The staff explained that these decorations are about migration.

You see, every spring, monarch butterflies migrate as many as 3,000 miles from southern Mexico to Canada and the northern United States. But no monarch makes the entire round trip. It takes multiple generations to complete the journey.

I went to El Paso, Texas last week, with a small group from around the United States to learn more about what we casually call “the southern border.” We met people who live here for many different reasons, heard their stories, and saw the border itself from different perspectives (it is also a “northern border” after all).

El Paso butts up against the border itself, as does Ciudad Juárez on the other side. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that they butt up against each other, with only the Rio Grande and the wall reminding everyone that there is a border there. There are places along the river where the other side feels intimately close, as if it were just another neighborhood in the same city.

The border is real, to be sure, and has real consequences. As a legal object, it is tied up with laws, citizenship, and access, and it’s marked physically by the Rio Grande and enforced in El Paso with multiple layers of walls, fences, and coils of razor wire. The border can be crossed legally or illegally, easily or with tremendous difficulty. Some find it comforting, while for for others, it represents great danger.

Families that live on both sides. People who work on one side and live on the other. Parents whose kids cross each morning for school. Young people who seek opportunity on one side and fun on the other side. There are rhythms of life that move back and forth across the river, much like the river itself has shifted its course over time. And of course Monarchs cross the border like it doesn’t exist.

Last week we met people who have core memories on both sides. In some ways, El Paso and Ciudad Juárez are one community, with ties that bind them together in ways they don’t necessarily share with other cities or places—even within their own countries.

I heard a word repeatedly last week: Borderlands.

“Borderlands”—the very term challenges the concept of a border as a line. A line divides. It exists conceptually in a single dimension, forcing a dichotomy. Here or there. In or out. Borderlands, on the other hand, beckons us to see the boarder as having dimensionality, space, and room for community, not merely a line that divides, but a place that connects people with shared experiences.

Living in northern Illinois, I don’t think frequently about this part of the world. It’s distant, and I’m busy. I have a lawn that needs mowing. And yet, I spend a lot of time thinking about another distant place and its people: Palestine.

It’s part of my work with the Bethlehem Institute for Peace & Justice, a Palestinian Christian-led ministry walking alongside the global church toward peace and justice. And Palestine is thousands of miles from my home.

Nevertheless, the week in El Paso/Juárez has reminded me over and again that distance is not the same as disconnection. And just because someone is far away doesn’t mean I’m unrelated to them.

Our group was hosted by Abara House, a ministry in El Paso that walks alongside those who care for migrants to receive people who have arrived at the border for all kinds of reasons.

“Abara” is Arabic for “to cross.” It’s an especially fitting name for this place. Abara House sits at a site of continuous human movement. An ancient Indigenous trail crossed the river where Abara now sits. Later, the Camino Real—the colonial road connecting Mexico City to Santa Fe—followed the same route. For millennia, people have crossed the river at this very spot, tracing lines of human movement and connection across what is now walled and fenced.

Relatively speaking, the current border is a very recent development.

What has struck me most is that the Abara team doesn’t seem to understand its work primarily in terms of solving a problem. There is a commitment here to dignity and to finding joy in the midst of difficulty, Border Joy they call it.

To be sure, Abara tries to help provide food and shelter for those without, but they also sing and dance, take playtime with the children seriously, and have dreams for a park that straddles the border and concerts with musicians and audiences singing to each other and with each other from both sides of the wall. Border Joy!

Perhaps there’s another thing the borderlands community stands for: when we reduce people to the categories attached to a simple border—migrant, citizen, resident, asylum seeker, American, Mexican—we lose view of the person. And we probably lose something in our souls, too.

I keep coming back to the monarchs. No single monarch makes the journey. No solitary butterfly sees the whole migration. Generations participate in something larger than themselves. One life carries the journey a little farther. Then another takes it up, but they’re in it together.

In my North American context, we like to imagine ourselves as independent creatures, making our own journeys through the world. Our culture reinforces this constantly. We have our own lawns to mow!

But that’s not really how human beings work. Our lives are stitched together with the lives of people we’ve never met: the woman from Venezuela I met in Juarez who fled a country deeply impacted by my own. The people ICE abducted in Chicago (my own “back yard”) now languish in Camp East Montana, a massive detention camp in El Paso. The director of Abara who grew up in Jordan, speaks Arabic (now you know why the ministry caries an Arabic word), knows all about my work in Palestine, and showed me around Mexico last week.

Distance can make these kinds of connections harder to see. But it doesn’t make them disappear. Perhaps this is part of what it means to be a Christian in an increasingly atomized world. To resist the temptation to turn people into categories and refuse the idea that someone else’s suffering is someone else’s problem simply because it happened on the other side of a line that’s real-but-not-real.

Jesus’ vision of the world keeps collapsing the boundaries we construct between “us” and “them.” The Samaritan Woman and the Good Samaritan—these Bible stories came up in our conversations last week—are emblematic. With Jesus, the “stranger” is actually our neighbor.

In both places, I’ve been confronted with the same temptation in my community: to imagine that what happens “over there” is somehow separate from my life “right here.”

I came to El Paso thinking I would learn more about the border. I am learning that I might need to rethink what a border is. A border can be a lot of things to a lot of people. But a border can also reveal how desperately we want to divide the world into people who belong to us and people who don’t, and then to “manage” the border to enforce the distinction.

Like the monarchs, I saw good people of the borderlands transcending that division, even as many are burdened by it. But they challenge us to think better about it.

When I got home I mowed my lawn. But where my world puts a lot of stock in lines that divide and the power of distance, the lines that connect me to others, even those I don’t know personally, are more important. Jesus sees us as neighbors and responsible to each other. We should too.

Dr. Ben Norquist is a writer, researcher, and educator exploring the sacredness of place at the intersection of land stories and faith. He serves as Director of Communications & Development at the Bethlehem Institute for Peace & Justice, and brings experience from work with Churches for Middle East Peace, the Network of Evangelicals for the Middle East, and Wheaton College.

His recent book, Every Somewhere Sacred: Rescuing a Theology of Place in the American Imagination (InterVarsity Press, 2026), explores how American Christians imagine and inhabit the places they call home. His writing has appeared in Christianity Today, The Christian Century, Religion News Service, Sojourners, and other publications. Ben lives in Glen Ellyn, Illinois, with his wife and three children.

“A church cannot be merely a place of worship, but must also be a place where the conscience is called to awaken, and the church must learn to allow itself to be disturbed by the pain of the world.” — Pastor Michel Charbonnier

This week, I had the unique opportunity to speak in Torre Pellice, a historic village in northern Italy, rich in history and deeply associated with the Waldensian community—a community that endured severe oppression, persecution, and injustice over the centuries, only to emerge as a community committed to healing and reconciliation.

Today, this very small village of around 4,500 people is home to one of the most memorable expressions of prophetic Christian witness I have encountered.

I was invited to give a talk in the village in the context of the Synod of the Waldensian and Methodist Church, which takes place in Torre Pellice. I spoke to a packed church, a full house of people who came to listen, to learn, and to stand in solidarity.

What was truly remarkable was the display I encountered inside the church: thousands of sheets of paper carrying thousands of names of those killed in the genocide in Gaza—a witness of recognition and lament, and a cry for justice.

I was incredibly moved by this display. To be honest, it was the last thing I expected to encounter in such a small and remote village in Italy.

^{Sheets displaying the names of those killed in the genocide in Gaza}

I began my talk with an emotional acknowledgment of the display. It reminded me, at least in part, of what we did in our church in Bethlehem more than two years ago with the Christ in the Rubble manger. Among the many things we wanted to say was this: at a time when we were witnessing the justification and rationalization of the killing of our children, we insisted that we see the image of Christ in every child pulled from under the rubble.

When the world was dehumanizing Palestinians, we insisted on the dignity and worth of every human being, including Palestinians, by wrapping Jesus in a keffiyeh and telling the world: This is the reality in Palestine.

I also remarked that throughout this genocide, I have often been asked: Where is God? Why does God allow this?

My answer has always been that we are not talking about an earthquake or a tornado. This is a human-made tragedy—human beings massacring fellow human beings. The real question, therefore, is not, Where is God? but rather: Where are the good people of the world? Where are the people of faith?

Being in Torre Pellice reminded me that the Church is not always silent. There are those who listen, who care, who lament, and who cry for justice. And they have gone beyond the incredibly moving symbol of placing the names of the people of Gaza inside the church where they worship every Sunday. They have also mobilized, advocated, and given generously for the people of Palestine and Gaza.

I had the honor of meeting the pastor of the church, Pastor Michael Charbonnier, who gave a brief but profoundly theological introduction to my talk. His words were powerful, and I believe they are worth quoting. If Christians around the world believed and practiced what he said, I truly believe we would be in a much better place today.

He began by explaining why these names belong inside a church:

“A church cannot be merely a place of worship, but must also be a place where the conscience is called to awaken, and the church must learn to allow itself to be disturbed by the pain of the world.”

“This is not an exhibition. It is a way of keeping before our eyes—especially when we gather here in prayer—that which we would so much prefer to pretend not to see.”

He then spoke about why listening to the voice of the oppressed should not be confused with abandoning peace or dialogue:

“This is not a choice against peace, but for true peace. Because there is no peace without justice, there is no reconciliation without reparation… Prayer for peace becomes authentic when it is translated into the defense of the dignity, rights, and freedom of every person.”

And finally, he grounded this witness in Jesus himself:

“Jesus himself was not equidistant. He chose where to stand: on the side of the excluded, the least, the persecuted, and the oppressed. Faithfulness to the Gospel does not ask us to be neutral; it asks us to stand where He stood: on the side of the victims.”

I left Torre Pellice incredibly humbled and grateful for the witness of the Waldensian Church, and especially for the witness of Pastor Michael and the community of Torre Pellice. May this genocide stop. May justice prevail.

^{With Pastor Michel Charbonnier}

But when I asked my church this question in 2023, I sought a vigorous and compassionate response. I expected the body of Christ that I’d known for 20 years to be the Body.

I expected them to pray.

In 2023, my family and I were forced to our knees when we saw the beginnings of the most horrific war our family has been through. Every day brought worse news: my relatives fled their homes, my mom’s childhood Sunday school teacher’s entire block was destroyed, the Israeli military called the Gaza Baptist hospital and the churches to threaten them to evacuate, the hospital was bombed, the Orthodox church was bombed killing our friends and relatives… In desperate need of God’s intervention and closeness, we prayed and cried daily.

^{St. Porphyrius Orthodox Church in the aftermath of an Israeli Airstrike - October 19, 2023}

When, for a third time, an Israeli airstrike hit St. Porphyrius Orthodox Church where my grandmother was sheltering, I asked my local church in the U.S. to pray. I sent a prayer request to church staff, detailing the injuries, recalling previous bombings of the church, lamenting the blind eye the world has turned to massacres like this happening everyday, identifying that the invading Israelis specifically targeted water tanks which cut our community off from their already limited supply of water, and mourning the deaths of people in our community who died due to lack of access to medical care.

But this long yet frankly limited prayer request didn’t go out to my church in the form I wrote it. Instead, it was cut down to “reflect the immediate need for prayer” which the self-appointed editors executively decided was only a sentence lamenting that the water tank was somehow hit--no perpetrator named.

I was astonished and confused. I was told that “there was concern that some of the wording might not accomplish what you were hoping for.” I was hoping for prayer. I was hoping for my church to be mobilized to its knees, and to find its duty to intercede and intervene. Are my fellow Christians’ ears so fragile that the truth cannot be transmitted? Do my church even want to intercede? Even if they don’t want to pray—are they willing?

Genocide continues. Israelis have gone on to strike in and around the churches in Gaza several more times during this genocide, to destroy hundreds of other water installations, to damage all hospitals in Gaza, and to block nearly all medical supplies entering Gaza to this day. To mention nothing of their atrocities and ethnic cleansing in the West Bank, Lebanon, and the Naqab.

I take comfort knowing that God heard the whole prayer of my heart. In fact, God hears and cries with the cries of Palestinians in Gaza—the ones that never get transmitted through television cables, nor through church newsletters.

Yet I’m still searching for Christians who will take up our shared vocation of prayer, advocacy, and solidarity with the suffering. I am extremely grateful for those in my church and outside of it who are doing so—maybe you’re one of them, dear reader. But we need so much more.

Truthfully, in perpetrating genocide, humanity has mobilized great spiritual evil. I remain convinced, however—claiming the power of the Resurrection of Christ—that we can and must mobilize an even greater spiritual good that is the hand of Christ.

The full body of Christ must fully embody Christ. That’s how death is defeated.

Jesus prayed for us: “that they may all be one; even as You, Father, are in Me and I in You, that they also may be in Us, so that the world may believe that You sent Me.” (John 17:21)

So, will you join me in asking your church, a friend, or your family: “Will you pray with me?”

Then, together, we may become answers to prayer.

Lydia El-Sayegh

Lydia El-Sayegh is a biomedical engineer and an advocate against war, genocide, and militarism. She is Palestinian-American with a Christian faith that moves her activism, writing, and daily life. She is studying a Master of Arts in Peace and Justice at St. Stephen’s University. With all the partners she can find, Lydia hopes to build a world where her younger siblings, her community in Palestine, and her global community all experience justice, equity, redemption, and peace.

As you think of others far away, think of yourself (say: If only I were a candle in the dark)

- Mahmoud Darwish

What does it look like to be a good ally, and how do we stand in meaningful solidarity with those on the margins? Mahmoud Darwish, Palestine’s most celebrated poet, offers a profound answer to this question in his poem Think of Others. Darwish urges his readers to remember those less fortunate as they go about their daily tasks. In the last line he makes a surprising turn, “As you think of others far away, think of yourself (say: If only I were a candle in the dark).” He has flipped the exhortation to move us past mere introspective remembrance to vibrant action. “If only I were a candle in the dark”.

What is a candle for? Is it to burn brightly for the sake of drawing attention to itself? No, a candle is an instrument meant to illuminate the darkness around it so that others can see what exists in the shadows. In the same sense, good allyship is not to highlight ourselves, but to direct others’ attention to marginalized voices.

I’ll be the first to admit that my allyship is often clumsy and imperfect, but over the past few years, the wisdom of my Palestinian friends has shaped my efforts to something that more closely resembles solidarity.

Everything begins with listening. Palestinian testimony is often the catalyst that challenges our status quo and invites us into a deeper conversation, but we have to hear it first, and to hear it, we must listen.

When I was 25 years old, I met Palestinians for the first time. My friend shared with me the story of the IDF bulldozing his house in the dark of night, arresting him, throwing him in a military detention, and torturing him at the age of 16. Before hearing his narrative, I didn’t have a framework for what Palestinians faced. Now, fifteen years later, I look at my 16 year old son and remember Anis’ story and it compels me.

The importance of listening has been reiterated in countless conversations with Palestinian sisters. I have a vivid memory of my dear friend passionately calling American women to hear the stories of Palestinian women, emphasizing that the impetus for hearing lies with us. This seems like the most apparent quality of a good ally, but being a good listener is a practice in humility that most of us have not had the discipline to train ourselves in. Listening requires from us an openness to being moved by what we hear. If we go into a conversation with our minds already made up, we have not only shut our ears but our hearts.

Many of our Palestinian friends carry the weight of unspeakable trauma and grief in their bodies. Part of the ministry of listening is allowing them to share their grief and the emotions related to it without expecting them to be packaged neatly. Bearing witness to their stories means creating space for their pain, anger, despair, and confusion in whatever ways they are expressed. It is essential to loving and the example Jesus gave us in the Gospels. By listening, we empower the marginalized to tell their story, heal, and reclaim their voice.

Faithful listening invites us into repentance. Repentance isn’t just feeling guilty and promising to do better as some of us are inclined to believe. Repentance is a change of mind and heart.

When the truth of a situation comes barreling into our lives, we are beholden by what we have witnessed and can do nothing else but change. That is repentance and what faithful, humble listening calls us into. The truth of a life under occupation should shake us to our core.

We all engage with the world and others through preconceived ideas, beliefs, values, and hurts. As a white, middle class, American evangelical, I tend to hold my ideas with a sense of pride, believing that maybe I have the corner on the market of Christendom. After years of being steeped in American exceptionalism, this isn’t surprising. Yet as C.S. Lewis reminds us, “The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbor’s glory should be laid on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken.” Humility is arguably the most important trait of a good ally. However, this is something that some might struggle with the most.

Faithful listening and repentance calls us into a deeper journey of unlearning. Unlearning isn’t code for deconstruction or progressive positioning, but scrutinizing our hearts and minds, and being ruthlessly honest with ourselves about what we find. Many of us will find racism, colonial ideologies, or—for some of us—a belief that we are in fact The Great White Hope.

For some of us, these realizations will be uncomfortable, but if we learn to look at them as pieces of ourselves, ripe for shepherding, we can move past our great disappointment in not being perfect. And like most things in life, this is a constant task that we will perform for the rest of our days.. We must learn how to take stock of our hearts in real time and be humble enough to admit what we’ve discovered. Without unlearning, we won’t be able to engage with our Palestinian brothers and sisters in a meaningful way.

Unlearning creates space for a different kind of learning. One that is intentional, disciplined, and centered on Palestinian voices. When we encounter the stories of Palestinians, we are so moved that we embark on a journey to learn what could have led to such an intractable conflict with so much pain and suffering.

Many of us voraciously consume books, podcasts, and articles about the history of the conflict, trying to understand the details and nuances of 100 years of history. We unravel ourselves from inherited Zionist notions that lurk in our hearts and minds. Through this journey to learn more, many of us gain the confidence to start engaging in conversations about Palestine. These are beautiful practices that truly aid in forming our opinions and shaping our thoughts.

However, people, like water, will flow to the path of least resistance and sometimes we will want to be spoon fed, asking our Palestinian friends to do the hard work of education for us. We have a responsibility to do the work ourselves. Countless Palestinians and theologians have spent numerous hours researching and writing wonderful resources to aid learners in their pilgrimage to understanding. We honor their efforts by not only doing our own work to find the resources and thinking critically about what we read but also by centering their wisdom.

Our goal in learning isn’t simply to be puffed up with knowledge, able to engage intelligently in conversation and contend well for our beliefs. By centering the insight and knowledge of our Palestinian siblings, we learn to see the world more truthfully. We can tear down the walls of our faulty realities and rebuild a reality that honors and includes a more holistic vision of the world. Truly learning from Palestinians allows us to be formed in a way that drives us to be healers, teachers, advocates, peacemakers and pursuers of justice.

Faithful action is the logical conclusion of listening, learning, and unlearning. When we have steadfastly devoted ourselves to centering the needs, history, and wisdom of the marginalized, most of us will be compelled to action. Many Palestinians have shared this is an essential quality of solidarity, someone committed to action and a ministry of presence. Solidarity is embodied. We have to show up physically, as well as mentally and emotionally.

In the Lord of the Rings, as Frodo leaves the fellowship to take the One Ring into Mordor, Samwise doesn’t allow him to go alone. Samwise commits himself to the journey, not just sending Frodo good vibes or thoughts and prayers, but placing himself in harm’s way to be physically present and accompany Frodo on his perilous journey. This is the same picture of embodied solidarity I see us called to by the Kingdom ethics of Jesus and modeled for us time and again in the Scriptures. We see it in the stories of Ruth, Jonathan and David, the women staying at the cross, Barnabas and Paul, and Jesus himself.

Faithful action has several features. It does not contradict what we have heard from Palestinians. If we ask their opinion, and then proceed to do whatever we think is best, we fail to center the voice of Palestinians. Which leads to another feature: humility. It is all too easy for faithful action to be performative, meant to gain ourselves glory and high fives. Faithful action can look faithful, but if the outcome isn’t centering Palestinian voices, then for whose sake did we really act?

Faithful allyship doesn’t ask us to save those who are marginalized but invites us to join in the struggle. It calls us to a form of neighbor love that allows us to be deeply shaped into the likeness of Christ. By decentering ourselves, and amplifying the voices of others, we are loving our neighbor as ourselves.

We become the Church and carry the burdens of others, sharing in their suffering. As we are reminded in Galatians 6, we are fulfilling the law of Christ when we bear one another’s burdens. We become candles not so that others can admire our flames but so that others can finally see.

Hannah Hutton serves as the Executive Assistant for the Bethlehem Institute for Peace and Justice. She is completing her Masters in Peace and Justice from St. Stephen’s University. She has three children and loves to sing.

They burn homes, cars, and farms. They uproot trees. They steal sheep. They terrorise and kill.

Yesterday, four more Palestinians were killed. These are civilian villages. These are civilian lands. Fear has become our daily companion.

Here’s the reality that so many people outside this land do not understand. Palestinians cannot defend themselves. If they try, they risk being shot. We saw this again yesterday. Armed settlers arrived alongside soldiers. They came with weapons, with protection, and with what feels like complete impunity. Instead of protecting Palestinian communities, we hear language of retaliation and revenge after Israeli lives were also lost in yesterday’s violence.

Yesterday, villages across the West Bank were effectively under siege. Checkpoints were closed. Roads were blocked. People could not leave or return home. And this is not an exception. Just a few days ago, a Palestinian woman died after being delayed at a checkpoint while trying to reach a hospital. Her family pleaded for her to be allowed through, but she did not make it in time.

I thought about sharing statistics today—how many Palestinians have been killed, how many children have died, how many attacks have taken place. But I’m tired of repeating numbers. We are not numbers. We are not headlines. We do not want to be headlines.

These are mothers and fathers, children and grandparents. These are names. These are stories. These are families whose lives are forever changed.

So I find myself asking: When will enough be enough? How long can an entire people be expected to live in fear? How long can communities remain defenceless while violence continues with so little accountability? Except for those who dare to defend their land, their homes, and their trees—the army is quick to hold them accountable. What is the end goal? What future is being imagined here?

Today, it feels as though we have exhausted every political solution that has been offered. The world issues statements, but the violence continues. Many of us feel abandoned, with no one willing or able to protect us.

And so today, I want to ask you to pray. Pray not as a substitute for justice, but because we believe God hears the cries of the oppressed. Pray for protection over our communities. Pray for courage for those who are afraid. Pray that hearts will change, that those with power will act, and that justice will prevail. As Palestinians, we often feel that no one is standing between us and this violence. But we refuse to believe that God has abandoned us. So today, in our grief, in our fear, and even in our desperation, let us pray.

Friends, so much has already been said about the illegality of all of this. International law has spoken. Human rights organisations have spoken. Even governments have spoken. But today I want to speak about something even deeper: the immorality of it all.

This is not a series of isolated incidents. It is part of a system. The goal is becoming painfully clear: to make life so unbearable that Palestinians leave—to uproot us from our land, our villages, our homes, and our history.

The question we must ask is not only, “How is this happening?” but, “How has this been allowed to happen?” The answer begins with impunity. Israel has been allowed to act as though it is above the law. But we must go deeper still. What sustains that impunity? What political interests? What military support? What financial backing? What ideology? And yes, what theology has been used to justify or excuse what should never be justified?

As people of faith, we cannot remain silent. Our faith demands more of us. Prayer is not an escape from responsibility; it is what gives us the courage to act.

So yes, I ask you to pray. Pray earnestly. Pray persistently. But don’t stop there. Speak. Write. Call your elected representatives. Challenge your churches. Urge your governments to act. Refuse to become accustomed to injustice. Refuse to look away.

Perhaps, by God’s grace, if enough people find the courage to raise their voices, we can help bring an end to this suffering. We owe that to every family living in fear today.

Rev. Dr. Munther Isaac is Director of the Bethlehem of Institute for Peace and Justice

“Rev. Dr. Munther Isaac is Director of the Bethlehem of Institute for Peace and Justice and co-author of Kairos Palestine II.”

I sent the newspaper a detailed response. I would like to share my response here in full. This is exactly what I sent:

“Sadly and shamefully, the Board of Deputies is engaged in a campaign that seeks to delegitimize any criticism of Israel, falling back on old tactics that, I believe, fewer and fewer people are willing to accept: equating criticism of Israel with antisemitism.

What is even more disturbing about the Board’s response is that there seems to be more anger and frustration over the Church of England merely receiving and engaging with the cry of Palestinian Christians than there is over the unfolding tragedy and genocide in Gaza.

The patronizing reference to the ‘pain’of Palestinian Christians also comes across as deeply condescending. We are not simply expressing pain. The reports and findings on the genocide in Gaza are extensive, exhaustive, and detailed, and come from a wide range of respected international, legal, and human rights bodies.

For an organization such as the Board of Deputies to continue to turn a blind eye to these reports, to the facts on the ground, and to the ongoing suffering of Gaza’s children—all while invoking the language of interfaith dialogue—is truly shameful. It is, in fact, complicity in the crimes themselves.

In fact, Kairos Palestine II anticipated precisely this kind of response and engaged it directly. The document explicitly honors the growing number of Jewish voices who oppose the war and confront Zionism from moral, faith-based, and human conviction. We name them as partners in our shared humanity, in the struggle for freedom and human dignity, and in genuine religious and political dialogue.

We also make clear our conviction that, for too many years, such dialogue has been monopolized by Zionists and their allies, with its premises too often built around reinforcing Zionist ideology while silencing Palestinians and their allies. This is why Kairos Palestine II explicitly calls upon the churches to ‘stand with and amplify prophetic Jewish voices that call for justice and truth.’

The Board’s response, sadly, only reinforces the very concern we raised in the document. Rather than engaging seriously with what Palestinian Christians have said, or with the growing number of Jewish voices challenging Israel’s actions and Zionism itself, it once again attempts to police the boundaries of acceptable Christian speech on Palestine.”

Now notice something important. I clearly distinguished between those promoting Zionism and the many Jewish voices working for justice. In fact, I explicitly called on churches to listen to and amplify those Jewish voices. That distinction was not incidental—it was central to my response.

So what did The Telegraph do with it? It published the following headline: “British Jews complicit in Israel crimes, say Palestinian Christians.”

That is simply not what I said. It is not what Kairos Palestine II says. It is not what Palestinian Christians are saying.

^{Excerpt from the Kairos II paper.}

The headline is incredibly misleading. It completely reverses the point I was making. Rather than highlighting my explicit distinction between Zionist organizations and Jewish partners in justice, it collapses that distinction and leaves readers with the false impression that I accused British Jews collectively of complicity in Israel’s crimes.

This is precisely the kind of framing that has made speaking about Palestine so difficult for so many years. It is not only manipulative; it fuels the false narrative that criticism of Israel is criticism of Jews.

Our position has been clear and consistent. The problem is not Jews. The problem is not Judaism. The problem is support for oppression, occupation, apartheid, and now genocide—whether that support comes from Jews, Christians, Muslims, or anyone else.

Likewise, those standing for justice include Jews, Christians, Muslims, and people of no faith. As I said in my response, and as Kairos Palestine II explicitly affirms, we welcome and encourage partnership with Jewish voices committed to truth and justice.

Perhaps most troubling of all, this kind of reporting distracts attention from the real issue. Instead of engaging with the catastrophe unfolding in Gaza, or with the overwhelming evidence presented by international legal, human rights, and medical bodies, the conversation is redirected toward a manufactured controversy.

The Telegraph should be ashamed of publishing a headline that so fundamentally misrepresented what I actually wrote.

That is deeply regrettable. But it will not deter us. If anything, it only strengthens our resolve to continue speaking the truth, advocating for justice, and insisting that this is not a religious conflict. Our struggle is not against Jews; it is against injustice. And we will continue to stand alongside all—Jews, Christians, Muslims, and others—who refuse to be silent in the face of oppression.

Empire as the foundation for the U.S. Church?

A few months ago, after the U.S. bombed and killed over 160 schoolgirls in the Shajareh Tayyebeh elementary school, I sat in the pews of a church, and during the prayer request time, someone asked the congregation to pray for “what was happening with Iran.” Their request wasn’t detailed or specific, and so the pastor felt free to offer his own thoughts about the U.S. and Israeli bombardment of Iran.

He told the congregation that the U.S. and Israel’s campaign in Iran was “preemptive.” He explained that he drew this conclusion from his understanding of Just War theory.1 At its basic level, Just War Theory argues that preemptive violence is acceptable in some instances if it is going to prevent catastrophic harm or protect innocent life. For this pastor, the bombings were justified because they were “preemptive.” The killing of countless Iranians and the destruction of their civilian infrastructure were justified because they ensured some measure of safety and security for Israelis and for those in the U.S.2

Christian churches and leaders are often willing to remain silent, justify, or openly support violence against people outside their own nation. The pastor’s response mirrors a broader pattern in many U.S. churches, where the ongoing genocide in Gaza has been met not with prophetic lament or condemnation, but with silence, explicit support, or theological justifications that render such violence morally acceptable.

Why was this pastor’s first instinct not to question violence, not to lament it, but to justify it? Why? There are a number of reasons, and the justifications for bombing Iran are connected to the reasons that church leaders have remained silent, have justified, or have given their support for the genocide of the Palestinian people of Gaza, but, certainly, this pastor’s lens for seeing people beyond the borders of the U.S. - especially Arabs, Muslims, Palestinians, Lebanese, and Iranians, who are so often collapsed into a single category - has been shaped more by governments, political leaders, and media narratives and not by the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

It was clear he relied first on the claims made by the U.S. and Israeli governments that the resulting civilian deaths were justified because the violence was “preemptive.” He, like many U.S. Christians across the theological and political spectrum, embraces these narratives, concluding that the lives of Iranians, like the lives of the Palestinians in Gaza, are expendable, as long as Israelis and people in the U.S. receive their fill of the promises of “safety” and “security.”

These are the stories empires have always told. Governments and powerful institutions persuade people that violence against “those people” is necessary or unfortunate but necessary. Necessary to protect whom? Americans? Israelis? The “innocent”?

Within empire’s narratives, there are always people deemed “innocent” and others whose lives are determined to be expendable, their killing and oppression justifiable because they live under oppressive governments or because they are dehumanized by being labeled as “terrorists,” or sympathetic to “terrorists,”3 even while they endure brutal terror. Entire populations are deemed “guilty,” and their suffering is mourned only insofar as it is considered unavoidable.4

Empires teach us how to see people we have never met. That lens stands in direct contradiction to the gospel: “For God so loved the world,” and “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

The Idols of the Church in the U.S.: U.S. Exceptionalism, Safety, and Security

God so loves the world. Not the U.S., not one nation more than others. Not only people of a particular race or religion. The whole world. As Christians, we must root the way that we view other human beings through the lens of Jesus - through the lens of the gospel. We cannot hand over our lens for how we view other human beings to news outlets, to governments - to empires.

The gospel should be what shapes our understanding of others, those whom God loves. If we are rooted there, we become less susceptible to the fear, propaganda, and narratives that so often prepare the violence we see to first take root in our hearts. When we abandon the gospel as our lens, we begin trusting the false gods of safety and security, believing our own safety should come at the expense of the lives and livelihoods of others.

If we want to follow the command to “love our neighbor as ourselves,” then we must also abandon our worship of the false gods of safety and security. These false gods repeatedly demand the suffering of others. They were invoked to justify the bombing of Iran, just as they have been invoked to justify the ongoing genocide in Gaza. Again and again, governments and media institutions tell us that violence is necessary to keep us safe. They teach us to believe that some people must be bombed, displaced, imprisoned, or killed so that others can feel secure.

This pattern was evident long before the genocide in Gaza. When Israeli forces killed Al Jazeera journalist Shireen Abu Akleh, Israeli officials initially claimed she had likely been killed by Palestinian gunfire during an exchange in the refugee camp. That explanation quickly became the dominant narrative. This response followed a familiar pattern: deny responsibility, offer an alternative explanation, cast doubt on witnesses, and later revise the account after public attention has shifted. Israeli authorities eventually acknowledged that Abu Akleh was killed by Israeli fire while maintaining that her death was unintentional.

We have seen the same playbook throughout the genocide in Gaza. When hospitals, schools, refugee camps, journalists, aid workers, and other civilian targets are attacked, the first response is often to claim that militants were present. That claim then becomes the focus of public debate.

The burden of proof is reversed. Palestinians, like Iranians, must prove their innocence, while the U.S. and Israeli militaries, carrying out the violence, are presumed to have had a legitimate reason. This is how dehumanization works. The violence begins before the bombs fall. It begins in your heart, in my heart, and in the hearts of people who have already been convinced that people in the U.S. and Israel are innocent and our brothers and sisters are guilty.

I do not raise this pastor to condemn him, but to ask a deeper question: Why did he begin with the empire’s lens rather than the gospel that teaches us to love our neighbors? Why did he not pray with all his heart that no one would be bombed? Why did he not pray for Iranian children, parents, teachers, workers, and neighbors as human beings beloved by God? Why did he reach first for a theory that could justify violence rather than for the gospel that commands us to love?

The Challenge and Power of the Gospel

“For God so loved the world,” and “Love your neighbor as yourself.” And yet, for Christians in the United States, these often appear to be among the least practiced verses in Scripture.

Violence begins when precious human beings - our neighbors, our siblings, people whom God loves - are no longer seen as fully human. It begins in our hearts. It begins in our churches, our workplaces, our relationships, and our conversations. It begins when we accept the categories handed to us by empire: innocent and guilty, worthy and disposable.

So, I close with questions for you and for myself:

What shapes whether you believe they are worthy of life, dignity, safety, and freedom?

What shapes whether you see them as human beings whom God loves?

Is it CNN, CBS, NBC, Fox News, or NPR? Is it Donald Trump, Kamala Harris, Hillary Clinton, or some other political leader?

It is not enough merely to stop the violence taking shape in our hearts. Loving our neighbors means demanding for the children of others what we want for our own, especially those living beneath bombs and those dehumanized by governments and media.

After all, empires never dehumanize people without a purpose. It dehumanizes them because their suffering benefits someone else. We must therefore decide whether empire or the gospel will shape the way we see other human beings.

May we stop the violence that begins in our hearts. May the gospel be our foundation - our lens for viewing our brothers and sisters around the world. May we love our neighbors as ourselves, for God so loves the whole world.

Cristal Silva-McCormick, MDiv, ThM, PhD

^{Singing on Veteran’s Day in 2006. (Lydia’s on the top right)}

From a young age, my parents regaled me with stories of their first months in America: of their shock and wonder at the freedom from military occupation, the freedom from war, the freedom to move—things Israel had stolen from our family in Palestine. My parents knew something about the difference between suffocation and freedom, and between deprivation and blessing.

In the midst of their stories, these parents of mine—who worked through hardship after hardship to build a new life—never let me forget that it was not by their own power and nor by a government’s power that we lived. But it was God who brought us here, God who provided, God who granted freedom and God who will liberate. The “freedom” that we always sang of was from God.

^{The Statue of Liberty was one of the first things my parents saw when they came to the U.S. (Library of Congress)}

Hearing that the White House declared “A National Jubilee of Prayer, Praise & Thanksgiving” this year, 250 years from the nation’s founding, I was reminded of my grateful and God-centered upbringing in the Bible belt of the United States. On the surface, this was yet another opportunity to praise God through the good and the bad of our society’s experiences.

But under this “Jubilee” theme, the line up for a May 17 event, “Rededicate 250” included speeches from the Secretary of War, the Secretary of State and other White House attendees. In my short life, I have witnessed these very people and their predecessors declare “freedom” in word and deliver bombs in actuality. They have fomented wars across the world, starved populations by sanctions, and peddled weapons for the destruction of my family’s neighborhoods, churches, hospitals, orchards, schools, and graveyards. These violent pursuits make me wonder: Do we in this country truly know what “Jubilee” is?

In the Bible, the year of Jubilee is a practice of freedom and restoration. Laws found in Leviticus 25 outline how every 7 x 7 years, disenfranchisement and wealth accumulation would be undone as debts were cancelled, servants and slaves were freed, and ancestral lands were redistributed. No violence or force involved, only generosity. With God’s declaration and invitation, these actions required the participation of God’s people for the liberation of God’s people.

In this 250th year, is our country ready to redistribute private property, to cancel the debts of the poor, and to quit its war-making?

The Bible never records the ancient Israelites actually practicing the year of Jubilee. And while we sing of the land of the free, we have yet to see true liberation and biblical justice in these United States.

My country cuts food stamps at home and enables total blockade and starvation in Gaza—while Christ has good news for the poor. (Luke 4:18)

My country has the most incarcerated people of anyone in the world, throws Black youth in prison at a rate 5.6x higher, detains innocent migrants, including students advocating for peace, in prisions, and sponsors Israel torture camps overflowing with Palestinians—all while Christ sets captives free.

My country cuts its people’s healthcare accessibility and ushers in the destruction of Palestinian hospitals—while Christ relentlessly heals and recovers sight to the blind.

My country enslaves, segregates, discriminates, redlines, surveils, violates, polices, wages war, and commits genocide—while Christ liberates those who are oppressed.

Sadly, my country is not dedicated to the way of Christ. Instead, the United States has shown itself as a ravager of God’s image. Rather than “rededicating,” we first need to fall on our knees in repentance.

On July 4th, 1776, a few elites saw themselves as “independent” and “equal”—to one another. However, Jubilee and dedication to God in United States history looks much more like Juneteenth (or “Jubilee Day”) when enslaved people—realizing their freedom—processed straight to Reedy Chapel African Methodist Episcopal Church to celebrate and praise God their Liberator.

And while it might not be joyful or restorative yet, I see true freedom and dedication to God when each time tragedy strikes in Gaza, we hear survivors cry out “حَسْبُنَا اللَّهُ وَ نِعْمَ الْوَكِيلُ” (pronounced “hasbuna Allah wa ni’m al wakeel” a common saying in Arabic). Reminiscent of Psalm 16:5, this means “God is my portion and the best securer of my affairs” and reflects total surrender and rest in God under the most unimaginably harsh circumstances.

As Christians, the only person we know who could and did usher “Jubilee” is Christ.

So, in the next 250 years, if we as a country are going to be dedicated to God, and if we are going to participate in Christ’s liberation, the future includes repentance, reparations to undo generational harm, reconciliation, treating the earth as it belongs to God and not private owners, rejection of weapons in favor of peace-building, surrender of domination in favor of humility, and peace and flourishing for a persecuted and brutalized Palestinian people. Just like the Jubilee of Leviticus 25, and like my parents taught me, it requires our participation. Jubilee is loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves. It is sacrifice and Resurrection. It is Christ.

^{Lydia El-Sayegh}

Lydia El-Sayegh is a biomedical engineer and an advocate against war, genocide, and militarism. She is Palestinian-American with a Christian faith that moves her activism, writing, and daily life. She is studying a Master of Arts in Peace and Justice at St. Stephen’s University. With all the partners she can find, Lydia hopes to build a world where her younger siblings, her community in Palestine, and her global community all experience justice, equity, redemption, and peace.

Naim Ateek rightly argued in Justice and Only Justice (p. 109) that, from the perspective of Palestinian liberation theology, “the whole issue of the land must center on a theological discussion of the nature of God, who God is, and what God is like.” I believe the same can be said of the broader discourse surrounding Israel and Palestine. Ultimately, what is at stake is nothing less than our understanding of God.

Consider, for example, the claim that God has a special plan for ethnic Israel. Such a claim implies that God determines the destiny of peoples and individuals on the basis of ethnicity. Likewise, the frequently repeated assertion that “if we bless Israel, God will bless us”—whether as individuals or as nations—reveals a particular understanding of God. It suggests that God relates to humanity not on the basis of faith, obedience, righteousness, or even a relationship with God, but according to one’s stance toward a modern secular state. This becomes especially troubling when such claims are made in relation to a state accused by numerous scholars, international experts, and human rights organizations of committing genocide. In this context, we have every right to ask: what kind of God conditions divine favor on our attitude toward a state? Such a theology raises profound questions about the very character of God.

In this sense, much of what Christian Zionists say about Israel says a great deal about what they believe concerning the nature and character of God.

But the converse is also true. When we insist that God does not assign greater worth, dignity, or rights to people on the basis of nationality, ethnicity, or background, and envision a future in which Palestinians and Israelis are treated with equal dignity and rights, we proclaim our belief in a God who is impartial. When we affirm that justice is a prerequisite for peace, and that throughout Scripture dwelling securely in the land was conditioned upon righteousness and justice, we testify to our belief in the God of truth and justice. And when we declare that God stands with the oppressed, the refugees, and those beneath the rubble, we confess our faith in the God who dwells among the lowly, who hears the cry of the afflicted, and who sides with the marginalized and the suffering.

Ultimately, the debate over Israel and Palestine is not merely political or even historical. At its deepest level, it is theological, because what is at stake is nothing less than our understanding of who God is.

Munther Isaac

In his forthcoming book, Every Somewhere Sacred: Rescuing a Theology of Place in the American Imagination (coming out with InterVarsity Academic June 16th), BIPJ’s very own Ben Norquist and co-author Brian Miller explore the stories people tell about places and land, and the consequences those stories carry. This excerpt examines how land narratives can marginalize, erase, or dehumanize entire communities, drawing connections between Indigenous peoples, migration, and Palestine.

For Christians, these questions are not merely political. They touch on the church’s recurring temptation to bless the priorities of powerful people and institutions. At a time when many are reexamining the relationship between faith, nationalism, and violence, this reflection invites readers to consider what kinds of stories cultivate life—and what kinds function more like swords.

Excerpt from “Every Somewhere Sacred” — by Benjamin Norquist and Brian Miller
(IVP Press, 2026; used with permission)

Land Stories are Swords

Isaiah gives us this breathtaking vision of nations pounding their swords into plowshares (Is 2:4; a plowshare is the main cutting blade of a traditional, animal-drawn plow). Swords take life. Plows enable life.

Stories are powerful. They can play a role in shaping their listeners’ identities, values, goals, and actions. Land stories are no different in this regard. But land stories are not only powerful tools but frequently tools of power, sometimes wielded like swords. Indeed, narratives are an integral aspect of the exercise of power—they provide rationale, plausibility, distraction, qualification, obfuscation, justification, and cover for what would otherwise be clearly seen as morally unacceptable.

In his book about the dynamics of settler colonialism (such as the forced displacements of First Nations people in America, Australia, and New Zealand), Lorenzo Veracini makes a list of “tactics of transfer” common across many of these contexts.

These are the methods used by colonial institutions to marginalize and disconnect Indigenous groups from the land. They include things such as direct military violence (e.g., Wounded Knee Massacre in 1890 or the Deir Yessin massacre of Palestinians in 1948) and administrative violence (e.g., the codifications of ethnic identities that marginalize rights or create ethnic divisions, such as imposition of blood quantum requirements to determine access to tribal enrollment and rights for Indigenous Americans, or the complex regime of identification cards issued to Palestinians by the Israeli army).

What are some of these narrative tactics? Stories can edge inconvenient groups out of the frame of reference, simply excluding them from its vision of the land. In some cases, this is what is meant by the term erasure. The Israeli “pioneer story” that Palestine was a “land without a people” for the Jewish “people without a land” erases the Palestinians from the land. Another narrative tactic is when particular groups with particular connections to the land are thrown together into a larger, more generalized group that has no particular claim as such. Whereas Potawatomi might have particular claims to areas around the western Great Lakes, “Native Americans” as a general mass do not. Whereas Palestinians from Jaffa or Haifa or Galilee might have particular claims to particular land, “Arabs” as a general group do not. By reframing Potawatomi as Native Americans and Palestinians as Arabs, these stories can loosen groups’ particular connection to the land. People should learn from marginalized groups how they prefer to be identified because these identifications can carry certain connections to histories and claims to the land.

People can also use land stories to construct others as radical or dangerous in their imagination. Dehumanizing stories about immigrant “invasion,” “dangerous others,” and “criminal elements” in our cities are powerful and can often move people to action. They also make life more dangerous for people whose humanity is assaulted by such stories. Think about the blood-and-soil narrative behind the claims Nazi Germany made over the Sudetenland at the outset of World War II, or the dehumanizing stories the US president tells about migrants in the United States whose communities the US president referred to as “s***hole countries.”

These stories are swords that cut deep, not only emotionally but in terms of real material harm. Elizabeth Neumann, former assistant secretary of counterterrorism at the Department of Homeland Security, describes what scholars call a crisis-solution construct, “a narrative that defines the legitimacy and significance of the in-group, the threat posed by the out-group, and a ‘solution’ that justifies extraordinary measures of hostility toward the out-group.” In this context “solution” is frequently a euphemism for injustice and violence with deep consequences for those targeted.

We frequently use stories like swords. But God invites us to a better way. We are invited to pound them into plowshares.

Ben Norquist

Taken from EVERY SOMEWHERE SACRED: RESCUING A THEOLOGY OF PLACE IN THE AMERICAN IMAGINATION by BEN NORQUIST AND BRIAN MILLER. ©2026 by Benjamin Eugene Norquist and Brian J. Miller. Used by permission of InterVarsity Press. www.ivpress.com.

A day later, Israeli authorities also arrested another female Palestinian, a football player: Rand Al-Halawani. Together, these cases highlight a broader pattern of targeting Palestinian youth, students, and life.

Today, approximately 90 Palestinian women are held in Israeli prisons as part of a prison population of more than 9,500 Palestinian prisoners. They endure harsh and inhumane conditions, and at least 89 Palestinian prisoners have died in Israeli custody since October 2023.

One of those arrested yesterday is Natalie Abu Dayyeh, a 21-year-old student from Beit Jala. Natalie is a third-year journalism and media student at Birzeit University, a former player on the Palestinian women’s national football team, and a graduate of Talitha Kumi School. She is also a member of the Lutheran Church in Beit Jala. I know her family well.

When I think of Natalie, I cannot help but ask: What if she were your daughter? What if she were your sister?

For Christians, that is not merely a rhetorical question. According to the teachings of Jesus, she is.

Jesus taught that whatever we do to “the least of these,” we do to him. He told us, “I was in prison and you visited me.” In Christ, we are bound together. The suffering of one member of the body becomes the concern of all.

Today, I think of Natalie and of the thousands of Palestinians held in Israeli prisons. We do not know the charges against her. Like many Palestinians, she may find herself before a military court system that operates under entirely different rules than those applied to Israeli citizens. At the very same time, armed settlers in the West Bank routinely act with impunity, spreading terror, violence, and even death in Palestinian communities, while Palestinians themselves are arrested, detained, and prosecuted under military law. She could be detained for months without meaningful due process. Her parents do not know where she is. They cannot call her. They cannot visit her. They are desperately seeking information through lawyers and human rights organizations while waiting in uncertainty and fear.

She was taken from her home before dawn, under cover of darkness.

And I cannot help but wonder about the language we use.

Why do we so readily use the word “kidnapped” in some situations but not in others? Why does the world mobilize so quickly for some captives while remaining largely silent for Palestinian prisoners—hostages, indeed? Why are Palestinian families expected to endure this reality without the same outcry, urgency, or solidarity?

Are we less human?

Natalie’s arrest is also a reminder that Palestinian education itself is under attack. Students are arrested. Universities are raided. The simple act of pursuing a degree becomes entangled with military occupation. Every student detained represents not only a personal tragedy but an assault on an entire society’s future.

What makes Natalie’s story particularly painful is that she represents so much of what we celebrate in our young people.

As Diyar Academy for Children and Youth described her:

“Natalie Abu Dayyeh is an inspiring role model for young Palestinian women. She joined Diyar Women’s Soccer Team at the age of six and grew and developed through the team’s sports and educational programs until she became one of Palestine’s best women soccer players. Over the years, Natalie has strengthened her athletic, personal, and leadership skills, becoming a living example of a young Palestinian woman capable of achieving success and overcoming challenges. She has also played an important role in encouraging girls’ and women’s participation in sports and challenging stereotypes regarding the role of women in society.”

This is who Natalie is.

A student. An athlete. A leader. A young woman with dreams, talents, and a future.

Today she sits in a prison cell.

As Christians, we are called not only to speak but also to pray.

Pray for Natalie’s release.

Pray that Palestinian youth may one day live free from occupation, discrimination, and fear, able to pursue their education and their dreams in dignity.

Pray that God would sustain Natalie in these difficult days, draw near to her, strengthen her faith, and remind her that she is not forgotten.

Pray for her family, who wait in darkness for news.

And pray for justice—for Natalie, for her fellow students, and for all Palestinian prisoners whose humanity deserves to be recognized and whose freedom deserves to matter.

Let us join bishop, Dr. Imad Haddad, Bishop of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Jordan and the Holy Land, who said:

“We call on our friends, partners, and siblings in Christ around the world to advocate for Natalie’s freedom using whatever channels are available to them, and to demand an end to this unjust and unequal system of detainment and detention that paralyzes and destroys Palestinian communities.”

For if Natalie were our daughter, our sister, or our friend, we would not be silent.

For years, many of us—especially Palestinian Christians—have warned that the language of “just war” has too often been used not to restrain violence, but to bless it. We have watched war crimes normalized, entire civilian populations dehumanized, and violence justified in the name of morality, civilization, security, and even God.

The Pope names the deeper logic behind all of this: what he calls a “culture of power.” He writes that this culture is one in which “the availability of resources and the ability to dominate tend to dictate the agenda and criteria for decision-making,” reducing “the concrete tragedy of peoples at war” to a secondary matter in relation to strategic interests.

How true this is. Might has become right. And this is precisely why this moment matters. We are witnessing international law ignored, human rights trampled, and war crimes normalized. Moral principles are increasingly subordinated to geopolitical calculations and strategic interests. This is exactly the “culture of power” the Pope is describing.

He goes further, warning that this culture “grows by normalizing war” and by fueling “a false realism that insists that there is no alternative.” That sentence deserves careful reflection. We are constantly told that peace comes through domination, overwhelming military superiority, and force. But humanity has tried this logic for centuries, and it continues to produce devastation, trauma, occupation, displacement, and endless cycles of revenge.

Wars do not reconcile peoples. Wars do not create justice. At best, military victories freeze conflict temporarily while planting the seeds for future violence.

The Pope also recognizes that wars are not sustained only through weapons, but through narratives—through fear, propaganda, dehumanization, and simplistic friend-versus-enemy thinking. Violence becomes normalized. Entire populations become disposable.

One of the most prophetic lines in the document comes when he writes that humanity is slipping into “a violent culture of power, where peace no longer appears as a responsibility to be taken on, but as a fragile interval between conflicts.”

What a tragic and accurate description of our world.

And then comes perhaps the most important theological statement in the entire encyclical:

“Today, more than ever… it is important to reaffirm that the ‘just war’ theory, which has all too often been used to justify any kind of war, is now outdated.”

Palestinian Christians have been saying this for a long time.

Only weeks after the beginning of the war on Gaza, twelve Palestinian Christian organizations issued A Call for Repentance: An Open Letter from Palestinian Christians to Western Church Leaders and Theologians. In that letter, we warned about the Western Christian legacy of using “just war” theology to justify catastrophic violence—from Hiroshima to Iraq to the devastation inflicted on Palestinians in the name of “self-defense.”

Many Christians do not realize how often theology has been used not to challenge empire, but to sanctify it.

The Pope also courageously addressed another uncomfortable reality: the military-industrial complex.

He warned about the “close link between economic interests, the military apparatus and political decisions,” and how the arms industry profits from a market that “thrives precisely on conflicts.”

Again, he is absolutely right.

Wars are not sustained only by fear or ideology. They are sustained by profit.

Weapons are sold. Conflicts are prolonged. Entire economies become dependent on militarization. And yes, I will say this clearly: there must be a special place in hell for those who profit from the blood of children, from devastated cities, and from endless war.

Perhaps most movingly, the Pope insists that humanity already possesses “far more effective and capable tools” for resolving conflicts: dialogue, diplomacy, and forgiveness. He then adds a profound theological insight: “The use of force, violence and weapons reflects a relational poverty.”

What a powerful phrase. Violence reflects a failure of moral imagination, a failure to recognize the humanity of the other. This is why the ethics of Jesus matter now more than ever. Jesus did not teach domination. Jesus did not glorify violence. Jesus did not call us to sanctify empire.

He called us to the way of the cross: justice, mercy, reconciliation, forgiveness, and love of neighbor—even enemy. I welcome the Pope’s words wholeheartedly. But may this document do more than generate discussion.

May it mobilize faith leaders, theologians, pastors, imams, rabbis, and all people of conscience who have long resisted this culture of power. May it inspire new movements, deeper cooperation, and courageous moral witness against the normalization of war.

We need our voices now more than ever. Peace cannot come through domination. Peace without justice is not peace. And violence will never save humanity from violence. Only justice, truth, and love can do that.

Every so often, news emerges of Jewish families making Aliyah to Palestine—celebrated as a homecoming, as prophecy fulfilled. Aliyah is a foundational tenet of the Zionist movement: the migration of Jews to “the Promised Land.” This is enshrined in Israeli law as “the Law of Return,” which grants all Jews in the world the legal “right” to move to Palestine-Israel and acquire citizenship on the basis of their Jewish identity alone. Recently, a Jerusalem Post article celebrated the Aliyah of the “Bnei Menashe community” from northeastern India as the fulfillment of prophecy, citing Isaiah 43:5.1

From a Palestinian perspective, Aliyah is one of the most dangerous pillars of Zionism. Aliyah means Palestinian dispossession. Jews making Aliyah are not simply immigrants coming to live alongside Palestinians. They are settler-colonial migrants arriving as part of a deliberate movement to replace the Palestinian population. The Aliyah project directly fuels Israel’s illegal settlement enterprise: many of those who make Aliyah end up in settlements built on Palestinian land in the West Bank and East Jerusalem. Zionism has been entirely consistent in its goals over more than a century: the establishment of an exclusivist ethno-religious state on land that was already inhabited by Palestinians.2

There is also a profound absurdity here that must be named. A Jew whose family has lived in Poland or India for centuries holds an automatic legal “right” to live in Palestine. But a Palestinian whose family has been rooted in that land for millennia—ethnically cleansed in the Nakba of 1948—is denied that right entirely. This includes six million Palestinian refugees—many of them still living in camps—who were expelled from their towns and villages in 1948. It also includes people forced out of their homes more recently under Israel’s apartheid system. My own family was forced to leave Bethlehem in 2017 and has been unable to live together in Palestine since then. Why does a Jew from India have the right to move to Palestine, while I—the local—do not? The injustice could not be more stark.

Religious Connection, Not Settler-Colonial Right

At the same time, one might reasonably ask: what about the genuine spiritual connection to the land of Palestine that so many Jews carry, including non-Zionist Jews? This is hardly surprising: the Hebrew Bible breathes the air of that land almost on every page. When Psalms are recited in Jewish liturgy, for example, it is natural that worshippers feel a profound religious connection to the land. Is that connection itself immoral? Does it inevitably contribute to Palestinian dispossession?

There is a saying in Arabic: kull wāḥid ʿala dīnih, Allāh yiʿīnih, “each one according to their religion, may God help them.” The meaning is clear: every person is entitled to their religious convictions. If Jews feel a deep spiritual connection to the land, that is their right. What they are not entitled to is to weaponize that sentiment in order to dispossess Palestinians. The responsibility therefore falls on our Jewish allies and friends—the non-Zionist Jewish community—to articulate a liberative Jewish theology of land, one that refuses the supremacy and settler-colonialism that are hardwired into Zionist Aliyah.

Christian Zionism and the Prophecy of Return

When it comes to Christian interpretation of Scripture, that is our responsibility—especially those of us who are Christian biblical scholars and theologians.

A central claim of Christian Zionism is that the Jewish people possess a biblical—and therefore divinely sanctioned—right to Palestine.3 This claim is based on Old Testament promises that God would gather Israel back to the Promised Land after exile. The foundational text is Deuteronomy 30:1–10, a promise echoed throughout the prophetic tradition, including in Jeremiah, Ezekiel, and Isaiah. Many Christians, especially within Protestant traditions, interpret these promises as being fulfilled in the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948, the ongoing waves of Jewish Aliyah, and, by implication or explicit endorsement, the resulting dispossession of Palestinians.

This Christian Zionist reading of God’s promises in the Old Testament is deeply flawed. Substantial critiques exist from theological and ethical angles. I have recently contributed to this conversation in an extended chapter in Ross Wagner and Bruce Fisk’s edited volume: Being Christian After the Desolation of Gaza.4

However, when it comes to the Old Testament promises of Israel’s restoration, a question remains: if these promises are not fulfilled in the Zionist movement—then where are they fulfilled?

Palestinian Christian theologians have been giving a consistent answer: all the promises of God find their “yes” in Jesus (2 Corinthians 1:20).5 Here, I want to add something specific and perhaps surprising to that answer: the prophecy of Israel’s restoration, set in motion through the coming of Jesus, began to take concrete historical shape on the day of Pentecost.

Pentecost and the Restoration of Israel

I first noticed this during my PhD research, which examined the intertextual correlation between Acts and Deuteronomy in its Greek translation (the Septuagint, or LXX). This work, forthcoming as an academic book by Mohr Siebeck (Tübingen),6 led me to notice striking conceptual and linguistic connections between Acts—especially the Pentecost narrative—and the restoration prophecy of Deut 30:1–10 in its Greek form most likely known to Luke. Here are some of the key connections that I noticed:

1. The regathering of the exiled. Deuteronomy speaks of dispersed Israelites gathered “from one end of heaven (ouranos) to the other end of heaven (ouranos)” (30:4). Luke uses similar language in the Pentecost narrative. He narrates how “devout Jews (Ioudaioi; called Israēlitai in Acts 2:22) from every nation under heaven (ouranos)” gathered in Jerusalem—the heart of the Promised Land (cf. Acts 7:4–5).

2. Returning to God. Deuteronomy connects returning to the Land with returning to God (see Deut 30:2). In Acts, the Israelites (Acts 3:19) and later the nations (11:21; 14:15; 15:19) are invited to “return” to God through faith in Christ—with the Greek word epistrephō (to return) appearing in both texts.

3. Forgiveness of sins. In Deuteronomy 30, when the Israelites return to God, God forgives their sins (v. 3). In Acts, forgiveness of sins through Christ is extended to all who return to God (Acts 2:38; 3:19; 5:31; 13:38).

4. Joy. Deuteronomy 30:9 speaks of God rejoicing over his restored people. Joy is a defining mark of the early Jesus community (Acts 2:46).

5. The cleansed heart. Deuteronomy 30:6 promises that God will cleanse—perikatharizō—the heart (kardia) of the restored Israelites. In Acts, the cleansing— katharizō—of the heart (kardia) is the work of God through faith in Jesus and the Holy Spirit (Acts 15:8–9).

6. Judgment on persecutors. Deuteronomy 30:7 promises that those who hate and pursue the restored community will face curses. In Acts 12, Herod—who “laid violent hands on some who belonged to the church” (12:1), killed James, and arrested Peter—is struck down by an angel and dies (12:23).

The prophet Jeremiah takes up this same prophecy of return from Deuteronomy 30 and names it diathēkē kainē, “the new covenant” (Jer 31:31 [LXX: Jer 38:31]), the same phrase Luke uses to describe the covenant established by Jesus (Luke 22:20).

In summary, Luke draws upon the Deuteronomic theme of Israel’s restoration to describe the birth of the early Jesus community. Jews/Israelites from every nation under heaven gather together in Jerusalem—the heart of the Promised Land. There, they experience the renewal of their covenant with God (Pentecost in the first century was already associated with covenant renewal): they return to God, receive forgiveness of sins and the cleansing of the heart, and experience divine joy. The community then begins to multiply, fulfilling yet another strand of the restoration prophecy (see Deut 30:5). Even the promise of judgment against those who persecute the returnees finds its fulfillment—dramatically and concretely—in Acts 12. The convergence is too precise to be accidental. Luke is telling the story of Pentecost as the story of Israel’s restoration to the Promised Land.

Not a New Invention

Importantly, what I uncovered through my close reading of Acts with Greek Deuteronomy is not a new invention: the Orthodox Church’s lectionary for Pentecost already pairs the Acts 2 narrative with Ezekiel 36:24–28, a text that echoes Deut 30:1–10, combining the gathering of Israel with inner cleansing, but making the role of the Spirit more explicit:

I will take you from the nations and gather you from all the countries and bring you into your own land. I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean ... A new heart I will give you ... I will put my spirit within you.

In fact, the motif of Israel’s restoration in New Testament writings has long been recognized by major biblical scholars including E. P. Sanders and N. T. Wright. A monograph-length study by Michael E. Fuller—The Restoration of Israel (de Gruyter, 2006)—concludes that Luke “places paramount importance on the motif of re-gathering in his interpretation of the tradition of Israel’s restoration.”7

Conclusion: Pentecost Against Palestinian Dispossession

Aliyah, in its Zionist, settler-colonial form, is a tool of dispossession against the Palestinian people. It cannot and must not be baptized by Christian theology. From a Christian perspective, the promises of God are not fulfilled in settler-colonial migration to a land from which indigenous people are expelled. They are fulfilled in Jesus—and they began to be fulfilled, concretely and unmistakably, on the day of Pentecost, when the Spirit was poured out, hearts were cleansed, and Jews from every nation were gathered not to displace anyone, but to be transformed and bless the world.

Brothers and sisters,

I’m writing this as a fellow shepherd.

Not as a political voice. Not as someone trying to win an argument. Just as a pastor who carries something heavy.

I’m a Palestinian Christian. Born and raised in the U.S. to Palestinian parents. I speak Arabic. All of my extended family are Christians. Many of them still live in Palestine and Jordan. I also have relationships with churches in Lebanon. And there are worshipping believers, real followers of Jesus; in Bethlehem, Jerusalem, Ramallah... and even in Gaza.

One of those places is Birzeit. That’s where part of my family is from. Recently, my family in Birzeit experienced violence from settlers. My aunt was struck in the head with a rock. My cousin was detained while trying to protect her. Nothing happened to the attackers.

When I preach about loving enemies, I’m not doing it in theory.

I’m doing it while texting my cousins. While praying through anger. While trying to shepherd here in America and process what’s happening there.

And over time, a pastoral burden has been growing in me.

If I had to narrow it down to two things I hope we don’t miss as pastors in America, it would be these.

⸻

1. The Theology We Teach Is Shaping More Than We Realize

Many of us inherited theological frameworks about Israel and the Church that we’ve never really examined closely.

For some, that includes versions of dispensationalism or Christian Zionism that blur the line between biblical Israel and the modern nation-state of Israel. Over time, that framework can shape how our people instinctively respond to everything happening in that region.

I’m not questioning anyone’s love for Israel. I’m not denying the history of Jewish suffering. I’m not pretending this conflict is simple.

But I am asking: Have we considered how our theology shapes moral response? Have we discipled our people to equate modern geopolitics with covenant faithfulness?

Have we unintentionally taught believers that being “God’s people” is tied to national identity rather than union with Christ?

Because this doesn’t just shape how people interpret headlines.

It shapes how they understand their own identity in Christ.

If our people subconsciously view one modern nation as uniquely carrying the mantle of “God’s chosen people” in a way that sidelines the global, multiethnic Church then that affects how they see themselves. It affects how they read Scripture. It affects how they interpret suffering and power and land and promise.

The Church in Palestine, including in Gaza, is not a footnote in a prophecy chart. They are believers taking communion. Baptizing their children. Preaching Christ crucified. Burying loved ones. Worshipping Jesus in Arabic.

If our theology makes them invisible, we need to pause.

⸻

2. This Is a Discipleship Issue

At its core, this isn’t about left or right.

It’s about whether we are forming disciples who look like Jesus.

Are we teaching our people to:

• Grieve Israeli and Palestinian civilian deaths with the same tenderness?

• Refuse to dehumanize?

• Resist nationalism, whether American, Israeli, Palestinian, or any other?

• Hold firmly to the dignity and sanctity of every image bearer?

There is complexity in this conflict. Security concerns are real. History is layered and painful.

But some things remain clear: Targeting civilians is wrong. Settler violence against families is wrong. Terrorism is wrong. Collective punishment is wrong. Dehumanizing entire populations is wrong.

If we hesitate to say those things consistently, without qualifiers that only show up depending on who is responsible, our people are being discipled by something other than the kingdom of God.

And our young people notice.

The next generation is watching whether our compassion is tribal. Whether our theology bends toward power. Whether our allegiance to Christ is stronger than our allegiance to nation.

This is about formation.

About whether Jesus, not nationalism, shapes our moral imagination.

⸻

Why I’m Writing This

I’m not writing to correct you from a distance.

I’m inviting you into what it feels like to carry this as a Palestinian Christian pastor in America.

I love the Church here. I serve here. I believe in the American Church.

But I also carry the small, faithful Church in Palestine in my heart. The Church in Birzeit. The Church in Bethlehem. The Church in Jerusalem. The Church in Gaza gathering under unimaginable pressure.

They are not political props.

They are our family.

And when American Christian language flattens their experience or erases their suffering, it creates real spiritual confusion, for them and for us.

Because if our theology doesn’t produce humility, compassion, and moral consistency, something is misaligned.

⸻

If We Remember Only Two Things

If pastors remember only two things from this letter, let it be this:

1. The theology we teach about Israel and the Church deeply shapes how our people understand their identity in Christ as God’s people and how they interpret modern events in light of that identity.

2. This is ultimately about discipleship, about forming people who reflect the character of Jesus in a world filled with propaganda, fear, trauma, and tribalism.

I’m not asking anyone to become a Middle East expert. I’m asking us to shepherd carefully. To examine assumptions. To make room for voices we may not have heard. To speak clearly about the dignity of all image bearers. To refuse to let nationalism, of any kind, compete with allegiance to Christ.

I write this as your brother. Not angry. Not trying to divide. Just carrying something personal.

May our theology produce Christlikeness. May our discipleship produce courage and compassion. May our witness reflect the heart of Jesus for every person made in His image.

In Christ,

Sameer Khader Dabit

Between Sunday—the Sunday of resurrection, the Sunday of hope, the Sunday on which we celebrate life—and Friday, the Friday of suffering, the Friday of death, the Friday of oppression and injustice…
Between the cross and the resurrection… there is Saturday.

A day we rarely speak about, theologically or liturgically.
Between life and death…
between hope and despair…
between promise and fulfillment…
there lies this silent day.

It is a day situated between two great events, yet it is heavy with silence, filled with waiting, burdened with questions that have not yet found answers.

In the Gospels, very little is said about it.
What about the disciples?
What about the women?
What were they thinking?
Was it silence? Confusion? Fear? Hiding?
Or was there still hope—a fragile clinging to the possibility that Christ might rise as he had said?

Did they live on the memory of Jesus’ words, or were they overwhelmed by the reality of the cross?
Did they hold on to the promise… or collapse under the weight of reality?

In fact, even the Gospels speak only briefly about this day. In Matthew 27:62–66, we read how the chief priests and Pharisees gathered on that Saturday and said to Pilate: “Sir, we remember how that deceiver said, while he was still alive, ‘After three days I will rise again.’ Therefore command the tomb to be made secure until the third day…”

So Pilate said to them, “You have a guard; go, make it as secure as you can.”
And they went and made the tomb secure by sealing the stone and setting a guard.

Here again, we see the religious institution and the political authority conspiring together against Jesus—even after his execution.
They feared him even after his death.
And once more, they resorted to force, to violence, to the logic of power in order to secure their rule. This is the only language the Empire knows.

As if sealing the stone could stop the work of God.
As if guards could prevent resurrection.
They surround the tomb… yet they do not realize that life cannot be contained. (The irony is that the very same scene is repeated today in Jerusalem—before the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, before the Holy Tomb—yet they cannot stand in the way of the light. Life cannot be contained)

So we ask: how do we live with hope?
How do we live this “Saturday”—not in its literal sense, but in its existential and theological meaning?

Saturday describes the human condition—and, in many ways, the condition of our land.
We live suspended between suffering and resurrection.
At times, it feels as though Good Friday has not yet ended.
At other times, we feel stuck—waiting, longing, hoping for a word after the silence.

We live in a time when the silence feels long, the waiting exhausting, as if God himself is silent—yet in truth, he is at work in hidden ways.
God’s silence is not absence… but deep activity.
Not an end… but a beginning we cannot yet see.

Hope is a difficult concept—dangerous, even.
Dangerous because some see it as emotional anesthesia, as false illusion—something we use to numb reality.
But let us be honest: can we live without hope?
Is our hope built on illusion—or on truth?

Is hope an escape from reality… or the very power that enables us to face it?
Is it deception… or salvation?
Is it weakness… or the greatest strength a human being can possess?

The Gospel of John tells us that Jesus prepared his disciples for this moment:

“Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn into joy…

A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy… “So with you: now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.”

Jesus is speaking about what is to come—his crucifixion and his resurrection.
There is joy after sorrow.
The sorrow of the cross is followed by the joy of resurrection.
The sorrow of departure is followed by the joy of the Spirit.
The sorrow of this present world, filled with darkness, will give way to the joy of his coming again.

Sorrow, then, is not the final word.
It is a stage in a larger story—a story that God is leading toward joy.
Sorrow is a station… not the end of the road.
Pain is a chapter… not the whole story.

To make this clearer, Jesus uses the image of a woman in labor.
The pains of childbirth—how intense they are, how long they feel.
In those moments, they seem endless.
But what is the result? Life.
New life born out of pain.
A beginning that makes the suffering fade.

This is how God works: out of the depths of pain, something new is born.
From the deepest wounds, life emerges.
From the harshest moments, dawn breaks.

Jesus was thinking of his disciples after the cross.
He wanted to plant faith in them.
He wanted to teach them what hope means.

Do not be afraid… your sorrow will turn into joy.
Do not be afraid… even when everything seems finished.
Do not be afraid… even when the tomb stands before you.

If there is any place on earth that needs to hear these words—that sorrow will surely turn into joy—it is our land.
Wave after wave of labor pains.
Crisis after crisis.
And still we ask: How long?
When will relief come?

How long, O Lord?
How long will the night endure?
How long must we wait for dawn?

We think of Gaza—years of devastation, and it has not ended.
We think of Lebanon—displacement, death, fear.
We think of what is happening here in the West Bank—displacement, settler violence, daily uncertainty.

These are lived experiences.
Moments that push us toward despair.
Perhaps even toward leaving.

This is what happens when hope fades.
When it feels as though Saturday will never end.

And yet… we have not lost hope.
Life continues.
We build.
We endure.

Is this what Emile Habibi called “pessoptimism”?

“I do not know whether I am an optimist or a pessimist…
When I wake up, I thank God I have not died in my sleep.
When misfortune happens, I thank Him that something worse did not.”

We see both halves of the cup—the full and the empty.
We live the contradiction.
We see the pain… but we refuse to let it have the final word.

But is this what Christ calls us to?
Optimism? Positive thinking? Endurance alone?

Yes… and more than that.

The issue is not optimism.
The issue is Christian hope.

Hope is not expectation.
Hope is certainty.

Hope does not say, “I wish.”
Hope says, “I know.”

Because I am certain of the end, I live differently.
My convictions change.
Fear no longer controls me.

Without this hope, life becomes “pessoptimism”—
perhaps things will change… perhaps not.

But hope says: I will live as one who knows that things will change.
Not because circumstances say so… but because God has said so.

Where does this certainty come from?

First: because God has promised—and we believe his promise.
Like a child trusts his father completely, so we are called to trust God.
A trust that does not analyze, does not negotiate—simply trusts.

Second: because we believe that justice will prevail.

As Martin Luther King Jr. once said:
“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

Even when truth is crushed, it rises again.
Even when lies spread, they do not endure forever.

Even if the night is long—dawn is coming.
Even if injustice spreads—justice will rise.
Even if falsehood appears victorious—truth does not die.

This is hope.

Third—and most importantly—we have hope because we are people of the resurrection.
Because Christ is risen.
Because behind the wall… there is an empty tomb.

That is the foundation.

As Lesslie Newbigin said:
“I am neither an optimist nor a pessimist… but Christ is risen.”

That is the difference.

We are not optimistic—because reality is hard.
We are not pessimistic—because God is alive.
We are resurrection people.

Each of us carries struggles—illness, uncertainty, exhaustion, disappointment.
But we hold on to the words of Jesus:

“You now have sorrow… but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice.”

Let us believe—even when we do not feel it.
Let us believe—even when we cannot see it.
Let us believe—because God’s promise does not fail.

This is the Saturday of hope.
The Saturday of waiting.
The Saturday of steadfastness.

A steadfastness that does not collapse in silence.
A steadfastness that does not surrender to darkness or death.

Not naïve endurance—
but active, resistant, faith-filled perseverance.

A steadfastness rooted in conviction.
A steadfastness energized by resurrection power.

A steadfastness that sees the tomb… but refuses to believe the tomb is the end.

A steadfastness that does not bow.
A steadfastness that does not break.
A steadfastness that knows: Saturday is not the end—it is the road to Sunday.

And so we say:

Hope is not passive waiting.
Hope is action.

Because we are certain of the ending, we work.
We build.
We proclaim life.

We walk.
We strive.
We do not grow weary.

We rise on wings like eagles.
We resist despair.
We live with joy.

We plant despite the pain.
We build despite destruction.
We love despite hatred.
We believe… despite everything.

Because we are a people of hope.
A people of the resurrection.

We live this hope—without fear, without doubt—
trusting that God is with us and for us.

God is with us… in the Saturday.
God is with us… in the silence.
God is with us… even in the tomb.

But the tomb…
is not the end.

Amen.

This Easter, I return to the question of the women at the tomb: “Who will roll away the stone for us?”

I reflect first from their vantage point—standing outside the tomb—and I see how many stones today stand between us and the dawn of the resurrection.

Who will roll away for us the stone of war? We are still living in a time of devastation. The siege of Gaza has not ended. Death continues to reap lives, and hunger devours bodies. We have been sold a false peace—a peace of power, not of justice; the peace of empire, not the peace of the crucified Christ.

I reflect on the wars of our region—on those who have lost their loved ones, on the displaced, nearly a million of them in Lebanon—and we cry out: How long, O Lord? How long will we choose the path of violence? Lord, show us the dawn of the resurrection, where there is no war and no death.

Who will roll away for us the stone of checkpoints and barriers, so that we may reach Jerusalem and pray there in freedom and safety? So that we may travel from one village to another without fear of settler violence? How can we celebrate justice while land is seized in the name of “divine right”? How can we celebrate life while others celebrate death, and laws are enacted that legitimize the death of our prisoners?

Who will roll away for us the stone of our fallen nature? For selfishness, greed, and materialism rage within us and tear our world apart. Our humanity lives under the weight of tyrannical rulers who exalt themselves to the edge of divinity, appointing prophets to justify their oppression, while offering their own people as sacrifices on the altars of pride and self-interest.

And who will roll away the stone from our blinded hearts—from my own heart—that we may see the light of Christ and discern the will of the Creator for us? That we may recognize our place before God, and embrace our calling to be witnesses of the resurrection—to believe it, to proclaim it, and to live as instruments of peace and love, witnesses to the living God.

Who will roll away this stone?

The women saw the stone from the outside… but inside, there was silence, darkness, and death. And so, at times, does our reality appear: silence, darkness, and death.

But this Easter, I say to myself: Hope in God. Remember that your reality is not determined by the news, nor by the policies of the occupier, nor by the wars of empires, but by the truth of the resurrection.

Yes, the eye sees darkness, the ear hears silence, and reality proclaims death. But the Gospel announces a dawn that is surely coming, and the empty tomb proclaims the victory of life and the end of sorrow. Let us live by faith, not by sight.

Christ is risen. And God has declared and affirmed that the final word does not belong to death, but to life; not to darkness, but to light.

The stone will not remain. Darkness is temporary. Silence will not endure. God will speak—and his word is a word of life, salvation, forgiveness, renewal, and love.

There, at the dawn of the resurrection, we discover a faith in God rooted in peace—not in extremism or supremacy; a faith that unites rather than divides. There, we glimpse and begin to live the hope proclaimed by the prophet Micah, where justice prevails and peace abides:

“He shall judge between many peoples, and shall arbitrate between strong nations far away; they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore; but they shall all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraid; for the mouth of the Lord of hosts has spoken.” (Micah 4:3–4)

God has spoken, and his word is this: Christ is risen. This is our hope this Easter.

My prayer is that we do not lose this hope—that we remain steadfast in our faith, firmly rooted in this hope, and that we become witnesses to the Lord of the resurrection—we, the people of the resurrection. When we bear witness to the truth, seek peace, and proclaim life; when we make love our banner, mercy our way, and justice our foundation; and when we confess Christ, risen from the dead, as Lord and Savior.

Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.

Every single day, people are still being killed.

Last week, one incident overwhelmed me and left me shell-shocked. Maybe because I know the family of one of the victims. I know his brother from my days at Birzeit University. Since his brother was killed, he has been sharing nonstop about him — remembering him, grieving him, refusing to let him become just another number.

The name of the young man I cannot stop thinking about is Abdul Rahman — “Abboud,” as they called him.

He was an engineer.

The reason I cannot stop thinking about him is the brutality of the killing. He was volunteering with a field kitchen, helping feed displaced people who are themselves victims of this genocide. A bomb killed the three young men working there.

One of them was Abdul Rahman.

The image was unbearable: rice spilled onto the ground, blood mixed with the rice.

I cannot get it out of my mind.

And I keep reading what his brother writes about him — lamenting him, remembering his smile, mourning the cruel separation imposed by Gaza’s isolation. He wrote about not even being able to say goodbye to his own brother.

One sentence shattered me:

“It is as if we were born for sorrow.”

And so I wonder, is this really our fate as Palestinians?

The more I thought about Abdul Rahman, the more torn I became between conflicting emotions.

On the one hand, perhaps I was trying to find something noble amid the horror. I know I should not romanticize death, and yet I could not help thinking: what an honorable way to spend your final moments — feeding hungry people, serving the displaced, volunteering in the midst of catastrophe. What a testimony to humanity in a time of inhumanity.

What a way to be remembered.

But then another thought immediately crashes in: the cruelty of this genocide. The cruelty of a world that takes someone like him. The cruelty of a humanity that watches and moves on.

And I cannot stop asking:

Why, Lord?
Why him?
Why any of them?

Why do good people suffer?
Why has this not stopped?
Where are the people of conscience?
How much longer?

These questions torment us. Perhaps they always will.

But at the very least, we must not stop praying. And we must not stop speaking.

I am praying for this family. I am praying for Gaza. But prayer alone cannot become an excuse for silence.

The least we can do is tell their stories. Say their names. Refuse to let the world look away.

Do not stop talking about Gaza.

Do not stop calling for this genocide to end.

(Images are from Abdul Rahman’s Facebook page)

However, as a teenager I drifted away from faith, and as an undergraduate student at Birzeit University I became an agnostic—almost an atheist. I was influenced by American New Age spirituality, the kind that teaches that if you simply believe in yourself, you can achieve whatever you desire. You can be a god.

I remember once trying to “evangelize” a friend with these ideas. I convinced him to watch a video explaining this worldview. As I watched it myself, I thought: this is 100% true. Anyone who believes in themselves and practices the so-called “law of attraction” can achieve whatever they want. Therefore, I must be god.

But the moment I reached that conclusion, everything changed.

I saw the cross before me. I felt the love of God overwhelm me. And a striking thought came to my mind: this is what makes God, God—this unfathomable, sacrificial love.

The message was clear: if one desires to be like God—to imitate God, which is the sum of all the commandments—then one must imitate Him in costly, self-giving love.

That moment turned my life upside down. Soon after, I gave my life to Jesus. A year later, I left my job as a computer engineer and joined Operation Mobilization in East Asia. Later, I studied theology and eventually began serving at Bethlehem Bible College, where I now serve as Executive Director of the Bethlehem Institute for Peace and Justice.

Good Friday has been deeply personal to me ever since. This morning, as I meditated on the mystery of the cross, I again experienced an overwhelming sense of God’s love.

But alongside that experience came a deep grief.

I was struck by the idolatry of some who claim to be Christians, yet whose words and allegiances are far removed from Jesus—his life, his teaching, and his cross. In recent years, we have heard comparisons between Donald Trump and biblical figures such as Cyrus, David, and Jehu.1 But just days ago, his spiritual advisor, Paula White, crossed yet another line by comparing Trump to Jesus himself.2 Even many evangelical Trump supporters have not gone that far.3

How can anyone dare to compare the righteous and holy Son of God with a figure marked by a pursuit of power and wealth—one who wages wars while speaking of peace, who stands unconditionally alongside an Israeli government carrying out genocide, who is associated with deception, and who has faced serious moral accusations?

The God revealed on the cross is the one who emptied himself and became human. He stood in solidarity with the suffering and the marginalized. He identified fully with human pain and bore it in his own body. He gave his life for a broken world.

Jesus, who—though being in the very nature of God—washed the feet of those who would betray him, and prayed for the forgiveness of those who crucified him, cannot be compared with leaders driven by vengeance, domination, and self-preservation.

This is not merely an error. It is a theological scandal.

The cross exposes the emptiness of power that exalts itself. It reveals that true power is found in self-giving love, not coercion; in humility and sacrifice, not domination.

When I first encountered Christians defending the powerful who perpetuate violence, the cry of my heart was: Lord, hallowed be your name.

This Good Friday, that cry has become a lament: How long, O Lord, will your holy name be blasphemed by those who claim to follow you?

Photo by Alicia Quan on Unsplash

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CT appears to receive and amplify Israeli government claims and nationalist talking points with no journalistic scrutiny to be seen. Palestinian testimony, meanwhile—including the testimony of Palestinian Christians—is, for the most part, simply left out of the frame.

This apparent failure of journalistic responsibility to verify facts has created a serious credibility problem.

I’ve raised some of these concerns privately in correspondence with CT editors and leadership. My goal was to encourage greater factual rigor and consistent standards of skepticism toward official Israeli statements and national talking points. The silence with which these questions were met confirmed for me that the issue is larger than a few mistakes.

The Pattern

CT has an editorial posture visible across multiple years of commentary and reporting, especially on some of CT’s most visible platforms, including The Bulletin and The Promised Land podcasts.

Again and again, listeners hear Israeli government framing presented as fact, even when there is strong contradictory evidence or testimony.

In recent months alone, CT commentator Mike Cosper (recently departed from CT) repeated claims that Israeli settlers are routinely prosecuted for violence against Palestinians. There is no universe in which that is factually accurate.

According to fifteen years of monitoring by the Israeli human rights organization Yesh Din, an eye popping 93 percent of investigations into settler attacks end without an indictment and only three percent result in a conviction. Beyond the numbers, Yesh Din’s research shows that Israeli police routinely fail to conduct even basic investigative steps: they often do not visit the scene, collect evidence, or take witness statements. Palestinians are frequently discouraged or prevented from filing complaints, and many cases are closed on the grounds of “unknown offender” even when attackers are identifiable. Soldiers are often present during settler attacks and do not intervene, and in some cases appear to shield the attackers. These patterns show that the problem is not isolated incidents but a systemic failure of enforcement that effectively protects settler violence from accountability. They point to a virtually universal pattern of impunity. Mike Cosper’s claim was wrong.

Listeners have also heard settler violence described as “complex,” “skirmishes,” or the actions of isolated “troubled teens,” language with dubious factual relationship to the documented realities Palestinians consistently report: armed raids, destroyed crops, burned homes, shootings, forced displacement, and attacks often occurring in the presence — or under the protection — of Israeli soldiers.

Similarly, CT platforms have repeated rhetoric suggesting some settlements are built in places “where nothing was there,” echoing a longstanding Israeli settler narrative that erases Palestinian agricultural presence, village boundaries, grazing lands, and generational ties to the land.

Each of these examples isolated on their own wouldn’t necessarily establish a pattern. But when the errors universally lean in the same direction, it becomes clear these are not simple mistakes.

A Tale of Two Double-Taps

The contrast became especially clear to me while listening to two episodes of The Bulletin side-by-side last year.

One episode discussed a U.S. “double-tap” strike (against a boat in the Caribbean) in which survivors of an initial attack were struck again in a second assault. CT treated the event as a profound moral problem. Mike Cosper and Russell Moore approached the story with clear ethical seriousness. They discussed just war principles, restraint, accountability, and the danger of accepting government labels uncritically. They warned listeners against allowing the label “terrorist” to short-circuit moral reasoning (the Trump administration had been referring to the people on these boats as “narco terrorists”).

They offered a sober moral critique.

But when discussing Israel’s double-tap strike at Nasser Hospital in Khan Yunis in an episode of the same podcast a few months prior—an attack that killed journalists, medical staff, rescue workers, patients, and bystanders responding to the survivors of the first strike—the posture was fundamentally different.

The segment did not primarily frame the strike as a moral crisis demanding ethical scrutiny. Instead, much of the conversation revolved around Israel’s “communications and PR problem.”

More concerningly, the episode repeated official Israeli government talking points as factual, including allegations that some of those killed were enemy operatives disguising themselves as journalists.

Those claims were unverified at the time..

In the weeks that followed, independent investigations disproved the claims CT had repeated and Israeli authorities themselves later acknowledged procedural failures surrounding the strike.

But by then, the claims had already been presented to CT listeners as credible descriptions of reality.

The contrast between the two episodes was striking.

When the United States carried out a double-tap strike, CT offered moral critique and theological scrutiny.

When Israel carried out a double-tap strike on Palestinians, CT moved toward narrative management, official framing, and the repetition of government claims that proved untrue.

Whose Claims Receive Scrutiny?

There is a deeper question here:

Why does CT appear to accept Israeli claims without fact checking or verification?

CT knows that governments routinely distribute misleading information, especially in wartime. That is not unique to Israel.

Good journalism understands this. Good journalism treats official claims cautiously until independently verified.

But in evangelical media spaces, official Israeli narratives get a pass. And then publications like Christianity Today become party to misinformation.

Palestinian Christians Have Been Saying This for Years

For many Palestinian Christians, none of this is new.

For years, they have told Western evangelicals that their evangelical institutions ignore their testimony in favor of Israeli official narratives. They have watched their experiences questioned, minimized, reframed, or simply ignored while Israeli state claims are granted immediate moral and factual credibility.

As a result many view major evangelical institutions as participants—sometimes knowingly, sometimes unconsciously—in their erasure. And it’s not only Palestinian Christians who see this—increasingly American evangelical youth see the same thing.

That perception emerged from ongoing practices and patterns in the evangelical media landscape like the ones described above.

The Bottom Line

The issue is not whether Christianity Today should criticize Hamas, acknowledge Israeli suffering, or report complexity. Of course it should.

The issue is whether CT is willing to apply the same journalistic skepticism, evidentiary standards, and moral seriousness to Israeli claims that it would apply to any other government.

Right now, it clearly does not.

And until that changes, CT’s credibility on Israel and Palestine will remain deeply compromised—especially among the very Palestinian Christians it claims to care about.