41. Jerusalem, 1997 - Occupations of the heart
In which Eleanor considers the state of her heart.
Faith meets reality. The "Holy Land" defies easy answers. 
Eleanor
“There are occupations that will continue after the political occupation by Israel is ended,” Naim says quietly as he looks around the room.
We’ve gathered at the Shipleys' home in Abu Tor. Nigel’s the head of World Vision here, and his wife Deana has the same love of crafty things as I do. Their home has a wonderful view north across one of Jerusalem’s many valleys to the Old City. It’s a beautiful old Arab villa, the limestone and marble weathered and warm. I had met both of them, and Damien Kearney—still in his white sacristan’s robe—after my first Sunday service at St George’s Cathedral. They have promptly pulled me into their circle, which includes a weekly soiree in their home attended by a mix of diplomats, UN and international NGO staff, and a few Christian Palestinians.
This week they’ve invited Naim Ateek, Canon of the Cathedral and founder of Sabeel1 to join us. Of medium stature, and quiet of voice, he doesn’t need to talk loudly—we are all rapt in attention. His face reminds me of Mahdi's: the pain behind the eyes, the etched-in lines from decades of supporting the struggle. But where that pain has made others hard, bitter, and resentful, it has softened Naim and Mahdi, and deepened their wisdom and compassion. I’ve quickly come to understand how St George’s sits on the same fault lines that run everywhere here. Naim serves both the international, English-speaking and Palestinian, Arabic-speaking communities at the Cathedral, and is beloved by some, and severely criticized by others.
Naim’s liberation theology is familiar and comforting to me. Father Robert back in Pretoria has preached much the same. It’s all that keeps me engaged with Anglicanism. Out of curiosity I had tried one of the new “independent” churches in Durban while I was at University. And had quickly had enough. The saccharine services, where apartheid and the struggle were never mentioned, nauseated me. Now liberation theology: that’s real to me; that speaks directly to what it means to be South African, to what it means to be living in East Jerusalem.
“Occupation is not just by one state of another,” Naim goes on, sitting at ease in a comfortable armchair, one knee crossed over the other, his arms lying relaxed across the arm rests. “Our hearts can be occupied by denominationalism and sectarianism; by fanaticism and extremism; by ignorance and blindness to what is happening around us.” Even though he’s wearing the traditional dog collar, black shirt, and trousers, Naim’s tone is conversational, not preachy. “Jesus taught us that to end the occupation within us, to liberate our own souls,” he continues, “we must live by the law of love. We can fight occupation. We can take up Jihad, through arms. This is the lesser Jihad. Or we can take up the greater Jihad: we can liberate our souls. This is the more difficult Jihad.”
Hearing an Anglican priest talk about Jihad, it’s uncomfortable, and I hear a rustle in the room as we all shift in our seats. But Naim’s draw is that he does discomfort, that he does challenge us deeply and directly, to have our faith actually mean something in this land of its origins and steeped in history and conflict. I look around the room. We come from all over the world, but are all engaged, in some way, with the fight for freedom, peace, and justice.
“Hopelessness and despair, anger, patriarchy, honor, shame, status, these are all also occupations. The struggle against these occupations is just as important—no, more important—than the struggle against political occupation. Because to liberate our land, we must also liberate our souls.” For a moment I’m both here in East Jerusalem, and back in Durban, in Meredith’s bedroom, when she’d so quietly said looking into our hearts takes more courage than going out there and protesting apartheid.
Later that night, back in my apartment in Beit Hanina on the north side of the Old City and with Tlali and Themba nestled in beside me, I take out my notebook and review his words. They still unsettle me. They still beckon me to something deeper.
Am I too an occupied land?
It’s a discomforting thought.
A few weeks later I attend Naim’s last service at the Cathedral. It’s a rare combined service of both the Arabic- and English-speaking congregations. The mood is subdued, but there’s also anger bubbling just beneath the surface. Anger that the Anglican church is forcing him out. The politics of it all reek.
“The Bishop can’t abide that Naim is more popular than he is,” Damien whispers to me during the service. The bishop is in the act of extolling Naim’s many acts of service. “And he finds Naim’s liberation theology a threat to his carefully cultivated relationship with the Israelis.”
It reminds me of St Andrews in Pretoria, and how the congregation halved when Father Robert called on us to embrace Archbishop Tutu and his call for sanctions. “Faith is political,” Father Robert would say. “If our faith does not speak to the reality of black South Africans’ lives, if our faith does not call us to work actively against apartheid, we are not living by what Jesus taught us.”
Naim’s refusal to separate faith from politics is, apparently, too much for the Bishop and Canterbury too.
There is occupation, even in the Church. Even in the souls of supposedly holy men.
February Indie Collective
I’m part of collective of other Inidie authors who cross-share each other’s books with our readers.
February I’m part of:
International Fiction (stories not set in the US)
Maybe one of these books from an independent author is for you?
(And yes, clicking these links does help me…it builds my reputation as an indie author who supports other indie authors, so 🙏 in advance.)
Bonus Material
The Reverend Naim Ateek: a real person, with a real background
The view from Abu Tor
St George’s Cathedral, Jerusalem
Sabeel Ecumenical Liberation Theology Center, https://sabeel.org/
Such different and unexpected perspectives here.