“We make it this way because we’re from Gaza”

She says,

As she adds heaps of red pepper to the rice.

I am in her kitchen in my memory

Sitting at the counter

Next to her two daughters.

Their childhood bedroom

Is still intact

Because there is no time to pack

When you are forced to flee in the middle of the night.

You can tell my friends are Gazan

Not just by the spicy maqluba,

But by the tank on the roof

Of their apartment in Beit Sahour

Holding that month’s meager allotment of their own water.

As the heat of the spice dances our tongues,

We carefully sip glasses of water, filtered by a machine on the counter.

The water in Bethlehem is not clear and sweet,

Like it is in Jerusalem

And it cannot afford to be wasted.

A few miles away, over the wall, in the Har Homa ‘settlement’

I could drink a gallon from the bathroom sink

Because the Israeli settlers who live there,

Illegally,

Get to take freely from the supply of Deir Sha’ar.

While those who were born,

In the city of Jesus’ birth,

Are not extended the kindness

Of access to living water.

In January 2023 (9 months before the Oct. 7th attacks1), I travelled to Palestine-Israel as part of a history/theology/polysci class at Whitworth University, meeting and hearing out a range of people there, from Palestinian refugees, to Israeli settlers at the (illegal) settlement at Har Homa.

The most significant experience of my time in Is-Pal, was the week I spent as a guest in the home of a Palestinian family in Beit Sahour. I made friends w/my host family, learned a whole fucking lot about the Apartheid and Genocide Israel is committing against Palestinians, and moreover: I saw the gorgeous and radiant beauty of Muslim and Christian Palestinian communities in Bethlehem. Not just there, but also in Sebastia, in Nablus, and in my host family’s hometown, Gaza.

I never had the chance to see Gaza, but my friends who live in Beit Sahour did. They were born there, before the Genocide, but they were driven out of their homes (by religious persecution, for being Christians) in the late 2010s. My heart is perpetually breaking for them, and for all Palestinians, who have faced relentless evil and horror at the hands of a government that sees them as less than human, and a global politics that uses them as victims and scapegoats for their own agendas.

Reveal, O Lord

Where we have made you small

In order that we may feel safe

Defending our walled-in homes of comfort

When perhaps,

Your Comfort lives

Out in the rain

With the ones who we ignore

Or look upon with scornful pity

From our curtained windows

As we shake our heads and close the blinds

“If only they’d receive His invitation, then they could come inside,” we say

About those who have no address

No mailbox for the Message

Please wipe the dirt off of our eyes

That we might see you standing there

Outside the walls that we created (in your name)

To keep your Beloved out

And give us all the strength

To knock down our safe walls

And join you where you are

Welcoming the huddled masses in

Calling them all by name

I am opening the Bible app 
2 drinks and a joint deep 
not to find forgiveness for my bad behavior 
that I have no shortage of
but more, a curiosity 
prickling at the edges of my vision 
my fibers stretching to let in just a little light 
I know the glow will sear my skin 
colorless from too much time in gloom
until sudden gold erupts between my cracks
not kitsungi, gilded brokenness with care
more… a dandelion bursting up through cement 
stubborn roots growing beneath my skin 
cracking my ribs open, one by one
like cement slabs faced 
with the inevitable 
time reminding me that hope is true 
and, like the sidewalk 
I will open up to it again

Even more shaping to my young mind than Tumblr, was the constant presence of Jesus and his whole deal (Christianity, to put it broadly) in basically every corner of my life. Jesus taught me to care for the oppressed, to pay special attention to the foreigner, the widow, the imprisoned, the enslaved. Faith communities (Christian and Interfaith) taught me how to navigate vast difference with respect and care.

I was extremely lucky to never be a part of the culture-war obsessed strain of Christianity that has come to see empathy as a weakness, and cruelty as a necessary tool for ruling. But trust that I have encountered a lot of this nonsense, and I must admit: watching the rise of far-right nationalism, white supremacy, and bigotry eat up American Christianity from the inside1 has my stomach turning.

I rarely post publicly (seeing as I am not a public figure) or on social media about what I'm thinking about what's going on in politics, despite the fact that I always have many thoughts. This is mainly due to the fact that instagram stories are hardly an ideal venue for serious conversation.

But the other main factor is that, for the past six years, I've been working in interdenominational, intercultural, and politically diverse Christian workplaces where politics are a subject held at arms length, at least by the staff. And I actually think that many faith spaces are served well by centering what unifies, rather than what divides. Yet, despite our best efforts, politics are unavoidable as a human2, and faith traditions have had some pretty strong things to say about political topics. So as a Christian leader in ecumenical spaces, you have to do this sort of dance around politics. In the places I’ve worked as a 'Professional Christian,’ politics is often cast as the black sheep family member who we’d really rather not have at Thanksgiving dinner. In these communities, Jesus is sort of treated like the Turkey: “Let's all focus on the reason we're here today (Jesus), and not get caught up in divisive political squabbles” is the refrain I’ve been told a million times over. I think there is a place for this attitude, and the Thanksgiving dinner table is likely one of them. (Despite the fact that there are about 1000 memes about how Thanksgiving dinner rarely ever remains peaceful.) But not every day is Thanksgiving.

It is obvious and inherent to Christianity that we must condemn violence of basically any kind, and certainly cold-blooded violence like the murder of Charlie Kirk. Jesus is one of history’s leading pacifists. And I also would argue, even if you don’t give a shit about Jesus, you should probably give a shit about gun violence against anyone. But that doesn't mean we must glorify the victims of it.

Kirk was not a saint. We don't have to pretend that he was. He was a poster boy for much of the Christian nonsense I've described above, a far-right white nationalist who stoked division on college campuses, abusing the name of Jesus for political gains and power3. We don't have to affirm Charlie Kirk, or a single word he said4, to recognize that his death was a tragedy. I think often in Christianity, there is a separation made between our ideological beliefs, particularly our theology and politics, and our ability to love our neighbor.

I'm not sure there is a separation.

I used to refuse on principle to accuse a public figure of being “Not a Real Christian” just because of their political beliefs. I maintain that view in the sense that I am not in the business of going around pointing fingers and telling people who is the “right kind” of Christian. There is no right kind of Christian. I don't even think that's a helpful question.

The question I've begun to ask myself instead, when I look at myself as well as the world is:

At a church event, are the disabled folks going to have a safe and full way to participate? When Christians say all are welcome, are we doing everything we can to make it a safe space for Queer people, who are often excluded implicitly (or, God forbid on purpose). Do we value providing resources and shelter for unhoused people with no caveats, or do we require attendance of a religious service before we serve free lunch? Do we care about all of God's creation, or just the parts we can profit off of? In my eyes, all of these are very clear ways that the love of God can be shown to our neighbor:

“For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me5.”

And yet when I look around at the movement calling itself “Christianity,” I'm repulsed. The basic question of Love (aka basic care towards human flourishing) is being neglected in service of collecting cultural capital and power that Christians think will save us despite claiming to believe in only Jesus as our savior.

Most days I don't even really feel in control of what I believe. Some days I believe in God, some days I don't. Some days I want to redeem the label of Christian, some days I want to just give up on calling myself that altogether. At the end of the day, we are only in control of our own actions, our own Love. All I can do is love the people around me. And when people like Charlie Kirk or J.D Vance promote a Christianity that excludes and marginalizes people, I find myself unable to support them or truly even feel much compassion for the misfortunes they suffer.

But I will find compassion. Not because they deserve it, but because Love compels it of me whether I believe in God today or not. The compassion will not ever mean that I agree with these men, or that I like them. But I will recognize their humanity. We are all capable of great love and great hatred. Many people are choosing hatred, usually rooted in fear, not maliciousness. I’ve done it myself, and so have you. We have to remember that the enemy isn't Charlie Kirk. The enemy is Hatred.

I want to work, despite my fears, to choose Love.

“There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love6.”