Feast of the Cross

I’m currently in the Galilee area, writing this blog post from the roof top of a school in I’billin. I am staying here (the school also has a guesthouse) with a Volunteer in Mission group from Iowa for the next few days. We will be touring holy sites in the area, as well as doing various service projects here at the school, before heading back to the Jerusalem/Bethlehem area to work with different partner sites there.

It’s 9:30pm, and fireworks are going off in the nearby neighborhoods. Tomorrow is the Feast of the Cross, which, unlike Good Friday, commemorates the cross not as the instrument of crucifixion, but rather celebrates it as the instrument of salvation.

Palestinian Christians in the area have lit up crosses and are celebrating with music and bonfires and fireworks. I came up to the roof to see them better, and to write. I’m very excited to have the Iowa group here – they just arrived this morning – and I am looking forward to hearing their stories and working alongside them these next two weeks; but they have all gone to bed to rest from jet lag, and I have sought out some alone time to collect my thoughts.

Today was a good day: journeying to Tel Aviv to pick the group up from the airport, traveling up north to the Galilee area, and stopping with the group at Mount Carmel and Ceasarea Maritima along the way, two sites I had yet to visit. Ellie (my puppy) is staying with some friends in Bethlehem, and I’ve received word from them that she’s settled in nicely. All is as it should be, and the next few days promise to be busy and challenging and fun – I have no reason to feel anything other than content and happy.

And yet…

There’s a knot in the pit of my stomach that I can’t seem to shake. A heaviness there that you would think I would have grown accustomed to by now, yet for some reason have not.

A taxi drove Kristen, myself, and Ibrahim, our tour guide (he was also the tour guide for the Irish group) to Tel Aviv to meet both the tour bus and the Iowa group at the airport. Both the taxi driver and Ibrahim are Palestinian Christians, both with permits that allow them to travel outside of the West Bank for their jobs.

We passed through a checkpoint on our way into Tel Aviv. I haven’t posted yet about my experiences walking through the checkpoint between Jerusalem and Bethlehem…that will come later. But, for now, it suffices to say that you never really know what to expect when you pass through a checkpoint. If you have an American passport, and are driving a car, it is typically a “smile and wave” kind of affair. If you have darker colored skin though, or any other physical features that might identify you as Arab, you will definitely have to stop and present your ID. Usually also answer questions about where you are going and whether you have any weapons in the car – and then typically have your car searched as well.

Kristen and I were in the back seat talking as we approached the checkpoint today. I wasn’t even paying attention, really, until the driver turned to us and told us to go to sleep. I was confused by this request. He and Ibrahim, in the front seat, had also been talking a few seconds ago – why this sudden request for silence? Had we been speaking too loudly (something I am prone to do)?

When I asked for clarification, Ibrahim explained that we needed to pretend to be sleeping as we went through the checkpoint. That we would be less likely to be stopped and searched if we seemed to be sleeping Americans. Otherwise they might stop and pull us over, delaying us for 30 minutes to an hour while we all get out, present passports, and have them search the vehicle.

So, Kristen and I both leaned our heads back against the seats and shut our eyes. The taxi driver waved at the IDF soldier, and we rolled through. We were then able to continue conversations as usual.

I was still confused, though, and asked the taxi driver further why that play-act of sleeping was necessary. Would it really have made a difference, something that small?

He then pointed out to me a Star of David decal hanging from his rear-view mirror. He said that, by having this where the soldiers can see it, he can more easily pass as an Israeli taxi driver, and therefore not be asked questions. “No Palestinian would ever have a Star of David hanging in his car, so it works, see? The little things, they matter here.”

He then pulled a small bag out from under his seat and showed me that he owned a kippah, too (the traditional Jewish head covering). As well as a small hand towel with the Israeli flag on it that he could lay across his dashboard to further appear non-threatening. He clarified, though: “To me, Star of David does not mean Jew. Star of David is for King David. It’s for Christians too.”

This conversation keeps replaying in my head. So does the sensation of going through a checkpoint with my eyes closed, pretending. It’s not a big thing – nothing dramatic or traumatic or obscene. Yet for some reason, it still struck a chord deep within me.

Just the idea that this symbol, the Star of David, has been used in the past to differentiate those who are “in” versus those who are “out.” Though before it was used by one group of people to mark Jews as a people set apart – a people who the rest of the (Christian) world, decided deserved persecution and elimination. And now it is being used again, though in a different manner.

I don’t understand it. I feel like I’ve stepped back in human history; or perhaps I just have had the illusion of modern change and progress removed from my eyes. To be in a place where racial profiling is simply a way of life, of survival; where religious symbols are used as markers that differentiate “good” from “bad,” and tell you all you need to know about a person before ever speaking to them…

It’s kind of a mess.

But, tomorrow is the Feast of the Cross. And if Jesus can turn an instrument of death into a pathway to life, then perhaps God can also turn a country of war into one of peace. We can hope, at least. And pray.

Palestine Puppy!

After several days of serious consideration, online research, and numerous pro/con lists, I have decided to adopt a puppy. It was born to a stray dog on the Tent of Nations farm. I saw the litter while visiting there with the group from Ireland, and began the process of deciding whether or not getting a puppy, while living in a foreign country, was actually a good idea or not.

Many reading this are probably firmly in the "not" camp, and I get that. I really do. I tried very hard to convince myself to not go through with it. A dog severely limits one's mobility, a puppy even more so, and being able to be mobile here is key to my continued learning and growing. Additionally, a puppy requires a lot of time, a lot of money, and a lot of energy. Especially if one is to raise and train it right.

I know all these things. But I also know that living here is hard. It's been one of the hardest things I have ever done, and, while some days are amazing and beautiful, many others are stressful and full of despair. Being away from family, friends, and my boyfriend, has all been quite a challenge. Encountering new experiences daily and constantly meeting new people - while exciting - has also been exhausting; my emotional energy levels seem to always be running low.

And I think a puppy might be able to help that a little bit. Because as I sat there, holding it in my arms, I felt hopeful again. It's tiny warm body wriggling against my chest. Just the amount of trust a puppy has. How it has to, really, because it depends upon others to feed and care for it. I wish I could have that kind of trust, that kind of faith. In others. In God.

So, I have decided to adopt one. I picked it up this morning and took it to the vet for a check up and its first round of vaccines. I've purchased all the necessary supplies, rented a crate, and she is settling in nicely. It is a girl, by the way. Her name is Eliana, or Ellie, for short. It's a Hebrew name that means, "My God has answered me."

She is about 7wks old, and weighs 4lbs!

PS: For those wondering, Ellie will be coming back home with me to the U.S. when I return next May. I have already contacted the airline to make sure this isn't an issue. She's here to stay!

Holy Places

Things have been busy over on my side of the world: I preached in two different church services, was sick for several days, and then spent last week with a group of Methodists from Ireland as they toured around Bethlehem and Jerusalem.

This is the first tour group I've gotten to work with through the Methodist Liaison office, and it has been a really great experience. This group is specifically here on a "study tour," meaning that not only are they here to visit churches and holy sites with biblical significance, but they also want to spend time learning about the political situation and conflict between Palestinians and Israelis. Kristen and I accompanied them for several days. Here are just a few of the experiences we had:

-We walked in the Garden of Gethsemane and along the Via Dolorosa (way of the cross), visiting various holy sites and churches marking Christ's walk to the cross, his crucifixion, and resurrection.

-We heard from voices on all sides of the conflict: Palestinian peace workers, international human rights advocates, an Israeli peace activist, an Israeli living within a Settlement.

-We visited Aida refugee camp and spoke to a middle-aged man who had been born and raised within the camp, and who still hopes to one day return to his parent's home which had been taken.

-We walked through Hebron, one of the most conflict-laden areas in the West Bank, where Jews moved into Palestinian areas and now streets are marked off to be used for Israelis only.

-We saw the Western Wall, the holiest place for Jews; and also the Dome of the Rock, the 2nd holiest place for Muslims. Both located within a mile of one another.

It was a fascinating week. Full of both moments of hope, as well as despair - as is every week here, it seems like. Though it was really great getting to know the 24 people on the trip. Many of them have children my age, so they were quick to take me under their wing and make me feel at home. It was strange having them ask me questions about things - and actually sometimes being able to provide answers! I have been here officially 2 months now, but I still feel like I have only just scratched the surface in terms of understanding the situation here.

One thing that really struck me going through this week of both touring and learning, is how the places that I have expected to feel the most holy, have actually felt the least. Walking through the Church of the Nativity, where Christ is thought to have been born, and yet, I feel nothing. Seeing an imprint of a foot on a stone in the Chapel of Ascension - a footprint thought to have been made by Jesus as he ascended into heaven after his resurrection, leaves me more confused than sanctified. I walk through ruins and monolithic chapels with a persistent question in the back of my mind,

"God, where are you?"

It's baffling how difficult it has been to feel connected to God in this place that is historically so full of God's presence.

I am finding instead that the "real" religious places are not the monuments and the shrines - not the churches which have no living congregations attached to them anymore, but rather serve as museums and historic markers - but rather the areas where people are suffering. In Hebron, where Palestinian residents have placed fencing above the alleyways in order to prevent injuries from stones and objects thrown down on them from Settlers who live above. In Aida refugee camp, where families still hold on to old, rusted keys which they brought with them when they were forced from their homes, told that they would be given the right to return.

I have experienced God when talking with people who are the "living stones" - those who have grown up with oppression and discrimination. Hearing from Palestinian Christians who have been living in the land for hundreds of years. Those who are now living under persecution and yet remain unrecognized by their Christian brothers and sisters in the West. I have experienced God while listening to peace and justice advocates, both local and international, who are committed to establishing a world where all humans are given the same basic rights, no matter their ethnicity or religion.

These are the places and moments where my heart beats fast with righteous anger, where my eyesight becomes blurry with unshed tears. In these times, too, I find myself asking the same question,

"God, where are you?"

But instead of springing from a place of bewilderment, wondering how to feel God's presence in a stone footprint, it comes out of a deep sense of longing. It becomes a plea, an appeal, a prayer for God to help me make some sense of it all. To open my eyes and the eyes of those around me so that we can learn to love our neighbor instead of hurting him.

I think anyone who visits the Holy Land to visit Christian holy sites would be remiss if they did not also take the time to speak to the people of the land. Because it is through these people that God can be seen to still be at work today.

Fences above alley in Hebron to protect shop keepers from debris thrown from above.

You can see some of the trash that has been thrown down. A settler lives up above; notice the Israeli flag being flown.