You Gotta Meet My Dad!

Several weeks ago my Dad celebrated his 81st birthday. Right about that time he cut his hand with a power tool, slicing through a tendon, a ligament and a nerve, and leaving bits of metal buried in the cartilage surrounding his thumb joint. After delicate hand surgery, he’s on the mend, but hands take a long time to heal. Sadly, he won’t be able to ride his motorcycle at all this summer. That’s right, his motorcycle. Two years ago while surfing the web he came across a motorcycle that was an exact replica of the one he and my mom rode on their first date, sixty years previously. Romantic that he is, he had to have it. My mom told him she absolutely would not ride it, but he modified the seat and made it so comfortable that she couldn’t resist. For their sixtieth wedding anniversary my brother and I got them matching motorcycle helmets and new biker boots.

Speaking of surfing, I think my dad went surfing the
day I was born—surfing the swells off Waikiki Beach, as he did each day after fulfilling his duties at the naval base in Honolulu. My parents lived there for three years, but I arrived toward the end of their military tour. Yes, I too have a Hawaiian birth certificate, just like our President. Although when I was born Hawaii wasn’t yet a state, so maybe my birth certificate is a fake. Oh well, nobody seems to care.

When I was growing up my dad was into anything with wheels—cars, bikes, motorcycles, even a unicycle, which he taught both me and my brother to ride. These days, in addition to the motorcycle, he and my mom ride a tandem recumbent bike; Dad is really pleased with the trailer he made to transport the bike.

Dad was seriously into watersports, skiing barefoot back in the 50s when that was definitely not something the average person did. My brother and I thought he was very cool.

He was also into horses, so for one year—the year I turned 10—we lived on a farm. We had a Shetland pony named Tiny Bit who didn’t like to be ridden and managed to send every rider flying through the air. I also had a cocoa-colored quarter horse named, interestingly, Cocoa; I have rarely enjoyed anything as much as riding Cocoa across an open pasture after school each day. We also had a goat named Esmeralda Ferdinand; my dad was enamored with the perported health benefits of goat’s milk. One time Dad brought home 300 chicken eggs and incubated them in our basement. Amazingly they all hatched. I’m not sure why he did that; I mostly remember chicken feathers rising through the ductwork and settling throughout the house.

In his twenties Dad was a used-car salesman. He was successful because he loved the “game” of helping people determine what they really wanted and needed in a car. His goal was to find a win-win solution that pleased the buyer and made a healthy profit for himself. Unfortunately, while he enjoyed the game, he didn’t like what working evenings and weekends did to family life, so he gave up selling cars. For nearly a decade he hopped from job to job in search of a satisfying second career. He finally settled into sheet-metal fabrication, a skill he had employed during his navy years. For his paying job he created custom ductwork for commercial heating and air-conditioning systems. But for fun he got a bit more artsy. This is one of his “sculptures” that I love most.




My dad first heard the Gospel of Jesus when he was 29 and from then on he followed Jesus as best he could. For years he served in a prison ministry. On two occasions offenders were released from prison on the condition they would live with our family until they could re-establish themselves in society. One of those men came back years later and stole my dad’s extensive (and expensive) collection of tools. That made Dad sad, but didn’t discourage him from continuing prison ministry. In recent years Dad has found his ministry niche in refurbishing wheelchairs for an organization that provides medical supplies to low-income people. His injured hand forced him to quit volunteering, but he was so disturbed when he learned about the massive pile-up of broken wheelchairs that he enlisted help from his friend, Ken. Dad will examine the chairs and determine what needs to be fixed; under Dad’s direction Ken will provide the hands to execute the repairs. You go, Dad and Ken!

Politically, my dad is pretty much on the opposite end of the continuum from me, though he carefully listens to my perspective on things like immigration and the Middle East, and he takes the stories of what I’ve seen on my travels very seriously. Theologically, he’s a tad more conservative than I, but during the last year he’s become obsessed with the writings of George MacDonald, the Scottish preacher who had such an impact on C.S. Lewis. You can’t read George MacDonald without being overwhelmed by the love of God; Dad has been overwhelmed and we have had a great time talking about it. I feel so blessed to have a dad who, at 81, is allowing God to lead him on a journey of fresh understanding. I love you Dad. Happy Father’s Day!

(My mom will turn 81 on Father’s Day, so you can guess what my next blog will be about.)

Listening to the Peacemakers

In 2008, as I heard the increasing public rhetoric of hostility emanating from the Middle East, I found myself wondering what Jesus would say and do if he were here in the flesh today. It was with that question that I began traveling to the Middle East—7 times in the last two and a half years. My goal on those trips was simply to listen and learn. I began by asking Arab Christians from Egypt, Lebanon, Jordan, Iraq, Israel and Palestine what they wished American Christians knew about them and about the Middle East.

Thus began my education about US foreign policy, Christian/Muslim relationships, and the conflict between Arabs and Jews in the Holy land. Along the way I talked with Middle Eastern Jews and Muslims who echoed many of the same themes expressed by Middle Eastern Christians. Their united voice has challenged my perspective on what it means to follow Jesus into the complex world of the Middle East. Their lives and their stories call me to try to be a peacemaker.

Given the increased media emphasis on Israel and Palestine following President Obama’s recent Middle East speech and Prime Minister Netanyahu’s response, I feel compelled to tell the stories that rarely get told in the US media, the stories of the Middle Eastern Christians, Muslims and Jews who are committed to peace and reconciliation in the Holy Land. These are the people “on the ground” fighting nonviolently for security, freedom, equality and dignity for all Israelis and Palestinians. In the coming weeks I’ll be posting here some articles I’ve published in other places during the last couple of years, as well as new stories I’ve not yet told publicly. I’ll begin with this article first published in Sojourners Magazine, July 2010.


Following Jesus in the West Bank

As a Christian committed to justice, I am glad the Jewish people have a homeland. I long for the day when they can live in Israel—or anywhere—in security. I don’t hold to a theology asserting that the modern State of Israel represents a divinely mandated return of ancient Israel to the Promised Land, but I do wholeheartedly support its existence as a national homeland for the Jews.

At the same time, I wholeheartedly support justice for the Palestinians. Two years ago at a conference in Amman, Jordan, Arab Christians challenged me to broaden my understanding of the Arab-Israeli conflict and to see for myself the current plight of Palestinian Christians and Muslims living under Israeli military occupation in the West Bank.

I’ve traveled to the West Bank three times in the last year. Life under military occupation is grim. A shattered economy, land seizures and house demolitions, Israeli-only roads networking through Palestinian land, and hundreds of military checkpoints on Palestinian roads—all these make daily life difficult and frustrating.

I’ve met with both Palestinian and Israeli faith leaders committed to using nonviolent resistance to end the occupation. Most recently I spoke at a conference hosted by Christians in Bethlehem. The conference, called “Christ at the Checkpoint: Theology in Service to Peace and Justice,” challenged evangelicals from North America and Europe to stand with the Christians of Palestine. The conference was inspiring, but for me the highlight was the three post-conference days I actually spent with Palestinian Christians.

I loved hearing about the evangelical church that Salwa’s husband pastors, and about Salwa’s ministry to marginalized women in Bethlehem. Salwa is an old Arabic word meaning consolation. “I love caring for the broken-hearted,” she said, “and leading them to Jesus, the source of all comfort.” She described the Palestinian Christian community as a secret garden: “Nobody sees us unless they come and look.”

I spent several hours with Shireen. Born in the West Bank, she studied English literature and translation at Bethlehem University, then received her M.A. in educational administration at Texas A&M (where she also was homecoming queen). Today she’s a wife and mother, a teacher in a Christian college, and a volunteer for a reconciliation ministry. She took me and two other Americans to a women’s meeting in the Muslim village of Al-Khader. We were the only Christians in a roomful of Muslims, and we were warmly welcomed.

My friend Christine and I went to dinner with a group of young women we had met on a previous trip. Educated in the social sciences, media, cross-cultural relations, leadership, and reconciliation, they remind me so much of my daughter and her friends: godly, articulate, fun, energetic, and committed to building a better world.

We had breakfast with Munther and Rudaina. Munther received his M.A. in religion and biblical studies from Westminster in Philadelphia. An instructor and assistant academic dean at a college in Bethlehem, he is working on a doctorate in applied theology from the Oxford Center for Mission Studies in England. He is married to Rudaina, an architect. Her name means “the woman who carries armor for soldiers.” We laughed when she explained that. Like all the Palestinian women I met, she is on the front lines of the battle for peace.

I met George, a school administrator. Some years ago one of George’s daughters—12 years old—was killed by Israeli gunfire that hit the car in which the family was riding. George is now an active member of Parents Circle/Families Forum, Israelis and Palestinians who have lost children to the conflict and meet to share their grief and work for peace.

Sadly, the Christian community in Palestine is dwindling as well-educated young people emigrate because they can’t find jobs. But young evangelicals like the ones I met choose to remain in the West Bank because they take Jesus’ call to be peacemakers seriously. They understand they have a unique opportunity and calling to bridge the gap between Muslims and Jews as they incarnate the truth of the Prince of Peace.

I am still pro-Israel, but I’ve also become pro-Palestine. Pro-peace. Pro-justice. Pro-equality for Jews and Arabs living as neighbors in the Holy Land. And bottom line, pro-Jesus.