Dear friends, I find myself in the monastery of Emmanuel, a small Greek Catholic monastery where only seven contemplative sisters live. Two of them have been with the Ark. This monastery stands against the wall that divides Palestine from Israel—a wall of fear and hatred, a symbol of all the walls that rise within our own hearts.
I no longer travel, yet I wanted to make this journey, accompanied by Odile, for two reasons: to lead a brief retreat for these seven sisters and the Little Sisters of Jesus in Palestine—to hold it at the foot of this wall, because they are a sign of hope for our world, where hatred so often prevails over love, despair over hope, and where the welcome of those who are different is terribly absent.
I also wanted to meet a small community that is now an official project of the Ark. This community in Bethlehem has been a dream for a long time—a dream that began to take shape in 1981, when the director of Israeli institutions came to the Ark to ask whether we could take responsibility for a new institution in Cana, Galilee, serving 220 young people of Arab origin. He accepted our refusal to work in a large institution because of the Ark's vision of smallness. We do not want to work with large numbers, but with a small group and in small houses scaled to human measure. He promised his support, however, if we would begin to operate in what were then called the occupied territories—Palestine. In October 1976, Odile visited the Malja, a small facility near Bethlehem where many young people in serious difficulty were waiting for a place like the Ark. That is how, with M. Antonietta, Kathy, and then Francesca and others, the dream became reality in Bethany—a very fragile reality, a life tested by the closure of the house in 1991, at the time of the Gulf War. Yet the bonds continued through the faithful presence of Kathy, my cousin Michel de Salaberry, and others. Finally, life prevailed, and a new chapter began here in Bethlehem with Kathy and a Palestinian woman, Mahera, who accepted responsibility for it.
I was happy to visit this community, to meet each of the disabled persons and every assistant. Here, Christians and Muslims work together, pray together, share meals together, and encounter one another deeply. This is a true, small family. They do not live together in a residential home; each lives with their own family. Yet they form a genuine community, bound by friendship, communion, and shared work. I saw their joy in being together, and I can testify to the beauty of this reality. They make nativity scenes and other objects from the wool of Bethlehem's sheep.
I was able to announce, at a public lecture in the city before some 400 people, mostly Muslim, the message of peace, friendship, and welcome of the different that is lived at Ma'anlil-Hayat—the name of our community. Before my talk, there was a simple mime performed by all the community members. If you had seen the joy on parents' faces when their children were applauded! The peace and tenderness lived in this monastery and in our small Ark community give me hope. There is so much violence in our world, and Jesus came to transform that violence into tenderness. We ask the Holy Spirit to transform our aggressiveness into this tenderness made of listening and presence.
The Ark, here as elsewhere, seeks to be a sign of a place of unity and peace with people of different faiths—a sign that flows from the joyful presence of the most fragile people in our society. They call us together, they bring us together, they invite us to appreciate one another.
In Bethlehem, I was also very glad to meet members of the two Faith and Light communities present in Galilee. Faith and Light, an older cousin of the Ark, pursues the same goals as the Ark, though in different ways, and continues to grow wonderfully throughout the world, encouraging countless people. What a marvel, this Faith and Light born at Lourdes in 1971!
My home, my small home, is a place where I feel so at ease. Several people have asked whether it was difficult for me to move from the old house, where I lived for 36 years, to the house of Lazarus. I am profoundly content in this new home. My bedroom overlooks the garden, and in the morning I watch the sun rise. My office, with its large glass door, opens onto the chapel and the small "castle" for the birds. They gradually allow me to come near and come to peck the seeds I place in the castle. I give thanks for the gift of aging in this way, surrounded by my community.
I take all my meals in my foyer, Val Fleuri, except breakfast, grateful that each person welcomes me as I am. Being with Patrik, Laurent, Doudule, Anisette, Stephanie, and the others is a gift to me. It is a time when we can laugh together and say foolish things. How sweet it is to live together as brothers and sisters.
I have the good fortune to live near the Farm. I continue to lead retreats there—some are part of the official schedule, others are not. There are retreats for homeless people, for those who have suffered greatly because of broken marriages, and for others who feel excluded. I also lead some Ark formation sessions.
I will continue to offer sessions on the Gospel of John in English and French. Through these encounters, I keep diving deeper into this inspired text, where I always find new treasures that renew my vision of the suffering world and of God, who calls us to hope and to work for peace—even when all seems impossible.
In the northern hemisphere right now, it is spring. Flowers are beginning to bloom, and colored shoots are sprouting from the trees. The love song of Scripture says: "For, behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth." (Song of Songs 2:11-12)
Etty Hillesum, even in moments of terrible suffering, would say: "Life is beautiful." Yes, despite the horrors and fears, God exists, creation is alive, the sun shines, and there are so many men and women full of goodness and compassion toward those who are different and more fragile. There is hope!
I embrace you,
Jean, April 2012