Thanksgiving

American holidays are weird here. The passing of seasons feels different, too. All the normal markers that tell me when summer is changing into fall, and fall into winter, seem to have disappeared.

Part of this is simply me not being a student anymore, for the first time in 20 years. Part of it is being in a new culture that celebrates other holidays that I'm unfamiliar with. Regardless though, it messes with my own internal calendar. Today is Thanksgiving - yet when people send me "Happy Thanksgiving!" texts, it feels like a practical joke. How can it be Thanksgiving already? Where are the turkey decorations in the stores? Where are the sales on chicken broth and pumpkin puree? Where is the hype and excitement of Black Friday shopping right around the corner?

On that note, where were the Halloween costumes lining the shelves? Where were the bags of discounted candy? The parties where friends come dressed up bearing cookies in the shape of pumpkins and ghosts?

It's fall now. A month until Christmas. But the leaves here haven't changed colors. In fact, because the winter season here also brings the rain, flowers are actually beginning to bloom, not wilt. Grass is suddenly growing everywhere, and the countryside has changed, seemingly overnight, from brown to green. Everything that would normally mark the passing of time for me has shifted - there are no final exams or papers in the coming weeks for me to study or prepare for. No multiple weeks of vacation between semesters, no visit home to reunite with family and friends.

It's odd how, being here, time seems to both speed up and slow down at different intervals; and then also simply stand stagnant and still.

I've been struggling a lot here lately. Just trying to figure out what my role is and how I can best help the people I came here to serve. October was a hard month to absorb and process. There were near daily stabbing attacks and shootings, and I was told by people on both sides that those on the other were heartless and evil; that really they shouldn't even be considered to be people at all.

There have been times when I have wondered if maybe I have bitten off more than I can chew, coming here for 11 months. Jumping into two cultures at once, and trying to fully understand and empathize with both at the same time, has proven challenging, and it's been hard to not slip into moments of grief or despair.

I don't like admitting it when things are hard. I like to portray myself as perfect and put-together: strong, independent, sure. I want people to think that I am cool and calm and capable, no matter the situation; that I have everything figured out and under control.

But, the truth is, I don't. I am broken, struggling, and at a loss as to how to "be" in a place where I am constantly wearing one mask or another. Where, by not choosing a side, I isolate myself from both. Where daily life activities require buckets of emotional energy to accomplish, and where my support system is literally thousands of miles away.

For those of you who say to me that I am lucky to be here, that this is an opportunity of a lifetime, that I will take things away from this experience that will forever impact me - you are right.

And also, this is one of the most isolating, disorienting, emotionally and spiritually challenging things I may ever do.

But things are getting better. I'm making friends here, building a community. I enjoyed a Thanksgiving day dinner this evening with a group of professors from the U.S. here on sabbatical. And tomorrow I will have another Thanksgiving day meal at a Lutheran church that many internationals regularly worship at. People have been taking me in and welcoming me into their circles.

I have hope that the worst has passed and that things can only get better from here. I also have Ellie, who reminds me to laugh everyday as she slips and slides on my tile flooring, or chases her tail with a determination that makes absolutely no sense.

Rose Art Crayons

It's hard to explain what life is like over here. I've written before about the conflict, the separation wall, the many different people with many different perspectives all trying to live together in such a small geographical space. But it is still challenging to get across some of the little things that make life in Israel/Palestine so different from life in the U.S.

I was pondering these things this weekend as I took a much needed trip to Tel Aviv to recharge and relax after such a stressful month in Jerusalem. These two cities, though both in Israel proper, are radically different from one another. Going to Tel Aviv is like experiencing reverse culture-shock: it's like a mini-vacation back home to the states, where culturally things make sense again and life seems to run as normal. No random, hastily set-up checkpoints in neighborhoods, no newly installed metal detectors on the street, no groupings of soldiers carrying M-16s at every bus stop. It's a whole different world.

If I had to describe my life here in these last 4 months, I would say that it has been a lot like coloring a picture with Rose Art brand crayons, instead of Crayola. They still get the job done, color is still smeared onto the page, the blank spaces are filled in - but it looks waxier and paler than it should be. And the experience just doesn't feel as smooth as it does with a box of good ol' Crayolas.

Going to Tel Aviv is like being gifted a box of new Crayola crayons: everything just feels so much easier, like how it should be. I'd been coloring with Rose Art for so long now, I had almost forgotten that Canary Yellow could be so bright, that Tickle Me Pink could be so dazzling.

My poor hosts for the weekend must have thought country had come to town:

"Wait, you mean you actually flush your toilet paper? In the toilet?"

(In Jerusalem the pipes are too old to handle paper, you have to throw it in the trashcan instead.)

"Where's the hot water button for your shower? What do you mean you have a timer for that?"

(Most houses require you to flip a switch to turn the boiler on, 20-30mins before you plan on taking a shower or doing anything that requires hot water. The people I stayed with in Tel Aviv had a timer set on their boiler that ensured hot water during normal shower times.)

"Whoa! You have a bath tub! I haven't seen one of those in so long!"
(My shower is a drain in the middle of my bathroom floor.)

"It's Friday night. How am I going to find a place for dinner? Oh. So, anywhere then?"
(In Jerusalem, almost everything shuts down for Shabbat, which runs from Friday afternoon through Saturday evening. If you want to go out to eat on a Friday night, you better chose a restaurant owned by Palestinians. In TLV, Shabbat doesn't have as much sway. Restaurants and stores are still open, and even buses still run throughout the city.)

"I CAN GET CHEESE ON MY BURGER?!"
(Almost every restaurant in Jerusalem is Kosher certified, which means they can't mix dairy and meat products together. Which means no cheeseburgers, ever. Not an issue in TLV, apparently.)

These are such small things, and yet they add up fast. Everyone I spoke to in Tel Aviv knew English, most of them fluently. Every restaurant I entered had a menu in English, every convenience store clerk could hold a conversation. People dressed in clothes you would see on the streets of any big city - there was no fear of turning a street corner and suddenly finding myself surrounded by women in skirts and long sleeves with their hair covered, men dressed in knee-length black coats and top hats, unable to look me in the eyes because their religion forbids it (this is the case in many Ultra-Orthodox Jewish neighborhoods).

I felt comfortable, I felt happy, I felt at ease. It made me want to move there, especially since I would then be so close to a dance community that has already taken me under its wing and made me feel so at home. But then I remembered that I didn't come to Israel/Palestine to enjoy coloring with Crayola crayons. I came to experience life with a box of Rose Art - to not just hear about Palestinian's lives here, but to live the way that they live. Or as close as I can get, with my white skin and American passport that grant me automatic privilege wherever I go.

I wanted to experience the frustration of trying to color within the lines when the only tools one has are sub-par: blunt, waxy, cheap. I wanted to experience the dissonance that comes from living in between a developed country, and one that is trying to develop. I wanted to experience being that kid in class who knows their picture could be just as pretty and neat as Susie's, if only their mom had been able to afford the 120ct. Crayola bonus pack with colors like Vivid Tangerine and Sunset Orange.

But mostly, I wanted to learn how, even with limited resources and crappy Rose Art crayons, one can still make something beautiful and worth putting on the fridge.

Text of Sermon Delivered at Church of Scotland, Jerusalem

John 11:32-44
When Mary came where Jesus was and saw him, she knelt at his feet and said to him, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who came with her also weeping, he was greatly disturbed in spirit and deeply moved. He said, “Where have you laid him?” They said to him, “Lord, come and see.” Jesus began to weep. So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

Then Jesus, again greatly disturbed, came to the tomb. It was a cave, and a stone was lying against it. Jesus said, “Take away the stone.” Martha, the sister of the dead man, said to him, “Lord, already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.” Jesus said to her, “Did I not tell you that if you believed, you would see the glory of God?” So they took away the stone. And Jesus looked upward and said, “Father, I thank you for having heard me. I knew that you always hear me, but I have said this for the sake of the crowd standing here, so that they may believe that you sent me.” When he had said this, he cried with a loud voice, “Lazarus, come out!” The dead man came out, his hands and feet bound with strips of cloth, and his face wrapped in a cloth. Jesus said to them, “Unbind him, and let him go.”
 
Psalm 24:7-10
Lift up your heads, O gates!
    and be lifted up, O ancient doors!
    that the King of glory may come in.
Who is the King of glory?
    The Lord, strong and mighty,
    the Lord, mighty in battle.
Lift up your heads, O gates!
    and be lifted up, O ancient doors!
    that the King of glory may come in.
Who is this King of glory?
    The Lord of hosts, he is the King of glory.

Today is the first Sunday in November, and also the day that we celebrate All Saints Day.

In the Protestant Church, we tend to view all humanity as having the capacity to achieve sainthood, through right and holy living. Therefore, on All Saints Day we celebrate loved ones and family members who have passed away in the year prior, rather than recognizing saints that have been canonized and documented historically. We remember the contributions of those who have come before us and rejoice in the fact that one day we shall meet them again; that death does not have the final say. 

I had a difficult time writing this sermon. Though I have been fortunate enough this last year to not have experienced the death of any close loved one, living here in Jerusalem for these last four months – especially this most recent one – has been extremely challenging. For those of you also living here, or even visiting during this difficult time, I’m sure you can relate. In the last 31 days, just in the month of October, over 80 people have been killed in Israel/Palestine. At least 70 of those being Palestinians and 11 Israelis. Thousands more have suffered injuries. 

With statistics as bleak as this, even for me, a clergy person, it has been difficult to come to church this last month. It has been difficult to talk to God – difficult to have hope for peace in the midst of what feels like war. And now today, All Saints Day, we are called to remember those lives that have been lost, and rather than despairing over their deaths, we are called to have faith that all will be made right in the end.

It’s a tall order.

The Lazarus text is a great one for times like these, though. I find myself in the same position as Martha in this story: a bit angry, frustrated; confused as to why Jesus took so long to show up. Her brother, Lazarus, was sick and dying, so she did as any good and faithful person would do – she sent word to Jesus to come immediately, to help. But he didn’t. He waited. And so Lazarus died.

 So then, when Jesus finally shows up, four days later, her words to him are simple, “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died;” and she begins to weep. Though this is only one short, factual statement, so much is hidden beneath it. Like the painful question, “God, where were you?” 

Sometimes we feel like, as Christians, we aren’t allowed to question God. We aren’t allowed to doubt, or wonder, or not understand. But here is Martha, one of Jesus’ closest companions, expressing the depths of her despair and disappointment. “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.”

Others also begin to question Jesus’ tardiness in helping to save Lazarus’s life: “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?” they ask. It’s what happens sometimes when people of faith are faced with tragedy and suffering – we get angry at the injustice all around us, and ask, “God, where were you?” In these recent weeks, I have found myself asking this as well. Asking, “God, where were you when children were being stabbed by other children? God where were you, when stones were being met with bullets? God where were you, when an 8 month old baby, died of tear gas inhalation? God, where were you?” 

At some point though, when faced with violence and tragedy, the initial anger we feel begins to dissipate, and in its place comes a deep sense of hopelessness. The accusations and questions turn instead into resignation and despair. We read the news every day and hear about more stabbings, more shootings, more injustices being done. It all gets so, so heavy.

           

I have a new puppy at home. She’s almost 4 months old now, and growing bigger every day. I went to go buy her some more dog food the other day, and, since I have no car here, I went by bus and then walked a half mile or so to the pet store. I brought my back pack with me, and put the 3kg bag of food in it to walk and ride back home. 3kg might not sound like too much – that’s about 6.5 pounds. But after a couple half mile walks to and from different buses, it feels pretty heavy – the straps were digging into my shoulders, and my back was tensing to try and handle the weight.

Even once I got home, and took the backpack off, I could still feel the pull of it – my muscles were tight and sore, shoulders stiff. This is the same thing that happens to me when I turn off the news at night and crawl into bed: even though I’m no longer hearing new information, the weight of it all is still there, heavy on my back, digging in. When you’re living in the midst of a conflict as heated and historical as this one, it becomes hard to make the tension go away.

The death toll rises. The fear rises. We get to where we feel like, maybe this is all there is. Like maybe we are powerless to stop it. This is what I hear in Martha’s voice, when Jesus asks her to take away the stone. She appeals to his common sense, “Lord,” she says, “already there is a stench because he has been dead four days.”

Again, I hear what is underneath her words, “Jesus, you’re too late. Not only is he dead, but the life that once was is so far gone, that his physical body has begun to decay. Give it up. It’s finished. It’s done.”

And, don’t we find ourselves sometimes saying these things too? “God, you’re too late. The peace accords are null and void. The hatred has grown too deep. The wall has been built, lives have been lost. It’s finished. It’s done.”

And yet, even when things look the darkest – even when Christ has been crucified; it is not the end. We believe in a God who does not let death and destruction have the final say. We believe in a God who can bring light out of darkness, who can bring life out of death. Jesus goes to the tomb and commands, “Lazarus, come out!” And he comes. Even after four days, even after being stinky and smelly and decomposing, he is alive again. Because suffering and death don’t get to win.

But what do we do then? We believe in a God who can triumph over evil, who can set all wrongs to right, who can raise the dead to life again – and yet, here we are. Over 80 people killed in the month of October. Lazarus has been dead four days. And hope seems hard to come by.

The Psalm we read this morning may provide an answer: “Lift up your heads, O gates! And be lifted up, O ancient doors! That the King of Glory may come in.” This Psalm calls us to action. Lift up your heads! In spite of the weight on our shoulders, we are called to look out – to open our eyes to see God working in our midst.

We get so bogged down with despair and sadness, it becomes hard to see the glimmers of hope all around us. The Psalm tells us to “lift up our heads” so that we will then “be lifted up.” We are called first to action – to change our own outlook, our own posture – and then after doing so, we will be acted upon. God is working beautiful, amazing things right in front of us every day – we just have to open our eyes enough to see them. Lift our heads up enough to notice them.

For me, these moments happen when I’m going for a run. When I’m forced to look around me and see the little things I normally just pass over: the olive trees, some harvested, some still waiting. Sunsets with purple clouds that remind me of cotton candy. Children playing in the park. Kittens chasing one another down the street. These small, simple things that remind us that life is still going on around us. They remind us that God is so much bigger than we can ever imagine.

In the midst of pain and suffering and defeat, it is an act of resistance to insist upon continuing to see God in our day to day lives. An act of resistance to keep looking for God’s presence as it breaks in through every day ordinary events and circumstances.

This doesn’t mean that we turn a blind eye to the existence of suffering. It isn’t about turning our heads to look the other way, but rather about lifting our heads up to see hope through the sadness all around. We are told that when Jesus hears of Lazarus’s death, and sees the sadness and despair of those who loved him so well, he weeps with them. The passage says that he was, “greatly disturbed” as he approached the tomb where Lazarus’s body lay. Even though Jesus knew that Lazarus would live again, he still felt the pain of his present death.

So we, too are called to mourn the injustice that takes place, to stand against it and help those who are hurting – and at the same time to not forget that the ultimate battle has already been won. We must hold the reality of the present suffering in tension with the expectant hope of a future peace.

We are called to lift our heads up and to have faith that our God can bring the dead back to life, even after four days of waiting. Even after all negotiations have failed, even after it seems like a line has been crossed that can never be undone. We are called to look outwards and upwards, not down. To trust in a God who can bring good out of the utmost bad. To trust in a God who weeps alongside us, and who refuses to let death have the final say.