Power displaces prayer

“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing.” — Matthew 23:37

In 1997, when Sue and I first visited the Temple Mount (known in Arabic as Haram al-Sharif) in Jerusalem, we wandered through the courtyards in awe of both the beauty and the sense of welcome. Sue looked at me and said, “This must be the most peaceful place on earth.” And it truly felt that way. Tourists moved freely, pausing to photograph the Dome of the Rock gleaming in the sun. Men sat studying with open Korans, mothers watched their children play, and Muslim worshippers smiled and welcomed us. It was serene, beautiful, and above all, peaceful.

When I returned in 2013, something had changed. The familiar rhythms were still there – children playing, men studying, worshippers gathering – but the feeling was different. Armed Israeli soldiers stood at the entrances, showing open disdain toward Palestinians entering the compound. There was still a sense of peace, but now it felt as if violence could erupt at any moment.

When our delegation visited on Dec. 3, that fragile sense of peace was gone. There were more Israeli military personnel at the entrances, challenging every Palestinian who sought to enter the compound. We were warned by our guide to remain at least 50 metres away from any Israelis who were walking about surrounded by armed soldiers. “And don’t take any pictures of them,” he warned. The passage from Matthew 23:37 quickly came to mind and stayed with me.

Inside the Al Aqsa Mosque that was once filled with hundreds of daily worshippers, there were now only a handful of people praying. Instead of focusing on the beauty of the mosque, our eyes were drawn to the walls and marble columns scarred by bullet holes, and to the broken windows. Our guide told us that any repairs require authorization from Israeli authorities. We also learned that, as a daily show of force, Israeli soldiers enter Al Aqsa every morning to ensure that no unauthorized work has taken place. The peace that once prevailed had been replaced by intimidation and fear arising from an overwhelming military presence.

After leaving the Temple Mount, we made our way to an entrance to the Western Wall. At the security gate, Omar Haramy, the executive director of Sabeel, was questioned in Hebrew by a young guard. Omar politely replied that he did not speak Hebrew. Although the guard communicated in English with others, he declined to speak English to him. Despite Omar’s legal right, as a resident of Jerusalem, to enter, we were told, “Your group can go. But not him.” Our group chose to stand in solidarity with Omar. This moment was not unusual for him; it was simply another example of the daily indignities imposed on Palestinians by Israeli authorities intent on asserting their power. I was proud of our group’s faithful decision.

At the end of the afternoon, we gathered at the Rossing Center for Education and Dialogue, an interreligious organization based in Jerusalem that promotes peace, justice and equality for all people. Hana Bendcowsky spoke candidly about the deep fear felt by both Palestinians and Israelis, and about the growing inability, on all sides, to recognize each other’s pain. “Everyone is traumatized.” she said. Jews often see themselves as a minority with little power, while Palestinians experience themselves as living under oppression with even less power. She also spoke about how uniforms and weapons represent protection and security for Israelis, while those same symbols evoke violence and death for Palestinians. Despite immense challenges, the Rossing Center continues to develop programs that foster healing and understanding, grounded in the belief that acknowledging trauma is essential to any movement toward peace with justice and security. Their work is difficult, but deeply necessary.

As we continue through Advent, we are invited to wait, not in sentimentality, but in witnessing truth. The child we prepare to welcome was born into a land under military occupation, where fear, surveillance and the daily presence of armed power were part of ordinary life. Jesus knew what it meant to live under empire, to walk streets watched by soldiers, and to belong to a people whose dignity was constantly threatened. Advent asks us not to look away from that reality, but to hold it prayerfully before God. In our waiting, may our ears be opened to listen more deeply to the cries of those who live under occupation, and may our eyes be opened to Christ’s way of a commitment to justice, peace and the costly work of love.