Summary of talk From my men’s Frome group With Richard, an RAF Engineer turned preacher
A View from the Middle East: Listening Before Speaking
I was asked to speak about the Middle East, though I should begin with a note of caution. I am neither an academic nor a trained political analyst. I am, by background, a mechanical engineer who spent thirty years in the Royal Navy and later found himself living and working in Jerusalem. What I offer is not a definitive explanation, but something more grounded: a perspective shaped by experience, by listening, and by time spent among people whose lives are directly affected by the issues we so often discuss from a distance.
My own journey matters only insofar as it explains how I came to see things differently. I was not a particularly distinguished student. I left school without fanfare and joined the Navy at seventeen. For some years I was driven by ambition—determined to prove something, though I am no longer quite sure what. Then came a moment of interruption, when someone said to me, quite bluntly, that while I appeared successful, I was not, in truth, a very good person to be around. It was not easy to hear, but it was necessary.
That question—what does it profit a man if he gains everything and yet loses something essential—stayed with me. From that point, my direction shifted. I did not leave the Navy, but I began to live differently within it, and that change in outlook shaped everything that followed.
Years later, that path took me to Jerusalem.
Jerusalem is often described as a city of paradox, and that is no exaggeration. It is physically small—you can walk its length in less than an hour—yet it carries an extraordinary weight of history, belief, and contention. Three great faiths converge there, each with deep roots and strong claims. For Jews, it is central. For Christians, it is central. For Muslims, it is second only to Mecca. And in that convergence lies both its beauty and its difficulty.
One of the first lessons we learned was to keep our mouths shut.
That may sound flippant, but it is not. As outsiders, it is remarkably easy to arrive with opinions—often strongly held—and to assume that clarity lies in explanation. Yet the longer we stayed, the clearer it became that the wiser course was to listen. We listened to Israelis, to Palestinians, to soldiers, to civilians, to believers and non-believers alike. And what emerged was not a single story, but many.
People sometimes ask, “Where do you get your information from? “Which side do you believe?” It is a revealing question, because it assumes there is a single reliable source. In reality, much of what we hear—whether from the BBC, other media outlets, or international reporting—comes filtered through particular perspectives. Each side tells its story and often tells it convincingly.
I found, perhaps unexpectedly, that some of the most balanced perspectives came from Arab Christians. They are not aligned with political Islam, nor are they part of the Israeli establishment. They stand, in a sense, slightly to one side, and from that position, they often speak with a clarity that is less driven by ideology.
Even then, clarity is relative. Consider two statements, both of which are true. One says Israel is a small nation of around seven million people, surrounded by hundreds of millions who may wish it harm. The other says Palestinians live with restriction, limitation, and a long-standing sense of injustice. Both statements are grounded in reality. Both are deeply felt. And yet they point in different directions.
That is where many discussions falter—because we tend to choose one truth and elevate it above the other.
History complicates things further. When does the story begin? With Abraham, four thousand years ago? With the founding of the modern state of Israel in 1948? With the Six-Day War of 1967? Each starting point produces a different conclusion, and people tend to select the one that supports their case.
At one point, someone asked whether there is any straightforward solution—perhaps a two-state arrangement, dividing land and allowing each side to govern itself. On the surface, it sounds reasonable. But on closer inspection, it becomes far more complicated.
If one were to draw a firm boundary, completely separating the two, the consequences would be profound. Economic systems are intertwined. Movement of people—tens of thousands crossing daily for work—would cease. Essential services, infrastructure, and resources would be affected. What appears simple on paper quickly reveals itself to be deeply complex in practice.
Others raise a different concern—whether modern political Israel is being confused with the Israel of biblical narratives. That is an important distinction. The Israel of today is, in large part, a secular society. Around eighty percent of Israelis are not religious in any meaningful sense. To equate modern national policy directly with ancient theological identity is, at best, an oversimplification.
At the same time, one cannot ignore the influence of belief—whether religious, cultural, or historical—in shaping attitudes and decisions.
There are also questions about internal dynamics. Do Messianic Jews, for example—those who identify as both Jewish and Christian—face opposition? The answer is yes, often quite strongly. There are communities where they are actively discouraged, even ostracised. It is a reminder that tension exists not only between groups but also within them.
And then there is the broader geopolitical question: who is stronger? Is it Israel, with its military capability and technological sophistication, or Iran and its regional influence? The honest answer is that it is difficult to say with certainty. Much of what we know is partial, filtered, or strategic. Strength, in this context, is not only about weapons or numbers—it is also about alliances, resilience, and perception.
What becomes clear, however, is that this is not a situation that yields easily to neat solutions.
During our time in Jerusalem, we tried, in a small way, to model something different. At the Garden Tomb, we employed equal numbers of Messianic Jewish believers and Arab Christians. Not as a statement, but as a practice. It created a working environment where identity was not erased but held in balance.
Some of the most powerful moments came during shared gatherings. I remember one Easter service, where several hundred people came together—Israelis and Palestinians. When it came to communion, an Israeli leader served an Arab pastor first, and then the Arab pastor served the Israeli. It was a quiet act, but it carried weight.
On another occasion, an older Israeli soldier stood and spoke. He reflected that, throughout his life, his deepest loyalties had been to his fellow soldiers. Yet he had come to see that those gathered around him—people from different backgrounds, even opposing sides—were, in a deeper sense, his family. It was not a political statement. It was personal.
Moments like that do not resolve the wider conflict. But they do suggest something important: that beneath the layers of history, identity, and grievance, there remains the possibility of connection.
And perhaps that is where I arrive.
People often ask for a solution—something definitive, something that will bring lasting peace. I do not have one in political terms. The situation is too complex, too deeply rooted, and too contested for simple answers.
But I have come to believe that the starting point is not policy but perspective.
If we begin by listening—truly listening—to those whose lives are shaped by these realities, we may at least avoid the mistake of thinking the situation is simpler than it is. We may also begin to see that, while large-scale solutions remain elusive, small acts of understanding and connection are not.
And in a place where certainty has often led to division, it may be that humility—acknowledging what we do not fully understand—is a more constructive place to begin.
