A Dream of You

You
Disappear around the corner, your ragged cloak dangling
Just out of reach
And I do reach
And hurry, but always too late, too slow
For You.

An empty quiet meets my call
Nobody listening,
Nothing there.
The crowds behind their windows
Deaf and blind
To You,
Distract me
Their world so smooth, of plastic and glass.
I stop, captivated, then remember
You.
Deep breath, call again, follow again the footprints in mud and snow,
Winding through pits and prisons, shelters and food banks,
Leading through other crowds,
Other eyes that see,
Other ears that listen.
And losing myself, losing the world
I stumble, fall, collapse and find
You.

For Teachers

The halls flood with students, noise erupting from classrooms as the race begins for the door. September rushes to an end, signaling that the school year is well underway, with all its challenges and all its possibilities.

But it’s tough times to be in education. The world devalues what teachers do, tells them they are overpaid and underutilized. Despite the every-increasing demands placed on schools, educators are still viewed in some places as mere purveyors of facts, and the first to be hit by budget cuts to education.

But teachers know they are more than that. In a world that measures people on wealth and appearance, good teachers are gift-bearers and hope-bringers. They embrace our students’ present, and point to their future. They let our children know that they belong now, here, today in their classroom, regardless of what they look like, how they learn, and how well they do. Teachers provide an alternative to the media-centered ideal of what it means to be important and good.

Beyond and above everything else, teachers develop imaginations. They tell their students: imagine what this world could be like if we treated others with respect. Imagine what your future might bring if you just keep trying. Imagine a world of sustainability, justice and peace. Imagine the endless possibilities, like stars across the sky or fractions on the number line.

Teachers give students tools and knowledge, yes, but above all they give them hope. It’s all possible.

When the world tells teachers their work is worth little, I hope they will hold to faith. Because educators are involved in something bigger than themselves, something like hope, something like love. Some days they are the only ones standing between the future and an abyss for a student. Some days they are the only ones to make a child welcome in the world.

So teachers, what you do today matters. Your life, your vocation, is a gift and a blessing. As we head into October, may you keep spreading your blessings widely. It makes all the difference in the world.

Conscience and the Military: The Case of Kim Rivera

In 2007, American soldier Kimberly Rivera decided that she could no longer participate in the immorality of the US war on Iraq. She had seen for herself the lives lost and the horror of war. Two-thirds of the 100 000 casualties of the war on Iraq are civilians according to the US army’s own estimates. This ongoing persecution of innocents, and the fact that Iraq never has been a threat to the US, led her to take the radical and dangerous decision to refuse participation in an immoral war.

Rivera became a conscientious objector, resigned without permission from the military, and came to Canada to seek refuge. Three weeks ago, on August 30th 2012, the Canadian government ordered her deported to face court martial in the United States, almost certainly followed by prison time and a lifelong conviction. She has four small children.

Rivera has the support of many Canadians, and of Amnesty International. Twice parliament has voted to allow US Iraq war resisters to stay in the country, just as happened during the Vietnam war. Canadians understand the importance of personal conscience, of staying true to principles that matter. But the Harper government refuses to allow Rivera any justice.

Her case highlights the problem with the military. What if a war is illegal by international standards? What if it is conducted in a morally reprehensible way (assuming there actually could be such a thing as a morally acceptable way of violence)? In the years following WWII the Nuremburg tribunal made it clear that soldiers have a duty to refuse to follow illegal orders. Thus we do not excuse the soldiers who guarded the gates of Auschwitz.

We teach our children to think for themselves, to make their own decisions and to stand up for what they believe in. But in the military as young adults, they are told to follow orders, to let their superiors do the moral thinking for them about whether to kill or not to kill. They are separated from their conscience, and taught that obedience supersedes all. They are hoodwinked into believing that it is the one who makes the decision who is really the killer, that they are simply an innocent tool, while at the same time their officers are taught to believe that since they do not pull the trigger they too are innocent. Who then truly bears the burden of responsibility?

The answer is simple. Every person involved in the process from beginning to end bears responsibility for their own decisions and actions. Conscience overrides obedience every time. This is what the Nuremburg principles teach us. This is what Jesus teaches us when he rejects violence even to save himself. It is not about obedience. It is about a rational all-giving love, that asserts the dignity of the life of every human person.

If you would like to send a message to the Canadian government in support of Kim Rivera, go to http://resisters.ca/. (Picture from resisters.ca)

Looking for Rainbows

The ark creaks against barren rock, washed clean by the endless flood. It catches and holds, stabilized at last against the mountain as the waters recede into rivers and valleys. Out of the doors pour animals and humans, fleeing each other, embracing the space of a wide-open world. But the humans tumble to their knees, breathless before the slash of brilliant color lighting the sky.

The rainbow first appears in the book of Genesis, the oldest book of the bible, written thousands of years ago. It marks the end of the story of Noah’s ark, the survival of humanity in the midst of destruction and despair. It testifies to humanity’s awe before beauty, and our willingness to see the touch of God in the world around us. The story tells us that the rainbow marks God’s promise to us, the presence of the Divine in human life for all time.

But the rainbow tells us something else. It tells us to trust in a reality beyond what we see on any given day, in any given place. Apparently many types of animals cannot see rainbows. Their eyes lack the ability to distinguish colors, so a rainbow covered sky means nothing. It does not exist. It is not real.

We humans are programmed to doubt anything we cannot see, touch, hear or smell. If we were colorblind we would not believe rainbows existed. But unlike animals, it’s not that we can’t see, it’s that we don’t allow ourselves to see. We turn from the face of the other. We turn from our invisible soul. Yet we cannot see our own soul without first seeing the soul of our neighbor.

The soul thrives on compassion, hope, and love. It grows in the company of others. It has eyes of its own, that seek out the poor and oppressed, that cannot stand the pain of suffering and loneliness. This is why Jesus cries to us to care for the poor. This is why Jesus exhorts those who have eyes to see - really see- the truth of relationship, wisdom, and care.

When we reach out to the bullied, the forgotten, the poor, the oppressed, the brother, and the sister, we reach for rainbows. We witness to a truth beyond the mundane and every day. We celebrate the multicolored hues of diversity and difference. We recognize a kingdom of color beyond the grey of our daily existence. We hear laughter in silence, and see light in the dark.

This is a world we can find. It is a world we can create. It is a world we are called to every single day by a God who walks with us, whatever we choose to do, whatever we choose to see.

The topic of blindness returns again and again throughout scripture. Over and over we are told by one prophet after another to look in a different way, to seek in the physical world what lies beyond it. Here we find faith rooted in love. Here we find vision beyond vision, and reality beyond the real. Here we find our ever present, invisible, multi-colored, all-embracing, always loving God.

.

When Tears are not Enough: An Appeal for Christian Activism

“Take away from me the noise of your songs; to the melody of your harps I will not listen. But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5: 23-24).

I cry easily. When my children were little, they loved to listen to me read the Velveteen Rabbit because they knew I would inevitably tear up at the beautiful ending. I cry at weddings and funerals. I cry when I hear sad stories. I cry in the face of beauty.

But when I visited Palestine this summer, and witnessed the relentless State and personal oppression Palestinians face, I could not cry. We sat under tarps with families whose stone homes had been destroyed. We met and ate with people whose children had been hit or threatened. We heard stories of the burning of villages during the Naqba of 1948 and ever since. We saw graffiti calling for the gassing of Arabs. Every day we met survivors of pain and sorrow, and watched the ongoing humiliation and degradation that threatens them daily. But while several of my companions cried copiously, for me the tears would not come.

I have to admit I was bothered by this. I wanted the release of tears, the relief from pain. But it would not come despite the deep unabated sorrow I felt, and the anger. I have been home now for almost a month, and have had time to reflect on my dry eyes.

I recognize first of all that the dominant emotion I experienced during this trip was anger, not grief. How can we as human beings treat others so badly simply because of their religion or ethnicity? Have we learned nothing from the lessons of history? And I am not ready to fully let go of my anger. Pray for me.

I realize too that I have not lost hope. While I can cry for joy and I can cry in the face of death, I cannot cry when the story is not over. The incredible resilience of oppressed people left me speechless. We received hospitality. We shared food, drink and laughter. Israeli and Palestinian activists – Jewish, Christian and Muslim - are working every minute of every day for a better peaceful future in this grief-stricken war-torn oppressed land. Foreigners stand with them, supporting them with acceptance, love, understanding and peace, telling their stories over and over.

I admit my anger fuels my hope too. This is not right. This cannot continue. I am compelled to write. I am driven to speak. Deep down, I don’t want to risk release. I don’t want to forget. I want to believe it will get better.

But speaking about global injustice can make people feel uncomfortable. It somehow doesn’t seem polite. Better to focus on improving ourselves, saving our own souls and those of our neighbors. Local issues are safe, and yes, important. Global issues threaten people. Yet our environment and our corporations bind us together even if somehow we could forget that we are all brothers and sisters. The desperate foreigner who has no one to speak for them needs us like a beloved family member.
In what sense are we Christians if we refuse to speak for hope, faith and love for all? In what sense do we dare say we follow Christ if we do not advocate for the

poor, the oppressed, the sick, the stranger, the widow, the orphan? It’s not enough to just engage in charity at home. It’s not enough to simply worship our God for our personal blessings. We need to stand up and be counted as people who oppose violence, oppression, poverty, degradation, colonization, sexism, racism, homophobia and every other form of discrimination and injustice that blights this planet whether in our own neighborhood or across the globe.

Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the Peacemakers’. Notice that Peace doesn’t just happen. It needs to be made. It needs to be created one person at a time. It needs me. It needs you. And when we create it, the tears of joy we share will baptize this world for all of us.

Bethlehem: Wall of Pain, Wall of Shame

The Wall

The Separation Wall stretches across the ancient land of Palestine. Like the walls of any European ghetto or East Berlin or any prison, it proclaims the might of the State (in this case Israel) and its 'right' to control all who live in this land according to its own rules, right or wrong.

And it is wrong. It is hateful. It is hate itself.

The city of Bethlehem is a prison today. In order to leave Bethlehem, we join the local inhabitants who must pass through a cattle run that stretches a good 300 meters, with metal bars keeping people gated in. I feel claustrophobic. Then we must pass through two lockable turnstiles with a courtyard in between. After the second one, a metal detector must be traversed, with all metal objects and shoes placed in bins to pass through an X-ray as in the airport. But that isn't enough. We are then herded into line, and must show identification papers to a border guard. Palestinians must also be fingerprinted. Only then, if all gates have been passed, are we allowed to walk out beyond the walls of Bethlehem.

This can take hours. Which means, if you work on the other side of the Wall you must line up in the early hours of the morning, and never know when you might make it home. It means that if you own an Olive grove outside the new wall, you will lose it. Any land uncultivated for three years is taken by the Israeli government. So people are locked away from their land.

Yet the feeling inside Bethlehem is welcoming. People deeply appreciate that we have taken the time to come. The Israeli government will do anything to stop people staying the night in Bethlehem. Tourists come for day tours only. Our hotel is nearly empty and the people so kind. We spend an evening in the courtyard of a local businessman, sharing his food and listening to his stories. The stars shine down as they always do here in Bethlehem.

Jewish Israeli citizens are not allowed into Bethlehem by order of the Israeli government. They do not want their citizens to see the poverty, the way the wall has killed commerce and created suffering. Better to believe people are happy to be imprisoned behind the wall. Good fences make good neighbors...

The Wall is a travesty of human rights. Still it grows, separating people, whispering hate. The Palestinians fight back, decorating the wall with proclamations of peace and brotherly love. I pray their wishes come true. I pray we open our eyes. I pray we remember that Jesus came to set the prisoners free - his words not mine. And he came here first. I pray the Wall comes down.

Hebron Hills: Heaven and Hell

Part 1: At-Tuwani

We drive up through hilly rocky land to the stone building in the center of the small village of At-Tuwani. Laundry flaps in the wind from other buildings, the whole place giving a sense of space under bright hot skies. Hafez meet us at the door, and invites us in to sit on mats as he tells us the story of the village.

At-Tuwani is a tenacious town, clinging to its centuries old history. But it has suffered. In 1980 almost 700 people lived in the village, surrounded by their lands where they grew olive trees, and pastured their sheep. But in 1982 the first of the illegal Zionist settlements was established on the hill tops around the village, on land that belonged to Palestinian At-Tuwani families. They have the deeds to prove it dating back to the Ottoman empire. Neither the legal documents nor the actual existence of Palestinians living on the land stopped Zionist settlers from destroying fields and orchards and building houses, aided and abetted by the Israeli army.

The same story took place all over the South Hebron hills, and refugees from other villages fled to At-Tuwani. Other villagers left for Yatta and further places to escape the persecution. But At-Tuwani fought back, and with the help of human rights organizations like Rabbis for Human Rights, Tayush and the International Solidarity Movement they tried to stop the continual encroachment of Israeli settler homes onto At-Tuwani land. By 2002 the population of the village had dropped to a mere 100 residents, the others fleeing in self-protection from attacks from the settlers that were neither impeded by the army or prosecuted by the courts.

At-Tuwani grew as a centre for non-violence. Operation Dove from Italy and Christian Peacemakers Teams arrived to help ensure that there would be an international presence to document the continued abuses, including attacks on children as they made their way to school. Some of these observers suffered serious injury in attacks. Tony Blair heard of the village thanks to the media efforts of the international peace workers, and showed up for a visit in 2010. With his influence the village was finally able to obtain electricity and water, forbidden by the army until then even though wires and pipes ran through the village to the settlement.

Today the village is still under constant threat from the settlers who move closer and closer one house at a time. Hafez tells us of a particularly horrific attack on his elderly mother as she herded sheep. When he heard her cries he was meeting with Jewish Israeli peacemakers. They ran to the field where she was being attacked and found her bloodied with her jaw broken. One of the settlers shot at Hafez as he ran toward them, wounding an Israeli peacemaker. Only when the bullets were gone did they turn, abandon the sheep they were trying to steal and run back to their settlement.

Hafez talks about how hard it was afterwards to stick to his commitment to non-violence. But his mother, released from hospital three days later, told him that he must look to the future, to hope and peace. Revenge was worth nothing.

Today At-Tuwani runs an annual festival for non-violence. Jews, Christians and Muslims both international and local come together to work for a just future. It still suffers attacks from settlers and persecution from the army. But it is a place of courage and hope. Villagers have started to return and the population has risen to 350. Every week the villagers perform a non-violent resistance action, whether it is simply building a fence or replanting trees. But their greatest action is simply staying there and working for a normal future for their children on the land of their ancestors.



Part 2: Susya

The ramshackle collection of makeshift tents hardly qualifies for the title village in my experience, but Susya has a heart of home. Nasser Nawaja tells us of the severe persecution suffered by this little village as it tries to maintain its precarious existence under constant threat. Like At-Tuwani, a Zionist settlement has been established nearby on the land of the Palestinian villagers. And they want to grow.

Susya was first demolished in 1986 when the Israeli government discovered an ancient synagogue on their land and told them that they could not live that near to an archaelogical site. Many of the stone homes of this old village were destroyed and the villagers shifted across the road. A month later, zionist settlers moved into the remaining houses and started to build their own.

The Susya Palestinians complained but to no avail. Their new houses were constantly attacked, either demolished by the army or sabotaged by the settlers. They were told they were on their land illegally and had to leave. Their wells were poisoned, one by settlers dropping an old car in it. Their olive trees were cut.

Then four months ago a radical settler organization called Rigavim applied to the supreme court to have Susya destroyed once and for all. Human rights organizations, both Israeli and international have been advocating and protesting but so far without success.

The whole area is under attack by settlers and army. Last night 45 olive trees belonging to a neighboring Palestinian family were cut down by settlers. Any semi-permanent residences are destroyed. Roads are blocked.

Nasser's cell phone rings as we sit under the tree. We can tell by his voice he is agitated. He works for a Jewish Israeli human rights organization called Bet' Salem, or 'Shoot Back', which takes pictures of human rights violations. The caller tells him a road into a nearby village has been bulldozed by the army. We ask if we can go with him to take pictures and he invites us along. We are joined by some members of a British Jewish human rights organization called Yachad. Their leader is a Jewish Israeli man, a young former soldier who also joined a group called Breaking the Silence, former soldiers who speak of the atrocities they performed and work for justice and peace. it's worth googling them to find out more.

As we drive to the village, we stop briefly so Nasser can show us the olive trees chopped down last night. 'Death to Arabs' has been spray painted on a nearby rock. When we arrive at the road, it looks as if bombs have been set off all along it. The stone walls that lined it have been caved in and deep gouges intersperse piles of boulders. Nasser tells me the road was funded by 'Save the Children' foundation. A neighbour tells me it is the only access to the village, who were supposed to receive a water cistern.

The army says it can demolish roads and homes because if they are built without a permit. But the Israeli government does not grant permits to Palestinians. So clinics, schools and homes must be built without permits only to be destroyed again and again. I wonder how the families in this village will cope. I wonder what the generous people of 'Save the Children' will think. I wonder how and when this will ever end.