I shared in Eucharist with my group in Taybeh in the shelter of a Byzantine church ruin with the Jordan border softly draped in the background, lit perfectly by dusk. I walked up the steps to an archway. On the cool, white stones of the threshold was a pool of unnerving red. We learn that there is a Christian community in Taybeh that continues the ritual of animal sacrifice. The animal killed on that stone will feed the village.
I came to Israel-Palestine with The Global Immersion Project seeking to learn about peacemaking from the best, and a part of me also sought pilgrimage. But alas, my sacred stones are stained. Each layer of the walls in Jerusalem speaks of occupation. Priests brawl over the site of the manger. They presume to know where the Christ was born, but they have lost the meaning of Emmanuel. The glittering Galilee emits a dull ache, sending phantom pains from Palestinian families long gone. A child crying dampens the sound of the Sermon on the Mount being read aloud. Birds sway and sing in the boughs overhead. The words of Christ reach through, âLook at the birds of the air.â
I weep and sing. Lament and hope need not compete, but should instead held in tension. I pull this tension taut every time I pray, âYour kingdom come.â In this land, promise pleads out of pain, hope implodes as it is deferred, beauty dislodges brokenness. This is a place riddled with brutal juxtaposition. My idyllic scenes of Jesus didnât stand up to the realities of this place, but even then Jesus surprises me as the Spirit is faithful to clarify my vision.
As I stand in a synagogue that was built on top of the synagogue where Jesus preached out of Isaiah, I am moved by the specificity of incarnation. Jesus loved and lived in a neighborhood. He walked to Peterâs house for lunch, went to the beach to think, spent afternoons in the market. But as I watch my romantic notions of holy sites crumble, I am also deeply grateful for the boundlessness of the Christ. When we neglect the specificity of Jesus we forget His humanity. When He is bound to a nation or to choosing sides, we forget His divinity.
During our exposure phase, our group met a Palestinian peacemaker named, Husam. He told us, âDonât come here and only see the dead stones, but see the living stones.â Maybe my sacred stones are marred, but it's okay. I was looking for the sacred in the wrong place. The sacred wasnât meant to be found there anyway. I shift my gaze to the living stones, the people in a place.
