A Woman on the Road to Christian Unity

"Is the road to unity a short road or a long road?"

I was asked this question by an Italian Catholic priest I met at the reception following the service of Prayer for Christian Unity hosted at our "home" congregation here, the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer. Tuesday was our evening to welcome diverse visitors of the many different churches represented in Jerusalem. The Week of Prayer for Christian Unity has been observed around the world for 105 years, and in Jerusalem we have the opportunity to worship in the Latin and Greek Catholic, Greek, Armenian, Ethiopian, and Syrian Orthodox, Anglican, and Lutheran churches. It's a unique chance to see these stunning places of worship and pilgrimage while praying in solidarity with the many kinds of Christians living in the Middle East. It was a thrill to see our Redeemer sanctuary filled with priests, bishops, cardinals, sisters, brothers, and believers of every rite. Of course, each service is unique. Ours included a joint choir of the English, German, and Swedish congregations and an inspiring sermon in English from Bishop Younan appreciating the gifts of the various churches represented in Jerusalem.

But the most unique aspect of our service is one that I've too often taken for granted as an ordinary fact of my daily life -- we ordain women. Of the twenty Protestant clergy leading worship at Redeemer (and the dozens more presiding at other hosting churches during the course of the week) I was one of three women pastors -- United Church of Christ, Presbyterian, and German Protestant -- leading prayers as well as singing in the choir.

At ecumenical services, I invariably encounter someone who has never met a woman pastor. Though I attended other services this week, I was not wearing my robe, so I wasn't identifiable as clergy until we hosted the service at Redeemer. I was excited about the service, but I couldn't help being a bit apprehensive about how I would be received by the priests and heads of other churches that have strong stances against ordaining women. But after announcing the passing of the peace and stepping down from the chancel to shake hands with our guests, my anxiety melted away as I was met with friendly smiles and greetings in many languages.

Following the service, we gathered for an Agape reception. Still wearing my robe and green stole, I was approached by several visitors of Catholic and Orthodox backgrounds. Two young Franciscan monks from Mexico asked where I was from, and were happy to meet another North American. "We're neighbors!" They took turns posing for photos with me.

And four tourists from Ireland and Italy had lots of questions about me -- What are you wearing? Does that mean you're a priest? What kind of church do you serve? Where are you from? One of them shared that he was a priest too, and we agreed that we had much in common (though my Italian and their English was equally pitiful!). We remarked that solidarity among Christians of diverse churches has become more important than ever in these days following incidents of deadly violence against Christian minorities in Iraq and Egypt. And then the priest asked me the question: So, do you think the road to Christian unity is a short road or a long road?

It may sound trite, but the answer came to me instantly in that moment. The distance may be a long way for governments, church leaders, Popes; but between you and me it doesn't have to be far at all. Energized by the excitement of the service and the buzz of the refectory where we stood sharing bread and wine and conversation, I think it was evident to us that a simple gesture of peace carries the power to bridge more than a thousand years of controversy. I have no illusion that the partiarchal churches of the world will in my lifetime be transformed -- but I do know that there's a priest in Italy who now has a positive memory of meeting an ordained woman, and that I have been blessed by the kindness of this new friend whose own church is torn over the issue of empowering women in leadership.

I leave you with a shameless plug for Leora Tanenbaum's brilliant book exploring these very issues. Taking Back God: American Women Rising Up for Religious Equality just hit the bookstores in a new paperback version, and features insights from interviews Leora conducted with over 100 women leaders of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim communitites -- including yours truly! I can't wait to reread it in light of the experiences I have had this year living in East Jerusalem.

Tim and I can feel that you are praying for us -- for our safety and happiness in a conflicted land. Let us all remember to pray also for unity, religious freedom, and friendship among God's diverse and yet divided people.

Fear not -- Love is born!

Christmas greetings to you from the Holy Land! We have spent the past few days amid the crowds in Bethlehem, counting down the moments to Christmas. After attending all five of the Christmas pageants at our Lutheran schools in Jerusalem, Ramallah, and Bethlehem, it was time to party! When you've gotten used to snowy, indoor Christmas celebrations in the Midwest as we have, it's surreal to walk around Bethlehem with temperatures in the 70s, cotton candy and corn on the cob for sale on every corner, and joyful music blasting from every store -- English Christmas carols mixed in with the Arab pop dance tunes we usually hear. We loved the parade of scouts, boys and girls of all ages from all the surrounding towns, marching with bagpipes, brass instruments, and drums. Not only is Christmas a religious holiday in Bethlehem, but a proud day of civic celebration for all the Christian and Muslim residents who flood into Manger square for the biggest party of the year, welcoming tourists from all over the world.
Also surreal, however, is this day of celebration in the midst of political and economic crisis. We may live in very different times than Jesus did, but the message of God's birth into a world overcome with fear is hauntingly relevant for people living here today. In his sermon at Christmas Lutheran Church in Bethlehem last night, Bishop Munib Younan lifted up the first words of the angels, "Fear not! We bring you GOOD news!" Good news in a time of poverty and occupation. News we all need to hear in the midst of a broken peace process and great suffering:

"Palestinians and Israelis today face a common enemy: fear. In the absence of justice and peace, the common demoninator is fear. Fear of the other. Fear for the future. Fear that freedom is not coming. Fear that children will grow in hatred. Fear insecurity. Fear of the occupation. Fear is our common prison that keeps us locked up in cycles of mistrust and shattered dreams."
Click here to read the full text of Bishop Younan's Christmas Message.

Bishop Younan suggested that if each of us could follow these angelic instructions to Fear Not, the rest would follow. It is not merely the actions of an "other" that hold us back from peace and creative solutions to this seemingly endless conflict. It is fear itself. What would happen if we all let go of that fear that paralyzes us?

A favorite Arabic Christmas carol, "Lailatal-Milad," or "Christmas Night," offers an answer...

On the night of Christmas, hatred will vanish.
On the night of Christmas, the Earth blooms.
On the night of Christmas, war is buried.
On the night of Christmas, love is born.

May peace be with you, no matter who you are or where you are on life's journey. God is with us!

Manger Square on Christmas Eve

Olive Juice

It is fall, and around here that means the olive harvest. And, this past weekend we had the honor of harvesting olives on the Mount of Olives. The Lutheran World Federation has over 800 olive trees on its compound atop the Mount of Olives. The 40 of us that gathered for the day of harvesting removed olives from the trees with the use of an orange, plastic hand rake, not unlike something one might see a child using in the sandbox, or at the beach. The little rakes are pulled through the branches like a comb through knotted hair. The olives that are pulled from the branches fall onto the large tarps laid below with a sound (and feel, for those unfortunate enough to be working below) of a hail storm. It was fun, the community of friends and neighbors with whom we shared this experience included American, Canadian, Palestinian, Israeli, Norwegian, Danish, Scottish, Irish, English, German, and Dutch from ages 15 months to... well, a respectable retirement age. Over the course of the day we de-olived 39 trees, filling 17 very large burlap sacks of olives. In case you weren't sure – that is a lot of olives and a lot of olive juice!

Of course, “olive juice” is much more than the delicious oil we dip our bread into at the 'Macaroni Grill'.  The ancient biblical texts prove that there is a long history of using olive oil in ritual practices be it in the temple or for for the anointing of kings and prophets (even today, we anoint people with oil at baptism). Olive oil is also good for us. Today, we know that olive oil helps to control LDL ("bad") cholesterol while raising HDL ("good") cholesterol and that it has high levels of antioxidants. But, much before science had to 'prove' things to us, people used olive oil for its healing properties. And, again, the Bible shows us this. For example, Isaiah 1:6, in describing various states of unhealthiness, describes “..and open sores, not cleansed or bandaged or soothed with oil." And, who hasn't silently mouthed 'olive juice' to someone, hoping (even if jokingly) that they would misinterpret the words as “I love you.”

Do you recall the parable Jesus tells about the man on the road to Jericho (Luke 10:25-37)? You might know it better as the story of the good Samaritan. The man is on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho when he is beaten nearly to death, stripped of his clothes and left to die. Two very religious men notice the man but avoid him and walk on past. The third man, a Samaritan, stops and takes great care of the beaten man. As John notes: "Jews do not associate with Samaritans"(John 4:9b); so, this act is significant. The Samaritan gives him clothing, an animal to ride, and even brings him to an inn and pays for his continued recovery there. But before taking him to the inn, this most unlikely of saviors bandages him, pouring soothing oil on his wounds.

The question which initiates Jesus to tell this parable is a simple one: the Torah tells us to love our neighbor as ourselves (Leviticus 19:18); but, who is our neighbor?  The Bible is pretty clear on this point, that we are commanded not to help only those close to us, but even our enemies (Exodus 23:4-5, Proverbs 24:17, and again, quite bluntly, from Luke). Our neighbors may be near to us, or very distant; they could be our best friends, or our obvious foes; but, more often than not, our neighbors are people we have never met. There are many wounds that need soothing in this world. Some wounds are bodily, though many are emotional, and yet other wounds are the symptoms of conflict: anger, hatred or, as in the the parable, the inability to recognize humanity in the “other.” The parable suggests that one of the worst things we can do is ignore the suffering of anyone - everyone who suffers is our neighbor.

"Human suffering anywhere concerns men and women everywhere."
– Elie Wiesel (Night)

Being here in the Holy Land it seems like it would be impossible to ignore some of the suffering that happens around us. Yet, the polarization and intentional separation (both physical and social) between 'neighbors' here is astonishing. The rifts are deep (though not ancient, as often assumed). This social dichotomy makes it obvious that any peace program that fails to include reconciliation will certainly be unsuccessful. However, as Elie Wiesel acknowledges, the suffering here is not only a local problem. We are all neighbors to the people of the Holy Land. And, as people of social justice, as people of human rights, or, simply, as people of faith we are called not only to recognize suffering, but also to show compassion, to love and to do what we can to soothe the wounds of our neighbors.

The olives we harvested this week were pressed for oil at the winery mention in our earlier post. The oil was brought back to the LWF compound where it will be packaged along with locally made, hand-crafted glass bottles and shipped around the world to churches and individuals that have requested a box (or many boxes!) by providing a donation to the LWF. These individual bottles of olive oil from the Mount of Olives can then be sold (often through youth groups, Circles, or mission teams) in the local congregations. The donations received through this project are directed to the Augusta Victoria Hospital's fund for the poor, which enables the hospital to give treatment to those that may otherwise receive no relief from their ailments.

From the LWF property, on top of the Mount of Olives, we can look to one side and see the ancient city of Jerusalem; to the other side we can look out over the Judean desert towards Jericho. Here on this spot, standing on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, is a hospital serving an often voiceless population. Through the donations received, the oil pressed from the olives we harvested will help - in some small way - to soothe the wounds of a neighbor whom we will never know. Thus, through the picking of olives (or, buying the oil of those olives), we are each enabled to recognize a suffering neighbor whom we can imagine being soothed as we silently mouth the words: “olive juice.”

I Wish

I have an American colleague here who, when introduced to someone with an Arabic name, always asks what their name means. I used to think this was odd -- not something we would do back home! But in Arab culture, names are very important, and people always have an answer for my friend. Said means "happy." Amira means "princess." Du'a' means "prayer." Sura means "to travel by night." Taghreed means "singing as a bird." One of my favorite names for a boy is Issa, which is the Arabic translation of Jesus.
I noticed a while ago that people often smile enthusiastically when I tell them my name. Recently, I learned that this is because my name has a wonderful meaning in Arabic. A friend aptly named Samir (which means "entertaining companion") explained to me that Amal means "hope" or "wish," and Amali turns it into "my hope" or "my wish." I feel quite blessed every time someone repeats my name with a smile, recognizing that it has a special meaning.
But I must confess that living up to this hopeful name is a challenge to me. Am I worthy of my name these days? Does a woman named Hope complain about the dusty, hot, stale desert air that's been stuck over Jerusalem for the past week? Does Hope become more and more disappointed and cynical as she watches the peace process disintegrate? Does Hope complain on a daily basis about stress and aching muscles while neglecting the yoga and meditation that she knows will keep her healthy? Does Hope ever simply wake up in a bad mood? I sure do.
But so does everybody, right? Our names are not meant to describe an ideal person, but the unique, precious individual our parents envisioned us becoming. A name is a gift, calling us to be the best version of ourselves. Maybe this new understanding will bring me a blessing, lift me up. Instead of feeling inadequate and unworthy of my own name, I can look to it as a touchstone, bringing me back to the person I wish to become. Mindful, hopeful, open, looking forward.

A Day Off

Lord Christ, Lord Vishnu, and all the others of whatever name,
Let everyone in the world who suffers
Have a day off, putting their lips to the holy wine, to the holy waters.


I recently encountered this Mary Oliver poem that expresses just the feeling I have tried to name lately: the exhaustion of living in awareness of all the suffering in this land, and the need to simply retreat once in a while to mindfully witness the pleasures that make Jerusalem so special. It's my prayer for all those observing holidays this week; for Labor Day, for the end of Ramadan, for Rosh Hashanna and Yom Kippur. As we live through these tense times, let's take a moment to taste some really good olives. Let's slide our sandals along the ancient, polished cobblestone streets that have carried so many of our ancestors on their way to pray. Let's sing (or hum) a favorite hymn in a huge, empty church with out-of-this-world acoustics. Let's eat those yummy syrupy pancakes they only sell during Ramadan. Let's smell the roses, and pet the cats who live in the garden. Let us speak only peace, and really mean it.

Harvesting Peace (and Merlot)

The Mount of Olives in Jerusalem has witnessed many battles in its history. The western slope of the hill was where the Romans camped out in 70 CE as they waited to capture Jerusalem; nearly 1900 years later, it became a key battlefield as Jordanian and Israeli armies fought to establish their border. But today, it's the home of the Lutheran World Federation's ministries and other faith-based organizations. During the summer, it's also where we play volleyball and enjoy church potlucks. How does a battlefield transform into a backyard, with olive trees, grape vines, and a volleyball court?
A lot of healing work, according to Mark Brown, LWF's representative in Jerusalem. The most visible symbol of healing is the Augusta Victoria hospital, providing care that Palestinians cannot receive anywhere else. Another is the grape harvest Tim and I participated in Friday morning. In cooperation with a local Trappist monastery, we grow Merlot grapes here, and harvest them with the help of volunteers. Yum!
At the monastery's winery, where we delivered the grapes, I discovered a beautiful garden path near the church, and this sign (above). Another arrow to follow... the way of peace.

Two Worlds

It is often thought of as an issue that needs no introduction; yet, it is an issue which few of us have ever really studied. So, we assume most of our readers are not very familiar with the details or even larger picture of the situation in the Holy Land with regard to the struggles between Israel and the Palestinian Territories. As we traverse the complicated realities of this landscape over this year in Jerusalem, we expect to learn and grow in our understanding. We hope to unravel some of these issues from time to time as we walk with the the people of this beautiful and tragic place.

On Thursday, a memorial event was held on the Hebrew University campus, for the eighth anniversary of the bombing in the cafeteria July 31, 2002. That day, a Hamas terrorist left a bomb in a backpack at lunchtime, killing nine people and injuring about a hundred. We remember it vividly, too – Tim had just returned to Chicago from Israel when the bombing occurred, and we watched the news as students and faculty were carried on stretchers from the cafeteria where Tim had eaten just days before. One friend who witnessed the attack remembers how long the fear lasted, even after the initial shock had passed. For months, no one would go near the cafeteria. Years later, the memory is still raw, and it is fitting to observe the anniversary by sharing memories and taking seriously that the wounds will never really disappear. To fear that such violence can happen anywhere, anytime, is a psychological and physical suffering no one deserves.

An extreme incident of violence such as the cafeteria bombing should cause us all to be outraged, and to commit ourselves to finding non-violent ways of solving the problems plaguing the Holy Land. But, too often, fear and grief motivate us toward taking sides rather than building bridges. We dig in our heels a little deeper, and the cycle repeats itself again and again. Noticing the prominent use of Israeli flags at this memorial event on Thursday– including a giant blue and white tent that provided shade for the mourners – we couldn’t help wondering if the memory of this attack is also being used to reinforce a more political message about the continued need for state security through military occupation. Bombings like this one are frequently cited as the motivation for the separation barrier between the Palestinians and the Israelis and why the Palestinians have limited rights compared with the citizens of Israel (such as separate/inferior roads, restrictions on movement, poor sanitation and utilities, inadequate schools, limited access to religious and business centers, and subjection to military rather than civil courts). Certainly, many Israelis hold complex views about the actions of their government and military, but to voice these opinions is unpopular – and mandatory military service for all Israelis complicates their lives even further.

The memory of this bombing has prompted us to talk about how uncomfortable it can be to live in and between these two worlds; holding in our hearts the grief of both Israelis and Palestinians. While Tim studies at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, Emily works with the Lutheran schools for Palestinian students, and we live in East Jerusalem among Palestinians and the international staff of church agencies and humanitarian NGOs. It might be easier to give in to the temptation to simply pick a side, and surround ourselves with people we feel are most similar to us. It is much more challenging at times, but we have chosen to cultivate relationships within our Israeli, Palestinian, and international communities. We are called to meet each one with respect for their religious and ethnic identity; to listen to their stories; to accept their hospitality; and perhaps to offer through our friendship a safe place in this divided world to share ideas and opinions.

We are inspired by individuals and organizations willing to enter the messy terrain of understanding various “sides” at once. We'd like to share an article by one of these individuals, David Gershon, who sought out reconciliation with the family of the terrorist who injured his wife in the cafeteria bombing, and the website of the organization "Parents Circle Family Forum" (PCFF) which brings together Israeli and Palestinian families that have lost loved ones in the conflict. We believe that when a lasting peace is reached, it will depend, in part, on international pressure insisting that there is room for everyone here, and that no group needs to disappear for another to feel safe.