There is a gaping wound between us, a chasm of theology, culture, history, and pain. But Christ bridges chasms. And so I extend this invitation—not in spite of our differences, but because of them: Come, let us reason together. Let us sit across tables, walk through one another’s streets, hear the Psalms in each other’s tongue, and weep over each other’s graves. Let us look into each other’s eyes not as rivals in doctrine, but as fellow heirs of grace. If we are the Body, we must not amputate the parts we do not understand.

“If one member suffers, all suffer together; if one member is honored, all rejoice together. Now you are the body of Christ.” 1 Corinthians 12:26–27

I write again from Ramallah—not to debate, but to bear witness. Not to quarrel, but to call the Church to listen with both compassion and discernment. Tom Hervey’s response to my letter, “Will You Remember Us?“, was not merely a rebuttal. It was a reduction. A cry for mercy was recast as manipulation. A theological lament dismissed as political provocation.

And that—more than disagreement—is what grieves me.

What stings most is not that Hervey holds opposing views, but that he writes with a presumption of omniscience: as if proximity to Western institutions grants the authority to interpret our pain, our theology, our lived experience. That he does so while accusing me of propaganda is not just ironic—it’s wounding. Not only to me, but to the historic Palestinian Church and believers.

We are not a footnote in someone else’s eschatology.

We are the living Body of Christ in the land of His Incarnation. And we are suffering.

When Lament Is Called “Propaganda”

Hervey accuses me of politicizing faith. But what is more political than ignoring a suffering Church simply because it doesn’t align with one’s theological framework?

My lament was not about choosing sides between governments. It was a plea for the Church to live out Micah 6:8—”to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.” I did not call for allegiance to any flag. I asked for fidelity to the Body of Christ—groaning in Gaza, grieving in Bethlehem, praying in Ramallah.

A couple of weeks ago, the world watched the Holy Family Church in Gaza suffer from Israeli bombardment. Three Palestinian Christians were killed, a dozen wounded. Yes, it made headlines. But what most didn’t see were the other dozens killed and wounded that same day, in Gaza and the West Bank, whose names were never spoken.

That evening, I was on the phone with a mother in Gaza. She wept over the rubble of what had once been her son’s bedroom—her only son. Her grief was not political. It was maternal. Her tears carried no slogans, only silent prayers.

When I hung up, I sat in my study—surrounded by the great tomes of systematic theology—and I wondered: Would this mother’s lament, too, be dismissed as propaganda?

Is that not precisely the kind of conscience Calvin summoned the Church to be?
Is that not what Scripture commands?
“Learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression…” (Isaiah 1:17).
“Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5:24).
Justice is not a political construct. It is sacred ground.

When the Holy Land Becomes a Talking Point

Brother Tom cautions us against using the term “Holy Land.” Yet Scripture refers to it as the land where God placed His name (1 Kings 11:36), where prophets walked, where Christ wept over Jerusalem (Luke 19:41). I do not idolize land—but I cannot dismiss the sacred history it holds.

I have not conflated modern Israel with biblical Israel—nor have I accused my Reformed brethren of doing so. Quite the opposite. My very argument is that such a conflation is a theological distortion.

The true Holy Land is not one of separation walls and military checkpoints. It is the land where the Church still sings Psalms under siege. It is the street where Eucharist is celebrated even as tear gas lingers in the air.

The covenant promise is not dirt—it is Christ.

“And if you are Christ’s, then you are Abraham’s offspring, heirs according to promise” (Galatians 3:29).

When Identity Is Policed

I was stunned to see my theology questioned simply because I quoted secular voices, published in other Christian and non-Christian and secular forums, or expressed anguish in words not sanctioned by Western theological sensibilities.

Paul quoted pagan poets—not to dilute the Gospel, but to reveal it (Acts 17:28). Do we now only recognize faith when it is spoken in familiar accents?

I am a baptized Christian in historic Palestine, heir to a 2,000-year-old church that has endured the rise and fall of empires: Rome, Byzantium, Islam, the Crusades, the Ottomans, the British Mandate, and now the Israeli military occupation. My faith is not borrowed. It is cruciform.

Yet somehow, those who justify siege are not asked to defend their theology—but those who grieve it are.

When Rejection of Hamas Becomes a Litmus Test

Let me be clear once again: I reject Hamas just as I reject Zionism. I reject all forms of violence committed in the name of God, nationalism, dictatorship, colonization, oil, nuclear weapons, or weapons of mass destruction—or even under the guise of bringing democracy and Western “civilization.” To me, it’s the same evil under a different name. But even this rejection, it seems, is not enough.

Often, I am made to feel that unless I disavow everything Palestinian, I cannot be heard as Christian. That I must surrender my humanity before I can speak my pain.

The real question is not: Do you support Hamas?
The real question is: Do you see our suffering?

Under siege, under rubble, under blockade, under occupation—our people cry out. And too often, that cry is met with suspicion.

Tom’s words betray a greater concern for semantics—“disputed territories,” “complex history”—than for the image of God in Gaza’s starving children. Children denied food and water as convoys are blocked.

Just this month, Israeli Jewish protesters gathered in Tel Aviv, holding signs that demanded a ceasefire, an end to the war, and displayed images and names of Gaza’s starving children. They called for open borders for humanitarian aid and an immediate halt to the violence.

Ironically, these protesters—though not Christian—echoed Christ’s words more clearly than many within the Church.

When Prophets Are Called Political

In my letter I wrote: “One day you may be asked: ‘When My Church suffered in the land of Christ, where were you?’” That is not a political jab. It is a biblical echo.

It is the same question Christ posed:

“I was hungry and you gave Me no food… I was in prison and you did not visit Me” (Matthew 25:42–43).

As Abraham Kuyper rightly said,

“There is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry: ‘Mine!’”

That includes the bloodstained soil of Gaza. It includes the rubble where Palestinian children play. It includes the sanctuaries where broken bodies still receive broken bread.

I do not write this response to condemn Tom Hervey. I pray for him. I forgive him. But I must challenge his framing. Because it reflects a broader failure within the Western Church: the failure to see Palestinians as fully human, fully Christian, fully part of the Body.

A theology that comforts empire and silences lament is not Reformed. It is compromised.

A Final Word: The Church Must Choose Compassion Over Control

Brother Tom, I still invite you to Ramallah.
Come not with talking points, but with open hands.
Come see the resilience of the Church in Gaza. Sit with the priests of Taybeh after Israeli settler terror attacks. Worship with believers in Bethlehem who sing through military curfews.

Come not to teach, but to listen.
Let us together refuse to let ideology suffocate empathy.
Let us remember that Christ was born under occupation, fled as a refugee, and died unjustly at the hands of power.

Let us live as if that Christ is still present—in the rubble, in the refugee camp, in the cry of the oppressed.

“The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14).
He still does.

May our theology reflect not only right doctrine—but right doxology, right compassion, and right solidarity.

Let us not fear truth.
Let us not weaponize doctrine.
Let us not choose comfort over Christ.
And when our Lord returns, may He find us not on the side of silence, but on the side of love, mercy, justice—and the everlasting Gospel.

An Open Invitation: To See, To Listen, To Love

To all my Reformed brothers and sisters—and to all Christians—I offer this as more than a response. It is a broken hallelujah, a plea born of grief and faith. What this exchange reveals, more than anything, is how deep the misunderstandings and stereotypes still run between Palestinian Christians and some in the global Church. That should grieve us all. And if this letter means anything, it is not that the conversation is over—but that it has barely begun.

There is a gaping wound between us, a chasm of theology, culture, history, and pain. But Christ bridges chasms. And so I extend this invitation—not in spite of our differences, but because of them: Come, let us reason together. Let us sit across tables, walk through one another’s streets, hear the Psalms in each other’s tongue, and weep over each other’s graves. Let us look into each other’s eyes not as rivals in doctrine, but as fellow heirs of grace. If we are the Body, we must not amputate the parts we do not understand.

Let us begin the hard, holy work of seeing and hearing one another—firsthand, heart-to-heart, not through headlines or inherited suspicions, but in the Spirit of truth and love. The road is long. But the Gospel is longer. And the cross, if it means anything at all, is a bridge, not a barrier.

The invitation stands. The table is open.

Soli Deo Gloria. Salaam—and only Salaam—to all.

Jack Nassar is a Palestinian Christian based in Ramallah, Palestine. He holds a Master of Arts degree in political communications from Goldsmiths, University of London, and brings professional expertise across multiple sectors, driving positive change. He can be reached at: [email protected]