Other Writings
Palestinians & Jesus
The warmth of the day slipped into a cool evening on a late Friday afternoon in June, 2006. My friend and I walked down the narrow maze of streets that distinguish the Old City of Jerusalem. Along our way, we had witnessed Hassidic Jews leaving the Wailing Wall hurrying home to begin their Shabbat.
Muslim men with white head-coverings sat in the doorway of their shops smoking copper pipes and drinking sweet tea after Friday evening prayers at the Al Aqsa mosque which ironically is located on the mount where the Jews believe Solomon’s Temple once stood. Foreigners, religious and non-religious, frantically scooped up their last souvenirs before heading back to distant lands.
I had come to Jerusalem not as an American tourist; they get plenty of those. Like millions before me, I had come as a pilgrim in search of answers. I had been invited by my friend to join him and a group of Middle Eastern Christians who meet each Friday evening in the Arab quarter of the Old City. My friend had told me that many Palestinians were hearing the gospel and coming to Christ. Palestinians and Jesus…in today’s world…in Jerusalem? I had to see this.
They say that Jerusalem is the spiritual center of the world for Jews, Christians, and Muslims. Each of these three religions considers this to be true. Yet, throughout history, millions have been killed in the name of the God which supposedly dwells in their shrines, temples and mosques in which they so fervently worship. Even God’s Son died here. There is a church built on the site they say is the location, but it is inside the city walls. Those who were crucified as he was by the Romans were put outside the city walls as a warning to other thieves of Rome’s punishment for trouble makers. The Bible tells me to pray for Jerusalem’s” “Peace”. Sadly, many who live here know very little of that. I still pray for it.
Continuing deeper into the quarter, I could feel curious eyes following us- faces through windows, stares from behind doors- shadows creeping their way onto the walls and the narrow alleyways of the Old City. The distinctive and haunting voice of the Muslim imam could be heard giving the final call to prayer to the faithful from the local mosque. On the distant Mount of Olives, the chimes from the Church of all Nations rang out. Each one calling out as if God was calling…maybe He was.
I began to wonder if I would be perceived the same way many in the Arab street see Americans…neo-Crusaders, pro-Israel and anti-Palestinian. After all, we were in the Arab quarter of Old Jerusalem. But, I am going to a Bible study I told myself. Would I witness what Jesus often talked about when He prayed, “Father, that they might be one in Me”…Arabs, Jews, Americans, believers in Jesus? We walked on, I hoped.
We soon came to where the street opened up into a quiet courtyard of an ancient church dating back to the Crusader period. We walked through an old wooden doorway into a small upper room. The cathedral ceilings were graced with massive stone arches that sat on granite pillars.
Simple plastic chairs were arranged in a circle, so each person faced each other…not like in the West where everyone looks at the backs of each others heads. As we took our seats, several of the men came over to greet us. Their broad smiles stretched across their deep leathered faces, weathered by the sun and desert winds. Hands toughened by hard work made for hearty handshakes. From the heart came the sweet words “Salaam” and other Arabic words of greeting.
One older man greeted me with the three “side-to-side kiss” so commonly practiced in this part of the world. Here men are men and the soul is expressed. Just as politely, the women smiled from behind their olive toned skin and deep dark chestnut eyes.
Suddenly, a young man in his mid-thirties came and sat down next to me. With a huge smile and perfect English he said, “Praise the Lord! It is great to have you join us tonight. My name is Sayed and I am a Palestinian believer from the West Bank. I will translate for you as you share God’s word!” Sayed didn’t look like a suicide bomber or a terrorist. He wasn’t a Kalashnikov totting fanatic wearing the green head band of Hamas with Holy Jihad written in Arabic on his forehead. Instead, Sayed was a brother, a Palestinian brother, excited to a believer in Jesus Christ. I relaxed and smiled back; I was among friends.
We began to sing music that was foreign, yet so beautiful…all in Arabic. They had composed their own songs with their own melodies and styles. The minor keys and flowing melodies echoed off of the stone arches of the 16th century cathedral ceiling. With no instruments to compete with, the harmony of this angelic choir was heavenly. Everyone seemed to be enraptured with true worship of God, not spiritual entertainment, a common occurrence in our Western worship services. For a moment I closed my eyes and wondered if this is what Pentecost must have sounded like.
I couldn’t understand the tongue, but I was sure it was pure…it was Godly. I did not need to understand the language. I opened my eyes. There were no tongues of fire. No rushing wind. Or maybe there was and I couldn’t see it. It didn’t matter…Jesus was there.
Just short of heaven, the singing and worship quietly faded. Sayed prayed and welcomed me as a special friend from America. Opening our Bibles, I briefly shared from Acts 2. Not on the phenomenon of “tongues” or the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. Not on the birth of the church. But rather, on the record of the people that was the early church. The nations, the Middle Eastern nations. Those who today are the modern day Islamic countries. Saudi Arabia, Libya, Syria, Iran, Iraq, Egypt, Turkey, just to list a few. All were there, every nation under heaven. And now, 2000 years later, here we were again. Jerusalem had once again become the center for what God intended it to be, the center of faith for all people, both Jews and Gentiles.
It was beyond surreal to teach from a passage of the Bible and to have the very descendants of those who were written about sitting before to me. To look into the face of the man from Iraq and think that Abraham probably resembled him in his younger days. To imagine Paul the apostle in one of the believers from Turkey was not too far fetched. In fact, if you had replaced the Western style of clothing with tunics and free flowing robes, you would have though you were really in the Holy Land.
After our brief study in the Bible, the group was dismissed, but fellowship continued. The smell of coffee and pastries invited us to linger and talk. In Middle Eastern culture, friendships are built, not manufactured. Food, time and conversation are essential. It is all about relationships. Not status and position in life. No drive-through fellowship here. No soccer or football games to rush off to. No important e-mails or calls to answer. No conflicting schedules to juggle. Just simple breaking of manna, life itself.
Before leaving, many came and thanked me for coming. One lovely Egyptian lady came over and spoke softly, “Please tell our brothers and sisters in America not forget to pray for us. We pray for them everyday. The next time you come, please bring more with you so we can pray and worship together.”
That night, in a small upper room of Old City Jerusalem, a group of believers from the Middle Eastern countries of Jordan, Egypt, Turkey, and the West Bank, experienced the Jewish Messiah Jesus Christ as one family. A family where all the children were color blind and race didn’t matter…without passports…where travel between Ramallah and Jerusalem was permitted, where there were no borders, no castes…politics or nationalities didn’t matter. That night I found the answer I had come looking for. Palestinians are worshipping Jesus…in Jerusalem.