Ceasefire

Since the end of October I have worn a red and black piece of ribbon tied around my wrist with the words “It wont’ stop until we talk” printed on it.  I was asked to wear this by a good friend of mine named Robi, an Israeli mother whose son was killed by a Palestinian sniper while serving at a checkpoint in the West Bank.   I see her often on my frequent trips to Israel and the West Bank, and on this occasion she was with a Palestinian named Bisam whose 10-year-old daughter was killed by an Israeli soldier.  Just after I left them, events there once again dominated our headlines.  Yet it is easy for us to keep the violence at a distance.  We can cheer on “our side” in the conflict, whichever side that is, but this is no sporting event.  When wars are waged, the innocent die along with combatants and perpetrators.  Robi and Bisam have paid a price that is too high for any parent to be asked to pay.  Yet they refuse to demand that the deaths of their children be avenged, nor are they willing to allow them to have died in vain.  Together, and with other Israeli and Palestinian families, they cry out for an end to the violence and for a resolution that recognizes the dignity and humanity of all.  Their message is simple. This conflict will not be solved through rockets and bombs, but only through negotiations. 

To many this sounds naïve.  But as another Israeli friend of mine who lives in a farming community on the Gaza border once told me: it’s those Palestinians who fire rockets on her home thinking she and other Israelis will just go away who are naïve.  And it’s her fellow Israelis who think that if they just bomb Gaza “back into the Middle Ages” as an Israeli cabinet minister has suggested, the Palestinians will just give up and move to another Arab country, who are also naïve.

Both sides have those who look at the brokenness, at the insecurity, injustice, and hopelessness around them and draw the conclusion that violence is the only way.  And while the pessimists may have the facts, those who believe in a moral universe know that their own future is best secured when you take into account the humanity of the other.

No doubt, there are those on both sides who do not want peace at the price of accommodating the other.  They’ve had center stage far too often. These are the maximalists who insist that only their demands are legitimate; justice and security for them is only for them.  But there are Israelis and Palestinians who realize they are neighbors, who understand the other is not going away, and even some who recognize that justice and security for one requires justice and security for the other.   There are those who preference life over death, building over destruction, dialogue and compromise over rockets and bombs.  

Warning sirens, bomb shelters, safe rooms, and rocket attacks have become normal in southern Israel for some time now.  Insecurity is the new normal. These are facts that must not be ignored.  Closure, blockade, isolation, and humiliation are normative for Gazans.  Neither can this be ignored.    

A ceasefire is currently in place, and a true ceasefire was desperately needed, yet if it is not followed up with an attempt to address all activities that perpetuate the conflict (and there are many) and honestly try to resolve them, it will be but postponing the next round.  Because, as my friend Robi says, “it wont’ stop until we talk.”  But the talking has to be accompanied by and lead to action. Core issues have to be addressed, with security, freedom, legitimacy, justice and dignity for all as the aim.  Violence in the Middle East is not a video game.  Real people suffer and die.  If there are any wise leaders here or there they will find a way do the hard work of conflict resolution now while there is calm. 

The Greatest is Love--A 9/11 Reflection

I've always thought this song captured something really important about that day now 11 years ago, the shaping event of a generation. I listen to it from time to time and am convinced that appeal of this song is two things: the way it reminded us of our common humanity, and its core message--that the greatest power in the world is love. Which is not to say that evil isn't real, hatred doesn't have its appeal, innocents don't die, and the world isn't broken. But as Alan Jackson paraphrases the Apostle Paul "faith, hope and love are some good things He gave us, and the greatest is love." As we confront hatred and evil in our day, in whatever form, we should never lose sight of the fact that there is no force more powerful than love.

The Status Quo Won't Hold

Here's the money quote from "The Rise of Settler Terrorism," an excellent Foreign Affairs piece written by Dan Bynum and Natan Sachs: "Almost everything related to the Israeli-Palestinian dispute involves complex tradeoffs and sorting through opposing and often equally legitimate claims."  No real peacemaking can ever take place without dealing honestly with mutually irreconcilable narratives.  But when we are willing to listen to more than one view of the conflict and treat both with respect, room is created to build a new future on the ruins of a broken past.  

The equally important lesson I draw is the way in which this piece undermines the assumption that the status quo in this long-unresolved conflict can hold.  As a wise American diplomat once said, there is no neutral gear in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  You're either moving forward and making progress or you are going in reverse. Lack of progress toward peace strengthens radicals on both sides.  And of course there are those who believe violence is a legitimate means to achieve their goals, but violence begets violence and will bring neither lasting peace or security to either the perpetrators or the victims.   Leaders on both sides must not only be quick to condemn the use of violence, but they bear equal responsibility to be about the urgent business of pursuing peace.   The status quo does not hold, and only by providing a vision for a better future, one that finds a way to accommodate the legitimate rights of two people with deep connections to the land, can those on both sides who desire to live in peace be strengthened and those who would use violence be pushed further to the margins of their respective societies. 

Embracing the 'Radical Middle'

My friend Chris Seiple is a brilliant guy and a very able communicator. He has a preacher’s gift for explaining abstract concepts simply, and he is a keen analyst and observer of the world we live in.   He often describes his work at the Institute for Global Engagement as attempting to create a “radical middle where citizens can be respectfully honest and agree to disagree (when necessary) while maintaining relationships.”  

As someone who is weary of the American culture wars, the deep polarization in our society, and the high levels of incivility in our discourse, I confess I’m drawn to another way, almost any other way, of bringing my deeply held views into the public square.  How do we live with deep differences and at the same time advance a common good?   How do we disagree on principle without demonizing those who hold opposite views?  

To me, this notion of the radical middle is central to navigating some of our thorniest challenges in America today.  And of course among them is one of the thorniest of all:  the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  Both sides have their partisans and both quickly apply a Hogwarts-like Sorting Hat to all who would dare enter into their club.  Either you are pro-Israel or you are pro-Palestinian, but you cannot possibly be both.  And yet what if this approach has actually helped perpetuate the conflict rather than resolve it?   What if we brought our pro-Israel and pro-Palestinian sympathies into the arena and discovered that they’re not mutually exclusive?  What if we created a ‘radical middle’ that would refuse to be drawn into the conflict but would instead look for constructive ways to end it?  What if to be pro-Israel is to be pro-Palestine? And what if the opposite is equally true?   That’s a radical middle ground that could transform a lot of brokenness both here and there.  

A Biography of the Holy City

In reading Simon Sebag-Montefiore’s Jerusalem: A Biography, I am reminded of Winston Churchill’s observation: “No two cities have counted more with mankind than Athens and Jerusalem.”  A city with over three thousand years of history, the story of Jerusalem is deeply connected to its location as a place where East encounters West and humanity encounters God.  Strategically insignificant and lacking in so many of the qualities and natural resources that have historically made a city great, Jerusalem compensates mostly by its proximity to the divine.

And while the divine is never far from Sebag-Montefiore’s grand and breezy survey of the city from the days of the Canaanites until today, his focus is on Jerusalem as crossroads, battlefield, and prize for conquerors.   The indigenous residents of Jerusalem—whoever they may be at any point in time—are rarely more than pawns in larger historical dramas and military campaigns. 

Interestingly, Sebag-Montefiore’s ancestor plays his own role in Jerusalem’s history.  The famous windmill just outside the Old City and behind the King David hotel was built by Sir Moses Montefiore.  Though he’s not always a great storyteller and his book suffers from lack of an experienced editor, for a sweeping history of the much disputed, much desired, much maligned city, Sebag-Montefiore’s book is worth reading.  Some will quibble with his assessments of the modern conflict between Israelis and Palestinians, but he makes a commendable attempt to extend fair treatment to both historical narratives and various points of view.

Leaving Home

On Easter Sunday in 1997, I entered a place I’d never been before and knew I’d found a home.  At the time, Judi and I had only been in Washington for about four months.  A friend had given me a list of churches to visit and the last one on our list was The Falls Church. Though it was an historic church, predating the American Revolution, I knew little about it nor little of what to expect, but from that first Sunday it was good and right to be there. 

The liturgical worship and the sanctuary were simple, reverent and beautiful.  I felt ushered into the divine presence, directly connected to historic Christian practice and experience.  My first glimpse of the kind of preaching and teaching that came from the pulpit proved to be the pattern year after year:  biblical, relevant, authentic and hopeful.  Our rector, John Yates, understood his calling to require boldness in proclaiming biblical truth but always in a spirit of love and with deep humility.   And it was this love and humility that drew me further in to the truth he was preaching.  

Our oldest two children were with us on that first Sunday.  Abby was 3 and Zach was 8 months old.  We’ve added two more to our family in the intervening years, William and Anna, and all four have grown up in The Falls Church; it’s the only church home they’ve ever known.  They’ve grown in faith and been loved and shaped by devoted nursery workers, Sunday School teachers, youth leaders, and caring members of the congregation.   Week by week, year in and year out, so much of the patterns of our lives has been marked by activities at The Falls Church or with the church family.   Father-Daughter dances, Summers Best Two Weeks, Fusion, Crossroads, Cornerstone, Guys Go Camping, Women’s Bible studies, Shrine Mont and Canaan Valley parish retreats, and Breakaways, have all given shape and rhythm to our lives.  They’ve created community, encouraging, sharpening and challenging us, and they’ve provided places for us to serve each other and the community around us. 

And it has been here that we have also adapted our lives to the rhythm of the historic church calendar, marking the Sundays of Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, the 40 days of Lent, Good Friday, Easter and Pentecost. In particular, I love the reverent Ash Wednesday services in the Historic Church, standing to receive the ashes in the sign of the cross on my forehead and feeling connected to the generations before who have stood on those same wooden floors surrounded by those pristine white walls amidst the simple beauty of a traditional colonial Anglican worship space.   And I love the solemn Maundy Thursdays in the Main Sanctuary softly illuminated in the evening light, walking forward on worn brick to receive the Eucharist around the circular altar before the descent of darkness and the stripping of the altar, then departing in silent reverence, as we go to contemplate Jesus’ passion and prepare our hearts for the joyous celebration of Easter. 

It is The Falls Church that has most deeply connected me to ancient practices infused with living faith and fresh experience.  And it is here that I have been nourished by the regular sustenance of the Communion Table.  The Eucharist remains a mystery to me but I know that the bread and wine are as essential to me as food and water.  I am humbled to both take and serve communion in these beautiful places surrounded by other believers, as we all kneel in common humanity and need, while all around us people are singing or silently praying.   

Just as I was making my way to historic and orthodox faith, some in the leadership of the Episcopal Church were leaving it.  By 2006, most at The Falls Church felt that a fidelity to Scripture and the demands of conscience required our congregation to leave the Episcopal Church.  Much effort was devoted to arriving at an equitable agreement with the Diocese of Virginia and an amiable departure, and all proceeded according to this plan until the national Episcopal intervened and forced the Diocese to bring suit against us.  The legal battle that followed was long, filled with twists and turns, and a drain on resources for both parties.  In the end, we lost, and this weekend we will hold our last services in this historic property.   

This Sunday a few thousand of us will gather to say good-bye to sacred space, and even though all the earth is the Lord’s, surely some places are more sacred than others. And yet we know that this space is also sacred for those from within our congregation who could not leave the Episcopal church with us and who will now be returning, few though they are, to a place rich in meaning form them as well.   Our prayers are that this space, hallowed over the past 275 years as faithful people have gathered to encounter the living God, will continue to be a place where Christ is proclaimed and where his transformative and redemptive power breaks free into a broken world. 

Amazingly, the pain of this transition now upon us has not led to bitterness or rancor, and for that we can at least in part thank our good rector for his 30 years of preaching, teaching and living kingdom values, but also for the way in which he has shepherded us these past few months.   A lesser man could have nurtured ill feelings and resentment but John has shown us by word and example that Christ is faithful when we are not, and that He can be trusted no less in difficult times than in seasons of prosperity.  

As we leave the buildings we do not say good-bye to the church, because, of course, the church is more than the space in which it gathers.  So even though most of us will go with sadness and feelings of apprehension, we are also thankful that it is through such trials that we can grow in our understanding of who God is and how we are to live as his people.   I can honestly say I am filled with hope for the future of our church.  We know that the world we live in is often more like Good Friday than Easter Sunday, but you can’t stop Sunday from coming.   And next Sunday when we gather in a middle school in Arlington, we’ll be without our robes and vestments, our prayer books and communion silver, but we will be together as a family worshipping the same faithful God who is both unchanging and continually making all things new.  May the God we serve meet us there.

Implicated People

They came to Washington from across the country, from as far away as the Southwestern desert and California.  Some wore clerical collars and crosses, others skinny jeans, mussed hair, and fashionably slim ties.  They were men and women of good will, representing a broad cross-section of American Christian tradition and expression, along with seasoned activists and policy experts, all united in their commitment to seeing an end to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  

Their gathering at an august think thank in Washington, DC, felt like something remarkable.  These are leaders with no interest in dividing the world into sheep and goats based on nationality or ethnicity.  They have eyes to see more than one side of a story, and they came rooted in a commitment to universal human dignity.  They are not blind to injustice, violence and hatred; in fact, each has relationships with real Israelis and Palestinians who bear the consequences of a decades-old conflict.  No, these are not naïve dreamers, just people who have seen too much and have been drawn too deeply in.  They have been drawn into the stories, lives and work of those in the Middle East who refuse to be enemies. And they now feel too implicated to walk away.  

There is a unique power that comes from people who understand all too well how broken the world is, and yet somehow know that this was not how it was meant to be.  As women and men of faith, they are people  who will not give the last word to the cynic, nor cede the field to those who would perpetuate conflict by embracing flawed theologies and divisive worldviews.  They are ambassadors of a message of hope and reconciliation, and each believes a solution remains possible.  Aaron Niequist, a talented musician, songwriter, and worship leader, said it best:  “It will either work for both sides, or it will work for neither.”  And it was in that spirit that they met.  Some were old friends, many met for the first time at this gathering.  Each has a gift and each makes a contribution to the common good, but the beauty of their coming together was the way in which their unity was so much greater than the sum of their individual parts.  And for three days they told stories, asked questions, strategized, and imagined ways they could be better, stronger, and louder advocates and peacemakers.  Strangely for Washington, egos were checked at the door.  No one spoke just because of how much they loved to hear their own voice.  When the last session was over, many lingered, and it felt much more like the beginning of something than the end.