When I was an editor of Sojourners forty-some years ago, Dan Berrigan sent a poem for publication, as he often did. The note accompanying it reflected his characteristic droll humor: “First poem written on a word processor. Seems a bit jumbled. Might have gotten a food processor by mistake.” But, of course, the poem was as clear and eloquent as all his others.

Dan was a master at shining the light of moral clarity on complicated situations. And none seems more complicated than the decades-long conflict between Israel and Palestine. In October 1973, Dan delivered a speech to the Association of Arab American University Graduates. Between the invitation and the event, the conflict commonly known as the Yom Kippur War broke out, and Dan considered backing out. But he ultimately decided that there is in fact no more critical time to speak truth than when the bombs are dropping and the bodies are piling up.   

He spoke in favor of a ceasefire and denounced Arab violence. But the bulk of his message was directed toward Israel. Neither the horror of the holocaust nor the abomination of antisemitism exempts the nation from critique, he said. He spoke of the one-and-a-half million refugees Israel created in the process of creating itself. He charged Israel with employing against the Palestinians the same racist ideology that had destroyed Jewish communities under the Nazis, and of “rapidly evolving into the image of her adversaries.” A firestorm raged in reaction. Hate mail arrived in an avalanche; speaking invitations and awards were withdrawn. The prophet paid a price for his clarity. (For the speech and comments, see Chapter 7, Bill Wylie-Kellermann, Celebrant’s Flame: Daniel Berrigan in Memory and Reflection, Cascade Books, 2021).

Last month, fifty years after Dan delivered that speech, a group gathered at the Kirkridge Retreat Center in Pennsylvania, where he often led retreats. Facilitated by Bill Wylie-Kellermann and Joe Reilly, we spent a weekend reflecting on The Raft Is Not the Shore, the book that captured the compelling conversation on peacemaking and nonviolence between Dan and beloved Vietnamese monk Thich Nhat Hahn.

On Saturday of that weekend, several of us joined a march calling for a ceasefire in Israel-Palestine, organized by the nearby Stroudsburg Islamic Center. We went because the bombs are falling with even greater ferocity now, and the bodies are both piling up and being buried in rubble. Those of us who are part of the intentional community at Kirkridge vigil weekly in downtown Stroudsburg. We decry the atrocities carried out by Hamas: the massacres, seizure of hostages, and brutal sexual assaults. At the same time, we are clear that the children of Gaza should not pay for the crimes of Hamas. And so we protest Israel’s genocidal war that is bombing Gaza into an apocalyptic wasteland, where no corner is safe.

 When Jesus, a Palestinian Jew, was born, Herod felt so threatened that he ordered the slaughter of the youngest children around Bethlehem, fulfilling a prophecy spoken by Jeremiah:

            A voice was heard in Ramah,

                        wailing and loud lamentation,

            Rachel weeping for her children;

                        she refused to be consoled,

                                    because they were no more.” (Matt. 2:18)

This year in Bethlehem, Christmas celebrations are cancelled, in solidarity with the people of Gaza. In one West Bank church’s audacious nativity scene, baby Jesus lies in a pile of rubble instead of a manger. This season, we weep with all the Rachels of the world whose children are no more. And we take to the streets to raise our voices as clearly as we can for the sake of those who still live. Because that’s what Dan would do. And because we still hear echoes of the flash-mob angels’ promise to the quaking shepherds: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth, peace.”