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A Personal Journey
Maybe my first experience of interfaith thinking came to me as a
boy hearing prayers in languages other than my own. Occasionally missionaries or people from other cultures would speak to my church and give us a flavor of another culture by praying in the language of that culture. Although the prayers were in another language, somehow I knew those prayers were directed toward the same God I worshiped. They were just using different words. I was amazed that God could understand more than one language. My understanding of God was expanding, a process that has never stopped.
boy hearing prayers in languages other than my own. Occasionally missionaries or people from other cultures would speak to my church and give us a flavor of another culture by praying in the language of that culture. Although the prayers were in another language, somehow I knew those prayers were directed toward the same God I worshiped. They were just using different words. I was amazed that God could understand more than one language. My understanding of God was expanding, a process that has never stopped.
As a boy, both through church activities and personal reading, I became deeply immersed not only in the Christian Scriptures, but in the Hebrew Scriptures as well. I have always understood Judaism as the foundation for Christianity.
I began my faith journey in the Church of the Brethren, part of the Anabaptist, Free Church tradition. I grew up as part of a small minority tradition, part of a tradition that had experienced persecution for its cultural nonconformity, and for rejecting worship of the state and militarism. We rejected many of the moral values of the larger society, but did not seek to impose our values on the greater society. Growing up in a tradition not linked to the power structures of the dominant society made me more open to other groups who also have been persecuted minorities. I easily identify with groups who have moral commitments rooted in Scripture, and based in distinctive communities of faith, communities that would rather endure suffering than inflict suffering.
An important step in my relationship with Islam and Judaism has been my work with Christian Peacemaker Teams (CPT) in Israel/Palestine starting in 1995. Each winter since then, I have gone to Hebron in the West Bank for two or three months to be part of the CPT team there.1 I was challenged with the idea that those who desire peace should be willing to take the same risks that soldiers take in their pursuit of war. That was a challenge to my faith, and caused me to turn more deeply to God. I could never be able to take those risks on my own strength.
The work of our Hebron team was centered in an apartment in the Muslim Old City, between the small Jewish settlements in the city. There were around 1200 Israeli soldiers in Hebron to protect the one or two hundred settlers who lived in the middle of 140,000 Palestinian Muslims. There often were clashes in front of our door. We were there to be a nonviolent presence in the middle of the conflict, to listen, to observe, and to engage in nonviolent direct action, an ideal context for an experiment in nonviolent action and interfaith dialogue.
Those experiences in Hebron involved intense relationships between the three Abrahamic religions as they interacted in that tense city. We were immersed in the life and culture of Jews and Muslims in Hebron. We moved beyond polite dialogue to bringing Muslims, Jews, and Christians together in a common struggle for peace and just relationships between people of the three religions. We dared to face some of the difficult issues that are so often ignored in polite dialogue.
Judaism, Islam, and Christianity are each threatened by narrow-minded, violent extremists who put the narrow interests of their own people above our common interests. It has been a privilege to stand side by side with open-minded Muslims, Jews, and Christians in that struggle. I will not soon forget the many experiences of Jews, Muslims, and Christians working side by side in Hebron.
It is actually something of a miracle that a group of Christians can make a clear Christian witness in Muslim Hebron. For several years we had our daily morning team worship in the park across the street from the Ibrahimi Mosque and the synagogue at the Tomb of the Patriarchs and Matriarchs. We have had repeated acts of public witness for peace and justice in Hebron, with a clear Christian message, including Christian worship.
Muslims have many misconceptions of Christians that are not helped by the many Christians in America who uncritically support policies of the state of Israel that put Palestinian Christians, Muslims, and Jews, in jeopardy. Hopefully, American Christians living and working with Muslims will affect Palestinian Muslim perceptions of Christians.
My experiences of sleeping in Muslim homes, being invited to pray with Muslims, and sharing their lives made a deep impression on me. I was deeply impressed with the spirituality of Palestinian Muslim culture. As we worked side by side and took risks together, we came to trust each other. Religion seemed to be the number one topic many Hebronites wanted to discuss. Almost every day in Hebron I became engaged in intense religious discussions. The Muslims were not shy about sharing their faith with me and inviting me to become a Muslim. My times spent in Iraq with CPT have also been formative for me.2
Because of the importance of Hebron for Jewish faith and history, Jews from all over the world make pilgrimages to Hebron. Hebron, the burial place of Abraham and Sarah, Isaac and Rebekah, Jacob and Leah, and the capital during the first seven years of David’s kingdom, has deep significance for Jews. My relationships with Jews in Hebron have been intense and have involved serious interaction with many segments of the worldwide Jewish community. This has included serious confrontations with Israeli settlers, daily interaction with Israeli soldiers who represent the whole spectrum of Israeli society, and working side by side with Israeli peace activists.
This interaction moved far beyond polite, sterile, empty, condescending dialogue to serious struggles with Jews that often went to the heart of both Jewish and Christian identity. I have been cursed, spit upon, stoned, kicked, and beaten by Jews in Hebron, in addition to receiving numerous death threats from them. On the other hand, I have been humbled by the deep commitment of Israeli activists who are working side by side with Palestinians for a peaceful future. I have the deepest respect for Israeli Jews who risk their lives and reputations to confront oppressive actions of their government and maintain relationships with Palestinians.
On January 30, 2003, I witnessed Israeli tanks and bulldozers demolishing the main Palestinian produce market in Hebron. It was a horrendous scene. Before standing in front of and stopping an Israeli tank, I confronted an Israeli soldier with the horror of destroying the food supply of hungry Hebron. “What you are doing is a serious violation of the Torah and Judaism,” I told him. He responded, asking me in an angry, cynical tone of voice, “Are you a Jew?” Without thinking, I responded, “Yes, I am a Jew.”
That was some kind of breakthrough for me. All my life, in some way or other, I have been wrestling with the Hebrew Scriptures and how to incorporate them into my Christian faith. I had always accepted the validity of God’s revelations to the Jews. That morning, I realized I was in fact a Jew in my faith. That realization has changed my life.
I have also been wrestling with my relationship with Islam, and how to deal with the message of the Qur’an. I have been fasting during Ramadan since 1997. I have been deeply moved and challenged by the beauty, depth, and clarity of Muslim spirituality.
My relationship with Islam intensified one evening during the fasting month of Ramadan in Hebron on February 3, 1997. A man invited me to break the fast with his family. His goal was to get me to convert to Islam. My goal was to develop relationships with Palestinians. When it was time for the sunset prayer, my host invited me to join in the Muslim prayers. I told them that I couldn’t do that, since I was a Christian, not a Muslim. They insisted that I pray with them, telling me there is only one God and that they wanted me to pray with them. “Why not,” I thought. They showed me how to wash my hands, face, and feet in preparation for prayer. I then joined them, kneeling with my face on the floor. After eating, they took me to a mosque for about two hours of evening prayers. It was an amazing experience for me. A door opened for me that night to a whole new world.
On February 21, 1997, the same man and his friend, in a further attempt to get me to become a Muslim, took me to the Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem for Friday Prayers. I was deeply moved by the experience. There was a spirit of universal love in the mosque. People from all over the world, from every race and social class, together prostrated themselves before the Lord of the universe. My friends introduced me to one of the imams who, arm in arm, led me out of the mosque, across the large courtyard where the Jewish Temple once stood, down into the Old City, up the Via Dolorosa, past the Church of the Holy Sepulture, into another mosque. They took me into a room, which soon filled with about 20 men, important Muslim leaders in Jerusalem. Apparently, my friends had asked the imam for help in getting me converted. Soon the whole group of men started working on me. I told them I was ashamed of how Christians have treated Muslims over the centuries, and apologized to them. I shared with them my faith and desire to submit myself totally to God’s will. What followed was an intense time of honest dialogue, including some time talking about the meaning of the cross and nonviolent suffering love. At the end of our time, every one of those men hugged and kissed me. I felt blessed. I felt loved and respected. Since then, I have regularly prayed with Muslims in their homes and in mosques, and have included the Muslim way of praying in my own prayer life.
I later started regular participation in worship in the synagogue in Athens, Ohio. On October 13, 2005, I participated for the first time in Yom Kippur services, a total of seven hours of liturgy in a 24-hour period. Yom Kippur (The Day of Atonement) is the most sacred day of the Jewish year, a day of fasting, self-examination, and repentance. The day began at sunset on Wednesday evening. For the next 24 hours, there was a complete fast, no food or drink, with nothing to pass one’s lips. People are to abstain from sex during this time.
Yom Kippur that year was during the holy month of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting, during which Muslims abstain from all food, drink, and sexual activity every day from dawn until sunset. Since I already was fasting for Ramadan, combining both the Jewish and Muslim fast was extra special for me by bringing together the two religions in a very personal and physical way.
I entered the synagogue Wednesday evening with eager anticipation. I knew this would be a formal, two-hour service. I put on a kippah (skullcap), as did all the men. The synagogue soon was packed with people, many whom I have known over the years. A woman played a flute as we gathered for worship. The rabbi began by declaring that we had God’s permission to be gathered there, even though we were all sinners, even though we may not all agree, even though we may be on the opposite sides of issues. “By the authority of the heavenly court, with the permission of God, The Ever-Present, and with the permission of this congregation, we who have ourselves transgressed, declare it lawful to pray with others who have wronged either God or human beings.”
That really struck me. I thought about the Israeli settlers in Hebron, Jews who have been so nasty to me, from whom I have received so much abuse. I have been given permission by God to worship with them. That jolted me. Was I ready to worship with them? I immediately recognized that I had to be ready to worship with them, even though I found that difficult, and yes, repulsive. How can I worship God who loves those nasty settlers and not be willing to worship with them, to be open to them?
I was given a copy of a call for repentance as I entered the synagogue, a reprint from Tikkun magazine, with two columns, one for people on the political left and one for people on the political right, calling each group to repentance. The focus was the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, calling both left and right to examine their self-righteous and judgmental attitudes. That challenged me to examine my views toward Israelis and Palestinians, to ask if my attitudes represent the Spirit of God who loves both Palestinians and Israelis.
I was deeply moved by the liturgy: the praise of God, the Hebrew prayers, and the deep expressions of faith. There was nothing in the liturgy or the sermon that I could disagree with. It was thoroughly biblical, to use a phrase from my childhood. It was the same faith I learned as a boy in my home and in my church. I had heard many of the same words used in Christian and Muslim liturgy. As I sat in the Yom Kippur service, I wondered, as a Christian, how could I not be Jewish? Judaism is at the root of my faith.
My belief that there is one faith at the core of Islam, Judaism, and Christianity was reconfirmed. I sensed the same Spirit of God in that synagogue as I sense in churches and mosques. I sensed the same longings in those Jews as I sense in Muslims and Christians. All of us want a relationship with God, to be accepted by God. There is one God who sends his/her Spirit to us all.
I was impressed by the lists of specific sins we were to repent from, and the biblical promises of God’s forgiveness. As we went through lists of sins, over and over we repeated the words, “For the wrong we did before You,” followed by a specific sin. Examples of the sins mentioned were malicious thoughts, oppressing others, contempt for others, hardening our hearts, betraying a trust, polluting God’s creation. The people who compiled the prayer book took old texts and traditions and made them inclusive and contemporary, without, I think, compromising traditional Jewish faith.
The reading of the message of judgment and hope for Israel and for all humanity, embodied in Isaiah 57:14—58:14, summed up for me the meaning of Yom Kippur. Repentance must be personal, and it must include the dimension of social justice. I deeply appreciated the prayers for peace, including peace between Israelis and Arabs.
I was reminded of my daily need for repentance, my need for humility, my need for grace. My aching, hungry stomach reminded me not only of the suffering of the poor, but also of my selfishness, my wanting to satisfy all my desires, my need for more self discipline. My own frailty became more real to me.
We fi...