On the Outside of the World

A Woman's Skin

2009-03-26T07:08:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from Meg Wolitzer's article, "My Identity, Lost and Found." Published in Real Simple, April 2008.

"I know now that all identities shed and gain cells continually--that it's a constant process of sloughing and collecting, not unlike the life cycle of skin. If I were the mother of a young child today, knowing what I know now, I would be confident that all identities--awe-filled teenage girl; independent woman in her 20s; anxious, love-besotted new mother--are astonishingly, mournfully brief."

One year later

2009-03-21T18:58:00.000-07:00

It has been one year since I blogged last. I would like to say that I had been waiting for this day particularly, but that is not true. I have been avoiding it for one year, but tonight, inextricably, I find myself back.

One year later, and one daughter later, and I find myself here again.

I have thought many times of writing in this blog, but I have turned away every time, excuse in hand. I don't have time. I don't have energy. I'm tired. Make that really, really tired. My brain doesn't seem to work as well. I'm not as philosophical anymore. I spend my time feeding my daughter one tiny piece of zucchini at a time for hours on end, or stacking up blocks so that she can knock them down. How can I possibly have time to write?

I can't make any promises. I have limited ambition, limited energy, limited time. To write that is, not to think. I have all of the time in the world to think, as I wash the dishes, fold the laundry, tuck one more piece of zucchini into that open mouth. Is it possible that I, Anne Bradstreet like, can sneak in a few lines despite all of the mouths to feed?

My heart is not proud, O LORD,
my eyes are not haughty;
I do not concern myself with great matters
or things too wonderful for me.
But I have stilled and quieted my soul;
like a weaned child with its mother,
like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O Israel, put your hope in the LORD
both now and forevermore.

Psalm 131

Luke 22 - 23

2008-03-21T06:38:00.000-07:00

I almost cannot bear to read it too closely, to linger over the words, for they will break my heart. I resist the urge to "flip to the back of the book" to see if it all turns out all right. I know how it ends, but that isn't the part that matters today. Any lover of story knows that the ending does not erase the pain of the journey.

It's hard, still to watch this story unfold. Jesus' pain is made the more stark by the contrast of his disciples: over and over, they got it wrong, so wrong.

The night begins with the ultimate betrayal: Judas, one of his own, hand-selected men, who had spent the last three years side by side with him, decides to sell Jesus out. Jesus indeed felt that bitter betrayal when someone who is close deals you a fatal blow. Then, after symbolically giving over his body and blood to these men, the disciples respond by squabbling over their power positions, each wanting the most prestigious position. Jesus has to set them right. Peter, in a more subtle power play, boasts that he will be loyal to Jesus to the end, but Jesus warns him that this too will not happen. When Jesus then tries to prepare his men for the tests and trials they are about to face, they take his suggestion literally and brandish their weapons. You can hear the weariness in Jesus's voice when he says, "That is enough."

This is Jesus's hour of reckoning, the most intense hours of his life, when he surrenders himself to God's will on the Mount of Olives. Battling in prayer, he asks his disciples to pray too - and they fall asleep in exhaustion and sorrow. I see it now: they are bewildered by it all. They knew that coming to Jerusalem for Passover was a bold and dangerous move. They put this together with Jesus's strange remarks at dinner, and the tension in the temple courts earlier that week. They are poised to do battle - but with what? Jesus keeps sending them mixed messages about using their swords. Anxious, frightened and tired, they fall asleep. Jesus comes to them, only to find that he has been alone.

Then, Judas betrays him with the kiss of a brother.

His men leap forward, swords in hand, and strike one servant.

Jesus heals the servant.

Then Jesus tells his disciples: "No more of this." This is the last instruction that Jesus gives them before being led to the cross. And then they scatter.

While Jesus is questioned by the high pries, Peter denies him three times, and Jesus turns to look at him. I can't imagine bearing Jesus's eyes then. The other disciples are not lurking in the shadows, denying that they knew Jesus. They have simply vanished. They are are not there while Jesus is transferred to Pilate, to Herod, then back to Pilate. They are not there when he is mocked, beaten and scorned. When the crowds call out, "Crucify him! Crucify him!" where are they? Are they mingled in with the crowd, faces shadowed? Do they mouth the words, so that no one identifies them as his followers? And when Jesus stumbles under the weight of the cross, his disciples are no where to be seen. Instead, they pull a stranger off of the street to help him carry his cross up to Golgotha.

And so, the Son of God, the King of the Jews, the Messiah is brutally executed. "But all those who knew him, including the women who had followed him from Galillee, stood at a distance, watching these things" (Luke 24:49).

Stood at a distance. Watching these things.

I do not condemn his followers. I am one of them, a follower of Christ. I, like them, am wretchedly unworthy to be counted as one of his own. I've heard many pastors preach on the fickleness of the crowds of Jerusalem - those who welcomed him as king on Sunday called for his death on Friday. But I am more like one of his disciples. I love him and serve him, but then, somehow, I always get it wrong.

Luke 19 - 21

2008-03-20T07:14:00.000-07:00

I've just read Luke 19-21 and I am struck afresh by Jesus Christ - the juxtaposition of his Majesty, power and divinity with his compassion and humanity.

His battle of wits with the Pharisees portrays all of his strength: he replies to challenges with questions, parables and quotations from Scripture and he simply can't be refuted. They are silenced, angry, but silenced. He is able to cut to the heart of the Sadducee's questions and answer the questions that they didn't actually ask, able to see through all of the spies' attempts to butter him up. He is divine argument.

At the same time, he is fully human. We see a range of emotions - weeping for Jerusalem, angrily casting out the corrupters of the temple court. He notes the widow and her meager offering - does not attempt to change her situation, but shows her purity in the sight of God. He calls society's outcast, Zacchaeus, short and hated, and names his true identity as a child of Abraham. And even in the midst of his apocalyptic teachings on the end times, he notes how dreadful it will be for the vulnerable, the pregnant women and nursing mothers.

Jesus is King - he is what we long for in a a king and have never truly found elsewhere. Royal, powerful, majestic, able to predict future troubles, able to vanquish our foes. But he is also a king of the people, able to see each of us and know each of us - the most beautiful and terrifying prospect of all.

Branding

2008-03-16T20:50:00.000-07:00

For the past six months, people have been pestering me about names. As soon as they knew that we were having a girl, they wanted to know who she would be, I think. Somehow, this name would tell them.

I am not a "name" person. Just as I had no ideas about dream weddings when I got engaged, so I have no picked names, no reserved names that I have been secretly stroking since childhood. Rats.

So, here I am five weeks away (insha'allah) from delivering this sweet little girl and I still have no idea who she will be! Every once in a while, my husband and I sigh at each other and tell each other, guiltily, that we really have to pick out a name, and then we narrow down our long list of unsatisfactory names to a shorter list of unsatisfactory names, and then we give up and go to bed.

It's an impossible task. How do we pick a name that would work in both an American and an Arab context? How do I pick a name that is both Arab and Christian, or that is biblical without sounding like she belongs on a kibbutz? What about family traditions? What about our penchant for elegant Victorian names? One favorite snappy name might be to masculine, the other fave might sound too antique . . . And we all name that antique is great for furniture, but what about for a squirmy baby girl? And if it fits her, will it fit a mature woman? We finally find a handful of good names, and then realize much to our dismay, everyone else found them too and they are shooting up on the baby name charts. So, it's back to the drawing board.

I wish I could have a few practice babies to try all of this out on. Name her, let her grow up, see how it works out, then revise. I am haunted by the haughty lectures my sister and I gave my parents in which we showed them how dreadfully wrong they got it when they named us.

In college, I fantasized about the significance of naming. I mused on the sacramental act of naming, that God named us, that the act of naming is a holy act, an act of sub-creation. As I wrote, naming characters and placing, I was enthralled by this powerful gift of word. Now, I am tongue-tied, tied by my desire to not just name, but to name aright. I think of all of the people who will tell me that they hate the name that I have chosen, without saying a single word, but with a flicker of distaste across their eyes and then damning her name with mild praise. Like an eighth grade girl with a new outfit, I have pinned everything upon my grand entrance.

I run through all of the names and I ask myself, "Am I the type of person to have a little girl named -------------?" Am I trendy? Traditional? Classic? Cultural? Spiritual? Who am I? Will this name reflect me? Will I be embarressed by it later? Will it be like that dress that looks amazing on the rack, but after you bring it home and put it on, you realize that it was really meant for the tall blonde you wished you were? Will I be jealous of the friend who found the perfect name that I wasn't bright enough or creative enough to find?

Ah. Soft and gentle, late at night, I finally hear my own voice: "Who am I? Can I have a baby named . . . . " and realize why I am so tongue-tied. The question is about me: what name do I like? What name represents me? Ah, my baby is not a brand name, not an accessory. And then I realize something else: I am anointing her with my own mixed chalice of identity. My name failed to summarize me; I am trying to do that for her.

I stare at this smudged sonogram picture, and ask her, over and over, who are you? Are you delicate like the cyclamen? Misheveous like the majnooni? Will you blaze fire like the poppy? I trace the button nose that looks like my husband's, the little pointy chin that looks like my sister's. In the picture, you are curled up and asleep, but I know you to be fiesty and restless in my belly.

The word I assign you will fail to summarize you. My name does not summarize me, nor can I think of of one that would work better. All I can do is humbly wrap you up in my arms and whisper a name in your ear. And then you will grow and squirm and stretch until the name stretches enough to hold you and even then, I think, you will still be bigger than it.

I Talk Too Much

2007-10-30T17:10:00.000-07:00

I talk too much about the slightest nuance between women and trees,
about the earth's enchantment, about a country with no passport stamp.
I ask: Is it true, good ladies and gentlemen, that the earth of Man is for all human beings
as you say? In that case, where is my little cottage and where am I?
The conference audiences applaud me for another three minutes,
three minutes of freedom and recognition.
The conference approves our right of return,
like all chickens and horses, to a dream made of stone.
I shake hands with them, one by one. I bow to them. Then I continue my journey to another country and talk about the difference between a mirage and the rain.
I ask: Is it true, good ladies and gentlement, that the earth of Man is for all human beings?

Mahmoud Darwish, Palestinian poet

From, Unfortunately, It Was Paradise

This is probably my favorite poem by Darwish. I particularly love the line, "The conference approves our right of return." This has rarely happened to me, but I have been in settings where everyone agrees with me, that yes, the Palestinians have received a bum deal and that yes, we deserve to live in our land in peace. Those words are so powerful and so healing, the very words that I have been longing to hear, like a child who has waited his whole life to hear his father say, "I love you."

I take that back. It is not his father speaking. It is more like his brother speaking, assuring him that his father loves him. The words are comforting, affirming, assuring; they speak the truth and there is release in that. But the reality is that the words stay in that conference room and what is so clear and true in the four walls of that room will never be given credit on the outside of those walls. On the outside, things go on much as they ever did, leaving us wonder--why is everything so clear in the conference and then so muddied outside of these walls?

Persuading

2007-10-17T17:52:00.000-07:00

Our high school is all abuzz because we are going to have a renown guest speaker who will be addressing our student body, along with parents, alumni and other guests. We want to model academic debate to our students, so we have picked a topic and a panel and hope to have a lively and stimulating debate.

The topic: Israel. Palestine. Questions related to democracy. And should we, Christians, support Israel?

The panel: The guest speaker, another teacher and me.

Most people would think, what's the problem? You have something to say, a perspective to offer. Certainly reasonable, articulate and mature adults can have a discussion about these political topics. But the reality is that I will not have a level playing field.

First, I am the only woman on the panel. This means that I will have to meet the (much older) men on the panel on their ground, not on my own. I will not be able to use the persuasive techniques that I am best at because they are "feminine" in nature and therefore discredited. I am good at ethos, proofs based upon my experience and personal credibility and pathos, proofs based upon emotional appeals. No matter how legitimate these appeals, I will have to avoid them. Instead, I will have to use logos, logical appeals based upon cold facts and evidence.

Second, I will certainly be the only Palestinian, and the only Arab, and possibly the only person who has travelled in the Arab world (with the exception of my other panelists) in the room.

Third, even though I am a Palestinian, no one there will see me as one. Instead, they will see me as Mrs. M, their teacher for the past five years. Their coworker who graduated from a college in Chicago. If I were a guest speaker, there would be at least a little deference for being the "other" in their midst. There would be a little trepidation that would prevent them from asking the really offensive question. Instead, I am too safe. Would you ask the same questions to a minority person as you would in a room without a single minority? But when I am offended, I am seen as just overly touchy.

Fourth, for everyone else in the room, this will be an intellectual exercise. This is neutral territory. For me, this is my life. This is my identity. This is my family tree, my home, my history, my people. So, while everyone else will be cooly arranging the pieces on the chess board, I will probably be bleeding inside and still need to remain cool and factual on the outside.

Fifth, in order to be persuasive, I have to leave behind my Arabness. Arabs are not persuasive to Americans. Americans are persuasive to Americans.

My first thought when I was asked to be on this panel was: not me! Allow me to suggest someone else. But then, as I ran down the list of all of the people who would be better at advocating for my people than I would be, I realized that every single one of the people that I thought of were white American men. Passionate, intelligent, articulate white American men. They would all be SO much better at this than me.

Why in the world am I doing this? I am still not sure. I said yes, I know, but my heart really sank when I was asked. Then again, how can I turn this down? Isn't my calling to educated American Christians about this topic? Isn't this precisely the call that God has given me?

So, I say yes. But I know that this is going to take so much out of me. I know that I am going to stand up there and say what I need to say, but that the personal emotional cost is going to be very high to me. While everyone else in the room will walk out intrigued or bewildered, persuaded or annoyed, satisfied or thoughtful, I will be the only one who has to limp.

"Showing"

2007-10-16T15:12:00.000-07:00

So, I'm pregnant! Horray! 14 weeks today! I have finally gotten over the first trimester slump and feel less zombie-like. For two months, I did not enter the kitchen. I smelled things that I have never smelled before. I reverted to toddler-hood: I ate like a toddler, I napped like a toddler, I whined like a toddler.

I shall resist turning this into a pregnancy blog. At least, I will try. However, there are certain issues that have come up that I am thinking about now that I cannot seem to get away from writing about. So, here we go.

Due to the fact that I started to nap and eat like a fiend, I started to (ahem), "show," pretty early on. I'm not sure what I think about that word, "show." But I will tell you this--nothing could have prepared me for the utterly public spectable, or show case that I have become since I became pregnant.

The last time my body was so publicly scrutinized, I was a twelve year old girl struggling to conceal her training bra. Older women would eye me knowingly and tell me that I was "filling out nicely" or that I was "becoming a beautiful young woman." Then they would pointedly look at my body until I squirmed away. Somehow, though, they conveyed to me that I was the one who was not being polite for graciously undergoing this conversation.

Now, everyone eyes me. I came back to my workplace pregnant after the summer off, and gave a presentation. By the time I sat down, several people had apparently used the time to examine me and draw their own conclusions. Imagine my horror, after I tried to demurely break the news, when I learned that a room full of people were secretly scrutinizing my body!

So, I have decided to take every comment that people make about my body in the best possible light. For example,

"My, but you're starting to show already!"
I read: You look beautiful!

"When are you due? April 15? Wow!"
I read: I'm so sorry that your baby is due on tax day.

Sigh. Gone are my visions of slowly emerging as a pregnant women. All eyes are fixed on my growing body, like the fascinated watching of a Chia pet.

I Belong There

2007-10-15T17:02:00.000-07:00

I belong there. I have many memories. I was born as everyone is born.

I have a mother, a house with many windows, brothers, friends, and a prison cell with a chilly window! I have a wave snatched by seagulls, a panorama of my own.

I have a saturated meadow. In the deep horizon of my word, I have a moon, a bird's sustenance, and an immortal olive tree.

I have lived on the land long before swords turned man into prey.

I belong there. When heaven mourns for her mother, I return heaven to her mother.

And I cry so that a returning cloud might carry my tears.

To break the rules, I have learned all the words needed for a trial by blood.

I have learned and dismantled all the words in order to draw from them a single word: Home.

Mahmoud Darwish, Palestinian poet
From Unfortunately, It Was Paradise

Six years ago . . .

2007-09-11T18:17:00.000-07:00

Six years ago, I was a brand new bride, just back from our honeymoon and facing a new world of unemployment in a small town in PA, with no one like me (i.e., NOT from Johnstown) in sight.

The ringing phone woke me up, but the sound of my mother-in-law’s frantic voice was like a knife in my brain when she said, “Jessica, we’re under attack. America is under attack. Turn on the TV.”

I thought she was being sensational. But I turned on the TV in time to see the first tower in flames and then watch the second plane hit. In that moment, it was as if my two worlds were colliding together—my home world of the burning tires and exploding buses and army jeeps and sirens and my new world of sitcoms and department store sales and autumn leaves—were suddenly crunching against each other, metal against concrete. This was not supposed to happen. I couldn’t believe it. Why then, did another part of my mind recognize the image, as if I had seen it a hundred times before?

We are in the middle of Nowhere, PA, not in Jerusalem anymore, not even in Washington DC anymore. I tried to reassure my mother-in-law that we would not be the next targets. Why then, was I getting a call from my husband that his governmental agency, fifteen minutes away, was under an emergency evacuation and that the local airport (which has only one possible destination, Pittsburgh, for little baby commutes) had spotted a rogue plane and had called in the National Guard? What could a terrorist possibly want in Johnstown, PA? Don’t be ridiculous.

We formed a plan. Meet at the top of the hill at my parents-in-law’s house. Say up there until crisis is over. Stay off the phones. Watch TV.

So, we watched while the Pentagon burned. And then we watched while the news reported another plane down, a few miles away in a field by a mine. By the news reports, it had flown right over our heads.

We spent the day in one room, glued to the TV, staring in stunned disbelief, weeping. And then the questions started. Why do they hate us, my brother in law asked me, what have we done to deserve such a thing? Who are these monsters? How can someone from the other side of the world hate us enough to do this to us?

I remember being alone. I remember many talks with many people and that I was always alone. I remember the friends and family members who vowed to protect me from vigilante justice, who told me that I needed to stay low, stay at home, avoid the grocery store and maybe even church. They tucked me under their wings and told me that they would keep me safe and that they loved me. I sat on their couches, listening to them ask the questions that I was not asking . . . and while they reeled from this “loss of virginity,” from experiencing the unthinkable, I remembered: the gas masks, the missiles, the tanks on our streets, the burning flags, the twisted bus skeletons, the machine guns, the bullet holes, the curfews, the strikes, the marches, the tear gas, the shattered car windows, the broken arms, the checkpoints, the stabbing in front of my elementary school, the spray-painted graffiti on our front door, the feeling that you are not protected and that if They were to get you and kill you, would anyone really make a fuss?

Prayer of Paradox

2007-09-05T15:02:00.000-07:00

For those of you who already know me, you know that I am a little obsessive about the role of paradox and faith. Imagine my delight, then, when I found this little prayer in a Puritan prayer book while preparing for my new American literature class! I think I'm going to bring it in tomorrow to class.

The Valley of Vision

LORD, high and holy, meek and lowly,
Thou has brought me to the valley of vision,
where I live in the depths but see thee in the heights;
hemmed in by mountains of sin I behold thy glory.

Let me learn by paradox
that the way down is the way up,
that to be low is to be high,
that the broken heart is the healed heart,
that the contrite spirit is the rejoicing spirit,
that the repenting soul is the victorious soul,
that to have nothing is to possess it all,
that to bear the cross is to wear the crown,
that to give is to recieve,
that the valley is the place of vision.
Lord, if the daytime stars can be seen from deepest wells,
and the deeper the wells the brighter thy stars shine;
Let me find thy light in my darkness,
thy life in my death,
thy joy in my sorrow,
thy grace in my sin,
thy riches in my poverty,
thy glory in my valley.

Classroom Prayer

2007-09-04T14:46:00.000-07:00

Eternal and ever loving Father,

I offer you everything I do this day:

my work, my prayers, my play, all my thoughts,

my time with family and friends,

my hours of study and of relaxation,

my difficulties, problems, distresses,

which I shall try to bear with patience.

Join these, my gifts, to the unique offering

which Jesus Christ, your Son, renews daily through his Body and Blood.

Grant, I pray, that guided by the Holy Spirit

and united to the Sacred Heart of Jesus,

my life this day may be of service to you,

and to all you send into my life,

so that we can continue to respond with love

to the mystery of your call,

to be your special people. Amen.

Leader: Heart of Jesus burning with love for us

Response: Enflame our hearts with love for you.

Wait, what happened to my wallet?

2007-08-17T06:38:00.000-07:00

Apparently, we did not think that our sugar baby was getting enough money, so yesterday we decided to up Israel's allowance to a a cool thirty billion dollars over the next ten years. That's a twenty-five percent increase over our last figures. Last I checked, we give Israel more money than every other country combined, so I wonder where this latest number puts us.

But don't worry, we're going to balance it out by giving about twenty billion dollar in arms to some Arab allies (Egypt and Saudi are on our Top Friends list).

By the way, remember how this administration was determined to ONLY deal with democracies and was not going to use weapons sales to court foreign powers? Wasn't that their policy for years now? I wonder what happened to change their mind . . .

George MacDonald

2007-08-14T06:12:00.000-07:00

A reading from George MacDonald's Diary of an Old Soul:

I am a fool when I would stop and think,
And lest I lose my thoughts, from duty shrink.
It is but avarice in another shape.
‘Tis as the vine-branch were to hoard the grape,
Nor trust the living root beneath the sod.
What trouble is that child to thee, my God,
Who sips thy gracious cup, and will not drink!

George MacDonald (184-1905) was a Scottish novelist, poet and theologian. I adore his fairy tales, particularly: The Wise Woman, The Golden Key, The Princess and the Goblin, The Princess and Curdie, and most especially, Phantastes, a grown-up fantasy that C.S. Lewis declared “baptized his imagination” before he became a Christian. Most writers are excellent in their depiction of vice—of our human follies, deceits and illogicality. MacDonald is the only writer I have read who captures goodness and beauty and innocence without making it seem naïve and childish.

I picked up a copy of Diary of an Old Soul, which has a little devotional poem for each day of the year. I don’t always understand them and I don’t read them regularly, but every once in a while, I run across a little gem like this.

Arms Outspread

2007-08-13T07:53:00.001-07:00

All right, so autumn is starting to creep up my back (don’t you just hate August) and this is making me a little pensive. Back to the passage from Hebrews for a little while.

All of these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.

I just read through a biography of Anne Bradstreet, the first American poet (a surprisingly favorite read—quick, fascinating, story-like) and was able to step into the shoes of a Puritan woman in a way that I have never been able to do before. She and her family had a dream, a dream of holiness, a dream that a society could be designed in such a way that every person within its community would bow to the authority of God. They were deeply passionate about this dream, and they believed that this was a God ordained dream. To disregard would be to disobey. For the first time, I realize the immensity of the sacrifice. These people had nothing to gain and everything to lose. They sold everything—property, goods, businesses, lace collars—to buy supplies to live through journey. There would be no money for a return trip.

And of course, they compared themselves to Abraham, and they compared the New World to the Promised Land. This was the dream that was promised to Abraham, though, as this passage indicates, he died without seeing.

Within one generation, the Puritan dream withered. In fact, the dream was tainted from conception because they had to bring outsiders with them because they needed particular tradesmen (doctors, carpenters, etc.) and there weren’t enough Puritan tradesmen to go around. So Idealism bowed to Practicality before they even set sail. Not only that, but their community unity was attacked again and again, not by outsiders as much as by insiders who strayed from the straight and narrow. Each time the community was shaken up by religious or political controversy, another small group would break off and move further away from the frontier, to start fresh and restart the limping dream.

I look at these two stories, of Abraham’s life of faith with unfulfilled promises and the American template of faith: wanting, demanding for the promises to be fulfilled now. I think, what is this faith that we are called to—to be always haunted by the beauty of the dream but to know that it is stamped with the designation not yet? What is this faith that we are called to—to be given the vision, to know the outline of the Garden of Eden, to have glimpses of glory, and yet to be still so far away? Our attempts to hammer in the garden seem to turn in to nightmares.

My question for myself is: will I be patient? Do I have what it takes to stand with the faithful? Am I content enough
To see (and taste and drink and smell)
And welcome (arm outspread)
From a distance.

Walking on Water

2007-08-09T07:42:00.000-07:00

Thank you so much, Laura!

I am so new at this that I didn’t realize that one could get awards on here and had to take a peak at other people’s blogs to understand the proper protocol. My dear friend Laura, (My Quotidian Mysteries), is a brave soul who has just moved to Qatar. Here is what she said:

Jessica is another friend who also recently started a blog (On the Outside of the World), and I'm so glad she did. She's a friend of mine from college, and she's an American Palestinian Christian. Yep. You read that correctly. One thing I love about Jessica is that she slays all stereotypes. She's a teacher at a classical Christian school, and is passionate about Jesus Christ and about her heritage as a Palestinian. She's thoughtful and courageous in discussing politics in the Middle East (or anything else for that matter) and her courageous soul blesses me.

As for being courageous, I will say this: I have been described by those who know me best (namely my mother) as being risk-adverse. I am a saver, an organizer, and a planner. But all of the best things of my life have come from the wild calls of God, and my almost stupefied “yes.”

I think of traveling across the ocean to go to college by myself in the United States. I think of a crazy decision to move to D.C. after college, where I knew almost no one and when I had no money. Then to Johnstown, PA, again, with no job and where I was a complete misfit (was I even sane at this point?) Then there was the decision to teach, (with NO prior experience), to put on two plays (with NO prior experience), even to take some students with me to work in the deepest part of the West Bank (seriously, were those parents sane?) I think, also, of engaging in friendships and discussions with the many people who are either subtly or overtly opposed to my very identity, racially, politically and theologically.

All of these things required me to step out, to commit, to say, “yes” before I knew if I could really do it—no, actually knowing that I couldn’t do it, but that God wanted me to do it anyway. All of these things required me to step out on the water, to actually walk on the water. It seems that as long as I am staring at the face of God and walking toward Him, I am giddy but fine. My stress comes from these moments of panic when I look down and realize that I am walking on water and say to myself, ‘What in the world am I doing? I can’t do this!” and I start to sink.

This is what my life seems to be about: getting out of the boat when Jesus calls, walking on the water, doubting, and then feeling Jesus pull me up and holding me until I can walk again.

"On Using Eager Aspirations"

2007-08-04T05:19:00.000-07:00

This passage jolted me awake this morning. The Royal Way of the Cross is one of my favorite devotional books, and is a collection of letters written by a French 17th century priest, François Fénelon. I love his writings because they are wise, but they are frank. They do not let me get away with anything.

It is not to be wondered at that you should have a sort of jealous eagerness and ambition to advance in the spiritual life, and to be in the confidence of noteworthy servants of God.

Self-love naturally seeks successes of this kind, which are flattering to it. The real thing that matters, however, is not to satisfy your ambition by some brilliant advance in virtue, or by being taken into the confidence of distinguished persons, but to mortify the flattering tendencies of self-love, to humble yourself, to love obscurity and contempt, and to seek God only. People cannot become perfect by hearing or reading about perfection. The chief thing is not to listen to yourself, but silently to give ear to God; to renounce all vanity, and apply yourself to real virtue.

Things not yet seen

2007-07-31T07:43:00.000-07:00

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. This is what the ancients were commended for.

These are the opening lines of Chapter 11 of the Book of Hebrews. The more I study literature, the more I am amazed at the magnificence of the language of Scripture. Doesn’t this sound like an introduction to an epic catalogue? That first sentence is the premise, and what follows, then is the proof: a chronological catalogue of examples, people who lived out this definition of faith. This is a veritable Who’s Who of faith-driven people, from Abel to Noah to Abraham (who the writer dwells on for some time) and even Rahab (who we sinners like to dwell on—if she can get on this list, then I can too). In fact, pastors have renamed this chapter as “The Great Hall of Faith.”

I love this definition of faith. It is a state of being, rather than just a statement of belief. Faith is a state of sureness and certainty, a bold confidence in something. People talk about having faith in themselves or faith in a system of thought, or faith in a government, and when I hear these things, I think of a balloon swelling and filling up and floating up perpetually. But then there is always the reverse picture—losing faith in oneself, or in a system or in a government, and there is something deflating, crumpling about this. The key, people tell me, is not just to have faith, but to have faith IN something good, because then, the balloon will not pop.

We are supposed to have faith in ourselves. I have tried. I have filled up that balloon many times, pumped it full of oxygen and tied it off tightly, but in the end, it always leaks. My best intentions, my most glorious goals always turn into the worst kind of wretchedness: petty competition, vanity, gossip. And sometimes this is a slow, hissing leak, and sometimes this is a dramatic explosion, when I realize all at once that the virtue I was gloating over was really just a pile of dung, and I am left stunned, my guts blown everywhere.

We either go through life filling up our leaking balloons, or spend our lives on a quest for the Balloon Which Shall Not Leak. Some people give up all together. They know the law—that all balloons leak eventually—and so they amuse themselves ironically by watching others’ futile attempts.

So, if faith is a state of sureness, a confident selection of something, this is what is strange about the Christian faith: the balloons we are told to select are named, “What We Hope For” and “What We Do Not See.” Personally, I think that this is crazy. Loony. The visible balloons—things like family, finances, food, the things that we can touch and hold and know that they make us feel better, the things that we love and are the good things in life—these things leak. They disappoint us. They run away. They hurt us. They enslave us. But at least we can see them. If a visible balloon leaks, how much more will an invisible one?!

I suppose that in order to answer that question, one has to know more about the balloon. What is it that we hope for? What is it that we do not see? We find a clue to this answer in the very next verse, Hebrews 11:2:

By faith we understand that the universe was formed at God’s command, so that what is seen was not made out of what was visible.

Ah, so this balloon we are hitched to is the belief that we are in God’s world. And there is something strange about this world—if we peel back the many layers of the visible so that we can get to the very core, the very heart, the very creative center, the foundation of reality, we find the Invisible. If all of the visible of the world was made out of the Invisible, is it any surprise that the only really perfectly created balloon, the Balloon Which Shall Not Leak, is also made out of What is Not Seen?

It occurs to me that some may say that this is a circular argument (ha, ha, no pun intended!). I completely agree. It also occurs to me that some Christians may say that this argument makes us look crazy. I also completely agree. There’s little sense in any of this. I think about Noah building a giant ship in his back yard while it hadn’t rained in ages. Hebrews 11: 7 tells us: By faith, Noah when warned about things not yet seen, in holy fear built an ark to save his family. And I think about the phrase things not yet seen.

Impolite politics

2007-07-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

I am a Palestinian.

I am practicing this statement. I realize that I never say that single naked statement. I always feel compelled to modify it, like I am a Palestinian Christian, or I am an Israeli Arab, or I am an American Palestinian.

This has confused some people. I spent six months preparing some students to travel to the West Bank, and talked all about the history, political and religious issues of the region. After spending a week in Hebron and Bethlehem, one of my students told me that he had not realized that I was a Palestinian. He knew that I was something else, and that I wasn’t Jewish, but didn’t realize that I was one of the, you know, Palestinians. He had known me for three years and he didn’t know that I was a Palestinian.

This is, of course, my fault. I have a way of reading people, of knowing what is socially comfortable and uncomfortable, and of being diplomatic. I don’t want to commit the faux-pas. There are few things more horrifying, I have learned, than rattling along in a new culture and suddenly realizing that everyone is staring at you like you have toilet paper attached to your pants. I didn’t know that was rude, you want to say, but you know that no one will believe you. I spend much of my time studying my world, trying to avoid these situations, trying to make others feel comfortable. I have succeeded. They are all very comfortable.

Words that make people squirm: wall. occupation. desperation.

I live right outside of Washington, DC, so you would think that people are comfortable around politics. But politics here are very different. People chose a side the way people chose a sports team, and then they cheer very loudly from the sidelines, Democrats on one side, Republicans on the other. Some are hard core fans, others just pick a team because they need something to wear to the game. What I have found is this: it’s impolite to talk politics with someone who disagrees with you. You cannot say what you really think about the war unless the person nearby agrees with you already. So, you feel people out, check to see what color they are wearing before making comments. This is a great system: everyone stays cool and comfortable.

Now, there are times when you can have a political argument, say, at a politically charged dinner party. But if you want to be polite about it, you need to preface it with lots of humble, defacing statements about everyone having a perspective, etc.

I know it’s just my perspective, being a Palestinian and all, but have you noticed that massive concrete wall with an armed surveillance tower that is snaking around my village?

It doesn’t seem to work.

There are reasons for the wall, they tell me. There is security. There is Yasser Arafat. I nod, and I say, have you seen the wall? Do you remember dancing in front of your television when the Berlin Wall came down? Is it okay with you that you are paying to put up a new one?

Ah, that was different. And they tell me all of the reasons why—that was Communism and this is Palestinian. I nod. What happens, do you think, to the woman who used to look out her kitchen window and see olive groves, and now looks up from her potatoes and sees the concrete wall and barbed wire? Does she thank God every morning?

But of course, I don’t say many of these things because soon my friends shift in their seats and wish that I would move on to another topic. They want me to say that there are two sides to every story and that it is understandable and justifiable and that nothing is perfect and that we all have to just get along. Especially at dinner parties.

And I say that yes, there are two sides, but how would we know what the other side looks like since we are locked into our side of the wall? And I tell them that living behind a wall is so horrifying that we draw pictures on the wall, pictures of hills and trees and flowers and kites and we write under the picture, “This is our home.”

Despite my arm-long list of places where I have lived, this too is my home.

Taking my own medicine

2007-07-23T06:38:00.000-07:00

There is always this delicious moment when I first open the cover of a blank, new notebook, and pause before I write down the first sentence: a sensation of freshness, of adventure, like straining to see your dish before the waiter sets it down. I have had this sensation many, many times, but always privately. Publicly like this feels, well, rather indecent.

I will write anyway.

I have resisted having a blog for many reasons. I am technologically grumpy. I am fearful and this half-published form seems dangerous. I am paranoid about my students looking at me knowingly in class, having read my blog the night before.

I will write anyway.

I will write because two things have come to my attention recently. First, I am only pretending to be private and most people know most things about me anyway. Second, I need to take my own medicine. while exchanging emails with an old friend, I found myself writing these words: there are times when people need an audience, need to be heard, need to dig out the thing that is lying at the center of their soul and say it, and for that, you sometimes need an audience.

I'm not sure where this journey will take me, but I want to start with a series of posts that are reflections upon Hebrews 11, particularly the passage that I have highlighted at the top of this page.