Remarks given at Mennonite Heritage Center on my Peacemaking Journey

 

Peacemaking Journey Story for Mennonite Heritage Center Gathering- Steve Clemens – June 17, 2022

 

I was Born in October 1950, the third of three sons to Lester Stauffer Clemens and Kathryn Hockman Clemens and lived for the first 15 years of my life in a farmhouse by the entrance to Hatfield Packing Company in Hatfield Township. For those first 7 years we shared the house with my cousin Butch, his wife Arlayne, and the first 3 of their children. Across the street was the Arthur Hackman family dairy farm and I later connected with the oldest son, Walton, who had a pivotal role in my faith journey.

 

Our family was one of the founding members of what was then called “Calvary Mennonite Church” and I understood that I was the first infant to be “dedicated” in their new church building on Route 113 on the outskirts of Souderton. Bill Anders was the pastor for my first 10 years or so; followed by Art Malles for the following five years. I knew Bill was from a Mennonite background and I came to understand Art was from a Baptist background who came with at least some appreciation for the Anabaptist heritage. It never dawned on me that we were not affiliated with any of the Mennonite Conferences – Franconia, Eastern Board, or General Conference – but I was aware that we were “different” in that our church emphasized “missions” and expressed ourselves in more “evangelical” terms. I remember my mom wore a head covering in worship at least until I was about 7 and then it kind of disappeared. I also believed our church taught the “Truth” and only a few other churches did so – none of them being “Mennonite”.

 

The two centers of my life were Calvary Mennonite and Hatfield Packing. Virtually all my friends were connected with one or the other, including most of our relatives. On the Clemens side, only 6 of the surviving 10 children of my father’s generation remained “Mennonite” with 4 of them initially or eventually ending up at Calvary (“Mennonite”). We never missed a service (as I recall), even being sure we attended a church service on Sunday mornings while away on vacation. Most of our vacations were to Highland Lake Bible Conference in upstate New York. “Christian Service Brigade” was our replacement for Boy Scouts. We attended Sunday School, worship, and Sunday evening services, Boys Brigade on Monday evening, Wednesday evening prayer meeting, and “evangelistic” services or “missionary conferences” whenever they were held in our area – or we traveled to Philadelphia or New York if someone like Billy Graham was holding services.

 

I “accepted Jesus as my Personal Savior” at age 7 when my mom convinced me that I didn’t want to “go to Hell” and later was baptized as an “adult” at age 12 at Calvary. I identified as a “Bible-believing, born-again Christian” -clearly distinguishing myself from my peers at public school and/or the workers at the meat packing plant. However, that neat world began falling apart in 6^th grade when I was sexually molested repeatedly by my male teacher. I never told my parents about this on-going trauma, believing this happened to me because I was guilty of some sin – after all, “All things work together for good to them that love God” – was one of many Bible verses I had memorized as a young child. So, when my parents presented me with the opportunity to choose to go to a “Christian school” for grades 10-12, I jumped at the prospect. Note: Christopher Dock was NOT one of the options presented to me.

 

At the Stony Brook School For Boys on Long Island, NY, I was now away from the very narrow understanding of who was a “true Christian” since the school’s chaplain came from an Anglican background and the Headmaster was
Presbyterian (and I even later learned he was a Democrat!). I learned the Apostles’ Creed, saw others “reading” their prayers, and even had classmates who were Jewish or certainly not “born again”. However, I was so convinced by my upbringing that I needed to choose the “straight and narrow way” and that “secular education” could tempt me to “drink, dance, smoke, and play cards”, I choose the safe option of going to the “evangelical Harvard”, Wheaton College after my Christian Prep School. I was only 17 when I graduated in June of 1968, mostly oblivious to world events – especially the Civil Rights movement and the Vietnam War. All my classmates were going on to college, so the military draft wasn’t even on my radar.

 

In September 1968, en route to Wheaton, we stopped in Fort Wayne, IN to visit my dad’s youngest sister, Betty, who had been widowed several years before. My cousin Jon was home that weekend from his Alternative Service (1-W) assignment as an orderly at a local hospital and I was somewhat stunned to realize he was a Conscientious Objector. I knew there were some who chose that route but didn’t personally know them. My dad and his older brother, Ezra were drafted and both participated in WWII. My oldest brother, Jerry was drafted in 1967 into the Army and served in Korea.) Two days later, when registering for my classes at Wheaton, I was handed a rifle, military uniform, and was told I was now enrolled in the compulsory Army ROTC classes for all freshman and sophomore male students. We had military drill at 7AM two days a week and Military Science classes three days a week. It wasn’t until I took my rifle up to the 3^rd floor of a women’s dormitory for our shooting practice on the campus rifle range that the cognitive dissonance began: the targets were round circles with a bull’s eye but subconsciously I realized that, in reality, they were Vietnamese soldiers.

 

My dad would take my brothers and me hunting each fall since I was at least 10, always instructing us as we were “sighting in” our guns that “we were never to point our guns at something we didn’t wish to shoot, we ate what we killed, and we were never, ever, to point our guns at a human being.” The gun my dad gave me at age 12 for deer hunting was a German Mauser rifle he had picked up on a European battlefield when he was in the US Army infantry and had disassembled it and mailed it home. Although he had the bayonet with the swastika on it, we didn’t attach it to the rifle for deer hunting. My dad never talked about the war or his “service” in it – only telling us “I did some things I wasn’t proud of, and I promised the Lord that if I made it home safely, I’d turn my life around and go to church.”

 

So, a month later as I was approaching my 18^th birthday and was required to register for the Military Draft, I was approached by the Resident Assistant for my dormitory floor, and he asked me if I would like to pray and/or talk with him before I registered for the Draft. He was one of only a handful of Mennonites at Wheaton. We talked, prayed, and I decided that Jesus really meant what he said when he told us to “love our enemies” and I decided that I would register as a Conscientious Objector. My Draft Board wouldn’t rule on my application right away since I had an educational deferment as a college student, but I knew this decision to choose a different path might have some consequences.

 

Briefly, demanding that I be released from the ROTC requirement put me at odds with the Wheaton administration and I quickly began associating with the campus “rebels” – members of the Student Government and the few Black and LatinX students on campus. It led me to attend a Black Power Symposium that Spring at Augustana College in Rock Island, IL followed by a summer working with street gangs in Philadelphia with the evangelical organization, Teen Haven. When I returned to Wheaton in the fall, I started participating in peace marches led by a local Catholic priest at the Wheaton Draft Board. I travelled many Saturday mornings to the southside of Chicago to attend Operation Breadbasket services led by Jesse Jackson. Later I took a few courses at the nearby Maryknoll Seminary and helped lead a campus peace group at Wheaton named after its founder, Jonathan Blanchard who was a pacifist and abolitionist. It took longer for my theology to change than my politics but a Church History course my junior year (led by a dissident professor) educated me about the Anabaptist movement I never learned at Calvary; and then John Howard Yoder was (surprisingly) allowed to preach in chapel (but only once!). Just before graduating early in December 1971, I met Jim Wallis as he was just beginning as editor of The Post American, later to be re-named Sojourners Magazine) and we began a long friendship. He introduced me to Art Gish and Ron Sider in the coming year and I devoured The Politics of Jesus and The New Left and Christian Radicalism.  

 

After a year of grad school in Social Work at Temple University School of Social Administration, I decided to drop out and do my “voluntary service”. In December 1969, the Military Draft switched to a lottery system as a way to tone down a lot of the growing anti-war sentiment. My birthdate gave me the lottery number 254 so I was almost certainly not going to be drafted in 1970 or whenever I left college but I felt a moral obligation to “serve my country” as a conscientious objector. I called up my former neighbor, Walton Hackman, who I discovered was now the Secretary of the MCC Peace Section in Akron, PA to inquire about doing service. He recommended that I consider going to the deep South with a joint MDS/MCC project in rural Mississippi. (He didn’t tell me then about his own experience there during Freedom Summer.) Just before leaving for Glen Allan, Mississippi, he invited me to supper and after discussing with him my excitement about The Politics of Jesus, he handed me a copy of William Stringfellow’s An Ethic For Christians and Other Aliens In A Strange Land. After some adventures in Mississippi, including 2 weekends in Philadelphia, MS, Walton asked if I would be willing to serve a year in Washington, DC at the Peace Section DC office.

 

At our MCC VS orientation in Akron for that assignment I met Ladon Sheats and heard about Koinonia Farm for the first time. Ladon showed a multi-media presentation on “Values” – comparing and contrasting the values of our American culture and the values of the Kingdom of God as proclaimed by Jesus - and that planted seeds for me to travel to south Georgia after that year. Meanwhile, in Washington, DC I lived in the home of a former VS couple, John Swarr and Eva Beidler, because there was no VS house for MCC volunteers. John invited me to be part of a Monday Night Bible Study Group at the Community For Creative Nonviolence where I was blessed to be part of a group led by Phil Berrigan and Liz Macalister. I was now a long way from my anti-Catholic youth at Calvary Mennonite! We studied Abraham Heschel’s The Prophets and I was further initiated in the growing anti-nuclear movement after the Vietnam War ended. After several forays into quasi-legal protest at the White House, Liz encouraged me to take the next step and risk arrest more directly during the last major demonstration against the Vietnam War in March 1975. I told Delton Franz at the Peace Section office that I felt called to do this and he (somewhat reluctantly -as we were only an office of 3) agreed that I could act on my conscience.

 

It was my letter to the editor of the Souderton Independent about my arrest that caused John Ruth to call Walton to inquire about me. Walton later told me John was somewhat chagrined that I was someone from a break-away group rather than one of the Mennonites who remained in that tradition. My visits with Walton after moving to Koinonia in the fall of 1975 often led to discussions about my own family history with the Mennonites that I never knew. While only in jail for 6 hours at that first arrest, I was shocked to learn that a few of my 61 fellow arrestees refused release “on their own recognizance” because, they said, it wouldn’t have been offered to them if they were Black, uneducated, or poor. I thought I had taken a major step – only to realize there were many harder and deeper challenges ahead.   

 

At Koinonia I learned about active peacemaking in the context of a residential community. One could choose to act as a “lone wolf” but if you wanted to last for the long haul, you needed others to challenge and support you. After a week of risky protests inside the Pentagon at the beginning of September 1980, Ladon Sheats approached me in about a possible Prayer Pilgrimage to the plant where all US nuclear weapons are assembled - it took me a while before saying “yes”. (I did not know at that time about the plans for the first Plowshares witness which would occur in the next few days but Ladon, now living at Jonah House, did.)

 

Fortunately, Christine and two other Koinonia friends were able to join me in the trip to Amarillo and the Pantex Plant in early February 1981. Gail, 8 months pregnant, and Christine chose to watch from a ½ mile away in case we were shot by the armed guards, but Edwin rode in the car with me and helped me get out the folding ladder we constructed to get over the first 12’ fence. As we entered the grounds of the huge Pantex plant, I definitely noticed the increase of adrenaline – but surprisingly I didn’t feel fear. Our group had spent the previous 3 days talking, praying, and even practicing climbing the ladders. Christine and I talked about the possibility of being shot at this heavily guarded facility. But when my faith overcame my fear, I felt truly free! I was moved to tears when a Resident Partner from Koinonia mailed me a photo of the whole community standing behind a banner reading, “Hang in there!” that they took on Easter Sunday morning as they prayed for me in jail. I felt a lot of support from my community over the 6 months during arraignment, trial, sentencing, while remaining in the county jail and then on to Federal prison.

 

After release from the Texarkana Federal Prison, I took the Greyhound bus back to Georgia and my waiting community. Four years later, and with quite a lot of discussion, 2 other community members joined me as we sat on the railroad tracks when the White Train loaded with nuclear warheads destined for the submarine base in Charleston, SC came through a town that was about 20 minutes from Koinonia. We realized we faced a possible 1-year sentence (assuming the train would stop – and we took precautions to clearly inform both law enforcement and the railroad security personnel of our intent) but ended up with only 5 days in jail before public pressure forced our judge to have a hearing on our unusual charges- contempt of court! While we fasted in jail, the Resident Partners of our community skipped their weekly Partners Meeting on Sunday night to travel to the jail and sing to us from outside its walls!

 

I now see as providential that my parents had a huge, bound copy of The Martyr’s Mirror in our home. We didn’t have a TV until I was 13 so I spent a lot of time exploring what books we had. I learned at an early age that following my faith could have serious consequences.  I owe much of my peacemaking desires to the nurturing I received from the Anabaptist tradition: The history of conscientious objection, taking the Scriptures seriously about loving ones enemies, books and stories of Peace Church people challenging the war machine and injustice, Walton, the Sojourners folk, Ladon Sheats and the teaching and witness of Clarence Jordan, Vincent Harding and his influence on Martin King, Mary Sprunger-Froese and her husband Peter who were part of the Pantex 6, Walter Wink, Ched Myers and Elaine Enns, … the list goes on. Some identified as Mennonites, others as Anabaptists, still others as “disciples” or “followers of the way”. It is somewhat ironic that it took a Church History course at an evangelical college to help guide me back to my own (squandered) heritage. 

 

Being part of Peace Teams in Iraq and Afghanistan and later returning to Iraq were rare privileges to stretch my peacemaking skills and muscles. Many friends have helped me broaden my peacemaking to recognize the intersections with climate justice, racial reconciliation, interfaith cooperation, correcting economic disparities, re-learning history from the view of the underclass, marginalized, and oppressed, … When I first declared myself a conscientious objector, it was primarily a personal position – what I wouldn’t do. It hadn’t affected my politics, my lifestyle, or my theology. I was primarily a passivist. It took me a while to learn that to be a pacifist, one had to address the root causes that created the conflicts – one had to actively engage the issues and struggles of others – not be content in remaining “pure” (I wouldn’t do that!). And so, my journey into peacemaking continues … 

 

Christine and I were married in May of 1978 and our sons, Micah and Zach, were born in 1983 and 1986.

[discussion followed].

30 Years Ago ...

Remembering and Resisting for 30 Years by Steve Clemens. August 8, 2013

It was 30 years ago; the U.S. Army School of the Americas was still in the Panama Canal Zone but military troops from the repressive government of El Salvador were training at Ft. Benning, GA. A small cadre of peacemakers, primarily from Koinonia Farm and Habitat For Humanity, came to the main entrance to the sprawling military base for the weekly Quaker-style candlelight vigil. The vigil had begun 4 months prior and usually consisted of 8-20 people who gathered in a circle to prayer, reflect, and protest U.S. policy in Central America.

It was the assassination of Salvadoran Archbishop Oscar Romero while saying mass in the capital city in March of 1980 that had awoken many of us to the suffering of the Salvadoran people and the U.S. complicity in the harsh repression of the people; campesinos struggling for land and justice from the couple of dozen families of elites that controlled the land and the government. Romero had written to then-President Jimmy Carter just months before his assassination asking him to stop the flow of military aid and weapons to his nation. He never received a reply from the President before the bullet ended his life as he held the chalice of wine over his head during the mass.

Three years later activists discovered that Salvadoran troops were being trained by U.S. Military instructors at the large infantry base on the outskirts of Columbus, GA and a protest march and rally was scheduled around the third anniversary of El Salvador’s increasingly famous martyr. Unfortunately (from my perspective), the tone and tenor of that protest was strident and caustic and I felt that while I agreed with the political aim of ending the military training and changing the foreign policy of the Reagan Administration towards Central America, we would be better served by a reflective, contemplative and confessional presence outside that military base than the bombastic chanting and finger-pointing of the larger demonstration.

A week later, our Thursday evening hour-long candlelight vigil outside the base began. Some friends from across the Chattahoochee River in neighboring Alabama joined us as did a couple of others from nearby Buena Vista, GA. Someone would often read a short reflection, a poem, or a prayer, we’d sing a song or two, but mostly held signs with our candles and reflected and prayed. Occasionally someone driving out of the base would shout something (frequently it wasn’t PG-rated even though children were often present); less frequently someone would stop and talk to us.

In August 1983, Father Roy Bourgeois and Father Larry Rosebaugh drove over to Koinonia Farm (where our family lived) to share with our intentional community their plans for nonviolent resistance to the continued training of the Salvadoran troops. It was my first encounter with “Father Roy” but the Louisiana drawl in his voice and his gentle demeanor made me feel energized and included. I had known “Father Larry” a lot better since our 1981 nonviolent witness together in Amarillo, TX led to our sharing the same jail cell for a week after our arrest for praying at Pantex, the final assembly plant for all U.S. nuclear weapons. After he was transferred to a different jail, we saw each other at arraignment, trial, and sentencing before we headed off to different federal prisons to serve the rest of our time.

Larry had told the 5 of us with him in the holding cell outside the FBI office in Amarillo about his travels through Central and South America, especially his time in Recife, Brazil where he was arrested, jailed, and tortured for his work with the poor. I came to love and trust Larry during our jail-time together so when he arrived with Roy, I suspected here was another “radical priest” God had placed in my life to challenge me to further action. (I should have seen a pattern after “Father Tom” from the Maryknoll seminary in Glen Ellyn, IL “schooled” me during my Wheaton college years and then former-priest Phil Berrigan continued that “education” during the year I lived in Washington, DC.) Father Larry, and now, Father Roy: all wanted to challenge me to live out my values in a way that nonviolently confronted those in power.

Roy and Larry told us that they were fasting and planning to nonviolently confront the Salvadoran troops. They didn’t share the details with us (they seemed to just evolve from one action to the next for them), but we did invite them to join our next weekly candlelight vigil and told them some of us would possibly like to join them in their direct action. We talked about “continuing” the candlelight vigil on to the base after our usual hour presence by the entrance, knowing that we would likely be arrested by base security if we did so.

As Thursday arrived, most of us had no idea that Roy and Larry, joined by a local Catholic activist, Linda Ventimiglia, had already stirred up a hornets nest with 3 or 4 other acts of witness including the dramatic scaling of a tree outside the Salvador barracks and playing Oscar Romero’s final radio address where he asked, plead, ordered Salvadoran troops “in the name of God” to “put down their guns” and “end the repression.” The three of them had been arrested and thrown off the base several times that week before our Thursday evening vigil.

I don’t remember now if we walked or drove to the Base Commander’s house but at least 4 of us went with Roy, Larry, and Linda. Someone rang the doorbell while others planted a cross (not burning!, I must add, given the context of Georgia) on the front lawn. A teenage girl came to the door and we asked if the Base Commander was home. We were told he’d be home shortly so we told her we would vigil quietly on the sidewalk with our candles. It was only a few minutes before base security arrived, we were arrested, and hauled off to what we assumed was base headquarters.

In the six hours we were held under arrest, I distinctly remember overhearing various military officers saying very vicious and demeaning comments about “Catholics”, especially since they had become familiar with Roy and Larry’s vocation as priests. About 3 AM, each of us was handed a letter stating that we were “banned and barred” from that military base. We had the right to appeal this order if we wished but otherwise it was in effect with no end date listed. (Years later I was to receive “Ban and Bar” letters lasting 1 year or 5 years; this one was presumably for life.) They then drove us off base in groups of 2-3 dropping us off miles from the city center meaning we would have to walk to get to our cars. Fortunately, they did drop Judy Cumbee off back at the main entrance since her leg was in a cast from a previous accident.

Less than one year after these nonviolent direct actions, it was announced that the “School of the Americas” was moving to Ft. Benning as part of the Treaty to return the Panama Canal Zone to Panama agreed to by President Carter several years earlier. Our weekly vigils continued for several years before becoming a monthly vigil. I moved to Minnesota in 1990 and just months after our arrival, we heard word that Father Roy was going back to fast, pray, and protest at the gates of Ft. Benning. And thus began what has become The School of the Americas Watch, a nonviolent movement to embody the call of the martyred Archbishop: “put down the guns and stop the repression” – now throughout the Americas, not just El Salvador. One by one, nations have begun to pull their troops out of this notorious school now renamed “The Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation (WHINSEC)” in an attempt to “re-brand” it from a “school of assassins” to an institution which promotes “human rights” (albeit at the barrel of a gun!)

More than 300 nonviolent activists have gone to prison to protest this school in those 30 years. Late last week 40 members of Congress (including Rep. Keith Ellison from Minneapolis) introduced a bill to suspend operations at SOA/WHINSEC and begin an investigation of the connection between US military training and human rights abuses in Latin America. In November, I will return to the gates of that notorious institution to once again say “Close the SOA!”

Prepare the Way

Prepare the Way. Shared Word for CSM. Second Sunday in Advent, Dec 9, 2012 by Steve Clemens

Luke 1:68-79 (Song of Zechariah)

⁶⁸ “Praise be to the Lord, the God of Israel, because God has come to his people and redeemed them.
⁶⁹ God has raised up a horn of salvation for us in the house of his servant David
⁷⁰ (as God said through his holy prophets of long ago),
⁷¹ salvation from our enemies and from the hand of all who hate us—
⁷² to show mercy to our ancestors and to remember his holy covenant,
⁷³     the oath he swore to our father Abraham:
⁷⁴ to rescue us from the hand of our enemies, and to enable us to serve him without fear
⁷⁵     in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.

⁷⁶ And you, my child, will be called a prophet of the Most High; for you will go on before the Lord to prepare the way for him,
⁷⁷ to give his people the knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins,
⁷⁸ because of the tender mercy of our God, by which the rising sun will come to us from heaven
⁷⁹ to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the path of peace.”

Philippians 1:3-11

³ I thank my God every time I remember you. ⁴ In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy ⁵ because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, ⁶ being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.

⁷ It is right for me to feel this way about all of you, since I have you in my heart and, whether I am in prison or defending and confirming the gospel, all of you share in God’s grace with me. ⁸ God can testify how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus.

⁹ And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, ¹⁰ so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, ¹¹ filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ—to the glory and praise of God.

Luke 3:1-6

3 In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar—when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, Herod tetrarch of Galilee, his brother Philip tetrarch of Iturea and Traconitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene— ² during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. ³ He went into all the country around the Jordan, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. ⁴ As it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet:

“A voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him.
⁵ Every valley shall be filled in, every mountain and hill made low.
The crooked roads shall become straight, the rough ways smooth.
⁶ And all people will see God’s salvation.’”

The Song of Zechariah, father of John the Baptizer, tells us of a rising sun which will “shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death”. Tomorrow, December 10^th, is identified as International Human Rights Day and my friends in Afghanistan, the Afghan Peace Volunteers, have asked us to petition the United Nations to call for a ceasefire by all parties in the war in Afghanistan as well as taking the time to remember and mourn all the victims of war in Afghanistan over the past 33 years since the invasion of Soviet forces followed by the mujahedeen, the Warlords, the Taliban, and now the US and NATO troops. “We are tired of the killing,” they told me last Spring when I traveled to Kabul to plant trees with them.

The shadow of death: is there not a more accurate description of US unmanned aerial vehicles, also known as drones, with the names of Predator and Raptor? Flying at great heights and visiting death and destruction on unsuspecting human targets, these killing machines purposefully sow fear and terror into the hearts and minds of those on the receiving end. It gives a whole new meaning to an Advent, a time of waiting in anticipation. Zechariah knew something about the need for deliverance from an occupying enemy – the Roman occupiers not only had troops in the Jewish homeland but had also a hand in appointing Herod and Pontius Pilate as political rulers and even the religious authorities, the high priests, Annas and Caiaphas. John the Baptizer was called to be the one to prepare the way for one who could “rescue them from the hand of their enemies”. But Zechariah’s song ends with the plea to “guide our feet into the path of peace.”

Most of us know the John the Baptist story from Sunday School – how he was imprisoned for his seditious talk. Our second reading from Philippians reminds us that another messenger is in prison: Paul is writing to this small outpost of believers in Philippi from his prison cell reminding his readers that they be filled with love as they discern what is best. Last week was the time my friend Brian Terrell, a Catholic Worker from Iowa, was ordered to report to the Federal Prison in Yankton, SD for his 6-month sentence. He was convicted for his nonviolent protest of the training of drone pilots at Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri earlier this year. Brian was guilty of trying to warn the military personnel of the illegality of these weapons under International Laws but his voice, like one crying in the wilderness of US courtrooms fell on deaf ears. “He who has ears to hear …” but the words fall to the ground when deafness is chosen out of fear or arrogance. So his nonviolent witness will have to speak through his action at Whiteman as well as his presence in prison.

Brian Terrell isn’t the only prophet in prison. Last week also marked the first time Bradley Manning was allowed to speak in a US Courtroom after more than two years of imprisonment, 9 months of which in solitary conditions that met the definition of torture according to a United Nations rapporteur who was denied access to him. All this because he dared to bring to light the shameful deeds our nation has committed in darkness. When one blows the whistle on the lies of war, expect the wrath of the government to be visited on you. Again, not the type of visitation we wait for in our time of Advent.

But for those of us who were able to hear Bill McKibben a week ago speaking about the math of climate change, he too had a story of imprisonment for trying to bring the crisis of fossil fuels and their carbon emissions to the attention of the President during the summer of 2011. McKibben’s three days in the DC jail ironically brought much more attention to the protest than had there been no arrests at all. His friend Gus Spaeth told Bill through the cell bars that this time in jail was the most important thing he had done in his life – someone who advised Presidents, chaired committees, and had received numerous awards and recognition as Dean of the Yale Environment Studies Program, founder of the National Resources Defense Council and President Carter’s Environmental Advisor. Both men, sitting in jail, hoping and working for that spark which can light a fire for the environmental movement. A time of waiting – but being active while one waits.

Last Saturday I saw a movie, 5 Broken Cameras, documenting the nonviolent resistance of the people of Bil’in in occupied Palestine. The filmmaker as well as his brothers were dragged off to Israeli jails. His cameras were “broken” when they were hit by bullets, tear gas canisters, or fell to the ground as the cameraman was being beaten by Israeli troops.  They recognized that being jailed, shot, and possibly killed were and are a matter of course when one seeks justice in the face of illegal Israeli settlements, destruction of olive trees, and the crushing of Palestinian hopes. They, too, wait in expectation of being rescued from one’s enemies.

Our reading from Luke chapter 3 doesn’t include the words that Matthew’s Gospel does about the content of John the Baptizer’s message: “Repent, for the Kingdom or reign of God is at hand.” Clarence Jordan in his Cotton Patch translation used to say, “Change your whole way of thinking because God’s new order of the Spirit is impinging upon you.”

That is our message for Advent today. Change your whole way of thinking (and acting) because the new order is based on very different values and ideas. The new order doesn’t need drones or prisons. The new order redefines who is our neighbor, what is “security”, how to relate to an “enemy”. We see that metamorphosis, that metanonia (the Greek word translated as “repent”), in the lives and actions of my Muslim friends, the Afghan Peace Volunteers, my Catholic Worker friend, Brian Terrell, our environmental prophet, Bill McKibben, and the whistle-blowing actions of Brad Manning. The old order, the old way of domination and fear is giving way to a new reality, the in-breaking of the reign of God. These folk are helping prepare the way, just as the life and message of John did for Jesus. We remember John’s fate at the hand of Herod and we better be ready for a similar fate at the hands of the empire today if we decide to Prepare the Way for the nonviolent Christ-child to disrupt and re-order our lives. 

John’s Gospel tells us, “A light shines in the darkness and the darkness does not understand it.” What better a description for the vote a week ago in the United Nations where the US voted against a resolution in support for more recognition of a Palestinian State. Ambassador Susan Rice and Secretary of State Hillary Clinton dissembled, justifying the negative vote by claiming that all this needs to be “negotiated” between Israel and the Palestinians, knowing full well that the Netanyahu government has absolutely no intention of stopping more illegal settlements and then rejecting any “preconditions” for negotiations. So it is up to us to help shine a light into this darkness. And there is so much darkness surrounding us tonight: an environment under assault, the people of Palestine and Israel living in fear and terror, whistle-blowers in prison and facing the possibility of decades before any possible release, the hum of drones prowling the skies overhead, the continued military occupation under the guise of humanitarian intervention. And more.

As a sign of our commitment to be people of hope and resistance, I invite all of you to light a candle with me in solidarity with the Afghan Peace Volunteers in Kabul and Bamiyan Province in Afghanistan, remembering all the victims of war but also to determine to help shine a light into our present darkness. After our songs and prayers, I invite you to light your candle from the Advent wreath and then join together to send a message of love and peace across the 6,873 miles and 10 ½ time zones to Abdulai and Ghulami, Zahra and Sharbanoo, Basir and Hakim and the many others waiting this Advent for an end to the war, the terror from the skies, the fear of bombs and IEDs, and the grinding misogyny enforced under the guise of religion. May our active waiting also embody a sign of hope and solidarity for them. May it be so.       

Generosity. Day 10 in Iraq

Generosity: Iraq Day 10 by Steve Clemens

The dinner was held in one of Najaf’s best restaurants according to the former owner of Sinbad’s in south Minneapolis who sold his business to return to help his home nation rebuild during the war. Sami Rasouli and another member of his Muslim Peacemaker Team escorted us to the Holy Shrine of Imam Hussein in Karbala, about an hours drive north of Najaf if one doesn’t allow for the 4-5 checkpoints we must encounter on the 80 kilometer trip. After returning to Najaf and seated at the restaurant, Joan and I were chatting with Mohammed across the table. Mohammed mentioned to me that he had liked what I had written in my blogs which he found cross-posted on my Facebook page and then asked Joan if the “Joan Haan” on his Facebook search was her page. After she affirmed that she was, he sent her a “friend request” and they were connected on Facebook.

Joan, in her direct manner, looked at Mohammed and asked him why his name appeared as “Eng Mohammed” on her screen, commenting that it was a name she hadn’t heard before in Arabic. I said I thought it stood for “engineer” and Mohammed laughed and said, “Yes, I’m an engineer”. With so many Mohammeds, Alis, Ahmeds, etc here, other abbreviations are in order - just like one of my other new friends, Ahmed, who has tacked “Pre” on to his Facebook name because he is a Petrochemical Resources Engineer in his paying job. Then Joan suggested we talk face-to-face rather than text each other across the table. Light-hearted conversation continued through the meal and it wasn’t until the tea was served that conversation for us got serious very quickly.

Our host, a very successful contractor who has made a significant amount of money recently in helping rebuild Najaf since 2004, stood up as Sami translated. The first words were quite shocking to me: “Before you came here, the US was known as the #1 killer of Iraqis. But you came in peace. And today you did the most difficult thing in taking the time and effort to visit the Shrine of Imam Hussein. It shows that you come as friends and God is bringing us all closer together. Now children and adults [here in Najaf] can see a new face of Americans. You came and provided water filters with Sami under the Water For Peace, you sent letters to schoolchildren. Now reconciliation is happening.”

Joan leaned over the table to have better eye contact with our host. “Actually you, with your words to us have initiated this reconciliation with us. And we are so very grateful for your kind words.” All of us in the delegation are acutely aware of how dangerous this reconciling work can be – for both sides. There are those who want to keep us apart, who profit by our animosity and the weapons produced to “protect” ourselves from the other. For Iraqis, they risk being seen as collaborators with the nation whose “Shock and Awe” campaign was designed to force an immediate cowering surrender. For American peacemakers, we risk getting identified with “Muslims”, “terrorists”, and the “other”.

Only as we reach out and offer the olive branch to each other, to look across the table and see the other as our sister, our brother can that healing salve of reconciliation be allowed to help relieve the festering boil of resentment and retaliation. “Reconciliation is now happening”, our host continued. “You’ve come here to help us [with water filters, letters for peace, …], now that Sami has helped me secure a visa [for travel to the US], maybe I can come to your country and help you.” He continued, remarking about people losing homes to foreclosure and other ills in the US.

And then he gave us the invitation: next time, don’t wait for the Governor’s invitation. You don’t even need to contact the Governor – I’m inviting you, I’ll put you up. I want you to return –soon!

It was a long day. The trip to Karbala dusty. I was tired, full, ready to stretch out on my bed and think about what I could write for my blog today. In those brief minutes, with those heartfelt words, I/we were revived. Sami said in his translation, “His heart is full of love and he just keeps repeating how glad he is to be here with you.” This is what the Iraqi & American Reconciliation Project is all about: getting on with the business of healing peoples whose heart has been broken and now want to be whole again. Thank you Hussein for opening your heart to us. May we always be ready to reciprocate in kind.     

Day 5 in Iraq

What We Take For Granted: Day 5 in Iraq by Steve Clemens

It struck me in the middle of the night – why did it take so long to upload my photos to my blog? Only when one of my room lights mysteriously went on at 12:30 AM did I make the connection: certain outlets or fixtures are on only when the national power grid is on; others stay functioning when the generator is running because the power is down. Here I thought maybe the light bulb was defective when in reality it was my assumption that electricity should work all the time.

I remember the panic I went into 10 years ago in Baghdad when as a matter of habit I rinsed my toothbrush after brushing with the tap water – momentarily forgetting that I was told clearly that only bottled water was safe in sanctions-riddled Iraq just before the war. Again, I take safe drinking water for granted. Here we must stick to bottled water because the water treatment plants have not yet been restored to a healthful state.

It might be easier on my nerves if I didn’t sit in the front seat of the vehicles that ferry us from site to site here because the drivers are not only aggressive cutting in and out of traffic – there really isn’t any specific lane the cars and trucks stick to. Because there are so many bridges, underpasses, and highways under construction we frequently are making U turns and it often seems to me that the oncoming traffic doesn’t plan to stop for us. So far, praise be, we haven’t wrecked although a guy on a motorcycle glanced off the car in front of the one I was in the other day and our driver rolled down his window to be sure he was OK before taking off.

Air. The dirt seems to hang in the air for several days after the mini-sandstorm we had on Saturday. Locals tell me it takes a good steady rain to really clear it and so far we’ve had “rain” two or three times, including thunder and lightning last night, but not enough to wash the grit from the sky. Again, I take clean air for granted.

Food. Arab hospitality here seems to go overboard in the quantities of food we are served at almost every meal. I assume a lot of it goes to waste but I’m not around when the scraps are picked up. Does it go to the poor, to the wild dogs outside, to employees’ homes, or just in the trash? I fight the urge not to care about such important justice matters yet want to be a gracious recipient of the hospitality. I take it for granted that I’ll have enough to eat; many others in our world do not.

History. This morning we traveled to a smaller town, Al-Mishkab and met with the mayor of a town which (he claimed) was settled before either Kufa or Najaf. Resting beside the Euphrates River, it is (or was) an archeological treasure trove because of the nearby 50+ sites dating back to when Christians and Jews were the primary residents – well before the founding of Islam. However, in 2003 after the U.S. invasion and occupation, many of these sites have been looted of the ancient artifacts by “foreigners”. Because they were speaking in Arabic, I couldn’t discern if the predominate feeling was one of anger or great sadness about the grave robbers but it was clear that they held the U.S. responsible. After all, U.S. troops famously stood aside as the Baghdad Museum was looted and trashed, instead protecting the Ministry of Oil. Secretary of War Rumsfeld laconically said, “Shit happens” when it comes to war - as if it was inevitable.

We drove out past farming villages raising cattle to see one of the areas where numerous holes had been dug and where shards of pottery were scattered around the empty holes. Farmers were threshing their rice several hundred yards in the distance. There was a definite sense of melancholy in looking at the empty holes realizing the amount of grave robbing that occurred. I often take for granted that people will respect history but there are always some interested in seeking a quick profit instead.

Food and water. Our next stop nearby led us past acres of rice fields irrigated by the nearby Euphrates. We visited a rice research facility and talked with the manager. He told us of all the various varieties of rice and especially focused on the amber rice produced in that area of Iraq which commanded high prices for its quality, taste, and the labor needed to bring it to market. He was especially concerned about the significant drop in the water level of the Euphrates and its growing salinization, both of which were affected by the dams Turkey has placed on the river before it enters Iraq. The Fertile Crescent, Mesopotamia, won’t be so fertile without water to grow the food.

There has been a lot to learn as part of this Sister City/Reconciliation delegation. Too often I take for granted my ability to fly halfway around the globe for peace and justice, failing to remember what responsibilities need to go hand-in-hand with my privileges.