Holy Land, Broken People
A Christian reflection on fear, displacement, and the hope of shalom in Israel and Gaza.
1. What do you currently understand, and how have your assumptions and emotions been shaped?
I did not grow up in a part of the country—nor in a church environment—that had much to say or think about the twentieth-century nation of Israel. My early knowledge was purely biblical: the enslaved Israelites in Egypt, the prophets who called them back to covenant faithfulness, and the Roman occupation during Jesus’ lifetime. Modern Israel existed only as a vague news item. I remember hearing about the Camp David Accords in the late 1970s, but as a young teen, I was far more concerned with ordinary adolescent concerns than Middle Eastern politics.
As an adult, I came to appreciate Israel’s longing for a secure homeland. The idea of a people so often persecuted finally having a refuge seemed deeply just. Yet I was confused that a nation born from centuries of displacement could itself seem to treat another displaced people—the Palestinians—so harshly. I didn’t know how to interpret that contradiction.
My understanding changed on October 7, 2023, when Hamas invaded Israel, murdering and abducting civilians in acts that Douglas Murray describes as “beyond comprehension,” revealing an unconscionable level of hatred. In his book, On Democracies and Death Cults, Douglas Murray writes, “There are people who are worse anti-Semites than the Nazis.”¹ The stories of callous brutality and gore shocked me. I felt both horror and anger. Yet I also began to sense the complexity beneath the horror: how suffering can beget more suffering, and how quickly moral clarity can melt into moral confusion.
Much of my perception has been shaped by Western media, American political loyalty to Israel, and my Christian empathy for the Jewish story of exile and return. My emotions oscillate between grief for the Israeli families who lost loved ones and compassion for Gazan civilians trapped under both Hamas rule and Israeli bombardment. I now see how easily any people—including God’s chosen—can move from being oppressed to oppressor when fear and trauma harden the heart. The imago Dei can easily become obscured by pain and ideology.
2. How do history, displacement, and regional realities shape this conflict?
The story of Israel and Gaza cannot be understood apart from the long shadow of displacement—both Jewish and Palestinian. As Howard Sachar notes in A History of Israel, Zionism arose in the late nineteenth century when Jewish communities across Europe faced relentless persecution, pogroms, and exclusion.² The idea of returning to the ancient homeland became not only a religious longing but a political necessity, a means of survival. After the Holocaust, the world’s moral conscience was pierced, and many nations supported the creation of a Jewish state as an act of restitution. Yet this “homecoming” came at enormous cost to the people already living there. Hundreds of thousands of Palestinians were uprooted during the 1948 war, many still calling themselves refugees three generations later.
In that sense, both people groups carry trauma in their collective memory. Jews remember centuries without safety; Palestinians remember the loss of homes, olive groves, and ancestral towns. When Israel celebrates independence, Palestinians commemorate the Nakba—the catastrophe. Two narratives of survival occupy the same land, both claiming justice, both formed by fear.
Are Gazans refugees or at home? Historically, many Gazans are descendants of those displaced from what became southern Israel in 1948. The Gaza Strip, where people have lived in a liminal space, is one of the most densely populated areas on earth, neither fully free nor recognized as a sovereign entity. Egypt’s refusal to absorb them stems from political calculation: fear of importing instability and a reluctance to relieve Israel of responsibility. Thus, Gaza became a pressure cooker of statelessness.
Reading Hamas by Beverley Milton-Edwards and Stephen Farrell, I was struck by how the authors describe Hamas’s emergence from this cauldron of deprivation as both a resistance movement and a provider of social welfare.³ When a people has known only control, checkpoints, and blockades, militancy can begin to look like dignity. And when a people has known only terror, security can begin to look like a righteous response.
From a Christian perspective, this reveals an ongoing cycle: fear breeds control, control breeds resentment, resentment breeds violence. The land still groans for shalom—right relationship with God and neighbor.
3. What criteria are important to consider in evaluating Hamas, Israel’s response, and the ethics of warfare?
Reading Hamas confirmed my expectation that the situation is too complicated for simple labels. Hamas was born in 1987 during the First Intifada, combining militant resistance with a vast social-service network that cared for the poor and educated children.⁴ This dual identity helped Hamas gain credibility among Gazans disillusioned with the Palestinian Authority. Yet its foundational ideology is built on the destruction of Israel.
The October 7, 2023 attacks—mass murder, rape, and kidnapping of civilians—demonstrate a moral collapse. Murray writes, “Perhaps the only force in the world even greater than evil itself is the great, collected, concentrated evil that is war.”⁵ Yet these acts violate every principle of just-war ethics: discrimination between combatants and noncombatants, proportionality, and right intention.
Israel’s response, however, also raises ethical questions. Since its 2005 withdrawal from Gaza, Israel has faced the impossible tension between defense and domination. Its bombardments have killed thousands of civilians. International law demands proportionality, yet proportionality itself is subjective; how much force is “enough”?
Scripture warns Israel not to forget they were once strangers in Egypt (Exod. 22:21). Theologically, both sides carry moral responsibility: Hamas for its deliberate cruelty; Gazans for empowering it; and Israel for responding with overwhelming force that deepens suffering. As a Christian leader, I see in this the call to lament rather than justify, and to remember that Christ’s justice never separates truth from mercy.
4. How does language like “genocide” and “apartheid” shape public understanding—and what are the risks?
Words shape moral imagination. Calling Israel’s actions “genocide” or “apartheid” evokes deep emotion but carries specific legal meaning. “Genocide” refers to the intent to destroy a people. While Israel’s actions have caused massive suffering, many legal scholars argue they do not meet that standard. “Apartheid” describes racial segregation like South Africa’s; Israel’s occupation shows parallels but also differences, as Arab citizens vote and serve in parliament.
The indiscriminate use of such words can strip the world of moral clarity. Yet avoiding these terms altogether can also conceal injustice. As Christian leaders, we must use language that reveals truth without fueling hatred. “Death and life are in the power of the tongue” (Prov. 18:21). Words should illuminate reality and preserve the dignity of every image-bearer of God.
5. As a Christian leader, how do you reflect theologically, ethically, and vocationally on this conflict?
This conflict serves as a sobering reminder of how fear can overshadow faith and how a justified defense can slip into aggressive retaliation. Every person—Israeli or Palestinian—bears the image of God. Jesus entered a world of occupation and retaliation, yet chose the way of self-giving love. His command to love our enemies (Matt. 5:44) feels impossible here; and that is precisely the point. Only divine grace can break the cycle of fear and revenge.
Personally, I sense a call to model a non-anxious, undefended presence: to listen before speaking, to lament before judging, and to pray for peace that is rooted in justice. May the peace of this last weekend hold well into the future!
Our task is not to solve this conflict but to bear witness to Christ’s reconciling love in the midst of it. We live in hope for the day when swords will be beaten into plowshares (Isa. 2:4), and until then, we hold both truth and compassion in trembling hands.
Footnotes
- Douglas Murray, On Democracies and Death Cults (London: HarperCollins, 2024), xvii.
- Howard M. Sachar, A History of Israel: From the Rise of Zionism to Our Time, 3rd ed. (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2007), 4–6.
- Beverley Milton-Edwards and Stephen Farrell, Hamas: The Islamic Resistance Movement (Cambridge, UK: Polity Press, 2010), xi.
- Ibid., x–xi.
- Murray, On Democracies and Death Cults, xx.
About the Author
Debbie Owen
Deborah C. Owen is an experienced spiritual director, Neuro-based Enneagram executive and life coach, disciple maker, professional writer, senior librarian, and long-time church Music Director and lay leader. She has earned the award of National Board Certification for teaching excellence, and a podcasting award, and is pursuing a Doctor of Leadership degree through Portland Seminary at George Fox University. She lives in the backwoods of Maine with her husband and flat-coated retriever. She spends as much time as she can with their 3 grown children, daughter-in-law, and 2 small grandchildren. Find her online at InsideOutMinistries.info.10 responses to “Holy Land, Broken People”
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Debbie, thanks for your blog. How do you think Christian communities embody the kind of “non-anxious, undefended presence” you describe, especially when conversations about Israel and Gaza so easily ignite fear, outrage, or defensiveness within the church itself?
“How do you think Christian communities embody the kind of “non-anxious, undefended presence” you describe, especially when conversations about Israel and Gaza so easily ignite fear, outrage, or defensiveness within the church itself?”
Dr. Barrett, that’s the question of the decade (or century?) isn’t it? I don’t really have an answer. If I did, I’d give it away! But in sum, as with any good communication: listening carefully, validating emotions, honoring truth, in all its flavors, and encouraging grace and hope.
Debbie,
You mention the need for lament and I am reminded that lament is not something I have done well historically. I was raised in a tradition that did not focus on it. However, I read a book that was suggested to me by Amy Graham (Cohort 5) titled “The Cross and the Olive Tree.” I think you would appreciate it as one of the chapters specifically speaks of the need for lament amidst this crisis.
“I read a book that was suggested to me by Amy Graham (Cohort 5) titled “The Cross and the Olive Tree.” I think you would appreciate it as one of the chapters specifically speaks of the need for lament amidst this crisis.”
Dr. Cheney, thank you for that recommendation! I will add it to my list.
During Covid, our church had a sermon series on lament. We also partnered with a mostly-Black church in Boston at a later date, to talk about race relations. In that situation, we each wrote our own lament, using the Psalms as examples. I have found that lament is psychologically and spiritually valuable for processing pain and suffering, and ultimately – as most (not all) of the psalms do – turning back toward God as the One Who Knows and Who Also Suffered (Suffers) With us.
Debbie,
You said “Theologically, both sides carry moral responsibility: Hamas for its deliberate cruelty; Gazans for empowering it; and Israel for responding with overwhelming force that deepens suffering.”
Pete Hegseths during his Sept. 30 speech, said troops “don’t fight with stupid rules of engagement.” How do we factor in morality when combatants have this belief, especially when each side believes they are doing what they need to ensure their survival?
“You said “Theologically, both sides carry moral responsibility: Hamas for its deliberate cruelty; Gazans for empowering it; and Israel for responding with overwhelming force that deepens suffering.”
Pete Hegseths during his Sept. 30 speech, said troops “don’t fight with stupid rules of engagement.” How do we factor in morality when combatants have this belief, especially when each side believes they are doing what they need to ensure their survival?”
Dr. Styer, the human instinct for survival is probably the most powerful unconscious instinct we have. When we feel threatened, even if it’s by a family member or a random person in the checkout line, we go into what Dr. Jim Wilder calls “enemy mode.” Our automatic responses kick in and we can easily get out of control.
I question (many things) something from Scty Hegseth, including the idea that combatants are fighting for their survival. If that is true, as in WWII, the situation may be one way. If, however, combatants are fighting someone else’s war – which, I fear, we may be walking into before long – the survival mode only kicks in when imminently threatened.
I think what I’m trying to say is this: in the case of the US, we had better be sure we’re fighting for our survival. And even so, as seen on Christmas night in 1914 when British and German forces put aside their differences to kick around soccer balls. They knew in those moments that they were HUMAN BEINGS. They could put aside their differences to play a game. We can’t forget that is possible. Then it will become more probable.
Hi Debbie,
How can Christian leaders bear faithful witness in a conflict shaped by generational trauma, competing claims to justice, and cycles of violence—offering a theology of lament that refuses to simplify, demonize, or disengage, while calling both Israel and Gaza toward the costly work of shalom?
“How can Christian leaders bear faithful witness in a conflict shaped by generational trauma, competing claims to justice, and cycles of violence—offering a theology of lament that refuses to simplify, demonize, or disengage, while calling both Israel and Gaza toward the costly work of shalom?”
Dr. Sullivan, thanks for this question. I don’t have an answer. I’d just say, as with any wicked problem, we must practice good communication: listen deeply, validate experiences and feelings, practice empathy, and rely on the grace and hope of God.
Dr. Owen,
Thank you for your thoughtful post. I was especially struck by your words: “From a Christian perspective, this reveals an ongoing cycle: fear breeds control, control breeds resentment, resentment breeds violence. The land still groans for shalom—right relationship with God and neighbor.”
I also really appreciated your reflection: “Our task is not to solve this conflict but to bear witness to Christ’s reconciling love in the midst of it. We live in hope for the day when swords will be beaten into plowshares (Isa. 2:4), and until then, we hold both truth and compassion in trembling hands.”
As you’ve wrestled with such complex and painful realities, I wonder—how has Christ encouraged you to bear witness to His reconciling love in practical, everyday ways?
“As you’ve wrestled with such complex and painful realities, I wonder—how has Christ encouraged you to bear witness to His reconciling love in practical, everyday ways?”
Thanks, Dr. Burns, for this question. It’s an application question, which I think is essential for this discussion.
I confess I’m not very good at this; I tend to see the side of an issue that makes sense to me, and I fail to understand why everyone doesn’t see it the same way! So I appreciate these classroom conversations, as I am learning to practice good communication skills: listen deeply; validate experiences and feelings; practice empathy; ask God for grace to understand and be compassionate.
In answering these comments on my post, I’m also reminded of the 3 Practices: https://nextgenanglican.com/3-practices/
I will be unusually interested in others.
I’ll stay in the room with difference.
I won’t compare my best with your worst.
Seems like pretty good advice!