I am no Longer a Pacifist
I’ve been a Mennonite for twenty years and a Mennonite pastor for 3 years. But after a trip to Israel and Palestine this summer, I can no longer call myself a pacifist. I blame Christian Peacemaker Teams for this.
In August I spent two weeks with Christian Peacemaker Teams in Israel and Palestine, and came out of the experience unable to use this pacifist label for myself any longer. And this is why: Pacifist mean to oppose war and violence. And I’m tired of opposing things. I want to be for something.
After spending just a few short days in Hebron, a tense city in the West Bank, I realized that opposing war–being a pacifist–is a position of privilege. It’s easy for me to say that I oppose something like war and violence. I live a pretty safe and secure life. Opposing peace and violence while living a middle class life in the city is easy to do; it is a privilege to declare myself a pacifist.
In Hebron, Palestinians have to go through checkpoints every day of their lives. Their bags are subject to search in these checkpoints, and they can be stopped on the street by soldiers to show their papers to any military person who wishes to see it. There are places in the city that they are not allowed to be, places that settlers can drive their cars but Palestinians cannot. They live in an apartheid system.
After being stopped by military or border police several days in a row, while my Palestinian friends had to show their papers and explain where they were going, I could feel my blood pressure rise, and my fists clench. How can I simply be against war and violence when this is happening right in front of me!
I understood at that moment why Palestinians threw rocks at Israeli soldiers. Or worse. If my blood was boiling just watching this happen to Palestinian friends a few times, how much harder would it be to experience that personally every day.
And then I met Hanee. Hanee is not a pacifist. But he has chosen the path of nonviolence. Hanee, a Palestinian man, lives next to an Israeli settlement in Hebron, and faces daily threats from settlers and soldiers as he walks to and from his home. He’s been denied water to his home. He’s been delayed at checkpoints to discourage him from going to mosque to pray. His olive trees and cars have been burned repeatedly, and his property is littered by trash that settlers throw in his yard.
He realized at a certain point that fighting back was not working. Non violent resistance was the only thing that seemed to be effective. So, when his son was beaten up in front of him by soldiers, Hanee did something quite counter intuitive. He filmed it instead. And he sent that video the international news organizations who highlighted Hanee’s situation. That had more of an impact than armchair pacifism or violent intervention ever could have. Hanee intervening with violence in his son’s beating would have meant that both of them would have been jailed, and imprisonment would have economic ramification for his whole family. Videotaping the beating sent a message to the soldiers and to the government that this would not be tolerated.
It’s then that I realized I’m not a pacifist. Because I’m not just against war, I’m for peace. I’m for finding creative ways to solve deeply entrenched problems. I’m for standing in the way of violence which means my beliefs have to be active.
Too often pacifists are accused of being cerebral, but offering no actual solution to violent situations. And, I can’t disagree with this criticisms. Those of us who believe in peace, must be more than simply against war and violence. We must be peacemakers, and actively resist violence.
Pacifist is not a word that really fit for Jesus. He was pro-peace, pro-action, pro-people. And he used his words and his body to show us these things. He didn’t philosophize about war and violence. He stood with people. He confounded the powerful by sitting where he wasn’t supposed to sit, and touching those he wasn’t supposed to touch. That’s active non-violent resistance, not pacifism.
I reject the word “pacifist” as a label for my own beliefs. It is stricken from my vocabulary. Instead, I believe in active non-violent resistance. I believe in peace. And like Hanee, I’m willing to use my voice, my body and my creativity in seeing a non-violent solution come to pass.
What Enslaves us
Sermon based on Philemon; Luke 14:25-33
“None of you can become my disciples if you do not give up your possessions.”
That’s the kind of text that makes me wish I could skip preaching this week. Or, if I had planned better, maybe I should have given this week to my Doran to preach on.
But here we are, talking about the hard words of Jesus. We can’t sugar coat this text, or explain it away. This is no metaphor and no funny punch line. Jesus is saying we must give up our possessions in order to be his disciples.
When the Christian Peacemaker Teams delegation was in the West Bank, we saw a lot of guns. I’m not talking about the guns you see on police officers here–the ones that fit conveniently on someone’s belt. I’m talking about large machine guns slung over a soldier’s back, or carried around by settlers for protection. Guns were always large and in view–an intimidating steel force, and a fact of life in Israel and Palestine.
It certainly intimidated me.
These large guns are worn and used to enforce “peace”, to enact security in insecure places. They are possessions relied upon for the protection of people and land, at the expense of another people’s safety. And they were worn by people who had so much to lose
“None of you can become my disciples if you do not give up your possessions.”
In the book of Philemon, which is a short 25 verses, Paul writes a letter to his brother in Christ, and appeals to him to release from the bonds of slavery, Onesimus, Philemon’s slave and fellow Christian. Onesimus means “useful” in greek–a demeaning name for a slave, to be called by his value, not for the beautiful person he was.
Onesimus had escaped from Philemon’s house, and run to the prison where Paul was staying. Paul returned Onesimus, with this letter, appealing to him in love to release his slave, his human possession, for the sake of the gospel.
“None of you can become my disciples if you do not give up your possessions.”
We do not know the results of this beautiful letter to Philemon from the Apostle Paul. I have always thought that Philemon, reading this letter appealing to his Christian brotherhood with his slave, would do the right thing and release Onesimus from his obligation.
There’s nothing in the text to say what Philemon did either way. There’s no historical record. We can only hope that Philemon, released Onesimus and experienced the freedom that came from releasing his slave, a brother in Christ, his possession.
“None of you can become my disciples if you do not give up your possessions.”
Our possessions create for us a sense of security. Our cars help us to get where we are going and give us a sense of safety–usually–that we will get there unharmed. Our homes are protection for our families from the elements. Our phones and computers help us to work and keep in contact with our families.
Our possessions create for us a sense of security, but they also have potential to enslave us. The more we have, the more we must look after. THe more we have, the more we feel we must protect. The more we have, the more time and energy we must devote to our possessions.
When we accumulate possessions, our cars must be bigger to carry our things, our houses must be larger to accommodate our stuff, and all of those things need security systems to protect them from outside people that want to steal our things and infringe upon our security.
A lot of money, time and energy goes into maintaining our things. And all that takes away from our ability to follow Jesus.
None of us can become Jesus’ disciples if we do not give up our possessions.
Our possessions also make us complicit in the evils of this world. We all know this–shopping at some stores means we are accepting poor treatment and lack of healthcare for low wage workers. Buying certain foods means were are complicit in the use of pesticides on our lands. Investing in certain companies means we are contributing our wealth toward oppression of people and depletion of land resources.
And Jesus said, “None of you can become my disciples if you do not give up your possessions.”
Oh, Jesus. You make this discipleship thing so hard. There is so much you are asking us to give up.
This is the dilemma Philemon faced in letting go of Onesimus as his slave. And before you say, “but that was slavery–that was different”, let me say this: our system creates enslavement of other kinds. Distant enslavement that we don’t have to face personally, but enslavement nonetheless. It’s the kind of enslavement that allows us to own clothing made cheaply in bangladesh in poorly constructed factories that crumble and kill it’s workers. It’s the kind of enslavement that allows us to buy produce picked by undocumented folks in this country, who have no healthcare, security or safety net. That is enslavement. We are possessed by a system that enslaves and Jesus is calling us to be free of what enslaves us to follow him.
“None of you can become my disciples if you do not give up your possessions.”
This is hard news for privileged people like us.
But there is hope and good news here, I believe. Freedom from our possessions is freedom to see things more clearly. Freedom from our enslavement is freedom to have deeper compassion and fuller love for our wider humanity.
I don’t speak about this good news lightly. It’s more than pie in the sky, poetic ethereal love. It’s important, hard work. Being free of our possessions opens our imaginations, and allows us to see each other more clearly.
In the West Bank, there were a lot of shocking things to see and hear. But among the most shocking was what we heard several Palestinian folks say about Israeli soldiers. “We try not to hate them, because they are victims too.”
We heard that about us too. A poor shepherd said to us, “I can’t hate you for being a victim of your country’s policy against us.”
Those statements about the soldiers and about me–they took a lot of faith to say. They took a lot of love to say. It took a lot of letting go to peak honestly. These were Palestinian people that lived in a system that was solidly against them. This is a system that created and upheld laws that made it legal for them to be stripped them of their land, their possessions and their dignity. And still–or perhaps because of that–they could see things clearly. They could not hate,even when the system promoted hate. They could not hate people that pointed guns in their faces, that profiled their kids and stopped them from going to mosque to pray. THey had given up everything, whether they wanted to or not, and they were enslaved by nothing. They had the freedom to love the soldiers that oppressed them, and the well meaning Americans that kept them enslaved in an apartheid system.
“None of you can become my disciples if you do not give up your possessions.”
These are the hard words of Jesus. And there is truth in these difficult words. There is good news in giving up our possessions. When we give up our possessions, we gain a freedom and a courage to love more.
And I’ll admit–I’m not there yet. None of us are. God knows that, and offers us grace as we loosen our grips on our possessions, the things that enslave us. This road of discipleship is a journey. It doesn’t happen overnight. And with every step we take on the road to discipleship, we see a little more clearly, and the possessions that enslave us loosen their grip on us just a bit. With every step we take on this road to discipleship, we feel deeper love and commitment to our brothers and sisters and less of a burden of our possessions. It is freedom in Christ to let go of what enslaves us.
We don’t know what happened between Onesimus and Philemon. I hope Philemon did the right thing, and let Onesimus go. I’d like to believe that the book of PHilemon is in the bible because Philemon did the right thing, and not just because Paul knew how to write a convincing letter.
Like Philemon, we have a choice to make on the road to discipleship. Can we let go of those things that enslave us? I’d like to think that we can–together–begin that journey of letting go. With God as our strength and Jesus as our guide, and grace in abundance. AMEN.
A Healing Rosh Hashana
In the two weeks I spent in Israel and Palestine with Christian Peacemaker Teams, I became accustomed to the chatter of lively Arabic wherever we stayed or visited. There was a comfort to what sounded like babel to me, and joy at the occasional word I could understand–Hamdilah, Hibibi, Shukran, Salaam.
Hebrew was a different kind of babel. I recognized that it was a different language from Arabic, because I’d taken just enough Hebrew in seminary to know that it was Hebrew but not enough to retain what anything meant.
But I spent enough time in Israel and Palestine that I have to admit–I began to bristle at the sound of Hebrew. Having a machine gun pointed at my head a few times while someone barked Hebrew words at me formed an unconscious reaction. I can remember my blood pressure rising then, and could feel the urge to hold back tears of sadness and anger. I could feel the urge to respond, to yell back.
I saw oppression in the West Bank that cannot be unseen, by people who believe a theology and ideology that destroys one people group while elevating another.
A week after returning from Hebron, Rosh Hashana services were being held in my church’s building. A new Jewish community was forming an needed a place to worship. We welcomed them into our worship space, but I felt myself bristle when I heard Hebrew again for the first time. The last time I heard Hebrew–in the West Bank–someone was screaming at me, “Go to Egypt! Go to Syria! There are murderers there–not here!”
But in the Rosh Hashana service, held in my church’s building, I saw my Jewish friends wearing the Palestinian keffiyeh as their prayer scarves while they prayed in Hebrew. I heard them praying–in Hebrew and English–for oppression to end. They understood the oppression I’d seen, and were holding that in prayer as they entered the new year.
And in that service of prayer and song, after weeks of hopeless stories in Israel and Palestine, I could envision the wall of the Al Ibrihimi mosque in Hebron–a wall that now separates the mosque and synagogue; a wall of tension and hurt–coming down. I imagined the Hebron checkpoints unused outside the Mosque, the machine guns abandoned, the fear wiped away.
There is hope. There can be peace.
The words of our Jewish, Christian and Muslim ancestors are words of hope, drawn from our loving God, who longs for our wholeness and peace. Peace, Salaam Shalom. May God’s peace be made real in the Holy Land this year.
Fearfully and Wonderfully Made
Cross posted at practicingfamilies.org
School is starting, and I can see the excitement on the face of my youngest, and anxiety on the face of my oldest. Both have very different ways of handling transitions and new experiences. And both are valid.
My youngest strives to be perfect–to fend off bullies, to be an advocate, to keep everyone in her class in line. It’s an exciting and exhausting job she’s taken on. But, she’s a leader, and that’s what she does. So we try to give her the tools to lead with love and compassion.
The oldest is just happy to slip under the radar, to get through the school day without being called on so that he can come home and rest in the safety of his family. And we try to give him what he needs to get through in his own way.
This week’s Psalm (139) could be a mantra for our new school year. We are fearfully and wonderfully made. God took great care with us when God made us, and we are perfect just as we are.
God loves us just the way we are. We can try to change our kids, and God loves them just as they are. Our kids can try to do things better, and God loves them just as they are. With all our failings as parents, and with all our kid’s imperfections, God loves us.
This week as I’m organizing the school shopping list, and buying pencils glue and uniforms (perhaps you’ve already gone through this in the last few weeks), this verse has been my centering prayer. God made us fearfully and wonderfully. As much as I try to guide and direct them into better choices, they are wonderful just as they are.
Perhaps this is a comfort to you. Maybe it will be a comfort to your kids. They can keep trying, and with all their faults and imperfections, they are absolutely perfect to God.
There’s something about knowing we are perfect to God even though we see all that’s wrong with us, that is completely empowering. All the the improvements are only icing on the cake. We are fully loved and accepted in the arms of God, no matter how much we screw up. And our kids are fully wonderful in the eyes of God, even though they don’t always feel that way.
Friends, you are fearfully and wonderfully made by the creator. May you and your families know that deeply and fully.
True Hospitality
Sermon based on Luke 14: 1, 7-14
Hospitality is a fact of life for us. We share what we have with each other. We bring meals to families after illnesses or after babies are born. We invite each other over into our homes and our lives. We answer the calls when needs are made known.
I have a real and genuine sense of pride when I hear what people say about this church. THey say this church is hospitable and welcoming. We look after each other, we take care of each other, knowing that there will come a time when we will need help and someone will be there for us.
Hospitality is about reciprocity. It’s about knowing that it will come back to you. At least that’s how we tend to practice hospitality.
But in my last two weeks in Israel and Palestine, I experienced hospitality that expected nothing in return.
Last week, our Christian Peacemaker Teams delegation hiked from the small village of ATawani to the even smaller village of Al-Fakheet. All Fahkeet is located in Firing Zone 918, land that the Israeli Military has claimed so that they can perform military exercises. This land is inhabited by thousands of Palestinians that have lived and farmed on this land for generations.
It’s difficult to imagine that anyone could farm this dry, dusty rocky land, but they do. It’s difficult to imagine that the land could sustain a farmer’s herd of sheep, but it does.
On top of the terrain being rugged and dry, Palestinians are not allowed to dig wells or cisterns on this “reclaimed” land. They are not allowed to access any water found under their land. Instead they had to truck water to their farms–that water is poor quality, because it sits in trucks for days at a time. But the people drink it and the animals drink it. Those trucks are often not allowed to enter the firing zone, so the Palestinian’s access to water can get to a crisis point.
We walked towards Al-Fahkeet after an early dinner. We brought in our own water and breakfast but by the time we got to the village at sundown, we were hungry.
We prepared for bed in a little two room schoolhouse, which had recently been threatened by the Israeli military who have come within a few yards of the school with helicopters, kicking up dust, and frightening the people of Al-Fahkeet. We stayed there to be a peaceful presence, and to be in solidarity with the folks at Al Fahkeet.
A neighboring shepherd noticed that we were at the school, and invited us to an impromptu meal at his tent. It was late, and dark and we didn’t expect much. But this shepherd pulled out all the stops. He served us like we were honored guests. We had cucumbers, tomatoes, olives, hummus, eggs, and hands down the best bread I’ve ever eaten. He served us hot tea, and kept it flowing.
I think it was the best meal we ate in those two weeks. And it wasn’t just about the food. It was that this man who works so hard to get the basic necessities for his family, while living in a firing zone in the middle of what seemed like nowhere–he shared all that he had with us. He was the rich one, and we were poor Americans could never repay him for his generosity.
What happens when someone does something nice for us here? We send a note of thanks. We buy a gift. We make cookies. We try to repay. We work to make things even, fair. We don’t want to be a burden to others in our need.
Jesus says these words to us today, “When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or relatives or rich neighbros, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind. An you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous.”
It’s hard for us not to repay, to accept the gift as just what it is–a gift–and not feel any obligation to even the score.
But this meal in the tiny village of Al-Fahkeet was a gift freely given, and one that I could never repay. I was the poor, the crippled, the lame and the blind. And I was this man’s enemy–our government funds the evil that is done to his family and his village. I was more than just a poor in spirit stranger. I was a participant in a government that sought to destroy this man’s livelihood and displace him from his home and his land. And he expected nothing from me.
The call to hospitality is bigger than giving so that it will come back to us. It’s about more than “karma” and runs deeper than expectations of reciprocity. Hospitality is giving without expecting anything in return. It’s giving without concern for efficiency or positive outcomes. Hospitality is giving not only from our excess but from our own storehouses.
The experience of this deep true hospitality is what we experience at this communion table. We receive the gift of hospitality at this table with no expectation that we can ever pay it back. In fact, we understand that the gift here is something we can’t even begin to return. It is grace at it’s truest, mercy at it’s most pure and love at its deepest.
This morning, as we enter into a time of communion, I invite you to think about this gift of communion, this hospitality and goodness we cannot repay. Imagine this meal as an invitation to experience the love of God–a love that needs no repayment, and a love so extravagant the likes of which we, the broken people, have never experienced. AMEN.