I often port my Echoes (of the Word) posts to my Facebook page, to reach folks outside of Pinnacle.  This is the first time I've gone the other way, taking something I posted on Facebook and porting it over to Echoes, so some of the good folks at Pinnacle who don't see my Facebook page might see the post.  This is a post I put on Facebook on October 19, twelve days after horrific attacks by Hamas on Israeli civilians and the beginning of Israel's bombardment of Gaza.  I had already sent a call to prayer to the congregation.  Some of what's here made it into a sermon I preached at Pinnacle.  Some is different.  I encourage you to seek comprehensive news, support relief work as you see fit, listen, learn, take responsible action as you feel moved, and most of all in this time, pray.

Friends, 
Many who read my very occasional posts may know about my long-standing and deep connections with, and feelings for, Israel/Palestine. Even with that, I've not posted anything since the beginning of the current Israel-Hamas war. Sometimes one is left silent, even when one doesn't want silence to be heard as indifference. I was actually set, with two colleagues I hold dear, to be leaving this coming week to lead a pilgrimage of 35 to the Holy Land. We were to spend most of our time visiting biblical sites, but we were also going to meet several Israelis and Palestinians working for peace—most of whom are my friends, colleagues, and teachers. We had to cancel the trip. But we continue to pray.

I could write a post filled with my own words, but my words mean little. I want, instead, to bring forward expressions of others who share from their own location a vision of God's beloved community. One of the first people I reached out to after October 7 was an Israeli rabbi who I've known for 40 years. We first met at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem and then found ourselves together in a peace studies program at what was then the Interfaith Academy of Peace at Tantur, near Bethlehem. He is Rabbi Jeremy Milgrom, now active in the Bedouin Project of Rabbis for Human Rights. I told a story about Rabbi Milgrom in one of my books. When I sent him a message, I asked him what a simple pastor can say to his flock at a time like this. He wrote back:

Love your neighbor as yourself, or more down to earth, that which is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow human being (Hillel). It's so simple, the failure was so obvious for so long, and who cared? Tens of thousands have paid with their lives (2000 just this week); isn't that enough? 

I've heard similar thoughts from other Israelis and I've learned from their courage in calling for peace—outraged, grieving, fearful, and still committed to a just peace. 

A Palestinian colleague, Dr. Mitri Raheb, whose work promotes artistic expression as non-violent resistance, has taken his photo on Facebook black—finding no better way to express the un-expressible night the land he loves is passing through. Another Palestinian friend, Sami Awad, is sincerely and publicly sensitive to Jewish suffering while still clear about the injustices his own people experience under Israeli occupation. He has a commitment to non-violence, inspired by his faith. He posted this: 

I chose. I chose to stand against your hate and not hate you, to resist your persecution and not demean you, to overcome your oppression and not suppress you, to respond to your violence with nonviolence. I chose to speak loud and clear for freedom and life and not insult you. I chose love to be my motivation. This love is not some romanticized love that makes me submit to you and give you 'my all.' This love is not the love that justifies and excuses your actions. This love is my strength because it conquers my fear. Only in this love we can come together to break all systems of oppression and create the new.

Many individuals and groups are making statements. I'm reading a lot of them. I've made my own. I sent a Call to Prayer to my congregation. I guess expression is important in times like these, though we all know that decisions being made by people with power are outstripping and overwhelming statements right now. Silence and words mix together, even as none of us can keep up. Perhaps mercy can find its way through, here and there.

Among statements I've read, some of the most profound language (at least for me) I've found comes from a statement written by three American rabbis and a Palestinian attorney who are mutually committed to non-violent pursuit of justice and reconciliation. From what I can tell, the statement was simultaneously published by Tikkun, an American publication in the Jewish tradition, and Nonviolence International, an organization founded by Mubarak Awad, a Palestinian. Among the four listed authors, the names I know are Jonathan Kuttab and Rabbi Michael Lerner. Here is the language from that statement that I find so powerful: 

. . . As we watch the violent attacks and rallying of xenophobia on both sides, we are brokenhearted. Although it feels like a time to stand with “our people,” we know this is a time to come together. This is a time of great suffering for all; a time of painful emotions. It is only by recognizing our shared fears and our shared tears that we will find our way through this nightmare. It is a struggle we need to undertake jointly. 

When we fall back into our separate and distinct identities we risk becoming part of the problem, not the solution. Both peoples suffer from ongoing trauma. We are all on high alert. The fear is palpable. And it is easy for us to objectify the ‘other.’ 

We seek a third path that neither perpetuates a xenophobic response nor sustains an unjust status quo. This moment calls us to slow down, sit with the pain and complexity, and grapple with our discomfort. It is a moment for digging deep, seeing across differences, and remembering our deep yearning for peace and justice. It is only through compassion and empathy that we will find a different way. 

[Authored By Jonathan Kuttab, Palestinian Christian Theologian, Human Rights Lawyer; Cat Zavis, Jewish Civil/Women's Rights Lawyer, Mediator, and Rabbi; Michael Lerner, Rabbi and Editor of Tikkun magazine; Esther Azar, Arab Jewish Trauma Activist, and Rabbi]

When bombs are falling, people are tending the injured and burying the dead, families are being displaced and children traumatized, hostages being held, villages being attacked and land illegally taken, chaos reigning, and mourning texturing the days, it's hard to counsel slowing down, sitting with pain and complexity, grappling with discomfort and digging deep. But even while we call for (and pray for) immediate relief, we can still do that deeper work. I actually think we must—whether we're powerful or ordinary; whether we're American, Israeli, Palestinian, Christian, Jew, Muslim, or non-believer.