divisions

We're not supposed to speak to the Arab waiters in the restaurant anymore.  I don't know if something happened or if there was just aggressive flirting going on.  I don't necessarily understand, but I do trust N. when he gave us these instructions.  We're not supposed to speak to them-- but today one of them blocked my way to the door and asked my name, and I had to tell him.  This brief encounter has left me slightly flummoxed.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but this waiter has a nice face and gentle eyes-- not like some of the others, whose eyes get predatory when they smile at me-- and yesterday while I was walking with M. she greeted him in the parking lot.  We're not supposed to speak to them, but I almost wonder if this waiter is Jewish, and not Arab.

And the fact that his ethnicity matters so much to me makes me angry.  Drawing such strict distinctions feels racist and prejudiced and wrong.  But, I remind myself, perhaps it's less a racist thing than a cultural allowance.  The moshav residents understand that we foreign female volunteers are not promiscuous, no matter what our films and television shows might portray.  In the Arab culture, perhaps there has been less exposure to foreign women, so maybe it leaves much more of an impact when we wear short sleeves, or smile, or say hello, or look men in the eyes . . .

I don't know the cultural mandates exactly.  I just know how much it all grieves me.  We were never meant to live like this, separated from and wary of those we live with.  We were meant to be unified and live at peace with one another.


Come, Lord Jesus . . .

Thy Kingdom come . . .

Today I visited ha'Kotel for the very first time.

It was much more intense than I could have imagined it being.

Even though I prepared myself for strong emotions there, at the place now called the Wailing Wall, I wasn't quite ready for the wave of grief that swept over me.  All around me were women-- Orthodox, modern, little girls in jeans skirts, women my age in jeans, babushkas, mothers with little babies-- praying.  Though I always knew why this was such an important place to the Jewish people, I had never really felt the greatness of the tragedy which overcame them.  To have a covenant with God, to be gifted as the only nation with that, and then lose it?  There are no words to describe the horror, the pain, the brokenness.

No words-- but all those emotions were captured and manifested in the prayers of the women at the Wailing Wall.  Whether they were rocking and praying through their books, praying quietly, praying in broken whispers, sobbing out prayers, they all were crying out the heartbreak of hundreds of generations of their people.

And I cried, too, because the remedy to their pain dwells within me, but many-- most-- of them . . . don't want Him.

when I look at the stars

Entering Israel yesterday was fairly horrible in some ways.  By the time I got to the Tel Aviv airport, I was ready to emotionally collapse and cry out of exhaustion and tension and anxiety.  But there was one little thing that kept me from that.

On the flight from Warsaw to Tel Aviv, I woke as the pilot announced we were approximately twenty-five minutes from landing.  I peered out the window, hoping for a first glimpse of the land.  There were no lights below-- we were still over water-- but. . .
Above and around me were scattered stars, more stars than I have seen in months, and certainly far more than I have ever seen from an airplane.  They were only clear for a few moments, but I somehow couldn't catch my breath the whole time I looked at them.
I thought about it later, while I was sitting in a hot little sheirut waiting for our driver to find one more passenger so we could begin our journey toward Jerusalem.  It was a perfectly fitting little vignette in this story.

When I was frightened nearly out of my mind, God confronted me with this skyfull of stars.
"Just as I was faithful to Abraham under these same stars," He was whispering.  "So I will be faithful to you now."

give me wings

on the plane from Boston to Chicago

I never realized until today how much I love take-off.  Maybe it's because it's always the same.  No matter what language the flight attendants speak, the planes all speak a common tongue.

I speak it, too.
I may not be knowledgeable about the inner workings of the engine, or understand the science behind flight.  But I know the racing-pulse of the engines, remember the thrill of lift-off, anticipate the glee of peering down on the Earth from far above.  It's a marvel, yes, but a familiar one.  I've been doing this since I was born.  Perhaps it's in my blood, to some extent.  Born to an aviation mechanic, raised under an international and military flight path, growing up as a frequent stand-by passenger-- I am a comfortable and usually-happy fly-er.  Oh sure, there's a bit of nerves before flight, sometimes during the flights (especially at landing)-- but I think that's true of any relationship.

And we are friends-- flight and I . . .

talking to strangers

I was at the cash register, looking down and counting out the right amount, when the pharmacy cashier asked his question.
"Oh . .. are you . . ."  I glanced up, saw his eyes fastened on the Star of David necklace I was wearing, and smiled.
"No.  I'm not Jewish."

I'm used to the question from months of wearing the Star in an attempt to engage strangers in conversation about faith.  It's worked pretty well; no one asks about a cross, but a Star of David-- that's different, odd, provocative.  Most people won't ask past the preliminary ethnic/religious-background question.  If they do, I explain that I believe that Jesus Christ is the fulfillment of the promises of a Jewish Messiah, and therefore the Star is a very fitting symbol for me to wear.

This cashier asked more.

"Not Jewish?  What about Israel?  They're like my favorite country in the world."
"Well, I'm living in Israel for three months," I began.  His eyes lit up.
"I went on a missions trip to Israel," he informed me.  "I led a group of kids-- kids about your age."

I've had conversations like this before, where the other person is at least sympathetic toward if not entirely pro-Israel.  They're my favorite type.

"What will you be doing there?" he asked.  I explained, and he nodded, his eyes eager and happy.  "You'll love it," he said.  "The food is great, and the people . . . you have to come back and tell me about it.  I'll probably still be working here."  His last words had a hint of a sigh in them, but the glow in his eyes still didn't fade.

This was the first time I'd told a complete stranger about my trip.  It was a strange feeling.  It made this impending adventure feel . . . real.

Levi

            The room was hushed as the messenger rose and strode to the front of the room.  Pausing for a moment to glance toward the door, he reached into his robe and pulled out a parchment scroll— dusty, travel-stained, yet precious.  He balanced it in his fingertips as he glanced around the room, a smile playing around his lips.  Opening the scroll, he cleared his throat and began reading in his deep, rolling voice.
            “The beginning of the gospel of Yeshua ha’Mashiach, the Son of God . . .”[1]

            Levi was miserable.
            And hot.  He was very, very hot.
            As the sun beat upon his back, Levi sat, head bowed over his table, and tried not to think about the state of his life.  Deep in his heart, he mourned over the many sins he had committed.  When the Baptizer was at the Jordan, many of his friends had gone down to the river to repent and be cleansed, and Levi had almost gone with them.  But somehow, much as he told himself that was what he wanted, he could never make himself join them.  He saw the way their lives had changed— how they no longer overcharged taxes to make a profit for themselves, how they lost their wealth and popularity, how their favor with the Romans plummeted.  Once they had lost their greedy edge, they were nearly useless as employees, and were often replaced.  Slowly, these repentant men lapsed into their old way of life— lying and cheating and stealing, just to get ahead— or lived their new lives and faded out of memory.
            Being forgotten— that was exactly what Levi feared.
            Though he wanted more than the life he had—a life defined by amounts and numbers and records— he saw no way out.  To turn his back on Rome meant losing all he’d accumulated, and any chance at any future employment.  He had nowhere else to turn; he had burnt all his bridges with his family, his people, even his synagogue.  His only friends were other tax collectors, and if he left their ranks, he would be viewed by them with high suspicion.
            There was nowhere to go.
            There was nothing else to be.
            Levi slumped in his seat, feeling the hopelessness wash over him.  A shadow fell over his table, and he glanced up, squinting and shading his eyes with his hand.
            It was a man standing there, gazing down at Levi.  He said nothing, at first.  Levi looked back at the man.  He was a holy man, wearing the tassels; a working man, with calloused large hands and strong arms; a kind man, marked by compassionate twinkling eyes—and as He looked at Levi, really looked, He opened His mouth and spoke to Levi as if to someone worth the breath—the first time in years that any good Jewish man had deigned to do so.
            What else could Levi do, but obey the words He said?

            “. . . and as He passed by, He saw Levi, the son of Alphaeus sitting at the tax booth, and He said to him, ‘Follow Me.’”[2]
            Out of the corner of his eye, Levi glimpsed a sudden movement.  He turned his head to find a small girl staring at him from where she sat, wedged between two of her brothers.  As Levi met her gaze, she blinked hard, then glanced at the reader.  Looking back at Levi, she furrowed her small brow, her mouth moving as she puzzled over this information.  Stifling a laugh, he smiled at her and nodded, pointing a finger at his own chest.  The girl’s eyes and mouth opened wide, then she grinned.  Turning her face toward the reader, she focused all her attention on his words.  Her small hands clenched in her lap, and Levi smiled again.  He could almost read the burning thought running through her mind.
            This is a true story.

Levi froze at the man’s angry voice, unsure of what he should do.
            “Tax collector,” the scribe sneered, the phylactery on his forehead bobbing with each jerk of his head.  “Sinner!  That’s all you’ll ever be, and yet this rabbi sits and dines at your table?”  The man shook his head in disapproval, waggling his finger in the other’s face.  Levi flushed brilliant red and spat on the ground at the man’s feet.
            “Get yourself off my property,” he growled.  “Before I beat you within an inch of your life.”  Surprised, the scribe fell back a step, toward the others huddled behind him like a flock of vultures, but Levi followed, crowding into the man’s face.  “You have no business here,” he continued.  “Any of you!  I certainly did not invite you, you arrogant, self-righteous—”
            “But why?” the man hissed, his pride and irritation overcoming his uncertainty.  “Why is He eating and drinking with tax collectors and sinners?”[3]  Levi opened his mouth to speak when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
            “What is going on here?” a voice demanded.  Whirling, Levi felt the blood drain from his face, shame coursing through his body at what he had been about to do, about to say.
            Yeshua.
            There stood the carptenter-man, the rabbi, His stance relaxed, but His eyes stormy.  He gave Levi a tight smile, then turned the fury of His gaze upon the group of religious men crowding the doorway.
            “I heard your question,” Yeshua continued, stepping past Levi to confront the Pharisees’ scribes.  His hands fell to His sides.  “You asked why I choose to associate myself with ‘sinners.’”  A deep, rolling laugh sounded from behind the religious men, and a young Jewish man, dressed in Roman robes, pushed his way through the other men.
            “Associating with sinners?  A rabbi?”  The man laughed again, his wide grin nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  “You have come to the right place, then, Rabbi,” he said, giving an exaggerated bow.  “Because Levi is the worst of us all.”  Levi flushed again, but this time with guilt.  Yeshua glanced at Levi as the other man plunged on.  “Oh, yes, brother Levi— we can always count on him for a good time.  He knows just the right places to get wine, food, women—”
            “Stop!”  Shocked, Levi realized it was his own voice that had shouted.  He felt the eyes of everyone present staring at him, but he ignored them and flung himself to the ground.  “It’s true, Rabbi,” he cried, pounding his fists in the dusty earth, tears coursing down his face.  “What he says is true.  I— I— I’m not worthy to have You in my house.  I’m not worthy to follow You!  I’m not even worthy to speak the name of the LORD!”  Levi buried his face in his hands and wept.
            For a few moments, the courtyard was silent except for Levi’s sobs.  Then Yeshua flung Himself to His knees at Levi’s side, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder.
            “Levi,” He said.  “Levi!”
            “Yes, Rabbi?” Levi choked.
            “Listen to what I say, Levi.”  Yeshua raised His head and met the eyes of the scribes’ spokesman, His voice rising in a challenge.   “Here is My answer to your question!”

“. . . Yeshua said to them, ‘It is not those who are healthy who need a physician, but those who are sick.  I did not come to call the righteous, but sinners’”[4]
            The reader paused, his gaze roving the audience.  In his seat, Levi bowed his head and wiped tears from his eyes, thankfulness and awe overwhelming him once again.  As he lifted his face, he met the gaze of the reader.  In a moment, a wide grin split the reader’s face, nearly hiding the birthmark on his left cheek.  Levi returned the grin, knowing that his own thoughts were echoed in the other man’s mind.
 
            This is indeed a true story . . . and thank God we are part of it.

---

[1] Mark 1:1

[2] Mark 2:14

[3] Mark 2:16

[4] Mark 2:17

"educational" television

            Over the last two summers, I worked as a nanny, caring for four children, ages one through six. On my first day, their mother gave me the house rules— dress the three year-old in pull-ups during naptime, dispense healthy snacks whenever the kids were hungry, discipline by time-outs or calling a parent, watch out or the baby will climb everything in view. The last thing she told me sticks very clearly in my memory— “And we try to limit their television-watching.” I was perfectly fine with that; in my house, we had the TV off more than on, and tried to stick to an hour or less of watching per day. I soon found that this family’s definition of “limit” and my own definition were extraordinarily different. “Limit” to them meant “only allowing the TV to be on for an hour or more after breakfast, while we make lunch, after naptime, while we’re making supper, and after everyone is ready for bed.” It meant that, each time the eldest daughter got too stressed out (she struggled with anxiety and behavioral disorders) she would beg for me to turn on the TV—and if I did not comply, she would find the remote and punch buttons until she hit the right one to turn on the TV. Most of the television programs the kids watched were “educational,” incorporating bright colors, easily readable words, age-appropriate science or math concepts, bilinguilism, and good morals. Because of this, I have had recent, first-hand experience with children’s programming, and am not basing my ideas on abstract concepts.
            I do not believe that “educational” TV shows are entirely beneficial to children. Instead of teaching children to persevere in seeking out the answers to their questions, “educational” TV leads them to believe that any questions should be solved in fifteen to thirty minutes or (God forbid) an hour at most. Instead of teaching them how to cope with real-world emotions and situations, “educational” TV teaches children to live in a world of fast-paced interactions, where the most difficult relationship one might encounter is trying to shout through Oscar’s trashcan lid when he slams it shut (and even that is easily solved). Instead of teaching them to move and emote and act and create and explore and play on their own, “educational” TV teaches children to live vicariously through others’ lives. Instead of teaching them to connect and integrate information, “educational” TV teaches children to learn through disjointed, fractured mini-bites of facts. Instead of showing them reality, “educational” TV presents children with a sanitized, attractive world which is solely focused on entertaining them.
            Despite all this, I am pragmatic about the issue of “educational” TV. I did watch these sorts of shows when I was younger, and many of them were delightful and probably introduced me to science, math, and English concepts that I still utilize. However, all of the information I received from these shows, I can say with certainty I could have learned from a documentary, or even a book. Possibly, I would have remembered these things better had I “discovered” them through my own work and study, rather than having it handed to me through a quick-firing half-hour episode.
            Should children watch “educational” programming? I think the answer to this is no, not as a main staple of their “educational diet.” The problem is, we have become a culture of Sesame-Street educated adults, used to bright colors and pretty shapes, accustomed to having information presented in a quick-fire unrelated fashion. In order for children to grow into adults who can function in our fast-paced information-logged technology-based culture, I think it is necessary for them to at least be exposed to “educational” TV.
            Will my children be allowed to watch “educational” shows? Probably, but in a limited amount and only with my full knowledge. Instead, I hope to be able to expose my children to life concepts through real-life exploration and personal involvement. There are things that, practically, I will not be able to show them in person (like the Australian outback, for instance), and I am comfortable using educational TV for those sorts of things. However, if at all possible, I want my children to gain their education through love-guided experience and exploration— not through bright flashing colors on an impersonal electronic screen.

gather up your jackets, move into the exits

Closing time
Open all the doors and
Let you out into the world

I was thinking about this song last night, while I was closing up the library.  It's such a sweet feeling at the end of the night-- switching off all the lights, closing and locking all the doors, making sure the computers are shut down or monitors are turned off, tidying what needs to be tidied, gently shooing out those whose dark-circled eyes testify that they should have been asleep hours earlier, listening to the quiet hum of the library-- its lights, patrons, computers-- subside into stillness.  It's a release, of types, to shut off the last light, make my way across the dark lobby, and lock the last door behind me.

Closing time
You don't have to go home
But you can't stay here

Closing the library is a comforting feeling, but now it's come time to close something else.  On May 15, along with a few hundred others, I'll climb a few stairs, walk across a platform, shake hands with the president of the university, receive a bound case, and descend another few stairs.  But in those few moments, I'll have done more than walk a few yards.  I'll have walked from one stage of my life into the next.

Closing time
Time for you to go out
To the places you will be from

I suspect closing the university stage of my life will not be as comforting, nor as sweet, as closing up the library.  Instead of having the peaceful knowledge that I can come back and things will be just the same, just as I left them, I will be leaving and knowing that in my absence, everything will change.  I won't be back next semester, or next year.  In fact, it's highly unlikely that (except for brief weekend visits), I'll ever return.  That scares me, yet (just like closing the last door of the library) it's a release.  Instead of a gentle release, though, this is an adrenaline-raising, head-spinning, heart-thumping, spine-tingling uncertain release-- like the breaking of a dam.  And I'm not sure how I feel about it entirely.

For now, I'll treasure my last few weeks of school.  It's the little moments-- a random meal conversation, an unexpected visit at the library desk, a spontaneous walk, an unplanned discussion after class, a surprise note in my mailbox-- that have made my life here so fulfilling and precious.  I don't want to miss any others that might come my way.  I feel time starved, like I'm greedily snatching and storing away each minute that comes my way, and to an extent, I suppose that's true.  In these last few weeks, I want to slow everything down and savor the whirl of life around here.

So I think, tonight, when I switch off the last light in the library, I won't hurry to the door.  Tonight, I think I'll take my time.

Closing time
Every new beginning
Comes from some other beginning's end

Here's to the beginning of whatever God brings next.

weary one

            Leah— she must have been a strong woman, a stubborn woman, a determined woman.  Maybe more than Rachel, she was Jacob’s match— clever, devious, quick.  She deceived the deceiver.  Perhaps that is why he didn’t love her; he saw, in her, a mirror of himself . . . and he was repulsed.
            And yet she, more than Rachel, was the mother of the nation of Israel.  She bore, from her own body, six sons and at least one daughter.  Rachel gave Jacob two sons— considering the sons of her maid, four— but Leah’s maid as well bore two sons, which means that Leah still gave Jacob far more children than Rachel did.
            It was Leah’s son who stepped up to replace her disgraced eldest son.  It was Leah’s son who became a man, going against the grain of his family and his culture.  It was Leah’s son who convinced Jacob to allow them to return to Egypt to buy grain to save the family.  It was Leah’s son who stood up to the most powerful man in Egypt in order to save a brother who had made his life miserable— doing this for the sake of his father, not himself.  It was Leah’s son who became the king-tribe.  It was Leah’s son whose line was promised to bring Messiah— the ultimate anointed one.
            Leah began badly.  Maybe she finished her life badly, too.  But no matter what she as a person did . . . she was the mother of Judah . . . the mother of David . . . the mother of Messiah . . . and she was used and chosen by God Himself.
            Maybe that is the beauty of Leah’s story, that God does not always choose the righteous ones, the ones who have everything right.  Maybe, through Leah’s story, God shows us that He chooses dysfunctional, unlovely, hated people; that He moves in strange ways; and that, He redeems our brokenness and mistakes . . . grave though they may be . . .

twue wuv

Valentine's Day.  Singles Awareness Day.  Forced Affection Day.

I've heard the legends. I've laughed at the angry rhetoric hurled at Hallmark.  I've observed the anxiety of young couples.  I've witnessed the sweet simple affection shown by devoted, experienced couples.  I've watched singles enter a spiral of despair, depression, self-pity and "righteous anger" at a day that doesn't fit them.

People, we have holidays to celebrate mothers, fathers, children, grandparents, presidents, veterans, and administrative assistants.  I don't see people freaking out when they don't fit into one of those groups.  But I do sympathize.  It's hard feeling alone when it seems that everyone else has someone special to love.  (And I do know-- try living four years totally single at Bible college.) 

But Valentine's Day was not originally a celebration of love and romance.  Does anyone even know what St. Valentine did?

(And if you said he performed marriages against the emperor's will, you're only possibly half right.)

Firstly, no one is exactly sure which Valentine the day is named for.  There were three of them who were martyred before the Pope announced February 14 as "St. Valentine's Day."  Just like Christmas, Valentine's Day was originally a replacement of a pagan celebration-- the Feast of Lupercalia, which was a day when boys and girls were, for once in the year, allowed to spend time together.  (But that's another story-- follow the link and read up on it if you want.)  In any event, even the Pope seemed unsure of what exactly the Saints Valentine had done to deserve their own day.  He simply wrote that it was to be a day to celebrate those "... whose names are justly reverenced among men, but whose acts are known only to God."  However, there was a rather legendary account about what the death of one of the Valentines.  The medieval book Legenda Aurea recounts Valentine's story something like this.

. . . St Valentine was persecuted as a Christian and interrogated by Roman Emperor Claudius II in person. Claudius was impressed by Valentine and had a discussion with him, attempting to get him to convert to Roman paganism in order to save his life. Valentine refused and tried to convert Claudius to Christianity instead. Because of this, he was executed. Before his execution, he is reported to have performed a miracle by healing the blind daughter of his jailer. (See this link for more information.)
It wasn't until much later that the legend about the secret marriage ceremonies arose.

Faith.  Courage in the face of death.  Love.  Concern for others' eternal destinies.  Forgiveness.  Sacrifice.
That was the legacy of the first Valentine.  Will it be ours?

Today, instead of being miserable because I'm single, I will celebrate Valentine's Day by sharing my faith with my governors.  (I'd encourage you to do so as well.  It's fairly simple to find e-mail addresses for our president, vice president, representatives, etc.)  I will celebrate by sacrificing my time and energy to show the love of God to the people around me.  I will forgive those I'm angry with.  I will show love.

And if, after all that, you still find yourself wanting nothing to do with Valentine's Day, celebrate the Chinese New Year instead.  It begins today-- The Year of the Yang Metal White Tiger.

Promised Land

I live in the land promised to my fathers, but I have not seen the promises fulfilled.

            Lifting my eyes, I lunge off the dusty road to dodge the galloping horses.  As I stand in the field, the sunlight flashes off the armor and swords of the soldiers.  One, two, three of them— they rush by and they are gone.  But they are not gone quickly enough for me to miss the wild dark terrified eyes of the man tied behind one of the soldiers.  Swallowing the bile that rises in my throat, I clamber onto the road and trudge on.
            I have been a slave in my own land since I was born.

Instead of joy, I know fear.

            I have heard the stories from my father, who learned them from his father, who learned them from his father, and so on— stories of our land before it was taken captive, and our people imprisioned with it.  The land was a good land, they say, a land so fertile and rich it spilt milk and honey.  No man knew what it was to starve; no child wandered the streets crying for bread.
            Things were not like they are now.

Instead of fruitfulness, I know desperate need.

            I squint out over my land, shielding my eyes from the blazing midday sun, breathless against the hot wind sweeping against my body.  This land is mine, yes, but it is not mine.  I have never known the luxury of having enough to provide over and above what my family needs.  I have never known the joy of willingly giving what I know the LORD required of me.  Taxes weigh heavily on us; we scrape out a living, praying that we will have bread each day for our children to eat.
            I know we brought this punishment upon ourselves.

Instead of blessing, I know cursing.

            I have read from the prophets, understood the words they spoke against our stubborn hearts and our prideful actions.  Our fathers sinned against the LORD, and we have followed in their footsteps.  Gladly they went to the temples of the land gods, those demons they thought would restore the fertility and joy of their home.  Willingly now we turn to the power of our own hands, our swords and scythes and bows.  As our fathers, we have neglected repentance.  We prefer to find our own way of salvation.

Instead of peace, I know strife.

            Suddenly, I glimpse my little child running toward me.  She laughs as she reaches me, and I sweep her up into my arms, tousling her curls.  I hold her close against my heart and shut my eyes.  Perhaps, though I myself have only known captivity and oppression, things will be different for my daughter.  Perhaps, though the LORD has punished us, He will yet be merciful and rescue us, as He has promised.

Our land is not a home; it is a prison, a wilderness.
Will You return, O LORD?
Deliver us!