In the deepening economic-social-political crisis and heightening inter-religious tensions of Lebanon, “Where is God and where’s that grace we’re so desperately asking for?” is basically the shape of my whole unfolding priestly ministry. Thanks be to God (neshkor Allah), we’re praying, listening, chatting, playing, working our ways into answers that all seem to say: here.

MR. RYAN BIRJOO, SJ

Crisis and grace, ministry and limitations. Lebanon has lived through a lot since August of 2020, when we, Midwest Jesuits Ryan Birjoo and Garrett Gundlach, came to Beirut to serve and study. We began with simple Arabic courses before Ryan dove full-time into his regency assignment at Jesuit Refugee Service and Garrett stepped into deeper studies in Arabic and Muslim-Christian relations. Nearly three years later, we want to share two stories that speak to the tensions, trials and graces of our time in Lebanon, and the relationships we developed here.

“Lebanon is a holy land,” says Fr. Gaby, the pastor of the local Maronite church, as I munch on namoura, an almost too-sweet confectionary laced with pistachios and syrup.

His hospitality lightens the shadowy room. The generator has not yet switched on and, alas, it is not the one golden hour of the day when we receive state electricity. We’ve been discussing patriarchs, prophets and evangelical encounters with Syro-Phoenician women, a bit of a tangent, albeit edifying, from the predicament that led me to seek advice from him in the first place. After a few more bites, I start explaining. I tell him I’m working with Jesuit Refugee Service, and that I’m responsible for coordinating the distribution of food baskets to families of students we support in educational programs. The catch is that our donors primarily fund programs for Syrian families and during distributions many Lebanese have been asking for help. Having to explain, in broken Arabic, to widows caring for their grandchildren why we cannot provide food is, to put it mildly, jarring. Hunger devours my paltry explanations. I know that the need is real. The multiple crises unfolding in Lebanon have been difficult for most, but in this area of Beirut, where people were already hard-pressed, hyperinflation has rendered each day an exercise in survival.

As the Lebanese face their crises, I face mine, too: What’s the best way to be faithful to my mission—to serve refugees—in an environment with limited resources? The issue is beyond me as an individual, but in my limited role, I muse on the broader apostolic priority of working with the marginalized.

It’s a puzzle to me. What happens when everyone has suddenly found themselves on the margins? I’m beginning to understand why Fr. Arturo Sosa, SJ, emphasized “spiritual maturity” while working with the poor.

Throughout my time here, I’ve been haunted by the feeling of being limited. And, this is not a bad thing, as it drives me to my knees in prayer. And, it is there that I can feel gratitude for what we are able to do, and entrust shortcomings to God. It is there that a Syro-Phoenician woman enters my thoughts, and this one is not exotic but familiar. I see the Lord reminding me that ministry is broader than our imaginations. Indeed, this is a holy land, not because everything is perfect, but because it’s a place where need is expressed, where God can be argued with, where encounters have the possibility of broadening minds and expanding ministries, where one might find an unexpected sweetness that is simply divine.