brother. This was the same year, and not long before, Musalaha was forming and Salim approached me to help form this important ministry.”
His large hands were folded in front of him and he looked at the tiled floor.
“This memory has stayed with me so vividly, that I believe, John, the Lord ordained it in order to soften my heart. But each successive tour of duty in the West Bank challenged me enormously, as did becoming aware of the pain of the second-class status of Palestinian citizens in Israel. Not so much my politics,” he added rather quickly, “but my theology was sharpened.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant. Were his politics not changed because his presuppositions, whatever they were, were reinforced, or because his politics were not formed enough beforehand? He thought for a moment and affirmed the latter.
“I come from New Zealand, and politics there are just not that important. So at the time I was pretty much an open book. Most of my theology that developed as a result of my early training in New Zealand no longer seemed as relevant after two years of being here in the Land. I was, however, left with a deep relationship with Yeshua, a connection to the land, and wonderment in discovering my Jewish identity. As I said, my theology was sharpened in these tours, especially things such as 1 John 4, especially verse 20.”
I couldn’t remember the words offhand and had to look the verse up later: “If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ yet hates his brother, he is a liar. For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen.”
Evan took a class on biblical counseling and ministry skills among indigenous church leaders at a study center in Tel Aviv. There he met Salim Munayer, an energetic Israeli Palestinian from Lod who was both a student and director at the center. Through the intensive course, the two got to know one another intimately and discovered they shared an intense desire for reconciliation, for musalaha and ritzui, between Israelis and Palestinians. And visionary Salim’s candid personality worked well with pastoral Evan’s diplomatic nature.
“Salim shared with me one of those visions, about forming an organization that sought to bring about that reconciliation by first bringing together people from the Israeli community”—and his right hand swept in like a broom—“and people from the Palestinian community”—and his left hand swept in and clasped with the other—“through the commonality of a shared faith.”
This was certainly a huge undertaking. I wondered if he felt apprehensive at all, but Evan cut in before I finished the question.
“I had absolutely no hesitation, because I believe the Lord prepared my heart. I say that deliberately, not as superficial God-talk that so many use. I am too down-to-earth practical to get overly enthusiastic, as Salim always is, but I was never hesitant.”
Not long after, Musalaha began to take shape, with Salim as the Director and a Board of Oversight equally divided between leaders from the Palestinian Christian and Messianic Jewish communities. This structure, which allows decisions to be made by both sides, has become a major element in Musalaha’s endeavor for conversational equality. Evan was fully engaged since the beginning, helping develop the organizational infrastructure and participating in desert encounters. At first, the desert trips consisted only of young adults, Palestinians and Israelis.
“The first desert encounter in 1990 was highly successful, even with fifty people,” Evan said. “The desert as a classroom was the great leveler.”
Soon, the three-to-five day trips began to include well-established religious leaders, men and women, from both sides. As deeper and more challenging issues arose, the desert became a place where people learned to listen. The wilderness stripped everyone of their comforts and familiarity, creating the safe space where the stranger could be given a name and a story. And those that committed to the emptying process began to form intimate relationships with the people they once called “enemy.” The desert was where possibility was present for dried bones to be filled with new breath.
Then Salim began to form a theology of reconciliation influenced by Eph 2:14–16: “For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility . . . His purpose was to create in himself one new man out of the two, thus making peace, and in this one body to reconcile both of them to God through the cross, by which he put to death their hostility.” Musalaha became recognized as an expert in reconciliation in some areas of the country, and the recognition spread overseas until study groups began coming to learn from Musalaha and to raise awareness of the fiery conflict. Evan and Salim began traveling and speaking together. After Israel and Jordan signed a peace treaty in 1994, the two brothers crossed the Jordan River to meet with Christian communities, many of which were Palestinian refugees. Evan and Salim still work closely together, communicating any time major decisions arise.
Evan looked at his watch and decided it was best to be on the move. We stuffed our papers in our bags and drove down the hill to the main road. We passed too easily through the checkpoint and drove into Jerusalem. We soon arrived in West Jerusalem, busy with traffic and pedestrians. We talked about other things, about the sea and about gardening, but before I exited the car I remarked that Beit Asaph certainly sounded like a very inclusive congregation. I wondered if Evan ever had problems with racism stemming from the conflict.
“Fortunately,” he said, checking and adjusting his rearview mirror, “I have not had to confront overt racism toward Palestinians in my own community but I have had to confront racism in general. Some of the strongest was toward Germans or ethnic groups in my own community. Or between Jews and Gentiles. A lot of it was based in racist or elitist thinking. So the things I was learning in the field with Musalaha made me highly sensitized to such views and growing tools to confront it. Large numbers of my congregation have had interactions with Palestinians through Musalaha. Several of my colleagues have gone to be leaders in inter-community movements. There’s no doubt that at times our positions, or rather agendas, have been viewed with some disdain and suspicion, both theologically and sociologically. But meeting with our Palestinian brothers and sisters is part of our basic vision. It is necessary.”
Sarah Atwood
On almost every block of Hillel Street, thumping bass music emanated from cafés and bars into West Jerusalem. The music wasn’t loud, crashing out of doorways and disrupting conversation and the late summer air. But the pavement resonated beneath my feet with techno beats. People entered and exited in clusters, funneling to and from Ben Yehuda, the city-center promenade. The sun was going down and the streetlights were coming on. This street in West Jerusalem felt like a European city.
I sat down on the steps in front of Café Aroma, and the name, at least for this particular one, was apt because I could smell the strong coffee. People sat in quiet conversation around circled tables on the patio. I wished I had brought a jacket as an unexpected breeze hit me, lingering, and people on the patio tugged on their collars. I was surprised by how cold it suddenly became and I crossed my goose-bumped arms, squeezing my chest with my elbows.
“Excuse me, are you John?” a voice said to my right.
I turned and looked at a girl with sunglasses pushing back her long brown hair. She introduced herself as Sarah Atwood, and she looked at me quizzically as I huddled over and shivered. Sarah apologized for being a little behind schedule, but work ended later than usual. Fortunately, she worked around the corner, as a secretary in a law office that mostly caters to Messianic Jews and Christians, so walking to the café didn’t take very long. I asked her where she wanted to sit. She thought for a moment as she put on a light sweater.
“Oh, let’s sit outside,” she said.
Sarah briefly disappeared inside to order a cup of
