"The first 100 years"

 Sunday 16 July 2017

JERUSALEM “LADY PASTOR” CHRONICLES, cont.

This morning, on the way to church, I passed through New Gate.

The situation there, however, was nothing “new”.

I was granted immediate entry:
Not because of my black shirt and white collar,
And not because of my large cross,
But because of my blue eyes and light skin.
The soldier looked me up and down, nodded my direction, and allowed me to pass—
Past his fellow soldiers
Past the large guns and riot gear
And past the Palestinian man being denied the same entry to the Old City.

“Keef il Hajez? How is the checkpoint?” I asked Abu Ahmad upon arriving at Redeemer.

“Not good,” he replied. It took him from 5 to 7 am to pass from Bethlehem to the church. His brother arrived to the checkpoint at 3:15 am, and didn’t reach Jerusalem until 5:45 am. After a few words of appreciation for his efforts, I entered the church to prepare for worship, and Abu Ahmad went off to prepare me a cup of tea.

Most of our English-speaking congregation is either away for the summer, or they were restricted from entering the Old City today by employers concerned about the security situation.

So we were only 1 toddler and 12 adults, including:

A few church members
A visiting family from Botswana
Some amateur archaeologists
An American theologian
A Swedish Lutheran deacon
A nuclear war resistor
And me, the pastor.

I don’t really love the Sundays when it’s a one-woman show. Of course, it’s handy that I can bake the communion bread AND create the bulletin AND play the piano AND preach the sermon—but it’s so much better when there’s a better sense of community! It’s so much better when the liturgy is really the “work of the people.” And this morning, although we were mostly strangers, community was exactly what we needed.

So, we gathered around the altar, and we prayed for Jerusalem. 

We prayed for lives lost to violence, and for futures lost to occupation and oppression.
We broke bread. We shared the cup. We sang “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound”. 
Even a few tears were shed. Alleluia! Thanks be to God.

On the way home, just before I passed through the same Old City gate where the same soldiers continued to stand guard, I stopped to talk with my friend George at his pottery shop. I told him there were only 12 of us around the table this morning. I told him I was feeling discouraged--by the same old situation in the city. By the same old violence. By the same old injustices.

George just smiled at me and said,

“Oh Sister, don’t be discouraged in your ministry! The first 100 years are always the worst.”