Wait, what happened to my wallet?

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

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

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

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"

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

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

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.