"You're not visitors here; you’re family.”
"You're not visitors here; you’re family.”
October 2021
One of Facebook’s only redemptive qualities is the “Your Memories” feature and, thanks to Zuck, I was reminded that I was in Israel/Palestine three years ago. And thanks to that reminder, below is an essay about my first day.
Within minutes of meeting Menachem I am smitten—with him, his people, this place. An Orthodox Jew who returned to Israel over twenty years ago, Menachem lives in Hoshaya, a gated community of sorts, on the beautiful ancient hills of lower Galilee. What began as an intentional neighborhood of thirty-eight families has grown to several hundred.
Our group of 42 mostly white mostly western missionaries sits on wooden benches under the aggressive middle-eastern sun as Menachem explains the history of this place, what it means to him, his family, his heritage. He tells us returning to this land is a miracle and I am inclined to believe him. He paces to and fro, captivating us with his wide grin and broken English. A young couple walks up the drive hand-in-hand and Menachem immediately and seamlessly switches to wildly warm Hebrew. There’s a boisterous exchange that goes on for about thirty seconds before the couple waves and walks off. He lowers his voice and returns to English, “Remind me to tell you about them later.”
Menachem ushers us down a dirt path behind the benches. He stops to point out an olive tree and to make sure we know green and black grow from the same tree. (I didn’t) He leads us to long logs set under the rim of a thatched roof. In the center, wheat covers the ground along with some strange-looking tools, a stump, and a wooden ox. Menachem explains the process of turning wheat into bread, throwing in Jewish history and Hebrew Bible verses flawlessly, using the strange tools and ox as props. He talks fast and furiously, occasionally standing on the stump for dramatic effect. I am enthralled by his desire to share with us, his willingness to invite us in.
Menachem grabs a pitchfork and tosses some grain into the warm air, “In the Bible, it says to leave your leftovers for your neighbors. In America, if someone comes into your yard you can shoot them. How this is?”
His words hang in the air. Wind carries off the chaff. Wheat falls to the ground.
I am still pondering his question when he invites us to find a grain head and rub it between our palms releasing the kernels inside. I add my few small kernels to the stone grinder and muscle it several turns. Menachem points out that Ruth and Naomi were no frail women.
A fire is waiting nearby, stoked by a boy about eleven or twelve. Our kernels become flour become dough we stretch and stretch and stretch before tossing them onto the fire. Our young firestarter flips the now crisp pita bread. We grab them carefully, drizzle hyssop sauce on top, and stuff our faces.
We follow Menachem to round tables hidden under huge platters and indulge in the best pita and hummus of my life.
“There is enough. Ask for more. You are not visitors here; you’re family.” Menachem calls out.
After lunch, our group is led to a stable of donkeys and our host demonstrates how to mount the donkeys, command them to move and to stop. I opt out of the donkey ride on account of my skirt, wishing I’d known about the day’s adventure. Menachem reaches into the tree branches above, plucks a pomegranate, cuts it into quarters, and offers me a slice. My fellow travelers are laughing as their donkeys disobey their commands. I think I got the better deal.
As I sit on a rock (so many rocks in Israel) my mind lingers on how Menachem has so graciously welcomed us—welcomed me—a white American Christian, knowing we have differing, even contradicting, views on what we esteem in our lives. I’m awestruck by the kindness—the radical hospitality extended to a stranger from a faraway land. It is unlike anything I have come to expect from and in the United States. It feels foreign.
My friends dismount their donkeys and we make our way back to the wooden benches. Fresh baklava topped with hyssop syrup, dried dates, and hot tea greet us. Menachem calls us in close, lowers his voice just a bit, and says, “Remember that couple from earlier? They’ve been living together for years—even have a little child—but they weren’t married. Someone from the community asked them why and we learned they couldn’t afford a proper wedding. So everyone came together. Got the outfits, cooked the food, we had the decorations, everything. And yesterday they married. The community takes care of the ones in need. Now they will live happy.”
I close my eyes and picture the celebration that took place yesterday. I imagine it is exactly the type of bash where Jesus turned water to wine, where outsiders were welcomed in seats of honor, where dividing lines of sinner and saint blurred into the family of God.
I am grateful for my Jewish brother Menachem and his in-the-flesh challenge to me, foreigner-turned-family, of what it is to truly love my own neighbors as I love myself.
Book Recs
I recently finished Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again by Rachel Held Evans and was struck by her writing genius and her ability to take what was always meant to be accessible to the people and make it so again.
Pod Recs
I thoroughly enjoyed this On Being conversation with Mike Rose on “The Deepest Meanings of Intelligence and Vocation” where he and Krista explore school, social class, and the deepest meaning of vocation.
“Exclusion was never the Gospel.” Listen in as Brittany Packnett Cunningham breaks down the real Gospel for Alicia Garza on Lady Don’t Take No.