Sermon: 'Palestinian Church: Faith & Hope' by John Na'em Snobar
James Chapel, Union Theological Seminary – 12 November 2024
Good afternoon,
I would like to start by acknowledging the land where we are standing today.
This land is Manhata, which means ‘land of hills’ in the Algonquian language of Unami, spoken by the Lenni-Lenape people.
I pay my respects to the ancestors of these lands, whose Spirit I have felt welcome me here today.
My acknowledgement of this land falls short of the enormous debt owed to its ancestral land owners.
I offer then, to the Lenni-Lenape people, frankincense, which burns here, alongside, myrrh.
In place of the gold, stolen from these lands, I offer sage, an ancestral plant burnt by my Palestinian ancestors, and the ancestors of these lands.
For the forgiveness of debts, and my own trespass here, I offer the prayer taught to us by a Palestinian Jew from Nazareth.
[Play song]
My name is John Na’em Snobar, and I am an an indigenous Palestinian Christian Seminarian at Union Theological Seminary.
Indigenous Palestinians, including Palestinian Christians – some of whom have Jewish ancestry – differed to the Zealots, Essenes, Pharisees, Sagesses. Palestinians were not exiled until the Palestinian Exile of 1948AD.
Palestinian identity is consistent with the ever-shifting identity associated with reality – in the case of Palestinians from Canaanite to Philistine to Judahite and Israelite, to Hamonic, to Roman, to Byzantine, to Arab, to Ottoman, to Palestinian – and now, in my case, to Australian.
Twenty years after the Palestinian Exile of 1948AD, known to Arabs as the ‘Nakba’, my grandfather, Faik, returned to his homeland – as is inevitable.
Indulge me now, as I share a story about a young Palestinian Priest in New York, telling of past, present, and future events, before then returning to the Sermon today:
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After studying theology at the American University of Beirut, young Ibrahim decided to join the priesthood.
His calling to serve God was motivated by the inspiration he drew from his father, Faik Haddad.
Although he had reached the senior post of Bishop of Jerusalem, most of his life, Faik was a local priest.
Ibrahim understood the challenges of the role, having moved around all over Palestine, with his Father, who served in small churches.
That his Father had eventually became Bishop of Jerusalem, in the Foreign Church, came later in life, was not of consequence, to Ibrahim.
After all, it made sense for a Palestinian Christian to follow God.
Jesus of Nazareth, Messiah to some, Prophet to others, was a Palestinian Jew.
‘It’s wonderful we have a Palestinian Christian!’ the Senior Priest of the New York Parish told young Father Ibrahim.
Father Ibrahim recounted the story to us, shortly after leaving the hospital.
Mama and Teta were rolling waraq dawali; they found frozen vine leaves at the Levantine Arabic shop, in Houston.
The dish was a Palestinian staple, though many others too had a claim.
Like a child, Ibrahim sat on the side of the couch, mustering all his energy, to get things off his chest.
‘I expanded the congregation, you should have seen it, Baba! We had people coming in from the street, from all over New York! Harlem, I’m talking Harlem, do you know what I mean? Randa, do you remember, Harlem? Where all the Porto Ricans were? ’ he said.
He was worked up; I couldn’t sense if he was angry or excited. Was he like me too, a boy wanting praise, love and approval from his Father?
‘Calm down, Ibrahim,’ Mama said, wrapping her final vine leaf. Her hands were covered with uncooked rice and meat, which stuck to her fingers.
‘The doctor said you need to rest, don’t upset yourself with these stories,’ Mama said.
‘Don’t worry about it, Baba,’ , the Bishop said, commanding the space.
‘Just focus on getting better now, then you can get back to New York, and all the Porto Ricans.’
Ibrahim was a charming young priest, with a wild sense of humour. He had lots of friends.
When he had first been appointed the New York Parish, he reached out to the Palestinian and Levantine Christian families of New York, inviting them to come to Church.
Many had either known or heard of his father, Bishop of Jerusalem, Faik Haddad.
They were pleased to learn that Ibrahim was now in New York. They came to the Church, and brought family and friends, helping to expand God’s congregation.
Like is father, Ibrahim had done this with love, and the belief in the power of the God, and the power of Congregation.
The more, the merrier, in the house of God, he thought.
He brought his heart, his faith, and his sincerity. After all, he was Palestinian.
But he should have known that no good deed goes unpunished.
For even Jesus of Nazareth was crucified.
Some time into Ibrahim’s his assignment at the New York Parish, a Senior Priest pulled him aside, asking to speak to him.
‘We have had some, complaints, Father Ibrahim’ the Senior Priest said.
Ibrahim was astonished. ‘Complaints? About what?’ he asked.
‘You know, Father Ibrahim, some members of the congregation have been coming to this Church for many years, many, many years,’ the Senior Priest responded.
‘Yes, I know that. I have also been going to Church for many many years too,’ Ibrahim smiled back.
There was silence, a pause.
‘…And?’ asked Ibrahim.
‘Have these people have complained now? Is that what you are saying?’
‘Well, not complained, they have just expressed some concerns, ah, eh, em, about the changes that you have been making to the Church, since your time here,’ the Senior Priest said. ‘I see,’ said Ibrahim.
‘And what changes are they concerned about, exactly?’ He asked, seeking to clarify.
‘Well, as I said, they are not complaints, or even concerns, really. Perhaps just an observation; that, well, ah, eh, you know. Some people have been coming here for a long time, to this Church. Those people feel that this is their congregation,’ the Senior Priest said.
‘I’m pleased to hear that. We want people to feel that this is their congregation. That’s why we build congregation’ Ibrahim responded.
‘Well, that’s just it, you see. We don’t need to build a congregation. We have a congregation, already. I think you understand, Father Ibrahim’ said the Senior Priest.
He understood perfectly.
For the white man likes to imply that which he cannot put into words.
To put into words, is to create, and to make clear.
What could the Senior Priest really say clearly to Ibrahim?
That the house of God only permitted the white man?
That America was built on the belief that the settler was the Hebrew, and that America was the Promised Land?
That the sight of an indigenous Christian, or a man of colour would trigger such violent memory of the actions of ancestors, that it was better that Ibrahim be out of sight?
And what was Ibrahim expected to say to him, in response? That Jesus had come for everyone, even though he was a Palestinian?
That Europeans that had ‘built’ America, had also come to claim, his homeland in Palestine, which his people shared gladly with all?
That just as the white man benefits from the sins of his father, so too was he right to feel the guilt?
Or something worse, and more sinister: that Ibrahim agreed that that the house of God should permit one race, and exclude another?
He thought about his father, who had argued so forthrightly for the position of the Bishop of Jerusalem to be filled by a Palestinian, just as his ancestors had filled these roles.
He remembered the English Clergy, who had used the words white men use, to hide their disgust for the native.
He thought of the enormity of his father’s work, to decolonise the Church, in the backdrop of a dying colonialism.
He remembered the pride of his father’s congregation in Palestine, the day an indigenous Christian held the position of Bishop of Jerusalem, for it was his hometown, though Divine Right belongs only to God.
He thought too of the allies within the Church, who had said they stood with Palestinians; and he thought of the real allies, who did.
He thought of being a Palestinian, and of steadfastness that only moral courage could bring.
He called deep on his love for God, and for congregation, and decided that he would not bow down.
So Ibrahim continued his service to God, just as he had started, and just as he intended to continue, with his congregation.
The Levantine Christians would come to Church, along with the Porto Ricans, and he prayed with them, and let it be known they were welcome, as members of God’s congregation.
After a service one Sunday, Ibrahim was pulled aside by a parishioner, who had been a longtime member of the Church congregation.
He asked for a word, in private. ‘How much money does the Church need, Father Ibrahim?’ the man asked.
He was direct; for entitlement has no time for pleasantries. ‘Oh.’ Father Ibrahim said.
The man pulled out a cheque book from his grey business suit jacket, his pen falling to the ground as he did this.
‘I cannot accept any money on behalf of the Church from you, sir,’ said Ibrahim.
‘Donations should be made directly in the name of the Church, and placed in the collection basket, during the Church service. If you would like to wait until next Sunday, you can make the donation then,’ he said.
The man bent down to collect his pen and honour from the floor, rising to his feet in a thunderous rage.
‘I have noticed you inviting a lot of foreigners to this Church, Father Ibrahim! Some of us have been coming here a very long time, you know! Longer than the time you have been serving here!’
Ibrahim took a step back from the man, whose nose was now nearly against his face.. ‘So I am asking you, or the Church, or the charity of your choice, whichever you like, how much money do you want? How much money do you want?’
Ibrahim wished the man a blessed Sunday, and walked away.
The best men cannot be bought with money; that is why they are best.
Had Jesus of Nazareth not once taught that it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God?
Ibrahim had lived under the State of Israel’s brutal occupation of Palestine, in Jerusalem.
He knew of the men from his people who could be purchased; whose honour could be comprised.
Ibrahim had seen the man’s violence before, in the face of white American Christians.
They believed that the theft of his homeland would be their salvation.
He was not intimidated, nor tempted, by a man holding a cheque book, waiving the pen of compromise in his face.
After all, Ibrahim was Palestinian, so he was steadfast. His faith in God was unwavering, and his integrity, unbroken.
The man returned, in many forms, in many disguises. He was the old woman that volunteered in Sunday tea room, who wanted to share some of her ‘special memories’ about the Church congregation.
He came as the old woman’s daughter, to show photos of her wedding ceremony at the Church.
He came as the window of a veteran, whose husband’s funeral was held ‘in this tight-knit congregation’.
He came as the official photographer, to lecture about how much she valued tradition, faith, and community.
He came as another one of the accomplices, of the so-called congregation.
He came dressed as a man of God, but he was Pharisee.
He came to him as the local magistrate, who preached about law and justice.
He came to him as an oracle, pretending to offer ‘wise counsel’.
He came in all these forms to Ibrahim, to air a grievance, in exchange for compliance, and for that, Ibrahim gave him nothing.
The less Ibrahim reacted, the weaker the white man felt.
The less power Ibrahim gave him, the less power the white man had.
When Ibrahim refused to hear it, the white man turned to one thing he had left: the rules he had written himself, for everyone else to follow, which always permit the white man to violence.
With the rules came the investigations into Ibrahim’s ‘alleged misconduct’, allegations of the never specified, of the non-existent.
There were ‘follow-up meetings’, and ‘opportunities to clarify’ and the ‘concerns of the Church Committee’, the ‘need to discuss’, the ‘important and pressing matters’ related to ‘young Father Ibrahim.’
There were the ‘feelings of the members of the [so-called] congregation’, and the ‘sensitivities’.
There were the ‘considerations’ and ‘context’, and the call to be ‘reasonable’.
There were ‘matters you might have missed’, and the ‘surely unintended offence you had perhaps caused’.
There were the ‘considerations of the group’, and the ‘concerns raised discretely such that it would be improper to reveal’.
There were the ‘previously raised matters’ and the ‘ongoing’, and the ‘instances’, and the ‘continued.’
There were the ‘corrective actions’, and the ‘need to show respect’.
There were the ‘helpful suggestions’, and the ‘invitation for calm consideration’.
There were the ‘reasonable approach’ and the ‘blindspots’.
Then there were the ‘no doubt inadvertent missteps,’ and, finally, there were the threats, all veiled as ‘in your best interests’.
When all of this failed, an’ independent report was commissioned’, by the sorts of men that were in business of purchasing forgone conclusions.
Every lie they threw at him, Ibrahim resisted with truth.
But the letters kept coming; they used words like ‘cordially’, ‘kindly’ and ‘sincerely’.
Though they were not cordial, or kind, and they were not sincere.
Instead, they were coordinated, targeted, and violent.
They were calculated, manipulated, and intended to harm.
Every letter was a curse, and every envelop was licked by the devil.
All the words were in English, written using the stick of sin, which was laced with malice, bad intent and sealed with the crest of the foreign Crown.
And that was when Ibrahim’s cancer started.
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I turn back, now, to the Hebrew Scriptures, a reading from another Prophet, Isiah 1:17:
‘Learn to do good;
Seek justice,
Rebuke the oppressor;
Defend the fatherless,
Plead for the widow.’
The Spirit moves in those who move in faith, even when the stakes are high.
The Spirit moves in those who conquer fear, for God stands with the righteous.
The Spirit moves in those who engage, genuinely, and openly, and sincerely.
Anti-semitism, anti-semitism by the Western Church, and anti-semitism by the non-Palestinian Church has caused a great deal of suffering, for non-Palestinian Jews, Palestinian Jews, and Palestinians.
Distinct religious practices of Jews in Europe, and white Christian supremacy – resulted in severe persecution of non-Palestinian Jews, in Europe.
The safety of non-Palestinian Jews is not worth more, or less, than the safety of Palestinians.
The Palestinian people are a kind, warm, and generous people.
The Palestinian people are a naively giving, and trusting people.
The Palestinian people are a sovereign people, whose love and abundant generosity has become the sacrifice for the sins of the world.
I recall the story of a young Palestinian girl in Gaza, interviewed on Arabic television as she held a piece of bread in her hands, a few months into the genocide/not genocide of the Palestinian people.
The presenter asked her how she felt about the situation, given her starvation, and she responded in the voice true of the entire Palestinian people, holding a piece of bread in her hand, said:
‘Whenever I happen to come across a piece of bread, by the time I have distributed it to everyone, there is nothing left for me. When I find the food to fill my hunger, I feel embarrassed that I do not have enough to share. What should I do?’ She asks.
While some in America, await the arrival of a Palestinian King, I will continue to seek within myself the courage to do just as young Father Ibrahim did, and to move forthrightly with God through the darkness, speaking truth.
Thank you.