I am back in the States. After a whirlwind of leaving Palestine, visiting beloved family and friends in Minnesota, my sister’s engagement in Texas, and moving my entire life to North Carolina, I am tired. I often times find myself missing the place and people I called home over the past year. The word “home,” in fact, has become much more complicated for me. All of these changes, coupled with my natural tendency to constantly reflect, make for quite the mess in my head right now. I often process through writing, conversation, and theological reflection, and the opportunity to deliver a sermon at St. Barnabas (one of my sending congregations) afforded me the chance to do all three.

This sermon is messy. It is not neatly tied together. There are clear loose ends – much like the loose ends in my heart now.

It is real. And, I hope it is faithful to both my experience and the experience of those I love in Palestine. It is the least I can do, given how much their hospitality, grace, humor, friendship, and love touched the deepest parts of my soul.

Finally, I hope it is faithful to the story of the God who called us together.

Sermon, St. Barnabas Lutheran, Micah 6:1-8, 7/14/2019.

You reach into your closet located in the living room below your host family’s – the Haddads – parsonage home, and pull out the thickest blanket you find, throw it into the back of the car, and head outside the city. The moment you lay the blanket on the ground, you pray that no spiny plants will jab up through it and elicit a yelp of pain. You and your friends, a young man and woman whom are originally from a town outside Jerusalem called Lifta but grew up in Ramallah, Saudi Arabia, and Jordan due to the violence of military occupation, settle again into one of your favorite escapes, a place called Ein Qinia. Birds sing. A breeze – carrying the pleasant aroma of innumerable flowers – drifts past. The quiet, juxtaposed with the chaotic buzz of the city, is deafening. 

Discussion wanders between Ibrahim’s longing to visit Lifta, his ancestral village that is only eleven miles away outside Jerusalem, impossible due to restrictions on movement imposed by the Israeli government, to the results of your last Jackaroo board game match together. The sun begins to set, brightening with a deep orange the horizon of the sea and the skyscrapers of Tel Aviv and the minarets of Palestinian villages and the guard towers outside Israeli settlements and the outlines of olive tree-covered rolling hills. It is all right here. 

Humans. Ideologies. Love. Hate. Hope. Despair. Grief. Laughter. The Land.

In this sermon, I invite you to engage, with me, the living power of scripture and Christ’s Gospel through the lens of the lived experience of Palestinians in the context of Jerusalem and the West Bank. This is born out of my time spent as a Young Adult in Global Mission (a.k.a. YAGM) this past year in Ramallah, Palestine. In particular, I hope to explore the idea of “ascent,” and how it relates to accompanying those in their pursuit of loving kindness, doing justice, and walking humbly. 

I want to, at the beginning, be clear about what these next few minutes will not be. This is not a presentation on my time living overseas. This is not me coming from on high with the solution to conflict in the Middle East. I am not here to neatly wrap up with a clean theological bow just how we, as privileged American Christians, are exactly to respond to the reality of injustice both domestically and abroad. This is not an exposition of how all Palestinians or, frankly, any Palestinian, actually thinks about their life in the Land. 

I am here as a fellow wayfarer trying to grapple with the story of a God who became a human – a human who lived, healed, wept, suffered, listened, laughed, died, and resurrected – in light of my experience with the “living stones” (as they like to call themselves) who reside in the land we call “holy.” These stones bear names. Imad. Ibrahim. Majd. Rula. Mays. Naseef. David. Barhoum. Aseel. Salameh. Scarlett. Daniel. Mansura. Aicha. Jamal. Maha. Eli. Reem. They span religions and degrees of religiosity. 

Yet, they have changed the way I experience God and destroyed the illusion that we can approach scripture from a somehow elevated, analytical position where we can discern exactly what God is speaking in these words that were pieced together in a particular historical context and in a particular community for a particular purpose, all the while overcoming our own biases that may cloud our interpretation. 

Palestinians, and in particular the Lutheran community in which I spent the majority of my time this past year, are honest. Often brutally so. Pastor and Theologian Mitri Raheb from Bethlehem told our YAGM cohort one time that Palestinians are interacting with the Bible with their situation as an oppressed, displaced people in their own homeland, in mind. In fact, many Palestinian Christians read scriptures with the mindset that they are, in fact, the people of Israel in the Bible, a people who lived under the dominance of various empires spanning from the Babylonians to the Romans. 

In the context of the passage from Micah we read today, the ancient Kingdom of Israel (which I would, for many reasons, distinguish from the nation-state of today) was recently conquered by the Assyrian King Sennacherib. Micah, the traditional author of the book, was a contemporary of biblical figures such as the Prophet Isaiah, King Hezekiah, and the Prophet Hosea. In it, he is grappling with the devastation wrought by the Assyrians, God’s action in it all, and the proper response of the people of God. This book is often cited for its prophecy regarding the Messiah’s future origin from the barely-regarded city of Bethlehem.

Micah 6 starts with an indictment that the prophet calls for the mountains to hear. This brings to mind the topography in the Holy Land, in particular around Jerusalem and Ramallah. The psalms of ascent are the traditional spiritual songs sung while on the way to Jerusalem for worship. Ascent implies elevation, which necessitates inclines – a reality I became very acquainted with this past year, especially when walking (thankfully) down the Mount of Olives on Palm Sunday with the Bishara family and two fellow YAGMs, Eli and Calla. That family generously invited us to accompany them as we processed among church leaders, international pilgrims, and Israeli soldiers primed to arrest anyone who dared to fly a Palestinian flag. The weight of one and a half year-old Wa’el on my shoulders and the laughter of Salameh Bishara will never leave my memory.

My host father, Pastor Imad Haddad, has to undergo his own kind of “ascent” every time he enters Jerusalem. As a Palestinian, to enter Jerusalem he needs special permission from the Israeli government (called tasreiH in Arabic). He is able to secure this largely in part due to his status as a minister. I recall going with him once to Jerusalem for a large ecumenical service at the Redeemer Church in the Old City. He is prohibited from driving his car through the checkpoint, so we drove about halfway there, parked on a side street, took a large shared taxi called a service to the Qalandia Checkpoint that cuts off northern Jerusalem from Ramallah. As we entered the checkpoint together – a structure manned by soldiers armed with rifles that calls to mind somewhat of a mix between airport security and cattle pens – Imad told Eli and me to “just keep on going” if he got turned back by the soldiers. 

Capriciousness, or, in other words, arbitrariness, rules the day at checkpoints. Whether or not someone is let through does not depend on how their paperwork checks out. It is contingent on the whims of the 18-19 year-old conscripted soldier behind the glass. Thankfully, that day, they let him through. We made it to the service, and to celebrate a long, late night journey back home to Ramallah characterized by Israeli soldiers boarding our bus and checkpoint-induced traffic, we got Popeyes for the whole family. A journey that should take about 20 minutes generally ranges from 1.5-3 hours, depending on the day. It’s certainly an “ascent.” A steep one. Both ways. 

Back to Micah. What is God’s “indictment” of the ancient kingdom of Israel? The prophet writes: 

“O my people, what have I done to you? How have I wearied you? Answer me! For I brought you up from the land of Egypt, and redeemed you from the house of slavery, and I send you before Aaron, Moses, and Mirian. O my people, remember…”

The people have failed to remember the faithfulness of God, a God who, despite their seeming abandonment, liberated them, remained with them, and gave them a name. In Palestine, memory plays a key role in the life of the church. Palestinian Christians remember their roots as the “originals” (el-asslieen): the ones who heard the angel’s song, who responded to the call by the Sea of Galilee, who ran when Christ was arrested, were present at Pentecost, and carried the message of the Gospel of Peace to our ancestors. They also weathered the coming and going of the Greeks, the Romans, the Umayyads, the Crusaders, the Mamluks, the Ottomans, the British, and, today, the Israelis. 

Yes, many have emigrated given the immense difficulties imposed by military occupation and systemic discrimination. Yes, the Christian population in the Holy Land, which was 30% of the total population before the creation of the state of Israel in 1948, is now less than 1%. In all of this, this community has remained faithful despite this pressure to leave. I found myself saying over and over this year “the Christian, especially Lutheran, community here punches above its weight class.” Four schools. Care for the sick and needy. Inter- and intra-faith engagement. Local and international advocacy. Exchanges with churches all over the world.

I don’t want to over-romanticize them. They’re not perfect. But, based on the past year I spent accompanying them in Jerusalem and the West Bank, they do faithfully ascend to the call of the famous edict found in Micah 6:8, “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” 

My host father, Imad, has to ascend every time he goes to Jerusalem. Mays has to ascend every time she strives as an assistant principal, mother, and Master’s student in a culture where women are often expected to stay at home. Daniel, my friend, has to ascend every time he seeks an American visa to visit family in the States or speak at an academic conference. Ibrahim has to ascend every time he goes to work as an underpaid engineer in a stifled economy. Aseel has to ascend as she works as a human rights advocate in an environment that, oftentimes, seems hopeless in its brokenness. 

What does the idea of “ascent” look for us, though? We are American citizens, members of one of the most powerful and rich nations in the history of the world. We live in Plymouth, MN, an affluent suburb. I will surmise that most of us are not living under military occupation here, although there are, of course, profound imbalances within our society that I can see more clearly given my time in the West Bank. 

What do we do? How do we “ascend?” I think the idea of accompaniment gives us a place to start. Accompaniment is the central underlying theological thrust of the YAGM program. We went to Palestine not as saviors or solution-bringers, but as fellow wayfarers invited to bear witness to their reality, meet small needs where we could, participate in mutual exchange, and, frankly, receive far beyond what we could give. 

The individuals, and the populations, whom we choose to accompany, matter. Christ, when asked “who is my neighbor?” by the lawyer in the Gospel of Luke today, responded with the famous, and, frankly, terrifying story of the Good Samaritan. Our neighbor is the one whom we believe is less than human. Our neighbor is the enemy. Our neighbor is the one who is weak. Our neighbor is the Palestinian. Our neighbor is the Israeli. Our neighbor is the refugee. Our neighbor is the marginalized person of color. The list goes on. 

I am now being constantly challenged by what it looks like to be faithful, and it looks more and more like making a constant choice to situate myself, in accompaniment, alongside those whom are seeking to “ascend” in their particular call of loving kindness, doing justice, and humbly walking with God. I believe this is the word that God has for us today. “Accompaniment” is one of our forms of ascent. 

Accompaniment is messy. It is painful. Depending on the direction it takes you, it may cost you your life. But, I have tasted the sweetness and the beauty a life lived in accompaniment brings, and I believe that God is beckoning for each of us to prayerfully discern where a commitment to accompaniment might lead us. To downtown Minneapolis? A nursing home facility in Plymouth? An estranged family member’s front door? 

It should be costly. It should take time. It ought to entail financial sacrifice. But, what you receive in return far surpasses all given, for the call of accompanying the children of God – whether they are from our religious, national, or familial “tribe” – is in step with the simple gospel, and the “abundant” life of loving sacrifice Christ promises in the Gospel of John. 

“He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” 

The majority of my volunteering here consists of assisting the English and science teachers at the School of Hope. However, one day a week – every Tuesday – I throw on some music, walk past the Ramallah hospital, and end up at the Ramallah Women’s Center where Meals on Wheels (MoW) is held. MoW is a program that may be very familiar to some readers. In the U.S., volunteers deliver meals to elderly and infirm participants at their homes. In the past, our project was set up in a much similar way. Today, however, instead of the “wheels” taking meals to each participant in their home, they bring them from home to the Women’s Center. There, a hearty, homemade meal is served, medications are administered, and community is fostered.

The main goal behind placing a YAGM volunteer like myself with MoW is to help support the final aspect of that list: the formation of a community. Past volunteers have had the opportunity to run with this objective in the best way they see fit. For example, this year I heard many things about Katherine’s Valentines Day art exchange with the second grade at the School of Hope. One thing that I brought to the table this year was previous experience and ambition to improve in Arabic. As such, I have spend a considerable amount of time honing my language skills through regular classes and intentionally taken risks to try new words and phrases each week with the program participants. At the beginning of the year I spent the majority of my time simply listening intently, trying to pick up on the flow of their rapid conversations.

A few months ago, I finally got to the point where they were comfortable with me and my command of the language was such that I could meaningfully engage in dialogue (I am far from fluent, but, thankfully, have become conversant). MoW quickly became one of the highlights of my week, and this is largely due to my burgeoning relationship with a woman named Mansura (or, Em Musa, meaning “the mother of Musa,” which is part of a cultural convention where the mother and father assume the name of their first-born son).

I had always noticed that there was a special deference and respect shown to her from the other program participants and even the staff. She also was particularly graceful when engaging with some of the workers at the Women’s Center who have disabilities, always going out of her way to converse with individuals who were often ignored by others. I sat next to her one day and spent most of the time discussing her grandson’s medical studies in Georgia, family living in Lexington, Kentucky, and personal health problems. In the following weeks, we went deeper.

One day, a few simple questions in my limited Arabic led us into a conversation about her past that both challenged and inspired me.

She was married at the age of twenty. Throughout her twenties she had four children: two girls and two boys. Raising kids is a time-consuming job, one that many choose to devote their entire lives to. However, Em Musa saw that, although her family was the most important thing to her, there were larger forces at play that called her to action. Therefore, she chose to work towards justice for her people by becoming active in the Palestinian resistance movement. To this day, she bears the scars of this decision. In the span of her time as an activist, she was wounded on her forehead, shot in her left thigh, and spent almost a year and a half in prison. At some point after her release, her husband suddenly passed away during the Easter season when their youngest child was just two and a half years old. To this day, she has not remarried or even made traditional Easter cookies called ma’mool due to the pain of this loss.

Yet, Em Musa continued to strive. Her job sustained the family and now all four of her children are thriving. Today, she is still active in the community through her church and other organizations. All I could manage to say to her throughout this story was “enti qaweea” (you are strong). Her life, for me, is a compelling example of strength employed for the good of others – both family and the larger human community.

At the end of our conversation, I thanked her for sharing her story with me and tried to communicate how much she means to me. She answered “You are like one of my children. Thank you.” Tears filled my eyes. Now, on a weekly basis, she saves the seat next to her for me. I have grown to love her, and feel the weight of that privilege and gift.

On Women in Palestine

Her story spurred me to better take note of the strength the women that I’ve met here possess in the face of the significant challenges that confront them. Last weekend, our YAGM cohort spent a couple days reflecting on how to “leave well,” as our time in Jerusalem and the West Bank is quickly coming to a close. One of the questions we were asked to think about was “tell us about the women in your host community.” This was perhaps my favorite to engage with, as names and faces and stories began to flood my thoughts.

I thought of Em Musa and her sacrificial commitment to political activism and family. I thought of Aseel and her choice to forego a lucrative job and instead pursue a career in human rights law. I thought of Majd and Reem, two artists who engage their personal stories with larger social issues, and, also, simply pursue beauty. I thought of Areej’s tenacious spirit, and her liberation theology-fueled passion to strive for political and social justice for all people in this land. I thought of Rula, my host mother who balances work, church, and home life with grace and fortitude. I thought of Ms. Amaani, our school’s biology teacher, who brings joyful energy to her role as a mentor and educator. I thought of Diala and her wonderful leadership of Right to Movement – an internationally recognized running club – in Ramallah.  I thought of Ms. Mays, the School of Hope’s assistant principal, who not only literally makes our school function, but also is working toward her masters while raising two small children.

The list goes on and on. The women here in this land are nothing short of astonishing. Despite the difficulties and barriers imposed by ongoing military occupation and often-times stifling social norms, they continue to give of themselves for the good of others. I am immeasurably better for having known them, and can leave this place with a measure of peace knowing that the future here is in the hands of strong, kind, driven, ambitious, justice-oriented women such as these.

My eyes open around 7:00 and see a small amount of light coming in through the windows above my bed. This is a sure-fire sign that Eli (my roommate and friend) is eating breakfast. After absentmindedly skimming social media for a few minutes, I rise from my heavily-blanketed bed (the winter has started, and our home is surprisingly chilly) to join him. I start the day with a chuckle – Eli is sipping coffee with leftover spaghetti from last night, having decided to opt out of the usual hummus and bread. I am a few minutes behind him, as this is the one day a week we go to different volunteering sites: Eli to the school and myself to Meals on Wheels.

We chat together about our after-volunteering plans for a few minutes, and then Eli gets up to shower. While eating breakfast, I throw on a podcast. This morning, it is a Radiolab episode discussing the events of mass hysteria that followed fake radio broadcasts proclaiming War of the Worlds alien invasions in the U.S. and Ecuador. It’s a fascinating piece that ends up delving into our tendency as humans to be drawn to horrifying news events in order to be pacified by the calm, commanding voice of the objective news reporter.

I’m still chewing on this idea as I crawl into the warmth of my bed – not to sleep, but to spend about thirty minutes trying to get the Arabic flashcards I’ve been making on my computer squared away. After clicking around for a while and watching a YouTube video, I accomplish half of my goal. I have yet to figure out how to “flip” the cards I’ve made on the Anki flashcard app on my phone. Later.

I glance at my watch and realize that it’s time to shower. I get that done, get dressed, wander out to the living room to strum out a few notes on the ukulele, and then throw on my headphones and begin making my way to Meals on Wheels. In the U.S., Meals on Wheels is a program that delivers food to the homes of people who are unable to get out on their own due to age or disability. The program in Ramallah is similar, but backwards. Each Tuesday, Abu Ali hops into a large van (oftentimes with me) to pick up the 20-30 elderly folks (mostly women) and bring them to the Ramallah Women’s Center for a delicious home cooked meal.

When I am about a third of the way to my volunteering site, the Women’s Center’s van happens to pull up next to me and Nawal signals me in. Nawal is the leader of the Center, a women who strives day in and day out to do the most good possible for the residents and visitors that depend on the Center. She does this work masterfully and with limited resources. She, Abu Ali, and myself chat on the way to the Center after making a short stop at a dukaan (shop) for Abu Ali to grab a small to-go breakfast.

This morning, I decide to forego riding along to pick up the program participants in favor of being present with them as they sit in the Center waiting for the meal. This is a wonderful time for conversation and storytelling. While waiting for the first car-full to come, I spend a few minutes chatting with the kitchen staff: Shahar, Em El-A’bed, and more. They provide me with a glass of tea and I wander outside to a spot that, if you were to visit the Women’s Center on Tuesday morning, you would likely see me sitting. It’s one of my favorite places in the city, as it is a relatively quiet space filled with green – a nature-filled oasis in the middle of the metropolis. Here, I sit quietly to think, pray, read, and reflect.

After about thirty minutes, I see the first group of women pull up in the van. I help a few up the steps and then situate myself next to the group. The topic of conversation wanders from topic to topic, covering things like: cell phone difficulties, things planned for the upcoming holidays, family all over the world, beautiful places to visit in Palestine, and the recent escalation in Gaza. Sometimes, we just sit quietly and listen to the clamoring sounds emanating from the kitchen.

A curious sight – a crew of uniformed governmental officials – enter about forty-five minutes into our time together. It turns out that today is the Palestinian Civil Defense’s volunteering day. Medical practitioners among them start taking blood pressures and one man gives a presentation on safely heating homes in the winter. The Meals on Wheels cohort is captivated, asking many questions and exclaiming when another horror story (on, say, an accident with an indoor heater) is told.

During the presentation, one of the leaders of the Meals on Wheels program, a woman named Selwa, spoke to me about their work. She said that, for the program participants, this program is nothing short of a lifeline. “We need connections as people, and many of these women are lonely because the family is working or gone,” and Meals on Wheels facilitates meaningful relationships between these individuals. And, of course, an ajnabi (foreigner) from Minnesota.

After the uniformed officials left, I help deliver meals. Today: chicken, potatoes, and carrots all slow-cooked together. As usual, it is nothing short of delicious. I grab my plate and happily wolf it down (as an aside, one of the women told me a few minutes before I look like I have gained weight. I think it might be the loose sweater I’m wearing. But, if she is right, I know a large contributor is this scrumptious weekly lunch). After picking the bones clean, I add them to the bag that Leila – one of the women – collects every week to feed the cats outside her house.

I sit and chat for another hour or so, then leave the Center to meet Eli and Majd. Majd is one of the educators at the School of Hope. She teaches art, and is herself an artist. Today, Majd is showing two posters at the Palestinian Museum at Beir Zeit University not far from Ramallah. She created them for the Qalandia International’s Solidarity project. In them, she tied the plight of the Palestinians with other peoples in order to communicate shared values and desires for liberation from injustice. On the way to the university, we pick up two of her friends. One chats with me most of the ride in Arabic (Majd tells me after that he does not know a lot of English, and therefore was excited to talk to a foreigner in his native tongue). He’s a jokester, and we rib each other while trying to stay in our seats on the windy, hilly city streets.

Upon arrival, I am immediately struck by the beauty of the Museum. It’s architecture reminds me of some sort of trapezoidal structure meant to mimic the topography of the mountains around it. The group sits outside for a few minutes to have a smoke (as usual), and then we move downstairs for the presentation. All in all, there are twelve posters communicating Palestinian solidarity with seven countries/places: Yemen, Syria, South Africa, Venezuela, Western Sahara, Africa, and Ireland. Majd’s pieces are beautiful and haunting – see below, words do no justice. There were postcard-sized representations of the posters to take, and hers disappeared first.

Following the exhibition, Eli and I wandered through the exhibit upstairs showcasing traditional Palestinian cross-stitching. Then, we all pack into the car (four deep in the back!) back to Ramallah. After thanking Majd profusely for the ride and for sharing her wonderful work with us, we open the door and promptly make our way to the couches, where I promptly begin to stare at my computer for an embarrassing amount of time while trying to think about how to write this newsletter. Writers block persisting, I decide to make a hummus, hot pepper, and labna (yogurt dip/spread) sandwich. Maybe I’ll find inspiration there.

It worked. Not long after eating, I begin typing the first paragraphs you see above.

As an aside, one thing my cohort and I have learned is that onions and hot peppers are particularly potent here. After cutting peppers, the oil can remain on your fingers for hours, rendering an itchy eye occasion for screams of pain and profuse crying. Eli has taken to wearing gloves when cutting peppers. I did not today.

Having gotten a start on my newsletter, I begin to get ready for the weekly workout with a local organization called Right to Movement (RTM). I go every Tuesday, and every time I get crushed by this punishing hour and a half. Having worn glasses all day, I take them off and, as is my habit, put in my right contact.

Pain. Curse hot peppers. Put in left contact. Pain. Curse them again.

After the tears stopped, I walked the car-filled streets to the gym. This workout is a particularly difficult one, in part due to the sprints and part to the nagging presence of hot peppers in my stomach. Lesson learned. When the workout finishes, ya’tik al’afia (a hard-to-translate phrase that here basically means “good job”) abounds and we take our mandatory post-exercise group picture. I and four other friends (three local, one international) walk back together, making for a conversation in both Arabic and English. My international friend, a woman from Holland, decides to check out a shop to look for a gift for her boyfriend’s family. I decide to join her. The shop worker (and owner’s son) explains the history of the place and even brings us upstairs to the antique museum that is filled to the ceiling with old trinkets, furniture, etc. from all over the world. His father was an avid collector, and his habit served as the motivation to start the shop. While in conversation, the worker and I connect in a special way because that he attended the School of Hope when he was a child.

After taking our leave, my friend and I part ways and I make my way back. Not long after walking through the door, someone tries to get in. No cause for worry, however – we were expecting our friend Ibrahim. Generally the door is unlocked when we are around during the day and he just walks in. He’s become that kind of friend. Eli goes to bed soon after in anticipation of the early morning and long school day before us. Yet, Ibrahim and I have not seen each other for two days. Which, to us, is actually quite a long time. As such, we sit and catch up for about an hour and a half, covering almost every topic imaginable. This is one of the best ways to end the day, in my opinion. Ibrahim is an engineer with a full day tomorrow and as such leaves around 10:45.

I’m tired. So, I read a few pages of Braiding the Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer and turn out the lights. Cozy in the dark, I say “thank you” and then drift off.

(This is the first of the bi-monthly newsletters I will be sending. If you are interested in receiving them directly via email, please let me know. Otherwise, I will continue sharing them on the blog throughout the year)

On October 14th, just shy of 80 young adults convened in the South Side of Chicago for our Young Adults in Global Mission (YAGM) orientation. Although the Discernment, Interview, and Placement weekend had taken place months before, in many ways it felt like we had just learned of our country placements. The reality of the coming year had not yet settled in. But, after eight days of group conversation, sharing of painful and beautiful stories, exploring privilege, prayer, worship, ultimate frisbee, liar’s dice, and more, the time had come – whether we were ready or not. For me, personally, I was eagerly anticipating our departure, despite how surprisingly difficult saying “see you when I see you” to many members of this remarkable community was.

We were welcomed in Tel Aviv after our 11-hour overnight flight from New York by the Grangaard family – Jeni, Colin, Josie, and Amos – alongside Adrienne Gray, another ELCA missionary. Jeni and Colin are the JWB country coordinators, and Josie and Amos are their wonderful children. We then took jet-lagged selves to their home for a light lunch and some introductory conversations. That night, we got to know each other better over delicious pizza from Bethlehem’s Zuwadeh restaurant, and soon after tried to catch up on some sleep. Some familiar sounds and smells greeted me from the start, such as the call to prayer out of a mosque near we were staying and the aroma of jasmine wafting from the plant just outside our building.

The next two weeks of in-country orientation were a blur of activity. The first few days were full of procedures/safety protocols, the hilarious “Servant Leader, Servant Schmuck, and Servant Martyr” exercise aimed at helping us imagine what a successful life looks like here, and intermittent periods of prayer and spiritual reflection on our journeys that brought us to the JWB program. In one of the afternoons, we hiked the Wadi Makhrour valley from Beit Jala to the beautiful town of Battir with a local guide. Along the way, he pointed out a myriad of plants and geological features, and also provided a vast amount of historical information. For example, Battir is the location where the Bar Kokhba revolt (132-135 C.E) against the Romans was definitively crushed.

Some of the most powerful moments, however, came when he discussed his life growing up as a Palestinian in Bethlehem. Our guide spoke nonchalantly about being imprisoned twice during the second intifada for no explainable reason. Further, he discussed worries about announced Israeli settlement expansions around al-Makhrour and Battir that would effectively wipe out a Palestinian town called al-Walaja. He then explained that this Christian faith keeps him, despite the injustices that so characterize his existence, from hating his enemies. Instead, he feels called to work towards justice and the good of all people in the land.

The rest of orientation carried on in a similar manner. We learned from many Palestinians and a number of Israelis the ancient and current happenings in the Holy Land as we toured the Bethlehem area, the Old City of Jerusalem, Lutheran World Federation-run Augusta Victoria Hospital, and the various neighborhoods and settlements that comprise the greater Jerusalem area. As a group, we also visited each Lutheran School/volunteer site in which we will be working.

Recently, Eli Yackel-Juleen and myself moved into our home for the next year. Over the past week, we have worshipped with the Lutheran Church of Hope, hit the ground running in the Lutheran School of Hope in Ramallah, and shared delicious meals with our host family. Furthermore, this week I met with the Meals on Wheels program, and am incredibly excited to form relationships with members of the elderly population in Ramallah as a part of this community-centered service.

This place is already starting to feel like home, and I look forward to meeting many more people as I continue to establish myself here. The next steps on my list: playing with Ramallah’s newly formed Ultimate Frisbee club and joining the local Right to Movement running club.

Thank you for your ongoing prayers and support. As always, I welcome any correspondence and am happy to answer questions you have for me. I look forward to learning together with you.