Peace in the Rubble: Advent and the Poetry of Palestine
UNSEALED LIPS
Last week we reflected on the story of Zechariah and Elizabeth who were unable to have children. One day, old man Zechariah received the once-in-a-lifetime honor of entering the Temple sanctuary to burn incense to the Lord.
And while he was alone there in this holy space, an angel appeared to him and announced that his wife Elizabeth would bear a son who would become a mighty prophet. Zechariah responded to the angel, “How can I know that this will happen? For I am an old man, and my wife is getting on in years.” In response to his skepticism, the angel pronounced that Zechariah would be mute--unable to speak—until all these things have come to pass.
Later, when the story of shifts back to Zechariah and Elizabeth, she gives birth, and on the eight day the baby boy is taken to be circumcised and named, as was the custom. Apparently, there were some overbearing relatives and neighbors present because they decided that the baby should be named Zechariah after his father. Zechariah is still mute, but Elizabeth says, nobody asked for your input, have a seat. His name is John. And, as if to override her, all of the kinfolk and neighbors turn and look to mute Zechariah to weigh in. He motions for a tablet and writes “his name is John.”
And in that moment, Zechriah’s lips are unsealed and his voice returns, and immediately, Zechariah cries out in a song of praise for what God has done, is doing, and will do in his life, in the life of Israel, and in the world. He praises God for “salvation from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us.” He praises God for guiding the people into the paths of peace.
REVENGE
For people living under real oppression, peace and enemies are not abstract ideas but everyday realities. That’s why I’m drawn to Palestinian poet Taha Muhammad Ali’s poem “Revenge.” In 21st century America, we're so far removed from the experiences of Zechariah and Elizabeth-- people living under Roman military occupation. As a Palestinian, Ali helps us get a a little closer to understanding these realities through the experience of an oppressed people.
Revenge
At times … I wish
I could meet in a duel
the man who killed my father
and razed our home,
expelling me
into
a narrow country.
And if he killed me,
I’d rest at last,
and if I were ready—
I would take my revenge!*
But if it came to light,
when my rival appeared,
that he had a mother
waiting for him,
or a father who’d put
his right hand over
the heart’s place in his chest
whenever his son was late
even by just a quarter-hour
for a meeting they’d set—
then I would not kill him,
even if I could.*
Likewise … I
would not murder him
if it were soon made clear
that he had a brother or sisters
who loved him and constantly longed to see him.
Or if he had a wife to greet him
and children who
couldn’t bear his absence
and whom his gifts would thrill.
Or if he had
friends or companions,
neighbors he knew
or allies from prison
or a hospital room,
or classmates from his school …
asking about him
and sending him regards.*
But if he turned
out to be on his own—
cut off like a branch from a tree—
without a mother or father,
with neither a brother nor sister,
wifeless, without a child,
and without kin or neighbors or friends,
colleagues or companions,
then I’d add not a thing to his pain
within that aloneness—
not the torment of death,
and not the sorrow of passing away.
Instead I’d be content
to ignore him when I passed him by
on the street—as I
convinced myself
that paying him no attention
in itself was a kind of revenge.
This poem is simultaneously tragic, humorous, and redemptive. The speaker in this poem imagines what it would be like to meet the man who killed his father and destroyed his village and made him a refugee; how sweet it would be to exact his revenge on the person who took everything from him.
“Unless,” the speaker says, he had a mother who was waiting on him, then he wouldn’t kill him….or if he had a brother or sisters….or a wife and children…or friends and neighbors….or allies from prison. Ali has this great sense of humor-- he would exact his revenge, unless…unless…unless until there is nothing left to take. And if this man had none of these things, there’s nothing more he could take from him. There’s no more pain and suffering he would add to his life. How sad and desperate that man would be. The speaker’s decision to meet his enemy with pity rather than revenge becomes the means by which he reclaims his power.
IMAGINATION
What Ali teaches us is that sometimes peace is so far removed it must begin as an act of imagination. The more we can see or imagine someone in the fullness of their humanity--beyond their labels; beyond, even, the harms they’ve caused--the farther we are from retribution and the closer we are to peace.
I read this poem, and I think: wow, how incredible that this Palestinian man could write this--after all he’s suffered, even if every detail didn’t happen to him personally.
It reminds me of a story I once heard about another person who couldn’t imagine. The great theologian Willie Jennings once shared an experience of racism as a Black man during a seminary lecture at Duke Divinity School. A white seminary student responded by saying something like I did: Wow, I can’t even imagine what that was like.
Jennings responded, I hope to God you can. You have to imagine what it was like. For the love of all that is good, I need you to imagine.
I want to be clear here: the suffering of Palestinians, of Black Americans, and of Zechariah’s people aren’t the same; each has their own particular history, which we must understand and honor. But what might connect these particular stories is this: each--in their own way--reminds us that the practice of peace begins as a radical act of imagination; of honoring the full humanity of the other.
May we use our imagination to grow in empathy for others, seeing them in their full humanity—both our neighbors, and our enemies. May we imagine a world of peace that is not, in the words of Dr. King, “the absence of tension, but the presence of justice.” Lord, make us instruments of your peace.