The privilege and challenge of space to 'be'

One of the reasons for spending so much time of my Sabbatical in Palestine and Israel was to be able to spend time ‘being’ in places that I have visited previously, but not had so much time to ‘be’ in because there is the next place on the itinerary to get to, the counting of pilgrims to be done (or the offering of information to other visitors who think I look as though I know what I am doing because I am wearing a clerical collar!)

The time I have had in Jerusalem, Bethlehem and the Galilee has afforded the privilege of being able to look, to listen, to pray, and to ‘be’ in the places that countless millions of pilgrims have visited before me – amongst whom I have also been one in earlier years. There has been space to breathe, space simply to sit and to think – with nothing required of me except that I am in this place in this moment. The space afforded has meant that thoughts and prayers have been wide-ranging and often challenging. I have carried friends in my mind and reflected on how important they are to me. I have carried parishioners in my heart – those who are unwell, those who are in challenging situations, those who have celebrated important events in recent months, and everywhere I have gone, I have lit a candle for the people of my church and prayed for them (secretly hoping, I guess, that they are praying for me.)

Today’s journey was to Nazareth. The population of the town is city is Arab - both Christian and Muslim with the people of each faith living and working alongside each other quite happily for many, many centuries. It is a city that has seen much improvement in infrastructure over the past twenty years or so and it has a relaxed feel to it – quite different to Jerusalem.

I was looking forward to visiting the Basilica of the Annunciation, built over the site of the house of Mary and Joseph. Set across two levels, the lower level is spacious and simple, with beautiful contemporary stained glass windows that almost  to colour the air – adding to the ‘scene’ something of the joy and delight that must have filled Mary’s heart (alongside the absolute terror and fear I imagine she must have felt a) at the appearance of an angel and b) the news that she was to have baby!) Set at the farthest end away from the entrance is a chapel that, when the congregation is seated around the altar, they are facing the remains of the home that Mary and Joseph are believed to have inhabited. We were so lucky in our timing as there were very few other people visiting the Basilica and, although there was a Service of Holy Communion upstairs, the singing that carried over into the lower level was stunningly beautiful in its simplicity and added to my joy of being in this place. Time spent here is always a real gift and, although I find it hard to comprehend the way in which Mary managed to understand what was being asked of her, I am so glad that she answered, “Let it be to me according to your word”. I can spend ages in this part of the Church – gazing at the windows… wondering and wandering…

Outside the Basilica, the internal walls of the ‘compound’ are decorated with images of Mary created and gifted by various nations from across the world (these continue in the upper part of the Basilica too). Images of Mary with the infant Christ are also to be found in the Greek Orthodox Church of St Gabriel in the upper part of the city. Amongst the images is one in which the angel is holding out its hand in blessing to Mary, in whose womb is the infant Christ. I hadn’t noticed this painting before – I guess, because like so many others, I have looked over the ‘fence’ to gaze at the water below that bubbles up from one of the many springs in this area and from which Mary is believed to have collected water. Seeing this image reminded me of Damian Hirst’s Madonna exhibited some years ago at a Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy in London. Considered controversial by some, I loved it – imaging as it does, a heavily pregnant Mary with Christ in her womb. Her breasts are ready to give milk for Jesus to feed on, and there we see the Incarnate God waiting to be born in the form in which his ministry would be seen and we could come to know him – the Word made flesh indeed.

I love it when artists surprise and challenge (even if I don’t like what they produce to surprise and challenge!) This Holy Land is full of surprise and challenge – for visiting the places in which Mary and Joseph lived and worked to care for Jesus, as well as the places where he taught and healed and prayed, bring surprise and challenge of their own. How will I respond? How am I being changed? What am I being led to think of, to pray for, to consider, to put aside… the answers to any of these questions will, if one is open, inspire and challenge in their own way.

We all need space and place to look, to listen, to pray, and to ‘be’… and I hope that you have space and place – and time – to do these things too. I also hope that you have the courage to be open the surprises and challenges you may discover along the way…

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God

I have visited the Galilee three times – with this visit being the fourth. My view over the Sea of Galilee (also called the Sea of Tiberias and Kenneserat) has always been across from west to east. When the sun is shining the colour of water is a stunning blue - with the colours of sunrises being mirrored perfectly in still waters of mornings. Today the morning was misty and the water, perfectly calm and still, reflected back the more hazy view of the hills and mountains on the eastern shore.

Yesterday brought into view a different way of seeing the distant hills (some 12 kilometres across the water) as I journeyed in the car with my travelling companions right around the water’s circumference. Journeying south from Tiberias we swung round the bottom of the Lake and made our way north on the other side. The hills on this side are covered with what seemed a very different kind of foliage and fauna and appeared much less rocky to view – covered in green more densely that the eastern shore. How lovely to view the hills and mountains I love to gaze upon so much more closely. The love I feel for this place, and the sense of both gift and grace to be able to visit, pray and ‘be’ here, continue to grow. On previous visits, as we have made our way up the Jordan Valley, my mind and heart have always turned to Psalm 121, and so they have done so again during these past days.

On looking at the map, there was a small site on the eastern shore called Kursi. Discovered quite by accident when the road that we were driving on was being constructed, there are the remains the Byzantine era ‘Church of the Gadarenes’. The Church gives testimony to the miracle of the casting out of the demon (called Legion) into the pigs who then ran down the hill and cast themselves into the Lake. As it is on the far side of the Sea of Galilee, it is rarely visited by Pilgrim groups and this was to our advantage as we only saw two other people there the whole of our visit.

The remains of the church are more than in some places, and the mosaics that remain on the floor of the Church are quite beautiful. Bizarrely, there is an olive press in what would have been the North Aisle which, I imagine would not have been there when the Church was in use! (I couldn’t help thinking though, what an interesting on-the-side business it would be to be able to produce your own olive oil on-site or, even better, to have a wine press and produce wine!)

Up on the side of the hill there is a Chapel which is on the site of where the pigs were gathered (of which the miracle tells us there were two thousand) and this gives wonderful views across to the western shores of the Lake – albeit in the haze of the morning today.

This visit was a lovely way to begin our day of exploration of the ‘Lakeside Churches’, reading and recalling the miracles and words of Jesus as he carried out his ministry in this place. It is always so moving to be in the place where Jesus walked, taught, healed, listened, loved and revealed God’s  compassion.

As we continued our drive around the northern shore of the Lake to visit Capernaum, Tabgha, the Mount of the Beatitudes and the place of Peter’s Primacy – in addition to the Orthodox Church of the Twelve Apostles (which I had never been to before) we remarked several times that we were close to the border with Syria. The hotel we are staying in and the places were visiting today are closer to Damascus than they are to Jerusalem and, whilst all is calm and safe here, we were conscious that for people not so far away across the borders live lives that are, sadly, a far cry from being safe and calm. It is, in some ways, sadly ironic that we visited the Church of the Beatitudes where we saw the words of the Beatitudes rendered in various written forms. Of course, one of the Beatitudes is Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God. As I read this, I was so conscious of the people who are not peacemakers. On a small and local scale, these people are those who seek to argue or act as ‘devil’s advocate’ when it is completely unnecessary – thus creating anxiety and tension where there need be none. On a larger scale, it is groups who seek to gain power and/or regime change at the expense of the lives and freedom of others – be that through hostage-taking, human trafficking, sex trafficking, drugs, illegal arms trading. And then there are the nations who ‘rage so furiously’ as they strive to gain supremacy, authority, financial gain, military might, oil, business… in all of these situations – local, national, international, global – there are, sadly, very few peacemakers – real peacemakers for whom it is not ‘peace at all costs’ but rather, peace simply for the sake of peace. For this peace gives liberty and freedom, not freedom to ‘do as you like’ but a greater freedom – the freedom to live a life that is free from anxiety, tension, fear and oppression.

For those not so far away from us here who have been captured or tortured, forced to renounce their faith, flee their homes or even murdered, the prayer for peace cannot be long enough or deep enough. It is a prayer that needs the will of people to bring it to pass though – and for this we need peacemakers. May the peoples of the world seek and find those who can seek peace, those who can speak peace and those who can keep peace.

The gift of insight

After weeks of travelling ‘solo’, I find myself with two companions whom I ‘picked up’ at the airport today. They are friends who have come to join me as I journey into the last week of my time here in Palestine and Israel. As they were preparing to board the plane in the UK, I was making last visits to familiar and loved places in the Old City.

I visiteda new place though – a place that I had tried to visit on my first day in Jerusalem – the Chamber of the Holocaust. It stands in complete contrast to the National Memorial and Museum of the Holocaust at Yad Vashem, in terms of size and layout and information, but its power is no less commanding.

One enters through a small doorway into an entrance area. The gentleman on duty was at pains to advise me that they were undertaking renovation work at the present time and thus there were no labels on items etc. etc. I assured him this was fine for me, and that I was ‘pleased’ simply to be able to be there. On reflection, ‘pleased’ or ‘glad’, or any word like either of these will never do, regardless of whatever accompanying gestures that indicate the care of one’s heart one might accompany them with. This is because for there to be such a place as this, or Yad Vashem, or any of the other memorials to the Holocaust and acts of genocide across the world – for these places that give testimony to terrible cruelty and inhumanity of which humanity is capable to even exist is a terrible tragedy. Each place stands a stinging indictment to human cruelty and no-one can possibly ever be pleased or glad to be in the presence of anything which gives testimony to such cruelty. I wished to express my sorrow at being present in this place... for filled with sorrow I truly was... that I was in such a place that the horror of human action had somehow caused to exist.

Beyond the entrance hall, the way continues into a darker room, with no windows and low lighting. Light filters through from the doorway and the windows of the next room – but there is a form of relief from the darkness – white stone tablets on the walls. In truth, these are not any form of relief that one wishes to see. Written in Hebrew, each tablet records the name of a city or town or village in which a Jewish community lived at the time of the Holocaust. The members of the community will have either been killed in the place where they lived, or been transported to one of the Concentration Camps. The plaques fill the walls of four rooms and a large external ‘garden’ area. So many communities blighted, so many lives lost.

Initially, this place was a place of mourning. Those who had lost their lives during the Holocaust through being gassed and burned or buried in mass graves have no proper grave where those who loved them may journey to mourn. This Chamber of the Holocaust was created to be such a place and, initially, was where the Jewish Community that travelled to settle in Jerusalem in the late forties and early fifties would come to mourn their dead. Yad Vashem has come to fulfil the purpose of remembering – on a larger scale, both nationally and internationally it is true and I imagine few international visitors to Jerusalem will visit the Chamber of the Holocaust as it does not have such international recognition. As those who maintain each place will say though, neither place stands in competition with the other, they each have their own story – as well as the wider story – to tell.

This place was a sobering and moving place to visit and I found that all I could do was simply to look and read the tablets on the walls and pray.

As  I made to leave I noticed a small book – a photograph album – on which was written the words, Pictures of the Holocaust. This is not designed for children. Indeed it was not designed for children and the images contained inside should not have been designed for anyone to see for there were the photographs of those who had been starved to the point of virtual death, as well as photographs of the dead whose bodies had been either heaped up in piles resembling a kind of human slag heap or laid (if they were lucky, but more likely tipped) in a mass grave. This was sickening. I found I could hardly breathe.

As I left, I spoke to the man on the door who spends hours of each day welcoming people. In our conversation he said that his Grandparents had died in Auschwitz. He asked where I was from and, when I said I was from the UK, told me that his mother and her sister had managed to escape from Belgium to London and that they had told him what the Blitz was like and how terribly the people of London and the UK suffered. How right he was.

In that moment, I received his heartfelt sympathy for the people of ‘my’ country who had withstood the horror of the might of Germany in the same way that my country – as well as other nations and races across the world – offer heartfelt sympathy to the Jewish people who suffered the might and terror of German forces too, in a most particular and horrifying way. Somehow, in his words, there was the insight that cruelty is cruelty, and horror is horror and that those who suffer these things deserve the pity and regard of others each as much as the another. For this shared insight, compassion and kindness of heart I am immensely grateful.

The sights and sounds of Palestine and Israel....

First the good not famous sights…

The sewer/drain-access covers – seriously! They have lions on them – a symbol of Jerusalem. I noticed them the first time I visited Jerusalem, and they make me smile every time I look down!

The Montefiore Windmill… which will be mentioned in a variety of guidebooks, but very few people on a Christian Pilgrimage will see it as it is on West Jerusalem where there aren’t many Christian sites that Groups visit. And on that note…

The Ethiopian Church Compound… tucked away on a (very undistinguished) side street in West Jerusalem. Because it is so very far off the beaten track for Christian Pilgrim Groups, it is quiet, prayerful and not very full of people. It is possible to sit and pray and ponder – and breathe in the very faint smell of incense that hangs in the air.

The Scottish Flag… atop the ‘Scottish Church’ (the proper name of which is actually St Andrew’s Scots Memorial Church, Jerusalem) where I went to worship this morning. (The Service began at 10.05am and finished at 11.40, but had we sung the hymns at a decent speed we would have been finished by 11.20am I suspect! J ) I had never visited the Church before, and it is a lovely in its simplicity. There is a beautiful piece of art work in the apse of the Church created by people with Learning Needs living in Bethlehem. (Notice how the shadows make it into a Trinity... I like that, a lot!)

A good number of people (Anglicans especially) will make their way to St George’s Cathedral – so that counts as a famous site, I’m afraid!

Then there are the good sounds

The amazing range of languages and accents… from everywhere and anywhere. Today it was the Glasgow and Arizonian accents, and the Japanese and Dutch languages. As well as the Arabic and Hebrew (and Ethiopian!)

The Call to Prayer… not quite so evident from where I am staying just inside the Old City Walls beside the Jaffa Gate (so called because it is at the end of the road that leads from Jaffa to Jerusalem – just like the Damascus Gate leads from/to Damascus. There is the Dung Gate too… the least said about that, the better!) The first few nights I was here in Jerusalem the early morning Call to Prayer woke me with quite a start. Beside the Jaffa Gate lies West Jerusalem – the newer Jewish area… hence no Mosques on this side of the city.

The Church Bells… ringing out for Services, ringing for the Angelus, (and ringing ever-so-slightly out of sync with each other when ringing the hour!) There are single bells on some Churches, a handful of bells on others, and at the Lutheran Church I attended (and was unexpectedly invited to assist with on the Sunday I first appeared and then on Ash Wednesday – read about it here) there were four bells – rung electronically (don’t tell the Tower Captain at my Church, he’d be horrified! We have ten bells in our Tower, just so you know. J )

And then are the not so good sights…

The rubbish on the streets… especially of East Jerusalem, sad to say. There is obviously not much money put into this part of the City, and it shows. It is such a pity. This is my favourite part of the City, but it looks so grimy when compared to others parts – and just crossing one street is all it takes to see the difference.

The beggars… all over Jerusalem – the Old City, East Jerusalem and West Jerusalem too. After the Service today I headed off to explore West Jerusalem, where I’ve never been before. Walking around I saw two men, one sitting on a Zimmer frame/chair holding out a plastic cup which he just about drew the strength to shake occasionally, if he woke up from his dozing. The other man didn’t even have a cup. I confess to walking by – but only to give myself time to get some change out of my purse in order to go back. Had I been near a shop my preference would have been to purchase a sandwich and hot drink as it was a fairly cool day today weather-wise.

And the not so good sounds… in fact the most irritating sound in Israel and Palestine…

The sound of honking car horns. Wherever you go – and at whatever time of day or night – you hear the sound of horns. People try to direct the traffic by them, taxis try to pick up a ride with them and, just (very) occasionally, people will warn pedestrians that they need to move out of the way.

It took me a couple of days to work out what was going on with the taxis as I thought they were honking either at someone else, or at me to tell me to get out of the way! When I did realise what it was about, I soon learned that a simple shake of the head or raising of the hand to indicate ‘no ride required’ is enough and on they go quite happily.

The ordinary driver is another matter though. Today at a set of busy traffic lights, the light was quite clearly red so that a) pedestrians could cross the road and b) the traffic moving across the junction could move too. Alas, this made no difference to at least six or seven of the twelve or so drivers waiting for the light to change to green. I can’t begin to describe to you the cacophony of sound that prevails… everywhere!

Tomorrow is a new day – heading to Tel Aviv to meet two friends who are treating me (and themselves) to a couple of rooms at a plush hotel for the night before we head up to Galilee on Tuesday. And so, more anon!

Being random

When the notification came through that I was to be offered a period of Extended Study Leave (ESL – aka Sabbatical), it was not a surprise. In the Diocese of St Albans we are offered ESL each ten years (some constraints are in place – see here). I have been thinking of what I would like to do for the past two years, and I knew that coming to Palestine / Israel would play a major part in the activities I undertook – for reasons given in the blog post here.

Ahead of the ESL, in order to be given ‘permission’ (and funding) from the Diocese, I had to explain something of how I would spend my time across three areas: Rest and Refreshment, Broadening and Deepening, Getting Back In Touch with God. I shan’t bore you with all the details, but one of the things I indicated I would do under the last area was to complete a Mandala a day. I was first introduced to them by one of the other participants on the Training Course for Spiritual Directors that I undertook many moons ago. You can find out more about Mandalas here.

So, usually, at the end of each day before I head to bed, I spend a short thinking about the day: sifting and sorting (deliberately very briefly) in order to pick up the tone and feel of each day. Sometimes it will be something that I have heard on the radio or seen on a television programme that comes to mind. It may something that I’ve seen as I’ve journeyed through the day that has stuck with me, or there might be a particular feeling I am carrying with me that comes to the fore – good or bad, challenging or consoling. Then, with my trusty set of colouring pencils (pencils as they are light and I take them with me everywhere), I set to. I thought I’d share a random selection with you… make of them what you will.

I give you no explanation as to what any of them mean – although I have made a note for myself (and when I look back, I am sometimes very surprised!)

 

Enjoy!

 

 

 

 

 

The wrong kind of snow

It snowed overnight here in Beit Jala - so there is now about eight inches of snow on the ground. It was a very weird night weather-wise as, in addition to snow falling, there was thunder and lightning throughout the night, with hailstones falling at various points too. No-one is going anywhere – and that includes patients coming to the hospital. One of the Staff members here told me that no-one goes out in the snow as the roads are too dangerous due to the hills (which would be seriously treacherous if the snow were impacted), narrow roads and the fact that snow is so rare here that they are simply not geared up for it (tell the local transport gurus in the UK that! Here it is just snow, never mind the ‘wrong kind' of snow! J )

With ‘no-one going anywhere’, it means that the heroines and heroes of the hour at the hospital here are the Ancillary and Medical Staff who either slept here overnight or trudged through the snow to get to work. I’ve just trudged through the snow myself (all twenty-five yards of it) to get into the main building of the Hospital and the place is like a ghost town. Normally it is buzzing with patients, their families and friends, as well as members of Staff. Today there is a handful of people around – with the Emergency Staff in particular looking rather cheesed off. I guess today could be the day for catching up on notes and filing all round!

All of the children on the Ward where I have been working went home yesterday – ahead of the snow. A lot of them go home at the weekend anyway, but with the forecast saying snow was due off they all went a day early. The Therapy Team with which I am working are not in evidence today (and I can’t blame them, because I don’t drive anywhere in the snow either if I don’t have too) so I am using the time to read (and write this blog entry!)

What all of this makes me realise though, is just how lucky we are in the UK to have the machines to grit and clear the roads and a transport system that (usually) copes with heavy and inclement weather.

In addition, what many people around the world are lucky to have are Medical and Ancillary Staff working in hospitals and medical centres willing to try to get to their place of work – or even to stay overnight ahead of poor weather coming in, members of the Emergency Services who are willing to put their own lives at risk in order to be able to assist those who are trapped or injured by virtue of accident or life-threatening conditions that need expert medical assistance, Local Authority Highways Teams who go out to grit and clear the roads (usually at incredibly anti-social hours)… not to mention Teachers who make it into Schools to teach, Priests and Ministers who open Churches for people to pray, Volunteers who run and assist with overnight Emergency Shelters, Social Workers who get to the Homes in which there are children who need their care, Care Assistants who travel to either to Care Homes or people's own homes to offer medical and social care, and the members of the Media who get to their offices in order to run the twenty-four hours services on Radio and Television that we have become so used to. I should also mention Supermarket and Shop Staff who we 'expect' to be there, Bank Workers, Office Workers.. and the list goes on. Many people do not have a choice and, even if they do have a small 'get out clause' of the wrong kind of {snow}, [leaves on the line], [ice] (take your pick), someone, somewhere will complain that there was no-one there to answer the phone, sell them milk, give them money.... etc. etc.

When it has snowed heavily in the UK, people have say to me, ‘Just cancel the Service, no one will mind.’ To which my reply is always, “The Service is advertised, someone may come and it is important that the Service takes place – even if no-one comes.” Do you know, someone has always come to every Service that has taken place when there has been snow outside!

And so, with lightning and thunder rolling around outside, and hailstones beating my window, I sign off… praying for rain and sunshine so that the lives of the people here in the Hospital, the local town of Beit Jala, the City of Bethlehem – as well as other surrounding areas – might be made slightly easier as the day goes on.

Not in my name - and not in the name of my faith

As I have travelled in Palestine and Israel over these past few weeks, I have encountered a number of Muslim folk – both men and women. Our topics of conversation have ranged far and wide – including a discussion as to why Muslim men are allowed four wives and women only one husband. Not all arguments proposed by way of explanation as why this is so are ones I care to repeat here, but suffice to say that the one that blames women for men being unable to control their sexual urges is one that I am left feeling most unimpressed by.

That particular topic of marriage aside (and I promise I was not the one who raised the topic), there have been a number of conversations relating to the actions of IS – particularly yesterday and today, following on from the news of the beheading of members of the Coptic Church in Libya. Every Muslim who has spoken to me in recent weeks about the actions of IS and especially the beheadings on Sunday has said that those who perpetrate these crimes “are not Muslim”. “This is not in the Qu’ran,” they say. “This is not what our teachings tell us. These people are nothing to do with us.”

I have spoken about those in the UK who travel from the UK to train and who then return, planning to carry out killings. “We don’t know who they are,” I say. “It is worrying for many communities because they are unsure as to whether they will come under attack.” “It is the same for us. We do not know who they are either – but they are not of our faith. They do not act in the name of Allah."

And so, Muslims and Christians alike, have been united in our prayers for those who have been killed. We have also prayed for those who killed them. That they may come to understand the horror of their actions and the wickedness of their way and change the inclination of their minds and hearts.

Alongside these discussions and prayers, I have been reading Richard Holloway’s Leaving Alexandria and today have been reading his thoughts on pity. Much of what he has written seems particularly apposite for these troubled moments, and so I quote him here:

I settled myself in my seat as the train trundled out of the station. For a while I looked out of the window, enjoying the melancholy reverie train travel always induces in me. Then I picked up one of the books I had brought along for the ride, Arthur Koestler’s novel about purges and persecutions in Soviet Russia, Darkness at Noon. The epigraph was from Dostoevsky: ‘Man, man, one cannot live quite without pity.’ I put the book down and looked out of the window again. One cannot live quite without pity. Surely that was the key to understanding human hatred. Hatred was an absence of pity. Graham Greene had said something like it. When you looked at other men and women, ‘you could always begin to feel pity. When you saw the lines at the corners of the eyes, the shape of the mouth, how the hair grew, it was impossible to hate. Hate was just a failure of imagination.’ That is true but it is pity that does the imagining. Pity is sorrow at another’s sorrow, pain at another’s pain. To feel another’s sorrow! That has to be the way out of the predicament of human hatred. Pity! Yet it is a word some despise. And not just revolutionaries and ideologues for whom pity is always treason, because it blunts the edge of cruelty, their chosen weapon. Pity is despised because it is seen as demeaning to the one pitied. Poor little sufferer! How I pity her! But that is the tone of real pity. Pity is an identification with the other so profound that you enter her sorrow, even if she is someone you have been taught to despise. It is this that makes pity the antidote to evil. In spite of its colourful reputation, evil is an absence, a deprivation, the lack of something, a great emptiness. What the evil person lacks is the ability to identify with the other’s humanity. It is a lack of imagination. In order to hurt others we have to rob them of their humanity, refuse to see them as like ourselves, refuse to notice the lines at the corners of the eyes, the shape of the mouth. We have to make them objects not selves, otherise them! We have to do the precise opposite of what pity does, which is to humanise them, make us, almost helplessly, feel what they feel, grieve when they grieve, sorrow over their sorrow. Dostoevsky was right. We cannot live without pity. The more I thought about it, the more amazing was the revolutionary energy behind that beautiful little word. It even sounded lovely. I liked the way Hopkins used it: ‘My own heart let me more have pity on.’

I am grateful to Mr Holloway for his sitting with these thoughts and writing of them. I read them with gratitude for his insight. As I do so, I grieve for those whose hearts have no pity, or who offer pity only in partial measure (as I do sometimes too) and I ask how it is that our world, including the part of it carried within me, might be encouraged, assisted, challenged or, indeed, cajoled into feeling and showing pity to all who need it, and even to those who don’t.

‘Pity is an identification with the other so profound that you enter her sorrow, even if she is someone you have been taught to despise. It is this that makes pity the antidote to evil.'

May the gift of pity be revealed in your heart and, please think and pray for me, that it may be revealed in my heart too.

And here, to close, is one of my favourite prayers:

Eternal Father, source of life and light, whose love extends to all people, all creatures, all things, grant us that reverence for life which becomes those who believe in you, lest we despise it, degrade it, or come callously to destroy it. Rather, let us save it, and sanctify it after the example of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Archbishop Robert Runcie

The hospitality of strangers

I know, I know, I have already said more than once that I have a real sense of privilege at being able to be here – both in Palestine and at this hospital. To be given the time for a period of Extended Study Leave (ESL – aka Sabbatical – but not anymore… I believe this is so that there is a sense of purpose about it...) to undertake activities, study, prayer and worship that are both of interest and that ‘call’ to me is a privilege not afforded to all that many people. It is for this reason that I had a sense of wanting to use the time ‘well’ – to ensure that there was no sense of wasting time. As I have journeyed through the first month (and I realised today that it is just past the first month), somewhere inside there has been a deeper call to understand the sense what it means to be ‘one’. Jesus said, “May they all be one…” and I have been trying to comprehend what it means for different groups of people – be they grouped by nationality, faith, denominational practice, culture, race, gender, sexuality… and then there is the cross-over and mix of any number of these all together at any one time. My head has been full of thought (nothing new there for those who know me well!)

 

As each Sunday of my ESL has approached, I have wanted to find out where I can attend Church locally (unlike when I am on holiday and I don’t feel the need to be ‘in Church’ so much). There has been a deep desire to be ‘tethered’. This sense of tethering has felt much more than simply to be somewhere to worship: it is something more to do with ‘being’ with the household of faith to which I belong. It hasn’t mattered at all whether they are Anglican or not – and, in fact, the strangeness of language has, at various points, been lovely to lose myself in, challenging as I don’t know what is being said/sung, beautiful and mysterious and something akin to listening to the speaking/singing in tongues.

 

Having not succeeded in finding a huge amount of information on the net, I decided today to walk into the local community of Beit Jala, see which Church I came across first, and then join them. If the service was to be in English, that would be a bonus!

 

As I came into the outskirts, I pulled out my map and stood trying to work out where I was. A car pulled up and the passenger (a delightful young lady of about 12) asked if I needed help. I said I was looking for a Church – possibly St Mary’s. Her father asked if I wanted a Catholic Church and I said I didn’t mind. They asked me to hop in the car and they would give me a lift. (I should say that I had noticed a cross hanging from the rear view mirror – and any visible cross means an awful lot here than it does in the UK. I didn’t even think at the time that there would be any danger… in retrospect, perhaps I should be a bit more careful!) Anyway, once in the car, I said I was Protestant. “So are we.” said the father. Then I will come with you, said I! Thus I found myself in the Lutheran Church of Beit Jala, on Virgin Mary Street (!)

 

Now, I am an introvert (so what am I doing writing a blog?!) and am more than happy sitting at the back of a Church (like all good … Anglican/Catholics/Baptists – fill in the space with a denomination of your Church!) Alas, the two daughters from the car led the way to the front. Ah well. A few minutes later, the Pastor (Rev Saliba Rishmawi) appeared and with him another Minister. The Pastor came to say hello and asked if I was a Pastor too. "Yes! Ah, you are most welcome. You must come to join us at the front. We should be together and the people will see that we are one. Where are you from? Write it down so that I can introduce you properly. Come. Join us. This man, he is from Sweden.” So, in my pink sandals and carrying my hand bag (I kid you not!) I went to the back with them and formed part of the Procession into the Church (the ‘Procession’ being just us three ministers!)

 

The Service was completely in Arabic – hymns (which we sat down for), readings, prayers – all of it. The Pastor gave the reference in English (for me!) and from the sermon I caught the words, ‘facebook’, ‘like’, ‘I am sick’, ‘ I am well’ and inferred (who knows how) that he was saying something about real relationship. When we talked about it later I mentioned this and he said I was right! Goodness me, the Holy Spirit does indeed move in mysterious ways!

 

Never mind having wished to take my usual place at the back of the Church, I found myself right at the front: “The people will see you and I will introduce you and they will know you are a Pastor. You will help with Communion. They will know you are a Pastor.” What an amazing welcome. As the Service began, I found myself almost moved to tears to be in that place at that time with that Pastor with those people – to be welcomed in Christ as one among many. As the opening hymn began, I leant over to the Swedish minister and said, “Well, this is unexpected.” to which he replied, “It was the same for me last week!” He read one of the readings in Arabic (impressive) and I sat humming along to hymns, the tunes of which I knew but not the words – alas. When it came to the Nicene Creed I was completely flummoxed. You try being a lone voice saying the Creed in English (from memory) whilst everyone around you is speaking in a completely unfamiliar language. It was really weird! In the end I simply kept repeating, I believe in one God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit. I figured that would have to be enough!

 

At the Eucharistic Prayer, I was invited to say the Words of Institution over the wine, having been preceded by the Swedish minister saying the Words of Institution over the bread. Saliba then repeated them in Arabic – just so everyone would know what had been said! When it came to the distribution, the Swedish Minister administered to one row of people, and then me the next. All of this was amazingly unexpected, and all was simple because the father and his daughters had stopped in their car to ask if I needed any help. As I ‘listened’ to the sermon, I pondered what it would be like if those travelling to Church on Sunday mornings in England – or anywhere else for that matter –were, if they saw people on foot, to pull over and ask people if they needed help or a lift, to discover that they might be interested in going along to Church too.

 

In addition to being welcomed to the Church by name, I was welcomed to participate in ways I would not/could not have expected in a denomination, Church community and country that were not my own. “We are one in Christ. You are my sister in Christ. While you are here, this must be your home,” said Saliba. And so, to my (spiritual) delight, I discover that they are holding a Service on Ash Wednesday which means that I will be able to walk there rather than take a taxi to Bethlehem. Rather like the desire to be tethered on a Sunday, so this desire has extended to Ash Wednesday and Lent.

 

Following the service, I was invited to go with Saliba to take Home Communion to a gentleman and his wife. The poor man is unwell and on oxygen... and in walk us three ministers with Saliba’s wife and daughter, and then three of the Church Elders arrived too. The chap who is unwell seemed to take it all in his stride! Out came cake, chocolates and Arabic coffee… there was much laughter and then, in the midst of it, a time of quiet calm for prayer and the sharing of the bread and wine.

 

My planned visit this afternoon to Bethlehem was put on hold as it was raining (and I was wearing sandals) and so I returned to the hospital was given an impromptu lesson in Arabic over lunch.

 

It was a morning of rich blessings and I have been challenged and consoled as to my welcome and hospitality of strangers. There has been much today to both learn from and receive – in so many good and wonderful ways.

Waking up to what we have before it's too late

There is another wonderful tool that has proved useful here in Beit Jala though – that of Google Translate. I know it is not without its wonderful mistakes that can give rise to amusing moments of misunderstanding, however, for someone in a foreign land with no useful command of the language being used by everyone else, it has proved useful when communicating with the children and their parents with whom I have been ‘working’ over these past days.

In the evenings, I have been going up onto the Ward to play games with the children. Although there are some books and toys available, the parents are tired and lacking in energy, and the children are, in various ways unable to access many of these resources either through being in a wheelchair or unable to move so easily on their own, being unable to read on their own, or concentrate for long periods of time. And so, for a bit of light relief (I hope), I have gone to play with the children, ‘chat’ with the parents and generally be around. Google translate, with its useful tool of being able to listen to the translation has been so useful as it has allowed for me to ‘say’, “See you tomorrow.” or, “I hope you sleep well.”

There is good work going on here – and I have had some small insight into a small amount of it… from Speech Therapy for children and adults (following on from Brain Surgery or a Stroke or (tragically for a young child) the accidental introduction of a small bubble of oxygen into the blood stream during a routine scan procedure) to Stimulation Therapy for children and adults too. I know that all of this work goes on in the UK – and I come to realise increasingly how we are amazingly fortunate we in the UK are to have the NHS to support all who need it when they need it.

Now I had thought to restrain myself from a quasi-political diatribe about the funding cuts to the NHS and other Services – but I can’t.

Over the years, various UK Governments, whilst varying the Tax Bands, have not actually increased Income Tax all that much. I am glad that those on lower incomes are released from the burden of paying Tax, but the money to pay for the NHS etc has to come from somewhere and the promise of lower Tax overall does nothing to ensure that increased costs (required either through inflation or demand) are actually met through what is being brought in. Many say that they are worse off than in the past, but how many of them buy a coffee each day or so from one of the High Street coffee shops or have an iphone or a 4x4 gas guzzler vehicle when, in actual fact, a smaller car would suffice? How many women have their nails done, or hair coloured, whilst claiming that they can’t afford to shop anywhere other than Lidl or Asda? (Personally, I don’t mind Asda, and find it has a decent range of goods in our local one… Whether they are good employers or not, I can’t comment though.) A good number of people could afford to pay more Income Tax and, if we (all) did, then there would be more money available for Services required. In addition, Groups and Organisations would not be going out of action because there is no funding.

Locally, in Rickmansworth, a group that meets in our Church Centre had the funding cut for their Facilitator of their group. It is a crucial role and, when the cut came, they were given no notice – only a phone message, after the Facilitator had not been present one week, to say that she was not coming back as there was no funding for her post. Along with the funding for the post disappearing, so did the funding for paying for the room. I feel that the work the group does is of vital value, and so does my church community, so now we give them the room for free. Why should we have to do this though? (I assure you, no-one minds, but that is not the point.) If Local Government receives less funding from Central Government, because Central Government is operating some kind of appeasement model for us all that means if taxes are low we will vote any particular party back in, then this is a corrupt model and should be seen for what it is.

I have been working for more than 25 years and have said all my working life that I would rather pay an extra 1p or 2p in each pound so that there is money to be used for the good of all. If everyone paid this small amount more, then there would be money to spare, and more.

In a world where the global is increasingly local, through news and media, we in the UK we should comprehend the value of what we have and work to maintain its place in our society. It wouldn’t take much, just a bit more honesty and integrity and everyone taking responsibility as to the price for medical care, social care and education for all.

Rant over.

Taxi, anyone?

When I contacted the hospital here to ask if I should learn any Arabic before I arrived, I was advised that it wasn’t necessary and indeed, for the most part, this has been so. The Staff at the hospital, and may of the patients have a good smattering (and some, a good command) of English, and so I have been spoilt. At time, I have risked feeling like a lazy Westerner who can’t be bothered to learn anyone else’s language – but this isn’t actually so. Not entirely. Whilst here I have learned how to count a bit in Arabic, as well as learn the Arabic for chair (I know this will come in useful sometime in the future!) I love the universality of ‘sign language’ though, such as when I got out of the taxi this afternoon having arrived back from Bethlehem (name drop!) where I went to discover more about a possible tour to Ramallah on Sunday.

After getting out of a taxi, I indicated ‘crazy’ and said it under my breath whilst smiling in an embarrassed fashion. An older lady waiting in the vestibule area looked at me and asked, “Why you crazy?” I said,

“He charged me 30 shekels from Bethlehem. To get there was 20!”

“30 shekels?!” she cried, “It is only 12. If you on your own 12, with others is 3.”

“On the way I shared and the other lady paid 3, but he charged me 20. He told me 20 so I paid 20. On the way back here the man said 30,” said I.

“We go to the Police! He will go before the judge!” At which point I put my arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug saying, “Shukran!” as I did so. Someone else said,

"That's Palestine for you!"

Ah! The wonders of the universal experience of being taken for a ride (literally!) I can’t really complain though as the total cost of the trips to Bethlehem and back, whilst being 50 shekels and so at least double what it should have been, actually equates to just £8.50 (ish). In reality, the drivers here could actually do with the money but, if they were a little more fair, there would be more money to spend in some of the shops too!

There is a wonderful 'language' used by all taxi drivers here though – that of the horn. As they drive along the roads – wherever they are and whatever time of day – their eyes will be scanning the streets for anyone who looks in any way as though they might be going anywhere that might require a taxi ride, at which point will come the double horn press: beep, beep! It took a couple of days for me when I was in Jerusalem to learn to not even bother looking around as that was the reason they were beeping, not to warn me to get of the way or any other reason. Once I had learned that, I began to feel as though I knew a little more how to behave like a local. my bartering skills leave a bit to be desired as yet though, but I shall be trying a bit harder come the next taxi ride!

Back to basics in Beit Jala

I used to be a Teacher – for both Primary and Middle School age ranges at various points. I was a Music Co-ordinator in one and a Special Needs Teacher in the other. I loved teaching – enjoying the joy and exuberance of musical performances, the delight on the faces of children when they finally ‘got it’ after struggling for a while (and then watching them explain it to someone else!), or finding new ways of assisting a child to ‘work around’  situation swhen they were being harassed or harried by others.

Had I not been recommended for training for Ordination, I think my path would have gone towards becoming an Educational Psychologist, a Specific Learning Needs Teacher or a Psychotherapist. Something of this call to walk alongside others is borne out in Ministry, and it was something that I expressed at one of the earliest sessions we had at Theological College. “What is your strapline?” we were asked. “How would you sum up your call?” For me it was hard to express and always has been – but it has something to do with being the one who accompanies others along life’s rich and delightful and challenging way. It is about being the one who is alongside (even if the person doesn’t know it), the one who witnesses and who watches, the one who is willing to give time and to say (often without words), “You are worth me giving you this time and this space and this energy that is mine”. To be able to do this is a rare privilege.

Thus it is that I felt called to be here at Beit Jala. In the four small rooms that offer sanctuary to children in need – as well as their family and friends – the children have a bed to sleep on whilst the parents (usually the mother, but not always) each have a mattress that, each night, is put on the floor having been propped up against the wall during the day. Long days with their children who are from all over the Palestinian Territories, with all sorts of needs – some able to communicate but all, some mobile but not all, some able to go home at weekends but not all. Part of why I am here is to say in some small way that someone can be bothered. You are worth bothering with and your children are worth bothering with. For this very short period of time I am happy to come and play with them, to work with them, to teach them and let them laugh at me when I don’t know the Arabic for chair or water or hello. This evening, long after I ‘finished’ for the day and have been on google translate and other websites that will translate Arabic into roman lettering so that I can have a stab at pronouncing some words, I have been on the Ward to play games with one of the children – which actually turned into four of the children. The mothers looked on, glad of a bit of respite, and I am happy to be with these children who have little idea of what I am saying when I say, “Now it is my turn!” but who are delightful to watch when they copy my actions for ‘thinking and looking’ when we are playing memory games.

The children won’t have any idea of why I am here – I imagine they will simply be glad someone is willing to play with them. The Play and Drama Therapist I am working with noted that one child who usually throws things around actually ‘worked’ relatively calmly with me this afternoon (this was only once I had worked out that we simply needed to play and be rather than ‘learning’ in any formal sense. The wise ones amongst you will know that playing is very important too!)

So for this couple of weeks, here I am, with these children and these parents and these staff members in this place where good work is being done and somehow I hope they will intuit the ‘message’ that someone (in this instance me) is here to accompany them along life’s rich and delightful and challenging way. Someone is here to be alongside, witnessing and watching, willing to give time and to say (without words), “You are worth me giving you this time and this space and this energy that is mine”. To serve you in this way is rare privilege.

‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’

You’ll remember the bombing in Gaza last summer – right? Also, the Second Intifada, and First – perhaps? And, of course, you’ll remember the bombing of Manchester City Centre and the bombs in Hyde Park and the ongoing Troubles in Northern Ireland and the planes striking the Twin Towers and… and…  shall I go on?

I test your memory because I am aware of how easy it is to forget.

I used to forget that my father served in Northern Ireland when it was not safe to do so. His coming and going was the norm for us. It was only when I travelled to Belfast myself in 2003 that I realised what a challenging place it must have been to be (and still is for some). (You can see something more of my reflection on this theme in a Sermon I preached on Remembrance Sunday last year.)

Though I was not much more than a child when they took place, I do remember, when I care to, the Hyde Park bombs, the Manchester bombing and the way in which the fact that these attacks had come onto the mainland somehow made ‘us’ (the rest of the people of Britain) suddenly take them so much more seriously. How soon, how easily, we forget.

There are, however, those who will never be able to forget – because of the mental, emotional, psychological and physical scars they bear. I am reminded of this by the child I met today – the child whom I shall call H.

H is a bright young man and, amongst his many skills, he is able to ask and answer questions in English and, when bored of adults ‘showing off’ his ability to do this, is able to make it more than plain that enough is enough. (Quite right!) Today H was studying the Urinary System – drawing and labelling pictures, as well as describing and discussing how it all worked. As a break from the intensity of the one-to-one situation (now two-to-one as I was there) the board game version of Angry Birds was brought out. (I had previously confessed to the teacher that I had Angry Birds on my phone until a couple of weeks ago. The time I spent playing on it was not a good thing and there are far more instructive ways of spending my time so I deleted it though!) in addition to some Biology and a game or two, there was some dictation and a bit of spelling. Before needing to come to the hospital, H was always top of the class – and I can see why. So why is H here at the hospital in Beit Jala?

H has been here since last summer. He was out with his brother when a bomb fell on the shop where they were buying bread. The shop was in Gaza. H’s brother died instantly whilst H sustained injuries to his lower legs. Following on from surgery there has been a lengthy period of Physiotherapy. H is now able to get around independently with a crutch – but he still requires supports on both his lower legs. Standing up is a bit of a challenge but he gets on with it. Seeing H as he is reminds me of the conflict last summer – a conflict that I haven’t forgotten but that does seem ‘of the past’ as time moves on and so does life and so do we all. H, however, as with all who suffer during any conflict – in whatever kind of way, whilst getting on with getting on, carry mentally, emotionally, psychologically and physically the memories.

As I have travelled through today – and through the past days reflecting on issues in the news to do with IS in particular – words that have come to mind are those from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice and a speech given by Shylock: ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ (You can find the Scene from which it comes here.) Shylock is speaking of the treatment of Jews – and he speaks too of revenge, alas. Perhaps we could all do well, before taking up arms, before speaking bitter words, before deciding we are better than others, perhaps we could all put these specific words of Shylock into the mouths of those we are about to attack in whatever way: ‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’ If we did this, maybe it would make a difference – maybe. As ever, it takes courage to see others as human when they are different or distant or nameless to us. H bled, as did his brother, as did and as do so many others in current war zones and trouble spots. Seeing H today reminds me that I should not forget and that is certainly no bad or untimely thing.

A Sermon for Remembrance Sunday 2014

At the two Services held here at St Mary’s on 4th August this year, one in the morning and another in the evening, almost a hundred people met to commemorate the outbreak of the First World War. The Service in the morning took place outside by the War Memorial, where we shall continue out Service with the Act of Remembrance. As part of the morning Service, the Candle of Remembrance and Peace that now rests on the High Altar was blessed. It was then carried into Church and placed by the Book of Remembrance for those who fell in the First and Second World Wars. The Candle remains alight here in church, day and night, and will do so throughout the four years of commemoration – until Armistice Day in 2018. 

 

For the evening Service, the Candle was carried out to the War Memorial and from it were lit all the candles of those gathered. This was as part of the #LightsOut act of remembrance suggested by the Royal British Legion. Across the country, thousands of people gathered in towns or in places of worship, stood by War Memorials, or were simply at home, and wherever people were, there they lit a candle to commemorate the outbreak of the First World War, and to remember in prayer those who died in this particular War. 

 

We remember so that we don’t forget. We don’t forget the lives lost. We don’t forget the search for peace. We don’t forget that others gave their lives so that we might live ours. For our tomorrow, they gave their today.  

 

Those of a certain age, when I tell them I was born in Catterick will say, “Ah, really, so your father was in the Army.” As some of you will know already, my father was indeed a member of the Armed Services. He served for 22 years as part of the Royal Army Medical Corps during which he was stationed in Hong Kong, Germany, and the United Kingdom. Part of his Service in the UK saw a number of periods of Active Service in Northern Ireland during the 1970s. It wasn’t a good time to be in Northern Ireland. It wasn’t a safe time to be Northern Ireland. There were killings and bombings on the streets, and no-where was really safe. I grew up living in Army Barracks, and it was the norm, the ordinary way of things, for soldiers to come and to go for their Tours of Duty – with their families hoping they would come back, but not always certain if this would be so. I was quite young, and so it was normal for me for my father to come and to go. I didn’t realise so clearly then, that others were not so lucky.  

 

Like many soldiers, my father did not talk that much about what went on whilst he was away. It is only as I got older, much older, and when I visited Belfast myself in 2001 (for a holiday of all things!) that I had some small glimpse into what that City might have been like back then. If you visit, even today, there are still sectarian paintings on the walls of houses and buildings. There are memorial plaques over the front doors of houses to commemorate those ‘martyred in the cause’.  

 

As time goes on, I realise that I was one of the lucky ones. I was fortunate for my father came home. Not everyone’s father came home from Northern Ireland. Just as so many fathers, brothers, sons, daughters, wives, mothers, neighbours, friends did not come home from the Second World War or the First, from the Falklands, Iraq, Afghanstan or all the military campaigns with which Great Britain has been involved for the past 100 years. Realising now that I was fortunate, that I am fortunate, makes me so much more aware of those who were not and who are not today. 

 

As armed conflicts continue to rage, and as terrorist organisations seek to engender fear and mistrust in peoples across the world, there are many families who are not ‘lucky’. Their family members and friends are torn from their lives – and the possibilities with which their lives were filled are cut off, often in their prime. This Service today is about each life. It is about the individuals, the men and women who each, individually, lost their lives. They are not an amorphous mass; each person who died was someone’s father, brother, son, daughter, wife, mother, neighbour, friend. We list their names on War Memorials, we write their names in Books of Remembrance, because each one of them had a name; each of them meant something to someone, each of them meant something to God too. Whichever side they fought on, whatever language they spoke, wherever they died in the world – each person is remembered because they meant something and they mean something still. For our tomorrow, they gave their today.  

 

On the altar lie poppies in memory of those whose names are listed on our Town War Memorial. A member of the British Legion carried them in, and a young person will carry them out to the War Memorial – alongside the Candle of Remembrance and Peace. On Tuesday, Armistice Day, we shall gather in prayer and read aloud the 193 names inscribes on our Town War Memorial, just as we did on 4th August. We undertake these simple actions, we wear these simple red poppies, we offer our simple prayers – all to signify and symbolise something so much bigger and greater – our gratitude for the gift of life, won for us by others giving theirs. It is so hard to put into words but it is so important to try. 

 

My father was among those who came home and, as time goes on, I realise just how thankful I should be. We pray for and remember today who did not come home, as well as remembering those who loved them. Those who died, those who loved and lost, each in their own way gave their tomorrow for our today. Let us give thanks for the gift of life that is ours and, in doing so, honour the memory of the fallen and all who loved them. Amen.