A Year in Review

Almost exactly one year ago I left Israel and Palestine in order to begin my master's degree. When people asked me if I would ever return, I would always reply, "I hope, at least someday." Today, certainly sooner than I expected, I find myself in Israel once again. Returning here once more has brought me to reflect on my where I've come this past year. So much has changed in this short time, and the surprises and twists have not slowed down. The general progress in my life which seems unremarkable as I busy myself in undertaking these various tasks and goals takes on a new light when I remind myself where I was just one year ago today. On the academic side of things, since I last left Israel, I've completed half of a master's degree at Harvard, finished two years worth of biblical Hebrew, published my first scholarly works (along with a volume of papers I never thought feasible to produce in this short time), and earned the award which provided me the funding to come here to Israel once again. I have come a long way it seems. My personal life has been equally eventful, though most of these changes I wish not to recount here. I have coped with the reality of returning to an environment largely numb to the issues of peace in the Middle East and its immediate relevance to our society. Because of my past experiences here I have had to face more challenges reintegrating into American life, the social world, and especially the Academy. I also survived a Boston winter, certainly that’s worth something.

Spiritually I am a work in progress, as always, and I take it as a good sign. The pressing fear of detachment from the things I study and what I practice as my faith has not diminished. I’ve been feeling as though I have less and less in common with the people that fill the pews on Sunday. I know the reason for most of this feeling is because I’ve been so privileged to have the education I have had, but I know that this doesn’t account for everything. During my recent visit with family and friends in California I was able to visit Foothill Community Church, where a great deal of my spiritual formation and ministry training took place. All of my friends there were familiar and I felt at home, but to think that just a few years ago I was the youth ministry intern, and even more recently as one of their missionaries, it feels like a lifetime ago. To put a positive spin on it, my service to the Church has been transforming as quickly as I have, but not diminished. I did come all the way to Israel after all. And I’m here to understand, if only a little better, the relationship between Jews and Christians in Antiquity, something I believe is crucial for interfaith dialogue today.

Have a Seat and Stay a While

I’m having to make a lot of adjustments to the way I do things. I did the math the other day, and realized that I have picked up and moved thirteen times in less than six years (or fourteen or fifteen times depending on how you count). Save some mementos and books, there is very little I own today that is more than a couple years old, that I didn’t sell or give away. Not that I had so much to sell or give to begin with. I feel like it puts me in a different world, lacking basic needs and confidence in my own security. Even food and sleep are things I have good precedent not to count on. I’ve lived in four completely different cultures in as many years. Even my name itself has changed some three times since it was given to me. I am loath to ask for pity, but I know these facts must strongly impact how I engage with others and my surroundings, how I perceive myself and others, and a host of other facets that make up “who I am.”

It has been brought up a couple times since I’ve been here in Boston that it is odd I don’t have a phone. As big of a tech junkie as I am, I know it isn’t because of some Luddite elitism. Money is always a factor, but thinking about it now, could it be that I have simply just presumed subconsciously that I would never stay somewhere long enough to put down roots to need one? Now that I’m supposed to stay here for a few years, I’ve recognized I’m due for some introspection and reassessment.

The notion that I will live in this same house for the next few years makes me very anxious, like a claustrophobic. I already want to plan my next escape, to be able to run away at the drop of a hat. I have certainly done my share of running away in the past, and have a seemingly unquenchable thirst for independence. Maybe these things are hereditary. Maybe this is why I love the Church so much. While I feel like a stranger wherever I go, like I’m in it alone most of the time, wherever I go and find a good piece of Church, I know I can find a feeling of home there, that I’m a part of something, and that isn’t conditional.

Is it good to be able to just pick up and leave everything behind—family, friends, lovers, possessions, my very name? What does it mean to want to, and feel anxious if I don’t? Is this from fear, an escapist mentality, some extreme method of coping with deep psychological distress? Or could it be quite the opposite, the command of the Lord to give up everything down to my name, becoming my second nature. It is clear to me that this disconnect I sense hasn’t affected my emotional distance from strangers. Maybe this distance, counter intuitively, is what makes it so easy for me to love strangers and want to help them, or at least better identify with them in want. Maybe these alternatives need not be so dichotomized and perhaps one really leads to the other. Maybe I’m rationalizing.

At any rate, even Jesus had a strong group of friends. The notion that Jesus’ ministry with his disciples fit into a niche of contemporary itinerate outcast healers and sophists has been, to my relief, effectively challenged on the grounds of the socioeconomic demography of Galilee in first century CE. To my credit, I certainly have no shortage of outgoingness in certain contexts, and I suppose now would be the time to capitalize on that. I don’t expect these feelings of distance and separation to change quickly, especially having taken place during these most formative years of my life, but I hope that eventually healthy adjustments will be possible. Like I’ve often felt when I pick up to go, the task now becomes discerning what needs forgetting, and what has become too much a part of me to leave behind.

Back Home Safe from the Jordan Screening

All the families made it across into Jordan; I had faith that they would, but it would have been quite a feat by earthly standards. 60 people without visas, crossing a militarized border, it's just unheard of. Not only was everyone allowed to cross, but the border guard brought our Jordan coordinator a gourmet coffee while he waited,..wow.

To recap, the screening in Jordan is done once a year for the potential Iraqi patients. Jordan is more or less a neutral ground. We coordinate the entire trip and get them to Amman to be screened by an Israeli cardiologist who determines if and when a surgery is necessary or possible for each child.

Read all about the screening here: http://shevet.org/screening/

As for my personal involvement, I drove to the border from Jerusalem with the rest of the staff in tow at around 6:30 Monday morning, made good time to the border, and even better getting through (not having a bunch of Iraqi's with you helps). We made it to Amman in time to drop our stuff off where we would be sleeping and get to the screening site in a very nice modern church. We spent the evening briefing the families on what would be happening, sharing some encouraging words, meeting them, eating a meal together with them all, and prepping the facility for the screening in the morning.

We made it back to the place we were staying around 11pm and went straight to bed for the big day which would begin at 5:45am for me. I couldn't get to sleep because of the combination of heat and tormenting mosquitoes; my options were to sleep uncovered and be eaten alive, or cover my whole body and sweat out the night. I chose the latter, and found myself finally dozing around 2:30am when the air finally cooled. Needless to say it was a rough start getting going on the big day.

My duties involved doing all the photo documentation for each child so we would have something better than a lineup photo to present to potential sponsors, as well as pacifying/entertaining the families while they waited (usually hours) to be seen. This was no easy task given the number of children with separate handicaps, including violent behavioral issues and mental retardation. Despite this I managed to create some meaningful bonds with many of the children.

We finished the screening at around 1am on Wednesday, about 19 hours of consecutive work later. I've worked exceedingly long days before, but the amount of energy required for this, in addition to the lack of sleep, countless nagging bug bites (I'd estimate around 30), and a spontaneous fit of allergies that had me blowing my nose every 10 minutes for 15 hours, made it pretty grueling. It was all worth it in the end. 21 children were invited to surgery in Israel, as well as another 3 that are possibly savable, 4 children who need no surgery, and 3 were found to have no medical hope for treatment. We should have 5 with us in Israel within a couple weeks.

Wednesday was nearly as long as the Tuesday screening. Wednesday we collected all the families at their hotel, informed them of when they would be coming to Israel, and got them all packed and off to the airport once again. I spent a few precious hours playing with the children, and praying for the terminal ones, before seeing them off. After finishing the remaining work, and packing everything up, we left for home and made it back to Jerusalem around 1am Thursday.

Since I was the photographer, I have all the pictures of the children at the screening cataloged and named here for you. Just click below, and please keep them in your prayers.

Jordan Screening 2009

Gethsemane in Spirit - A Theological Jaunt

A few days ago (maybe a week ago…) I had the day off and decided to walk to the Garden of Gethsemane. As a test of my assimilation into the neighborhood I thought I would test my skills reaching it by taking the shortest route which happened to be through the Old City. For anyone who cannot imagine, the Old City is notoriously difficult to navigate, but from google maps I was fairly sure I was familiar with the route. I managed to find the way after just a single quarter mile detour after missing a turn, though to my credit I did stop amid the crowd at the turn to ponder if it was the correct one. At any rate I arrived and like most holy sites it was a tourist trap, the entrance of which was crowded with individuals all jockeyed for position at the entrance to sell their wares; the sort whom I imagine would have their table thrown over by Jesus had they had any. If perhaps you think such a judgment is rash on my part don’t stop reading just yet.



The garden itself contained 8, perhaps 9 olive trees in a grove almost certainly the very same place Jesus prayed, wept, and was betrayed in. The garden itself was fenced off but well tended, and there was a large cathedral parallel which I approached next. The cathedral was designed very intentionally to be dark, gloomy even, to set the mood for the events that occurred there. Appropriately, no talking was allowed in the cathedral. I did my best to be respectful to all the notices, though it was not posted, I turned the flash off on my camera because it would surely disturb anyone trying to pray or reflect there. After taking in the architectural beauty and sensation produced by the building I attempted to block everything out and pray and reflect myself for a short while. In many ways, my sentiments at the Garden were uncannily parallel to those which the Biblical record assigned to various characters at this place; I hope I convey them humbly. I haven’t conveyed them explicitly in this blog but I hope it isn’t needed.




I entered being distressed in my soul about the certainty of my faith, the thought of leaving loved ones behind, questioning if the direction God is leading me is really right and worthwhile.., I struggled to escape this to focus on penitence and found these thoughts obstructing me. While perhaps they were not the formulaic nature of a prayer or addressed at God formally I felt that even the roof itself would block alleviation by God or the ascent of my concerns to him. These sentiments were only exacerbated by the irreverence of the tourists behind me and in turn my frustration at the lack of grace I was giving to them in my heart. During my entire visit I was intentionally keeping one step ahead of a large tourist group so as to not be distracted by the cumulative volume of their footsteps or whispers. As they entered and I left the cathedral, I turned to take one last photo; as I was doing so I noticed the tour guide apparently speaking to the group. The signs for silence and “no explanations inside” were abundantly clear at each door, I thought perhaps he himself was reminding his group to be quiet.

I continued on to the tomb of Mary which was next to the garden. The entrance was an impressive downward staircase, perhaps leading some 100 feet down, in itself my favorite part of the tomb. The walls and ceiling were a jumble or incense holders and candelabras. Once I reached the bottom I took in the site, which contained probably late Renaissance art of the life of Jesus and Mary in somewhat of a timeline. The tomb itself was nothing much to look at, just a bunch of very old looking dirt vaguely resembling a box-like shape, covered in a shrine. I escaped just in time before the mob entered. I wanted to get one more shot of the downward staircase before I left, as the crowd cleared a mother and small child were left behind descending at the pace of the young child who seemed to be taking great joy in each step.

My final stop was in the grotto in Gethsemane, the spot where it is said Jesus was confronted by Judas and the authorities. The chamber was fairly small, contained some seating, an ancient Greek inscription under glass, behind a rope, and far too faint for me to read, some painting of Christ’s betrayal and a center-piece I can't recall at the front. I again sat and attempted to focus on prayer, trying to make this site meaningful, thinking perhaps (possibly heretically) I would be closer to God in this place given my circumstance. A man sitting there also shushed two women whispering to each other. “An attendant”, I thought to myself, “perhaps I will be able to focus in this place for a while.” More quickly than before, the tourist group caught up to me, and the attendant faithfully shushed the whisperers and held up a sign I’m assuming said “silence” in a dozen languages. I figured I would stay and attempt to focus in spite of the group. Suddenly the tour guide, a thin, bald-headed man, about 40, the same one as before, began speaking over a microphone in what I believe was Russian… I thought “surely he must have seen the sign for ‘SILENCE’ and ‘NO EXPLANATIONS INSIDE.’” The attendant held up his sign to the tour guide, who looked back at the attendant made a shrug and continued speaking. The flippancy of this act offended me, and the attendant himself looked aghast. The attendance shushed him again and held up his sign, to this the tour guide lowered his voice for a few seconds and continued talking. With no other options the attendant opened his mouth and said something in a frustrated tone. Without changing his tone or facial expression at all, the guide casually answered back and kept talking. One more time the attendant opened his mouth to try to get the man to explain the site outside but he was ignored yet again, the guides group gave him no consideration either. The attendant could do nothing but stand by and watch. I was already feeling upset and frustrated, this only produced feelings even stronger entering into malice and hate. When I left, and on my walk back, I was practically furious about the time I spent there. I thought to myself, “How could he have so little respect! How could he so flagrantly do something like that and act as if it didn’t matter?! Didn’t he know what he was doing?! All the more how could everyone be on this man’s side! I know what I should have done to him! I wish I would have ripped off his microphone and smashed it on the ground…” It was upon dwelling on this for much of the walk back that I replaced smashing the microphone on the ground with “sliced off an ear” and realized what I myself had done.

I’ve been processing the event ever since.

My Friend Hemin

Hemin is a 21 year old young man, here when I arrived, that has somehow managed to survive with multiple heart problems. He has a very difficult time speaking now because of how long he had tubes down his throat, but he has still managed to get out words when he needs to under his breath and is one of our patients recovering from their surgery. He is the only man his age at Shevet and it’s been apparent to the other volunteers that he has a difficult time keeping boredom away. Even though I don’t speak and Kurdish and he doesn’t speak any English our similarity in age and being in a place very foreign to us helped us bond. My second day at Shevet, Hank, another volunteer, and I took Hemin and Arazoo (16) out of the house to get some much needed time away to be able to act their age. Hemin is a very stylish young man, even around the house he was always dressed his best, I’m told this is the way a lot of Middle Eastern peoples are, because they often don’t have much in the way of posessions, fashion is one of the few ways they can own something tangible. Day laborers for example will walk to work dressed their best, change into dirty work clothes, and then when the day is done wash up and change again before going out in public. We went to the Mount of Olives and took some pictures overlooking Jerusalem, as well as with a camel, the owners of which were eager to talk politics about the war with Hank and I. They were disgruntled at first, probably because of their perceptions about what Americans believe, but after we had explained to them what Shevet Achim does, and specifically in Gaza, they were blessings us and offering to donate their blood if we needed it. After we left the Mount of Olives we took Hemin and Arazoo to the Sea (that’s a different blog) where they took copious pictures in the typical teenager fashion. From there we went around the old Jaffa city and again too many more pictures. Don’t be fooled by the face in the picture, it’s not customary (or cool) to smile in pictures, but he is a very friendly guy. He left this morning bound back for Iraq. I’m probably the only Christian his age that he has ever met, and may ever meet again. I hope the friendship we had in the short time he was here will not soon be forgotten by him nor the impact of Shevet Achim on his life under-estimated by my readers. Please pray for his life, health, and strength, he now enjoys new life and the ability to live in a way we all take for granted, but putting my arm around him for the pictures I could feel he is still nothing but skin and bone. Pray also for his spirit as he returns to Iraq, twice he eagerly joined us in a church service, pray that this seed that has been planted will grow.