Facing a child and facing Christ

Due to its graphic content, I am not displaying the image that inspired this post.  You may click on the included links to see the discussed image at your own discretion.

Once more a child from Syria is haunting us. Last year it was Alan Kurdi, a three year old whose lifeless body resting on a Turkish shoreline served the world a painful reminder that we are failing to protect the most vulnerable lives in an inhumane situation. This year it is Omran Daqneesh of Aleppo.  The five year old boy was recovered from the rubble of his bombed-out family home last week, another example of the conflict in Syria raining down terror on innocent victims.  The image of him sitting in an ambulance covered in blood and dust and war should disturb us.  It should also jolt us into crying out (both literally and figuratively) against the violence that has shattered the lives of countless children, including Ali Danqneesh, the brother of Omran who died in the attack.  Omran’s image has rightfully riveted the global community; he stares at us as if asking, “Will you face me?”

Omran is one life but he symbolizes millions of lives.  Many of these are Syrian children who have had their worlds turned upside down by death, destruction and displacement.  Even more are the children around the world that find themselves victimized by cruel deeds played out by men and women thirsty for power.  It is never children who create, distribute or order the launch of the weapons that leave bodies battered and lifeless.  Yet it is always children who suffer most when ‘things fall apart,’ and it is children who have every right to ask you and me, “Can you face us?”

As I prepare to return to Lebanon after a summer abroad I prepare to return to Dar El Awlad, a place that serves over 150 children who bear their own scars of tragedy and pain.  Many, like Omran, are Syrians who have personally experienced the horrors of war.  Others are victims of institutional injustices that deny children access to the rights, privileges and protections entitled to every person.  Some have simply suffered bad breaks and fallen into hard times that are too deep for any young person to climb out of.  The circumstances differ for each individual but they come to us with the same petition, with the same plea, “Please face me.”

Even in all its quiet power, Omran’s image should not revolt us nor should it drive us to despair or hopelessness.  However, when we look on him we should see another.  We should see someone who too was bloodied and battered by the senselessness of violence.  We should recognize someone who, though himself a complete innocent, suffered injustices by bearing the marks of blood, dust and bruise.  When we see Omran, we must see our Lord Jesus Christ who suffered with him and for us.  Christ alone can look at the heart-broken, soul-stricken, body-beaten souls of this world and say, “I face you!”

It is in Christ alone that we can face the darkest and ugliest evils this world has to offer, and it is in Christ alone that I can live in the hopeful knowledge that, even in my own darkness and ugliness, I can face God.  May God’s face shine upon us and be ever gracious to us.  May the Spirit empower us to respond to the evils of violence, to embrace victims of injustice and to be instruments of God’s healing grace.  May we truly face Omran, and in doing so may we discover Christ.

Something Great in America, again

This week many have gathered to the cheers of making America great again.  I wasn't part of that, but I did experience in America something that was pretty near to great.  All summer long from Memorial Day to Labor Day, the city of Minneapolis hosts movies and music in a public park each evening.  These events are an excellent example of an initiative to build community and citizenship by bringing people together to places of shared experiences.  It's one of the activities that I most look forward to during my time back home in Minnesota. 

This week Ruth and arrived at dusk at Father Hennepin Bluff Park along the mighty Mississippi River with our lawn chairs, mosquito spray and snacks.  With the lovely Minneapolis skyline as our backdrop we joined others in watching the documentary "He Called Me Malala."  This powerful film follows the story of Malala Yousafzai, a teenager girl who was shot in the head in Pakistan by the Taliban for advocating the education of girls.  She and her family are an inspiring example of confronting injustice and willingly to sacrificing of themselves to fight for the rights of others.  Malala's life and actions earned her a Nobel Peace prize in 2014.   The film is a story of family, courage, and an individual who is inspiring this world to care for the marginalized and oppressed. 

The setting and the story were enough to make for an edifying evening, but greater was the knowledge that I am part of a organization that puts into action the message of Malala: every child has the right to the opportunity and empowerment of education.  As I reflected on the film I recalled the children at Kids Alive Lebanon in our New Horizons Center, Oasis Refugee Center and other programs that are able to go to school because a few individuals and a network of sponsors are committed to providing education.  In the midst of all the cacophony of rhetoric happening around us today, it is a relief to join others from the community for a quiet, reflective evening about a worthwhile cause.  That's close enough to great for me.

A cop once pulled me over, I made a mistake, and nothing happened

We have traveled from Lebanon to the U.S.A. and, unfortunately, from one land stained by violence to another.  The news stings harder as my little home community was brought into a heated national (and international) debate last week when a routine police pullover for a broken taillight resulted in bullets fired and a life lost. It immediately became the most recent story in a complex American narrative of race, law enforcement and death; a narrative that within a day included a horrendous mass murder of police force members during a Dallas rally.  My heart sinks. I've seen violence poison the Middle East (violence committed by those serving the state and those unattached), and I see my home country suffer through its own painful problem of violence.  The results are the same, lives lost and nothing gained.

The ongoing stories make me think about things. About the caution we need to take when responding to law enforcement. About my brother who serves as a state patrolman and daily takes on a professional task where so much can hinge on a split-second decision.  About the undeniable racial problems that have and do plague my country. But mostly, I think about one moment when I myself was pulled over; I did something and nothing happened to me.

It was during my senior year of high school. I was driving my family's station wagon home from school with my cousin alongside.  Around a mile from school a cop car flashed its lights behind me and I immediately pulled into an empty parking area. The policeman approached my car and I rolled down my window. He asked my if I knew how fast I was going.  I honestly didn't, but I offered an answer nonetheless. "The speed limit?"  He wasn't amused and informed me that I was over- only by 8 mph if I recall correctly, but a winter storm had dumped a load snow and I should have been 8 under rather than 8 over- and asked to see my drivers license. I took out my wallet and showed the license in it's plastic flap. The officer then said to me, "take out the card." But he was mumbling and I was naturally nervous from being pulled over by a policeman, and I thought he said, "get out of the car." Wanting to be cooperative to the supposed instruction, I began to open the car door in order to step out. Immediately the officer sprung, slammed the door shut with his leg and shouted at me. "What are you doing? Don't move! Don't move!"  "Sir, I thought you said 'get out of the car,'" my voice quivered. "I said, 'TAKE OUT THE CARD!'" he forcefully reiterated. My shaking fingers fumbled the card out of the wallet and handed it to the officer.  He took it to his patrol vehicle and returned it a few minutes later with my first and only speeding ticket.

Years have past since that little event, but as I have read in recent years the steady stream of stories involving cops and shootings, my mind goes back to that moment of innocent miscommunication; the moment I made a honest mistake that could have left me with more than a ticket. I wonder what could have happened if that same situation had occurred under different conditions. What if my skin color or  appearance had  been different? What if the officer had had a bad day or been a little edgier than necessary? What if I had been stopped in the inner city at night rather than a suburb in the afternoon?  Could a routine traffic stop had ended up differently, perhaps tragically?  Or would the scenario have played out ten times out of a ten just as it did; the good training and the good judgment of our law enforcement personnel would see that another routine traffic stop be just that: a routine traffic stop.  I do not know.

I know how my situation unfolded and no harm was done.  Yet I wonder how other situations have unfolded, how miscommunication, misunderstanding, and misjudgment have contributed to tragic ends.  I wonder what has lead a split-second decision to take a life in one situation and preserve a life in another. I don't know, but  I'm thankful that I am here to wonder.  I only wish that others just as innocent as I could be here too.

Graduation: Mastering the finish line

I finally crossed the finish line.  After four years of studying, I have graduated the Master of Religion in Middle Eastern and North African Studies from the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary.  It was a great experience, and I value the experiences, knowledge and wisdom I gained from the program.  I was honored to share a few words during the graduation ceremony.  Hopefully it expresses the appreciation I feel for this learning opportunity and all the people that made it possible.

On behalf of the students of the Master of Religion program, it is my honor to greet you all, to congratulate our fellow graduates and to congratulate the community of the Arab Baptist Theological Seminary as it marks a milestone accomplishment this evening of awarding the very first degrees for the Master of Religion in Middle Eastern and North African Studies.  What was once a vision has become a reality, and we four graduates are proud to be small parts in a big achievement for this institution. 

The MRel is unlike any other seminary program as it explores the Middle East and North African region from within the region in a way that combines interdisciplinary academics and personal engagements to create a transformative learning experience.   We graduates have journeyed together with a diverse group of students and faculty on a journey of discovery, discovery of a region, of faiths, of cultures, of people, of our own selves, and, most profoundly, a discovery of God’s Kingdom. 

Much can be said of this program and each student will walk away with his or her own testimony of personal and academic growth.   As I reflect on the “big idea” that marks my experience in the MRel, my mind goes back to a comment made by a classmate during an on-site residency, a comment that captures what has proven to me to be the underlying theme of this program.  We were in our Cultures course, and as we completed two weeks of intensive theory and practice my classmate shared the following statement, “I realize that everything we have learned is so we can better love people.”  What was true for the course has proven true for the program,  because if the MRel has been about anything it has been about loving people and being built up in faith in Christ, a faith working through love.

On behalf of the first graduating class of the MRel I extend a heartfelt thank you.  Thank you to President Elie Haddad for your leadership and the staff of ABTS for your services and support.  Thank you to the many who have prayed and given generously to this program.  Thank you to the teaching faculty members who have shared with us knowledge, wisdom, time and patience.  And finally, thank you to the Institute of Middle East Studies.  To Dr. Martin Accad, Dr. Arthur Brown, Jesse Wheeler and to all who have played a role in establishing and running the MRel. A special thank you to Dr. Rupen Das as well, who was unfortunately not able to be with us today, but was key to bringing this program to life and leading it to a fully accredited degree over its first two years. Your hard work has turned a mere idea into an actualized program full of impact and meaning, and I have been blessed to be a beneficiary of your faithfulness and your commitment to serving God.

So may God bless this year’s graduates and direct their paths.

May He keep the ministry of ABTS and strengthen its mission.

And may God be with each one of us for His glory and His great purposes.

Thank you

With fellow MRel graduate Amir from Egypt

Yasmine was quite excited.  So was I!

Two boys, two emotions, and one Hope

We're at the end of another DEA school year (my ninth). While it's been a good year, it's also been a year in which the weight of what we deal with has taken on new heaviness. This feeling goes back to September, the very start of it all.  Boys were returning to the residential home after the summer to begin a new year and new boys were arriving for the first time. One of my co-workers talked about what a joyful day it was to see old and new faces arriving to DEA. It was indeed on many levels a joyful day, but I was feeling sad.  

That day I took two boys away from their families. I watched them say goodbye to their teary-eyed mothers, I put them in my jeep, and I carried them out of the valley and over the mountains to a strange place that they were told would become a home. I knew it was for their good; they are Syrian refugees and they have spent most of their young lives in war and displacement. Their families live in substandard tent communities waiting to get through their nightmare until they can return to their country and homes. Years of precious education have been lost and they risked becoming two more Syrian refugee children that will grow up not knowing how to read or write. 

They were in a bad situation, and a life at DEA provided many things no one else could provide.  Getting in my jeep and being taken away was for their best. Their mothers knew it, their families knew it, they knew it and I knew it.  But knowing something still doesn't make it easy; taking a child away from all that he's ever known and loved is not a cause for joy.  I was sad that a broken, painful road had led them to this point.

The sadness continued after the boys moved in.  They put on strong faces in those early days (as strong as you can expect from 6 and 7 year olds), but it was easy to see their rawness in separation from mom and familiarity.  There was plenty of running, playing and trying new things, but there were also teary moments of asking me, "When will I go to mom?" Even when they tried to hide it, the pain was evident. Coming to terms with any new situation is oftentimes painful.

As the year went on I witnessed the situation change. I watched the boys settle into their new "home" and embrace the new "family," experiences and opportunities around them.  I saw their personalities develop and their sad eyes begin to radiate with happiness (and varying degrees of mischievousness). I heard them read two languages when they had previously been able to read none.  

I was with them on their first trip to the nearby supermarket.  They filled every aisle with childhood innocence as they scaled escalators and pushed their carts around the store. Three dollars had never made a child so rich. I was also with them on their first trip to the dentist.  They found more enjoyment out of dental work than most children find at a carnival.  

Their lives seemed to fill with sunshine.  They became happy to jump into my jeep and return to DEA after a visit home, and their families were pleased with the changes they observed in their young lives. More than anything, I listened to them share things they learned about God, how He loves us and sent Jesus to a cross so that we can get through this troubled world and live in heaven forever.  I saw so many good things happen to these boys this year, yet I remained sad.

These boys are special to me because they are my cousins.  I held them as babies and watched them grow little by little with each visit to our village in Syria.  I walked their orchards, sat in their homes and shared in their little world. Those days didn't last.  First, war started in the village.  Then their father (my uncle) was detained.   Before long they were driven from their homes.  It's been four years and we still have no word on the status of their father.  Hope of his wellbeing is fading.  And after three years of displacement, hope of returning is thin.

The road that led these two boys to DEA is a road that no child should have to journey. No child should go through the death, the bombs, the fleeing from home, the perilous journey into displacement and all the other horrors that are unfortunately commonplace in the Syrian refugee narrative. They shouldn't have had to go through all this; the fact that they are at DEA means that things have gone very, very wrong. This makes me sad.

DEA is a sweet place but children arrive here in bitter ways, and many times it feels like it is a place where bitterness and sweetness mingle. This shouldn't be a surprise; we are a hospital for the sick not a country club for the well.  But expecting it doesn't mean it's easy to accept.  The pain that brings the children to our care exposes the pain that we too carry.  So it is with me and my cousins.

While my challenges are very far removed from the daily struggles of the refugee, I too have lost something in the Syrian War. A place that I loved, a land drenched in story and memories, is now in ruins.  I had dreams of a future that will never come true (at least not in the way I had dreamed them).  More than anything I have lost people.  My uncle, my cousin and others are gone; casualties of a war that seems to treat death casually.  My two cousins have been daily reminders that I've lost something, and this makes me sad.

Joy and sadness do not exist at odds with one another (just review Inside Out for a good portrayal of this). Like sweetness and bitterness, they mingle and provide an experience of life that is authentic.  We seek joy and we deal with sadness, and in it all we see the goodness and sovereignty of God working for glory.  

My cousins have made me sad, and they have, also given me joy. I expect it will be this way as long as we are together at DEA. But I will always carry hope for them, for my relatives, for Syria, for the children at DEA and for all journeying roads of pain.  Because above all things is Christ, and this is Hope.

Graduating and Continuing

Six years ago a group of Gypsy and Bedouin children started in our literacy program at the New Horizons Center. These children face many social and personal challenges; unfortunately many did not continue to completion, but some did!  Last week we celebrated with a group five special students that started with us and have now "graduated." Over the years they gained the valuable gift of literacy, becoming the first generation of their families to read and write. This was reason for celebration.

Our teachers planned an overnight getaway for the children to the Bekaa Valley filled with activities and special experiences.  We visited a monastery that operates a dairy farm and nature reserve. Each one enjoyed riding around the grounds on bicycles, especially the two that learned how to ride that day.   We then drove to the city if Zahle for ice cream, bumper cars and an air hockey tournament. Our accommodation was at a great little eco lodge where we spent time playing, sharing stories, eating and interacting with other guests.  It was a special time. "This is the best say of my life," one said. They deserved it.

As important as literacy is (and we do believe it's very important, it can change their entire futures), we celebrate the faith, character and spirit these young people have developed over the years. Their life situations are heartbreaking; they endure marginalization and abuses that no child should have to endure.  But they have zest for life, and they've added something special to mine.  It was inspiring to see how much the teachers care for each of these children and how they went the extra mile in lavishing good things and speaking loving words of truth.  It was a getaway that did me well. 

We're not done with these kids. They may have come to the end of one road, but we plan to keep them within the center ministry in the year ahead. There is great potential in each one and we desire to see it tapped more and more.

Getting ready for excursion!

Some need to start on three wheels before becoming comfortable with two.

She beat everyone she faced....except me.

We felt very 'at home' at our hotel. 

Fellow guests provided entertainment!

What does a literacy program give as a graduation gift: storybooks!

The DEA Rite: our Annual Fundraiser Banquet

Last night Dar El Awlad hosted its annual Fundraiser Banquet.  This year was a special occasion as Kids Alive International celebrates 100 years of service.  A great deal of work goes into the planning and execution of the event, but significantly more encouragement comes out of it.  Every year our children and staff are blessed by the large show of support from individuals, churches and groups from the local community.  It’s never the fanciest affair in but it certainly has a lot of heart (and I must admit that we do play dress-up pretty well).

Everyone involved in the banquet looks at some part of it above the others, whether that’s the decorations, the sound and lighting, the taste of the food or the interactions with guests.  For me, I look at one thing: getting things on and off the tables.  For the past nine years I have overseen our Dar El Awlad’s team of servers.  The boys look forward each year to the opportunity to become waiters for a table (or two) during the dinner; it has become a rite of passage.   Each year I thoroughly explain all the procedures very carefully of serving a four-course meal (don’t run, speak politely to guests, remove plates but not the forks, DO NOT ENTER THE KITCHEN!, etc….) but always the energy that comes with welcoming over 200 guests send the boys into a bit of a whirl.  Following procedure often gives way to following impulse.  Yet without fail, commotion manages flow together and the end result is satisfied guests with filled stomachs and uplifted hearts.  Thanks to all who helped make this year’s banquet another great memory in the long history of Dar El Awlad.  Visit our Facebook page to see more pictures.

Preparing tables

Our servers in action

The Stairs!!!!  Our greatest hazard between the kitchen and banquet hall.

One of a dozen dishes we served

One of our oldest residents shared about his story and his dreams

A full house of support and encouragement

Not all the children could be servers, but their day will come.