Rats! I missed Cheese-Paring Day. I’ve never actually been able to get the hang of using this kind of slicer. I usually wind up raking the skin off of my knuckles or removing the very top of my thumb. Maybe I’m not holding the cheese right?
Via Weird Universe.
I found the sketches at this cartoonist’s blog of the wall near Bethlehem particularly powerful.
You can’t visit the wall and remain neutral. The very landscape calls out for a response of some kind.
I’ve returned from our mission trip to Bolivia, and I’ll share some photos and adventures later. But one of the coolest things we saw was this series of paintings at one of the missions. This is a series that shows the stations of the cross in a distinctly Bolivian context. Pilate and the soldiers wear military fatigues, the homes have red tile roofs, and as the series progresses the environmental degradation of the forest parallels what happens to Jesus. I thought this was a powerful statement.
Cool stuff. The resurrection scene was in a different style on a different wall - I would have liked to have seen what this artist would have done with it.
I can’t stop laughing:
That’s the headline they wanted to write.
Here’s the story.
This story isn’t surprising. While were were in Bethelehem, we learned that the Christian priests do not trust each other with the keys to the building. So when they lock up for the evening they leave the keys with…
(can you guess?)
...a Muslim family.
Oh yeah. That’ll preach.
I finished the last post with a view of the street at Gerash, but I wanted to include a couple of details I thought were particularly cool.
See this? Does it look familiar?
It’s a sewer cover. And check this out:
Graffiti has been around for a long time. This one says, “Aguis,” which could be an alternative spelling of a Greek name which means “saint.”
The main reason we went to Gerash was to see how pervasive Hellenistic culture was in the ancient world. After Alexander the Great stormed through in 300 BC, he left behind a multicultural stew. You see Corinthian columns, Roman city planning, and Egyptian and Persian religious motifs. The world was cosmopolitan. Every self-respecting city would have a triple gate, a fountain, a coliseum, a gymnasium, a bath, and a theater. Everybody spoke Greek. When we go to Berlin and find a McDonald’s, it makes the world feel smaller. Imagine if everyone spoke English and watched Desperate Housewives, as well. Oh wait… they do.
One of the nifty religious centers in Gerash is the Temple of Artemis. The processional road ran down from the hill and through the city gate. As you walk toward the temple, you go up seven sets of seven steps. Seven times seven symbolized perfection, which is why Jesus told the disciples to forgive “seventy times seven” times. Here are the steps:
So as you walked the processional way, the temple at the top of the hill would be obscured. But as you walked up the steps, it seems to rise up out of the ground. One member of our group described it as “architectural shock and awe.”
The temple would have been surrounded by a courtyard and priest quarters. There were altars for various kinds of sacrifices and offerings. The temple itself was off limits except to the priests, and inside was the holy of holies, which would only be entered on certain festival occasions. Sound familiar?
I think learning this kind of stuff does two things. First, it makes us more aware that the Temple worship in Jerusalem did not arise out of a vaccum. There were all kinds of cultural influences on the development of worship in first century Jerusalem. Second, it highlights those things that are distinctive about worshiping the God of Israel. Likewise, when we learn about ancient myths that predated similar Bible stories (like flood stories or creation myths), it gives us a perspective that lets us appreciate similarities and differences.
After a while of looking around at ruins, they start to look alike. You have to use your imagination to see them as they would have been: brightly painted in whitewash and gaudy colors:
One of the things Peter, our guide, talked about was that tourist archaeology tends to focus on the glamorous stuff - the massive public works, the riches of the upper class. We miss a lot of the daily life of regular folk. Still, it was a great exercise in exploring the kind of Hellenistic culture Jesus would have encountered on a daily basis, walking the streets of ancient cities.
Driving through the streets of Amman, looking at the buildings, I was reminded of LaPaz. Many buildings seemed to be in a state of constant construction. Building additions to your home serves a similar function in both places, as it does in many parts of the world.
First, extended families often live together. Americans have this weird idea that a young adulte should move away from his or her parents as soon as possible, and that if you are thirty years old and living with your parents, you aren’t a really grown-up. We don’t recognize this cultural prejudice as privilege. It’s nice that we are so ridiculously wealthy that we assume it is the rule - not the exception - that young adults should move out and live on their own instead of sharing family resources.
Second, it’s a hedge against inflation. When you get some spare cash, it makes sense to build up your equity.
Last, it’s part of a tradition that goes back to Jesus’ day. Typically, the bridegroom would go build an addition on his parents’ house for his betrothed. So when Jesus says to the disciples (and by extension, the church), “in my Father’s house are many rooms,” and “I go to prepare a place for you,” it’s a reference to the Bride of Christ.
We stayed in a hotel that was less than a hundred yards from a minaret. The loudspeaker within would wake us up at 4:30 AM with the call to prayer.
Our first tour destination was Gerash, a second-century Roman city that has been well preserved. This city was part of the Decapolis, the cities east of the Sea of Galilee. As you approach, the first thing you see is Hadrian’s Gate, which was a typical gate in a walled Roman city.
The central gate was reserved for VIPs in their chariots and for and processionals. It would have generally stayed closed. The common folk entered and exited through the two smaller gates. Seeing this kind of gate puts in context Jesus’ admonition to “enter by the narrow gate. For the gate is wide and the way is easy that leads to destruction, and there are many who take it. But the gate is narrow and the way is hard that leads to life, and there are few who find it.” I had never thought of this saying as inverting the social order.
Speaking of way, the cardo (heart) was the central road of the city. Check out this road. You can also see a lot of the preserved city around it. (That’s me standing in the road):
While we visited with the former Anglican Bishop of Jerusalem, he told us a story about meeting with Tony Blair. He had expressed concern over the U.S. and Britain invading Iraq. Blair said, “the road to peace in the Middle East is through Baghdad.” Bishop Kafeeti replied, “No. The road to peace is through Jerusalem.”
So when I saw the headline for this article, I had to read it.
We returned early Tuesday morning from our mission trip to Bolivia. I’m still pretty exhausted. I posted some photos at flickr. I realize I still haven’t finished my write-up of my Holy Land trips, so I plan to get to those next.
I was glad that Angela was able to accompany me on this trip. She was not able to come on my previous two trips to Bolivia. I knew she would enjoy the flora and fauna as well as the overall experience. Someday, I’d like to go merely as a tourist. There is tremendous biodiversity in Bolivia, and I’m a sucker for the “eco-tours” involving things like zip lines through rainforest canopies.
| www.flickr.com |
I had not expected to need a jacket. Sure, I had been told “it can get cold in the Middle East,” but I figured it was the Middle East, after all. You know, rocks, sand, hot sun, that kind of thing. And yes, I remember reading about the Fertile Crescent, and I had even seen pictures of the landscape in the spring. But still, I had in my mind this preconceived idea of what the weather and the land would be like. I did not expect it to be lush.
I had no idea it would be so comfortable. While walking around Tiberias and parts of Galilee, smelling the wildflowers, walking through the grass, I even wondered why anyone would want to live anywhere else. If I were the Lord, I’d choose to make my home there, too.
Even in the Sinai, or in the Negev, among landscape that looked like the surface of Mars, you can find tiny wildflowers, clumps of succulents pushing between the cracks in the rocks. Birds and lizards scuttle just beyond your reach. I could see Moses watching his father-in-law’s sheep tear at clumps of grass.
The land itself could not be more diverse. If you walk 10 miles you can cross as many different biomes - steppe, desert, wetland, farmland. The lands of the Bible straddle the Great Rift Valley, home of the lowest place on earth (the Dead Sea). Yet at places it rises to 2700 meters (Mt. Catherine, in Sinai). Israel itself is only 85 miles across at its widest point.
I wore my travel vest most of the time. I like to cram the pockets with granola bars, trail mix, paperbacks, binoculars - that kind of thing. When I board an airplane it’s like having an extra carry-on. It gives me a place to stash souvenirs. I like to think that it makes me look advenurous, but most people probably assume I’ve lost my trout stream. Ah well - it keeps me warm. Even Egypt was not quite as hot as I expected, although it can get toasty.
Just being in the weather made certain Bible passages come alive. Exodus 22 says that if you take a cloak as collateral on a loan, you have to return in by sundown so that the owner can stay warm. In extolling the practical advantages of friendship, Proverbs says that two people are stronger than one, and that they can stay warm by sharing body heat. These are such throw-away lines, but in the context of experience they become much more meaningful.
The climate also makes me aware of the full meaning of other passages. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus says our Father makes the sun to rise on the righteous and the unrighteous, and sends rain on the evil and the good. Biblical authors marvel at how God sends rain into the desert, making flowers bloom where no human eye can appreciate their beauty. Our guide described how his friend, who ran a boat on the Lake of Galilee, would stand in the first rain of the season, a huge grin on his face, and let himself be drenched.
We also stood in places - like Petra - where flash floods in the past decade or so have killed dozens of people. And I thought to myself, “he who hears these words and does not act on them is like a foolish man who built his house on sand…”
The flight from New York to Amman is long. I knew as I stepped onto the plane that I could expect around eleven hours of sitting. I looked at my ticket stub and saw that I would have a window seat. I’m around 6’4”, so I knew I’d have to fold up like a pretzel.
As I counted rows to my seat, my heart sank. There, in the aisle seat, was a Jordanian woman who must have weighed around 300 pounds. She was obviously uncomofortable. Her seat was fully reclined, but her belly pressed against the seat in front of her. The arm between the seats was raised, and I could see that she took up half of the seat I was supposed to sit in. I came and stood next to her. She looked at me and made a face. I shrugged. She struggled out of her chair to let me in.
I slid into the window seat and sighed. She collapsed into the seat next to me and then fought to press the arm down between us. Whatever illusions we had of preserving personal space disappeared quickly. She was sandwiched into her seat between the arms of the chair, but her body still spilled over and into my seat. I was mashed between her and the bulkhead. We were both miserable.
For eleven hours.
I was afraid that she was going to be unpleasant. She was uncomfortable and embarrassed. The flight attendant told her to put her seat up during takeoff and landing, but it was physically impossible. There was too much of her, and not enough space.
Somewhere during the flight she asked me why I was going to Jordan. I told her I was with a group, and we were going to Jordan, the West Bank, Israel, and Egypt. I told her that we were going to visit places where Jesus and Moses had lived and walked. She said I should also visit Aqaba sometime. She said Jordan was very nice, and that I would enjoy it. She told me that she had been in the U.S. for a month, visiting her daughter and grandchildren in Florida. I showed her pictures of my son, and she told me about her grandchildren. She said that her family had come to Jordan from Palestine in the 1948 war, but that Jordan was her home. She was very proud of being a Jordanian Palestinian.
Every time she got up, I got up. I moved my legs, stood on my toes, and stretched. Toward the end of the trip, she returned down the aisle holding a cup of water. She smiled and said, “welcome to Jordan, David.” She put the cup of water in my hand and I suddenly saw Jesus at the well with the Samaritan woman, I saw Abraham and Sarah welcoming strangers to their home, and I heard Jesus say that whoever offered a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple would not lose their reward. I remembered a line I had read in a book by Charles Page, that offering a cup of water to someone in ancient Middle Eastern culture was understood to be an offer of friendship. I took the cup gratefully. After my experience at the JFK information booth, I felt humbled by her simple gesture of hospitality.
It was the first of many cups of water or tea I was offered during my two-week trip. It made me think differently about hospitality, and how we approach such things in the U.S. Even informal “Southern hospitality” doesn’t approach the kind of respectful stranger/guest dynamic in the Middle East. The poetry of greeting and thanking in Arabic, the subtle competition to bestow honor upon your conversation partner, makes our own “how ya doin?” seem thin and insincere.
Still, I was glad when the flight was over. I felt as if I had been released from prison. But I would not have traded my experience with my traveling companion. She gave me an insight into Jesus’ world that I might not have had otherwise. We were co-sufferers on that flight, and we shared a kind of solidarity that I could not have had if I had sat in a more comfortable seat.
I took my seat on the airplane next to a young man from Libya. He said he was on the flight from Cairo to Amman with some friends, that they would buy a car in Amman and drive it back to Marzuq, where they live.
Most people I met in the Middle East nearly bent over backwards to express to me that they did not hate Americans. Few showed any affection to our president, but all I talked with made sure that I knew that they welcomed me. When his two friends in the row in front of us learned I was from America, the eldest of the friends, who looked to be about 50, turned to me eagerly and said, “Ah! America! America and Libya, we are like this,” he put his two index fingers together. “Good friends! Good friends. Ten years ago, was not good. But now, good friends.” I said I had felt very welcome in the Middle East. “We like America,” he said. “George Bush, we do not like.” He stabbed the air, then began to count on his fingers. “Clinton, we like. George Bush, the father, we like. But George Bush the son, we do not like.” He scooted around in his seat to face me. “Tell me, what do Americans think about Libya?”
I hemmed and hawed, pretended I had a hard time hearing him. “It’s tough to say,” I said. “Libya has not been in the mainstream media until recently.” Lame, I thought to myself. The flight attendant interrupted with lunch, and our conversation was forgotten for awhile. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Later, the pilot announced that we would land soon. The young man on my right pulled out the same torn sheet of notebook paper he had been reading earlier. I looked over his shoulder at the Arabic scrawls in blue ink. He moved his lips as he read. He caught me staring at him, smiled, and held up the piece of paper. “From the Quran,” he explained. “Ah,” I said, “a good thing to read before takeoff and landing.”
“Yes,” he agreed. He hesitated. “God says we should love everybody,” he said, searching my face.
“I believe that, too,” I said, but I couldn’t meet his eyes. We were both hyperconscious that we were somehow ambassadors, representing our faiths and our countries to one another. I scrambled for something to say that might somehow bridge the gap between us, and seized the first thing my mind touched. “We are all children of Abraham,” I offered, and immediately it sounded stupid.
He looked puzzled. “we should love everybody,” he said.
So I’m up again at 4:00 AM, for the third or fourth time in a row. I’ve been over the packing checklist several times in my head, now. I’ve had the usual melodramatic early-morning fantasies of what happens if I get lost or lose my luggage and money or miss my flights or get kidnapped and killed. I’ve thought of all the things I have to complete before I go. All the speeches and witty comebacks I would make in a dozen scenarios involving airline personnel or roommates or terrorists.
I’m also kept awake by ridiculous wonderings: People live in the Holy Land. Does it seem mundane to them? Does walking where Jesus walked seem no more astonishing to them than going to McDonald’s? Or is part of the problem in the Middle East that the land is too rooted in holy histories? On Friday, as we walked the Way of the Cross, stopping at each station for reading and prayer, my eyes filled with tears and I thought, “I’m going to be there. In less than a week, I’ll be there.” And it seemed odd to me that this route I drive every day should be so holy to me, at that moment. Do people there have those experiences where the mundane becomes holy, or is it the reverse?
Do I have enough life insurance? Have I done my taxes properly? Why does it feel like I’m forgetting something? Passport? Sunscreen? Am I sure I’ve got the departure time right in my head? Does my family know how much I love them?
Then my four year-old son comes padding into the bedroom. I ask, “what’s up, buddy?” “I need a friend to snuggle with me,” he says. He climbs in bed next to me and scoots close. Pretty soon he’s asleep again and I can smell his hair against my face. He laughs in his sleep and kicks me in the leg.
God has ways of answering prayer even when we don’t pray.
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