Maryland Clergy Initiative

The Jewish Times has published a reflection I wrote on our meetings with Shlomo Avineiri and Salaam Fayyad at http://www.jewishtimes.com/.

(Link requires free one-time registration.)

Wonderful meeting last night at Congregation Beth El. It was great to see my fellow travelers hale and hearty. It was even better to hear some of their reflections on the trip. I’m really looking forward to our next meeting when, I hope, we will continue to engage the hard issues (the competing perspectives, the understanding of the land being two key ones).
In the meantime, I’ve put some preliminary thoughts on my church’s blog at http://brownmwpc.blogspot.com/. You’re welcome to take a look.
Now how do I footnote myself?

An addendum to my posting on Thanksgiving:

This shabbat afternoon, I read an article in The Forward that describes the controversy surrounding an experimental high school history textbook that presents – side by side – Israeli and Palestinian historical narratives. The article can be accessed at http://forward.com/articles/133422/. The book, a project of the Peace Research Institute in the Middle East (http://vispo.com/PRIME/), has barely been test piloted. The Education Ministries of both Israel and the Palestinians have banned the book.

The concerns raised in the article run the gamut from political perspective, to more nuanced concerns about what constitutes “history,” to the concern that articulating and labeling something as one’s “narrative” lends it legitimacy even if it includes elements that make claims that run counter to historical fact. (The word in the Hebrew version of the text for “narratives” is the transliterated and Hebraicized English term: “narrativa.”) It’s certainly a complex and highly emotional mixture for all concerned.

I have not seen the book so I know nothing about the content. One wonders how many of the 2000 copies of the first print run will make it out of the boxes where they sit in a Beit Jallah warehouse. I applaud the effort to transform “the other” into “another” by listening to his perspective and considering his experience, and at the same time I share the concern that everything (including our own “narratives”) must be examined, analyzed, and considered with great care. We need to find the courage to listen to “the other” as well as develop the skills to vet and analyze all “narratives” as dispassionately as possible.

To those who celebrated shabbat today – Shavuah tov and may the coming week be filled with blessings. To those who celebrate the Lord’s Day tomorrow – may it bring you peace and blessings.

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all. On this day set aside for gratitude to God, a day whose predominant symbol is the mythical shared meal of Pilgrims and Native Americans – two peoples laying claim to one land – it seems appropriate to reflect on the wonderful experience we had together in Israel and West Bank, a land also claimed by two peoples. My thanks to all those who made this remarkable trip possible: the funders, organizers, and colleagues who took the journey together with me. It was an amazing and unique experience in my life.

I lived in Israel for two years (1978 – 1980) and have returned for two extended visits in the intervening years – not nearly as often as I would have liked. I grew up knowing that Israel was the Jewish homeland, the land of my ancestors, the nexus for the development and early growth of rabbinic Judaism, the place Jews had for two millennium prayed to return to in order to live as a “normal” nation. I have never regarded Judaism as a only a religion, but rather as a nation or peoplehood, defined not only by religious beliefs and practices, but also by history, language, values, culture… and a particular Land. In the two years I lived in Israel, I added my own personal layer: my husband and I were married in Israel and lived the first year of our married life together in Israel. We shopped in supermarkets and shuks, traveled the country extensively on Egged buses, celebrated two cycles of the Jewish festival year, camped from Ein Gev to Ashkelon, and spent many shabbatot with family in Netanya and Passover seders with relatives in Jerusalem. My connection to the Land, country, and people of the State of Israel was religious, national, cultural, familial, and personal.

For two years I lived in the house that is the State of Israel. This trip afforded me a different experience. It was like peeking through a window rather than living in the house. What is more, I gazed through the window in the company of Christian colleagues and hence viewed Israel through Christian eyes. This gives rise to many thoughts, but given that this is a blog post, I’ll restrict my comments to two points.

The first point concerns holy places. For me, Jewish “holy places,” such as the Kotel, Ma’arat HaMachpelah (the burial cave of the patriarchs and matriarchs in Hebron), and indeed the entire land of Israel, are inextricably connected with the unbroken Jewish connection with the land, what Jewish tradition teaches happened at those locations, and who stood in those spots. I found my Christian colleagues’ responses to the idea of holy place – Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Nazareth, Tabgha – fascinating. For some, these locations evoked a deeply spiritual, prayerful, and meditative response. For others, the notion that a place of historical significance (and even more, a location not likely to be the actual historical site of an event, yet revered by many as the precise location of that event) is still holy made no sense. Rather, they maintained, holiness is a function of what is happening in the present between living people. Yet for me, the connection to Jewish holy places abides because the Jewish connection to the land abides. It does not always evoke a prayerful response; more often it is a deep emotional response reflective of the nationhood and peoplehood of Israel.

The second point concerns narratives. In conversation with Joe Pagano on the bus, I commented that it seemed to me that our wonderful array of speakers was of two types: those who acknowledged multiple narratives, and those who seemed to acknowledge only one. Clearly, the road to security and peace is paved by an acknowledgement of multiple narratives. At the same time, I am wary of the term “narrative” and the danger of feeling compelled to accept the “truth” of whatever people say, however much it may conflict with history and fact. I am keenly aware that the “facts of history” can be various interpreted – and this is where we must focus our attention in acknowledging multiple narratives – but some narratives contain outright lies that should be rejected as illegitimate. I am similarly wary of the term “truth” because it obscures intellectual conversation. Once something is labeled as someone’s “truth,” can it be refuted without conveying disrespect? I find the term “narrative” lacks the sense of intellect rigor needed for conversations that will lead to security and peace for the peoples who inhabit the land between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River. I prefer “perspective” and “interpretation of historical events.”

My deepest thanks to all those who made this trip possible, and to the exceptional and intrepid group who took this journey of discovery with me. Happy Thanksgiving to all.

Israel is a land overflowing with memories, and memory, of course, is a complex and
tricky thing. It is also central to our individual and collective identities.
During our trip, I have been struck by how the countless memories in this land come
together, come apart, complement, conflict, include, exclude, hide, reveal, hurt,
and heal. The strata of the land reveals not only the material cultures of the
first temple period, second temple period, the roman period, etc., but also
memories retrieved, reinterpreted, and passed on in the traditions of the people
who have inhabited and inhabit this land, whose identities are being created,
contested, broken and recreated. These memories are passed down in sacred
scriptures, revered traditions, and religious communities. These memories are
passed down in secular museums and monuments and text-books. These memories live
in people and communities who live and love and fight and pray and bleed and laugh
and tell stories in this place. The holiness of this land must have something to
do with the memories which overflow here. The pain and tragedy of this land must
also have something to do with memory. How does one remember rightly in this holy,
but broken land?
To remember rightly we must try to remember truthfully. This is easier said than
done because memory only approximates. But even though our memories are always
partial we have an obligation to try to remember truthfully because of the moral
debt we owe others both past and present. When the truth involves wrongdoing, the
task is difficult, but no less binding. Deceitful memories, someone has said,
whereby we deceive either others or ourselves, are always unjust and injurious. To
remember rightly is to remember truthfully.
But to remember rightly, we must do more than just try to remember truthfully.
Memory is complex. To remember rightly in a broken world, we must also remember in
a way that struggles for justice on behalf of victims, remember in a way that
heals, remember in a way that promotes reconciliation. We remember rightly when we
say that the injustices of the past will not happen again. We remember rightly
when painful memories are integrated into larger, more compassionate, more
expansive senses of identity and community. We remember rightly when we remember
that the people of this earth, past, present, and future, are already forgiven and
loved by our good and gracious God.
And herein lies my sense of hope for this land overflowing with memories. It is
found in biblical claim, the biblical promise really, that God remembers. Isaiah
says, “Can a woman forget her nursing-child, or show no compassion for the child of
her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.” In the Gospel of
Luke, Zechariah says that God “has shown the mercy promised to our ancestors, and
has remembered his holy covenant.” In the same Gospel, the penitent thief says to
Jesus, “remember me when you come into your Kingdom.” In the biblical claim that
God remembers there is hope.
Hope that God remembers everything truthfully.
Hope that God remembers the righteous even the ones humans and history forget.
Hope that God remembers our human faults and failings as already forgiven.
Hope that God remembers our broken human lives as already healed.
Hope that God remembers enemies as already reconciled.
Hope that all our partial human memories will find a home in God, where they will
be lovingly corrected, forgiven, healed, and reconciled in the fierce, refining,
compassionate, and holy memory of God.

Let me take as point of departure an observation made by Shlomo Bar More when he taught us about “lessons from the Holocaust” before we went to Yad vaShem on Friday. He said that there is a tension between the Jewish lesson that many Israelis have taken from the Holocaust, and the universal lesson that they have learned from it. The Jewish lesson he formulated as “Be Strong”, while the universal lesson was “Be Humane”. I think that the presentations of the two retired colonels from the Israeli army were a very fine example of how some of the best practical intellectuals in present-day Israeli society try to combine these lessons: being strong by defending yourself and procuring safety, while at the same time taking care for the others by making exemptions for Palestine peasants or by withdrawing from certain villages along the Lebanese border whenever that is possible. And yet, I was thinking, Christianity has a basic problem with the specific Jewish lesson “be strong”. When I taught a class in peace ethics last semester at Loyola University, my students consistently said that they preferred the Catholic tradition of the Just War theory above the Biblical (and therefore equally Catholic) tradition of pacifism. And I realized that I, not being an American but a Dutchman, have a really different take on this than my students. Being Americans, they feel the responsibility for the world and think that a pacifist tradition does not work in these situations. Being Dutch I have probably been able to grow up in a nation that did not immediately feel this military responsibility (I think that we felt the responsibility in welfare and developmental help) so that I did not have to care about practical consequences. In that sense, I can see that Israelis and Americans have much in common. But still, I think that there is something in the Christian message that should make us uncomfortable with “Being Strong” as a religious message. I experienced this very clearly when walking around at the place where Jesus is supposed to have given his Sermon on the Mount, and looking in the octogonal church where the Latin version of the beatitudes is printed along the eight walls. The one that stood out for me was “Beati mites quoniam ipsi possidebunt terram”: “Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land”. I do not think that meekness is even near to a considerable value in American society, quite the contrary. And yet, Jesus says that the meek will inherit the land. Now I happened to be reading in a book on “Jesus and the land” on that day, since we had discussed the issue of the land several times before we came to Israel. And I had learned that “the meek” may refer to those who are oppressed rather than to those who do not dare to speak out. Similarly, it is not so clear whether the land refers to Eretz Yisrael or to the Kingdom of God, or to the world. But in any case, there is something here that keeps throbbing like a sore spot about our confidence in security, power, and the military as means of preserving claims on the land.
I was still pondering this rather unexpected flashback to my past as a peace activist when we came to Kfar Nahum or Capernaum, the place where Jesus is said to have lived and taught quite some time. We read together from Luke 4, a text that was introduced by Lee, our guide, as a possibly disruptive or even offensive text since it speaks about Jesus taking the scroll and reading it in the synagogue and how his interpretation of it was not appreciated by the people of Nazaret (I guess that in English, like in Dutch, you have the proverb about a prophet not being honored in his own town). So he had to flee to Caphernaum (the Latin keeps the ph) where we had two options. Either to visit the house of Saint Peter (or, more precisely, his mother-in-law) a place that had been honored by the Germans who built a large church above the excavations, or going to the old synagogue. I decided to do the latter, and when I came to the place of the old synagogue, I found myself in the company of four rabbis and a future bat-mizvah. That is interesting, I thought, Lee introduces a possibly divisive text and immediately a sort of division occurs since most Christians probably will go to the house of Peter or the Church, and most Jews go to the synagogue. Let me be clear on the fact that I find this quite naturally, but at the same time I was thinking that I made a choice that seemed to cross the religious boundary – something that has happened to me before, since interfaith dialogue is the field of my study and sometimes my passion as well. I saw that one of the rabbis was about to make a picture of the others, arm-in-arm in the space of the old synagogue, and I threw myself in-between the arms in order to be included in the picture, stammering the words: “Wrong religion – good people”. Now you must know, dear reader of this blog, that I am a scholar and therefore I will naturally keep myself at a distance and observe human behavior in interfaith situations rather than throwing myself into it. This time, I quite literally threw myself into it, which is about the only spontaneous moment that I can remember in the past seven days. At the same time, it was an utterly awkward moment, since my cry “wrong faith – good people” was an answer to my observations about which people would naturally go to what places, but of course others could not have followed my interior dialogue. So when rabbi Ron dryly remarked “there is no wrong religion; we are all together here”, I realized that I had made an awful mistake. What I had meant as an observation about my crossing boundaries and liking it because of the good people with whom I traveled, seemed – and was quite rightly interpreted as – an objective utterance about the rightness of a faith that was not mine. When I heard Ron’s reply, I felt myself like cardinal Ratzinger saying in the document Dominus Iesus from the year 2000 that we can appreciate others as persons but not the religions to which they belong – and that was exactly how my words could be and in fact were interpreted. Shall I go to Ron and explain him that he might have misinterpreted me and that I had meant my words to express my surprise that I was in the company of no less than five rabbis and a soon-to-be bat mitzvah while my Christian coreligionists had probably flocked to the rock of Saint Peter?? Better not, I thought, it would make it worse. When one tries to explain too much, it sounds as if one has to hide a guilty conscience. But of course I felt awfully awkward, because it reminded me of all the blunders I had made in interreligious contexts, blunders that are so important for me as sources of wisdom about interfaith dialogue that I even dedicated a whole chapter to these interfaith failures in my book on Christian-Muslim dialogue in the context of Abrahamic partnership. So this was for me the most awkward moment, the moment that I became aware once again that you cannot trust spontaneity in interfaith contexts – at least I apparently cannot do so, and that indicates how much I have to learn – while I surmised at the same time that it was maybe me who was making this whole problem up, that maybe Ron had not noticed it at all as a problem, but had just automatically responded with what he saw as the best wisdom for that moment.
So why do I tell this and do I take the trouble of typing this up fifteen minutes before we have to leave the hotel for the airport? Probably because this was the moment that taught me most about the field that I am engaged in: Christian-Jewish-Muslim dialogue. I have learnt the lesson in other ways as well, this week, but never so sharp as at the moment where I thought: Oh God, this is totally wrong. How can I repair this? The truth is: you cannot, you just need to go on and after a sleepless night try to continue and make friends and think that we indeed learn trough the differences foremost. This is a lesson that Jewish friends in the Netherlands told me, and of course it is also the title of Rabbi Sacks’ famous book: the Dignity of Differences. So, one thing that I have learnt again is how different we are, in such a way that when I think that someone representing the Jewish government told us a very good and balanced story, I kept on thinking: I want to hear the other side of the story, while, when someone representing the Palestinian people told a very good and balanced story, I overheard one of my Jewish friends saying: now that was a one-sided story while I thought it was the most balanced story. When there is an ongoing friendship and an ongoing learning, these differences of perspective are not so important, since they will be balanced out in the process. So differences are important, but maybe more important is the one thing that united as far as I can see everything we heard and saw here: the importance of telling stories. Everyone had stories to tell, and that is the best way to grow towards better understanding as Eboo Patel and his Youth ministry in Chicago has made clear to me. So I end here (no time to correct my English, sorry, since we need to leave the hotel in ten minutes). Isn’t that where it all began: telling stories? This blog of course preserves that tradition for the twenty-first century so I hope that my story has not only given some insight in my continuous learning about interfaith blunders, but also in how friendship and mutual learning can overcome all of this.
Pim Valkenberg, department of theology, Loyola University Baltimore.

The biblical record, as regards humans, is a story of movement, sometimes by choice,

but often under compulsion, compelled either by the Creator or hostile forces.
Humans have been venturing forth since the beginning of time – as outcasts,
wanderers, exiles, prophets, pilgrims and bearers of news.

Today I am surrounded by pilgrims, persons who have come from many places to this
holy land. They have come to hear, touch, taste, see and smell. Perhaps, most
importantly, they have to come to remember. As I survey this human landscape of
pilgrims I wonder two things. First, why have they come here? Why have they
traveled, in many cases, so far, at such cost? Second, I wonder if they/we have come
to reinforce what we believe to be true about ourselves and our faith, or have we
come willing to be changed, perhaps even radically so?

It isn’t necessary to travel thousands of miles to be a pilgrim. There are many
pilgrimage opportunities in our lives, although we probably miss most of them. It’s
far easier to ignore those divine promptings that might well disrupt our carefully
constructed attempts to make something of this finite madness called our lives. The
effort required even to make the slightest movement away from the known seems not to
be worth the risk of disturbing the delicate imbalance of our neuroses.

Those missed opportunities are located in the wandering places closer to home, the
sojourns that are not concerned with matters of dusty archeology, lofty theologies
or questionable historicity. There are exiles and scatterings that call us from our
temples, workplaces, communities, even our marital beds. We are called to leave even
these places that it may be well with our souls, sometimes for a season, sometimes
longer.

But, oh, the pain of that leaving. The loneliness of that wandering. The hunger for
something other than the old, old manna. The callouses form, not on our feet from
walking too far, but on our hearts from staying too close to people and places when
we know – really know – that we are called to move.

As I watch the pilgrims around me, I wonder if we are ready to be changed by what we
find here, any more than we are willing to be changed by the holy places back home?
Have we come so far only to nod our heads in agreement with stale and hackneyed
narratives? I speak not of the ancient ones – the universal, unassailable truths
that have stood and withstood humankind’s bravest attempts to undermine them. No, I
refer to those of our own imagination – the small, narrow places into which we have
crawled, huddled together in defense against some imaginary ‘other’ that threatens
the sanctity of our own petty constructs. Can it be that we are willing to be
undone, overcome, even re-made in the hands of the Master Potter? Are we capable of
such surrender? Do we want to be?

I need to move now. I’m in the way of a great photo opportunity for a fellow
pilgrim. His camera points accusingly at me and my silly musings. There’s a picture
to take, a memory to be preserved digitally.

I move. I do not want to stand between a fellow traveler and his mission. After all,
we have come here to remember.

I thought that I knew more than I knew.

Yesterday, I got lost in the Old City of Jerusalem. Embarrassingly, even though this is my fourth trip to the Holy Land, I found myself wandering along the winding, narrow streets – walkways? alleys? – without the slightest idea how to get back the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to meet up with the group from which I got separated in the crowds. Of course, I went without a map, confident of my sense of direction and abilities to figure out how to get anywhere. “I never get lost, especially in cities,” I told myself at the beginning of the day. But within a few minutes of being on my own, I was lost in Jerusalem.

In a way, it’s very easy to get lost in this beautiful but troubled land. For thousands of years the children of Abraham – first the Jews, then the Christians, then the Muslims – have been wandering in and around Jerusalem, sometimes as pilgrims, sometimes as neighbors, and too often as conquerors. We descendants of the great patriarch are more than a diverse peoples of different faiths, however; we are family, “cousins” to one another. We were formed to be a light to the nations on how to be a reconciled people under one God. And yet, somehow along the way, we’ve forgotten the way to that leads to peace and reconciliation despite differences. We’ve all gotten lost in Jerusalem, the Holy City of our three faiths.

Tired after about an hour of walking, I found and sat down on one of the few public benches in the old city, resting and waiting for divine inspiration that would lead me to my destination. My savior came in the form of a middle-aged shopkeeper nearby who came to sit next to me, perhaps sensing that I didn’t know where I was – and perhaps sensing that I was too proud to ask for directions. He introduced himself to me, offered my tea – one shouldn’t refuse this offering of hospitality in the Middle East, if you have a few minutes. His name was Solomon; he is an Arab Muslim, and one of the friendliest people you’d ever meet. When he found out that I was a bishop in the Episcopal Church – part of the worldwide Anglican Communion – his eyes lit up with pride to be in my company. And I was really proud to be in his company!

We talked for almost an hour. I told him I was here on a study tour with other Christian ministers, Jewish rabbis and scholars. He was quite impressed, and said to me excitedly, “It’s good you came with the Jews!” He went on to tell me how important it is that religious leaders come together to help our communities come together as one people under God with different faiths. “The people are looking to you for leadership,” he said, “certainly you can point the way for us for peace.”

His words are still ringing in my ears. This trip has reconfirmed for me one of the great challenges for Christian, Jewish and Muslim leaders today: how can we point the way for our people to peace?

Yesterday, I got lost in Jerusalem. In my wandering, though, I found myself pointed in the direction of the Holy One.

The Right Rev. Eugene Taylor Sutton
Bishop, Episcopal Diocese of Maryland

This has been my first trip to Israel, and I am profoundly thankful to all who made this possible and for the chance for me to be a part of it. I have had a wonderful and informative experience of both the land and the people. As one might imagine, viewing the city of Jerusalem and the many holy sites that until now have existed for me only in the Scriptures, books and in my imagination has been a moving experience. Yet, the experience of traveling with this particular group has made the whole experience even more satisfying and stimulating. So many in the group have made this trip before that it is like having a whole bus of tour guides. Yet, beyond my own personal experience seeing this land for the first time, I have learned much about the deep complexities, confusions, and challenges of the political situation in Israel.

This afternoon, after a morning walk on the Via Dolorosa and pushing through the crowds at the Church of Holy Sepulchre, I had the opportunity to hear how two very different people view the issues facing Israel. The first person was an Arab Muslim shopkeeper in the Old City. He was unusual in that he was soft spoken and not pushy like most of the shopkeepers. As I looked through his wares, we struck up a conversation and he invited me and a colleague to have a cup of tea together. After we had made our purchases, we sat down outside of his shop. He told us about the hardships that have been created for his commute to work by the security fence. He now has to live most of the week in a small room above his shop and commute only on weekends to be with his family. We asked him how he viewed the political issues, and he made it clear that from his point of view the names of the politicians change but the situation does not get better. Yet, he also spoke of his desire for peace for all of the people. I asked him whether he was angry, and he said no but that he was tired, and I could see and hear the fatigue in his voice. Yet, I admired this man’s desire to sit down over a cup of tea and get to know us and help us to know him.

The second person was very different but equally straightforward and concerned for peace. When the group returned to the hotel, we sat down for a dialog with Shlomo Avineri, former Director General of the Foreign Ministry of Israel and current professor in the political science department of Hebrew Union University of Jerusalem. In my opinion, he set forth the clearest and most balanced view of the issues facing Israel and the peace process that we have heard so far. I say this not to disparage the others whom we have heard, because I have been impressed with most of our speakers with only a couple of exceptions. Without trying to repeat the points that Professor Avineri presented, I will simply say that he gave us a clear description of the core issues in the peace negotiations and why they will be very difficult to solve. I appreciated the fact that he believes that incremental progress can be made even if for the moment the peace process may not result in a quick or decisive solution.

So what I think is remarkable about what I heard from these two men is the similarity of their point of view. Both of these men are realists. Neither one believes that a peace settlement is coming anytime soon, yet both want peace and are trying to advance peace. I find that I admire both men. It was refreshing to hear Professor Avineri’s straight forward and fair assessment. However, I was most impressed by shopkeeper’s approach. It seems to me that Israel might find its way toward peace more quickly if all Israelis would sit down with one another and talk about their lives and struggles together over a cup of tea.