A Parable

I attended a church in Jerusalem about a month ago. The following is an adaptation of an Iraqi (I think he said Iraqi..) parable that the pastor included in his sermon.

The Interpreter

Once there was a small kingdom. In this beautiful kingdom, there was only one man who was literate. Because he was literate, he was considered the wisest man in the land. Whenever anyone received a message, they would bring it to him to interpret. Because this man, The Interpreter, could read, his wisdom was never questioned.

One night the King had a disturbing dream. He dreamt that the sky turned red and began raining swords down on his kingdom. The king was very troubled and wondered what his dream meant. Naturally, he sent for the Interpreter.

The king’s guards knocked on the Interpreter’s door. He gingerly opened the door. As the Interpreter followed the guards to the palace, he wracked his brain for a suitable explanation of the king’s nightmare. He had nothing. How shameful. He was as good as dead. As he neared the castle, the Interpreter became more concerned. Suddenly he heard a low, gravely old voice. He looked around. There in the alley, about three feet to his left was an old man with white hair and a long beard.

“I can interpret the dream for you”

He must have imagined that.

"What?" The Interpreter asked.

The old man's shrewd eyes twinkled as he responded, “I can interpret the king’s dream. He will surely give you gold and silver if you decipher his dream. If you agree to share half of your prize with me, I will tell you what the dream means”

The Interpreter was at a loss. 

“Ok.” 

The old man smiled ever so slightly. “The swords raining from the sky represent the violence and evil that will come upon the kingdom. Everyone in the kingdom will act out violently against one another.”

The Interpreter nodded solemnly, thanked the old man, straightened out his clothes and walked into the palace to meet with the king. After explaining the dream to the king, the Interpreter left the palace. As he left, he began to resent the old man. He began to think evil thoughts and devised a plan to kill the old man so that he would not have to share his new riches. The wise old man learned of the Interpreter’s plan and went into hiding—avoiding the wrath of the fickle fool. Because he could not find the old man, the Interpreter continued home. He enjoyed his new riches and fabricated prestige. 

Then the king had another dream. This time, the sky opened up and rained down thousands of shepherd’s staffs. The king was again distressed and remembered the Interpreter.

As the Interpreter made his way back to the king, he again ran into the wise old man. The old man forgave the Interpreter’s violent fit of vengeance and offered again to help him in return for a portion of the king’s reward. The Interpreter, desperate for help, agreed.

“The king’s most recent dreams warn that the kingdom will be filled with cheaters and liars,” explained the old man.  

The Interpreter again went and told the meaning of the dream to the king. After being richly rewarded again, the Interpreter set off towards his house. As he left the palace, however, he began to dread seeing the old man. I don’t want to share with him. He didn’t risk his reputation to help the king. I did all the hard work. And so he devised a plan to avoid the alleyway where the old man waited for him, and thus cheated the old man out of  the gold and silver.

A few months later, the king had a third dream. In this dream, scepters rained down from a golden sky. The perplexed king sent for the Interpreter a third time. The Interpreter slowly began his trek towards the castle. Again the old man appeared and offered help. The Interpreter shamelessly agreed.

“This dream promises hope. The people of the kingdom will show love and generosity to each other.”

The Interpreter pranced into the palace and interpreted the king’s dream. The king was pleased and rewarded him lavishly. As the Interpreter descended the steps of the palace and headed out of the gates, he began to look for the old man. He saw him sitting just inside the little alleyway.  The Interpreter proudly walked up to him. “Thank you for your kindness. Here is all the gold and silver that the king gave me. It is yours. Take it.”

The old man angrily stood up and shook his fist at the Interpreter:

“I don’t want anything to do with you! Nothing you say or do means anything. I told you that the first dream promised violence: you devised a plan to kill me. I told you the second warned about lying: you cheated me out of my portion of the reward. Finally, I told you the third dream represented love and generosity: you offered me all that the king gave you. You are too easily swayed by circumstance. Get out of my sight. Leave me in peace.”

This simple story offers a profound message. Don’t let your circumstances determine your actions. Do not hate because others hate. Do not lie because others lie. 

God wants us to be genuinely loving, kind, and generous. Not because it is easy. But because it is right. Not because it is popular. But because it is how we were created to behave. If we only love and care for others when it is convenient or expected, our lives will be marked by inconsistency. Our love will seem meaningless and our generosity duplicitous. Be genuine lovers of God who consistently show compassion to others. 

Hospitality

I am going to start taking official Arabic lessons on Wednesday. I am pumped. I cannot wait to learn the language of the beautiful people I am living around and working with. So far, I have been trying to learn from people around me. It has been a challenge. And oh so entertaining.

One of the other teachers at the school has given me an informal lesson. It was so much fun. She sent a taxi to my house and assured me that he knew where he was going. I should just hop in. So, I hiked up my driveway to the main road and waited for a taxi to show up. As the yellow cab pulled up to me, I waved and asked if he was sent to pick me up. “Yeah, yeah, get in.”

After about five minutes of winding through the streets of Beit Sahour and up through Bethlehem, he pulled off the main road and turned down the steepest, dustiest, gravel road I have ever seen. As we made our sharp descent I started questioning my life choices. What if this is the wrong place? There is no way I am walking back up that hill. What if she isn’t home? I don’t speak Arabic. Help. When we finally stopped at the bottom of a series of steep hills, he looked at me like “why are you still sitting there?” So I asked him how much I owed him and reached into my purse. He said thirty shekels and started honking the car horn vigorously.

Just as I started pulling my wallet out of my purse I hear Nisreen’s wonderfully raspy voice call “Helllllooooo my friend! How are you??” She started walking out of her apartment building towards the car. As soon as she reached us, she turned to the taxi driver, yelled something at him in Arabic, tossed him 15 shekels and tells me to get out of the car. “Don’t pay him.” As I got out of the car, she hugged me and quickly ushered me into her adorable little apartment. Her sister and mother were seated in the living room and the table behind them was filled with plates of food: maqlubah, Arabic salad, drinks, chips. I love food. I was in heaven.

I love talking almost as much as I love food. So does Nisreen. So we sat there at the table talking and laughing. When we finally got around to the language lesson, we had about 45 minutes before both of us had to be somewhere. (I should explain that I agreed to teach her Spanish if she taught me Arabic. So, the lesson was more involved than it normally would have been). Nevertheless, we sat down and began writing English, Arabic, and Spanish phrases and words in these little notebooks. I can now say “sakre al bab” (close the door), “Iftahe al talage” (open the refrigerator), and other random phrases. I don’t know how useful they are, but knowing some phrases—any phrases—is better than nothing.

This informal lesson has been one of my favorite experiences here so far. The wonderful company, delicious food, and hilarious conversation flawlessly exhibited the precious hospitality of the culture. I felt at home.

JAFFA

Palm Trees and Canopies 

Church Bells

Seaside

Boating

Tourists in Jaffa

Hungry Kitty

Horizon

Tel Aviv Skyline <3 

Vines

Fear and Connection

Transportation in general is interesting here. The traffic is unpredictable, the roads are uneven, and street names are basically obsolete. So, when I take a taxi anywhere I describe a landmark and hope that the driver understood what I said as he takes off up some treacherously steep, unbelievably narrow path.

Last Sunday I asked the taxi driver to take me to the “Alexander Hotel on Manger Street.” (The church we were going to is near there) I thought I was giving wonderfully specific directions. I knew the street; I remembered the name of the hotel. How could we possibly get lost? Well he took me to Manger Square. Super different. It’s a tourist attraction. I guess bringing me with my blonde hair and extremely foreign accent to Manger Square made logical sense. I tried to explain to the driver that this was not where I wanted to go and he simply goes “OH!!! Alexandra Hotel! Yes yes I know.” Well the sign above the hotel does say Alexander, but I guess that’s not what people call it. Basically I quickly realized that getting anywhere in this city is chaotic and unpredictable.

This week I had bus duty. Given my experience so far with transportation, I was a little wary of the idea of bus duty. How does the driver know where every student on the bus lives—there aren’t addresses? How far do they all live? How late is it going to be before I get to go home and eat? I thought these were all very valid questions. I soon realized that the bus driver didn’t know where everyone lived, but Insha’Allah he will figure it all out and remember after the first few days. And even though all of the students lived within Beit Sahour—the area that the school is located in—the entire bus route took over an hour. My stomach was roaring by the time I got home.

One of the little girls hopped on the bus I was on and plopped down next to her friend. They were giggling and talking to me for a few minutes. Next thing I know, the bus is pulling out of the parking lot and we are on our way. We begin our winding journey through the streets of Beit Sahour and are promptly stopped by what seems like a traffic jam. It was a checkpoint at the top of the extremely steep hill we were stopped on. So the bus—a manual vehicle—struggled up the hill and lurched around a truck and a few cars as we neared the top of the mountain. As we passed the checkpoint and continued our journey the bus driver waved and greeted many people walking and sitting outside along the road.

After a few minutes, I looked across the aisle and noticed one of the little girls was sobbing. She had huge tears rolling down here cheeks. The piece of pita bread that had been in her mouth dropped to the floor as she cried.I quickly tried to comfort her and ask her what happened. Her little friend, who speaks better English than even some of the oldest children at school, turned to me and said “Miss, she’s on the wrong bus!” There are two buses at school. She hopped on the wrong one and was now completely distraught. The bus driver figured this out and was calling the other bus driver to find a place to meet. This was an ordeal in itself. There really aren’t addresses here so I have no idea how the buses found each other. But, miraculously the other bus pulled up behind us after only 10 or 15 minutes and the little girl with a tear-stained face ran to the correct bus. The rest of the route went smoothly. Somehow we stumbled upon every students home and delivered the children to their waiting mothers. We had to backtrack a few times, and wake a few children up as we pulled up to their homes, but eventually it was my turn to be dropped off. I ran into the house, grateful that the bus successfully made it over every perilously  steep hill, avoided every crazy rut, eased over the obnoxiously large speed bumps, and arrived safely at the grocery store by my house.

While ignoring street names, meandering through back alleys and narrow roads, and memorizing landmarks to remember how to get somewhere all seem like very inefficient practices, I like to think they reflect how relational this culture is. Instead of rattling off a house number and street name, you have to describe whose house you live next to or whose store is on the same block as you. You are forced to see your surroundings, to look outside of yourself. This is a very foreign custom for us individualistic Americans. I am learning to embrace it.

I love describing where I live or where I want to go to a taxi driver because it always turns into a conversation. He has to ask clarifying questions, my knowledge is tested and often fails, but it forces me to learn quickly. I have to pay attention. Noticing people and places becomes crucial. It forces me outside of the comfortable habit of tunnel vision that I have grown so accustomed to.

Honestly, this whole premise of talking to each other, seeing each other, and being aware of your surroundings seems to be in stark contrast to the walled culture I have experienced here. The juxtaposition of division between groups and forced familiarity is very difficult to understand. It is a strange and fascinating dance between the fear of anything other and a deep desire for connection.

BEIT SAHOUR

Beit Sahour

Small bread making shop near our house

Children playing in an open area near The Virgin Mary's Well

Stairways

The best pizza in Beit Sahour

Beit Sahour

Beit Sahour

A view of the city from Beit Jala. (Jordan is in the distance)