Lauent, everyone, I come home from work and I find these words addressed to me:
Laurent, writing about me, says "So for you to relay those simplistic lies is simply beneath you and the moral authority which your religious position confers you." I will let God be the judge of whatever moral authority I have based upon my vocation. I have no moral authority personally any more or any less than anyone else, and actually, I feel that personally I have no moral authority whatsoever because I know me. I will let history (and God is the God of history) deal with the rest. God will tell me in due time whether what I say are simplistic lies. I confess that I made a mistake in my original post which I realized the next day when I read it in the JMDL - the speech that I heard was not by Sharon but by Netenyahu. I apologise for that and I apologise if I misspelled Netenyahu's name; I am finding lots of various spellings on the internet. I did not correct mis-attributing because no one responded to my post and it seemed so ignored that I let it go. For the rest, I stand by what I said, and I thank for your reposting it. I think you hit me up for things that I did not say; you certainly attributed things to me that I did not say. I think you used my post as a way too state your positions and your feelings, which is ok. Netenyahu's speech set me off. My post set you off. Such is the language of human dialogue. As a human being and as a Christian pastor, and as someone who has struggled with Shoah all of my life, I incredibly resent your analogy which ended "you can blame Jews for 2000 years for not interfering in Romans killing Jesus." That analogy is too overloaded. You do not know me, but I am not the person to whom you can slap that analogy on. Given all that has happened behind that statement, I am sitting here struggling trying to find anything to say, and I can not. Rhetorical flourish your analogy may be, that was beyond the pale. As for the rest, again, I stand by what I said, my correction included. The legend of Sharon the Innocent is there for those who want to believe it. Believe me, nothing occupied my mind so much in 1982 as the Sabra & Shatila massacres. I am just that type of person. I cannot explain it, but everything that I believe and teach and preach arises out of Shoah. And 1982 was not like the Warsaw Ghetto uprising or the struggle of 1948 nor 1967. How can I say, without being inflammatory as we know how overladen this all is with human suffering. 1982 was not genocide. Jenin is not genocide. Those would be more like Katyn or Lidice. I don't give a damn who exactly pulled the trigger ar Sabra and Shatila. Babi Yar was accomplished by Ukrainian troops and I still hold the Nazis responsible. The heirs of those who escaped Babi Yar cannot in moral connection with those victims of the ravines, they cannot in any way countenance Sabra and Shatila. My friend, I ended my post by saying the occupation of Palestinian areas must end and the infatada must stop. Were a Jew in Israel now, I cannot say exactly what I would feel, because that is not my situation. And the same is true if I were Palestinian. However, right now, today, as me, were I as who I am, were I to be in Irsrael right now, I would hope that I would have been one of those Americans and Europeans who broke through the lines to bring food into the palces where Palestinians were surrounded. That does not diminish my rage, my grief, my anguish for the victims of the Tel Aviv disco bombing or the Passover suicide bombing. Each new incident is not an incident, it is the suffering of the innocent. The hatred on both sides is so overwhelming. How to end it, I do not know. The rhetoric on both sides is so dehumanizing. The grievances on both sides are real. And to each side, I would say, has the destruction of human beings on the other side of the struggle, has that brought peace, or security? The cries of the victims, are they so different that you can tell them apart? What I hear is one long symphony of suffering and I cannot tell Palestinian or Jew apart in the sounds of grief, anguish, suffering. The blood of the dead all looks the same to me. Laurent, I can hardly pray anymore on these things. My prayers on Sunday are more of a wail. I used to spell out for God those who have been the most recent victims, and every week that has been a changing of the catalogue of pain, but all I can bring myself to pray now is, "When will you save the people?" But the reality is, it is people killing people, and all of the killing has not brought an end to killing, and it never will. I know that you will reject what I say and if I were in your situation I might well feel differently than I do. But you are where you are at and I am where I am at, and Laurent, in all of this, I cry. For you and I are on both sides of the equation in common huamnity. The words that come to mind are from Yevtushenko's poem: And I myself, like one long soundless scream Above the thousands of thousands interred, I'm every old man executed here, As I am every child murdered here. This has been the difficult post that I have ever written. (the Rev) Vince BABI YAR By Yevgeni Yevtushenko Translated by Benjamin Okopnik, 10/96 No monument stands over Babi Yar. A steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone. I am afraid. Today, I am as old As the entire Jewish race itself. I see myself an ancient Israelite. I wander o'er the roads of ancient Egypt And here, upon the cross, I perish, tortured And even now, I bear the marks of nails. It seems to me that Dreyfus is myself. The Philistines betrayed me - and now judge. I'm in a cage. Surrounded and trapped, I'm persecuted, spat on, slandered, and The dainty dollies in their Brussels frills Squeal, as they stab umbrellas at my face. I see myself a boy in Belostok Blood spills, and runs upon the floors, The chiefs of bar and pub rage unimpeded And reek of vodka and of onion, half and half. I'm thrown back by a boot, I have no strength left, In vain I beg the rabble of pogrom, To jeers of "Kill the Jews, and save our Russia!" My mother's being beaten by a clerk. O, Russia of my heart, I know that you Are international, by inner nature. But often those whose hands are steeped in filth Abused your purest name, in name of hatred. I know the kindness of my native land. How vile, that without the slightest quiver The antisemites have proclaimed themselves The "Union of the Russian People!" It seems to me that I am Anna Frank, Transparent, as the thinnest branch in April, And I'm in love, and have no need of phrases, But only that we gaze into each other's eyes. How little one can see, or even sense! Leaves are forbidden, so is sky, But much is still allowed - very gently In darkened rooms each other to embrace. "They come!" "No, fear not - those are sounds Of spring itself. She's coming soon. Quickly, your lips!" -"They break the door!" -"No, river ice is breaking..." Wild grasses rustle over Babi Yar, The trees look sternly, as if passing judgement. Here, silently, all screams, and, hat in hand, I feel my hair changing shade to gray. And I myself, like one long soundless scream Above the thousands of thousands interred, I'm every old man executed here, As I am every child murdered here. No fiber of my body will forget this. May "Internationale" thunder and ring When, for all time, is buried and forgotten The last of antisemites on this earth. There is no Jewish blood that's blood of mine, But, hated with a passion that's corrosive Am I by antisemites like a Jew. And that is why I call myself a Russian!
