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The Cheering Kept Me Going

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

Katie Ledecky, the great Olympic swimmer was asked what she thought about while swimming the long 1,500 meter race. She explained that she thought of everyone who had helped her make it to the games, help make her the swimmer she is. She thinks of coaches, family members, friends, teachers, and sees them in her mind’s eye as she swims meter after meter. I heard her interview and immediately thought of Hebrews 12 :1 and the reminder that we are “surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses.” Surely, even for those of us who are not Olympic swimmers, we understand the value of having people in our corner, understand that we have made it this far because of the love and support of so many.

I’ve shared this story before but it really is my favorite Olympic story and since we’re enjoying the games this week, and since Katie Ledecky brought this topic to mind, I decided to muse about this past Olympic event again!

Eric “The Swimmer” Moussambani of Equatorial Guinea was an unlikely hero of the Sydney Olympic Games. The 22-year-old African had only learned to swim the January before the scheduled events. He had only practiced in a 20 meter pool without lane markers, and had never raced more than 50 meters. By special invitation of the International Olympic Committee, under a special program that permits poorer countries to participate even though their athletes don’t meet customary standards, he had been entered in the 100 meter men’s freestyle.

When the other two swimmers in his heat were disqualified because of false starts, Moussambani was forced to swim alone. Eric Moussambani was, to use the words of an Associated Press story about his race, “charmingly inept.” He did not put his head under the water’s surface and flailed wildly to stay afloat. With ten meters left to the finish, he virtually came to a stop. Some spectators thought he might drown! Even though his time was clearly over a minute slower than what he would need to qualify for the next level of competition, the capacity crowd at the Olympic Aquatic Center stood to their feet and cheered Eric on. “You can do it!” They shouted. “You got this! Go! GO!” And applause filled the stadium.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, this young African athlete finally reached the wall and hung on for dear life. When he had caught his breath and regained his composure, the French-speaking Moussambani was interviewed about the event. He was asked how he kept going even though it was clear that it was very difficult for him to complete the race. He said through an interpreter, “I want to send hugs and kisses to the crowd. It was their cheering that kept me going.”

May you hear the cheering for you as you go through your trials. May you remember the love and support of your cloud of witnesses and may you always know the words of the poet Hafiz: “I wish that I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.”

The Interruptions of Grace

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

In the first year of my second pastorate I planned a six-week book study for Lent. I selected the topic and bought books for the participants, developed a lesson plan, and was excited about this opportunity to study with the parishioners. On the first Wednesday of Lent, those who had signed up for the class showed up for the beginning night of the study. Everyone was there, including a parishioner who lived nearby the church in a group home and who attended every service at the church.

His name was Larry and I bought him a book and knew he would join the study even though his reading skills were quite limited and the class was a little too advanced for him. On that opening night, I began the session with prayer and immediately launched into the lesson for chapter one when Larry mumbled something. Thinking he was only speaking to the woman sitting next to him, I didn’t address him, but continued to move through the night’s lesson. He spoke out again and it was evident he had something to share.

“What is it Larry?” I asked, hoping it would be something easy that could be attended to and not impede the progress of the study.

He paused a minute and just before I could start the lesson again, he said, “My mama passed this morning.”

Surprised by the announcement, I asked again, “What, Larry?” And he repeated what he had just said. “My mama passed this morning.”

Immediately, everyone in the class began asking more questions, “When, Larry?” “What happened, Larry?” “Had your mother been sick?”

And I suddenly became very aware that the lesson I had planned was not going to go at all like I had expected. Having had some hospice training and knowing Larry, I left the fellowship hall where everyone was gathered, went to a Sunday School classroom and found some paper and crayons. I knew Larry liked to draw and thought he might prefer the opportunity to color a picture of his mother rather than answer more questions. I walked back in the room and placed the paper and box of crayons in front of him.

“Would you like to draw a picture of your mom in heaven?” And Larry instantly picked up a crayon and piece of paper and started coloring and for a minute, I considered the notion that maybe I could continue with the class, let Larry talk if he wanted, return to the conversation about his loss if desired; but, I thought, maybe we could just complete part of the first chapter. And I went back to my seat and was just about to start up again when something happened.

Every other person gathered around that table picked up a piece of paper too. And someone passed around the box of crayons and each one of them took one out and started coloring pictures just like Larry.

“Your mama was a good singer, Larry,” one of the deacons said as he drew. “I’m sure she’s singing in the choir up in heaven.”

“Oh, your mama made the best biscuits, Larry,” another lay leader added, coloring a picture of a woman at a stove. “I bet she’s already cooking up there.”

“And sew! Your mama made the prettiest dresses,” one more chimed in, the crayon moving across the page. And I stopped and just watched. Closed the book, put aside the well-laid plans, shut the folder of all of my carefully created notes, and watched as the leaders of that little parish cared for Larry.

It is, I now know, one of the best images of church I have. These church members putting aside their plans and needs and choosing to color pictures to help a son grieve his mother’s death.

That was the night I learned that sometimes God shows up only when we set aside our agendas, our well-laid strategies, and expectations for what is supposed to happen in church and in our lives and allow the Spirit to do what actually needs to be done.

As you move through your week, making your plans for vacation or family gatherings, for whatever it is you deem important, may you allow room for the interruptions of grace that remind you of what the Spirit wants to do.

“I Could Be Wrong…”

by Rev. Deb Beloved Church

As an Edgar Abbey character famously said, “I thought I was wrong once, but I found out later I was mistaken.”

So it’s not just me who thinks so highly of themselves! Me? Wrong about something? Nah!

My opinions are so well-thought-out; my perspectives, so sincere! My thinking is so thoughtful; my analyses, so all-encompassing!

If you were open-minded enough, if you were more loving, surely you’d come to the same conclusions as I have…

Who’s with me??

Apparently not the 8th-century BCE Israelite prophet Micah, who famously declared: “God has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8)

In a course we’re using at White Rock Presbyterian Church (“The After Party: Toward Better Christian Politics”), David French, one of the course facilitators, characterizes humility, in part, as “this understanding that I could be wrong about any given issue.”

That way of thinking seems a far cry from how many, if not most, of us (myself included) think–particularly at this time in the life of our country.

Many, if not most, of us struggle to consistently engage with others with that kind of mindset–with an acknowledgement that we might be wrong, with a recognition that we do not fully understand all of the complexities of any given issue.Many, if not most, of us struggle to reliably show up in the world with this version of humility.

But it is so desperately needed. And for us who claim to be people of faith, not only does the world desperately need it, but according to Micah, our God unquestionably requires it.

So how do we move in that direction?

I think one way is for us to simply say those words out loud: “I could be wrong.”

And then say them again–into the mirror, to a loved one, while we’re driving, while we’re taking in the news, while we’re rehearsing our arguments in support of our clearly right views on any given topic.

“I could be wrong.”

…and then show up in the world, show up in conversations, show up in relationships, from that place, in that mental space, with that perspective guiding us. And see what happens…

And in the meantime, we can try to remember that we and “the other(s)” (whether they agree with us or dare to think differently…!) are God’s beloved. We and they are God’s beloved. Perhaps that, too, bears repeating—in the mirror, to a loved one, while we’re taking in the news, etc.

All of us, in all of our incomplete understandings and our complexity and our arrogance and our woeful lack of true humility, are fundamentally loved by God. Period. We all are God’s beloved. And that just might be enough to bind us together. Or at least give us reason to consider, “I could be wrong…”

Will you walk with me on this path toward humility? It’s so desperately needed.

The Sacred Journey from Shame to Pride

by Christopher Schouten, pre-MID

Introduction

Happy Pride Month! Pride evokes different emotions and memories for each of us. For some, it conjures up joyous celebrations in the streets, parks, and bars with friends and loved ones, feeling a sense of community and safety. My first big pride parade in Chicago during my early 20s was transformative. For the first time, I felt like part of the majority, not a marginalized minority. It was both safe and surreal.

Others might question the purpose of Pride, wondering if such marches are still necessary or if Pride itself is a sin in a Christian context. These are valid questions. Let’s explore them together, starting with a biblical perspective.

Sinful Pride vs. Righteous Pride

The Bible contains numerous statements about sinful pride, such as Proverbs 16:18, which warns, “Pride goes before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall.” C.S. Lewis described pride as the “anti-God” state, severing the spirit from God’s life-giving presence.

However, there is also mention of “righteous pride.” Paul the Apostle, for example, speaks of a healthy kind of pride in Galatians 6:4, “Each one should test their own actions. Then they can take pride in themselves alone, without comparing themselves to someone else.” He also expresses pride in the Corinthians in 2 Corinthians 7:4, “I have great confidence in you; I take great pride in you. I am greatly encouraged; in all our troubles my joy knows no bounds.”

Righteous pride encourages us to recognize and celebrate our God-given talents and achievements while remaining humble and grateful. It fosters healthy self-esteem and motivates us to use our gifts in service to others and to glorify God.

The Impact of Shame on LGBTQIA+ Individuals

For the LGBTQIA+ community, developing a sense of righteous pride can be particularly challenging. Growing up in a society that often condemns or marginalizes our identities can lead to a pervasive sense of shame and invalidation. This shame teaches us to hide our true selves and diminish our light, stifling our personal growth and depriving the world of our unique contributions.

The cost of this shame is significant. According to the Trevor Project, LGBTQIA+ youth are more than twice as likely to feel suicidal and over four times as likely to attempt suicide compared to their heterosexual peers.

Personal Experience

My journey from shame to pride has been long and arduous. I knew I was gay at 12, but the lack of positive representation and support made me hide my true self. In high school, I stayed in the closet, living in secrecy and shame, finding solace only in the acceptance of a few friends in my UCC church choir.

College brought newfound freedom and acceptance, but the damage was done. The shame I internalized in my youth continued to drive me, leading to overachievement as a coping mechanism. I sought validation through academic excellence, career success, and various accomplishments, hoping to prove my worth and avoid confronting my shame.

Overachievement and Addiction

Author Alan Downs, in “The Velvet Rage,” explains that shame often leads to overachievement and addiction in LGBTQIA+ individuals. I excelled in academics and career, learned multiple languages, and held leadership positions, all to avoid shame. Despite my successes, a deep sense of unworthiness lingered, manifesting in disproportionate anger and rage when triggered.

Addiction is another common coping mechanism. LGBTQIA+ individuals are more likely to struggle with substance abuse and process addictions like sex, gambling, or eating disorders. These addictions are often driven by the need to numb the pain of shame and seek solace.

The Role of God’s Grace

Healing from deep-seated shame and reclaiming our true selves involves embracing the transformative power of a higher power. Isaiah 43:1-4 reminds us that we are not defined by shame or judgment but are precious and honored in God’s sight. God’s unconditional love provides a foundation upon which we can rebuild our sense of self-worth.

Personal Growth Work

While God’s love is central to our journey from shame to pride, we also have personal responsibilities:

Self-Reflect: Spend time in prayer and meditation, asking God to reveal your true passions and callings.
Embrace Vulnerability: Share your authentic self with others to build supportive connections.
Find Your Passion: Identify and pursue activities that bring you joy and are true expressions of your God-given essence.
Be Your Authentic Self: Work to be your true self in all situations, rejecting the urge to hide your light.
Choose Love: Embrace God’s love and extend it to your inner child, fostering healing and self-acceptance.

Conclusion

If you are brave enough to begin this journey of healing from shame, you deserve to live in pride every day. The journey from shame to pride is a testament to the power of God’s healing love and a unique work of art that will be your legacy to the world. Be blessed and reassured that your Creator and this community of love will be with you on your journey.

Witnesses to Resurrections

by Becky Klein, a Desert Palm UCC member and Welcome Center volunteer

During the Easter Season, Pastor Tom from Desert Palm UCC asked members of the congregation to share their own personal stories of resurrection. Becky Klein submitted this reflection in response:

For those of us who volunteer at the Welcome Center, we are witnesses to ‘resurrections’ every time we visit the Center.

We see the exhausted faces of refugees who have made their way to the southern border where they were allowed into the US and detained in a border facility for several weeks while paperwork is processed. After having satisfied the requirements for asylum, asylees board a bus and are taken to one of several Phoenix locations where they are fed, given clean clothing and a place to sleep. Many depart within 24 hours, traveling by plane or bus to their final U.S. destination.

When the asylees arrive at the Welcome Center it must feel like they have entered another holding facility. Imagine their relief when they realize the Welcome Center is different. They are signed-in, checked by medical doctors, given legal assistance, and, just as the rock was rolled away from the tomb, a new door opens before them! Colorful hallways with signs written in different languages welcome them, offering choices as to what to do next. When was the last time they had such opportunities within reach? Do they see this moment as one of resurrection, remembering when they made the decision to leave everything they knew, to come to America?

Resurrection observations have included the following moments at the Center.

The baby will never know the tears his father shed when given three pairs of infant socks, socks that had been worn by another baby before him. The father’s decision to come to the US was affirmed, he knew someone cared about his tiny son, and he cried.
Women are looking for a broom, as they offer to sweep the floors in gratitude for their meals, showers and a cot to sleep on. Like the baby’s father, they have found a sanctuary where they can shed themselves of the anguish they suffered on their journey to this building with murals on the walls. At the Center they have renewed life and faith, knowing strangers are helping them.
The man has a confused expression on his face when he is served a meal that is not anything like what he remembers from his homeland. He takes the food, and soon returns to the kitchen serving window with his empty plate, hoping there might be more. He is given a clean plate, with another helping of his now ‘favorite’ American meal. His new reality started with a warm plate of food.
We see a stress-free family sitting on a small bench outside the doors of the Center, soaking in the warm sunrays while letting the slight breeze sweep away their anxiety. Even if only for a moment, here was calm, and it felt good.
The happiness on the face of a wide-eyed child as she giggles out loud – and then looks to her family to see if her robust antics are ok. The laughter only grows, as her mother joins in the spontaneous bliss in the Center’s cafeteria. There is laughter, and it felt good.

Before closing, we remember the successes for families immigrating to the East Valley hosted by the EV Network at University Presbyterian Church. Three families from Iran, a family from Afghanistan, and a man from Uganda have been given sanctuary as they are guided through the regimen to become US Citizens. Their hopes are being realized, granted sometimes at a very slow pace, with the support of the EV Network which includes Desert Palm.

Everyday there is a moment of resurrection for asylees, a moment filled with hope that cannot be tamped down.

As Pastor Tom says, “May It Be.”

Finding Our Way

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

She is a cartographer. She designs maps, develops software that creates maps; and she knows her way around every kind of topography there is. Whether it’s flat, empty terrains, wild jungle landscapes or urban city sites, streets lined with lookalike buildings, this woman can find her way. She has achieved advanced degrees, even wrote a dissertation on the subject; she manages cartography projects for a highly-specialized corporation. North from south, east to west, she can find any location and she can get others there. Only now something unexpected has happened to her, this maker of maps. For the first time in her life, she is lost.

Her husband has died and she is left with unexplored tracks, foreign to her. She has inherited the care of an aging family member, the parenting of their young adult child, and a new life marked by the dreaded designation, widow. She now must navigate mounds of paperwork, mountains of memories, rivers of dreams; and she must do it alone.

There is no question that she is smart, that she has excellent coping skills, and has acquired numerous resources to steer her through any crisis. She will even admit to knowing that this unchartered territory loomed before her as she figured out the future while sitting in doctors’ offices and waiting rooms. This expedition delivered no real surprising twists or turns. And yet, that’s the funny thing about grief, you can have a clear direction, you can draw or download readable maps as well as accumulate navigational tools in preparation for the journey of loss but still nothing really prepares you for the long road of bereavement and the unmarked path of being left alone.

I know that it is hard for everybody. No one, no matter how prepared or equipped a person might be, escapes the utter disorientation of death. No one finds a short cut or even a way around the loneliness, the sorrow, the despair.

Somehow, though it seems harder for her, this maker and keeper of maps. Somehow, the sadness looks more overwhelming, the despair yanking her further away from where X always marked the spot. Somehow, the loss has taken her to an even more remote, unknown location than the others I have met who were also dropped into this godforsaken place of grief.

“How do I get out of here?” she asks as we sit together in a grief support group, the desperation creeping in her voice. “How do I find my way out of this?” And the others sitting near her, the others also lost, those few who found their way to this gathering, know of nothing else to do but offer her their companionship.

“Here,” they seem to say, bearing no compass or reliable GPS manual, “Stand here with me or just sit and wait; there’s really nowhere else to go.” And I, the one they have come to seeking guidance, watch them, understanding that grief becomes the wilderness where we shall all, with or without a map, be left to wander.

Keeping the Faith for Passover

by Rev. James Briney

When I was five years of age my family moved to a different neighborhood. For a year we stayed in the house of my paternal grandfather, along with my Great Aunt Olive and Uncle Bruce, who lived in his basement.

For 25 years they had worked as missionaries in India, and with Mahatma Gandhi, to build a hospital and a school. In retirement they were living on a $22 a month pension.

My earliest memories include eating pieces of toast with applesauce for breakfast. A simple prayer accompanied the simplest of meals. My Uncle Bruce was a theologian and mathematician.

Listening to what he had to say, about matters of faith and belief, fed my interest in learning. I came to believe that Jesus is the son of man; because Jesus is the best the world has to offer in terms of love, forgiveness, and grace.

Jews were among the first to recognize Jesus as having messianic characteristics. In the teachings of Jesus, Nicodemus recognized Jesus as worthy of the titles: ‘Son of God,’ ‘King of Kings,’ and ‘Prince of Peace.’

When my father, mother, two younger sisters, and I moved to a house of our own, I discovered the Kampner family. We shared a common driveway. I soon realized I belonged in the Kampner household. On Sunday mornings, for over ten years, I waited for the phone to ring, knowing the call meant I would be going with Mr. Kampner to Irving’s Delicatessen in Pontiac, Michigan to buy New York onion rolls, lox, bagels, and cream cheese.

The phone always rang. The Kampner boys, Stan and Paul, were home from the University of Michigan on weekends. I managed to eat as much as they did.

On other occasions I read at Passover seders. The table was set with a place for Elijah. During my first seder, the doorbell rang, just as I asked: “How is this night different from all other nights?” Mr. Kampner told me to go let Elijah come in. It was the paperboy.

Mr. Kampner was president of his Rotary Club. He took me to their annual father and son banquet. He was president of his synagogue too.

On a Friday evening, I walked to services with Mr. Kampner. As I stood with nine Jewish men, Mr. Kampner turned to me and declared: “Jimmy, tonight you are a man, you make our minyan.”

For six decades the Kampner family was part of my life.

Before Mr. Kampner died, I traveled to see Moe and Rose Kampner in California. I sought out Stan, and reconnected with Paul shortly before he died in Chicago. Stan came to visit me.

For two millennia the messiah has come again, and again, season after season; because traditional services remind believers of the life of Jesus, his death, and resurrection. Such historic rites and rituals can lead to understanding, and community.

I last saw Mrs. Kampner in California on the occasion of her 100th birthday. Upon seeing me, she exclaimed: “Jimmy!” “Who’s Jesus?” I said: “Rose, Jesus was a Jew. Christians believe Christ will come again. Since Jews believe the messiah is yet to come, next time around everybody’s happy.”

When I prepared and served the sacrament of holy communion, I wore a Tallit. The prayer shawl of a rabbi invited me to think about the history and traditions that Jews and Christians have in common.

Sometimes I think about what I learned in religious studies, and what I have experienced in relationships with friends and colleagues of various faiths, traditions, and cultures.

When I do think about such things, I recall the kindness and acceptance I experienced in the home of the Kampner family.

Before I moved to Oro Valley, I officiated for the funeral of Ivan Bootzin, in Medford, Wisconsin. The secretary of a rabbi in Wausau helped to prepare me. I wore Ivan’s kippah.

It was the largest funeral in the history of the city. In addition to standing room only, inside the fourth-generation funeral home, dozens more stood outside, in the dead of winter, listening to the service on a loudspeaker.

Jews were pleased, relieved, and satisfied. Christians found the service to be familiar. I had selected prayers we have in common, from the Gates of Prayer for Shabbat and Weekdays.

So, who is Jesus? Jesus is the one who embodies the spirit of God in Christ. Jesus is the one who invites us to love one another in his name. When I am asked if I believe Jesus is the messiah, I say: “Who else you got?”

How We See Each Other

by Rev. Lynne Hinton

There is a German folktale that goes like this: There was once a man whose ax was missing, and he suspected that his neighbor’s son had stolen it. The boy walked like a thief, looked like a thief, and spoke like a thief. But one day the man found his ax while digging in his valley, and the next time he saw his neighbor’s son, the boy walked, looked and spoke like any other child. (Feldman, Christina and Jack Kornfield, eds. Stories of the Spirit, Stories of the Heart, 1991).

Have you ever thought about how you look at someone else? Do you meet them and size them up as this thing or that thing? Do you hold the image of someone in your mind based upon their worst action or maybe just the worst action of someone they remind you of? Or are you able to look at others with grace?

And how about yourself? Is it possible to imagine how God must look at you and find yourself using that lovely pair of mercy glasses?

I confess I tend to make judgments on others based upon what I think I see, what I choose to remember, what I imagine to be true. Sometimes I forget that more than one thing can be true about others, about myself and that maybe I have chosen the wrong thing to hold in my heart while in conversation, while at work, while in a relationship.

I like this folktale because it reminds me that too many times I make a judgment about another person and I hold that judgement to be true. Maybe they did steal my ax or maybe I just think they did; regardless, I greet them, speak to them, think of them based upon the narrative I created or cling to.

Sometimes I have been surprised. Sometimes I am face to face with my prejudice, my too-quick sizing up of another, my misguided perception, when someone altogether different from my expectations shows up.

This week, I invite you to try and look at yourself and at others with a new pair of glasses. I invite you to see yourself, other people, other beings, as God must see us all, with love, acceptance, and delight.

You might just be surprised at how wrong you have been. And you might finally recover or find the very thing that has been missing.

You started out as dirt

by Rev. Deb Beloved Church

“You are dust, and to dust you shall return.” (Genesis 3:19b)

Some version of that verse is typically said as the sign of the cross is being made with ashes on someone’s forehead on Ash Wednesday.

For example, as I was “ashing” folks who came to White Rock Presbyterian Church last Wednesday, I said this: “Remember–you came from dust, and to dust you will return…”

[Each year I think maybe I’ll use the late Rev. Eugene Peterson’s interpretation as found in The Message: “You started out as dirt, you’ll end up dirt.” That strikes me as even more powerful! It is, in fact, what I said when I blessed the horses of a friend the next day, using actual dirt from the ground on which we were standing… Maybe next year I’ll use it with the two-legged creatures, and see how it lands for us all…]

“Tempranillo, remember that you came from dirt,

and to dirt you will return…”

And since this year Ash Wednesday happened to also be Valentine’s Day, here’s another way to think about it:

At first glance, it seemed strange to have those two holidays (or more better, perhaps, holy days) fall on the same date, but looking back, I can’t help but reflect that perhaps it was truly a gift…

Might the occurrence of our cultural celebration of loving and being loved on the same day that we who are people of faith intentionally acknowledge our mortality, somehow enhance both of those central aspects of our humanity–the relational albeit finite nature of our existence?

None of our human loves—whether of a child, parent, partner, sibling, cousin, friend, etc., or a non-human companion—will last forever. We will all someday die, and those loves in their present form will come to an end. All living things are mortal and finite.

And while that truth can be heartbreakingly painful to acknowledge, might it also make our loving more sweet? Might it make our time together more cherished? Might it make our conflicts more critical to resolve? Might it generate more urgency for us to show up more fully and more authentically? Might it make us more grateful for the opportunities we have to love and be loved?

Hmmm…

We are approaching the second Sunday of Lent already; Ash Wednesday feels like a distant memory. Perhaps as we move further into this holy season, we can not only consider our mortality, not only allow greater recognition of our sin, not only attempt to see with greater clarity the ways we hide our true selves, not only make more deliberate efforts to turn back to God… But we can also hold on to and celebrate that in the midst of our flawed, finite, and finicky humanity, we love and are loved by the humans and non-humans in our lives, and by God.

Yes, we are dust and to dust we will return. Yes, we started out as dirt and we’ll end up dirt. Yes, we were born and we will die. We. will. die.

And…in the midst of that—and before that, and after that, and beyond that—we are loved. We are loved absolutely, and unconditionally, and unceasingly, by the God who created us out of dust, and who created the dust.

Thanks be to God!

“Seen by [the James] Webb [Space Telescope] in unprecedented detail, Sagittarius C is a star-forming region about 300 light-years away from the supermassive black hole at the Milky Way’s center. (https://www.flickr.com/photos/nasawebbtelescope/53344798019/in/gallery-zexonaz-72157720865766128/)

Living A Different Story: A Message From Jerusalem

Kay Klinkenborg at Church of the Palms UCC sent us this article and knows Elie Pritz, the author of this piece, who lives and works in Jerusalem. She was raised there and is a Christian who, 10 years ago, founded a NGO to work on peace curriculum in teaching children K-12 non-violent options and peace building. Elie has lived her entire life in Jerusalem, has an American father and Swiss mother. Her pain about the issues in Palestine/Israel is palpable. She wrote this for her December newsletter.

It was about a month after the war started that I walked into Hand in Hand—a Hebrew-Arabic school in Jerusalem. We had originally planned to meet on October 9th, which clearly didn’t happen after the war broke out on October 7th. I was surprised when, a month later, they contacted me and asked if we could try again. Wasn’t their plate already ridiculously full, trying to keep a school like theirs running during a war? But we set a date and time, and two days later I was sitting inside the principal’s office, preparing to talk to her and one of the English teachers about our Peace Heroes program.

Bilingual schools (Hebrew and Arabic) are very rare in Israel. The vast majority of schools are sector based: secular Israeli Jewish schools, religious Jewish schools, Palestinian Israeli (Muslim and Christian) schools. Schools don’t integrate. The nine bilingual schools dispersed throughout the country are an anomaly—a place where Jewish and Palestinian Israelis can learn together in one another’s languages.

Peace Heroes' founder and program director, Elie Pritz. — Peace Heroes’ founder and program director, Elie Pritz.

I could only imagine how recent events would have greatly strained this mixed school community. So I asked the Jewish Israeli principal how this war has affected them.

“Look,” she said, “we’re in a war. And our students represent both sides of this war. It’s hard. But unlike some other organizations, we don’t have the privilege of going into ourselves right now, to reflect on the situation and decide how to move forward. Our students are coming to school every day. We have to figure this out every day.”

The English teacher, a Palestinian Israeli, said: “After October 7th I didn’t want to come in to work. But I chose to come anyway. Every day I wake up and I make that choice all over again—the choice to be here…It’s not easy, but it’s my choice. It’s the choice every single one of us in this school is making.”

We spent the next hour talking about Peace Heroes, brainstorming ways they could make it part of their school program. It was the first time in a month I felt inspired and even hopeful. Here is a school that is doing the hard (hard!) work of figuring out how to live life together. Here is a school that understands, at an existential level, how crucial it is to raise the next generation of leaders in this land to be pursuers of peace and mutual thriving. They loved the idea of using stories of Peace Heroes from all over the world—as well as from the region—to not only model to their students how to navigate really hard things while still upholding the dignity of all people, but also to open up difficult conversations around identity, justice, and security within the safe space of storytelling.

At the end of the meeting the principal told me that our hour together felt like oxygen to the soul. I understood what she meant. For the first time in weeks, I felt like I could breathe again, even if only for a moment. To be in the room together with people who, like me, were making a supreme effort to swim against the tide that in this moment is dividing not only the people of this land but also of the world, brought me to tears. Tears of relief in feeling that there are others who are doing what is possibly one of the hardest and most isolating things to do in a war: fighting to stay united, to be in relationship, to be mutually empathetic to and supportive of one another’s identity as well as experience of the nightmare we are all living through.

October 7th and its aftermath is changing our landscape in a way that will take us years to fully understand. In the days following the beginning of the war, people everywhere asked me to tell them how I was doing, to explain to them what was happening. It felt impossible. I was stunned into silence, completely unable to articulate the chaos, trauma, fear, and grief we were all suddenly plunged into. And yet, even while I sat in this stunned silence, I was completely taken aback by the onslaught of divisive and damaging words being spewed out by people around the world, aimed at one or other of the communities in this land. This tsunami of hate-filled words quickly spiraled me down into a despairing depression. I felt as voiceless as I’ve ever felt, and so alone in my desire to push forward another narrative, to tell a different story.

But slowly, I began to hear other voices speaking the words I could not speak—local peacemakers, both Israeli and Palestinian, whose stories I had written, whose organizations I had been following since the days I had started my journey with Peace Heroes more than a decade ago.* These people were articulating what I could not: the unbelievable pain of the moment we suddenly found ourselves in, AND the absolute necessity of upholding the dignity of all the people in this place. Their voices anchored me the way nothing else could. They gave me solid ground to stand on and brought me back to myself and to what I knew to be true: that violence is our common enemy, and that taking a stand against violence and its dehumanizing effects is the only way we will ever come out of this moment with our humanity still intact.

Words matter. They matter so much. Words can break our world or they can remake it. It took me a few weeks to connect the dots (blame the war—it messes with one’s ability to think logically), but it finally dawned on me that I do have life giving words. I’ve been writing them for a decade, telling the stories of people from all over the world—as well as from Israel and Palestine—who have faced devastating situations and have chosen to be a light in the darkness, a force for healing rather than division, hate, and fear. Voices that will never stop trying to remake our world.

Hand in Hand school is one of these voices. They understand the toxicity of the space we are living in, and the urgency of raising our voice to tell (and live) a different story. Peacemakers are often the first to be sidelined in a war, but I believe it is precisely these people who are doing the hardest work of all: the work of daily choosing to live out a different reality. A reality that says to people across the divide: “You matter, and I will live my life in a way that manifests this conviction and upholds your dignity as well as mine, no matter what.” This is the only reality that promises any kind of viable and shared future in this land.

As this year comes to a close it is my deepest hope that we will all follow in the footsteps of these peacemakers. May we live a different story–one that daily chooses to remake our broken world.