Palm Sunday Sermon: Being Covenanted Community in Polarized Times
This sermon continues our Lent series, “Covenant: The Ties that Bind.”
By Joanna Lawrence Shenk and Sheri Hostetler
Mark 11:1-11
Joanna: What does it mean to be part of Jesus’ prophetic, theatrical, peace parade today? What does it mean to follow Rabbi Yeshua, a Palestinian Jew, who was living under Roman occupation? What does it mean when our tax dollars are paying for the tanks brutalizing Gaza right now? What does it mean when Christian empires and states throughout history have violently oppressed Jewish people? What does it mean when beginning with the Crusades, Muslims have been targeted as evil enemies of Christian civilization?
Wrestling with these questions is a part of our journey of costly discipleship together in these polarized times. Palm Sunday invites us to reflect on Jesus’ journey to confront the powers that be in the context of our world. It is fair to say that Rabbi Yeshua and his movement were under no illusions about what they would encounter in Jerusalem. The celebration of his arrival was not naivete but rather a willingness to be public about their dissent from the imperial status quo.
Today Sheri and I want to reflect on our call to costly discipleship, that is both about public witness and also about how we are in relationship with each other across our differences. What bearing do our covenant relationships have on our capacity to resist polarization in a moment when differences about the war on Gaza are pulling communities apart? What bearing do our covenant relationships have on our capacity to call for peace in a world that desperately needs it?
Over the last number of months pastoral staff have been wrestling with our responses publicly and internally. It has been a daily and weekly question of how we show up with integrity in the midst of such violence and trauma. A few examples of how we have been showing up include writing a prayer of lament shared during worship on Oct. 15, having a singing vigil with Congregation Sha’ar Zahav on Oct. 20, engaging with the Mennonite Jewish Relations committee of MC USA, holding an Education Hour to plan for the Mennonite Day of Action for ceasefire in December, having conversation with Rabbi Mychal prior to the Mennonite Day of Action, many of us attending the Sha’ar Zahav event with the executive director of the New Israel Fund, supporting our MVSer Sav as they were arrested in Washington DC along with over 120 other Mennonites calling for ceasefire, and seeking wisdom from Jewish and Palestinian colleagues and friends.
Sheri: One of those folks from whom we seek wisdom is Eli Ramer, who used to go by Andrew. Eli is a long-time attender of our community and of our host community, Congregation Sha’ar Zahav. Years ago, Eli told me that when he was new at Sha’ar Zahav one of the early members told him “There are three things you can’t talk about here – God, God’s gender, and the State of Israel, and if you don’t talk about them, you’ll be okay.” In short, these topics were painful, difficult and potentially divisive. “Whew,” I thought at the time. “Thank God we don’t have anything like that within our own community. That’s not us.”
Actually, it is us. I think we do okay with God and God’s gender, but clearly Israel and Palestine is difficult. Many of you were here the Sunday I showed a video of Mennonites getting arrested at the U.S Capitol as they spoke out for a ceasefire. Chris Barnes found the video troubling and said so publicly. He and I both want you to know that we have been having good, productive conversations with each other. Were others of you also troubled but didn’t comfortable enough to talk to me about it? Our church has taken a public stance for a ceasefire and against U.S. funding for the Israeli military, and it’s clear that many of you agree with this stance. But perhaps that has led some of you who have concerns with that stance to feel judged if you expressed those concerns. Have we actually created a communal norm where we are free to agree and disagree in love? These are the questions Joanna, Pat, and I have been asking ourselves since October. Needless to say, all of this has been hard.
And why should we be spared the painful divisiveness that has been rife in almost every other community since October 7? Hamas’ brutal attack on Israel and the ensuing bombardment by the Israeli military that has killed 30,000 Gazans is a trauma being enacted in real time in front of all our eyes. And it is a trauma with deep historical roots.
Palestinians have been the target of European imperialist interests since the 1800s. And then, in 1948 during the founding of the state of Israel, more than half of the Palestinian population was displaced from their ancestral lands – an event known as the “nakba” in Arabic, which means “catastrophe.” Decades of occupation and oppression followed. British and U.S. imperial interests in that part of the world assented to this dispossession. And Christian Zionism, a religious belief held by many U.S. evangelicals, legitimates that dispossession. Christian Zionism sees Jewish settlement in that region as necessary to bringing about Christ’s return. When Christ returns, everyone who doesn’t believe in him will be condemned to hell, including Jewish people, of course. So not only is this belief – which is politically influential in our country – deeply Islamophobic, it’s also deeply anti-Semitic.
For Jews, trauma goes back centuries. Antisemitism has been called the “longest hatred.” It predates Christianity but became institutionalized and weaponized when Christianity became the religion of the Roman Empire in the 4th century. In the ensuing centuries, Jews were restricted from owning land, serving in public office, or joining medieval guilds. They were vilified and scapegoated, displaced and slaughtered with horrific regularity. And then, the Holocaust, which led directly to the nakba. Trauma upon trauma upon trauma.
Trauma can lead to black-and-white thinking or what is sometimes called “thinking in absolutes.” Thinking in absolutes happens when we identify strongly with one side in a conflict, to the point that whatever challenges that viewpoint is ignored or discounted, leaving little room for shades of gray, complexity, or even curiosity about the other point of view. When extreme, it can prevent “each side from expressing empathy for the other side’s pain out of fear of disloyalty to their own community” (from this article written by a Canadian Palestinian man and an American Jew recently for the Canadian Mennonite). This kind of thinking leads to polarization. Whenever we find polarization, we can probably find trauma
I have felt this polarized trauma everywhere – not just in Palestinian or Jewish communities – as a spiritual leader trying to find my stance since October 7. The leadership of our host community is experiencing this as well – much more than us. The leaders of Sha’ar Zahav recently sent an email to their members, in which they succinctly summarized this polarization.
On the one hand, many in their community are aghast at the horrific violence that is being unleashed by the Israeli government upon the Palestinian people. They believe strongly that Israeli military actions in Gaza are unjust and will not lead to peace for anyone, and they believe strongly that their community needs to take a public stance about this. This is what I believe, for our community, and it’s the view of most of the people I know in the Mennonite world and beyond.
On the other hand, some people in the Sha’ar Zahav community believe that Israel (and here I’m quoting from the email) “can never build peace with their Palestinian neighbors until Hamas is overcome, and that military efforts are, regretfully, the only way to dismantle their hold on Gaza. Many (also) feel this is a critical time to express support for Israel, as the voices against Israel are loud and often veer from legitimate critique to outright antisemitism.” As a Mennonite I do not believe that Hamas can be overcome militarily. Violence will only beget more violent resistance. And alongside that belief, I am taking seriously Jewish concerns around the reality of antisemitism.
Along these lines, I was recently sent an article from a Christian magazine in which the authors — a rabbi and a cantor – argued that many of the words used to critique Israel like genocide, apartheid, and settler colonialist overreach and veer into anti-Semitism. Jewish people with whom I am close have told me that hearing Christians use the word “genocide” about the war in Gaza is triggering for them. Most Christians did nothing to prevent the holocaust when it was happening, nor did they advocate providing safe harbor for Jews looking to escape that genocide. And so it stings – or at least seems somewhat hypocritical – for Christians to so quickly and comfortably accuse Israel of being genocidal without acknowledging their own complicity in genocide. I have also read articles, like the one by a Palestinian peace activist I highly respect, saying that not calling what is happening in Gaza “genocide” is a betrayal of the Palestinian people, and I understand why. I know that Joanna has had conversations with Indigeous and Palestinian friends who see it as a betrayal if Israel is not named as a settler-colonial state.
So if I use the word “genocide” or “settler colonial,” I am betraying some Jewish people. If I don’t use those words, I am betraying some Palestinian people. If I allow this polarization to cause me to throw up my hands and take no stand, I am still taking a stand — my inaction gives tacit approval to horrific violence being funded by the taxes I pay. There is no neutrality.
But what there can be, for me, is humility in how I speak and show up. I believe we need a ceasefire now, and I believe the U.S. government needs to stop giving a blank check to the Israeli military to kill Palestinians. Because I am a U.S. citizen and a religious leader, I have some leverage in this conflict – I can pressure my elected officials to do this, and I did this with many of you on Monday in front of Sen. Alex Padilla’s office.
And, I want to show up and speak with humility. Humility because Mennonites have been complicit in antisemitism for decades. Humility because I have unknowingly perpetrated anti-semitic readings of Scripture in my sermons. Humility because I can not understand what it means to be a part of a people who have been persecuted for millennia. Humility because – even as a mother – I can not imagine knowing my child is not safe within his home and could be killed there at any time by a bomb.. Humility because the history of Israel-Palestine is complex, and there is much I don’t know. Humility also because I tend to have closer friendships with Jewish people than with Palestinian people, and so I wonder what perspectives I am missing due to that.
This humility compels me to see in myself where absolutist, black-and-white thinking may be occurring. This humility compels me to consider carefully the words I use to describe the violence in Gaza. This humility compels me to find more Palestinian people from whom I can learn. This humility compels me to listen to those with whom I disagree.
This kind of humility feels costly. It causes me to question myself more than I like. My humility may anger some people, who may see me as someone who is not fully committed enough to the “right” side. I need humility because I am likely to anger, disappoint or offend someone I care about with how I speak or show up. I need humility to then listen to that person whom I anger, disappoint or offend.
For me, this humility is deeply rooted in what’s called the “third way” of Anabaptism, the nonviolent way that seeks a path that does not create more polarization, more enemies, even as it pursues a just peace. It is a way counter to absolutist, black-and-white thinking, the kind of thinking that trauma creates. I have found so helpful the description of this nonviolent “third way” stance that one of our MVSers taught us 20 years ago: “With one hand, I say no to violence and injustice, but with the other hand, I extend my hand even to those I think are contributing to the violence and injustice, even to my ideological enemy.”
Joanna: This is indeed costly discipleship and it is our call as a covenanted community. The tenacity of our commitment to each other is what makes it possible to embody this countercultural practice. It is something we must continually grow into since as a community we are always changing. We also recognize as pastoral staff that at times people have felt unheard or unsafe to share within our community. So we come to this practice with humility – holding the pain alongside our aspirations.
The one whom we follow – a Palestinian Jewish Rabbi – knew his entrance into Jerusalem was a provocation of the powerful. Yet he did not fight fire with fire – he came in on a bicycle rather than a tank – proclaiming liberation for the poor and vulnerable, those crushed by the Roman occupation. His disciples, although confused and cowardly at times, were empowered to carry on this movement – caring for each other and spreading the good news of liberation.
On the night before everything went down – which we’ll get to in our Good Friday service – Rabbi Yeshua washed his disciples feet. This was a scandalous act of humility, and something he implored his disciples to do for each other. Practicing humility together was part of their costly discipleship.
Today we are invited to this practice as a community. This is one way to embody our commitment to each other and our willingness to show up with humility in polarized times. It is vulnerable to wash someone’s feet and to allow our feet to be washed. It is vulnerable to share our experiences and thoughts when it feels like we might get rejected for using or omitting certain words. It is vulnerable to take a stand publicly knowing we might alienate people whom we care about.
In all of this may we humbly accompany each other. May we listen and learn together. May we take bold public action following in the way of Rabbi Yeshua – upsetting the powerful and sharing the good news of healing and liberation. Spirit of life, guide our feet, while we run this race.