The Last String Still Plays

Your journey has inspired many: a woman who became a pastor in the Middle East. How did this story begin, and what personal and social experiences shaped it along the way?
I grew up in a Protestant family on the outskirts of the Bekaa Valley. My childhood was spent among church pews, congregational hymns, and community gatherings. My father served as an elder in the National Evangelical Synod of Syria and Lebanon, so faith and service were natural parts of our family life. As a young woman, I trained as a nurse, while a growing inner calling stirred in me: I had to study theology. Although I had always felt at home in the church, I doubted for a long time whether there was truly a place for me in ministry. I felt I might be “too much” for the church — and perhaps God would not call someone like me. Eventually, I pushed my doubts aside and stepped forward in faith. In 1987, I graduated from the Near East School of Theology with a degree in Christian Education — at that time the only program available to women. After graduation, I wanted to continue my studies and pursue a Master of Divinity (M.Div.) degree. But the seminary director ended the conversation with a single sentence: “This is not for women. This degree is reserved for men.” I didn’t give up. I decided to continue on the path God had set before me, even if it meant crossing continents. In the United States, at the Princeton Theological Seminary, I earned my M.Div. degree. Though ordination was not yet possible, a new chapter had begun.

For many people, that would have been the moment to build a future abroad. But you chose to return home. Why?
Many asked me why I didn’t stay overseas. My answer was always the same: if the day of my ordination ever came, I wanted to live that moment in my own country, among my own people. In 1990, I returned home and began working in the Synod’s Department of Christian Education — at a time when no woman had ever been ordained in our church. Eventually, I reached a point where I had to ask out loud: “Where do I truly belong? With the pastors or with the office staff?” The question tested the leadership of the entire church. The Synod finally decided that, based on my theological training, I would be granted a preaching license equal to that of ordained pastors. For many, this was shocking. I remember one pastor standing up and declaring: “If this happens, I’ll leave the church.” He never did — and I made a conscious decision not to let the situation turn into personal conflict. 2017 was a milestone not only because of my ordination. That same year, I was elected as the first female president of the WCRC. I was deeply moved when I was given the opportunity to preach from Martin Luther’s pulpit. My term is coming to an end this year, after nearly eight years of service — years marked by challenge, growth, and an unshakable hope.

What would you say to a young woman who feels called to ministry for the first time but is still full of doubts?
I would tell her: don’t be afraid to be yourself. You don’t have to copy anyone else’s style or conform to invisible expectations. Instead, learn to use with joy and courage everything God has given you. There will be injustice, obstacles, and resistance — even within the church. But if you focus only on these, it’s easy to lose the joy of your calling. Strength lies in staying faithful despite the difficulties — and encouraging others to find their own place, too. Not long ago, I was in Croatia, where — just like in Transcarpathia — people are still surprised when a woman steps into a leadership position. I see these situations as opportunities to learn, moments that shape all of us. As a mother of three — two daughters, a son, and a grandchild — I see every day the strength and beauty of women’s lives. My daughters are strong, independent women, and I often ask myself: why shouldn’t it be the same in the church? Many people still feel that the church belongs more to men. But God does not favor one gender over the other. This is not a competition. The change happening in the church today is not a human rights movement — even if it sometimes resonates with those struggles — but something that flows from the Gospel itself. When we look at the stories of Jesus, we see how He treated women pushed to the margins of society: He lifted them up. If He turned toward them in this way, why wouldn’t we also make room for those who come to the church with gifts and a calling? We don’t need to bring the world’s battles into the church; we need to make space together at the table for all who are called to serve. In the patriarchal societies of the Middle East, women are most often at the center of family life — they hold homes together, even if this isn’t always recognized. And I always ask: if we can hold families together, why shouldn’t we be able to do the same in the church?

As a pastor, you face the reality of war, persecution, and migration every day. How can Christian communities preserve their strength and future under such conditions?
In Lebanon and Syria, our goal has always been clear: to keep Christian communities rooted in the Middle East. We have never encouraged our members to leave their countries. Instead, we told them, “We’ll help you move to a safer place within the country,” but we urged them to stay where they belong, if at all possible. Leaving is not a solution — it means losing culture, family, and identity. I felt the weight of this reality deeply when we recently launched a new partnership program called “Unheard Voices.” Women from Ukraine, Lebanon, Syria, and Northern Ireland came together to share stories of endurance in the midst of war. It was one of the most moving moments of my life. What struck me was how similar their experiences were: when people flee, they often lose exactly those they are trying to protect. A Syrian man I met in Germany once told me: “I came for my wife and children, but in the end, it’s them I lost.” Another refugee said: “I have everything — I’m alive — but nothing has meaning anymore.” That inner emptiness is the heaviest burden to bear. Today in Syria, there is not a single family that remains whole. The longer people stay abroad, the less likely they are to return. The older generations still try to hold on, but the younger ones are slowly drifting away. When the war began in 2011, people still clung to hope. But as the years passed, that hope faded, and many left — not only individuals, but entire communities began to fall apart.

The Christian presence is at risk.
If Christians leave the Middle East, only dead stones will remain — without living communities. We already see this happening in Palestine, Syria, and Lebanon: the Christian voice the world so desperately needs is slowly disappearing. My husband and I also studied abroad in the 1970s, but we returned home in 1990. Ever since, it has been a blessing to serve among our own people. I am convinced that if pastors remain steadfast, the congregations will endure. That is our hope: when peace finally comes, the community will still be there, and the body of Christ will not vanish from the Middle East. But this cannot depend only on local believers; the international community must also take responsibility. Just look at Iraq — where are the Christians now? Peace is not only a political goal; it is a spiritual mandate. This is why we so deeply understand the suffering of the Ukrainian people. The war has dragged on for four years. Families are being torn apart, parents cannot see their children. Peace is urgent, because as long as memories are still alive, there is a foundation to rebuild upon — later, this becomes far more difficult. In our culture — as in yours — family is the greatest treasure. And war strikes at its very heart. It’s easy to build walls, but rebuilding trust, shared memories, and community is infinitely harder.

Your words carry a strong sense of hope. What sustains this hope, and what can it offer to the community?
The hope comes from staying together. Strength is born from knowing that God is using us. Because even someone living in the most peaceful country can feel utterly powerless. Those who serve in the church carry a special responsibility: to offer hope to others as well. I often share a story that has stayed with me. A family was praying in a shelter, frightened and persecuted. The father took out a small piece of butter — their last bit of food. He lit it like a candle and said, “Let’s gather around it and praise God.” The youngest child looked at him in confusion: “Dad, how can you burn the last food we have?” The father answered: “My son, if we have no food, we may still live a few more days. But if we lose hope, we die today.” The road of hope often feels like carrying a cross. But we always look toward the resurrection. I believe hope lives in that in-between space — between the cross and the resurrection, between pain and the promise of a better tomorrow.

At the end of last month, the Archabbey of Pannonhalma held its fifth international ecumenical conference. The cultural season’s central theme was the “garden,” explored from ecclesial, liturgical, monastic, and eschatological perspectives. In your lecture, you described the garden as a place of covenant, truth, hope, and renewal. What does this image mean to you?
We approached the image of the garden through Isaiah 51:3. This passage takes us back to Eden — to the moment of fullness, then to the rupture, and finally to the promise that everything can be restored. For me, the garden is a symbol of the restored relationship with God. And the question is not abstract: how can we become part of this restoration? A garden is not the place of quick bursts of enthusiasm but of steadfastness. Renewal begins where we remain present, even when it’s hard. The garden is also the space of truth. If the relationship between God and humanity truly heals, truth must be part of it — because truth is not just about order but about responsibility for one another. Peace alone is not enough if pain remains untouched. I recalled the symbolic oil painting by English artist George Frederic Watts: a woman sits on top of the globe, every string of her instrument broken — except one. And yet, she plays. This is the image of hope. Everything around us may be shattered, but if a single string remains, God can still bring forth a melody. I believe the church is that string. My theology is not about the lost garden of the past, but about the garden of the future — the one God is rebuilding. We live in the “already but not yet” tension: we cannot be passive spectators. God calls us to be active participants in restoration.

In the Book of Isaiah we read, “by his wounds we are healed.” You also spoke about the garden as the place of healing and hope. To me, it feels as if this path leads from Eden to Gethsemane. How can one find healing in this garden?
Healing begins when we are not alone. This is the essence of God’s movement: He does not watch from a distance but calls us to be His companions. We are not passive observers; we are part of the journey. The very fact that Christ walks with us is the beginning of healing. This path leads from Eden to Gethsemane — from fullness to fracture, and then to the promise of restoration. Here on earth, we will never fully reach the final wholeness; sin and pain will always be present in some form. But the covenant has already begun, and in Christ it has been fulfilled. Through His salvation, we have a new covenant, and we look ahead to the day when God will meet us again. In the midst of war, people do not seek comfort that lifts them above their pain. They long for a faith that helps them see God’s presence right in the depth of their suffering.

This is your last visit to Hungary as President of the World Communion of Reformed Churches. At the upcoming General Council in Thailand, you will step down, and delegates of the member churches will elect a new president. What are you most grateful for when you look back on these years?
In the coming season, I want to focus my attention once again fully on the communities of the Middle East and on the life of the church there. I also want to give more space to my family — we have a child who is ill, and this matters deeply to me. Just as important, however, is making room for new leadership. Seven years is a long time; long enough for a community to grow and mature toward change. When I look back on these years, one word stands out: perseverance. As president, I tried to remain faithful to one core principle — to give hope to the community. Perhaps this comes from living in the Middle East, where you learn not to give up easily. One of the most important missions of these eight years was to strengthen the conviction that women belong in the church — and that their gifts must flourish there. After all, they are the majority sitting in the pews. Yes, the path for women is never easy. I’ve stood in congregations where it took a long time for people to truly hear what I was saying — simply because I’m a woman. But when you speak words that carry real weight, people eventually forget those differences. As president, I sought to bring into leadership everything God has given me as a woman, and to be attentive to how He works through that. And perhaps this — this deep, transformative experience — is the greatest gift this time has given me.

In recent years, you’ve had a close look at the life of many different denominations. What can the Reformed Church offer to the wider Christian community — locally and globally?
The Reformed Church has always asked the hard but essential questions — and today more and more denominations are facing those same issues. I believe this is precisely our calling as Reformed Christians: to share our experience and the strength of our lived faith. I’ve been closely following the synodal process of the Catholic Church, and I often hear my Catholic brothers and sisters say, “You, the Reformed, can help us understand the role of women, the community, and lay people in decision-making, and show how a church can function without a rigid hierarchy.” In the Middle East, for example, in a Reformed family it is natural to grow up in a democratic, open atmosphere where a mother’s voice carries just as much weight as a father’s. This is not only theology — it’s a way of life. One of the greatest strengths of Reformed thought is that it’s not static: reformatio continua, continual reformation, is not just a principle but a lived reality. That is what connects our perspective to the Catholic synodal process. In Pannonhalma, I spoke about this in the context of the theology of hospitality. Service is important, but it is predictable: learned gestures, courtesy, distance. Hospitality goes much deeper — it allows the pain of the other to touch us, and in that encounter, we ourselves are changed. When we practice hospitality, we step into a new space where giving and receiving transform both sides. This is the “new table” to which God invites us — a place of encounter and renewal. A good example of this was how the Hungarian Reformed Church welcomed Ukrainian refugees. That, too, was a new table — the table of hospitality. And I’m convinced both sides were transformed: those who offered help and those who received it. That’s why I believe the church of the future will not only serve but also embrace — becoming a community where hospitality does not just complement service, but transforms it.

Many young people today are searching for their place in the church — or keeping their distance from it. What would you say to them about finding their own voice within it?
Don’t give up on the church. Even when it’s hard to see, God is still at work within it. If you truly want change, don’t stand outside and rebel against it — step inside and become part of it. Your voice needs to be heard from within; that’s where it can become a real force for transformation. And be patient. God’s work takes time, and the church is a journey, not a finished institution. I know there are many places where you can search for meaning and belonging, but true purpose is found where you can live in a real, living relationship with Christ — and that is within the church.