He Wept

These are challenging times in my life. At first, I merely mismanaged the stress in my work environment. That, in turn, exposed some identity questions. Just as soon as I pulled back to uproot those exigencies, a fissure opened in my psycho-spiritual foundation. To put it simply, I am dealing with some fundamental issues of Faith itself, not just the practice of my faith, but especially making the jump from being focused on process to being truly oriented to processes in my life. In the midst of that, I began to unearth ‘the lies’ but my mind has been elsewhere the past few days. Let me take you all back to Tuesday...

...at that moment, I turned away from my Arabic in disgust, again feeling the impetus draining from me. I peppered a chuckle into my sighs to disperse the taste of frustration. The irony, I realized, is that my cravings for promises and permanence provide only temporary relief. What a gas! Not about to explode, I opened the door to my balcony and stepped into the sun light. Chin-ups can be a good way to work off angst but I was already in my work slacks. Instead, I paced to the railing and gazed over our corner of Bethlehem. I intentionally did not look at the split hill next to al-Walaje and the Wall trickling through the cleavage.

A ‘why me?’ moment seized on me like a gust of win. Why, God, would I be chosen to come here and learn the meaning of kairos time and being process-oriented? It seemed as if it would be too late for me, raised in a culture of stimulus and outcomes. Somewhere along the way, I developed a taste for resolution. To stay engaged with ambiguities in my work and relationships has felt, at times, like torture and a mistake. I knew I was progressing but that did not explain why someone else was not in my place. “I want to learn – but my heart is aching so terribly.” In the day since, I have oozed back and forth between two poles: one that insists there are things worth wanting and working toward and the other that joy can only be found in practice and the products are just blessings extra.

As I paced the limestone, I muttered to myself, “maybe I just want to settle and be at peace,” but an unexpected voice from within said, “yes, you want peace – for everyone, but not without justice.”

I bit into that thought and chewed. Turning toward Jerusalem I asked again: “why would You choose someone who wants to see resolution... for an issue like THIS!?” Again, the unexpected voice:

“...because you will keep going, as long as this is unfinished...”

I started weeping profusely. I went on bawling for half-an-hour as I retreated inside and paced between my bedroom and living room making connections. All along, I had been a peace activist at my core but all of the other pieces of me were always in the foreground. The cause of the ‘ambient stress levels’ could not be pin-pointed became clear: the Holy Spirit grieves directly inside that deep part of me. Among many other uncanny ties was the way that Wi’am, just as I arrived, was in the midst of a shift in philosophy from “conflict resolution” to “conflict transformation”. After sixteen years, Zoughbi tired of fixing the same problems with the age-old procedures. Rather than throwing Sulha away for new, less tested methods, Wi’am embraced the practice of transformation within the traditional ways. The word Wi’am means “cordial relations”, not ‘instant solutions’. Here I am: making the transition to transformation, myself.

Israel, as much as Palestine, was showing me things about myself. Israel is grabbing and possessing the land and erecting all kinds of structures to guarantee their wishes, only to ruin the land that might have had them willingly. Promises promises – I wondered if God ever intended promises the way the Old Testament understands them. I appreciated my own blindness just a little bit better: there is no measure I can take to assure this long process will mean success. Seeing myself in the Wall, I found some sadness in my heart for our ‘cousins’. That hit hard:

But as He came closer to Jerusalem and saw the city ahead, he began to weep. “How I wish today that you and all people would understand the way of peace. But now it is too late, and peace is hidden from your eyes.”

~Jesus in Luke 19: 41 – 42 NLT

There was even more than this, though it’s difficult to recall in under a thousand words. Later in the day, I paced around the Wi’am grounds. Every time I began to have a happy-thought about the future I smothered it quickly. My heart wanted this so I could be empty for a few hours, not carrying my wishes. I saw flowers, smelled herbs, felt the sun but let my insides remain in a dark state of nirvana. No turning point was coming, I reminded myself. Playing songs on the deck of a Royal Caribbean Liner or of the Titanic, it did not matter: the score would have to be the same for a while.

But it is starting to sink in. Rather than looking for alternatives, things to believe in, I am starting to leave myself a little more empty. I tried to stop asking myself what I had accomplished and started wondering “what am I doing? Where is this going?”

In lieu of what I would have written a few days ago, I have the image of an olive grove. The reason for having an olive grove would appear to be for olives. Of course, one must care for the trees. I had seen being process-focused as caring for the trees and enjoying their other qualities but, metaphorically speaking, I have remained worried about olives. The point of the olive trees is to have olives but NOT the 2012 olives. Not the 2011 or 2013 olives either. These particular olives matter less than the lives of the trees and their ability to keep making olives, as well as shade and wood. All our lives we worry for particular olive crops when it is the trees that deserve our concern – the trees that carry out the process. I am a steward not of olives but of olive trees ~ that’s what I need to get into my mind.

It also finally sank in that I, as a person, am more important to Wi’am than the work I do. That has made a huge difference to me. I am a tree.

Olive Picking: Thicker than Water

The counter at the Zoughbi house is littered with used liquor bottles. Of course, the bottles are full of olive oil, made from Zoughbi family olive trees. Luca and Rafik say that having a shot of the thick liquid is good for your muscles but I prefer to take mine on bread with zata, thanks. Sunday morning, Zoughbi Zoughbi, the boys and I went to the grove in Beit Jala to join some hired men as they picked the olives. The trees on the Mt. of Olives are actually only forty years old but the Zoughbi trees vary from sixty to... more than five-hundred years old. The younger olive trees are surprisingly springy and strong: I would rather be climbing than trusting to a ladder for security. If I am mostly surrounded by foliage I feel differently because I feel secure when I have my feet on the step of the ladder and my hands firmly grasping the limbs of the tree. Luckily, we never trifled with baskets. We just popped them off and let them fall on the tarp. The olives we eat on pizzas and in tacos grow in Spain and Italy, where they get more water. Palestinian olives are practically flammable and far from edible right off the tree.

A ladder slipped on a fella. I wish I could have seen it happen... only because I FELT it happen. He fell on my arm. Later, he said something to me in Arabic, which Luca translated as “why didn’t you catch me?” Too which I responded. “Saria! It happened fast!” He joked that I ran away fast and I laughed. I didn’t want to be under him when he fell, no matter how much I love Palestinians.

He was the friendliest guy in the crew. Every once and a while, I would here him say “! جون“ (that’s my name...) and then something in Arabic. Zoughbi would laugh and say “he is teasing you again!” no one ever precisely said what the teasing meant. Sometimes I would hear the guys call out to me “John Cena! John Cena! (sp.)!” which annoyed me slightly. The kids at the Boys & Girls Club in Grand Rapids did that, briefly, and explained to me that he is a professional wrestler. Judging by the posters I saw in Jerusalem, his marketing team has the middle-East covered. While we sat down for lunch, I developed the rudiments of a conversation with the funny guy, as he carefully avoided getting homus on the bandage covering his fresh scrape.

“Where you from?”

“Min Ameerca, fee Michigan.” Then, I intentionally lapsed into my familiar routine. I got out my hand and readied to explain. Making a waving gesture with my left hand, I cast a sort of non-verbal spell over the palm of my right hand, as if I were conjuring tiny maple trees and bottles of Vernors Ginger-ale to sprout out of it. “Meeshigonn...”. Then I did this little trick:

“bu-hhyra ... bu-hhyra... BEIT” I said, pointing to each side of my hand to indicate a massive lake and then at ‘Cassopolis’, which is home (beit). He laughed and, casting a similar spell over his hand, said:
“Bethlehem... BEIT” and stuck his finger right in the middle of his palm.

“That’s funny!” said Zoughbi, “he does live close to the center of Bethlehem...”

The day was going wonderfully and I was slowly beginning to sense that the other guys basically liked me, though the language barrier was in our way. Just before a mid-afternoon break, two of the guys were up in the tree by the sidewalk, gesturing me to come over. I couldn’t understand their Arabic but I assumed they wanted my help getting out of the tree. I put up my hands and they each took one. ...they were not coming down. With a tremendous yank, they lifted my ass off the ground. Realizing that I was going up... I was totally in! I scrambled into the tree. About that time, Valentina (Lorette’s house-guest {Zoughbi’s sister-in-law who is the finest cook I can think of}) showed-up with a camera. Funny guy wrapped an arm around my neck and I wrapped an arm around each of them. I had not hugged anyone for well over a month, I realized. The moment just does not usually happen but, well, here it was: solidarity through manual labor.

Unfortunately, the day was not over. The olive harvest stretched into the evening. Zoughbi lit a grassfire to clear some brush, then had to haggle with the police about it. Fool that I am, I saw a truck with flashing lights on it and walked over, only to witness my boss arguing with the cops at a close distance. Some conversations need no translation. Arabic is not just a language of words but of gestures. [The neighbors called] [I’m glad you came (such a Zoughbi Zoughbi trick...) these same neighbors are always leaving trash out] [You can’t light a fire, you have neighbors][Yes I can, it’s not hurting anything][No][Yes] {times infinity}[The neighbors leave their trash out][Can you put this fire out?][It will go out by itself—it hurts nothing][You cannot have it][Yes, it’s fine—come have some coffee...][We already had coffee][Look, the fire it already going-out...]

Around that same time, I was crossing a pile of stones at the base of the wall by the sidewalk. A stone shifted beneath my right ankle, which has been prone to injury since I badly sprained it two years ago. I took a tumble into some thistles and was obviously in pain.

“Are you okay?” said Luca.

“La... mish mubsoot...” (my fucking ankle! It hurts! –well, not really but I knew I would start bitching in English so I just answered in broken Arabic: “no... not okay”)

So, I went over with Valentina and Rachelle (a Canadian National, works for MCC, rents from the Zoughbi family...) and started doing “women’s work”: sorting olives on the tarp. After a while, though, I wanted to make a showing. Just a day prior, I had been feeling good in my skin: climbing in the tops of trees and feeling fit. Let’s cut to the chase: I didn’t want the day-laborers to think I was totally soft. I limped across the street.

“جون? “

*smile and shrug*

...then something beautiful happened. Those two guys tucked their cigarettes into the corners of their mouths and each grabbed one side of me. They carried me across the rocks, across the grove and stood me up next to a tree. Without missing a beat, I started picking olives. I glanced back and everyone gave a little nod, took a new puff, and went back to their business. Later, we all took another photograph together.

“BEIT”.

Balance this...

One of these days, I might make an entry that is a to-did list or a simple narrative about what happened to me during the week. One e-mail has the power to divert me. A well meaning pastor from the mid-West sent the mission personnel a cold e-mail for prayer for requests. I answered honestly, asking for prayer because... well, I said it myself:

Please be in prayer for me as I accompany the staff at Wi'am, especially now: settlement activities are becoming more aggressive in response to the bid for statehood. There's a growing campaign of terror and destruction (settlers are allowed to uproot Palestinian olive trees and carry automatic weapons) and I fear it will not only cause deeper suffering and despair but trigger a counter-campaign on the part of extremists who do not represent the will of the people.

Looking back at my e-mail, I never said “Israel” or “Jews” once. This surprised even me. I managed to write an e-mail that emphasized the positive attributes of Palestinians, insisted they deserve a good life and condemned any and all violence. The reply I received irked me. It was not a burst of Christian Zionism, nothing scary and heart-breaking. It was something annoying: the balancing game. This balancing game makes me pissy, rather than zealously angry. Rather than go into details about his particular e-mail, I’ll just highlight typical ‘balancing’ components. 1) I was in the West Bank once and talked to Palestinians, too. 2) There are really nice Jewish people who exist 3) This conflict is complicated and old 4) Both sides deserve some blame.

Let me address these, briefly.

1) Have a cookie, I already know they’re nice. That was the main component of MY e-mail.

2) I just spent half of my day with a Rabbi who holds Israel 100% responsible for the injustices being committed. To say “there are nice Jewish people” is fallacy of false thesis. The nicest Jewish people are in solidarity with Palestinians. This has less to do with religion than resources...

3a) “It’s complicated.” We have patience and great coffee at Wi’am—why don’t you join us?

3b) “It’s old” –it’s only a hundred years old. This is not Isaac versus Ishmael versus... no, that’s convenient storybook fluff. This goes back to when the British thought it would be a good idea to allocate Palestine’s land without consulting the Palestinians. The problem is colonialism*.

4) Who are the two sides that are both deserving blame? I thought this was a complicated conflict! To reduce the occupation to two sides and say they are equally to blame is the very simplification you rejected—and rightly so.

The problem with trying to correct the ‘balancing’ attitude is that it runs deeper than ignorance and misinformation, tracing to the most pivotal moment of the Gospel. Jesus explained to a lawyer that “all the law and the prophets” hinge on the commandment to love God with all-we-got and love our neighbor like our own self. Jesus challenged him with an active command rather than a prohibition. The lawyer knew the law, quite well, and my translation says he wanted to “justify his actions.” He asks Jesus to define neighbor, to set the parameters of when he has to take action. A prohibition allows us to remain oriented however we like, as long as sin is absent, but the Greatest Commandment demands a change in orientation~ it demands love, not non-hate.

I am a Jesus fan for a reason. Christ launched into the parable of the Good Samaritan, where a man is beaten and left for dead, then by-passed by religious leaders and finally helped by someone of another ethnic group. We should be careful of gushing about the Samaritan’s kindness, as if generosity is something super-human. I believe the parable is about excuses, not kindness between people of different ethnicities. The priest and Levite cross to the other side of the street so they can pretend as if they do not see their country-man. I imagine they were not evil, nasty people but very average people with busy days ahead of them. How many times have you seen a car with its flashers on in your rear-view mirror? It is not a sin to pass by on the other side but it must be recognized as failing to be Christian. Jesus may have picked the Samaritan as the hero because he had an excuse to opt-out but, instead, shows compassion.

When I say shows compassion, I don’t mean empathy. The Samaritan puts some cash down for the beaten man at the inn. Compassion is empathy actualized.

I do have many things to say about blame and responsibility: between the Israeli government, the settlers and their sympathizers, Hamas and their sympathizers, the Palestinian Authority, the diaspora and the international community—but that misses the point. The “beaten man” is not just the Palestinian people, in this case, but the entire situation. As much as I cannot wrap my mind around it, someone needs to save the settlers from themselves. It occurred to me last night that there is something fundamentally wrong with an understanding of Hell as a place of punishment that people deserve rather than something terrible that could happen to people in our human family. Whether hell exists or not, these settlers are sick people—people who level olive plantations and teach their kids how to use automatic weapons. Playing blame games costs Palestinians their lives and these Israelis their souls, so to speak. This tendency to say “I didn’t do anything wrong—I’m not the bigot!” is not useful.

Balance has nothing to do with it. Our involvement is needed; mission WITH. I feel like these attempts to be ‘fair’ are only ways to cross the street and keep walking. Nothing about this context is ever going to be ‘fair’. No one said the beaten man was the greatest person in the world or even completely innocent. He was a neighbor in need not just of being known but of being loved. In fact, who ever said that it was worse to help the wrong person than it is to be habitually unwilling to help beyond the vague promise of prayer? Let’s commit mistakes long before we omit love.

I know this won’t be the last time I have these thoughts.

*This is also not simple; the Ottoman Empire previously controlled the region but following World War 1 the British found opportunities to exploit its position. Political autonomy is usually absent for the inhabitants of this area -- Biblical and historical accounts indicate that this geo-political trend is old but there are never just 'two sides' at play.