Moments of Grace: Reflections on Daoud’s Fall ’12 Tour. On the Fall ’12 tour of Tent of Nations, I had the special privilege of traveling with Daoud Nassar, a Palestinian Christian farmer from Bethlehem for 21 days, visiting over 14 cities/towns and speaking to some 47 audiences about his non-violent approach to resisting the Israeli Occupation of Palestine and Gaza.

 There were several moments of grace during that span of time. One of those moments of God’s grace occurred for us towards the end of the trip in Jackson, Mississippi. Bishop Ronnie Crudup, spiritual leader of a large evangelical Christian church there, hosted that portion of the trip. At that point, we were a little weary from the journey across the breadth and width of the country, but at the same time, also galloping along with renewed energy and “smelling the barn” as the tour had nearly ended.

 It was then that we met John Perkins, a sharecropper’s son who grew up in New Hebron, MI amidst dire poverty and who after his older brother was murdered at the hands of the town marshall, and after spending time in California to escape the desperate conditions of the South for Black people, returned to Mississippi to begin his ministry there. “His outspoken nature and support and leadership in civil rights demonstrations resulted in repeated harassment, beatings and imprisonment.” * I had not heard of John Perkins before this trip to Mississippi and his name had not crossed my radar and my own experience during the civil rights period.

 After we walked past several converted houses which appeared to have been converted into community service centers, I knew when we entered his home and that this place was special. After we were welcomed by a member of his family at the door, we were ushered into the living room, and there he appeared out of nowhere it seemed from my vantage as the last of three of us to enter the door. An escort and protege of John’s introduced Daoud and I and he just welcomed us graciously while motioning to four chairs we might use to seat ourselves.

 We sat face to face. John was opposite Daoud, just four feet away from one another, and the escort, Vince, the youth director opposite myself, a perfect square. As we sat there, and after briefly introducing ourselves, I was struck by an aura in the room, not just surrounding John as he was a humbled person with little pretense for who he was, but the moment felt special. I have been in the presence of only a few great people in my life, and they don’t have to tell me of they’re greatest. They just are. Here was a man who had great difficulties and challenges in his life, and suffered from poverty, and from the inhumanity dealt by the segregated southern white society , and who did not dwell on the fact. You just knew that he had witnessed personally something few of us today, know about in any deep sense.

 My introductions seemed pointless after awhile, as John seemed to sense something deep within Daoud already, and a kindred spirit at that. Whether he had been briefed before hand, or just surmised such a perception on his own, it was a moment of Grace in any case. He asked Daoud about his story, and listened intently. After some time, when Daoud had finished, John commented that he felt admiration for Daoud’s courage and conviction, and indicated that Daoud had had a much more challenging experience than his own there in Mississippi. I found that astounding. What could match his own struggle for civil rights during the 60’s in the deep South, I wondered? John then said, what I had that you didn’t was my own land and property, and my community. “Your situation denies you both”.

 During that conversation, I could sense a special bond between the two of them that I could only describe as grace. There was an understanding that only the two of them could appreciate, and mine to admire. After some time, John spoke of his own moments of physical and mental torture. It was not out of anger or resentment that this sharing came. It was a natural release of a common experience which he had recognized in Daoud’s story. The insight came from his recognition that out of the depths of that period of suffering, came a strength that only can come from such punishment. Faced with either increased anger towards his captors, and a refusal to be an enemy, he chose the later. It was at this nexus that he and Daoud crossed similar paths for that was Daoud’s message too. The phrase appears on a stone outside the gate of his families’ farm.

 You could feel the connection immediately in the words that were shared, and in the contact they had in their eyes. I felt at that moment that I was in a privileged and rare human space of authentic intimacy. Towards the end of the time we had agreed to limit to an hour at the beginning of our meeting, John shared a few words. He mentioned that the gospel has to remain authentic. With that, I thought he meant that there had to be more than mere words, but actions in the face of pain. He then said something that I can only believe that Daoud understood. He said, we need to be “living with the pain, and witnessing in the contradiction”. I took that to mean we must, in Daoud’s words, to be steadfast in the faith, even when it is difficult. And then, just before he prayed for us all, he said, “I guess using our witness in seeking justice is all that we can really do”. John was gracious in his praise for Daoud and for our time together, though I had thought for myself, that I was the feeling the gratitude as it was a conversation between two men who share a special path in life that only few can truly understand.
 I left the house overwhelmed by a sense of God’s grace and gratitude for experience I had just witnessed. *from his biographical sketch on his website. WBP-11/27.

 Another moment came when we first arrived in Jackson. We were greeted at the airport by a local pastor who had started a church of his own after many years of abusing his body with drugs and other illicit experiences. His community were the poor and the dispossessed. He shared some of his own journey in the ride from the airport, during dinner at the local “food trough”, all-you-can-eat restaurant, and the drive to the first venue after just landing two hours before. We pulled up to the large church just a half hour before we were to present. There was only one other car there and was probably owned by the church sexton who opened the door to the church. The sanctuary was immense, and cavernous. The chancel alone had over fifty chairs for the choir. I could only imagine what it must be like on Sunday morning if all the pews were filled, and the band and full choir were singing. It must be a rockin’ pace, I thought.

I then drifted to the reality that this same space seemed real empty with only fifteen minutes to go for the scheduled evening event. Where were the people, the huge audience to justify such a space? This was my first lesson in the pace of southern life, particularly in the Black community. The pastor arrived at ten minutes to 7:00, welcomed us heartily and then responded to our concerns for equipment for sharing Daoud’s powerpt. which seemed pointless at that moment. No one else was there. Gradually, a few people trickled in and Daoud and I began to see if anyone had knowledge of how to connect the LCD projector high above in the balcony of the church. It didn’t seem fitting to go through such efforts when the audience would be more familial and not immense.

 At 7:00, the Pastor began with an introduction and then a prayer for the evening while Daoud was up in the balcony furiously trying to attach his computer to the video equipment they had there. By then, there were about a dozen people scattered randomly through out the large sanctuary. What was the point, I was thinking. I began to resent being there. Is this what we were going to experience at our last venue that had taken five hours to get to from the last site in Chattanooga that morning? During the prayer, there had been a few “amens” from some of those few gathered. Gradually over the next fifteen minutes, others trickled in, many youth who had come for their regular Friday night meeting venue. IT seemed like a last moment invitation, to help provide an audience. I was feeling a little more resentful of what appeared to be poor planning by the organizers.

Then, the pastor introduced me which was a real surprise since we had not talked about that before hand. While Daoud was struggling with the machinery with the local choir director, I began to provide background to our evening together to what seem to be a reluctant audience. I was filling time at first. Then as I got into the moment, and shared some of my own first impressions when I heard Daoud on his family’s farm some six years before, and soon I could feel more direct connection with the audience which was continuing to build. I felt some feelings of being a spectacle as as the only one man in the room. Soon there were 70 people in the pews, and Daoud was walking to the front of the church to sit down. I quickly introduced him to the audience, and sat down, relieved that he finally arrived for I had nothing else to say but perhaps read the telephone book as I had seen members of Congress do when filibustering.

 Daoud began with his usual introduction. My name is Daoud which means David in English. I am from Bethlehem and am a Christian. Some people ask me when did I become Christian, and I say, two thousand years ago...” After a short while, I could feel the audience warm up to his personal story. There were a few more Amens. Then, Daoud did what he had in every venue we had visited. He adjusted his story and style to the needs of the audience. Soon he was saying, “Can I get an Amen”, after every profound comment he made. He was rewarded for his efforts to reach out to the community with increased verbal shouts of joy and understand which increased in cresendo with every passing moment in the 45 minutes he spoke.

 They were with him on every word. They had recognized his journey against oppression of one they or their parents had traveled also. When Daoud finished with the last slide of his powerpoint with a picture of his son at age four or five, seated behind the wheel of the tractor, Daoud then said a the dream of my father lives on in my son whose name is Bishara which means the “new word”and his middle name Starvos which means the Cross. The ovation that followed reflected the spirit of the room that had become filled not in numbers, but in the spirit of faith, hope and love that Daoud had demonstrated.

 Then, the pastor thanked us and said, “What time is it?” to which I thought it might mean to call it a night. But the response was, “It’s happy time!” I had not clue what that meant, but then the pastor said, “You have heard a moving story from this man, and it is time to share our support for him. I might say on such occasions to empty to your pockets of what you have. At that point seated with Daoud at the very front of the church and near a table where the sextant had placed a metal-meshed trash can. Then with the sound of a song they sang together which was picked up a cappela and reflected the spirit of giving or some similar message, I am not certain because or the awkwardness of the moment with us five feet from the basket by which all 70 would pass with their offerings. Coins sounded as they were thrown into the can by the youngest of the gathered followed by what clearly could be seen as green bills of varying denominations. All gave what they had. I was reminded as stood by, of the story of the woman who brought two coins to the altar in one of Jesus’s parables and he said that her gift was best of all. The evening ended with a wonderful spirit that I hadn’t sensed or even anticipated earlier when no appeared. For me it was a moment of grace.

 When asked to close the evening by the pastor, again one of those spontaneous moments which became the pattern for our tour when we allowed it, I shared my poem, “Walls, Lines, Fences and Borders”, and invited the audience as I often do, to join me in on the repeating the chorus during my recitation. I have done this many times before gatherings, but seldom along with my harmonica as an interlude between verses which felt my respond to the spiritual culture of the Black Church, and rarely received the force of the chorus of “WALLS, LINES, FENCES AND BORDERS” as I did that night. For who better than they, know the impact of such barriers on their own personal journeys? The next day, the Pastor gave me a check for $1,000. twice as much as we had asked from each venue along the tour. We had 8 more events on this venue yet to experience. What might lie ahead of us, I thought? We were not disappointed. God was working in his own time and our work was richly rewarded.