Justice and Peace Reflection

This is a recent reflection I wrote for a Prayer Service sponsored by my office, the Wi'am Center. We focused on Non-Violence, Justice and Peace for about 10 days in the beginning of September. Here are some of the things I felt led to reflect on with our friends in the community.
Peace from Palestine,
Ashley

Justice and Peace Reflection
I want to thank you all so much for inviting us to share this service with you. It is good to worship the Lord together. And it is both a joy and a challenge to stand before you today and reflect on Justice and Peace.
It is a joy to reflect on Justice and Peace because we believe in a G-d who is merciful, loving, just and kind… a G-d who desires Justice and Peace for all G-d’s children. However, it is also a challenge to reflect on Justice and Peace because they often seem so hard to find in this time and in this place.

How can we find that which is good, that which is holy, when walls prevent us from seeing our holy places and disrupt our attempts to work and provide for our families? How can we be that which is good, that which points to holiness, when violence invades in nightly incursions and children die from indiscriminate bullets?

As Christians, we have been given the gift of scripture and we have been given the gift of Christian community. The prophet Micah offers us hopeful perspective on Justice and Peace. He states,
‘The Lord has shown you, O mortal what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To do justice, to love kindness and to walk humbly with your G-d.’
<>< Micah 6:8

Thus we find that which is good, that which is holy, when we look to our Lord. We learn how to be that which is good, that which points to holiness when we respond to G-d’s desires for our lives.

The Lord requires us to do justice. But how can we do justice? In the tradition of the prophets, in the footsteps of Gandhi, in the words of Martin Luther King Jr., in the actions of Mother Teresa, and in the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ, we learn that the best way to do justice is to pursue it with passion and with diligence. We call people to account and we hold each other to account whenever injustice occurs. Christ never insinuated that peace or justice did not require action on our part. Rather, he taught us, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called the children of G-d.’ <>< Matthew 5:9 We do not wait for peace, we do not watch for peace… but through justice we participate with G-d in making peace. To do justice is to be a peacemaker.

The Lord requires us to love kindness. What does it look like to love kindness? Christ reminded us that the greatest commandment of our heavenly Father is to ‘Love the Lord your G-d with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind. And love your neighbor as yourself.’ <>< Luke 10:27 Loving kindness is something we must learn how to do with and from each other. It is difficult to be kind when someone hurts us. It is difficult to be patient when we are under constant pressure. It is difficult to show mercy when a brutal Occupation is fundamentally merciless. Yet mercy and kindness have been given to us through the gift of G-d’s Son. To love this gift of kindness is to offer it back to G-d’s creation. But it is not to be separated from justice. For the type of kindness and mercy that we must learn to love is only possible when it is connected to justice, to peacemaking and to humility.

The Lord requires us to walk humbly with G-d. How do we learn how to walk humbly? Though this is a very difficult requirement for us all, the answer to this question is simple. How do we learn how to walk humbly? By taking the first step. Instead of walking in the direction we want to go. Instead of taking the action that will achieve what we want… we ask G-d, ‘where do You want us to go? What would you have us do?’ And then in faith we take a step in that direction. How will we know that we have walked humbly with G-d? More than likely that first step, or some step very soon after will take us down the path of Justice and Peace.

Because our G-d is a G-d of Justice… a G-d who calls out for justice, who requires us to do justice, and who enables us to take that first humble step towards action for justice.

Because our G-d is a G-d of mercy and kindness… a G-d who calls out for mercy, who requires us to love kindness, and who enables us to take that first humble step towards action for kindness.

Because our G-d is a G-d of Peace… a G-d who calls out for peace, who requires us to make peace, and who enables us to take that first humble step towards action for peace.

Walking humbly before G-d means accepting the responsibility of doing justice, of loving kindness and of making peace. In ourselves, in our families, in community, in our world. This is our call. Our call to action… our call to humbly respond to a crucified and resurrected Lord.

Let us join together in a prayer that expresses this call to action and gives us the opportunity to take that first step.

Hear the words of St. Francis and his Prayer for Peace:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy;

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.

I am no longer my own, but yours

This is an article I wrote for a friend a while back. It is a good reminder to me even today, so I decided to share it with you. Enjoy.
Peace,
Ashley

I am no longer my own but yours. Put me to what you will; rank me with whom you will. Put me to doing; put me to suffering. Let me be employed for you, or laid aside for you; exalted for you, or brought low for you. Let me be full; let me be empty. Let me have all things; let me have nothing. I freely and wholeheartedly yield all things to your pleasure and disposal.
And now, glorious and blessed G-d, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, you are mine and I am yours. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on Earth, let it be ratified in Heaven. Amen

When I was commissioned as a Mission Intern with the General Board nearly one year ago, I never could have imagined the ramifications of praying John Wesley's Covenant Prayer. I trembled with fear as I read it with my fellow Interns, knowing full well that we would each face life altering experiences in the near future. I still tremble as I read these words and clumsily try to discern what they mean both in my Bethlehem context and in my 'back-home' context. Thankfully there are faithful people on both sides of the ocean who teach me how to pray this prayer.

I am no longer my own but yours. I work at the Wi'am Palestinian Conflict Resolution Center. It is in this place that I learn from my colleagues just what it means to give up my life, my time, and my agenda in order to serve G-d and neighbor. Wi'am is a 'grassroots organization which strives alongside other democratic forces present in the larger Bethlehem community to build a democratic and just society. The Center aims to improve the quality of relationships by: addressing injustices rather than avenging them; dignifying persons on both sides of the conflict; promoting human rights and advocating for peace among all people.'
People in the Bethlehem community know that Wi'am is the place you go when you need your neighbor most. People come constantly during the day to the office, and during the night to the homes of the Wi'am case workers. My colleagues listen compassionately to the struggles that face each person(s), and then they work to restore their dignity and improve the quality of relationships among the people here. They practice every moment of every day what it means to no longer belong to their own hearts or desires. They teach me to belong to G-d, to be about what G-d is about, to surrender each moment to G-d's will instead of my own.

Put me to what you will; rank me with whom you will. Living in Bethlehem means living in a constant state of change. Working at an NGO just about anywhere means cultivating a personal and organizational adaptability to change. At Wi'am, we do whatever it is that needs to be done. Wi'am does not only help people work through their conflicts, but they also empower people to determine their own futures. Often times, this means that Wi'am is ranked with the marginalized of society – the women, the children, the youth, the unemployed, the hungry, the imprisoned and the weary. My colleagues provide space for kids to be kids. They provide both space and time for children to deal with the ongoing trauma of living in an unstable environment. They inspire women to discuss, determine and define their roles in society. They give work to the unemployed, food and love to the hungry, and they help seek justice for those who have been wronged. Jesus walks into this office each day – and my colleagues remind me to welcome Him in the face of the child, woman, man… they teach me to find Him in every situation. And they love to be ranked with Him, no matter in what form He comes.

Put me to doing; put me to suffering. Let me be employed for you, or laid aside for you; exalted for you, or brought low for you. One aspect of my work with which I struggle the most is identifying just what it is that I am doing here in Bethlehem. As human beings, I think it is natural for us to want to 'do' many things. As Christians, it is often difficult to avoid developing a savior complex. We want to help. We want to heal. We want to fix. We want to make a difference. But at the end of the day, we cannot save people. For that is not our role. In the short time I have been here, I am learning to recognize the times when G-d puts me to doing, along with the times I am employed and laid aside for G-d. I am beginning to realize that often when we are laid aside, it is not so much because we are not capable of doing or effecting change. Rather, G-d does not desire us to do these things on our own. We do not save others, and it is often in the vacuum of doing, in the vacuum of employment that we stop looking at our own work and start looking at G-d's work.
Being available to people is equally as important as doing good things for people. My colleagues teach me this lesson continually when they drop their 'work' in the middle of the day in order to attend a funeral or celebrate the birth of a baby with the people in this community. They teach me how to 'do' what G-d does, how to 'suffer' the way G-d suffers, how to be 'employed' for G-d, how to be 'laid aside' for G-d.
And as I stumble around in proverbial cultural education, I am learning what it means to be brought low for G-d. My colleagues and friends are patient and loving, forgiving and kind despite my many missteps and blunders. I am learning to say I am sorry. And more importantly I am learning that true repentance is not just speaking remorse, but also changing my heart and changing my behavior. It is not so much that my feelings and my heart remain neutral whether I am exalted or brought low, but I am learning to try to accept both with humility… recognizing that no matter what place G-d would have me in, I always belong to G-d. The core of who I am is rooted in G-d's love and gift of grace to me. When I am confident of this identity, then it is possible for both triumphs and failures to be seen as opportunities for me to learn and to grow. Whether I am exalted or brought low is not essential. That I belong to G-d is what is paramount.

Let me be full; let me be empty. Let me have all things; let me have nothing. I am in between. Many historians describe this land as the 'land between.' This area has always been between superpowers and the local people have (for the majority of their history) lived under occupation by outside forces. There is great attachment to the land here. There is also a great attachment to the community. People here are dedicated and loyal, and they have a passion for the land and for their neighbors that I have never before experienced. Such existence leaves me feeling so full I often feel I might burst. There is so much to be joyful about here! Strong families, committed community, passion for a better life, excellent food, and the fabulous ability to laugh and enjoy the people close at hand. Yet there is so much to mourn here as well. Lack of freedom, dehumanization, trauma from past violence, a sense of helplessness in any desire to bring about helpful change.
I am in between. I feel overwhelmed and drained all at once; courageous and fearful of the effects of my actions; full of life and hope, yet despairing and weary thinking that no one outside this place cares. I feel hyphenated… I am American. But I am an American who has lived and experienced a different culture. I do not feel un-American, nor do I feel American in a way that I previously understood it. I feel divided and yet rooted in this newly unfolding self.
I am in between. I feel I have all that I need and nothing that I want. I need love. I need family. I need people to support me and yet love me enough that they will challenge me to be the woman G-d has called me to be. I need change and challenge and growth. But I do not always want them. To be in between means cultivating the capacity to be faithful throughout change, throughout growth, throughout all the painful experiences of life.
I am in between. I am full and I am empty. I have all things and I have nothing. I learn from this land and this people to be fully present where I am – to be true to what and where and G-d has called me.
I am in between.

I freely and wholeheartedly yield all things to your pleasure and disposal. In the past I might have understood this to mean a yielding of material comforts or treasures to G-d in exchange for a humble and simple lifestyle. While I do not rule out that understanding now, I realize that to yield freely and wholeheartedly is to give up so much more than possessions or comforts. It is also yielding the familiar, yielding future plans, yielding expectations, yielding all your preconceived notions, your heart and even your body to the disposal of the only One who can direct all of these in a way that will allow you to be the most true form of yourself. It is only when we yield all of our lives to G-d that we even begin to see ourselves as we truly are. Broken and brave, doubting and faithful, selfish and loving… we must yield in order to be transformed. Such yielding will look different for each person, but yield we must if we are ever going to live.
I realize too that in this place people are often forced to yield involuntarily. They yield their freedom as they encounter walls and checkpoints. They yield their humanity as they are harassed in their homes and in the streets. They yield their security, living in the constant awareness that the military could return to their homes and communities at any minute. Often times they even yield their hope for the future because history has taught them to do so.
But yielding to G-d is different, isn't it? I believe it is. G-d does not ask us to yield our freedom. On the contrary, G-d gives us the only true freedom we will ever know. G-d does not ask us to yield our humanity. On the contrary, G-d created us in G-d's image. G-d does not ask us to yield our security. For G-d is the only real security we have. And G-d would never ask us to yield our hope. Hope is the heart of resurrection.

And now, glorious and blessed G-d, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, you are mine and I am yours. So be it. And the covenant which I have made on Earth, let it be ratified in Heaven. Amen. I often ask myself, ‘what does it mean to belong to something? To belong to someone?’ When I recite the phrases, ‘you are mine and I am yours,’ what do these mean? What does belonging look like?
More recently I find myself attempting to understand, ‘what does it mean to belong to hope?’ Paul reminds me that ‘hope that is seen is no hope at all. For who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently’ (Romans 8:24-25). So, how do we belong to that which is not seen? How do we belong to a lifetime of patiently waiting? Who can find such patience? Who can belong to such hope? Through the people here I am relearning and in many ways learning for the first time just how hard it is to hope. I am learning that hope is not some pretty package of good feelings and thankful praises.
Hope, true hope in that which we cannot see is much more intense, is often dangerous, and is always challenging. Living in Palestine, walking with friends through their daily struggles and constant dehumanization it is abundantly clear to me: It hurts to hope. Hope is not easy when you feel as if you live in a big prison. It seems that hope is not as eager to pursue you as are humility (as in humiliation) and fear (as in insecurity). Hope does not forcefully and boldly stare you in the face with such concrete reality as a 12 meter wall. Nor does is stay on your person with such determination as an identity card which leaves you with no rights and thousands of excuses for others to perpetrate discriminatory acts on you and your loved ones.

Living in Palestine, it hurts to hope.

It is dangerous to put your heart and your soul on the line for someone or something when you do not know what the end result will be. People live this reality here. Hope is not some abstract concept referred to occasionally when scripture or prayers are read. It is a painful, daily challenge in this place. And yet hope would not be true to its own nature if it were certain or easy or simple. To belong to hope is to belong to the one true Triune G-d because it is only in the glory and blessing of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit that we realize who we are to be and that we are able to recognize who G-d is. Belonging to hope is in itself a covenant. And the people here pursue this covenant with passion, with integrity, with honesty and with humility. People here are not perfect, and they know this. They leave me to wonder if it is because of their acceptance of their imperfections that they are able to cling so strongly to something that they cannot see.

In one of the first reflections the Wi’am staff participated in together, we entered into a conversation on hope. I will never forget the reaction of my supervisor, Zoughbi. I was sharing a quote from a book I read for my class on the Rwandan Genocide, and I asked my colleagues,
“What might it mean to see ourselves in others? What might it mean to see the faces of the victims of Rwanda in others? Andre Sibomana, a priest from Rwanda and a survivor of the genocide, seemed to experience this during his time in Israel/Palestine, (a place to which he travelled for a time of rest and reflection after the genocide). He says, 'Here (in Israel/Palestine) I have discovered a little corner of land which seems to have taken on all the problems which have befallen humanity over the last 2,000 years. We are not the only ones living in the eye of the storm. I did not find answers in Israel/Palestine to the questions I was asking myself before leaving Rwanda, but I have understood that these questions are not my questions: they belong to all who suffer the violence of history and are seeking the path to freedom... We do not have the right to give up hope. Life has been given to us; it is a gift from G-d.We must work towards creating a better life for everyone. The Gospel shows us the way.'"

Upon hearing this, Zoughbi said, "I am humbled by my burdens. Others have burdens - big burdens - and they are able to go on. Hearing this story of the man from Rwanda humbles me. I am humbled in my own burdens."

It is in such faithful humility and hope that we find that to which we truly belong. A G-d who loves us, who challenges us to hope and who empowers us to imagine new possibilities for ourselves and for our world as we daily, hopefully, hand in hand with our friends and enemies walk in covenant with our G-d.
We belong to hope. We belong to one another. We belong to G-d. So be it. Amen.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes


I arrived in Palestine one year ago today. And I was wondering just how I might quantify or measure this past year. So much has happened. So much has changed. People have come. People have gone. Things have remained the same. And sometimes it seems as if nothing is new under the sun.

Just over a year ago, Hurricane Katrina hit and my Grandmother Marjorie passed away. Just under a year ago my Grandma Emma passed as well. I find so much of my sense of home and self in the Gulf Coast and in my family… especially the beach and especially my grandmothers. Growing up on the water means you can always find yourself there – in your mind and in your heart. When I am lonely or feeling lost, I walk the shores in my mind at night. I feel the breeze and I taste that salt and I know that G-d is real. Growing up surrounded by family means you can always find yourself there – they are part of your mind and part of your heart. I always dreamed to be like my grandmothers. One beautiful and eloquent. The other simple and silly. And both had a gift for loving others with tenacity. Both had a sharp wit. Both had a passion for honesty and never seemed to be in want of anything but that which was right in front of them.

How I wish I could walk that ever-changing beach just now. How I wish I could share with them this year…

Learning to see history and people differently. Walking unknown streets till they became as familiar to me as the back of my hand. Welcoming babies and new life into this world. Mourning deeply the loss of those departed. I fell in love for the first time. And I felt a sadness and brokenness more acutely than I ever could have imagined… as I said good-bye to some and found myself in a place that feels forgotten. I saw walls go up around me and inside me. I saw walls fall down inside as well. My passport became my most important document. I watched children grow for an entire year inside an ever-shrinking prison. Sometimes I spoke. Sometimes I was quiet.

I saw Christ born in the hearts of people in Bethlehem… just as He is born again each year, each moment. I witnessed the paradox of Palm Sunday… pilgrims from all over the world processing together through Jerusalem, while my friends in Bethlehem waited till Monday to hear of the Hosannas. I saw pain and anguish… a passion and cross as painful as families dying on the beach at a picnic in Gaza… the ever increasing anxiety and tension of living inside a wall… trapped behind hate when all you want is to go to Jerusalem and feel with others the antithesis of all that is evil – Resurrection Love given to you by the grace of G-d.

My Grandmother Marjorie would have wept with me. Perhaps she would have sung a mournful song. My Grandma Emma would have sat by the Sea of Galilee with me. Perhaps she would have told me that Jesus loves me… that the Jesus she knows loves everyone.

I wonder how they would measure my year. I wonder how I will measure each year.

I never saw the play or the movie called “Rent.” But I have heard a song from it. It moves me to tears and smiles just now. And in this moment, I can call it nothing but appropriate. Sufficient. Honest. Enough.

I used to measure my years in semesters… in books… in summers and holidays. But now I know not how to measure time.

Seasons are appealing because seasons are always temporary. They will always come. And they will always go. You pass through seasons in nature. But you can also pass through seasons in your life, in your heart.

I wonder then, how should I measure time? How should I measure myself? If I measure my grandmothers, if I measure the time that I knew them and what others told me about them, then what I remember most clearly and certainly is the way they loved me… the way they loved others… the way they loved G-d…

So maybe for the next five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes I will measure my year in love.

How will you measure yours?

Peace from Palestine,
Ashley




Seasons of Love
Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes, Five hundred twenty-five thousandMoments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes, How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes, How do you measure A year in the life?

How about love? How about love? Measure in love.
Seasons of love. Seasons of love.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes! Five hundred twenty-five thousand Journeys to plan.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand Six hundred minutes. How do you measure the life Of a woman or a man? In truths that she learned, Or in times that he cried. In bridges he burned, Or the way that she died.
It's time now to sing out, Tho' the story never ends, Let's celebrate Remember a year in the life of friends.

Remember the love! Remember the love! Seasons of love!
Remember the love! Remember the love, You Measure in love.
Know that love is a gift from up above. Seasons of love.
Share love, give love, spread love.
Measure, measure your life in love.