A Summer Holy Land Tour

When I was beginning my probationary period as a pastor in the North Texas Conference (twenty years ago), I heard that ordinands were taken on a special “Holy Land Tour” in the months before their ordination.

I got excited when I heard that! I’d always wanted to visit Israel and Palestine, and visit all the places identified in the Bible. I thought to myself, “What a great gift to pastors entering full-time ministry!”

Except that I was mistaken. Turns out that Bishop Bruce Blake had organized a tour of North Texas. He wanted the new ordinands to see the extent of our “parish,” including the sites of special significance to our connection, as well as new places for  mission. He was trying to emphasize the point that North Texas is “Holy Land.”

I was disappointed, and I kicked myself for getting my hopes up. I really wanted to see Jerusalem.

Fortunately, a few years later, I had a genuine opportunity to visit Israel and Palestine. As I walked in the places where Jesus walked, however, I found myself being less-than-impressed. I had imagined that I would be spiritually moved, that I would sense that this place was sacred and holy. That’s not what I felt, however. I’d always imagined a magical, mystical place; but this was nothing like that. In many ways, Israel and Palestine felt like any other 21st-century Middle Eastern city, full of Old World charms but New World problems.

And I suddenly realized the point that Bishop Blake was trying to make — any and every place can be holy. You don’t have to travel to some far-away location, even one found in the Bible, to encounter God. You don’t have to make a pilgrimage to historical or legendary sites to experience the divine.

In fact, the lure of certain places like Israel and Palestine can actually blind you to the presence of God in the place where you actually live. In your excitement to see Bethlehem or the Sea of Galilee, you might miss the fact that God is working in your own back yard.

This summer, I’m attempting to do what Bishop Blake did years ago. I’m taking all of us on a tour of our very own Holy Land — Oak Cliff. Each week, I’m spending a little extra time in a different part of Oak Cliff, reflecting on what I observed, and then bringing it to you for your own reflection on Sunday morning.

For example, this Sunday morning, I’ll be preaching about the Trinity River. This river is a defining feature of our city; it has aligned our businesses, shaped our neighborhoods, and entered into our folklore and mythology.

Yes, the Trinity River is holy. Have you ever looked at it that way? Can you see the waters of the Trinity as shimmering with divine possibilities? Is it possible that there is something to learn on the banks of that river?

Come and see this Sunday as we start our summer Holy Land Tour!

To Welcome Like the Lebanese

It’s not like I had a lifelong dream to visit Lebanon. To be honest, I’d never given it a thought. Beirut is just not one of those vacation spots that pops up on most people’s bucket list.

I didn’t plan our Lebanon trip because of a desire to vacation, however. Instead, my colleagues and I wanted to travel to the front line of the Syrian refugee crisis, and see what is going on.

And Lebanon is on the front line. In fact, it shares a long border with Syria, and for the last five years, has borne the brunt of much of the civil war’s fallout. It has received the second-most number of refugees from the conflict — over 1.5 million people.

That number sounds abstractly high by itself, but when you consider the fact that the country of Lebanon only had a population of 4 million before the war, then you can see how all-consuming the crisis has become for the Lebanese.

Everywhere we went, we heard how difficult the Syrian crisis has been on the hosting community. We found municipalities which are overwhelmed by water, electricity, and sewage needs. We discovered overcrowded schools and hospitals. And we heard ordinary citizens worry about the future.

Despite all that, the Lebanese are doing their best to serve the needs of their Syrian neighbors. We met a number of highly committed and dedicated Lebanese men and women who were spending large amounts of time to care for the refugees amongst them. We saw multiple NGOs (non-governmental organizations) at work in the country, providing family planning assistance, health care, education, vocational training, and more. 

Our team started calling these Lebanese folks we met, our “heroes.” They are doing their best to serve where they are needed. They are Christian — Maronite, Catholic, Orthodox, and Protestant. They are Muslim — Sunni and Shiite. They are Druze, atheist, Buddhist, and agnostic.

I sense that what unites them is a shared sense of vulnerability. In other words, the Lebanese people are intimately acquainted with suffering. They know what it is like to be displaced.

The Lebanese have vivid memories of two major disasters — the civil war of 1975-1990, and the Israel bombing of 2006. Both events displaced large numbers of Lebanese people, destroyed infrastructure, and destabilized civil society.

But the people of Lebanon received generous help from other peoples, survived the conflict, drew together, and forged a path forward for a hopeful future. There are lots of challenges still, to be sure, but the point is that the Lebanese know what it is like to be in need. They know what it’s like to have to rely on aid, on the kindness of others.

So when the Syrian people are in need, the Lebanese have resolved to receive them with open arms. They share, not only a common border, but a common future.

The same kind of logic is at work in the Torah. Time and time again, God’s law demands that the Israelites care for the alien and stranger. This is not an abstract rule; it is rooted in empathy. “You shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt" (Lev. 19:34).

The Israelites are to welcome the stranger in need because they have known what it is like to be a stranger in need.

And now let’s turn the spotlight on our own nation. Shouldn’t this country of immigrants, this motley collection of persecuted and battered refugees, which has found refuge in these amber waves of grain and purple mountains’ majesty, also open its doors to those who are now persecuted and battered? We share a common story of suffering and hope, a narrative of displacement and rebirth.

Why are we afraid of those who should remind us of ourselves? Why is the Statue of Liberty so dark these days?