Living in Jerusalem - Living in Bethlehem

Living on both sides of the wall, in Israel as well as Palestine, is a crucial part of gaining understanding about the differences and dynamics between them. I’ve spent nearly equal times living on each side and, like two sides of a coin, even a detailed portrait of one side still means you’re missing half the picture. The additional context one provides to the other is illuminating to several aspects of the situation, both in obvious ways and equally important nuances.

There’s no way to fully grasp these differences apart from doing it yourself, but I’ll do my best to shed some light on one thing from my own perspective, which I think is both interesting and important to know. The first thing that springs to mind are the different manifestations of the military tension between the two sides of the wall. On the Israeli side, the military action, the police barricades, the violence between Jews and Arabs, and religious Jews and secular Jews for that matter, is very much in your face. The tension in Jerusalem is constant, it’s active, it’s visible, it’s recounted in the international media, and sits constantly like a weight on the chest of the city for all to see. Every mall and McDonald's has armed security, every corridor of the Old City has soldiers posted in it during daylight, and it’s not uncommon for the police to literally divide the city in two during times of high tension and holy days, with blimps mounted with cameras monitoring everything from above.

Five miles away as the crow flies however, it is a different story. Once you are in Palestine and far enough away that you no longer see the wall, the area where the protests normally take place, or the Israeli military, the feeling of tension begins to change, and the further from the wall you get, the greater sense it takes on. The ambiance the tension produces on the Palestinian side is characterized by its passivity, its presence is constant, but crafted and groomed in such a way that at a superficial level it’s easily overlooked by visitors and outsiders. The populations of the Palestinian cities are not integrated with Jews, and merely walking down the street with the unabashed Arab life going on, not seeing any Jews walking the same streets, it’s almost as though a weight is lifted. The tensions can be forgotten, at least for periods of time. Contrary to media portrayals, there is a greater sense of safety in Palestine, particularly where there is no Israeli presence, the air is not thick with tension on every street corner, there is no armed security at every restaurant and no one fears violence from their neighbors. Living in Paidia housing, overlooking a beautiful yellow green wadi lined with homes, there is the same sense of peace as a house in the country in the US. Working at the Paidia center, working with my hands, sharing tea with our neighbors, talking about the weather and exchanging ideas about how best to plant our fruit trees…watching a shepherd pass by with his flock, one escapes to a simpler time, a slower pace of life, before these tensions existed. You are able to forget that just out of sight there is a tremendous barricade and a mechanized army with the latest military technology to defend against the very same people these harmless shepherds and farmers belong to. It’s only the occasional evanescent fighter jet on a training sortie high overhead, with its low deep rumble and the flash of its flares that there is a visible symbol of the occupation.

While in Jerusalem it would be fair to say that the oppression of Palestinians is identifiable by what is done to them and taken from them, in the West Bank it is marked by what is not done for them or given to them. Having lived in both, simply being able to compare the availability of different things is key. As I mentioned in a previous blog, water is an obvious example. It’s no coincidence Israelis have water when Palestinians do not. The water does not run out for those in Jerusalem, and despite it coming from the very same sources, the water runs out regularly for Palestinians. The same issue persists in nearly every area of infrastructure throughout the West Bank. Medicines and medical treatment are another problem since the building of the wall. There are simply just a lot of medications and medical treatments that cannot be had in Palestine. Meanwhile in Jerusalem, any treatment or medicine you could expect to find in the best European country is there. You could die in Bethlehem because you are not allowed to go to a hospital just a couple miles away in Jerusalem where a life saving treatment or medication is available, but you would never know unless you yourself experienced a medical emergency where you could not get treatment, or know of someone with this experience. There is of course the greater problem of travel. Hundreds if not thousands of families have not been able to see each other since the building of the wall because they are either not allowed to cross, or would not be allowed back if they did. These, and numerous other issues which do not reach the high level of publicity like the clashes of violence, form the constant but largely subdermal tension that persists in the daily life in the West Bank.

I feel the less flagrant nature of oppression in the West Bank make the more blatant manifestations of persecution so potent. The Jews throwing their trash from above on Palestinians in Hebron, and of course the wall itself. In this way, the wall is both curse and blessing as it provides a physical manifestation for the otherwise less flagrantly visible abuses in Palestine that are so easily overlooked by those who do not or would not care to see them. No poetic metaphor could do equal justice to convey the gravity of the problem than actually erecting an eight meter wall covered in razorwire wall that literally divides families, imprisons communities, and exiles, dehumanizes, and humiliates an entire people group. It’s undeniable existence demands acknowledgement of the otherwise silent systemic issues for which the wall serves as a much needed exclamation point.

A Confession, a Dream, and a Church

A couple blogs ago I mentioned that I didn’t receive any dreams during the time I was asking God for discernment in deciding what to do about grad school. That wasn’t entirely true. It slipped my mind at the time of writing that blog, and it wasn’t necessarily relevant, but I thought I should confess, especially now because it’s convenient for a blog as I wrap up my time here shortly.

The Church of the Holy Sepulchre, one of the oldest standing and largest structures in Jerusalem’s Old City, is the site of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. There is a lot to see there, the last 4 stations of the Via Dolorosa, or ‘Way of the Cross’, several chapels from the various Orthodox and Catholic traditions, beautiful mosaics, paintings, and tremendous columns and ceilings. Perhaps the most important and most highly revered of all the locations in the church is the tomb of Jesus. I have been to the Holy Sepulchre perhaps five or six times now, but despite this, and after living in Jerusalem for a year, I never entered this holiest of holy places until yesterday. There have been various reasons for why this has been the case, most often because there is a mob of tourists standing in line to see it and when there are one, two, three tourist groups of fifty to a hundred tourists each waiting, the line forms a thick coil around the church that seems endless, while on other occasions it has been that one priesthood or another would require the tomb to do a ritual and allow no one else to go in. These are certainly earthly reasons, unsurprising to anyone who is familiar with the milieu of Jerusalem, especially the constant tension between pious reverence and accommodating tourism at holy sites, but I am still inclined to assign some spiritual importance to this as well, which came in a dream.

Sometime during the 1970s an archeological excavation was done in the Holy Sepulchre which revealed an even older sanctuary buried beneath an existing one (which is saying something considering the present one largely survives from the early 300’s AD). On one of the walls the archeologists found some ancient graffiti depicting a merchant ship and “DOMINE IVIMVS” written beneath it, which reads “Lord we shall go,” or less accurately, but what I think the contemporary vernacular would be, “Lord we came.” This graffiti attest to the site's importance for pilgrimage from an extremely early date in the Christian faith.

In my dream, I finally was able to experience the peace and awe of being a pilgrim. I finally entered Jesus’ tomb and sat down inside the small room. Rather than being rushed in an out by a priest, as is normally the case in real life, I was able to sit, relax, and experience the comfort of the Lord’s presence. In my dream there were books for people to draw or write a message celebrating their arrival to the tomb. The recently filled ones remained in the room and fresh empty books were plentiful. I imagined the filled books were occasionally removed and kept somewhere important to represent the collective experience of each Christian soul making this pilgrimage through the ages. I flipped through a few pages of a book, admiring the different colors people used to write, their unique handwriting, their imperfect spacing on the blank pages, and their drawings and adornments. I felt like a part of something greater, part of a beautifully imperfect human dimension, a throng of humanity not writing as people reaching out to God but as people who were sitting in God’s very presence, the writings of people that have reached their destination. And so I felt; ecstatic in the presence of the God with us. I wrote as one that has finally arrived, “Lord I came.” These laconic words encompassed everything I wanted to express to God as though he were before me, both the reason I direly hoped would leverage grace, and my thanks for the journey.

I went to the Holy Sepulchre one last time the other day and discovered the line for the tomb only a few dozen people long. I finally waited my turn, was crowded and hurried in and out. I had enough time to kneel and say a short prayer. But this was only the physical component of the spiritual experience I had weeks earlier. This was the frame not its contents, and I felt at peace. I know I have completed the journey.

Pain is the Theme of the Week

It’s been a rough week. Injury tally for the week in ascending order of pain:

1. Various abrasions
2. Approximately five mosquito bites on my left foot and a couple on my face
3. Sledgehammer vs left shin (it was a glancing blow thank God)
4. Burn on left thumb from setting fires to burn dry brush from our center
5. Burst blister right hand from shoveling, pickaxing, etc
6. Pulled hamstring right leg
7. Pulled quad left leg
8. Pulled hamstring left leg
9. Several slices across my right forearm from an improperly grinded down metal sledgehammer handle
10. Pulled muscle right shoulder from swinging sledgehammer
11. Welding burn left forearm from touching melting hot metal I just welded
12. Bruises on both inner thighs from hanging from a rock wall for 2+ hours
13. Surgery on left big toe. I actually looked at the toe itself today and it’s a grizzly sight. It's still very very painful as well.

With the possible exception of the toe and mosquito bites I’m proud to bear them. When the sting of the bathwater hits the wounds I know, and surprises me with ones I don’t as it cleans them, I am reminded of how I earned each one. The pain is a satisfying token of hard work well done, and the scars will be mementos of the difference I made when I return home.

Surgery with a Story

So, I’m having surgery right now in a Palestinian ER, and I’m writing so I don’t have to look down at it. For at least the last fifteen years I’ve had an ingrown toenail on my big toe. I had surgery on my right big toe to correct this problem when I was in the fourth or fifth grade and I’m now finally having it on the other. It’s been a kind of “thorn in the flesh” for me as it has caused me regular pain for all these years. I’ve had a couple opportunities to have this surgery before but I’ve always backed out of I, nerves bearing their partial contribution. The nerves have certainly not disappeared today; it’s something about the surgery involving my nail and a toe, I’d rather have them cut open my stomach frankly. I’ve had a few shots in my foot now and I feel sick to my stomach. So why now, of all times, and why here, of all places? Well, that’s a question I’m asking myself right now actually. But here are the reasons I came to the hospital in the first place. Randomly enough, I’ve always thought I would enjoy rock climbing, but as long as I can remember wanting to, I’ve never really been able with this toe. One of the primary ministries Paidia is operating is a rock climbing wall that we built at one of the very few nice parks located down the road here in Beit Sahour. I’d love to be able to climb it with no pain. The second reason, probably equally little to do with the problem itself is that I seem to have a, possibly masochistic, affinity for rising to the challenges of my fears and accomplishing the most difficult things I can imagine; if not for purely psychological reasons, this is one of them.

What actually got me to lay down on this table probably has more to do with the hospital experience I had. Our secretary called to schedule an appointment for me, and after speaking with them she wrote down the times the doctors are available, no appointment needed. I went in on a Wednesday during the time the doctor was to be in, but as it turned out the dash between Monday and Thursday was meant to mean Monday or Thursday, not Monday through Thursday. In spite of this, before I could leave, or even sit down to wait, the receptionist told me I could just see the general practice physician, who promptly appeared in the doorway and without spending a moment waiting he invited me into his office. Being the only blonde haired person in the clinic I stuck out a bit (not that I mind the attention), so he asked me if I was a volunteer. I told him the work I was doing, how long I had been in the region, about our center, about the park. He told me that his house was right down the street from the park we are working on, and we talked for another ten minutes or so. He seemed in no rush, nothing like the hospital pace I’m used to. He took a look at it and said that they could do the surgery…that day, or whenever I wanted it, and that the surgeon gets in in about an hour. He told me that the surgery would cost 400 sheqels, or a little over $100, that I could pay however much I wanted whenever I was able to. He probably took notice of my surprise and explained to me that they aren’t concerned about the money, the doctors were there to help regardless of the money. I told him I should probably check with my boss to see when I should get it done. After using the phone at the reception desk I returned to his office where the doctor pulled a framed photo from his drawer. He told me it was a picture of his house, and turned it toward me. The picture showed a heap of rubble. He explained that Israeli tanks destroyed it in the last Intifada and pointed to a sole window in one corner of the building that remained standing, he said “that was my bedroom.” He told me that he and his family made it out alive and fled, and that they returned and rebuilt their home where it was. Sometimes I need reminding that so many people here have these remarkable stories. It's not terrorists and fanatics that are the victims, but the average family man, doing the best he can to help his community.

After we finished talking I went to the waiting room to wait for the surgeon who I met shortly after. He suggested, to my relief, that I wait a few days for the surgery. Not that they wouldn’t do it right then and there, but because he felt I should take a round of antibiotics first. A few days passed and here I am. The price and speed at which this whole process has gone have left me little excuse to go through with it, though I admit I am concerned about the results. Pictures to come…

Signs, Dreams, and Decisions

It was a decision that was more than a year in the making, researching, writing, perfecting…obsessing; but like I often find the case to be, it took the coercion of a deadline (even an extended one) to force me to make my decision. In trying to decide which grad school to attend, I made as much use of my personal relationship with God that I could leverage, praying and asking for signs and dreams. I developed an affinity for the ‘dream’ revelation after a vivid dream that took place little more than 2 years ago now, in the middle of a course on apocalyptic literature, which having forced me to read Daniel about 7 times in a two weeks span, apparently had a profound effect on my subconscious. It was not long after waking, processing, sharing the dream with others, and writing it down that I realized it was not the first dream with profound metaphorical or allegorical implications that could be described as nothing less than ‘revelatory,’ about my current life situation or perhaps even the future. As I train more and more to effectively become a scientist of the Bible and Ancient Near Eastern culture I feel it is important to maintain some grounding in the individual spiritual experience, and dreams are something that provide an outlet for that because they escape the realm of present scientific verification. Granting my very skeptical nature, dreams allow me to circumvent the irresistible desire to discern if they are merely illusory, or genuinely theophanic, they can be neither dismissed nor verified, and I like it that way. I think perhaps it’s someone of a gentleman’s agreement between God and I; I ask for little more certain than a dream, and I suspend my skepticism when they come. From time to time, it works, and it’s really the only somewhat objectively manifest spiritual function that I experience. All that said, I got no dreams…apart from ones without the trappings I expect in the aforementioned ‘revelatory’ sort.

What I got instead were signs. What I forgot to ask for however was the means to interpret them… Doing the manual labor I spend so much of time occupied with, my mind has the freedom to roam and contemplate decisions like this one, and there were a few moments when I felt something was being show (or shouted) to me. The first was the shepherds that daily graze their sheep and goats in the field adjacent to our worksite, the pleasant simplicity and serenity of this daily scene offered me some rest and reassurance that the sun would still rise regardless of what I chose, and I was able to be at rest merely in watching the herds among the other various critters scurrying about the work site. Two other events I interpreted as signs I couldn’t deduce a substantive meaning from despite my feeling that they had one. I believe it was a Saturday that I came to the work site to put in some extra work, hammering away at decades old window sealant that had hardened in the frames of broken out windows. I stepped away for a moment to use the bathroom, and at that very instant a tremendous branch, the size of a large tree itself, simply snapped off and landed on the fence bordering the work site and our neighbors property. Being out of sight, I assumed the loud sound was some children that have vandalized the property in the past, and I thought to myself “at last, an opportunity to confront them and yank them by the ear to their parents.” When I came around the corner and saw this huge branch blocking my path, I was surprised to say the least. As I write this, two things come to mind, the first that the tree falling on the fence was merely to say I was on the fence, a fairly obvious observation…or perhaps it was a reminder of a scene in the originally dream I mentioned earlier which itself contained a large broken tree on its side. The next sign occurred a few days later after I flipped over a brick to discover a scorpion beneath it. Keen to keep it as a pet and show it off to my neighbors I caught it in a water bottle and continued working. As I finished working and reached for my water bottle for a drink I remembered at the last moment to look down to make sure it was the bottle of water and not the bottle of scorpion. It was indeed the bottle of water, but the notion of having the option to drink refreshing water or a scorpion, and my heightened sensitivity to looking for signs meant I took this to be one, though I couldn’t discern which school was the water and which was the scorpion.

The final spiritual contribution to my decision was when, hours before the deadline, I prayed, and grabbed my, by now dusty, Bible to sit down to read it for direction. I opened it at random, like so many middle schoolers seeking divine guidance, but the place to which it opened truly did have meaning for me. It opened to James 1, likely not due to a divine hand, or my own, but because the pages and their binding had grown so accustomed to opening there. This truly was a sign, for as I read the familiar words I was reminded of who I was and received the affirmation that as long as I was true to myself, kept the words of James that I am so passionate about close to my heart and continued to persevere under trial, I would receive the crown of life promised by God.

It was with this divine blessing, some incredible and unexpected financial contributions from my immediate family, and enough planning an calculating for a lifetime on my part, that I’ve decided to attend Harvard.

So now, what does this mean for my ministry in the Middle East? The obvious questions is concerning it’s length. I will start Harvard’s program in mid-June which means that I will be coming back to America as of June, just a month from now. While this puts a hold on ministry here, I sincerely believe the training I receive at Harvard will, in the long run, allow me to be of far greater service to the current situation in Israel-Palestine, and perhaps the entire Middle East and America as well. As I mentioned in a prior blog, one of the reasons Harvard was my number one choice was because of its pluralistic environment. While I understand “pluralistic” is a vulgar word to many conservative Christians, attending Harvard Divinity School will provide me with opportunities like no other seminary in the world to study in precisely the situation I find myself here, with the hope of an outcome that will allow me to serve better here because of it. It also doesn’t hurt that I will have a world class education from the top university and top Biblical Studies and theology scholars on the planet.

I have a lifelong history of pairing ministry with the academic study of the Bible and hope that you too can see attending seminary as a continuation of my ministry rather than an interruption of it. In fact, I hope you see it as the opposite, in my commitment to do Masters level work in theology I hope you can see that in so doing I have made a lifelong commitment to serving God. Because of this, I would also welcome continued financial support through seminary if you feel so called, as there still remains a substantial need to be met, both in the money I have spent ministering here, as well as in what I will need once I begin seminary.

From my past, and future blogs I hope you can see that I truly do love serving here, the life, the culture, the places, the people, I could go on. God willing I will not be gone long.

Water

I took my first warm shower in nearly two weeks today. Life without water is a constant reminder of what life is like under occupation and the things we daily take for granted. We simple ran out of water in our building, it is a regular occurrence here in Palestine once the summer months arrive, though in Jerusalem on the Israel side this was never the case in my experience. We regained running water about a week ago about the time I decided to take a cold shower in our office, but it was not until today that the hot water returned and I was finally able to clean myself off thoroughly. During this period I took a couple sponge baths with hot water heated in a kettle, which was an experience in its own right, burning my scalp and freezing everywhere else.

Below is some stencil graffiti art, which is so popular here in Palestine, and typically doesn’t carry the stigma it would in America. It’s social, political, and religious commentary is something the entire culture groans to publically express in some form, so I’m happy to share it with people who would never see it otherwise.

A Few Words About My Grandfather's Passing

It’s hard to believe it’s been more than a month now since my grandfather passed away. The entire process of his dying is still something I feel I don’t have adequate words for, but still I’ve also felt it long overdue that I write something about it. I am so grateful that I was able to come home when I did and stayed long enough to see things through to the end. I think everyone in my family can see that God played a hand in the timing of it all. I spent a great while unsure about whether to stay or go when I originally planned, and more unsure still of how I should greave afterward. Even seeing children die over here, I have not experienced death so closely and at such a personal level; I didn’t know if I should be angry or happy, if I should mope around or continue life as usual, if I should go back to Palestine or stay. In the end I thought the best way to honor my grandfather would be to handle his death as he would want. To me this meant celebrating his passing as far as I was able, because though he is gone from sight, there is nothing sad in the thought of him at his well earned place among the saints at the heavenly banquet with our Lord. It also meant that I should stay and help my grandmother in all the ways my grandfather expected to himself by having his surgery, until at least I knew at she had the support she needed without me. Finally, it meant most of all that I should not remain idly in America where indeed I was moping around, but continue the work that made him so proud and represented a continuation of our family legacy, and his life in so many ways. Each of these events has come to fruition in a seamless way and having been here in Palestine this long now, I know I’ve made the right decision. Below I have included the slideshow of his life I made for his memorial service and a few words I spoke at his service.



I am so thankful for the example he has been to me. My family has a tremendous history of service to the church, and from his example I am proud to continue that legacy. He has shown me just how much of a servant it is possible to be, and has set a standard that I wouldn’t think was really possible had I not been watching him my whole life. What he accomplished in his lifetime is everything I aspire to. He always tried to do the right thing, the honest thing, no matter the inconvenience or personal cost to him; and he truly lived for others, even unto his death. I hope I can continue living in a way that makes him proud, and that for my sake, from time to time, you might remind me how Grandpa would have done it.

Is Going to Harvard a Stupid Idea?

Here's the situation, I got into Harvard Divinity School MTS program with a 50% scholarship, I got into Vanderbilt Divinity School MTS with a 70% scholarship. Both are virtually equal in terms of reputation in the Biblical Studies field. I have to decide which one to go to in less than a week.

My background:
I have about 40k in debt right now from undergrad
I make virtually no money
I want to teach at a Christian university after getting a PhD...or if I become disenchanted with academia, I'd probably come back here to the Middle East to work with some kind of NGO again.

I want to go to Harvard more because:
I'll be in the Jewish studies concentration under Jon Levenson, a guy I'd really like to work with, wheras I don't really know anyone from Vandy
It's pluralistic environment is more conducive to the line of work I may go into if I don't go on to a PhD
It's Harvard, and if I decide not to do a PhD in Biblical Studies, the name alone will open doors for me elsewhere
Boston seems like a nicer place to live than Nashville
I could constantly brag about going to Harvard

I'd rather go to Vanderbilt because:
It seems like the program is specifically geared toward getting you into a PhD which, right now anyway, is my goal
It would be far cheaper, like $22,000 debt for the degree versus like $50,000 (which even with loans I haven't come up with yet)
I could get a condo for the price of a room in Boston
It's Christian only (pretty much) environment is more conducive to edifying my personal faith

Here is another variable, this new Public Service Loan Forgiveness Program thing. My debt will be canceled after 10 years of being a professor (even adjunct), or working with an NGO, and I already have a year down. Am I missing something or is this, combined with income based repayment, an easy out, and essentially make the amount of loans I take out completely inconsequential? It sounds too good to be true, which makes me hesitant to rely on it, but I don't see why it wouldn't work.

Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions?

I'm Safe

I made it through all of the security checks without delay or hindrance. I walked to the Holy Sepulcher Church, arriving just before dawn, in order to watch a ceremony performed by Armenian monks entering the tomb of Christ. He wasn't there, I saw it myself!



From there I went to Christ Church (the oldest Protestant church in Jerusalem), to partake in a wonderful dawn service. We sang praises in Hebrew and English and shared communion among the congregation; it was a very powerful experience.




I arrived in Beit Sahour, the Bethlehem suburb where Paidia is located and where I am staying for now, in the afternoon. I had no trouble getting across the West Bank barrier. I put down my things and after barely sleeping a wink in 72 ours I promptly fell asleep.

Departing Again

So as not to abscond from those who don't already know, I will be going back to Israel/Palestine this Friday. I didn't give much thought to it at the time that I bought the ticket but I will be leaving on Friday afternoon (around the same hour as Christ's death on Good Friday), and should be arriving in Jerusalem shortly before dawn on Easter (around the same hour the empty tomb was discovered Easter morning). I still do not have the financial support I need to live on but I am confident the Lord will provide. Don't feel pressured to give if you cant, but if God has called on you to give I would encourage you not to ignore it.

How long I will be able to stay will depend on a number of factors, firstly getting a visa to stay. Tourist visas are typically issued for three months and are often renewable, however the interior ministry is notoriously capricious. Another factor will be where I start graduate school for theology in the fall since each school has a different start date. Yet another factor will be when I can schedule a long overdue surgery I need in coordination with when my health insurance will cover it. Finally, there is the ever looming factor of the general military and political situation, which at times can bring this kind of work to a halt.

Departure Update

Many of you have been asking when I will go back, so I figured its time to write a formal update. My original plan had me going back about now, but I have decided it would be best to stay for another month or so to tend to some important family issues that seem to have been divinely timed to coincide with my return to the States. I thought it would be inappropriate to return to the Middle East when the only direction I feel from God is indicating that I should be willing to stay here a bit longer.

When I do return I will be partnering Paidia International Development, an organization based in the Bethlehem area, and working with Shevet Achim as they allow. I’ll put up another blog when I have more solid information.

O God

“Deconstructing” is a term I’ve grown accustomed to. To me it means that deeply held assumptions and beliefs, when faced with sufficient contradicting experience, have a habit of producing cognitive dissonance, which compels a reassessment. Just like Jenga, it’s only a matter of time before chipping away at the tower leads to its collapse. It’s become such a frequent occurrence for me that I seem to have developed a bit of acrophobia since the last time I was brave enough to be introspective.

The process was introduced to me in formal academic study of the Bible, and that’s certainly where it’s been most industrious. What other field can offer such an enticement as truth of an eternal consequence…if only you study a bit more. Though the consequences seem to involve deconstructing more than constructing, I accepted long ago that it would be better to live behind a humble perimeter of reliable and genuine faith than to hide behind a bulwark of “truth” based on lesser standards.

Memory, it seems, has been among the casualties I’ve attributed to the general toll the year in the Middle East took on me, but the atrophy of my prayers remains vivid. Verbosity in prayer has never been my talent, but especially in this last year, to experience the deconstruction of prayer itself has been matched in brutally only by its intimacy. Prayer is the most authentic locus I have right now for understanding my feelings about the spiritual arena. The inability to reconcile the prayers I speak with my experiences and what I disbelieve has left me mute. The gravity of the issues before me in prayer multiplied by the deluge of internal conflict has reduced my prayers to “O God.” It’s all I can muster, and certainly these 4 characters do not supply the weight accompanying them when they escape my lips. Maybe this is truly all that’s left when the dross is finally stripped away and words cease to offer meaning for what I have to hold up to heaven. Or maybe these 4 characters are all that’s left after an overzealous deconstructive approach to Biblical Studies has taken its toll, having finally received the coup de grâce from the extreme nature of the work in the Middle East. Time shall tell.

"How was it?"

I should probably say first thing that I'm very happy to be received back by everyone and I hope I don't cause any kind of embarrassment to anyone by writing this out. It’s the question everybody asks, and I'm mostly reflecting on why it's so hard to answer.

The surreal feeling that I have experienced since landing in America is fading somewhat now, but in some ways I don’t think it will ever disappear. I have been using jet lag as my excuse for why I often feel disoriented or seem to zone out into space, but like I observed after moving to Bethlehem, it will probably require more than sleep adjustment to be fully resolved. I am also attempting to discern how much of this is strange but expected and normal granting reverse culture shock and how I am received at home, and how much is strange but not quite as normal being the product of certain experiences in the Middle East and the enduring life issues I have been addressing (many of which were waiting for me here). Whether this mental fog ever lifts, turns me into some mystic, or disappears and becomes a part of me that flavors my life as I’m praying it will, is too early to tell. It is very scary though.

It feels as though the day I left, one year ago now, I stepped into a time machine freeing me from the time and space of things here in California. I then spent one year accomplishing all the work I have undertaken, and then, as if not a day had passed here in California, I jumped back into this world. My reception so far upon returning, though I had very few expectations, has offered competing evidence for both my time machine theory, among more traditional ones. The most common question, which seems obvious, has been, “how was it?” But it’s a terribly confining one, because it doesn’t illicit a more detailed response than “it was ____.” It was good, it was terrible, it was beautiful, it was repugnant, it was faith destroying, it was seeing the face of God, it was life changing, it was normal; I could probably speak for hours about how it was any of these without contradicting another. “How was it?” is the same question people ask about a dentist’s appointment, a weekend vacation, or a week long missions trip, and probably the question someone might ask if I had stepped in a time machine and, in their time, appeared the next day. Part of the difficulty I’m sure is there is really no normal question to ask, it’s probably a task no easier than it is for me to answer “how was it?” in a word. After the initial fumbling over the question it seems that within a few minutes things return to how they were before I left; but even if there was no time machine, how else would people act but normally?

Perhaps in some way, “how was it?” is the question people would put to the Justin they knew before I left, and the hesitation is around discerning if I’m the same person. When I respond as a normal person, without some saintly missionary reply, the social dynamic returns to me being the same down to earth Justin as before I left, almost as if I hadn’t. I guess what I mean by a lot of this is that I am very much the same in most places that people might look for change or be concerned about, but there are many changes and fresh avenues for engagement, conversation, etc. “So tell me what it’s like to watch a child die?” is certainly a question I couldn’t meaningfully respond to before I left, and asked in the right way, is probably one I could answer more clearly than “how was it?”

The other implication is asking in past tense, which while again seeming like common sense, isn’t the way it feels to me. Geographically I suppose I am distant from where the aspects of my work that garners the greatest attention are accomplished, but I am still living it now. I feel no more separated from the experience here, and I am certainly still processing many things. You mean, “how is it?” Uncertainty about whether I will go back is probably due to my vagueness on the subject, but it’s something you get used to working in the Middle East that I realize doesn’t translate well back here. I am trying to go back, probably in early February. Whether or not I will be allowed into the country, how long I’ll be allowed in for, and detailed specifics about the work I will do there in the future is largely out of my control. Enshallah (God willing, or as God wills), is the best I can offer right now.

Safely Home

I’m 38,000 feet over Missouri as I write this. So far everything on the journey home has gone relatively well. Getting through Israel security on the way out was exactly what I expected; meaning it was everything. Upon entering airport security every person is assigned a number 1-6, 1 being for example the least threatening little old Orthodox Jewish lady who’s never left the country; 6 being someone extremely threatening and potentially dangerous, me for example. I received just about every test they could do that didn’t involve me taking off all my clothes (I was taking to a back room behind a curtain, where I had every inch of me patted down multiple times however). Every book I brought, which was in the neighborhood of 30 was opened and flipped through to see if anything was in between the pages, every item was tested for chemical weapons and explosives, etc. I even got a few interrogations, which I managed to make light hearted since I knew the security officers doing them were likely no older than me. After a couple hours I was through security and, having expected the worst from the security in advance, still made it on my flight with plenty of time. Whether you find it comical or something more, I thought people would be interested to see my bags stamped with 6, 6, 6.

I spent three days on the East Coast during my layover in JFK. My ticket was the same price if I took the next plane to Los Angeles a few hours or a few days later. Having never been to the East Coast, I thought it would be a good idea to stop off and see some sites and visit some of the graduate schools I’m applying to at Harvard and Yale. After purchasing my ticket, and as my arrival in New York City was quickly approaching I began to realize just how big of an operation accomplishing the East Coast adventure would be. Especially considering I was still in a mode of mental recovery I felt in over my head. But would you know it, the entire trip went without a hitch, and much better than I could have expected, thanks mostly to some family friends living in Brooklyn who took great care of me. My visits to Yale and Harvard went very well, I showed up at Harvard Divinity School without any kind of appointment, noticed a student tour passing by shortly after I arrived, and jumped right in. The student leading the tour was in the same program I'm applying to and is from Southern California so asking her questions was very helpful. I got a lot of great info from staff at Yale, and was able to sit down to lunch with some Divinity students; not at all the blue bloods I was worried about. I also had the opportunity to see a lot of sites before leaving NYC, Rockefeller Center, Time Square, Ground Zero, etc.

I'll be home for Christmas

I will be home next week for the Christmas season to visit, and to raise support and awareness. As my departure nears I am fighting a strong sentimental bond I have developed with this place during my short stay here. There is so much I have yet to do, and so much more I wish I could have done, though I suppose these feelings are common. It feels a bit ironic to be living in Bethlehem itself, and leaving it for Christmas; I hope you can appreciate the sacrifice in this.

Please pray for my safety as I travel, and that I will get through security with few hassles. I will be trying to get through security at about 8pm Saturday night (PST), please pray for this time especially. I will be back in LA sometime late Wednesday evening. Because the price of my flight was the same regardless of how long my layover in NYC is, I decided to take a few days, having never been to the East Coast, to visit NYC, Harvard, and Yale where I am applying for Master’s programs in Theology. Please keep this time in your prayers as well, as I attempt to make myself presentable facing 7 hours of jet lag, reverse culture shock, and having never been in the temperatures expected during my stay. I look forward to seeing you all shortly! If you would like to receive information about the work I am doing and/or support me and would like to meet in person just shoot me a message here, on facebook, email, whatever is easiest for you.

1,000th Palestinian treated through Save a Child's Heart Program

Save a Child's Heart (SACH) is the organization of doctors and support staff who perform the surgeries. The families showcased in the video aren't acting it up for the camera, they are all as thankful and nice as they seem.

The Other Side of the Wall

I’ve been living in Bethlehem for about a month now (more on that later). Some 20 years ago, I was barely 4, and Berlin had some big wall come down. I hear it carried the momentum to finally end Communism in Europe. I don’t remember much about it honestly, I know a thing or two about walls here though. I’ve been the the Gaza border probably 100 times at least. If I walk 30 seconds down the street I can see the wall to the East in the distance, blocking off a certain hill the Israelis built on without paying a penny to the Palestinian land owners who were subsequently blocked by the wall (probably the most well documented case). A 10 minute walk up the hill to the North and I’m at the Bethlehem wall itself. They call it a lot of different things, the Apartheid Wall by Palestinians, the Security Fence by Israelis, and neutrally the “separation barrier” or similar moniker by the media. Not going to stick my nose out and say anything politically provocative, but I think everyone can agree that making giant concrete walls covered in barbed wire with guard posts are not the proudest achievements a progressive culture can make, whether necessary or not. I’ll let the politicians…politic. There's not much to say that doesnt involve getting into big issues, so here are a few simple thoughts this wall has given me from primary experience as I pass by it:

“wow, I am not wanted,”

“there must be some kind of minotaur on my side, these streets are quite labyrinth like, I’m kind of worried!”

“it’s trying to keep inside,”

“man this thing is tall, they must really not want me to be on the other side,”

“there has to be something secret or valuable on that side,”

“it looks greener over there,”

“this is the world’s biggest canvas,”

“this thing has to be 30 feet tall, with barbed wire at the top, seems like a little overkill..,”

“I feel sorry for all these business right on this side with their brand new view of concrete and …more concrete,”

“I wonder, if we got enough people to march around this thing blowing trumpets for a few days..,”

“there are cracks in it, and it seems just as famous, maybe I should start sticking prayers in it”

“if they weren’t so…than this wouldn’t be… yeah but if they didn’t…no one would…”

“Jesus probably wouldn’t be too happy about this”


Crossing the border isn’t so bad, I’d take it over an LA commute for sure. Depending on the time of day there will sometimes be a line, and you have to go through a bunch of metal detectors…take off the belt and the shoes, put your hand on a handprint scanner, present an ID, walk by a bunch of heavily armed and very bored soldiers. Generally, I just do my best to look like some yokel tourist from America, patriotically flash them my US passport and they typically let me circumvent a lot of the security.

Escapees and Voluntary Prisoners

It was another Gaza day, but today I had another doctor that I was bringing out in addition to the usual one. This doctor wasn’t coming to treat patients with the Israeli doctors however, he was coming to be admitted at a hospital in Israel for cancer treatment. I was to drop him off at another hospital we work with after letting off our usual Gaza patients at another hospital. So here I was chit chatting on the drive from Gaza to Tel Aviv with two of the most distinguished medical professionals that live in the Gaza Strip. Many of the governments in the Middle East choose the jobs of citizens based on how well they score in school, and in order to be a doctor in Gaza one must score in the top few percent, so these men were also among the smartest and well educated. These two men are some of the few people that, if they wanted to, could get out of the Gaza Strip, make much more money, live in a much nicer place with all the things we daily take for granted, and certainly be far safer. And still they spoke about what they did as though they could do nothing else, to hear them speak and share their story, their compassion and desire to serve their people was very powerful. The doctor coming for treatment was in obvious physical pain toward the end of the drive but we soon made it to the hospital. Like most things in Israel the hospitals have security, but far tighter than most other places, with guard shacks and armed security at every entrance; they usually search the trunk and in the case of Palestinians their bags as well. This doctor was held up for probably 15 minutes while they checked his permission and searched his things, but when I finally dropped him he off unphased, and as very gracious and thankful as ever.

After dropping the doctor off, I returned to the other hospital where I had dropped off the Gaza patients. After all the tests and echocardiograms were finished for the patients I got them loaded up in my van to return back to Gaza. Before getting in, a father with his son of about 15 asked me if he could run to the hospital pharmacy to buy some medicine for his wife. Understanding their need and knowing how expensive things are in Gaza I told them they could go, but I told them to hurry since the other families were already waiting in the van, and I sent Erica our Gaza coordinator to escort them. When they got to the pharmacy in the hospital mall the father told the son to wait outside while he and Erica ran in to get what they needed. When they came out of the pharmacy they immediately noticed the son was not where they left them. The father turned to Erica and asked where he was, and after a moment of looking around them the father said they should split up to look. The father went one way and Erica the other. After almost half an hour of waiting in the van with the other families I called Erica to find out what the trouble was. She told me the situation and I immediately got out and began to look around the hospital myself. I told Erica that if we couldn’t find the son soon we should call the hospital security to search the hospital grounds for him. After another 15 minutes of fruitless searching I told Erica we would need to have security look for him. Erica called the Father on the phone to let him know, to which he replied “No, no, don’t call security, we’ll be at the van in five minutes!” We immediately realized we had been duped, we thought, like Gaza families commonly do, they were shopping and wanted to trick us to buy more time. Erica and I met up at the van again with the other exhausted families to wait, but again ten more minutes passed. Erica called the father again to find out where they were, only this time the line was dead, they had turned off the phone. We immediately got the attention of the security, many of whom I have become well acquainted with in this work, and informed them of the situation. After sweeping the hospital I met back with them where the disappearance originally took place, at the pharmacy. The pharmacy itself is only ten feet or so from an exit to the main street, and it was at that point we realized that there was no security check for people leaving the hospital. We approached the guard at that entrance, the security asked if he had seen the father and son. The guard said he saw them go down to the street and get in a taxi.

We had no choice but to alert the police and the security supervisor at the border that a father and teenage son from Gaza had escaped into Israel. When we brought the other families back to the border we informed the guard about the situation and he put the crossing point on notice as well (the only pedestrian crossing point in and out of Gaza)…That was the last we heard of them.

Noor

I’m crossposting this blog from one I recently posted for Shevet. My personal blog has been a little dry on Iraqis lately and I put a lot of the minutia which into this which I hope gives a true sense of the relationships and emotions. This is a little boy named Noor, “light” in Arabic, who had open-heart surgery through Shevet Achim about two weeks ago. Follow his entire story from start to finish here: http://www.shevet.org/nooriraq/

Noor was looking very good today when we visited him at Wolfson Medical Center. He was very excited to see the Shevet family and wanted to play right away. Noor is still pretty weak and needs to take it easy, so I thought a nice wheelchair ride around the hospital was in order. We stopped to enjoy the photos on the walls in the halls, and we waved “bye bye” to Noor’s mother as I wheeled him outside around the hospital grounds. We enjoyed the scenery and talked to each other the whole way, though we could scarcely understand a word the other spoke. Noor giggled the whole time and especially enjoyed the wheelchair being leaned back when we went up and down the curbs, and meowing at a cat we spotted resting under a car. We stopped by the play room on the way back and did some coloring and played on the piano.

When we arrived back at his hospital room a nurse told me some surprising news: Noor was to be released back to Jerusalem today! A doctor soon came in to do some checks and confirmed he would be allowed home today; Noor’s mother was very happy to hear this news. After the good news we enjoyed a hospital lunch together on Noor’s bed, and as usual Noor made sure I ate everything he ate. While we were waiting on a couple other things Noor decided he wanted to try out pushing the wheel chair, so I hopped in and Noor had a blast wheeling me around the room and crashing into things (and occasionally people). After about 15 minutes of this we made him stop so he wouldn’t exhaust himself, which he wasn’t happy about, but we were soon on our way home. Noor waved and said “bye bye hospital” in Kurdish as we pulled away.


On the day of Noor’s surgery, while it was taking place, I was able to get someone to snap a photo of the unique situation the Iraqi mothers and I found ourselves in. The photo below depicts all the mothers with hospitalized children in one place. The child of the mother on the far right had at this point unconscious post-surgery for more than a week, and struggling to survive. The child of the mother next to her was in the intensive care unit as well recovering from open-heart surgery. The mother in the middle is the mother of Bilal, the child in the stroller, who was enjoying his first opportunity to be outside since his surgery. The woman on the top left is Noor’s mother. Perhaps it isn’t very obvious without knowing these mothers personally, but the solidarity and even happiness these mothers exhibited during the time this photo was taken, in the midst of these terrifying times as a parent, is quite incredible. It would surely not be possible were but for their confidence in the ability of these doctors, their trust and friendship with us as we stand by them, and the supportive relationships they have built with one another.

Departure

She left a few nights ago. The past six weeks with Maddison have been wonderful.

The goodbye at the airport was terrible, though nothing like when I left her so many months ago. I convinced her that it won't be so bad if I come home for Christmas, all the while sucking back the tears myself. Who can find a woman like this, willing to stay with me after I left, never knowing when we would be together again? That would walk blindly off a precipice hoping that God would be faithful catch her.


God, through some generous supporters, did of course catch her and I both, some 6 or 7 months after I first left. When she was here it was like a day hadn’t past away from her, nothing between us had changed, and here for the first time I was able to try out just how exactly her and I work together in this kind of setting.

I don’t like to admit to learning anything from people less than 30 years my senior with anything less than multiple degrees in higher learning, but I find myself, half grumbling and half giddy, to admit just how much I've learned from her and how much potential there is for more in the future. Learning from a bubbly newly minted 20 something girl is something I can’t underestimated, or underappreciate. Where did she come from? It’s the sort of thing that makes me suspicious God has been interfering (thanks!)

We are full of plans for the future, dreams would probably be better. Ambitious notions that wouldn't be possible by one without the other. I Only wish I could act and feel in such a way deserving of this sort of attention. I've learned that in ministries such as this, where life lessons and prospects are extracted like soil is tilled, that all life’s rocks are forced to the surface begging for a toe to stub. For me they are more accurately a few boulders, and their impact more akin to life crippling. This is where I pray God (and Maddison) will deal graciously and gently with me, as I attempt shove off these limitations, or perhaps more realistically, become accustomed to their continual impeding.

It’s interesting, as gushingly romantic as it sounds, I love her more, and I’m closer to her with each goodbye. In such a way that I don’t know if I would be capable of this sort of depth of affinity to someone otherwise through any means available to me in the past. This is better, its different, closer, more legitimately God focused (however you take that), and it’s getting stronger all the time.

In the hours following Maddison’s takeoff I struggled with the temptation to follow her on the next flight, or book my next flight one way. While the latter is not out of the question, the next day, which I spent in the hospital I was reminded of how pure and meaningful this work can be, even in the mundane activities, and remembered that it was Maddison who helped turn my attention to this. She wants me to stay, as long as God would have me, because as I grow so does she, until we are reunited in His timing.