Close-up
interview

Clinging
to the only
certainty
“In fragility, the question of Jesus is even stronger.” PIERBATTISTA PIZZABALLA, Custodian of the Holy Land, speaks of how being “defined by God” can change everything. “It sounds strange. But so did Christianity, 2,000 years ago...”

by Giorgio Paolucci

The winds of war have begun to blow again in the land where the Prince of Peace was born. And the Christians watch, dismayed, as a fire that has smoldered under the ashes for decades is rekindled. The latest blaze brought dozens of deaths, along with a rocket that fell on Jerusalem. An event that hadn’t happened since 1970, it seems an ominous warning: even that which is most sacred and worthiest of respect, even that which seems inviolable, can be struck by death. A recently signed treaty is judged fragile and provisional by many analysts, but at least it has obtained the effect of silencing the arms. Will it last? And for how long? From his study in Jerusalem, Father Pierbattista Pizzaballa, Custodian of the Holy Land, does not hide his worry. But at the same time, he launches messages of hope–not because of a conciliatory or token optimism, but by virtue of what he holds most dear: faith in Jesus.
“Once more, the logic of violence got the upper hand,” he says. “There is no point in discussing who started it, counting up the dead, and placing the blame. Unfortunately, no real effort toward a radical solution to the crisis corresponds to the propagation of words, of balanced and correct statements. I fear that it will only be a matter of time before it begins again, in a tragic vicious circle of attacks and retaliations, like those we have already seen.”
Father Pizzaballa, you are currently dealing with a precarious situation in the Holy Land; this, however, is a recurrent condition over there. The Christians are a minority that runs the risk of being crushed between the conflicting sides. How can one continue to foster certainties when everything seems increasingly fragile?
Certainty does not come from what happens, from things that “turn out well.” If that were the case, what could we be certain of here? Certainty is what we treasure in the depths of our heart: the relationship with Jesus. The phrase from the psalm that Benedict XVI cited a few months ago when he met the earthquake victims in Emilia-Romagna, Italy, is valid for us, too: “Thus, we do not fear, though earth be shaken and mountains quake to the depths of sea.” When this is happening, it asks us to recommit to Christ, to cling to Him as the only certainty in an existence this precarious.
How do you live in this wounded land, facing the facts of this period, which could bring one to the point of pessimism or resignation?
I won’t deny the effort, the weariness, the difficulty in comprehending the meaning of what happens, the feeling of powerlessness. But when I think of many people whom I’ve met in these years, of the work of human and social reconstruction that has been made possible together–with Christians, but also with Jews and Muslims–I realize that evil is not the last and definitive word. Alongside those who shoot and hate, there are people who hope and build. I thank God that I’ve met them, and then I get down on my knees and look at the crucifix. And I recognize that, even in the fragility that I experience, I can always start again by entrusting myself to Him. This helps me to live my daily toil with freedom, and not to let myself be defined by circumstances.

On this occasion, the Pope, and with him the responsibles of the local Christian communities, has once again implored the cessation of violence on both sides and indicated reconciliation as the only way to get out of the dead end into which the logic of tyranny leads. Is this utopia or realism?
When everything around you is burning, talk about reconciliation seems like alien speech. But these things have to be said; they must not disappear from our horizon, otherwise the only language that remains is that of violence. Even if the major players do not follow it, the way of reconciliation must be continually indicated, so that, one day, it can finally be found. And I assure you that it is not just an ideal vision: this logic is present in daily relations; it is interwoven in the fabric of many human relationships. Two thousand years ago, Christianity seemed like something alien, but Jesus and the disciples were not afraid of unpopularity. Of course, pronouncing the word “forgiveness” is not simple around here. Christian forgiveness comes from the experience of Christ on the Cross, where He offered His life for the salvation of humanity and where He forgave the repentant thief. To forgive does not mean to forget, but to nurture the certainty that man is not defined by his error. This frees us from a paralyzing position, and becomes the occasion to encounter the other once more. Only from here comes the possibility to encounter the other in his diversity and to discover something about yourself that you would otherwise never have discovered. But all of this is made possible only by the sacrifice of Christ on the Cross.   
 
Is this logic taking hold, or does it remain little more than wishful thinking?
There are meaningful examples, many small associations that work to promote reciprocal knowledge and coexistence. In the schools run by the Custody of the Holy Land, thousands of young Christians and Muslims share daily life, and they receive an educative proposal with this perspective. It is important, because they are the future. The same happens in the reception centers, orphanages, and works of charity promoted by the Church. The Christian communities must engage even more in these initiatives of dialogue and peace. But this logic is also present elsewhere, as witnessed, for example, in the work of an Israeli organization that assists wounded or sick Palestinian children and treats them in Israeli hospitals. There are initiatives that become “contagious” and that attest to the fact that another logic is possible in relationships. Will they change the course of events? I can’t say, but they are a challenge to those who have resigned themselves to thinking that change is impossible around here. 

The Christians in the Holy Land are a minority that is becoming more and more minor, earthen vessels in the midst of vessels of iron. In this context, what does it mean to witness to a possibility of salvation for all? And what value does prayer have?
Christianity has always been a proposal offered to the freedom of everyone; we can only bear witness without demanding results. It’s true, we are earthen vessels, but God needs the earthen vessels, too–the people who don’t let themselves be carried away and reshaped according to a logic that is not theirs. To speak of prayer while the sounds of missiles and air raids can be heard in the distance might seem like giving a piece of candy to someone who is dying of starvation. Instead, I believe that it is the most important thing to do. It means entrusting oneself to Someone who is greater than our limits and who is as necessary to us as the air that we breathe; it means looking at the world with the eyes of God, who is a just and merciful father. It is the only way not to fall into the logic of violence and refusal of the other, of which this umpteenth conflict is an example.

The Israelis called their military operation “Cloud Column,” with an obvious Biblical reference. Hamas named the counter-offensive “Stones of Shale,” with a reference to a Sura of the Koran. This appeal to religious images is like wanting to stick God onto the politico-military choices that are made. There are those who maintain that the more religion is involved, the more the conflict will escalate. Therefore, the less religion there is, the better it is for everyone...
Particularly here in the Middle East, religion becomes a flag, a “place” where social identities are defined, formalized, sometimes armed, and they run the risk of transforming religion into ideology. If, instead, faith is lived like an experience to be witnessed to others, if one is “defined” by God, then the other is no longer perceived as a threat, but as a presence that interrogates me. For Jews, Christians, and Muslims, living together in this land is not a condemnation: it is Providence who chose us for a common destiny. To us as Christians, a historical task that is a challenge is re-proposed: to witness to the fact that this coexistence is possible.

It is the Christmas season, and you live in the land where “it all began,” but where the majority of the population is not Christian. What does it mean to wish a Merry Christmas to those who live here together with you?
At Christmas, we celebrate an event that changed history and changes us. Everything started with a small fact, the birth of a baby, which, however, brought about the greatest revolution in history, that of love. The wish is that the small gestures of love that happen daily in this Holy Land will testify to the power of the Love that bursts into our flesh in a moment in which the face of hate and violence seems to prevail.