Our Time in the Galilee

We've just returned from a three-day jaunt to the Galilee, the area north of Jerusalem where Jesus conducted most of his earthly mission, and we're once again overwhelmed with gratitude for God's ever-apparent grace to us. We're also trying to sift through the experience, as it left us a bit overwhelmed with the desperate situation of this land.

Monday morning, we left Tantur bright and early (5:55 a.m., to be precise) to meet a tour bus in Jerusalem that would travel to Ramallah, just a few miles to the north, where we'd rendezvous with a group from Guilford College doing mission work at the Friends School there. (Deep thanks to Max and Jane Carter and their students for welcoming us for this excursion!) Since we didn't have exact directions to the travel agency's parking lot, we wandered a bit aimlessly for over an hour until (this is the grace of God part) we spotted the welcome sign of "Sindbad Travel" on a shimmering white bus. We quickly gathered our almost-dashed hopes and climbed aboard for the brief but circuitous trip to the West Bank town. As we'd already seen with Bethlehem, gaining access between Israel and the occupied territories is neither easy nor pleasant, even for a group of American tourists. Strange as it may sound, unsolicited tears fill my eyes whenever we reach the "border."

We spent much of the day doing some of the "Run Where Jesus Walked" tour: Caesarea (where Paul was imprisoned before heading to Rome), Tabgha (site of loaves and fishes), Capernaum (Jesus, home base), and the Mount of the Beatitudes (particularly lovely spot). Though Bob and I had visited these sites on prior trips, it was a delight to share them with the kids, to read together the passages related to these places, and to watch their eyes light up at the connection between story and setting. We ended the day with a dip in the Sea of Galilee, followed by a feast of St. Peter's fish (also known as Tilapia). Yes, its eyes were staring up at me; no, I found no coins in its mouth.

Monday evening, we arrived at our home for two nights, the Galilean town of Ibillin, where the priest Elias Chacour has been doing world-changing ministry now for several decades (read his stirring accounts in We Belong to the Land and/or Blood Brothers). Ibillin is an Arab Israeli town, which means it's mostly made up of Palestinians (both Muslim and Christian), but it's outside the West Bank (or Occupied Territories) and so considered part of Israel proper.

Our purpose in Ibillin was two-fold: we were there to help in some small way, which for us meant painting, landscaping, and general cleanup; and we were there to hear from Abuna (or "Father") Chacour, to learn more about his work and his story. As we closed our day yesterday, our kids all cited the hour spent with Father Chacour as the highlight of the day -- indeed, an emerging highlight of the whole trip. Though words again seem so inadequate to the task, I'll try to capture some of our dynamic sense of the Spirit that radiates from this gifted leader and servant of our God.

First of all, Father Chacour conveyed deep welcome. After over an hour of "grownup talk," he turned to Hannah and Will and said, "Now I want to hear from our younger guests. And I want you to know one thing: I love you." This was no drivel; the tears welling up in the room confirmed the Source of his love.

Father Chacour's gift of visionary leadership had been evident from the moment we arrived on the hillside campus of his Mar Elias Educational Institute. A new sanctuary for his Orthodox church had just been dedicated, but even more spectacular was the array of buildings that together house grades K through college. Some 4,500 students attend Mar Elias, a school built on the solid Christian principle that love is stronger than hate, and that standing together -- even reaching out to traditional "enemies" -- is the way forward to the peace and life that seem so elusive in this beleaguered land.

Skeptics may call Father Chacour's approach soft-hearted, pie-in-the-sky idealism, but it's hard to argue with his results: a school with a 57% Muslim majority, plus minorities of Christians and Jews (all three represented on faculty as well as in the student body), where mutual love and respect are the order of the day. His school struck us as a microcosm of the kind of kingdom of God Jesus heralded, a kingdom in which the oppressed are set free, and the lion and lamb lie down together.

But perhaps most wrenching were the stories Father Chacour shared with us, stories of Palestinian plight not often included in the mosaic of violence reported through the media. Father Chacour takes a strong stand against violence as he catalogues its counter-productivity for both sides in this struggle. But what he brings to light is that the violence we normally associate with this place (mainly, horrendous acts of suicide bombers) is only part of the story. Here are some excerpts from "the rest of the story":

The story behind the violence: we're often schooled in the notion that suicide bombers "don't value human life," and perhaps that's true for some, but Father Chacour shared the real-life story of two who gave their lives in such a tragic and destructive way. One, the first suicide bomber I think, had been traveling the short distance from Bethlehem to Jerusalem with his father, who rode on a donkey with the son leading the way. When they arrived at a checkpoint, the Israeli soldiers there -- apparently bored at their post -- ordered the elderly man off the donkey and then beat him until he kissed the animal's backside. That wasn't all. Once he complied, they teased him mercilessly, all under the watchful eye of the son, who remained silent, infuriated but powerless. A week later, he went to Tel Aviv donning an explosive vest.

Then there was one of few female bombers, an attorney with a thriving practice who apparently cracked. The source of her stress? Three converging factors: a father she watched die from a heart attack after three hours of pleading with a Haifa hospital that refused treatment because he was Palestinian; a brother hunted down and killed by an Apache helicopter; and a fiancé buried alive as his home was bulldozed by Israeli soldiers. For Father Chacour, and for us, these stories in no way sanction the destruction that followed; they do, however, round out our understanding of just what it is that motivates such desperate acts.

There's another side of the coin from which we remain pretty comfortably insulated, and that is the violence perpetrated by the other side of this struggle -- not to mention the economic and social structures that look to Father Chacour more and more like apartheid. Among the acts he mentioned are the seizure of land and property that's been in Palestinian families for generations (the settlements continue to expand with vigor, despite widespread disapproval on the part of the Israeli public), the denial of access to jobs and income (one man we met in Bethlehem has had his shop isolated by the Wall from virtually all his former customers, so that his revenue is down by 80%), and the sheer dehumanization that one encounters at checkpoints and elsewhere (I did see an Israeli soldier smile today for the first time, and those who know our Will will not be surprised to learn it was in response to his winsome grin). The sense of normal, law-abiding, peace-loving Palestinians' disgust is palpable whenever they speak of the Wall encroaching onto their land, or the fence that "cages us in like animals," or the military might wielded so freely against them.

One more observation. Part of what motivates Father Chacour and other Christian leaders is a desire to shore up the Christian community in the Holy Land, a community that's dwindling fast. Christians tend to be better educated and more affluent than their Muslim brothers and sisters, so they send their children abroad, away from the violence and toward economic opportunity. Father Chacour echoed the plea that we encountered in Bethlehem: "Please tell our Christian friends in your country that we need your support in our struggle for economic justice and freedom. The Palestinian Christian community will wither without it."

So this is Father Chacour's story, and yet his most powerful testimony is his response. Though he is not hopeful for the future -- he sees things getting worse, not better -- he refuses to be caught in the spiral of hatred. He has a faith in Christ that is truly life-changing, and it is the reconciling love of Christ that invigorates his work, his smile, his warm-hearted laugh, his gentle but firm resolve.

"Please tell your people we love them. Tell them our story. The world needs to know our story. God bless you, my friends. You are always most welcome here."