Bri K

For me, most things I invest in begin with passion. It might be uninformed, it may be idealistic and it might even go against my better judgment or reasoning, but nonetheless, passion is where it begins. From there, the course is usually uncertain and demands much faith and waiting. But, typically passion gives life to opportunity, opportunity to experience, experience to knowledge and knowledge then turns into deepened passion that results in the pursuit of inviting others in to experience, learn and grow passionate with me. And then the cycle continues because one of the things I’m most passionate about is sharing whatever I’m passionate about.

There are at least a few times in my life where I have distinctly felt to be the oppressor. In truth, it is this feeling has driven much of my passion, much of what I believe to be true, much of how I lead and love. The most recent time I felt this was on a bus ride. We had just traveled down a deep, zigzag mountain (where I feared for my life hanging over the cliffs at the back of the bus!!!) on our descent into Jericho. I wrote furiously in my journal on our ascent later that afternoon and posted it as a blog last June (My Name is Americana), so I’ll spare you the details again. Distinct in my heart was the contrast between my comforts in the West and this town I was seeing. I was pierced with the dagger of arrogance, of power and of wealth in comparison to the few people I saw in that city, but the obvious erosion of its streets and homes. I hated the fact that I rode up in a big air-conditioned bus that must have screamed these things, naming me immediately by my resources, by my luxury, by my opportunity and thus immediately forming a chasm between the people and me. That day I was so frustrated, wondering how many Christians like myself travel to the Holy Lands every year to look at dead ruins and pay no attention to the living people in the midst.

Since my time in Israel/Palestine I’ve read four books about the area and the conflict and am currently reading my fifth. As I was finishing up a book this afternoon I came across a story about the Said family. Their story was not particularly unique to me, for at this point in my reading I have heard many stories like theirs. But their story touched me uniquely and brought me back to that day in Jericho. The Said’s were a Christian Arab well-to-do family living in Jerusalem when the war broke out in 1948. The Said’s left their mansion in what is now called the German Colony and fled to Egypt. Upon their return they discovered that their home had been given to Martin Buber, the famous philosopher. Martin would not return the home and appeals in the legal system were unsuccessful. Eventually their home was given to Chile for use as their embassy. And finally their home was passed on to an Evangelical Christian organization. What organization? The International Christian Embassy of Jerusalem. The shock: I sat in that building this summer having a great meeting with one of its staffers. I remember walking up to a surprisingly gorgeous building reminiscent of homes in Southern California, beautifully landscaped and closed off by a security gate. I’ve been reading of home confiscations like this…but today it hit me that this summer I sat in the Said’s home…a home that was stolen. Today as in Jericho, it feels personal.

So what will I do next? I’m still pursuing jobs, but there’s an inkling in me that it might be time to return. I’ve been in touch with Musalaha (the other organization I met with this summer) and am waiting to hear about an internship for the fall. If they have a need and if I choose to do it, I would live in Bethlehem in the Palestinian Territories with an Arab family and commute by bus to Jerusalem for work.

Whether it’s now, or later, I believe that that day in Jericho the Spirit of the Lord was prompting a woman like me, with no understanding of the history, politics, economics, theological complications, no understanding of the world I was viewing every day, to recognize that something is wrong, and so drawing my heart to learn more so that eventually I can do more. That day, the Lord prompted me to consider the role of the Western Church and I wrote this:

“We drove only a couple minutes more into Jericho and the site of an archeological dig, unearthing what may have been the Jericho of the Hebrew Scriptures…the city you brought down without battle. I sat at the look-out with the dig behind us and the lush oasis in front, my eyes filled with tears, considering that we’re studying the dead while ignoring the living …I sat with these ruins of an ancient people behind me–ruins given intricate and thoughtful attention–when before me lay also a lush ruin of humanity’s hostility and the enmity between God and Satan… I wonder how many followers of Christ come here more to see markers of the past (as I have) than to manifest Christ as peace in the present… Oh my God! You ARE peace and you will bring peace and may your people be its bearers!”

I’ve learned a lot since that day, and what begun as a nudge has grown more deeply rooted and better understood. I think the words I wrote were prophetic in my own life as I considered whether we (the Church) are ignoring the living for sake of the dead and wondered what impact we could have if we were to serve the people when we came to the Holy Lands. Turns out that Christian Arabs (Jericho is in the Palestinian Territories and is Arab) have made the same connection and like to call themselves the “living stones.” When I read this, I flashed-back to Jericho. I can’t help but think that the Spirit of the Lord in them was groaning in my Spirit, asking me to pay attention to the living.

So as I pursue jobs and wait to hear from Musalaha, continually my heart is being stirred and I wonder if it’s time to return. I’d love for you to pray with me!