“Song of Songs” Revisited: Orthodox Women Struggle with the Ancient Text

JERUSALEM – The Song of Songs, the Biblical text attributed to King Solomon, has long been a source of controversy. Because of its sexual nature and sensual imagery, the ancient rabbis debated whether or not it should be included in the Bible altogether.

The debate gets re-engaged in every generation, but perhaps never more so than now that the book is being taught to young Orthodox Jewish women, who bring both their faith and their modern sensibilities to the task.

For the students’ in Debbie Zimmerman’s class in a woman’s school near Jerusalem called Nishmat, the sexualized content of the book seemed at odds with the righteous lifestyle they have been taught to live.  At a recent session, the young women in the class were strikingly candid in the way which they explored the controversial book. They were educated, learned in the Torah and opinionated. Eager to approach the meaning of the book as well as reconcile it with preconceived notions, there was an egalitarian aspect to the class.

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Students engage in discussion in Debbie Zimmerman’s class. (The Land/Yvonne Juris)

The class became a forum for discussion on what values were more conducive to a healthy marriage, whether it was a sin to have sexual relations before marriage and the libidinous nature of romantic secular poetry.

“Let’s put it this way,” Zimmerman said quoting Shakespeare, “Shall I compare thee to a summers’ day?”  She added: “How often do love poems talk about your great sense of humor and how often do they talk about how beautiful you are and how your skin looks?”

“What about ‘let me not to the marriage of true minds,’” said a student. “It’s all about how love is timeless and even if your look changes.” Her statement, a defense made on behalf of the virtues of secular poetry and its potential to extol enduring love, was interrupted midway by another student who approved of her peer’s comment. She took the sentiment a step further and dismissed the Song of Songs as “candy bacon,” a designation she said she gave to the book because of its inclusion in the Torah, even though it was suggestive of promiscuity.
The teacher allowed, or rather resigned herself, to letting the students express their discomfort with the text, which some rabbis prefer to interpret as a metaphorical comparison between a love for God and a romantic love for another person.

“The question is, is Shir Hashirim supposed to disturb us?” a student asked using the Hebrew name for the Song of Songs.

“I think it’s supposed to move us emotionally,” Zimmerman said. “I don’t think it’s supposed to be titillating. I think there’s a difference between being sensuous and titillating and I think it’s supposed to be sensual.”

The questions raised in Nishmat classroom have been a subject of discussion and imagination among scholars. Shir Hashirim or Song of Songs has undergone myriad changes in perception and interpretation, everything from the literal to the allegorical. The literal interpretation confronts the reader with a perplexing question of why such a romantic poem would be placed in the Jewish scriptures, known as the Tanakh.

“Song of Songs has been understood throughout Jewish tradition as an allegory but what the allegory is has many different approaches throughout the ages,” Zimmerman explained after class.

While the concerns regarding the book have more or less been settled, the curriculum surrounding the book varies widely depending on if you are a young Orthodox woman or a young Orthodox man.  The book is not as commonly studied in depth at men’s yeshivas where the study of Talmud takes precedence.

An excerpt from the first part of the Song of Songs, reads as follows:

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth—
for your love is more delightful than wine.
Pleasing is the fragrance of your perfumes;
your name is like perfume poured out.

Some scholars have argued that the romantic poeticism is an extended metaphor, representative of the highest expression of love between God and a person, or God and the temple. It is included in the Christian bible and was adored by St. Bernard of Clairevaux, who interpreted it as a poetic homage to Christ.  But while it is undoubtedly part of the Jewish canon, some scholars were uncomfortable with its sensual and sexualized language that describes the angst and passion of two lovers.

So it comes as no shock that in the quaint school of Nishmat, the book should once again be re-examined and interpreted through the lens of the young women. The rate at which the questions and interjections were raised by the five students during the Bible Studies class, was incessant-creating a cacophony of concerns, objections and opinions that Zimmerman patiently addressed. Many of these opinions circled around the discomfort of reading a book that so openly expressed the sensuality of two lovers.

The roadblocks in this lesson for the women who were in their late teens to early twenties, were par for the learning process, which is aided by thorough debate and engagement, Zimmerman later explained.  It is part of a growing trend for Modern Orthodox education for women who want to further their religious study with detailed examination of the text.

“I encourage my students not to censor their concerns – as long as they’re approaching the topics respectively and if they can’t approach the topic respectfully then they should still approach that,” Zimmerman said.

Students at Nishmat said that it took a different approach to Jewish learning than other schools.

Elizabeth Liberman, 23, grew up in a Jewish household that she described as being moderately observant and “egalitarian.”  Liberman and her husband decided to take some time off to enrich their knowledge of Jewish law after they got married. She has been studying at Nishmat for six months.

“I would say that when I grew up thinking that if women are doing exact thing as men, then that’s a form of sexism, and here it’s a much more realistic look,” said Liberman, 23, who came from Brooklyn to study at Nishmat. “I guess what makes it unique is how high the level of learning is for women.”

The ability for women to study the Torah and Talmud in-depth at this post-high school yeshiva, Nishmat, is part of a growing trend in Modern Orthodox seminaries.  This is a stark contrast to the education afforded to many Haredi or ultra-orthodox women who are supporting their household while the husband studies. According to an article by Orthodox Jewish education reformer Bezalel Cohen, in many Haredi Israeli households in Israel “it is the woman who carries most of the financial burden.”  This is reflected in the classes available to women in orthodox seminaries, which are often geared toward training women for vocational work, such as teaching and jobs in computer science.

Nishmat is creating a conduit for women who want to further their religious studies with advanced classes. According to Sharon Flatto, an associate professor and deputy director of the Graduate Program of Judaic Studies at Brooklyn College, in-depth learning is a major step forward for women’s religious study and empowerment in the Orthodox Jewish community.

“Even allowing women to study Torah is a revolution. That was a huge concession — even Orthodox giving women the opportunity to learn,” she said.   “Women have kids and that’s a huge pressure and I think that is the unspoken fear.”

For Debbie Zimmerman,  one of the foundational elements to her classroom is the acknowledgement that there are many layers present within the Torah, which also opens up more possibilities for interpretation, and the elusive but ever present concept in Torah study: debate.

The student in Zimmerman’s class who made the candy-bacon comment, added:  “I think its hugely problematic that we are coming to understand Hashem in terms of illicit affairs-and that’s uncomfortable because there are two sides to this –there is the assumption that you can identify with this on some level-but it shouldn’t be if we are being good frum girls-and it’s totally inaccessible if you can’t.”

For this student, the conflict lay in the fact that many of the behaviors she had been told to abstain from in order to live a frum or devout lifestyle that the Jews believe Hashem, or God, decreed in the Book of Moses, were flagrantly rejected in the Song of Songs.

The teacher soothed the students by reminding them that there was a literal and metaphorical connation and cautioned them not to forget the duality of the text. She broke down the book into five parts and delivered a brief lecture.

“This is what the Jewish people do,” Zimmerman said. “They’re scared to get close to love. They’re scared to get closed to God. And then when they do finally do get close to God, there freaking out and they make an egel-hazahav (golden calf).”

Zimmerman wrapped up the lesson, giving an outline on the stages of textual analysis and gave the disclaimer that the book is both “incredibly external and physical,” an aspect of love that people feel for God and for one another.

 

A new church for migrants flourishes in south Tel Aviv

TEL AVIV — Many of the locals living around 33 Shivat Zion Street in the southern end of this booming Mediterranean city haven’t heard of the new church there. The façade is plain cement, and there’s no sign hanging outside. The church’s leaders prefer it that way – they aren’t exactly advertising their presence. Nor do they need to. Called “Our Lady Woman of Valor Pastoral Center for Migrant Workers,” the church fills an overwhelming need among Tel Aviv’s diverse Roman Catholic migrant community.

When we finally stumbled into the three-story building, located in a maze of residential streets in South Tel Aviv, we saw a crowd of about 50 congregants spilling into the street outside. They were mostly Filipino, waiting patiently for the 4 p.m. mass to end so they could be first in line for the 5 p.m. English-language service. Among them were also Catholics from Sri Lanka and India.

Each week, the church holds five “Sunday” masses – though only one of them actually takes place on Sunday. The rest of the masses are held on Saturday, which is the day off in Israel, and most migrants can’t afford not to work on Sunday. The masses are held in the languages of the migrants – Tagalog and English for the Filipino community, Konkani and Malayalam for the Indians, and Sinhalese for the Sri Lankans.

In addition, there is a priest from Ethiopia who works with African Catholics of the Ge’ez Rite, serving mostly the Eritrean faithful. There are also Catholics from Ghana, Nigeria, Latin American, and smaller groups from Eastern Europe. Taken together, the center serves over a thousand migrant workers in the community.

It’s important to be early if one wants to get a seat in the congregation – the split-level hall holds only 250 people, and each service, like this one, is absolutely packed to overflowing. It is hard to imagine that for the previous two years, the massive congregation had been squeezing together inside an old bomb shelter.

“My constant nightmare was that something was going to happen and people were going to be trampled to death,” said the Rev. David Neuhaus, the coordinator of the Migrant Pastoral church who is also the patriarchal vicar for the Hebrew-speaking Catholics in Israel. “I am very happy we are out of that bomb shelter.”

At the 5 p.m. mass, people pushed their way into the back of the hall and the corners of the second level. When that was full, they lined the steps between the two levels, hunched on the railing. As the Sri Lankan priest read from the Bible, strangers grasped each other’s hands, standing in quiet prayer. Even more congregants peeped in through the entrance, trying to follow as the priest raised a chalice and a plate to signify Jesus’ body and blood. One by one, each congregant came forward, silently accepting communion. The line was never-ending.

THE CHURCH AND THE CATHOLIC MIGRANT MAJORITY

While the church, under the aegis of the Roman Catholic Church in the Holy Land, has been in existence in this primarily migrant worker neighborhood for the past five years, it has changed homes almost every year. Battling the dramatically rising rents in three different spaces, the church administration was finally able to raise funds to buy the building on Shivat Zion Street, and opened its doors earlier this year in January. The church was formally inaugurated on April 26th, with those in attendance including the Apostolic Nuncio in Israel, Archbishop Giuseppe Lazzarotto, and the Ambassador of the Philippines in Israel.

The church serves two categories of migrants who come into Israel – migrant workers and asylum seekers. “In most countries the migrant population is a minority,” said Neuhaus. But the migrant worker population in Israel has grown rapidly as the country has come to rely more on migrant workers from abroad than on indigenous Palestinian Arabs. Some 150,000 migrant workers are believed to be Christians, a number comparable to Israel’s Christian population, three-quarters of which are Palestinian-Arabs.

Among Roman Catholics, the migrant population is in fact the majority, Neuhaus said. Roughly 60,000 migrants are Roman Catholic, which is more than double the number of Israeli Catholic citizens. Much of the community is concentrated in South Tel Aviv.

For the first time, on January 18 this year, the Roman Catholic Church had a “Day of Migrants.” The Pastoral Center had not yet opened, so eight different migrant communities participated in one mass at St. Antoni’s church in Jaffa. Each sang parts of the mass in their own language and musical tradition. “It was the most incredible celebration,” Neuhaus recalled. “It was an explosion of joy even though life here isn’t always joyful for them.”

BUILDING THE CENTER

The push to establish the center came from recognizing a threefold need, Neuhaus explained. The migrants needed a place to pray, needed to give their children a Catholic education and needed social support, especially in the areas of health care and child care.

The first goal was to find a place for worship that was more permanent and dignified than the old bomb shelter. By holding multiple weekly masses in a range of languages, the church is attracting new members every day.

“We are still new to this place,” said a Sri Lankan congregant who gave her name as Bhea. “We used to go to Jaffa or Jerusalem every week for a Sinhalese service. It’s nice to just come here.”

Joanna, a Filipino congregant who works as a caregiver, said she arrived in Israel just one year ago. Like many migrants interviewed, she asked that her full name not be used. “My friends were already going here so I started coming to this church,” she said. “I like it because it’s just the same as home. The priests are also Filipino.”

The center is also home for a small group of Filipino and Sri Lankan nuns that live together in two different apartments above the center. They have been living there since it opened in January, and two of the nuns said they would be staying for three years.

“They get along perfectly except when it comes to the kitchen,” said Neuhaus, only half jokingly. The nuns can’t stand each other’s food, he said, and each group has its own kitchen.

Sister Clarice, one of the Sri Lankan nuns, said she sympathizes with the migrant congregants, many of whom work grueling jobs as caregivers for little pay. She said that between cleaning, cooking, and caring for the sick and elderly, it’s as though the caregivers are working constantly – “like a 24-hour job.”

“We try to help them find some strength to work for another week,” said Clarice. “It’s a blessing; they have food, can eat, practice choir.”

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION

The center’s second aim was to create a place to educate the children of migrant workers in the tenets of Christianity. The children have been integrated into secular Israeli Hebrew language schools, and many of them are trilingual – educated in Hebrew and English, and speaking their mother tongues at home.

“Our children, being the migrant children, are completely integrated into the society around them,” said Neuhaus.

When the church was still underground in the shelter, there was only a small group of children in the catechism, or Christian education classes. That number has multiplied this year to 150 children, said Neuhaus, and the new center gives them a decent, attractive environment where they want to be.

Once every two weeks, a Saturday mass is held in Hebrew for the children. Before mass, they gather on the spacious roof of the church to study the Catholic religion through discussion, games, and reenactments. They read colorful picture books with large Hebrew text telling the story of the church. They learn how to pray the “Our Father” give the credo, and learn the sacraments, said the Rev. Roch Boulanger of the Order of the Service of Mary.

Whereas at its inception the center had only one level of catechism training, it now has four. According to Neuhaus, 66 children are preparing to take first communion – to receive, for the first time, the body and blood of Christ. Thirty-five are in the intermediate stage, having already received first communion but not yet being ready for confirmation.

Thirty-two adolescents in the church are preparing for confirmation – a rite of passage signaling the adult taking on the Christian faith, like a bar mitzvah. And this year, the Pastoral Center has added a group including 17 adolescents who have already had confirmation.

“We don’t want to lose them,” said Neuhaus. “Because once they’ve had confirmation they go off and don’t come back, and we’re trying to keep them engaged through a youth movement.”

The new center makes it possible to accommodate all of these different youth groups.

“When they come to the church, it is like they are coming to their own house,” said Clarice, standing on the rooftop where the catechism had taken place earlier that day.

CHILDCARE AND HEALTH CARE

The third need – which the church is still trying to address – is to socially support the migrant community. One aspect of this is finding daycare centers for children who are too young to be sent to municipal kindergartens while their mothers go to work.

Neuhaus said that many of the children – perhaps 90 percent – were being raised by single mothers. Many of them must go back to work once their children are just a couple of months old, placing them in the hands of other inexperienced migrant women.

“They open a room, or two rooms and pack them full of babies – for 9, 10, 12 hours a day,” said Neuhaus. In response, the church is working in close conjunction with non-profit organizations to train babysitters.

Another aspect of social welfare is attending to the sick. Neuhaus describes the migrants getting sick as a “catastrophe.”

“The hospitals of course will not throw them out if they are dying, if their life is in danger,” Neuhaus said. “But the moment their life is not in danger, out they go.”
Generally, the church serves as a haven for the community.

Yet, even as the church administration tries to improve its social outreach, it tries to keep a low profile. Across the street stands a synagogue that the church has been careful not to disturb. The last thing the church needs is complaints to the municipality from Jewish neighbors concerned by the mass of migrants descending on their neighborhood.

LOOKING FORWARD

Before it was taken over by Pastoral Center, the building had been a carpentry shop, part of a poorer Jewish neighborhood with small industries. The area was gradually abandoned by Jewish inhabitants who moved on to better areas, said Neuhaus. The size of the migrant population grew, creating the need that the Pastoral Center is trying to fulfill.

But as Tel Aviv flourishes, its development expanding outward, Neuhaus is aware that poorer populations will be slowly pushed out of the quarter. There are already little pockets of development encroaching on South Tel Aviv, and gentrification is all but inevitable, said Neuhaus.

While the new center is a breakthrough, providing a much-needed hub the Catholic migrant community here, the importance of the space itself is secondary to proximity. In light of this, Neuhaus’ vision for the center is clear.

“We have no intention of staying here once it becomes a yuppie area,” he said. “We are here to be with the people who need us.”

Pastor Solomon’s Church: Where African flags stand beside the flag of Israel

TEL AVIV — The window shades are drawn. Tambourines are scattered on chairs across the room. Although it is a Christian house of worship, there are no crosses to be found. Guitar amplifiers, microphone stands, a keyboard and drum kit stand in one corner of the room. Propped up in the other corner are five national flags – Nigeria, Ghana, Ivory Coast, the Philippines, and Israel.

A transparent podium stands at the head of the room, but no sermon is given from behind the podium. Instead, Pastor Solomon Tetteh paces the floor as he preaches, inspiring the congregation that moves through the room, each person swept up in the intensity of their individual prayer.

A crescendo builds as the room is overwhelmed by cacophonous sound, the smashing of cymbals and distorted voices blaring through cheap loudspeakers. It rises to a fever pitch as most stand, their arms raised and trembling, some patting their hearts, eyes closed in ecstasy. Children sit, seemingly oblivious to the commotion animating the room.

For three hours every Saturday, this charismatic congregation of mainly African migrants comes together to worship in this room, located on the fourth floor of a grungy apartment building in south Tel Aviv. Called Grace Covenant Gospel Church, it is run by 52-year-old Ghanaian native Solomon Tetteh.

The charismatic congregation is mainly comprised of African migrants, but includes two women from the Philippines. (The Land/John Albert)

The charismatic congregation is mainly comprised of African migrants, but includes two women from the Philippines. (The Land/John Albert)

Tetteh’s church, like many others operating on Levanda street, is a haven for African refugees and asylum seekers in an environment where migrants face regular discrimination and threat of arrest, detention, and deportation.

“The situation here sometimes like binds you, so it is like you have been in a cage,” said Tetteh, who has lived in Israel since 1987. He said the stress of living as an African migrant in Israel makes it difficult for people to open up and fully engage in the service.

“Maybe somebody is thinking about how to go to work tomorrow,” said Tetteh. “Maybe they can leave their house and won’t come back.”

The difficulty of securing a work visa and the dual threats of detention or deportation loom over the migrant community here. One congregant, Nicholas Adinkrah, said he had been trying persistently to get a work visa for three months with no success. Without work authorization, his future in the country remains in question.

Another congregant, known as “Brother Sid” was arrested earlier in the year and is being held in detention, according to Tetteh. During the service, the pastor brought out a tithing box and asked the congregants to give in order to help Sid.
Adinkrah produced a 20 sheqel note – about five dollars – which he placed in the box.

As congregants donated what little money they had for charity, Grace Covenant’s financial predicament was put in stark relief. The church has been in jeopardy ever since city inspectors from the municipality came unannounced last year and found sleeping bags, suggesting that migrants had been sleeping there. They accused Tetteh of operating Grace Covenant as a business, and denied him tax exemption status generally granted to houses of worship.

The municipality demanded Tetteh retroactively pay taxes of NIS 50,000 (about $15,000) a year, dating back to the church’s founding in 2011.The pastor said he simply has no way to raise the money – his case was scheduled for appeal in late May.

The gospel band plays as congregant Nicholas Adinkrah, from Ghana, is swept in ecstatic prayer. (The Land/John Albert)

The gospel band plays as congregant Nicholas Adinkrah, from Ghana, is swept in ecstatic prayer. (The Land/John Albert)

There are many more such churches operating in south Tel Aviv under varying degrees of recognition. On a panel held at Grace Covenant, Tetteh’s neighbor, Pastor Jeremiah Dairo from Nigeria, said that he works to help inform church leaders on how to abide by the formal requirements of the state. Taking the proper precautions, he said, would safeguard against any trouble if the municipality should come knocking.

Tetteh disagreed. “The truth is, we are under attack,” he said on the panel.

Tetteh admitted that his space is not fit for a church – there is only one entrance, which is a fire hazard considering he regularly gathers over 40 people. But Tetteh said he has no alternatives, and, according to him, no recourse with the municipality. The pastor said there is no department for him to go to, no official to speak with, and thus no process to gain official recognition as a church.

Without a mandate from the municipality, churches like Tetteh’s have been tacitly allowed to operate, until they aren’t. The municipality doesn’t value the church, he said, otherwise he would not be facing such discrimination.

“If you want us to operate as a church, find us a place,” said Tetteh. “Because we come here to this country, and when we come we worship God.”

While Tetteh expressed nostalgia for the powerful charismatic church services in his native Ghana, he said that worshipping in Israel, the birthplace of Christianity, carries its own special significance for migrants.

Every month, the congregation tries to make a trip together to a Christian holy site.

“You know, this is a Christian country,” he said. “We have lots of things to learn here, lots of things to study here.”

Tetteh said the congregation recently went to the Tomb of Lazarus, a place of pilgrimage in the West Bank. The charismatic Christian migrants, who brought their instruments along, were allowed to have a full 4-hour church service at the site.
“Here is like formality, they know what is going on here,” said Tetteh of his church in south Tel Aviv. “Sometimes when we go out we make it a little different – it’s more lively.”

Lead Photo: Ghanaian pastor Solomon Tetteh, 52, preaching at Grace Covenant Gospel Church. (The Land/John Albert)

Pastor Jeremiah’s Church: Building a community of hope

TEL AVIV – On Saturday mornings, the thunderous sounds of singing can be heard from the Evangelical and Pentecostal churches on Levanda Street, which is known locally as Church row. The singing comes from derelict-looking buildings that house churches like Lift Up Your Head Ministry, run by Pastor Jeremiah Dairo from Nigeria.

Dairo’s sermons often focus on the special needs of his flock, a mixed group of African migrant workers, asylum seekers and refugees. “Pray! Father, that visa is out there!” he shouted, one recent Saturday morning. “Those companies are out there. Father I release it you in the mighty name of Jesus!” The congregants yelled back “Amen” again and again as the prayers are recycled for the three-hour length of the service.

Pastor Jeremiah Dairo preaches to his congregation at Lift Up Your Head Church (The Land/Indrani Basu)

Pastor Jeremiah Dairo preaches to his congregation at Lift Up Your Head Church (The Land/Indrani Basu)

Lift Up Your Head Church is in bustling south Tel Aviv. The area, in the shadow of the city’s busy Central Bus Station is a hub for migrants from all corners of the world, from Ethiopia to the Philippines. A long line of yellow and black mini busses or “sheiruts” idled along the curb picking up and dropping off passengers. Music drifted out of some of the shop fronts that are tightly arranged in arches, propping up the overhead roadway network. Some of the shops sell candy, others falafel. One shop looks like an odds and ends equipment shop. Shoppers buzzed to and fro, having exuberant conversations, some comparing their buys.

With all the commotion, it’s easy to forget that it’s a Saturday – the Jewish Sabbath, or day of rest and communion with God. Christians living in south Tel Aviv have their church services on Saturday, a stark reminder that they are worshipping in a Jewish country. On Church row there are many migrant churches that provide a sense of community for foreigners who are neither Israeli nor Jewish.

Professor Galia Sabar, who teaches African Studies at Tel Aviv University, said that it was remarkable that Jewish society seems to give these communities their space, in respect of their religious belief and autonomy.

“In the heart of predominantly white and Jewish Tel Aviv there’s something like between 30 to 50 African churches and… there have hardly been any cases of religious intolerance,” said Sabar. “Both the Christians and the Jews are very hospitable to each other and really respect the others’ religion,” she said.

Lisa Richlen has worked extensively with migrant communities, including the Hotline for Migrant Workers. She said that while Israel describes itself as a Jewish Democracy, it does not have a sufficiently multicultural outlook. Despite this, south Tel Aviv has seen waves of migration from different parts of the world for at least 20 years. “Israel brought in migrant workers in the late 1990s. Caregivers from the Philippines, Nepal, Sri Lanka and India,” she said.

Other groups that have come to work in the country include construction workers from Bulgaria, China and Turkey. Immigration of foreign workers has continued into 2014. In March Israel’s Immigration Authority, Housing Ministry and a group of contractors signed an agreement with the government of Moldova to have 500 construction workers come to the country.

As Richlen pointed out though, these programs are government sanctioned. In more recent years there has been tension as there has been an influx of Africans arriving into the country illegally and has resulted in a government crackdown. The Global Detention Project reported that a special unit was created in 2009 with the task of deporting “more than 200,000 irregular residents”. In 2011 the government followed up by securing Israel’s southern border with Egypt.

Orit Marom, director of advocacy at the Aid Organization for Refugees and Asylum-seekers in Israel, said the government’s reaction to Africans is hypocritical because although they enter the country illegally, they are often given temporary residence visas. Although the visa explicitly says it is not a work permit, Marom said that the government is in collusion with employers who hire Africans to work dangerous jobs, like in construction, for bad pay.

“Many of them are getting hurt doing the work and of course when they don’t have medical insurance they have no rights and after their leg or hand is cut, they need surgery and they cannot work anymore, they now stay handicapped and don’t have any rights or any money,” said Marom.

Since 2006, an estimated 60,000 African refugees have streamed into Israel hoping for a better life. Many of them are from Eritrea and Sudan and left their home countries to flee from violence and political persecution. Desperate to make it to safety, they made the months long journey, often by foot, travelling to Egypt and across the Sinai desert into Israel. With the struggles they have faced back home and continue to face in Israel, these asylum seekers and refugees sparked the rapid growth of African Churches in south Tel Aviv, where they gravitated to find work, community and God.

The Lift Up Your Head Church is one of them. It’s on the top floor of a largely abandoned building. The stairwell was dingy. The ground floor was dark and smelled of urine. There was the dripping sound of a leak elsewhere, in some invisible corner that was loud and insistent. The wall paint was chipped and the metal banisters were bent. On each floor an imposing industrial size metal elevator doors stood guard.

But, through the metal door leading into the Church service the sanctuary was decked in gold decorations and the room was bright and airy, with rows and rows of beige armchairs where the congregants sat and worshipped comfortably.

A worshipper sits in the crowd in the service at Lift Up Your Head Church (The Land/Indrani Basu)

A worshipper sits in the crowd in the service at Lift Up Your Head Church (The Land/Indrani Basu)

A videographer buzzed around Dairo as he continued his impassioned sermon, proclaiming that God sent him to serve the Africans of Israel. Dairo arrived in the Holy Land from his native Nigeria in 2002 to study Theology at the Israel College of the Bible and later Hebrew University of Jerusalem. The third-generation Pastor said he opened the Church in 2006 to meet a very particular community need. “We started seeing the refugees coming in so we became a refuge for the refugees because the place, the church becomes a refuge center,” he said.

Dairo means this literally and it is by design rather than accident that his Ministry is called Lift Up Your Head. Many of the migrants, asylum seekers and refugees that pass through the doors are in Israel illegally so they are often unemployed and sometimes homeless, which is a harsh reality for them to face.

“Maybe some of them are doctors, some of them are nurses some maybe have their businesses and just of a sudden everything just boom and now they find themselves refugee in another country so we just give them hope that everything will be better,” said Dairo.

Dairo sees his congregants as not only needing God and spiritual wisdom, but also practical help to survive and thrive in Israel. He helps those in need file residence papers with the municipality and find jobs. He even gives them a place to stay at the Church. Over the last decade, Pastor Dairo’s records tell him that 9,000 have not only found God in his Church, but refuge too.

One congregant who is benefitting from this help is Chidi Azeflukwe. He sleeps at the Church alongside at least 50 others. He came to Israel six months ago, leaving behind his life and two children back in Nigeria. He ran away after a friend of his was murdered by a homophobic mob. He says there is no law and order in his country and he was afraid to be targeted by association.

Azeflukwe is well spoken and educated. Back home he ran an NGO for needy children. In Israel, he lives a very different life. He does contract construction jobs, often working 14-hour days, “You’re wickedly exploited,” said Azeflukwe.

Dairo said it is his mission to help make people’s lives better.

“That is the message of hope that we have been giving, to tell them that they can still make it in life… the only thing you need to hang on is just the message of hope that is Christ.”