“Even
if we have no hope, does that give us permission not to fight?”
After
a day of rebuilding efforts on the Abu Omar family home, we sat in our circle
of folding chairs, hearing yet another trend of oppression that characterizes
the occupation of the Palestinian Territories. Reflecting on all we had seen
and heard so far, one camp participant pointed out the hopelessness of the
situation. A young Israeli activist named Michael, whose work against the
occupation has caused his family to shun him and his community to label him a
traitor, posed the challenging question: “Even if we have no hope, does that
give us permission not to fight?”
This
acknowledgement of hopelessness was something of a new idea for me, however,
having always clung by nature and by faith to the apostle Paul’s conviction
that through hope we are saved, to the idea that joy comes with the morning and
that morning is really out there. But by the end of my three weeks in
Palestine, I too left with a sense of hopelessness, carrying with me the
knowledge that though we had rebuilt one family’s home, this small act of
resistance seemed insignificant amidst so much injustice and heartache. This
feeling would only be magnified six months later, shortly after my arrival in
Elgin, when I learned that this home had once again been demolished, together
with the home that annually housed the rebuilding volunteers and the entire
neighboring Bedouin village.
My
education in hopelessness continued this past spring, when at a conference, I
had the fortune to listen to the Reverend Dr. Miguel de la Torre, a minister
and scholar-activist who works with migrants crossing the border into the
United States and the inhumane treatment with which they are confronted.
Treatment created and reinforced by institutional policies. De La Torre states
that “hope has become a middle-class privilege that we impose upon a situation
to let ourselves feel better.”
I’m
not sure about you, but I have found this statement to be troubling. As
followers of Christ, we genuinely care about the suffering in this world, and
furthermore, we commit ourselves to becoming informed and taking action for the
advancement of peace and justice.
The
danger, however, of looking to Sunday is that we become inclined to look past
the Saturday. Instead of giving the day of mourning its due, we try to hurry
through it to the day of hope and newness.
This
isn’t to say that we don’t have the best of intentions. It is not just for us
that we hope for Sunday, that we raise our eyes to the hills for deliverance.
It is for those we know are suffering - we maintain the hope that the God of
the resurrected Christ will not let them suffer forever, the hope that wars
will cease and justice will reign. And in full faith, we give our efforts and
resources toward that end. But perhaps our hopes and efforts are also motivated
by a fear and discomfort with the idea of mourning and suffering.
So
what if, for a moment, we lay aside our hope that things will change and let
ourselves become vulnerable to the way things are now. What if we remain in the
Saturday? What if we lower our eyes from the hills and focus on the faces of
those among us in the valley? What if we rest from our efforts of trying to fix
things and quiet our inclinations to speak words of hope, and instead sit in
silence, grasp hands, and let ourselves feel the pain and hopelessness.
This
isn’t a call for despair or for giving up. There are people in marginalized
communities the world over who continue day after day to fight for their
rights, for justice and peace and equality, not because they have hope of
seeing it achieved but because they have no other choice. And perhaps our call
isn’t always to bring them hope and help them win that battle but rather
sometimes, to stand with them when they lose.
If
I had known that the Palestinian home I had helped rebuild would be demolished
again in a few months, I don’t honestly know if I could have put as much energy
and effort into it, knowing it was a hopeless show of resistance. And maybe, if
I had been with the family when they were once again surrounded by rubble, I
would have immediately started to pick up the pieces, to try to make it better.
But where I was, far away and helpless in Elgin, I couldn’t make anything
better. All I could do was hurt and grieve, and all I needed were people to
listen to me cry and share my grief with me.
We
don’t have to go very far to find people in our own lives and communities who
are experiencing times of grief and hopelessness. And very often, the urge is
to console, to bring hope, to make better. And there is a time for that. We are
held in the arms of a God of new life, and we should sing of our hope and joy
from the mountaintops. But there is also a time to hold back our words and
solutions, a time to accept the grief and pain for what it is, no matter how
uncomfortable it may be.
As
poet Oriah Mountaindreamer states:” I want to know if you can sit with pain,
mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.”
Because,
at the base of it all, the God of resurrection is also the God of crucifixion;
the God of hope and joy is also the God of grief and mourning. And we limit God
if we try to glaze over that which is difficult. Christ himself faced a
situation of hopelessness, a time when his torture and death were inevitable
and all he asked was for his friends to sit and share his grief with him.
There
is much injustice and oppression in our world and much grief and hopelessness
in our communities. So by all means, let us hope, pray, and work for Sunday to
dawn upon us all. But let us not forget that sometimes what is most needed is
for us is to remain present in the Saturday, for there too, maybe even more
than anywhere else, God is with us.