It was a sweltering August night in downtown West Jerusalem. I sat in a gay-friendly restaurant, crowded around a table with 15 other gay, lesbian and bisexual people. It looked like any other club on a Saturday night, but the conversation hinted that this was a unique gathering.

Across the table from me was a woman in her mid-20s. She introduced herself as an "out" bisexual who was closeted as a Christian. "I immigrated from Siberia to Israel," she said. "Coming out sexually is impossible in Siberia, but in order to gain legal status in Israel one must be Jewish, so I am."

Next to me was an Orthodox lesbian couple, dressed in traditional garb, young and in love, happy to be in company with gay and lesbian people of faith.

On my other side sat an African-American, openly gay, progressive Pentecostal pastor from Harlem.

There were no Muslims among us that evening -with the war, they feel less safe than normal coming to mostly Jewish West Jerusalem.

About half of us were gay and lesbian ministers and rabbis from the United States and England. We were in Jerusalem to participate in the first gay/lesbian/bisexual/transgender multi-faith religious conference. The others were connected with Jerusalem Open House, a gay/lesbian resource center sponsoring a series of conferences and vigils.

The evening - and the trip - was arranged to help us seek answers to a common question: Could our experiences of oppression and exile, liberation and hope create an opening for dialogue across lines of politics, religion, race and family that might be instructive for the larger community?

Like a ghost town

Earlier that day while the Jewish members of our delegation observed the Sabbath, the Christians visited Bethlehem. This was our first experience of the separation wall. Built by the government after the second intifada and suicide bombings in downtown Jerusalem, the wall is a concrete barrier dividing the Muslim/Christian areas of greater Jerusalem from Jewish areas.

The stated purpose of this separation is limiting suicide bombings and decreasing violence in the city, which it may have accomplished. However, people living on the outside of the wall (Muslims and Christians) have lost access to jobs, farmland, health care, schools, playgrounds and their own freedom of movement. As Christians, it was eerie to show our documents in order to pass through to the birthplace of Jesus.

From a trip in 1979, I remembered Bethlehem as a bustling active city, full of tourists, shopkeepers and residents. On this trip, however, it felt like a ghost town. The tourist shops were closed; the public squares were quiet. We ate lunch with our Christian tour guide and a Muslim peace activist. We heard disturbing stories about the effects of the government's policies on their lives, as well as some hopeful stories about the work of nonviolent resistance and peace education among their community.

Father James Alison, a gay Catholic theologian from England, had an appointment with a young, closeted gay Christian. The young man had read Alison's book, Catholic and Gay, contacted him through the internet and couldn't believe his fortune that Alison was in Jerusalem and willing to meet. The man had lived in Jerusalem all his life, and freely moved about the city. Now, he lives on the outside of the wall. Even though it should only take about 20 minutes of travel time, he allowed four hours. It seems that one never knows how long it will take to get through the checkpoint. He told Alison that he presented his documents to the guard who took them, set them aside, and walked away for 3½ hours. Then, the guard returned, handed him his papers and said he could pass.

'I hope it's not my house'

On Thursdays in East Jerusalem a group of Christians gather for worship and lunch. A few of us joined them one day. It was an uncommon experience to have Christians and Jews worshipping together and discussing what scripture has to say about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

A Palestinian Christian, Joyce, turned to Jared, a Jewish man from Concord who moved to Jerusalem in the 1990s. "What neighborhood do you live in?" she asked.

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