Between Two Lands: Olive Trees, Sumac, and a Land-Based Palestinian Theology
Reflections on my contribution to "The Cross and the Olive Tree: Cultivating Palestinian Theology Amid Gaza"
The Convergence of Symbols
In Palestinian Christian tradition, two powerful symbols intertwine in ways that speak to both our suffering and our hope: the cross and the olive tree.
The olive tree appears throughout Scripture as a symbol of peace (Genesis 8:11), blessing (Psalm 128:3), and God's covenant (Jeremiah 11:16, Romans 11:17-24). From Noah's dove returning with an olive branch to the Psalmist comparing believers to "flourishing olive trees in God's house" (Psalm 52:8), these ancient trees represent spiritual vitality and divine favor.
While the Gospels don't specify the wood used for Jesus's cross, historical evidence and many traditions suggest olive wood was a possibility—creating a profound theological symbolism. The very tree representing peace and God's covenant might have been transformed into an instrument of death, only to become again a symbol of resurrection.
For Palestinian Christians, this symbolism isn't abstract theology but lived reality. The olive trees representing our rootedness, livelihood, and peace across generations also bear witness to our crucifixion and resurrection. The cross and the olive tree interpret each other, holding both the weight of suffering and the promise of new life.
The Olive Trees of My Childhood
In my childhood home in Nazareth, our bustan – the Arabic word for garden – had several ancient olive trees that became the geography of my youth. These weren't just trees; they were playgrounds where my siblings, cousins and I climbed and created imaginary worlds.
I recently asked my father about their age. He confirmed they were already ancient when he was a child and had been there when his father—my grandfather—was a child as well. At least 200 years old, these giants have trunks so massive that it would take three people holding hands to encircle just one.
These trees witnessed every significant family moment—childhood birthdays, my brothers' weddings when our bustan transformed into an outdoor venue. During olive picking season, we would drop the olives with sticks, then manually crush and preserve them in olive oil and rue (feijan). These trees anchored our family life, offering shade and silent companionship through generations.
For Palestinians, olive trees embody our entire relationship with the land.
Sumac as Teacher Across Lands
The following is an excerpt from the introduction of my chapter “Noticing Sumac in Unexpected Places: Engaging Palestinian and North American Indigenous Writings on Land”, in The Cross and the Olive Tree: Cultivating Palestinian Theology Amid Gaza
During the initial phase of my studies in Vancouver, the process of acclimatization to a new environment involved curious exploration of the local flora and landscapes. A striking realization during my explorations was the presence of the Sumac tree (Rhus spp.), a species native to both Palestine and North America. In Palestine, Sumac is predominantly found in the mountainous regions in the West Bank and upper Jordan Valley and serves as a key ingredient in traditional Palestinian cuisine, namely Palestinian Mosakhan, and in medicinal practices.Similarly, in North America, the Smooth Sumac (Rhus glabra) is native to the region referred to as Turtle Island by many Indigenous peoples, where it holds significance in both culinary and medicinal practices. The ubiquity of Sumac across Canadian landscapes serves as a metaphorical representation of my growing awareness of Indigenous presence and struggles in North America. This botanical parallel facilitated a process of critical examination and deconstruction of preconceived notions about Canadian society, ultimately leading to a more nuanced understanding of the interconnected historical and contemporary experiences of Palestinian and North American Indigenous peoples.
This plant became my teacher across two lands. Sumac taught me that when we pay attention to creation, when we listen to what the land is telling us, we discover theological wisdom that transforms how we read scripture and understand God's presence.
A Land-Based Worldview: The Sacred Triangle
What is a land-based worldview? It's a fundamental shift from asking "when" to asking "where."
Western Christianity tends to focus on time—when will the Kingdom come? When will Christ return? When did these events happen? This temporal focus treats land as merely a stage where human drama unfolds, a backdrop to the real story.
But Indigenous peoples, and increasingly Palestinian Christians, ask: Where is the Kingdom? Where is God present? Where do we meet the sacred?
In my research, I encountered the work of theologian Randy Woodley, who draws from Indigenous Osage traditions to present what he calls the sacred triangle—or as Daniel Zacharias puts it, the threefold relationship that defines Indigenous identity:
The relationship with spiritual beings and the Creator: This isn't abstract theology but lived relationship. The divine is present in creation, encountered in place, known through the land.
The relationship with other human beings: We are not autonomous individuals but beings-in-community, responsible to and for each other across generations.
The relationship with the land and all creation: This is not ownership but kinship. The land is not property to possess but relative to honor. We are not above creation but part of it, with sacred responsibilities to care for the whole.
These three relationships are inseparable. You cannot have relationship with the Creator while destroying the land. You cannot have authentic community while dispossessing people from their ancestral territories. You cannot care for creation while treating other beings as resources to exploit.
This sacred triangle transforms how I read the nativity story. Bethlehem becomes the meeting point where Creator, creation, and community converge. The earth offers the manger carved from limestone. Animals share their shelter and warmth. Plants bring their medicine—frankincense and myrrh. The cosmos participates through the star. People witness—shepherds, wise ones, Mary and Joseph.
All of creation fulfills its spiritual responsibility to welcome the vulnerable divine child.
This is radically different from the common telling of the nativity story where Bethlehem exists in some romanticized, timeless bubble disconnected from its historical and present realities. Instead, it situates the birth of Jesus within the actual lived context of a specific place—a Palestinian town with a continuous history that extends from ancient times through occupation and into today's ongoing struggles.
Reimagining Biblical Imagery
This land-based worldview, informed by Indigenous ways of knowing, is shaping my Palestinian theology. I’m learning to read scripture not through the lens of conquest and territory, but through relationships and sacred responsibility.
When Palestinians are called "human animals"—a dehumanizing slur used by Yoav Galant, Israel's Minister of Defense during the genocide—Indigenous wisdom teaches us to receive this as a compliment—recognizing our kinship with beings who know how to live in sacred relationship with creation, who understand reciprocity and community care. Galant made this statement on October 9, 2023, when announcing a "complete siege" on Gaza, declaring: "We are fighting human animals and we are acting accordingly," while also announcing Palestinians would be deprived of food, electricity, and fuel. This statement was later cited in South Africa's genocide case against Israel at the International Court of Justice.
But this reframing reveals something deeper about biblical imagery itself. When Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu chooses the lion as his symbol of power—as seen in Operation "Rising Lion"—he draws from biblical imagery: the Lion of Judah, the conquering lion, the royal imagery of dominance and territorial control. Netanyahu officially announced the operation in June 2025, stating: "Moments ago, Israel launched Operation Rising Lion, a targeted military operation to roll back the Iranian threat to Israel's very survival." The operation's Hebrew name, "Am KeLavi" ("a people like a lion"), comes directly from Numbers 23:24, a verse Netanyahu himself highlighted in a May 2025 speech where he connected the lion imagery to Israel's "existential war."
We've seen how this lion imagery has been weaponized. But ask yourself: Why not choose the beaver? The turtle? The crow? These are sacred animals in Indigenous creation stories. Beavers who build homes and create ecosystems for whole communities. Turtles who carry the earth on their backs in service to all life. Crows who carry messages and wisdom between worlds.
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In many Indigenous creation stories, animals like the beaver, turtle, and crow play central roles that emphasize relationship, responsibility, and cooperation rather than dominance. For example, in numerous Native North American traditions, the turtle carries the world on its back (hence the term "Turtle Island" for North America). In Pacific Northwest traditions, the beaver is honored for creating habitats that benefit entire ecosystems. Crows and ravens appear as messengers and tricksters in Coast Salish, Haida, and many other traditions. See: Suzanne Crawford O'Brien, Coming Full Circle: Spirituality and Wellness Among Native Communities (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2020); Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants (Minneapolis: Milkweed Editions, 2013).
These are animals that teach about reciprocity, community care, wisdom, and sacred responsibility to the whole. But instead, the choice is the lion—the "king of beasts"—which perfectly embodies the anthropocentric mindset that defines power as domination over creation rather than relationship with it.
In Gaza during the genocide, unexpected bonds between Palestinians and animals persist despite overwhelming devastation. Families fleeing bombardment make room for cats in crowded shelters,carrying these companions alongside their children. Donkeys, pressed into service by fuel shortages, receive gentle care from those who depend on them—their bodies brushed and tended despite scarcity of water. Dogs, many now homeless, find temporary guardians among the displaced who share their meager food. Horses, exhausted from pulling carts loaded with belongings and people, are spoken to with words of encouragement and gratitude.
Perhaps most heartbreaking was Salah Aljafarawi, who survived two years of bombings only to be killed after the recent ceasefire. Among many videos he shared, were of his cat who waited faithfully every time he opened his apartment door, a testament to mutual loyalty that transcended the chaos. When news emerged of this death cut tragically short, it moved people worldwide - a reminder that amidst systematic dehumanization, the capacity to care for other beings remains a form of resistance.
Alongside these moments of connection, the conditions of siege have fundamentally altered animal behavior in ways that reflect the profound distortion of all life under genocide. The breakdown of natural relationships reveals how violence against humans reverberates throughout creation, warping the sacred balance between all living beings. What emerges is not harmony but a stark revelation of our interconnectedness—a truth that comfortable theologies often avoid confronting.
These animals are not conquering lions. These are the animals that serve, that accompany, that suffer alongside—the same animals present at the nativity in Bethlehem. The donkey, the ox, the sheep. Animals of humility, service, and shared vulnerability.
A Different Way of Reading Scripture
This leads me to examine: What kind of worldview does biblical imagery itself reflect and reinforce? Does the Bible, or more precisely its predominant interpretations, embed and legitimize colonial, dominating relationships to both land and people?
When you think of biblical lion imagery, what comes to mind?
Is God the lion that devours the forest—that conquers, dominates, and destroys everything in its path?
Or is God the lion that is WITH the lamb? The lion in Isaiah's vision where "the wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together"?
Which lion is God? The one that devours, or the one that chooses to be WITH?
This is how a land-based theology, informed by Indigenous ways of knowing, calls us to read scripture differently—to seek those traditions that point toward sacred reciprocity, sacrificial love, and care for all creation rather than colonial domination.
The conversation between Palestinian and Indigenous perspectives continues to reveal new possibilities for how we understand our sacred texts and our place within creation. It is this conversation that inspired my chapter in "The Cross and the Olive Tree: Cultivating Palestinian Theology Amid Gaza."
I invite you to join this conversation, to reconsider your own relationship with the land beneath your feet, and to read scripture through this lens of sacred relationship and responsibility.
Artistic Expressions and Solidarity
The theological dialogue between Palestinian and Indigenous perspectives finds powerful expression in artistic work that deserves attention alongside scholarly writing. In my chapter, I reference several examples of how art becomes a site of resistance, connection, and reimagining:
The poignant video of a young Palestinian performing dabke—our traditional folk dance—amid clashes and tear gas captures what I call a "freedom dance" or "death dance." This powerful moment of cultural expression in the face of violence speaks to the body's knowledge of both suffering and resistance.
The connections between Palestinian and Indigenous struggles have inspired powerful artistic solidarity. Indigenous artists across North America have created work expressing their solidarity with Palestine, drawing on shared experiences of colonization, land dispossession, and resistance:
Phil Grey (Tsimshian and Mikisew Cree) created "Battikh"—the Arabic word for watermelon—a piece that employs traditional Northwest Coast formline design to incorporate Palestinian symbolism.
Ian Reid (Heiltsuk and Tsimshian) designed "We Stand with Palestine," featuring an eagle—symbol of freedom and strength in many Indigenous traditions—holding an olive branch.
The Cedar Roots Collective, an Indigenous artist cooperative, has dedicated space to Palestinian solidarity artwork that visually represents the connections between Indigenous struggles worldwide.
For those interested in exploring the rich connections between Sumac in Palestine and North America, the Mahmiyat organization's profile of Sumac in Palestine offers a detailed look at this plant's significance in Palestinian ecology and culture.
I also recommend reading "The Indigenous Artists Creating Work in Solidarity with Palestine" and "Indigenous Solidarity Letter with Palestine," which highlight how artistic expression and political solidarity intertwine in powerful ways.
These artistic expressions aren't merely illustrative of theological concepts—they are themselves theological statements, embodied ways of knowing and relating that speak to the sacred triangle of Creator, community, and creation.
About "The Cross and the Olive Tree"
"The Cross and the Olive Tree: Cultivating Palestinian Theology Amid Gaza" stands apart from other works in Palestinian theology in several significant ways:
First, unlike the majority of Palestinian theological books, this collection does not focus on Christian Zionism or attempt to help readers reexamine their relationship to it. Instead, it moves beyond this common framework to explore new theological terrain.
Second, the contributors represent a new wave of Palestinian Christian thinkers who are exploring innovative theological connections, particularly with other Global South contexts. Marah Sarji's chapter examines parallels between the genocides in Guatemala and Gaza. My own contribution engages with North American Indigenous writings on land. Azmeera Hammouri-Davis’ chapter engaging with womanist and black theology. John and Samuel Munayer's chapter delves into the theology of martyrdom. These fresh approaches open up conversations that transcend traditional boundaries.
Third, the book emerges directly from within the current genocide, articulating Palestinian Christian voices at a time when Palestinian perspectives have been systematically marginalized in mainstream platforms. It speaks with an urgency and authenticity that comes from theologizing amid ongoing suffering.
Fourth, the book achieves something rare in theological publishing: gender parity, with four male and four female Palestinian contributors. This parity is significant, as Palestinian Christian women's theological voices have not been as frequently present in published theological literature, often occupying a more domestic position rather than being centered as primary theological contributors. The equal representation of male and female Palestinian contributors ensures a diversity of perspectives that enriches the theological insights throughout.
By bringing together Palestinian Christian perspectives with insights from other contexts, "The Cross and the Olive Tree" offers something truly refreshing: a vision of faith rooted in land and community that challenges dominant colonial interpretations of scripture. This is theology that functions, drawing on editors John and Samuel Munayer's metaphor, like Palestinian olive oil in its multiple forms—sometimes as cleansing soap that washes away colonial narratives in academic discourse; other times as humble lamp oil illuminating lived theology in Palestinian homes during the darkest nights. This lived theology expresses itself through cultural practices and daily rituals that affirm Palestinian humanity even when it is denied. It isn't confined to scholarly reflection or Sunday sermons, but emerges from olive groves soaked in tears, from kitchens and family gatherings, from elders' stories and children's questions—bearing witness to God's promise of life beyond death.
