should abide. First of all make sure you have zippered pockets and hold your purse tightly, there are pick pockets everywhere. Second, don’t buy anything from a peddler, they will certainly rip you off. Third, if your with a group stay close together because it will get busy. This is no small feat because everyone cuts in line and everyone pushes and shoves. Sounds a lot like what Jesus taught, right?

The Christian quarter is a sight to see and these rules especially apply in the Christian quarter. Unlike the Jewish quarter and the Muslim quarter I was no longer just a tourist these were the tourist….. I mean, HOLY sites I had read about in Sunday school. These were the Christian sites that I have read and studied about all my life. Now that I am in seminary I am dedicating myself to a lifetime of studying and sharing these stories. It was incredible to see in person. The architecture dating back to what a scholar like myself refers to as “really old”, the art, the history, and evidence of devoted pilgrims desperately seeking the Messiah between these walls. 

It doesn’t stop there, however, there are other incredible features. Especially when visiting the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher is perhaps the most sacred site in all of Christianity. It is the place where Christ suffered death and was buried. Whether you believe Jesus was divine or not this is a site that most believe is truly the authentic site because it has been preserved over the course of history by varying circumstances. It was fascinating and beautiful. It contained beautiful domes, rotting wooden ladders, chapels, rusty scaffolding, mosaics, makeshift railroad tie construction,  statues, plywood and monasteries. It really takes your breath away. By the end of the day I referred to it as the Church of the Holy Construction site. 

Now, I know I can be crass but this is all true and it is truly a reflection on the Church today. This is the rock upon which the Church is built, literally. I know Jesus claims that it is Peter but the rock of Golgatha (where Jesus was crucified) can actually be touched through a small opening, so this is quite literally THE rock. The church is split between six different Christian groups; the Armenians, the Greeks, the Copts, the Roman Catholics, the Ethiopians, and the Syrians. Just picture a house with six siblings sharing a room fighting over which space belongs to them. It is so bad in fact that a Muslim family has served as the key holder of this holy site for several generations. 

The result of these divisions are apparent in what is seen upon entering this site. The site is in obvious disrepair in many areas. An earthquake severely damaged the structure years ago and it still has not been repaired. Don’t roll up your sleeves and start a fundraising campaign just yet though. None of the controlling religious bodies can agree on just how to fix it or who will pay for what. It is therefore propped up and glued back together with duck tape and elmer’s glue (railroad ties literally holding together the chapel housing the tomb of Jesus). In fact there is a wooden ladder sitting above the entrance to the Church itself. It serves no purpose but to welcome you to this holy Christian site and no one will take it down so it sits there, rotting, year after year. 

I have now come full circle. Walking in an ancient and sacred land I have carried my American problem solving skills on my back from day one. The Jews and the Muslims can’t get along and it makes no sense that it has come to this kind of violence. How horrible, they should be ashamed. If only they could model our church (yup, lower case c) and let something they hold sacred fall down around their ears because they hate each other so much, now that’s the model to follow. I was fascinated to find that the church is not Christ’s Church at all. To be honest it seemed to be such a metaphor for our Christian church (c, again) today. When the cracks appear over social statements, liturgical views, theology, or even paving the parking lot with that extra gift at Christmas we just tape and glue it up. We are no different than our Christian brothers and sisters at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The church is in this state because it isn’t Christ’s Church. 

In a conversation tonight many of my fellow pilgrims began to debate how we keep people in our pews. Different strategies were proposed and debated. We glued some cracks, propped some scaffolding up, nailed plywood over a hole or two, and even propped a rotting wooden ladder by the entrance. What if we stopped strategizing and we just were THE Church, Christ’s Church? What if our church graduated to an upper case c and became truly Christ’s Church? Mission focused, mission minded, building on the rock of 

God’s love and justice. 

I had a chance to visit the Augusta Victoria Hospital after our visit to the Old City and I saw Christ’s Church. Augusta Victoria Hospital is a Lutheran hospital built in Israeli controlled Palestine. The Palestinian’s that live in the area suffer abysmal health care because they are unable to receive health care in Israeli hospitals (they don’t pay into the system because they are not residents of Israel). Now there are many dynamics to this situation and divided views politically here and at home (oops, there’s a crack, just slap a railroad tie on that) but before this hospital provided help to this community cancer was only known as “that disease”. Today Augusta Victoria provides technical health care services like mobile mammogram units, radiology, intensive care, bone marrow transplant, and elder care. At best, less than only 1% of those receiving care are Christian. No one proselytizes to them, they treat them and hopefully heal them. They are not given God’s word, they are shown God’s word. 

Christ’s Church is a Church of the word. We love our story, we cherish our story, and we want to (and we should) share it with the world but we have to start somewhere. Today I visited two church’s, both were breathtaking, both have some work to do, but one truly displayed the resurrection of our Lord and Savior today. 

Salām, Peace, and Shalom  -

Cradle to the grave - Where Jesus walked

Today we had the privilege to visit the Muslim and Jewish quarter of the Holy City of Jerusalem. For those of you who have never studied it or had the privilege to see it, it is split up into four sections that are controlled by representatives of each section. It is a sacred site to the three monotheistic Abrahamic faiths, Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. They all lay claim to the site and they all claim privilege over the site. The Holy City is split into four quarters, the Armenian quarter, the Muslim quarter, the Christian quarter, and of course the Jewish quarter. They are each unique in their own way and the predominant culture surrounding that faith is present in each area. This experience again reminded me of Iraq as I noticed alleyways of tall stone walls with peddlers and shops on either side manned by Arabic speaking men. The Jewish quarter however reminded me of a local shopping area with fine eateries back home. It was an interesting contrast. 

Another interesting contrast was the exclusivity of the entire situation. Muslims enter their sacred site through their entryway, Jews through theirs, and well you see where this is going. There is no interaction. They then proceed to their own sacred site and pray. Both allow Christians to visit, although currently, Christians are not permitted to enter the Dome of the Rock. The Dome of the Rock has an inscription that discredits the divinity of Christ while acknowledging Jesus as a prophet of God. Muslims are not allowed into the Jewish quarter or vice versa. Bibles and ritualistic items would be confiscated if I had attempted to take mine in through the Israelite controlled entrance. There are a lot of rules to say the least. What is most intriguing is these rules don’t bring us closer to each other they bring us closer to objects. These objects are incredible and they are sacred, I cannot deny that, however, they are sacred because of what they remind us. What they remind us is we are all people of the monotheistic God of Abraham. 

What I found most disconcerting was the same feeling I had in Bethlehem, God wasn't in the rocks, or the gold dome, or the step I placed my hand upon in hopes that Jesus had taught or walked there. God was in the faces of the young boys playing soccer with each other at the Temple mount. Where I didn’t find God was in the hands of the pickpockets, the tourists (including ourselves) pushing and shoving each other to touch a rock. The experience gave me a perspective on the story but not hope in the continuation of it. 

I know this is controversial, maybe even heretical (good idea, seminarian trying to get ordained!) but it made me wonder if we have become engaged in a religious idolatry. I’m not just talking about our Jewish brothers and sisters, not our Muslim brothers and sisters, and not just Christians, but if truly WE value our religion more than humanity can we honestly say we love God? True love of God is reflected in a love of something besides ourselves. Not a love for our own kind, those who believe like us but those we hate, we despise. We all quarantine ourselves from those we hate. Isolation is our greatest comfort in a world we consistently envision as unsafe and violent. I suppose what was most disturbing is I found a deeper concern in their claims, our claims, god’s claims (yeah, I know that isn't upper case, it’s not just my poor grammar). We have made god’s out of our commitment to being right instead of making lives that are tools for God’s mission in the world. 

It isn’t that I don’t believe in religion, I do. It isn’t that I am spiritual and not religious (I hate hearing that and no, I do not subscribe to that). If we pray to stones, rocks, and yes (deep breath, here it comes) wooden crosses but we do not act on God’s mission in our lives are we really practicing a true faith? If you c say a prayer in the back of an airplane and then come back to your seat and curse the Palestinian intentionally kicking your seat for no other reason than your being a Jew you can't call yourself a follower of God. You can’t strap a bomb to your chest, say a prayer to a geographic direction and kill innocents and call yourself a follower of God. You can’t pull land out from under suffering people and reference a divine right and call yourself a follower of God. You can’t participate in a divine meal and then cutoff a bad driver on the way home and call yourself a follower of God. God gives us do-over’s over and over and over. No matter how many we get we always need another. That’s okay, whats not okay is when we stop trying to get rid of do-overs. It doesn’t matter that its not possible but we have to try and we don’t do it by consistently denying another’s right to claim God as their God. We don’t do it by consistently denying we need to love one another. We don’t have to be right, we just have to try, and we are really bad at trying. 

Today I put my foot on the original road where Jesus walked when he overturned the tables outside the temple. It was awesome. I even got a picture of my foot but He wasn’t there an awful lot today. He wasn’t there when I, along with hundreds of other tourists pushed each other up the steps into the Jewish quarter’s eateries and shops. Today I went to one of the most sacred sites in the world and I found sacred objects that WE continue to build into a wall. Not just between each other but ourselves and God. That my friends is heresy. Taking something sacred and using it to build a wall such as that. I pray God returns to the temple, the dome, the wall, all of them. With the lack of love I witnessed today at these sites it made me understand this idea of Jesus returning like a thief in the night. If Jesus walked through those security checkpoints into one of the most sacred sites in the world, would anyone notice? I don’t think they would, but I am sure he would get pushed on steps, or his pocket would get picked, or maybe he wouldn’t be allowed into my
quarter. 

Today I had the opportunity to walk where Jesus walked. I pray tomorrow I can learn to walk the way Jesus walked. I pray we all can. 

Cradle to the grave - A good cup of coffee

First full day in the Holy Land and it was amazing. My travel group and I visited the Church of the Nativity in Palestinian controlled 

Bethlehem today. This is supposed to be the exact location where Jesus Christ was born. When the doors to the site opened we entered a room full of decoration and ornament that would give most protestants, maybe even most Western Christians, some discomfort if not even an extreme headache. In the midst of much pushing and shoving I entered the grotto which marks the location believed to the the birth site of Jesus. I knelt over the star in the floor just like many others. I snapped a picture, closed my eyes briefly and exited the grotto after one last stop to the supposed site where Mary laid Jesus in the manger. Visiting these sites was not the potent life changing event I had anticipated. As I left the grotto I joined the Catholic mass taking place next door, where tourists and Palestinian Christians were celebrating Epiphany 

For most of the Christians here today is Christmas eve. Most Christian tradition here is based on the Eastern Church’s calendar. Bethlehem is full of Christmas trees, lights, and even Santa Clause. In fact I saw one girl dressed as a rather crude Santa Clause as a parade of drummers and bagpipers exited the mass with the Muslim call for prayer echoing alongside their Christmas parade

I didn’t make it through the mass, however. I felt as if I was at the end of the story instead of the beginning. I felt like Mary Magdalene at the tomb, He wasn’t there. Something in my gut kept telling me He wasn’t there. In the midst of the overly decorated landmarks and worship space, the familiar liturgy (although in another language), He wasn’t there. I didn’t stay any longer, as the sermon began I left, alone 

Now for me this is a significant thing. The streets of Bethlehem, being a Palestinian controlled area, is incredibly similar to Iraq. Aside from the Christmas decorations everything recognizable to me screamed danger. Narrow streets, high stone walls, flimsy metal doors on street vendor’s stores, and of course, arabic speaking middler easterners lining the streets and shops. As I wandered down the street towards the Milk grotto (another religious site where it is said a drop of the Virgin Mary’s breast milk turned the stone white) I was welcomed in english and invited to buy numerous items time and again. Not a big deal, all they wanted was my money. Regardless there was something healing about walking down those streets without a rifle, without fear, surrounded by arabic words and Palestinian faces 

We continued our tour, went shopping, ate a bedouin lunch, spoke with a jewish settler, and then returned to the hotel for dinner. Upon my return to my room I discussed going for a walk with a fellow student with whom I am sharing a room. He had just returned from a walk and warned me he had been rather uncomfortable walking alone. He also warned it was getting quite dark. Now, I’m no daredevil but I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I felt like a child that had just learned to doggy paddle and I just had to jump off the diving board! I grabbed my coat and wandered out into the dark alone

The street lights were dim and the side roads were just as dark and ominous as the hostile streets of Iraq in 2005. Middle Eastern music blared loudly from speeding cars as I passed palestinian police leaning against light posts with kalashnikov rifles in hand. Rubble and barbed wire was scattered here and there from years of bombing and fighting in this town known for the incarnation. It was scary. I walked down to a traffic circle near the  bottom of the hill from our hotel. The traffic circle looked identical to the one I had patrolled around during our invasion of the city of Hit, Iraq. I turned around at the traffic circle and rushed back across the street to keep from being struck by speeding cars on dark streets. Just as I reached the sidewalk across the street I made eye contact with a Palestinian man scowling in my direction. As my eyes met his I nodded in his direction. He gave a crooked smile and said marhaba (arabic for hello, which I remembered from Iraq) as he opened his car door 

Something about his warm… ish hello was comforting. Something about being ignored by the palestinian police and the young men who were out buying food and socializing was comforting. Something about not having a rifle was comforting. Something about enjoying a culture I had grown accustomed to fearing was comforting. I needed to take it one step further. As I walked past a coffee shop I screeched to a halt. I love coffee, on a good day even more than beer. There was an older man with two MAM’s (military aged males as we called them in the Marine Corps) drinking coffee in the bistro with two MAM’s working the counter of the bistro. The Robot from Lost in Space was waving his little arms like crazy in my head as I reached for the handle of the door. I was greeted with “marhaba” again as I walked through the door. I replied with the same greeting and proceeded to ask for a cup of coffee in english. He smiled at me and advised me that they had American coffee. I thanked him but asked him instead for coffee as he would drink it. After assuring him I did not want an american cup of coffee he smiled and asked me to be seated. I sat facing the door. Nine years of Police work and a brutal tour in Iraq wouldn’t allow me to turn my back to that door. He made me a cup of coffee in a small clear glass cup, much like the one’s we drank tea from when offered tea by Iraqi’s years ago. As I accepted the warm glass I offered my thanks in arabic and he sat in a corner facing the soccer match on the television 

As I sipped on the hot glass I peered at the screen out of the corner of my eye. After a few minutes he called over to me and invited me to sit beside him; “Come my friend, sit with me, watch the game” he called. I picked up my cup and sat next to him as he told me how his team was the best as if I knew which team was which. I finished my cup of coffee, it was strong. It was as strong as military coffee, the only difference was it didn’t taste horrible. It was so strong there was a thick layer of silt on the bottom of the glass when I finished. He smiled and asked if it was good and in honest reply I assured him it was indeed good. When he rang me up I knew he overcharged but I offered him a tip instead of an argument. Little did he know it was the best three bucks I had ever spent. As I offered my payment and tip to my new palestinian neighbor asking him to keep the change he replied with a shocked look upon receiving an extra dollar. As I began to exit the bistro he asked me if I would like to stay to watch more of the game. I thanked him
again in arabic and told him I needed to be on my way 

I made a b-line for the two Christian Churches on the other side of the hotel, one of which was on the far end of a deep and dark alley. It was the kind of alley that made me cautious in my own country. I visited both, the last of which had a large nativity set at it’s entrance. I stood looking in on the manger scene and I realized He wasn’t there either. I left Him sitting in that glass of coffee I shared with my new palestinian neighbor. I left Him at that table with a lot of fear and hate. I seek Him out in the hopes I can one day share a cup of coffee with the insurgents I hunted along the Euphrates and the ones who hunted me as I wandered down dark alleys much
less friendly than these 

I’ve been in the Holy Land for a day and I have loved what I have experienced, including these many sacred sites. However, reconciliation doesn’t come out of dirt, buildings, and relics. Reconciliation comes from Christ and Christ resides in us, in our action, our love, and on a good day, a cup of coffee

Salām-

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