To My Israeli and Palestinian Friends
To my Israeli and Palestinian friends,
We in the process community, living faraway from you, find ourselves in a situation where we don’t know what to do or even what to feel. The best we can do is to be honest and a little bit humble. At least, I will speak for myself.
Who am I to say, "I understand your pain"? The truth is, your pain is so intense and so personal that it is blasphemous to claim I understand. Yes, we are all connected, and yes, we live in a world of mutual becoming. But our connections do not erase the deep privacy of our suffering or the unbearable pain in the losses we endure. I have never experienced the pain you are experiencing.
And who am I to say you should turn the other cheek? I was raised in a tradition that teaches loving your enemies and turning the other cheek, but I can easily imagine being in a situation—namely yours—where that seems impossible and shamefully naive. In such a situation, "settling scores" might feel not only more satisfying but also more just.
We all know that violence breeds violence and revenge breeds revenge. You know that, and I know it too. We speak of the cycle of violence. It seems to never end.
But I cannot deny your need, and perhaps also your right, to seek revenge. To deny that would be a different kind of blasphemy—not against God, but against you and your lived experience.
All that I can ask of you is what I ask of myself: dig deep, be honest to the best of your ability, and be as humble as you can be, considering what “the other side” might be feeling, too.
Speaking of God, you know that I believe God is not all-powerful. All-loving, yes, but not all-powerful. I don’t think God can prevent the atrocities. I often describe God as an inward lure toward healing and wholeness, guiding us toward the best possible outcome given our circumstances.
But who am I to say that, in your situation, the best response to what has happened to you is not revenge? Who am I to impose such a judgment on your pain and your choices?
I do not know what God wants, except to say that God wants us to "flourish." But what in the world does that really mean? Flourishing is such a broad and elusive concept. Does it mean peace and prosperity? Inner contentment? Or perhaps the ability to live fully, with all our joys and sorrows intertwined?
In times of suffering, the idea of flourishing can feel distant, almost hollow. What does it mean to flourish in a world where pain, loss, and conflict are so prevalent? Does flourishing mean finding a way through the darkness, or does it involve something deeper—transforming that darkness into a kind of light? If so, how do we even begin to do that? These are questions I wrestle with, and I don't have easy answers.
I can only hope that in our striving, in our imperfect attempts to love, to heal, and to seek justice, we move a little closer to understanding what it truly means to flourish. Perhaps flourishing isn't about avoiding suffering or pain, but about how we respond to it, how we hold onto our humanity and our capacity for love in the midst of it. Maybe flourishing is found in the small, everyday acts of kindness, in the courage to keep going, and in the shared moments of grace that remind us we're not alone. Who am I to say? I can only wonder, alongside you, what flourishing might look like in your lives and in mine.
I do not know what God wants. Sometimes, I find myself criticizing God, saying, "You ought to be all-powerful, to prevent such suffering." I think God doesn’t mind this and might even partly agree. I think even God might wish he could stop the violence. (Or she or it—it doesn’t matter.) But God cannot usurp our power to love one another—or to harm and hate one another. So I learn from open and relational (process) theology. I feel sorry for God and for us. Would that we could be in more control. But who am I to say?
Letters like this are supposed to end with a word of hope. This is expected of theologians. They like happy endings, or at least hopeful ones. But I can only end with two phrases: "Who am I to say?" and "I won’t leave either of you. I’m for both of you." I will leave it to people smarter than I am to determine the political solutions that include both of you, each flourishing, whatever that means.
But let it me known that we in the process community refuse to take sides, except both sides. That won't end your suffering. But it may help redeem it just a little. That, too, is what God wants, so I believe. I believe God hopes we will not give up on the possibility of living together, even if we don't like each other. That, to my mind, is flourishing.
I will pick up the pieces of my uncertainty and commit myself to your flourishing. Yes, that is what I'll do, knowing that I don't understand your pain but that I refuse to take sides, except both sides.
Sincerely,
Jay McDaniel