I am writing this article because something decisive has shifted in the discourse of Palestinian Christian leadership. Unfortunately, this shift is no longer a matter of nuance or emphasis, but of a remaking of theological identity. What Bethlehem Bible College now represents as justice and resistance is not merely a set of theological convictions but a new form of priesthood that requires careful naming. This is my objective here. Though I have written on this subject a few times already, Jack Sara’s recent article has inspired me to revisit this topic once again. There has been a significant change at Bethlehem Bible College, and the events of the past few years have made this change unmistakable. Therefore, any further silence from me would only permit confusion to harden into doctrine. This article is an attempt to describe the transformation as faithfully and honestly as I can—not to wound, but to clarify.
Bethlehem Bible College’s transformation between 2012 and 2025 is not simply the tale of a seminary shifting its theological emphasis. It is the story of a community gradually remaking itself into a priesthood of a very different kind. In this new order, holiness drifts away from God’s revelation and settles instead on the experience of the nation; suffering begins to function less as something endured and more as something consecrated. There was no dramatic turning point—just a slow buildup, almost unnoticed at first. A comment here, a symbolic flourish there, a tightening of acceptable discourse, a growing confidence in grievance as moral compass. Over time the ground beneath their theology seemed to tilt. By 2025, Scripture was no longer their starting point so much as an echo chamber refracted through national pain. And when Jack Sara published his rebuke of American pastors visiting Israel, it felt less like a new departure and more like the moment the priesthood finally spoke in its full voice.
My argument, put plainly, is this: that over roughly thirteen years, Bethlehem Bible College reshaped itself into a political-liberationist priesthood. It is one where national suffering carries the weight of sacrament. As a result, grievance starts to function like liturgy, and theological authority drifts from revelation to formulating a hardened identity. This shift is guided by Munther Isaac’s theological imagination and reinforced by Jack Sara’s administrative steadiness. This has caused the institution to move through a gradual four-step shift in which biblical categories were eclipsed by symbolic narratives that had to be guarded and repeated. In this new atmosphere, Palestinian experience became the assumed center of holiness, and dissent took on the feel of impurity rather than honest disagreement. Sara’s article doesn’t stand outside this pattern. As a matter of fact, it is what the system sounds like when it finally speaks in its own full voice.
To understand how this transformation took hold, it helps to start at the beginning. In its early period, around 2012 to 2014, Bethlehem Bible College still resembled the seminary it publicly claimed to be. Its critique of Christian Zionism remained tethered to recognizable theological discourse.
Even Scripture is woven into the ceremony. Sara cites Paul, Micah, and Amos not as tools of illumination but as instruments of indictment. The prophetic tradition, which always begins with critique of one’s own community, is inverted entirely. Now prophecy is directed outward, at others—Israelis, Western pastors, anyone who fails to submit to the symbolic narrative. This inversion is not accidental; it is the signature of priesthood. Scripture becomes incantation, not revelation. It becomes ritual language used to sanctify grievance.
His refrain, “Aren’t you ashamed?”, functions as the final liturgical element. These aren’t real questions. They function more like rituals meant to push the listener into submission. Shame takes on a sacred role, and dissent starts to look like impurity. The pastors he rebukes aren’t weighed by their intentions, their compassion, or their theology. They’re pushed to the margins simply for standing in the wrong place of grief. Only one kind of pilgrimage is permitted—the one that affirms the exclusive narrative. Anything else violates the sacred order. The article is not persuasion; it is purification by rhetoric.
Seen across the full sweep of the institution’s evolution, the article becomes irrefutable evidence of a fully developed priesthood. Seen together, these pieces fall into place almost exactly along the four stages the college moved through, even if no one inside would have described it that way at the time. The selective compassion, the Christ-shaped national symbolism, the silence surrounding Israeli suffering, the outward-aimed prophetic tone, and even the careful use of shame—none of it happened by accident. It works together, almost mechanically. What started as a seminary critiquing Christian Zionism slowly reoriented itself into a refuge built around grievance, and from there into something like a temple devoted to a new form of political supersessionism. And this isn’t the old replacement theology dusted off for modern use; it’s a more emotionally charged version, one in which Palestinian identity becomes the unspoken center of redemptive meaning. In that sort of framework, suffering begins to look redemptive in itself, and wounds start to glow with a kind of borrowed holiness. It doesn’t resemble the historic patterns of Christian theology. It feels far more like a national story dressed up in religious vocabulary.
And now, in 2025, the structure feels complete. Bethlehem Bible College speaks with the confidence of people tending a sacred flame—certain of their task, certain of their purity. Scripture isn’t something they struggle with anymore; it’s something they use. Theology isn’t a process; it’s a performance. And because priesthoods often carry themselves with an assumed air of divine authority, it’s understandable that many people end up mistaking that confidence for the real work of prophecy. We all know how easily that happens. But genuine prophetic voice has always asked more of us than certainty. It calls for humility—a willingness to look at our own faults before pointing out the failures of others, and the courage to grieve every life that suffers, not just the ones that fit our preferred story. I’ve seen this dynamic more times than I can count. And honestly, who among us hasn’t felt that pull? But in this moment, what we need is for the shofar to sound. Its task is to expose whatever has bent the truth out of shape, not to condemn those already weighed down by it. Its call must bring the church back to what belongs to God, not to the grievances we’ve quietly treated as sacred. Only then does prophecy recover its clarity and its courage.
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