Hemmed in

Christian Century, July 27, 2004 by L. Gregory Jones

MY FAMILY AND I were staying in the village of Beit Sahour with Palestinian friends, and I was speaking only a few miles away at Tantur Ecumenical Institute. In order to get to and from the conference, I had to pass through an Israeli checkpoint, then walk past the 30-foot wall that the Israeli government is building to keep Palestinians confined to the West Bank. What did an international conference on forgiveness have to do with this place where my friends were not allowed to cross the checkpoint and so could not even come to the conference?

I spoke about holy friendships, about those people who enable us to appropriate forgiveness and undertake life-giving repentance. I suggested that we underestimate the power of particular holy friendships not only to cultivate interpersonal forgiveness, but also to effect broader social transformations.

Every day I passed by the wall and went through the checkpoints, and the experience was challenging my thinking. The ironies and questions that had been in my mind were now in my body and in my emotions. Even though I knew that, as an American, I would be allowed to pass through the checkpoint each day without question, I could feel my body tensing up, my emotions tying my stomach in knots. I saw the anger, fear and bitterness in the faces of Israelis and Palestinians and held those pictures in my mind, even after I was safe in Tantur and in the familiar environment of an academic conference.

What is it like to live with these obstacles and insults? Is it possible to overcome the stark reality and symbolic power of wall and roadblock, to not become overwhelmed by bitterness and despair and explosive rage? I found myself reflecting on Langston Hughes's poem "Harlem: A Dream Deferred":

      What happens to a dream deferred? /Does it dry up/
   like a raisin in the sun/Or fester like a sore--/and then
   run?/ Does it stink like rotten meat? /Or crust and sugar
   over--/like a syrupy sweet? /Maybe it just sags /like a
   heavy load.

The poem's final words loomed over the landscape I was watching: "Or does it explode?"

Inside the conference, participants struggled to describe or even name the painful divisions in the world, and in their hearts, families and cities. The despair of the region we were in loomed like the proverbial elephant in the room.

Even so, there were poignant moments of acknowledgment and joyful signs of grace:

A Palestinian-Israeli Christian and an American rabbi made a public statement committing themselves to starting dialogues and fostering friendships. An Israeli rabbi reflected on the unholy alliances of his government, the relationships he has forged through Israeli-Palestinian discussion groups, and the transformative power of forgiveness and friendship. At dinner there were stories of enlarged understanding and unexpected forgiveness.

On our last night in the West Bank, my wife talked with a Palestinian Christian friend about violence, and how cycles of violence fuel not only bitterness and despair, but a constricting fear that breeds cynicism and a willingness--even an eagerness--to kill or be killed. Our friend, a theology student at Bethlehem Bible College, acknowledged that the situation looks and feels bleak. Susan reminded him that things had looked equally bleak in the late 1980s in South Africa, but that eventually a peaceful solution had been discovered and embodied. "That," he said, "is what we need most." He reached for a pen, and on his napkin he wrote out four letters and underlined them: "HOPE."

Two days later, as we traveled in the north of Israel to visit Elias Chacour in his village of Ibillin, we experienced an important institutional sign of hope. Father Chacour's educational program, ranging from kindergarten classes to university courses, brings together Muslims, Christians and Jews. Father Chacour overcomes enormous obstacles with a relentless belief that "together we are stronger than the storm." As students graduate from his school to undertake a wide range of jobs, he asks each of them to commit to a common vocation: become "peace builders."

Stretched across the fellowship hall of a new church on the campus is a long bridge with stones painted on it. This year, for the first time, each student who graduates will climb a ladder and sign his or her name on a stone, committing to be a "peace builder" for life. Father Chacour hopes that years from now these students will bring their children and grandchildren to see how, in 2004, they committed themselves to peace as a way of life.

Geography matters. It is easier to focus on hope in Ibillin, where the checkpoints and the wall seem worlds away. But the challenges are no less daunting, for it is never a simple task to appropriate God's gift of forgiveness in lives that are committed to holy friendships, hospitality to strangers, and loving enemies.

If we build walls, we build animosity, mistrust, despair and explosive rage. If we build bridges, we connect people and invite relationship. Are we committed to walls or bridges?