A Forgotten Church

In Mark 5 (parallels in Matthew 8 and Luke 8), Jesus and his disciples travel to the eastern side of the Sea of Galilee -- then-Gentile, now-Arab territory. Immediately upon their arrival, they encounter a despairing demoniac. Jesus casts Legion into a herd of pigs, and the fully restored man begs Jesus to let him join the disciples on their future journeys. But Jesus refuses: “Go home to your friends and tell them how much the Lord has done for you, and how he has had mercy on you.” In light of Jesus’ adamant insistence on not evangelizing throughout the Gospel of Mark, this command is nothing short of astonishing. Apparently, the man obeyed, because at the end of the following chapter, we see the fruit of his obedience: Jesus returned to the sea’s eastern side, and the people “immediately recognized him.” He traveled throughout “villages, cities, and countryside,” healing multitudes. And he came back to this land on numerous occasions.  

So, it started before even the earliest missionaries. It started with Jesus himself. 

And their earliest missionaries were not foreigners, by the way: Arabs were present at that legendary Pentecost (Acts 2:11). 

They remained present throughout the formative years of the early church. Four Arabs participated in the first main ecumenical council at Nicea (CE 325). Official bishops represented the province of Arabia in the second main ecumenical council at Constantinople (CE 381). 

And not just present. Active, alive. In the following centuries, and into the first millenium, churches in the East were well-connected with churches in the West -- well enough to be constantly arguing, that is. While these historical arguments and splits are in many ways regrettable, they must also be recognized as evidence of vitality, evidence of the fact that the Church in the Arab world has known centuries of flourishing. 

Many assume that Christianity in this region must have ended when Islam was founded in the early 7th century. This is just not true. Here in Jordan, for example, I could visit dozens of Byzantine church ruins from centuries before and after the advent of Islam. 

Furthermore, many assume that Muslims must have always persecuted Arab Christians and that the two must have always hated each other. This is also not true. I speculate that a misappropriation of elementary knowledge about the Crusades (a shameful scar on western Christendom) is to blame. But regardless: let it be known that Arab Christians and Arab Muslims have lived in relative harmony with each other for 1400 years. 

Not that problems have never arisen or that tension does not currently exist. They have, and it does. More on this later. 

But for now, I just wanted to briefly introduce Arab Christianity and in so doing dispel some common false assumptions surrounding it.

Of course, many American Christians have no assumptions of which to speak. They have ever and always equated Arab ethnicity with Islamic faith. They have never thought of their beautiful Arab sisters and brothers. Never said a prayer for them. Let alone worshipped alongside them. 

In the near future, I hope to offer readers a few glimpses of this church’s beauty. 

It's Not Always So Hard

Nightmare

on my knees

eyes wide open

looking into yours

which see nothing

my eyes speak

“i love you”

“calm down”

my eyes fall 

on deaf ears

it strikes again

whatever it is

you scream

thrash 

strike

bite

yourself

every part 

of your being

becomes tense

love is now force

three bodies intervening

mine also interceding

as it strikes

we bind

it halts

we wait

it strikes

we bind

it halts

we wait

it lasts one hour

strikes every five minutes

each time a new bruise

on you or on us

each time drops of blood

either yours or ours

my eyes scream

“STOP!”

but my eyes fall

who let hell 

into our heaven?

Not ten minutes after the hour,

you are smiling as if nothing happened.

We are relieved and grateful,

but we cannot smile with you.

To understand is a luxury

our bodies cannot afford.

We are exhausted

from our efforts

to restrict darkness,

and I am consumed

by a sorrowful fear: 

no matter how

much light I see,

such overwhelming darkness

will eventually return

and always smother 

Hazem suffered these hour-long spells on four consecutive days. I was present for two of them. Apparently, he has experienced similar spells in years past. An erratic consequence of a traumatic childhood? Bodily illness manifested in emotional, psychological torment? No one really knows. He is fine now, and he has been for nearly a week. We assume that it’s over. Even so, please pray. 

Laboring Towards Likeness

Every Friday, from 8:30 AM to 1:00 PM, I sweep the streets. 

All of the older male students at the Holy Land Institute for the Deaf are assigned manual labor chores on Fridays, and the male volunteers at the school are asked (which means required) to join in. I’m always a part of the sweeping crew, along with two or three students -- different students each week. We get to wear these lovely gray jumpsuits. Mine has the name “Rafael” written in black permanent marker on the left chest pocket.

Now, I’ve never been a fan of manual labor. Rumor has it that some people find it relaxing. This makes no sense to me. Nor does the notion that I’m supposed to feel a sense of inner satisfaction in a job well done and sweat well spent. Personally, I’m much more likely to feel satisfied by a job well evaded. 

I’d much rather work with my mind than with my body, much rather work with my mouth than with my back. 

So, when I learned that I would be sweeping the streets around the school every week, I was tempted to complain to myself: “I didn’t come here to be a garbage man! Anyone could do this filthy job. Don’t these people know that I’m smart?” 

It didn’t take long, however, for this temptation to pass. In all sincerity, I am grateful for the work that I do here on Friday mornings.

Here’s why. 

Every American who has spent significant time in a developing country knows that our citizenship endows us with power. The political and economic might of our home country somehow translates into social clout around the world: our problems are often solved faster, our grievances are often noticed earlier, our emergencies are often taken more seriously. We are often disliked and judged as well, it’s true...but even this is indicative of the power that we possess. 

Regarding American relations with the Arab world, this power is especially significant. The modern history of West-Middle East relations has been defined by the struggle for power -- more specifically (and, I admit, more cynically), by attempts of the West to seize power in the Middle East. For starters, check out what France and Great Britain were doing here in the early 20th century. Long story short: we won, and we’re still on top. Again, the hatred felt by some of them (and the fear felt by many of us) is indicative of this reality.

The predominant message that the West has communicated to the Arab world in modern history might be summarized thusly: “We’re stronger and better than you.” Of course, this hasn’t necessarily been the intention (though it has been at times); regardless, it is in fact a widespread interpretation -- an interpretation that our country’s recent and ongoing militancy in the region reinforces. 

...So, what does all of this mean for me and my life here? 

It means that whenever someone asks me “Min wayn?” (“Where are you from?”), and I respond, “Min Amreeka,” it is very possible that the word Amreeka reminds him or her of that message: “I’m stronger and better than you.” 

As a matter of fact, we Americans unwittingly communicate this message quite often when we travel, especially (and ironically) in our humanitarian work. Examples abound, but I’ll give just one: our willingness to serve in certain capacities, but not in others -- the grimy or the grueling. Or even the mundane. 

What does this unwillingness communicate? “This work is beneath me.” 

On whose level, then?

Translation: “We’re stronger and better than you.” 

Every Friday morning, I have the opportunity to communicate -- not with my mouth, but with my

 body -- a different message.

“Your work is not beneath me. You are not beneath me. No one is beneath anyone else, for we are all equal in the eyes of God. At the end of the day, all of us will be dirty, all of us will be tired. Really, we are all quite alike.” 

Alhamdulillah. Praise be to God. 

Such Sacred Sensations

How it feels

when a child you hardly know

falls asleep with his head on your lap;

how it feels

to dance with a deafblind boy

until you’re both exhausted;

how it heals

when you perform her sign name

and prove that you remember,

unlike her parents;

how it heals

and hurts

to tenderly hold an eight-year-old infant

who used to recoil from all touch,

like an abused dog:

Words can’t do justice

to such sacred sensations.

But our bodies can,

and my body does,

and I am thus assured

that my body is good. 

A Religious Reprimand

I’m curious to know how many have noticed that I haven’t written much about religion on this blog. If you’re wondering, rest assured that the silence isn’t an indication of danger; no one’s going to throw me in jail for mentioning Jesus in Jordan. Frankly, I’ve just had lots of other things to write about. 

And although that is still the case, I want to make a conscious effort to write more about religion in the upcoming months: about Christians in the Middle East, about inter-faith relations in Jordan, about the role of faith at this school, and about my day-to-day experiences of being a committed Christian living in a Muslim-majority context.

...So, where to begin? A story, of course... 

Supervising the children on the playground. I strike up a conversation with a stick of a 14-year-old boy named Hamzeh. He’s one of my favorites here, because he’s one of the only students who I’ve never had to reprimand. Around half a minute into our conversation, Hamzeh asks me if I am a Muslim or a Christian (a question that quite a few students have asked me). I tell him that I am a Christian. 

With a slight smile that hints at a jest, Hamzeh says, “I don’t like Christians.” 

Then he walks away. 

The smile is only somewhat comforting. Although I am fairly confident that my friendship with Hamzeh hasn’t actually been affected, I cannot help but be disconcerted by his response. 

Ten seconds later, an 18-year-old female student, a Muslim, approaches me. Her expression is stern. She tells me to follow her.

And together, we follow Hamzeh. Once we catch up to him, she taps him on the shoulder -- powerfully, with her whole hand. It’s more of a slap, actually. 

When he turns around to see who tap-slapped him, this 18-year-old girl launches into a fearsome tirade. Due to its speed and ferocity, I only understand a few signs: Muslim, Christian, friends, normal, shame on you, and tell him you’re sorry.

(Side-note: the successful performance of such rants, whether spoken or signed, seems to be a rite of passage into Arab womanhood.) 

Smothered, the poor boy apologizes. Flustered, I eagerly forgive. Satisfied, the young woman dismisses us both. 

We're Back!

Happy New Year, friends! I hope that your holiday celebrations were reflective, rejuvenating, and 

joy-filled.

Along with twenty other people from the school, I just returned from a day-trip to the ancient Decapolis city of Gadara (known as “Umm Qays” today), where Jesus healed a possessed man and cast the demons into a herd of pigs (Matthew 8:28-34). We celebrated the arrival of 2013 with a simple picnic lunch on a mountain that overlooks the Sea of Galilee from the Jordanian side. Delightful.   

Yesterday morning, my father, mother, and younger sister flew back to the States. As expected, our time was blessed...and, as expected, it was hard to see them leave. But the blessings of their visit far outweigh the grief I now feel. 

Two highlights from our time together. First, my family arrived the night before all of the students left for break, so they were able to meet many of the children. As Providence would have it, Mahmoud was the very first child we encountered. What a joy this was, for me and for them. 

Second, while we certainly visited many tourist locations during our five days in the Holy Land, we also experienced the land of Palestine in ways that the vast majority of tourists do not. Several lengthy conversations with the owner of our hotel, a Palestinian Orthodox Christian; a 30-minute walk around Bethlehem with a 10-year-old street kid; first-hand observation of an IDF soldier treating Palestinians unjustly (when our local bus was stopped at an impromptu checkpoint just outside of Jerusalem); Advent worship alongside Arab believers on two occasions... The list goes on. 

Suffice it to say that I am exceedingly grateful for these and many other experiences over the last week and a half. Alhamdulillah -- Praise be to God. 

The kids will return in six days. Can’t wait to see their faces again. 

Grace and Peace.