The Church of the Holy Sepulchre

"The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is one of the most Holy sites in the Christian world, the site of the burial place of Jesus. The 12thC structure is located on the traditional site of Golgotha, the crucifixion and burial site of Jesus."* I didn't know this when I went, so you are more informed than I was. With a name like "Sepulchre", it seems kind of evident, but I still didn't get it. 

That was a very mysterious experience. Mysterious because I knew next to nothing about this church,  nor why it is sacred. I scrounged up some art history and Biblical knowledge to piece together some things but was frankly, really clueless. 

What was this little underground room for? No clue.
It was very imposing and it felt as though the space was closing in on me.
There were bellows in the corner, spewing heat and smoke.  

 It was also mysterious because its atmosphere just was. I felt very disoriented as I meandered up and down the maze-like staircases into dim lit spaces filled with incense.

I later found out this is known as the stone
where Jesus's body was prepared for burial.

As people prostrated themselves, wept, and venerated the icons I wondered what it was all about. Did they do so because being in this sanctified place drew out the devotion already existing in their hearts or because they sought to earn approbation by their behavior? I'm ok with the former but the latter sickens me. The whole experience left me feeling out of sorts and a more than a little disturbed. I think what got to me the most was the feeling that people were putting so much stock in the physical objects they believed were connected to Christ. I wanted to grab people and say, "He can be more real in you than he ever was in these objects. Heck, we aren't even sure these were items he touched, was prepared for burial on, or was crucified on!" One could argue that this only proves how much of a Protestant I am, having little regard for icons and the like. 

I made the mistake of crossing my legs in front of this.
The woman dressed completely in black from headscarf
to toe furiously seized my leg and uncrossed it.
She did this twice before I realized she found my posture indecent.
I later learned this is the where the tomb of Christ is supposed to be.

Someday I’d like to return with a better understanding and appreciation.

He was immensely fascinating. I'd like to be his friend.

*source: http://biblewalks.com/Sites/Sepulcher.htmlbiblewalks.com

Hezekiah’s Tunnel

The entrance: duck and mind the current.

Hezekiah’s Tunnel, also known as the Siloam Tunnel, is a 1,750ft subterranean tunnel that runs under the City of David in Jerusalem. This aqueduct was hewn out of the rock in 701 BC under the reign of King Hezekiah to protect Jerusalem’s water source from the invading Assyrians. 

History aside, it is a 30-40min walk through pitch black tunnels filled with ankle to thigh deep water. The tunnels are narrow, just wide enough for your shoulders. 

I went by myself. I wouldn’t recommend that. Walking Hezekiah’s Tunnel is something I’ve wanted to venture for a long time. Being alone didn’t seem a reasonable excuse to say no, so off I went, sloshing through the water in the dark, save for a cheap keychain light. The distance isn’t long, but the general feel of the tunnels is rather phobia inducing, running the gamut from claustrophobia to whatever it’s called when you get the creepy sensation that something huge and scaly is stalking you from behind and is about to devour you at an excruciatingly slow rate. You know, stuff like that.  

A camera with a flash is helpful to see where you are going.

Otherwise, it is a thoroughly enjoyable experience and I would definitely put it on your “Things to Do in Jerusalem” list, if ever you have the opportunity to visit.

(Because 30-40 solitary minutes underground wasn’t enough, I decided to take the Herodian Street, another ancient, now underground tunnel back up to the Old City. This one made less of a splash with me but was still quite interesting.) 

Abide

I went to see the Western Wall today. The Western Wall or Wailing Wall is purported to be the only remaining part of the Temple that remains. Thus it is one of the most sacred sites for Jewish people. 

Crowds of people genuflected, pressing their foreheads to the wall in earnest supplication. Leaning back, they stuffed fervent prayers written on scraps of paper into the crevices between the ancient stones. 

Not even four feet above their heads was a little sparrow’s nest, neatly perched on an exposed root in the wall. 

All these people have traveled there to weep and plea, seeking to appeal to God. Yet these birds live at this sacred site. I looked around. Does anyone else see this? It seems so obvious.

These sparrows have chosen to abide in this place with no need for eloquent prayers or preparations to render themselves worthy. They’ve seen that you can make your home near to God. It isn’t just a place you come on special occasions. 

My conclusions won’t be welcomed by the people around me. To me, the Western Wall is no more holy than the temple that each of us is. I realize the New Testament lacks value for many Jews, but this verse came to mind as I sat there and observed:

“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground outside your Father’s care. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.” (Matthew 10:29-30) 

I wished I could comfort these people with this as they sought God’s listening ear. 

Understanding

I am pretty ignorant of a lot of things I should know about, and felt it keenly as I walked around Jerusalem. 

I want to learn a lot more about Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. 

He Said, She Said

Israeli flags and mosque minaret.

Things feel tense here. More than usual that is, I'm told. The bodies of three brutally murdered Jewish boys were recently found. The crime is attributed to an extremist Muslim group. 

There’s a riot at the tram station by my friend’s apartment. A local Arab boy was found dead in the Jerusalem Forest. His friends and kinfolk are expressing their ire at the station, while a horde of police attempt to quell their fury.  

The international news has instantly labeled this tragedy a Jewish reprisal killing for the three Jewish boys who were killed. What the international news doesn’t know is that the riot down the street is directed at one certain man in the crowd. He’s Arab. Seems a bit strange, doesn’t it? 

There is talk in the neighborhood that the Arab boy’s death is due to tribal strife with nothing to do with the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. It’s interesting to be here on the ground, seeing the contrast between peoples’ experience and what the news is reporting. It is tragic, all around and every step of the way. 

Who knows, maybe the root issue is the Israeli-Palestinian situation. But maybe it isn’t. Regardless, with how the media is handling it, it is sure to end as an Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  

שלום / مرحبا / hallo

(Hello in Arabic, Hebrew, and Dutch)

It is my privilege to visit an old college friend who lives here in Jerusalem with her Dutch husband and little son. She is just one of those people you enjoy admiring: extremely intelligent, kind, deep, humble AND fun!  

After years of keeping in touch via email and blog, it is great to reconnect in person. 

The real thing is just better, you know?

  

See You in Jerusalem?

After spending a few days with my dear friend in northern Israel she dropped me off at a town bus stop where I proceeded to bounce from bus to bus to get to Jerusalem. All I have is a little slip of paper denoting my intended destination in phonetic Hebrew. This ought to be interesting.

Packin' heat and eating ice cream. 

*After some confusion, the kindly help of a man carrying a book, a soldier in fatigues, a boy with a backpack on the street, a lady on the bus and a hunch that I should get off the next stop, I made it to my destination. Pure miracle folks, pure miracle.

Holy Moments from Nazareth... or Something.

(A happy moment from Nazareth Village)

My friend's friend and I hung out today. He is a fun loving, energetic sort of guy with quite a life story. He showed me around Nazareth and took me to where he works. It is called Nazareth Village, a reproduction of Nazareth during Jesus' time, situated where he likely played as a child. It was fascinating to see what life was like, from weaving methods to seeing a full scale replica of a 1st century synagogue. It was also interesting to see the other visitors as they toured the grounds, feeling very pious and eager to tell the tour guide what they knew about Biblical history.

At one point a lady in her 60's fell off the path and skidded down an embankment. Pandemonium ensued. Another lady took it upon herself to try to get down the embankment to "save" her. Being a generously proportioned woman, she struggled to bend her knees to even attempt a first step down the incline. I admit, at this point I had lost all patience for their group. I grabbed her and spoke harshly, "CALM DOWN. You stay here. The men will get her." Since these were the only words I had uttered on the whole tour she balked with a jumble of fury and hysteria.

"NO! I'm going to help MY friend!" She spat back.

"You'll only make it worse." (I have a way with words, don't I?) "The men will get her."

She tried to impale me with her eyes but I dodged it. Then rationality set in and she heeded - and stayed away from me. I felt pretty bad about how abrupt I was but the last thing their group needed was two injured people.

The whole situation demonstrated the Gospel in a nutshell. We are riddled with pride, affectation, and skid into dangerous situations. We respond with an astounding lack of grace for each other. The story of Jesus shows how he came down and redeemed us - in honesty and love, not harsh condemnation. Little did they know it, but this tour group reminded me of how much I need Jesus.

I still wouldn't let that lady go down the embankment though. That's just crazy.

Bahá'í

Image credit: trekearth.com 

We went to see the Bahá'í garden in Haifa. Wow. Bahá'í structures are so transporting and beautiful. They get it. They understand the importance of letting the imagination run wild to to convey the sublime via architecture. It is something Christianity lost with the Great Reformation.

Looking at Bahá'í temples reminds me of looking at a Venus flytrap for the first time. You've never seen anything like it before and it fascinates you beyond measure. For some reason you want to put your finger inside - it's a strange drive.


*Bahá'í is a religion. I should really learn more about it. All I know is that they make stunning buildings (where do they get the money for it?), they seem to be syncretic (mixing of a bunch of religions) but the Bahá'í ruling body states it has distinctive traits.

Lesson

(City of Haifa from her grandmother's hospital)

[June]

One of the things my friend and I did was visit her grandparents who were staying in hospitals. Despite the unfortunate situation, I was glad to be able to visit her family. I love getting to participate in the daily events of people around the world, far from the well buffed veneer of tourist attractions.

We visited with my friend's grandmother on a deck overlooking the Mediterranean city of Haifa. When we went back into the building we took time to visit other residents.

One man was laying on his bed by the window. His flimsy pajamas lay wrinkled and lax on him, like his aged skin. His head lolled back and forth on his pillow, shifting his focus on each of us, desperate for human connection.

My friend's mother told him I am from America. He responded that he used to live in America for many years. "Ahlan sahlan. Ahlan sahlan." he wheezed. (You are very welcome, very welcome). I wondered what it must have been like for him to live in America as an Israeli Arab. Why was he there? Were people kind to him? Why did he come back to Israel? He probably has scores of stories.

How strange it is to consider that you can live a life rich in experience but end up just like everyone else, old, lying on a smelly hospital bed with toenails that desperately need clipping. Time doesn't care who you were or what you've done.

This man has done much, seen much. And I'll never know anything about it.

I'll remember his kindness though. He was very kind to me.