Until you hear the stories. The abundant harvests have been disrupted by Israeli settlers bulldozing the apricot trees, burning 1,500 olive trees and destroying grape vines. The cisterns are underground because Israeli settlers have repeatedly destroyed above-ground water storage tanks. The composting toilets and solar panels are necessary because Israel has cut off water and electricity to the farm. The artwork is in caves that, unlike buildings, the settlers cannot destroy, and the colourful paintings are a form of creative resistance against violence. Moreover, the Israeli state has been trying to seize this land for 35 years, embroiling the Nassar family in endless legal battles in spite of documents that demonstrate their ownership.

The view is disrupted by Israeli settler homes, not only on the surrounding hills, but also built against the fence line of the farm. The road to town has been blocked, cutting the farm off from neighbours. And looking in the direction of the Mediterranean, Daoud says quietly: “We could see the bombs falling on Gaza from here.” And we realize that it is all of a piece; the violent attempt to exterminate this farm is part of the larger systemic plan to destroy the Palestinian people and their connection to this land.

And yet the motto of Tent of Nations is: “We refuse to be enemies.” Many of the trees that were destroyed were replanted by Jewish groups from the U.K. and the Centre for Jewish Non-Violence from the United States. Many international volunteers are welcomed here, for when visitors arrive the violence pauses.

Like Naboth in 1 Kings 24, Daoud has been encouraged to sell the land; he just has to name his price. But like Naboth, he can’t imagine living apart from the land that has grounded his family for generations. “This is our inheritance,” he says. “This is the place we call home.” Daoud is committed to staying on this land in spite of the challenges, so that Tent of Nations might continue to be a place of reconciliation for diverse peoples and a place of ecological renewal for the land.

Such an emphasis on reconciliation is also at the heart of Wi’am: The Palestinian Conflict Transformation Center, where we ended our day. With special programs for women, youth and those dealing with trauma, Zoughbi Alzoughbi, the founder and director, provided insight into the difficulties of reconciliation in the midst of a traumatized population. “There is no trauma healing, only trauma coping,” he says, “because there is no post-traumatic stress disorder here; the trauma is ongoing.” Wi’am seeks to engage community-based mediation as a pathway to transformation in the midst of violence. Zoughbi does this work at great personal cost: he is married to an American whom Israel will not allow to live in Palestine with him. The separation wall that casts its shadow over the Wi’am building represents how the state of Israel extends its reach into the personal and familial lives of so many Palestinians.

Between Tent of Nations and Wi’am, we experienced two moments of juxtaposition. The first was one of the amazing meals that punctuated our trip, reminding us that even in the midst of violence, Palestinian life continues with moments of deep joy and nourishment.

The other was the Church of the Nativity – the visually rich, large church complex built over the place where Jesus was supposedly born. Like at Tent of Nations, we descended into a cave, but this one was richly lit with lamps and beautiful artwork commemorating the birth of Jesus.

At the end of the day, I pondered where we had truly seen evidence of the incarnation. Was it in the sumptuously decorated church? Or did we see God become flesh in a centre for conflict transformation in the shadow of the Separation Wall? Perhaps. And perhaps God has come to live among us on the land of a farm that is planting literal seeds of hope and reconciliation in the rich red loam of Palestine.

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In Hebron and then in the south Hebron hills, we visited the home of renowned activist and Nobel Peace Prize nominee Issa Amro, and the Bedouin village of Umm al-Khair, subject of the BBC documentary No Other Land. Issa founded Youth Against Settlements (YAS) in 2007 and is the recipient of many awards and honours for his continuous non-violent civil resistance. The New York Times Magazine even named him “the Palestinian Gandhi.” For his commitment to the Palestinian cause, Issa has been regularly arrested, detained and beaten by soldiers and by settlers. On one occasion he was bound, zip-tied and tortured for 10 hours, resulting in lasting injuries, both physical and psychological. So far, the crimes he has been accused of are heinous acts such as “insulting an Israeli soldier” or “being on a march without a permit.” The man we met was inspiring, brave and passionate, but we also witnessed the massive toll his choice to continue is taking. I thought of Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane as we sat in his garden looking out at his olive trees. Jesus prayed, “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.” Issa is a man who has set his face towards justice and is prepared to walk the road of suffering if that is what is required of him.

As we turned into the Bedouin village of Umm al-Khair, we immediately saw the brazenness of the Israeli colonial land grab, for this is what the whole conflict boils down to. A paved road cuts straight through Umm Al-Khair and leads to the fortified gate of the Carmel settlement. When a settler claims land, the state of Israel immediately ratifies it with hydro, water and military assistance. Bedouin land and property was bulldozed so that the settlers could make their presence felt as they drive past the villagers day and night. On July 28, 2025, Awdah Hathaleen was holding his toddler in his arms, urging the notoriously violent settler Yinon Levy not to tear up their land with his bulldozer. Yinon Levy responded to a cry for justice by shooting Awdah dead. Gerlyn, Sylvia and I were graciously taken into the family home to meet Awdah’s widow, Hanadi. Her grief is still very raw, and her fear was palpable. We mostly sat with her in silence as there were no words that seemed sufficient. She told us that her little boy wakes up screaming and remembers being covered in his father’s blood. He couldn’t even eat a sauce she makes from beans because it looks too sanguinous. Every day unlocks a new piece of the trauma for her. At 25, with three small children and now a widow, Hanadi told us that she feels as though all of her hopes and dreams have been destroyed. She and Awdah had been preparing to come to Canada to study. Without him, that dream has died too.

Outside, the men from our group met with the Hathaleen men to learn more of the difficulties they face. I could not help but notice the gentle hospitality of the men we met and their incredible tenderness toward the little children – children who are not having the childhood they deserve. We could hear the voices of the Carmel children playing in a school or daycare behind the fortified barrier just a few hundred metres away, laughing with none of the terror that Hanadi’s children live with. Yet they are also living in their own kind of cage in a land of razor wire, violence, hatred and apartheid. What kind of a life is that? Is this the land flowing with milk and honey they hoped for? Or must it require the murder and displacement of others to make it so? With the whole of Umm Al Khair under a demolition order, it now seems only a matter of time before Carmel swallows the Bedouin land and leaves the villagers homeless.

So many questions, so much pain, so much injustice. I lay on my bed that night with a heavy heart. The Psalms and the persistent cry of “How long, O Lord?” came to mind. On a day when we met a truly worthy Nobel Peace Prize nominee and a grief-stricken young woman whose husband’s callous murderer has been exonerated of sanctions by the Prize-hungry U.S. president, the cry of the psalmist for mercy and justice is as necessary today as it always has been. In many years of parish ministry, I have often been asked, “Do we really have to say the psalm each week? They are so whiny and complaining.” My answer has always been yes. They are the raw, honest, saccharine-free cries of the human heart. You may not be feeling those particular psalms today, but one day you might just identify with them. On that land, in that place, the psalms are as potent as ever. How long, O Lord, how long, indeed?

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Depending on traffic, Ramallah is at least a half-hour drive north of Jerusalem. The two cities, separated by checkpoints and the notorious Wall, stand in stark contrast to one another. In Jerusalem, Haredi Jews stroll the sidewalks. Billboards and shop signs are in Hebrew. Many roads, while exceptionally congested, are wide enough to accommodate multiple lanes. In Ramallah, however, Arabic is ubiquitous. Jews are rarely, if ever, seen. The terrain is hilly, streets are narrower, and motorists make liberal use of their horns. Many women wear a hijab. Hagop Djernazian, a Sabeel staff member who accompanied us for the day, remarked that Ramallah is culturally and topographically a smaller version of Amman, Jordan.

We arrived at St. Andrew’s Church, located at the end of a short easy-to-miss alley. The parish is led by Father Fadi Diab, a courageous priest who played a major role in the writing of the 2009 Kairos Palestine Document – an impassioned ecumenical call for an end to Israel’s illegal occupation. In August 2022, Israeli forces raided St. Andrew’s and the adjacent Al Haq human rights organization. Father Fadi’s strong pastoral presence helped the congregation remain resolute in the aftermath of this attack.

Once inside the church, we made our way into the nave, a modest space framed by stone walls, with the chancel archway stunningly decorated to simulate a cave entrance. Beside the chancel steps, a small organ was played by a man with an infectious smile who welcomed us warmly. Families trickled in, filling the pews from front to back in anticipation of Archbishop Hosam’s arrival. At the beginning of the service, Father Fadi invited Bishop Andrew to light the second candle of the Advent wreath – an experience that would, as he shared later in the evening, almost bring him to tears. The service proceeded in Arabic, in a simple but reverent manner, with familiar rhythms and hymn tunes that allowed us to follow along easily.

Archbishop Hosam, whose formidable stature belies his gentle and gracious disposition, rose to deliver his homily. Speaking in Arabic for several minutes, he concluded with a word in English. Focusing his attention on the gospel, he drew a strong connection between John the Baptist’s prophetic witness and the Advent theme of peace. We must, he insisted, embrace John’s prophetic call and be agents and ambassadors of peace. That is how we will “prepare the way of the Lord” and “make his paths straight.”

The climax of the service was the Eucharist, with everyone – including a toddler who had been running up and down the centre aisle – eagerly lining up to receive the sacrament. The consecrated bread was not the dry, tasteless little discs that are so common in our diocese. Instead, the archbishop broke off generous pieces of a freshly baked loaf, dipping them himself in the chalice and then offering them to all communicants. During this time, communion hymns were sung joyfully and resoundingly. Despite living under oppressive occupation, these Christians showed an unmistakable depth of faith and perseverance.

After the service, some of us were privileged to meet parishioners Sami and Lulu Nasir. Their daughter Layan, age 25, has been in and out of “administrative detention” since 2021 and currently languishes (along with thousands of other Palestinians) in an Israeli prison, for no justifiable reason. Her case has received international attention, prompting several archbishops to demand her immediate release. Layan’s parents are prevented from making any contact with her. As Lulu tearfully shared with us the impact of this ordeal, I was unable to contain my own emotions. It was a profoundly unsettling moment for me that powerfully evoked the oft-recited intercession “for prisoners and captives, and for their safety, health, and salvation.”

The heaviness of that moment temporarily gave way to a wonderfully catered dinner in the parish hall. We were then ushered into a side room for a meeting with Archbishop Hosam. He shared with us some of his own work and the grim challenges facing Anglicans in Palestine, especially in the wake of Oct. 7. At the conclusion of the meeting, we laid hands on the archbishop as Bishop Andrew offered a prayer and blessing. Archbishop Hosam responded by praying for us and blessing our work.

Before departing for Jerusalem, we joined Archbishop Hosam for the blessing and dedication of a newly renovated facility that will provide affordable housing for women moving to Ramallah for employment opportunities. As we toured the building, I lingered in the small chapel. Through the window directly behind the altar, large water storage tanks were clearly visible – an arresting reminder of the water shortages that Palestinians endure. Israel controls 85% of the water in the Holy Land, selling the remaining 15% to Palestinians.

The drive back to Jerusalem was much longer because of an interminable check-point line – again, another reality that suffocates Palestinian movement. It gave me much time to ponder the day, both the dismal and the joyful elements. Above all, I was astonished by the tenacity of faith and undeterred confidence that we witnessed among these Christians of Ramallah.

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On Dec. 6, we visited an area called Taybeh. To lend some historical context: Taybeh is one of the most ancient places in Palestine, dating back to the Bronze Age, and is mentioned in the Book of Joshua as Ofra, a town of Benjamin. In New Testament times it was known as Ephraim, the village to which Jesus chose to retire with his disciples after the resurrection of Lazarus to fortify his spirit, pray and fast before his return to Jerusalem and his Passion. Notably, Taybeh is surrounded by Muslim villages, Israeli settlements and military roadblocks, yet it has an all-Christian population, the only 100% Christian village in Palestine. The people of Taybeh belong to three Christian denominations: the Latin (Roman Catholic) Church, the Greek Orthodox Church and the Melkite (Greek Catholic) Church.

Remarkably, within the grounds of the Latin Church of Christ the Redeemer, there is a reconstruction of a traditional Palestinian peasant home, which we were privileged to tour. Taybeh is an area that once had a population of 15,000. Presently, both because of the ongoing conflict between Israel and Palestine and the occupation, which means Taybeh is living under military law, many persons have migrated to Canada, Germany or the U.S. This, of course, was evident in the empty streets and many deserted buildings that comprised the town. However, Taybeh is also famous for having its own brewery and Oktoberfest celebration. The brewery, launched in 1994, is one of two in Palestine, and as of 2014 also produces its own wine.

We were privileged to have an audience with Fr. Bashar Fawadleh, the parish priest of the Latin Church of Christ the Redeemer, who explained the difficulties that so many families face within the community. He described the tension and fear that the community was feeling, and the ongoing harassment that the people endure from Israeli soldiers and settlers alike. In fact, on the day he spoke with us, he made us aware of an attack on the community the night before. After a Christmas celebration gathering, two vehicles in the town were set on fire by Israeli settlers. Thankfully, nobody was injured.

Regardless of the struggles, Fr. Fawadleh expressed how hopeful the people of Taybeh are to celebrate Christmas, especially considering what has transpired within the country in the last two years with the war in Gaza. I can recall sinking in my chair as he spoke and explained to us in detail the challenges within the community and church at large. However, when asked by Bishop Asbil, “What keeps you going? What gives you hope?” he responded without any hesitation, saying, “Your presence. With you all visiting, it makes us feel as though we are not alone.” This response, which will stay with me for a long time, was transformative and encouraging, for it truly defined what we recite in the creed: “We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic church.” Yes, we are universal, we are one, and we walk hand-in-hand with one another regardless of the distance.

Moments later we were back on the bus to go on our way to Bethlehem, where our Christian faith first started. I can still recall the bus ride. It was quiet and reflective. I could hear people think and ponder as we all sat with what was told to us by Fr. Fawadleh and others thus far on our trip.

About 30 minutes later, the bus stopped and there we all stood in the front of the Church of the Nativity. “Wow!” I thought, “in the midst of all that is happening, we are standing only steps away from the church that is believed to be built over the birthplace of Jesus.” And then it happened, the countdown to the lighting of the Christmas tree. People cheering, some crying, emotions running wild. Then we heard “10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1,” and the tree was lit. With goosebumps, and tears in my eyes, I watched people celebrate with hope and expectation. As a result of the war in Gaza, this was the first time in two years that the tree was lit in the square. For the first time in my life, Romans 5:3 – “but we rejoice in our sufferings” – became so alive and real. In that moment, I stood among a people who, though oppressed, walled in and marginalized, exemplified Romans 5:3.

Like the Apostle Paul, although there’s much pain and persecution among Palestinians, they also show much joy. In the midst of everything, they continue to show that hope and confidence in God dominates their outlook on life. Yet we may ask, what enables Palestinians to live with such paradoxes? It is their faith in a God of boundless love who holds the future in his hands. It is a faith that is unshakeable even in the midst of distress. It is a faith that gives a new outlook on life. It is a faith that says suffering and blessing are not necessarily contradictory. It is possible to have and experience both.

Now fast-forward to Dec. 19. Having visited Israel/Palestine, my experience and knowledge have been informed through the lens of those living within the walls of conflict. And so I write with the hope and expectation that my experience would enlighten, inform and bring about the change that is desperately needed in Israel/Palestine, as well as in other parts of the world. Nelson Mandela once stated that “education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” This trip provided us all with that world-changing education.

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The environmental devastation of Palestine – one of the little-discussed but major impacts of the Occupation – is front and centre at the Environmental Education Centre. The Jordan River is now not much more than a stream. The Dead Sea will be pretty much gone in 20 years. The wetlands of the north have been drained for settler housing. Deforestation around the settlements, and then reforestation with invasive species, is acidifying the soil and creating a monoculture. Like Mitri Raheb at Dar Al Kaima, Mazin Qumsiyeh, the founder of the centre, spoke passionately about the issues with great wisdom, gentleness and humour – instead of the anger and rage one might expect. In their efforts to restore biodiversity, they lovingly nurture native plants for future dispersion. They work one orchid at a time at the slow pace of God’s Kairos time.

The brutality of the artwork we saw at the university and the staggering destruction of the Palestinian environment (multiplied in Gaza by the equivalent of 11 times the bombing destruction of Hiroshima) was enough for one day. But then we encountered the wall blocking Bethlehem from Jerusalem: part of an 810-km structure that runs between Palestinian towns across the West Bank, cutting each community off with armed checkpoints and random road access closings. Where we were standing, it was three storeys of ugly cement, capped by razor wire and covered in graffiti – some very clever, all of it expressing the rage over the unnecessary disruption of people’s lives. It makes getting to work or medical appointments challenging and at times even impossible; and because of the military permits required to visit other towns, families are also cut off from each other.

Across the road from the wall is the “Walled Off Hotel,” a parody of an old-style Waldorf Astoria hotel created by British artist Banksy. His cutting and dark humour brings out the reality of life behind the wall. The entrance lounge contains a caged dove of peace, mantelpiece decorations consisting of CCTV cameras and slingshots, to name just a couple of the “artistic” touches. The nine-room hotel also includes a museum to the wall and the Occupation. One of the final exhibits, relating to the ongoing war in Gaza, is a simple ringing telephone. When you answer it, you hear a recorded message saying (to the best of my recollection): “The Israeli Defence Force will be bombing your building in five minutes. Please evacuate immediately.” With his gift for “cutting through the crap,” Banksy sums up the insanity, brutality, absurdity and Kafkaesque reality of life behind the wall quite succinctly.

And yet, this “little town of Bethlehem” (not actually so little) is the same town, occupied then as now, where our faith story tells us Jesus was born. Banksy has nothing on God when it comes to irony: God becoming flesh in an occupied town, in a barn, to ordinary people, to give life and dignity to those who “live behind the wall.” Talk about a dark sense of humour! Brutal insanity, sadly, yes – but also resilient hope in the promise of that Bethlehem birth. On this day, we saw them both clearly.

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On the third full day of our pilgrimage, Omar, the executive director of Sabeel and our guide for the day, led us on the Contemporary Way of the Cross – a 14-station liturgical journey to look deeply and prayerfully into the lives of Palestinians. We were invited to see the many crosses that people are carrying, from loss of their right to live in the city of their birth, to checkpoints, settlements, prisons, the wall and more. The third station took us to Shu’fat, near Anathoth (where the prophet Jeremiah was from) to see and reflect on the plight of Palestinians living inside the wall in Jerusalem.

The Shu’fat neighbourhood is patrolled by a checkpoint that includes a pedestrian gate with barbed wire on metal fences. The neighbourhood inside the wall is very different from the one outside. It is dense, the roads narrow, water tanks on roofs, with very long lines of vehicles waiting to exit the checkpoint. Building permits, we are told, are very rarely granted to Palestinians in East Jerusalem. Yet people live in structures built in recent years, assuming the risk of demolition by Israeli authorities and assuming the risks that come with structures built without permits.

Children of Shu’fat occasionally throw stones as resistance to their living conditions. They throw stones at the gate, at the checkpoint and, less often, at Israeli soldiers. The response is disproportionate. Sometimes children who throw stones are killed or injured. Other times, children are kidnapped from schools and interrogated for information on who the stone throwers are. Periodically, the children who are interrogated are offered a deal to serve as spies and police their classmates and neighbours. The worst consequence for stone throwers is being arrested and taken to Ofer detention centre, which we visited to pray the 10th station: “Child Prisoners.”

Usually, boys are the ones who throw stones. But the girls’ school in Shu’fat is the one with the bullet holes. Omar asked us to guess why this was the case. It turned out to be far simpler than the scenarios we came up with: the girls’ school was more visible from the main street. The wall served as the inch-deep reminder to anyone who might consider bending down to pick up a rock that guns are more powerful than stones.

In the same way that the 10-year-old girl in Atlanta will bear the bullet wound reminding her of the ludicrousness of drive-by shootings, the families of Shu’fat bear the bullet wounds on the side of the school as a reminder of the weight of survival under military occupation.

We ended the Way of the Cross at the Ramallah checkpoint (a city in the West Bank) where a bright red sign read, “This road leads to a Palestinian village. The entrance for Israeli citizens is dangerous.” The wall, eight metres high, loomed over us as we prayed, “Lord Jesus, whose death on the cross tore down the barrier between God and his people, in whom there are no distinctions of nationality, gender or status, break down these walls of hatred, both physical and emotional, in the power of your spirit and for the furtherance of your kingdom.”

And in the desert, from a red SUV, we heard the voice of one crying out, “Don’t believe the sign! It’s not dangerous. We are very welcoming people!” And as if we had rehearsed it, the delegation of nine responded in a chorus, “Oh, we know,” and I saw thumbs go up in my peripheral vision. It was John the Baptist in the flesh, reminding us that the kingdom of God was at hand, and no wall or sign could obstruct the view.

The Stations of the Cross that day, though painfully difficult, culminated in hope. Hope in a God who is good and just. Hope that God’s goodness will triumph over evil and hatred. Omar said something that day that I’ve repeated many times since I’ve been back: “If the millions of Christians who’ve known the Church since its birth saw that the Church today was overwhelmed, they would be disappointed.”

These stories and reflections can feel overwhelming to many of us. But the Church is not overwhelmed. We are a people of witness. And it’s a gift to be able to bear witness to what is happening in Palestine.

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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.

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“Basma” means “smile” in Arabic, and this facility was full of displays of joy: smiling children, smiling hospital staff and teachers, and smiling parents. While there, the delegation watched a video of a satellite program in Gaza that is run by the centre. In a small cardboard hut, a nurse and a therapist treat children with various disabilities in the context of what continues to be a war zone.

Watching this video, and hearing of stories of how difficult it was for Palestinians living in the West Bank to access this care facility due to being denied the necessary entry pass for Jerusalem or due to checkpoints being closed, brought to my mind these words from the prophet Isaiah: “The infant will play near the cobra’s den, and the young child will put its hand into the viper’s nest. They will neither harm nor destroy on all my holy mountain” (Isaiah 11:8). The Princess Basma Centre offers one example of this image being lived out faithfully in a perilous context.

Later that afternoon, we travelled to west Jerusalem to meet with the biblical scholar and Jesuit priest David Neuhaus. Born in South Africa to a Jewish family, at the age of 15 Dr. Neuhaus was sent by his parents to a school in Jerusalem. He told us that, upon arrival, he saw that apartheid South Africa and Israeli society shared much in common in the way that significant portions of the population were treated as second-class citizens. Despite this impression, he became so attached to the region that he made it his home. After converting to Christianity and joining the Jesuits, he eventually settled at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Jerusalem.

Our conversation with Dr. Neuhaus was challenging – not only due to his blunt description of the injustices imposed on Palestinians, but also because he highlighted ways Christianity is sometimes used to reinforce such acts. More than one of us sat up straight when he declared, “The bible can be vicious poison.” His point was to emphasize the ways in which scripture is frequently used in narrow and self-serving ways to justify injustice and violence. His concern was particularly with how the bible is employed as a weapon by some in the State of Israel to justify the displacement of Palestinians from their land.

Yet, even as Dr. Neuhaus criticized the treatment of Palestinians by the State of Israel and by the aggressive settler movement in the West Bank, he also acknowledged that “anti-Semitism is real.” That this terrible reality continues to fuel the crisis in Palestine is tragically poignant in the wake of the attack on a Hanukkah celebration in Australia.

When asked where he sees signs of hope, Dr. Neuhaus soberly suggested there were few positive signs for the future in the Holy Land. Instead, he shared that he finds encouragement by looking to the past: “It’s not always been like this.” He reminded us that until around 1936, Jews, Christians and Muslims in the Holy Land lived as neighbours and in peace. Remembering that the present conflicts and atrocities don’t define what is possible in Palestine and Israel can nurture a prophetic imagination, he suggested.

These words echoed what one of the leaders of Sabeel, the organization hosting our visit, shared with us. He suggested that faith in the empty tomb is not something that encourages us to pray, “Lord, Lord, great are my problems!” Instead, we are called to pray, “Problems, problems, great is our God.”

Although this was only the delegation’s first day of encountering the struggles of Palestinians in the region, it was already clear to everyone in our group that we were going to be deeply impacted by what we were witnessing. Later that evening, this realization began to sink in as we were walking through the Christian Quarter of the Old City. Some in the group decided to get a small tattoo on their arm to mark this profound moment in our lives. Whether it was visible or not, we had already recognized that this trip was going to change us permanently.

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My plane arrived at Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv in the wee hours of Nov. 26. Our flight was delayed by an hour. By the time I cleared customs and gathered my luggage, it was about four in the morning. A driver had been sent to fetch me. I was grateful to see him holding a piece of paper with my name scrawled on it. He had been waiting for some time. I felt badly for him and for me, too. Sleep had eluded me on the airplane.

We departed the airport and headed toward Jerusalem, where we pilgrims would be staying at St. George’s Pilgrim Guest House, located within the walls of the Cathedral Church of St. George the Martyr and the college bearing the same name. My driver and I talked nonstop along the way. I was interested in learning his story and to stay awake long enough to find comfort in a soft pillow and comfortable bed after a long journey. He lived with his family in the Christian quarter of the old city of Jerusalem. They had resided there for many generations. He talked about the hardships suffered by so many because of the Covid pandemic and then the war. Things were desperate for so many.

Only a few other cars shared the road on that early morning drive. I peered out the window as we talked to try to catch a glimpse of the passing landscape but could see very little. It was still too dark. And then up ahead cars slowed down as we approached a checkpoint. All the other cars were waved on. Six or so army personnel stood in a circle at one of the kiosks. One soldier bearing a kerchief to conceal the lower half of his face motioned for us to stop. The driver lowered our windows. He leaned in to talk with the driver and then his attention focused on me.

Where are you from? he asked.

Canada, I replied.

Passport please, he said.

I gave him my passport. He eyed the document and then looked at me carefully.

I have one question for you, he said. And there is only one answer, yes or no. He paused. Do you understand? I nodded.

Do you have a Palestinian identification card?

No, I replied.

He handed the passport back and motioned us onward.

I was now fully awake.

That moment would be a foretaste of what we would see, hear, feel and experience on this pilgrimage with the Friends of Sabeel Liberation Theology Center in East Jerusalem. The Friends of Sabeel is an international and ecumenical response to the call of Palestinian Christians for solidarity. Through education and engagement, the organization supports the struggle for equality in justice, freedom and human rights of Palestinians and works non-violently for a just and durable peace for Palestinians and Israelis.

Over 10 days, our delegation would spend time in East Jerusalem and in the West Bank, most notably in Bethlehem, Ramallah, Taybeh, Hebron and the hills south of Hebron. We would listen to the stories of academics, artists, church leaders, advocates, farmers, shepherds and ordinary people living in challenging and inhumane conditions. For 10 days we would be invited to hold in one hand the beauty and holiness of pilgrimage sites like the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Church of the Nativity, the Western Wall and a fertile land, and in the other to dwell in a place where people are partitioned, segregated and diminished by a system of repression.

Each member of our delegation will write a reflection on what we experienced – the challenging, the hard, the bewildering and the hopeful. We are calling this series “Happening Now in Palestine.”

The season of Advent points towards Christmas, to the love of God made known in the birth of Jesus to Mary and Joseph in Bethlehem, at a time when the land was occupied. Now as then, we pray for peace, shalom, salaam in the Land of the Holy One.

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