Journey to Bethlehem in Advent

Advent 2 - Week of Dec 7, Isaiah 40.1-11

Speak tenderly to Jerusalem…its penalty is paid…make straight in the desert a highway…

Isaiah proclaims a promise: that Jerusalem has paid the penalty for her sins and God will come in glory, and the people will see it together—together….Israeli and Palestinian? God’s arms will gather the lambs…the Lord will gently lead the mother sheep. A consolation for the people of Bethlehem, a vision holding their hope for peace in a land long under siege. It’s been sixty years since the “Nakba,” the “catastrophe.” Sixty years of living under military rule, soldiers free to break into their homes at any time of the day or night, arresting their sons and daughters and hauling them off to prison, converting their homes to rubble with their bulldozers.

Today Bethlehem feels like a suburb of Jerusalem. Standing in the cafeteria of a kibbutz in Jerusalem we could see the hills of Bethlehem in the distance. It’s about a fifteen-minute drive from Jerusalem, but a world apart.

You can tell Israelis from Palestinians by their license plates—green for Palestinians and yellow for Israelis. Palestinian cars are not allowed in Israel and they are not allowed to drive on Israeli-only highways, even the ones in Palestine. In recent years, as Israelis have built more settlements in the West Bank, sandwiched between Arab towns, they have built a system of Israeli-only roads to get them safely to Jerusalem—modern, straight highways like
the one that tunnels under the Arab town of Beit Jala which sits on a hilltop. This highway is protected by a long wall, which prevents anyone from throwing rocks down on the cars below.

Highways for the Palestinians, however, are anything but straight. No matter where they travel, they must go in a circuitous route because they are never allowed to drive on any road near the Israeli settlements. On our last night in Israel we ate at a restaurant in Bethlehem. When it was time to leave, our tour bus drove up to the checkpoint. The soldiers would not let us through, even with our American passports. Bedil, our Palestinian driver, who lives in Israel in Cana and was an Israeli citizen, had picked up a box of tile for his bathroom and because of the tile, the soldiers would not let the bus leave Bethlehem.

As he turned the bus around, I sat there wondering where we were going to spend the night, and how we were going to get to our early morning flight, since our hotel was in Jerusalem. Bedil was unperturbed however, because he was a driver; he knew the roads and he knew all the routes to Jerusalem. The fifteen-minute ride to our hotel took us 45 minutes and many miles out of our way, but we finally arrived at another checkpoint. I’d been wondering how we were going to get through, but there was no need for worry—there were no soldiers here, only cement barricades to maneuver the bus around. Our driver and tour guide just shrugged—this is the way life is for Palestinians.

The Israelis say the wall is for security, to keep the terrorist bombers off their buses and away from their children. But this night, although we and our box of ceramic tile were turned away from one of the checkpoints, other checkpoints were left unguarded. What is the purpose of the checkpoints?

O Lord our God, gentle shepherd, of your people, speak tenderly to your servants who live daily in uncertainty and fear. As we go about our daily lives in comfort and security, make us ambassadors of your peace. In the name of your Son, the babe of Bethlehem, Amen.

Journey to Bethlehem in Advent

Advent 1 - Week of Nov 30, Mark 13.24-37

In those days, after that suffering, the sun will be darkened…..Then the Son-of-Man will send out the angels…

Your kingdom come…..we often recite these words without thinking—it’s a good thing, because if we thought about what we are saying, we would choke on the words. What would it look like for God’s kingdom to come? Isaiah sees quaking mountains; Mark tells of darkening—no sun, no moon, no stars. Not tranquil, happy moments. God’s coming is cataclysmic, disrupting our comfort.

This chapter of Mark is apocalyptic literature, probably written during or shortly after the Jewish War and the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem—a message of hope for a people who have lost everything. The Judeans were dispersed and a whole way of life grounded in temple ritual was lost.

This must have been much like the days Shadee described in 1948, when the Arabs in the villages around Bethlehem were routed out of their homes and forced from their lands by the soldiers, who were removing the Arabs for the establishment of the state of Israel. Standing on the rooftop of the community building of the Deheisheh Refugee Camp, he pointed to the nearby hills where his village had been. Shadee was not born then, but his family tells the stories of the soldiers coming into their village with tanks, rounding up all the people at gunpoint—first the men and then the women and children—and forcing them out of their houses and onto the road. They left behind their furniture and their dishes, grabbing only a bit of food and a coat—and making sure all the children were along. They locked their houses and took the keys, hoping that they would be able to return in a few days when the fighting was over.

They arrived in Bethlehem, but there was no room for them—so they camped on some farmland under the olive trees. Finally, because so many thousands of Arabs were homeless, tents were brought in to house the refugees. Residents of this camp came from 52 villages in the West Bank. In 1957 the U.N. built 10 x 10-foot cement dwellings for each family (for 10 people). About 120 people shared a restroom—Shadee told us this was especially hard for the women and he remembers waiting in line, holding a place for his mother.

Shadee is a volunteer with the Ibdaa Cultural Center, formed by Deheisheh residents to “provide a safe environment for the camp's children, youth, and women to develop a range of skills, creatively express themselves, and build leadership … while educating the international community about Palestinian refugees.” Shadee leads tour groups like ours and tells his story. Shadee has not always lived in the camp. He grew up in the Gulf states and in France, where he went to University. As a young man he returned to Deheisheh to claim his status as a refugee so that he can maintain his family’s claim to the lands they lost in 1948. The land has since been designated as parkland and they have never been permitted to return; he has never seen his village. We saw Ibdaa’s daycare and kindergarten, the women’s health center, and the library. We met with Inaz, a social worker who visits women in their homes and talks with them about their sons who are in jail, their husbands who have been killed by Israeli soldiers, of a daughter turned suicide bomber.

In this place, where the electricity is shut down at any time by Israeli soldiers shooting the transformer, where soldiers show up any time of day or night and tear apart your home, the people of Deheisheh resist the Israeli occupation of their land by making a safe place for their children and caring for their old women. God has promised that God’s reign—the world God envisioned in the creation—will come, even though we do not know the day or the hour.

O Lord our God, creator of the universe, you have promised us, your servants created in your image, that you will return in glory to bring peace to the earth. Let that peace begin with us. Your will be done. In the name of your Son, the babe of Bethlehem, Amen.

Journey to Bethlehem in Advent

Advent 1 - Week of Nov 30, 1 Corinthians 1.3-9

I give thanks to my God always for you because of the grace of God that has been given you in Christ Jesus…

Advent is the season of preparation, but what should we do to get ready? How do we prepare for this gift God gives us at Christmas? This gift of God’s own self, come to us, just like one of us—not a powerful human king, not a superhero, but a tiny, squalling, diaper-dirtying baby. How do we prepare for this gift?

Hospitality is a highest Arab virtue. Above all else, even if the person in front of you is your enemy, you have a duty to welcome him or her. In Jerusalem’s Old Suq, the market, a shopkeeper you don’t even know will offer you tea, or a cold drink. Hospitality is a sign, not of the importance of your guest, but of the kind of person you are. And food is the gift.

When we arrived in Beit Jala, we were welcomed by Sami and Sousan and their daughters and son. They opened their home to us, a busload of hot, thirsty, weary travelers. They included us in the celebration of their daughter’s birthday with cake and candles. After lunch they took us on a tour and told us the story of their orchard.

Sami’s family’s farmland is on the outskirts of Beit Jala. When Sami had his elastic manufacturing business, the land lay untended—but the olive trees survived. Sami is not a farmer, but when his company went out of business because of Chinese competition a few years ago, he decided to start farming the land. You see, the Israeli government confiscates Palestinian land that is not being used; uncultivated farmland is deemed “abandoned” and turned into parkland or open space or used to build new Jewish settlements for Israelis. So Sami developed his land; he installed an irrigation system and planted fruit trees—apricots and apples—and vegetables as well. Shortly after all these improvements were made, the Israeli government decided to build their security wall on Sami’s farmland. The wall would protect the new Israeli settlement that is just over the top of the hill from the orchard. So, the bulldozers came and plowed up his olive trees. The wall sits today, still unfinished, no explanations offered, not protecting anything, but taking up one third of Sami’s orchard.

We spent that evening with Ipptysam and her family, who insisted we eat snacks and treats and then, after we were full, offered us supper. It didn’t matter that we were not hungry, however. It was too much, but refusing hospitality is an offense to your host. In fact, our Arab hosts trained us in the art of receiving hospitality by not letting us refuse them.

So, how do we prepare to receive a gift? Like my reaction to the salty snacks and Cokes, we may not even really want the gift God offers—God’s presence among us. So we prepare to receive it by practicing hospitality—welcoming all, with an abundance of food—not just our friends, but people we would not dream of associating with. Who can you feed today? Is there a food bank or a free meal in your community that you could help with this week? Buying canned goods and donating them to your local food bank will not work, because that does not include the human interaction of hospitality. Canned goods may be OK for Americans, but an Arab will spend the evening with you, ply you with food, take you on a tour of their farm and celebrate their birthdays with you.

In preparation for God’s coming, how can we practice hospitality?

O Lord our God, creator of the universe, you have planted your merciful grace in us, cultivated and watered it. In a world of fear, make us courageous bearers of your hospitality. In the name of your Son, the babe of Bethlehem, Amen.

Journey to Bethlehem in Advent

Advent 1 - Week of Nov 30, Isaiah 64.1-9

“Oh, that you would tear open the heavens and come down, so that the mountains would quake at your presence—" Isaiah 64.1

He stood at the checkpoint in Bethlehem, wedged upright in the crush of 2500 bodies, clutching the papers he had to show to the soldier, knowing that if he dropped them, he would not be able to bend down to pick them up. He wondered, Did the soldier have his requisite two cups of coffee this morning? Had a fight with his wife last night set the tone for his day? Did he love or hate or fear this job guarding the entrance to Jerusalem, protecting her schoolchildren from bombs strapped to torsos or hidden in briefcases? As he stood in line this morning, Said’s job, his income, his children’s food and education, the roof over their heads, depended on this soldier’s mood this morning.

Said was fortunate. He had been a good student and he worked hard at the University of Bethlehem and received certification as a tour guide. He had applied for and received the documents he needed—permission to travel anywhere in Israel, 24/7, to guide tourists to the holy sites. He had made sure he renewed the papers every three months when they expired. I asked him what would happen if he forgot to renew them. He told me you don’t forget what your life depends on.

His college education had paid off and he had a good-paying job as a guide, knowledgeable and patient with Westerners who had spent too much time in high school flirting with the cute guy in the back row to pay much attention as the World History teacher lectured about the wars for land and oil in the Middle East. Each morning we were in Israel and Palestine, while we slept in a few more minutes, ate a leisurely breakfast in the hotel dining room, or strolled the early morning streets of Old City watching the shopkeepers opening up their stores, Said waited an hour and a half, pressed in the crowd making its way through this checkpoint.

For sixty years Said and other Palestinians have been waiting in line—waiting to go back to the homes they were forced to leave as their villages were shelled in 1948, waiting for a building permit to add a room to the house for the new baby, waiting for permission for their village to tap into the state’s electric grid, waiting for permission to use the water beneath their lands. At the Bethlehem checkpoint, as many as 2500 people wait in line each morning, wondering if this is the day they will be denied entry into Israel.

We were told that U.S. funds were appropriated to “humanize” the checkpoint in Bethlehem. With these funds, the Israelis put up a welcome banner, planted gardens, and built twelve stations for guards to process the people. This morning, and every morning, however, only two stations are open, two guards checking the identity papers for the 2500 people who come every morning.

If I were a Palestinian, herded like cattle through the checkpoint every morning on my way to work, I would, with Isaiah, cry out to God to intervene in such cataclysmic fashion, to “tear open the heavens and come down” to end the terror and injustice they live with daily. In these cries of lament from exiles returning from Babylon to the ruins of the holy city of Jerusalem, I hear Palestinian voices crying out to God to change the hearts of the world’s leaders, so that they can once again have freedom to travel and control over their lives, that they can determine their future and provide for their children’s health and well-being.

O Lord our God, creator of the universe, your people cry out to you for help. Make us instruments of your peace, remembering daily those who suffer injustice. Help us use our political influence to bring peace to their lives. In the name of your Son, the babe of Bethlehem,Amen.

Journey to Bethlehem in Advent: Tales from Bethlehem, Reflections on the Weekly Lectionary in Advent

I invite you to join me --- This is the first in a series of meditations for your Advent devotions, reflecting on the weekly texts for Advent through my experiences on two trips to Israel and Palestine this summer and fall.

Let us go now to Bethlehem and see this thing that has taken place, which the Lord has made known to us"....Mary treasured all these words and pondered them in her heart. (Luke 2.15-19)

The stories of Jesus’ birth are pilgrimage stories—Mary and Joseph walking the rocky hills and winding roads on their way to Bethlehem, the shepherds’ trek to the stable and the Holy Family’s flight along the coast to Egypt.

Today Bethlehem is in the West Bank, land designated by the Oslo Accord to be administered by the Palestinian Authority. But on my recent pilgrimage to the Holy Land, I saw that the reality on the ground is far different. Like Mary and Joseph, traveling pregnant from Nazareth to Bethlehem on the orders of the occupying Roman government, Palestinians’ lives today are shaped by the whims of the Israeli soldiers occupying their towns, guarding the checkpoints, controlling all movement. As I entered Bethlehem in June, 2008, I was shocked at the changes in the three years since my first visit. In the summer of 2005, when our bus arrived in Bethlehem, the Israeli security wall was being constructed. We saw the 30-foot high concrete barrier as it snaked around hills, cutting through Bethlehem’s olive groves, and, like a holiday parade, marching down the yellow line in the center of the main road into Bethlehem. That summer there were gaps in the wall, places where you could see through to the other side or walk around the wall….like the time we walked over a little hill to catch a bus into Jerusalem, avoiding the hassle at the checkpoint and the expense of two taxis.

When I returned in 2008, the Wall at the main entrance to Bethlehem was completed. There was a new checkpoint, with flower gardens and welcome banners proclaiming “Peace be with you.” Peace for the American tourists, with their blue passports, but not for the residents of Bethlehem. While our bus breezed through with a welcoming wave and a smile from the Israeli soldiers, Bethlehem residents stood in long lines to get to work. They must apply for permits weeks ahead of time, and only for a specific purpose. And, even if they are lucky enough to get a permit, they must wait, sometimes hours, every time they leave Bethlehem—daily for those who work in Jerusalem. We were told the beautification of the checkpoint came from USAID money, earmarked to make the checkpoints more “humane.” More humane for us perhaps, but not for the Palestinians on their way to work.

Today the wall divides the main road into Bethlehem, right down the middle—separating the houses on one side from their neighbors across the street. The stores selling olive wood nativity sets and religious jewelry are mostly closed now. Few tourists visit Bethlehem—they are told it is too dangerous. And no one wants to stop on this dreary street anymore, suffocating beneath the wall.

And Mary kept these things and pondered them in her heart… These meditations were written for pondering during Advent, the time when we wait for a miracle—the birth of a savior for the whole world. Bethlehem today is in desperate need of salvation, but as they wait for their miracle, these faithful people of the Holy Land—in Bethlehem, Hebron, Jerusalem, Gaza, Ramallah—take God’s promises to heart and use their energy to create a new reality for themselves and their children, a world where children are educated, the sick are healed and all can celebrate their rich Arab culture.

As I read the weekly Sunday texts for Advent this year, I remember the land I walked on my pilgrimage and the amazing people I met. These are some of the stories I heard—stories of desperation and stories of hope from the Christians, Jews and Muslims living today on the holy land of Jesus’ birth.
—Jan Miller, Advent, 2008