Day is ending as we come to Kiriath-Jearim* west of Jerusalem where a solid old Crusader church is nestled in a neighborhood of an Arab city. The garden inside the gate envelopes us as we walk in.
Our goal is a low door to the crypt, deep underground, but as we gather at the doorway, a small cluster of white robed monks walk down the garden. One sees our group and turns our way to greet us. “Ah,” says our guide, “It is Father Olivier.” His French pronunciation of “Oh-LIV-ee-ay” clues us to the monk's home country.
The two men greet each other warmly as old friends, and our guide explains that this is a group of biblical students.
“Perhaps you could tell them about yourself?”
“My English is not good,” the monk demurs in excellent English, but he proceeds. “I am a Benedictine monk. We spend our days in song and prayer. And we make pottery and liquor from lemons to sell.”
Our younger guide says, “Very, very good liquor.” The monk grabs him and rubs his shaved brown head. “You!” he laughs in obvious enjoyment of friend to friend.
Father Olivier continues. “I came from France. I am 62 and I have been here for 33 years. My family were not believers. In fact, my father was very anti-clergy. But my parents took me to see a movie when I was about twelve called Exodus and the story captured me. It’s a real story, you know, about some of the refugees coming here to Israel after the war.”
“After my military service, I joined a monastery in Normandy. As I sang the Psalms of David and read the Bible, I remembered the Exodus movie and it seemed that every page of scripture spoke of Jerusalem and this land. So I came, and I will never leave.”
“You know,” our older guide says, “Father Olivier is an Israeli citizen.” They look at each other with pride, both immigrants, both standing tall and sun-burnished with a look of freedom in their eyes that we have come to appreciate in this young country.
“Yes,” says the monk. “Young military boys and girls come here in small groups as part of their learning about Jerusalem.”
Our guides are both military guys of two different generations. So is the gentle monk. He goes on, “Benedictines are a hospitality order. We have people come to stay – Jews, Christians, Arabs, from the neighborhood. It is our mission.”
His English picks up as he shares his passion, even though he stumbles and asks for some individual words from our older French-speaking guide. “We are French mostly, but one man is from the Congo. And among the sisters there are French, German, Canadian, and also one from Congo. There are differences, yes, but we look past the differences. We are much the same, like those of this country.”
“I will stay here all my life,” he concludes. “Our commitment is not for a time. It is for all time.”
We leave Olivier and wander the simple lofty church left by the Crusaders. The faces of the frescoes were battered off by one of the Muslim invasions. The church stands, damaged, but solid. Father Olivier will keep his promise. Like the rock of the old church, differences and conflict will not move him. We sing a simple hymn before we leave the nave and the sound echoes off the walls and back to us.
“He arose, He arose, Hallelujah, Christ arose.”
It is a fitting end to a journey back in time. A stop on the way to a modern world, a refuge from the busyness outside the gates, a reminder that commitment brings stability and stability is eternal.
* “And the men of Kiriath-jearim came and took the ark of the Lord and brought it to the house of Abinadab on the hill…a long time passed, some twenty years, and all the house of the Israel lamented after the Lord.” 1 Sam. 7:1-2
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Old City
By day the Old City is packed with tourists of every stripe. As we push our way from the Temple mount toward the Jaffa gate, we mingle with a group of Filipinos carrying a cross and singing, Germans stopping to shop, and a gaggle of middle-aged coffee drinkers chatting in Yiddish.
There’s so much to see, smell, and touch. Jostled about, we position wallets and bags up front, away from eager hands that might snatch them while we ogle the goods. It’s a good natured jostling that belies the bristle of police and military at every corner, and especially the gates and check points.
The synagogue in the Jewish Quarter was re- dedicated a few days ago and quite a furor has ensued. The fact that it has been a pile of rubble since the war for independence in 1948 seems not to matter. A dome now stands higher than the mosque on the Temple mount and even though Jerusalem has been in Israeli hands for more than 40 years now, that is an affront.
A call went out to the faithful to Allah to come and protest. The turnout has been minimal, but every corner of the Old City sports young Israeli troops, armed and uniformed.
The crowding and military seem contemporary, but in truth, Jerusalem would have been just so densely populated two thousand years ago when the faithful gathered from around the world for Passover. And with pilgrims and potential unrest, Roman soldiers would have bristled at every corner. Today’s soldiers want us to take their picture though – not something Rome would have encouraged.
Undeterred by the current politics, we enjoy pushing through the old streets. This afternoon, just before sundown, we break off for some unguided wandering. We dawdle past the shops in the Armenian quarter, and turn down the main drag that divides the Jewish and Moslem quarters. In ancient times, this road would have been the Cardo, or main artery through the city.
Shops are beginning to close for the day and there’s a festive spirit in the air. Shopkeepers, pushy by day, are taking down their wares, greeting us warmly as we pass. Most of the tourists have boarded their bubble buses and gone off to find dinner at their hotel. We’re almost locals.
Turning a sharp right, we cut through the Jewish quarter, bound for the Zion Gate. There’s a commotion ahead and the narrow street appears to be blocked by a small truck. We turn around to go another way when a plump grandmother waves us on.
“Come, come,” she says. “Can go, yes.”
We follow her and her grandchildren, squeezing past the back of the truck only to find ourselves sharing a brightly lit entry to a building with a dozen or more others on their way home. An orthodox man calls to his young son beside me. The boy, side curls swinging, hefting a huge book, grabs his father’s hand and escapes over a pile of trash and out behind the truck.
There’s much chatter around us in the entry, much shouting to the two men in the back of the truck that completely blocks the street, and finally the truck moves forward. We all surge after it to the corner where there is room to pass.
A little further on we hear the sound of drums and bagpipes. Intrigued, we detour up an alley, around a corner, and come to the open door of a church basement. Inside a group of men are playing bagpipes while another pounds a huge drum. Several men beckon us to the door to listen. One leans over and bellows, “Syrian Orthodox. We are the first Christians.” We listen with enjoyment and don’t argue the point that everyone in Jerusalem thinks they are the first Christians.
A cluster of old women, dressed in black from head to toe, comes up behind us and passes into the church. The music swirls on but we turn and head down the empty street.
Night has fallen. Through open windows we glimpse families preparing diner. Others are making last minute purchases at pocket sized groceries. Families with small children in strollers crowd past us going the other direction to the new synagogue and western wall.
We reach Zion Gate and exit the city, walk the passage between the city wall and the walled Armenian convent. Lights are twinkling across the hills of newer Jerusalem as we come to the corner and hike down toward the Hinnom valley.
Day is done and it’s time for supper. Tomorrow is the Muslim holy day and the Old City may be blocked. Then comes Shabbat and much will be closed. Today was a good day to wander the old city.
Ageless, timeless, eternal.
There’s so much to see, smell, and touch. Jostled about, we position wallets and bags up front, away from eager hands that might snatch them while we ogle the goods. It’s a good natured jostling that belies the bristle of police and military at every corner, and especially the gates and check points.
The synagogue in the Jewish Quarter was re- dedicated a few days ago and quite a furor has ensued. The fact that it has been a pile of rubble since the war for independence in 1948 seems not to matter. A dome now stands higher than the mosque on the Temple mount and even though Jerusalem has been in Israeli hands for more than 40 years now, that is an affront.
A call went out to the faithful to Allah to come and protest. The turnout has been minimal, but every corner of the Old City sports young Israeli troops, armed and uniformed.
The crowding and military seem contemporary, but in truth, Jerusalem would have been just so densely populated two thousand years ago when the faithful gathered from around the world for Passover. And with pilgrims and potential unrest, Roman soldiers would have bristled at every corner. Today’s soldiers want us to take their picture though – not something Rome would have encouraged.
Undeterred by the current politics, we enjoy pushing through the old streets. This afternoon, just before sundown, we break off for some unguided wandering. We dawdle past the shops in the Armenian quarter, and turn down the main drag that divides the Jewish and Moslem quarters. In ancient times, this road would have been the Cardo, or main artery through the city.
Shops are beginning to close for the day and there’s a festive spirit in the air. Shopkeepers, pushy by day, are taking down their wares, greeting us warmly as we pass. Most of the tourists have boarded their bubble buses and gone off to find dinner at their hotel. We’re almost locals.
Turning a sharp right, we cut through the Jewish quarter, bound for the Zion Gate. There’s a commotion ahead and the narrow street appears to be blocked by a small truck. We turn around to go another way when a plump grandmother waves us on.
“Come, come,” she says. “Can go, yes.”
We follow her and her grandchildren, squeezing past the back of the truck only to find ourselves sharing a brightly lit entry to a building with a dozen or more others on their way home. An orthodox man calls to his young son beside me. The boy, side curls swinging, hefting a huge book, grabs his father’s hand and escapes over a pile of trash and out behind the truck.
There’s much chatter around us in the entry, much shouting to the two men in the back of the truck that completely blocks the street, and finally the truck moves forward. We all surge after it to the corner where there is room to pass.
A little further on we hear the sound of drums and bagpipes. Intrigued, we detour up an alley, around a corner, and come to the open door of a church basement. Inside a group of men are playing bagpipes while another pounds a huge drum. Several men beckon us to the door to listen. One leans over and bellows, “Syrian Orthodox. We are the first Christians.” We listen with enjoyment and don’t argue the point that everyone in Jerusalem thinks they are the first Christians.
A cluster of old women, dressed in black from head to toe, comes up behind us and passes into the church. The music swirls on but we turn and head down the empty street.
Night has fallen. Through open windows we glimpse families preparing diner. Others are making last minute purchases at pocket sized groceries. Families with small children in strollers crowd past us going the other direction to the new synagogue and western wall.
We reach Zion Gate and exit the city, walk the passage between the city wall and the walled Armenian convent. Lights are twinkling across the hills of newer Jerusalem as we come to the corner and hike down toward the Hinnom valley.
Day is done and it’s time for supper. Tomorrow is the Muslim holy day and the Old City may be blocked. Then comes Shabbat and much will be closed. Today was a good day to wander the old city.
Ageless, timeless, eternal.
The Politics of Perfume
Roman had a problem. A huge city, people living on top of people, crowded streets and alleys. People who eat, sleep, and well get rid of what they ate through natural processes.
People who live in rural settings have space and fields and can bury today’s problem one place and tomorrow’s another. But city dwellers have no where to put their waste. In Rome, citizens emptied their chamber post out the window to the street. Streets were washed with water from the top down. But water is a precious commodity and doesn’t always cover the smell. No wonder the higher off the street living quarters always cost more money.
Something is needed to counteract odor. Perfume. Perfume in the ancient world became as precious as gold, maybe more.
The best source of perfume was in Yemen, down the Arabian Peninsula from Israel. Traders brought perfume up the road of the kings, across the Edomite kingdom, past Petra, past the Dead Sea, and north to the ports.
He who controlled the route of the perfume controlled the economy. Herod the Great was brutal, braggadocios, and brilliant. He was also the most outstanding architect of antiquity.
It was Herod who built a huge seaport at Caesarea where there was no natural harbor. It was Herod who took the top off one mountain and put it on another to build his Herodium. It was Herod who took the stronghold in the desert and built the fortress that is called Masada. Put a ruler on the map and these architectural wonders lie in a straight line from the source of perfume to the seaport.
Was Masada built originally to control the perfume trade? Who knows? It stands in the wilderness as a stronghold with many stories – the most famous happening long after Herod’s death. The final rebellion of the Jews was squelched by Rome at Masada in the early ‘70’s AD. It is at Masada that the Roman forces seiged for almost two years, finally breaking through the ramparts to find that the rebels had taken their own lives freely to escape slavery. There was food and water left in abundance, but Rome was cheated out of victory. Herod was long gone when this happened.
Power is a strange idol. Herod definitely worshiped power and perhaps controlling the perfume trace was one of his power plays. However the story is told, Herod, like the Roman forces, was cheated out of a victory.
He heard there was a king of the Jews born in Bethlehem, just south of Jerusalem, smack beside his Herodium fortress. He told the kings from the east to go find the king and come back to tell him where he was so that he “could go and worship also.”
The kings found the young king, worshipped, and left by another route without telling Herod anything. Infuriated, Herod ordered the massacre of all the little boys under two and the mothers of Bethlehem wept in bitterness.
But the little king and his parents had slipped away to Egypt. They financed the escape with perfume.
People who live in rural settings have space and fields and can bury today’s problem one place and tomorrow’s another. But city dwellers have no where to put their waste. In Rome, citizens emptied their chamber post out the window to the street. Streets were washed with water from the top down. But water is a precious commodity and doesn’t always cover the smell. No wonder the higher off the street living quarters always cost more money.
Something is needed to counteract odor. Perfume. Perfume in the ancient world became as precious as gold, maybe more.
The best source of perfume was in Yemen, down the Arabian Peninsula from Israel. Traders brought perfume up the road of the kings, across the Edomite kingdom, past Petra, past the Dead Sea, and north to the ports.
He who controlled the route of the perfume controlled the economy. Herod the Great was brutal, braggadocios, and brilliant. He was also the most outstanding architect of antiquity.
It was Herod who built a huge seaport at Caesarea where there was no natural harbor. It was Herod who took the top off one mountain and put it on another to build his Herodium. It was Herod who took the stronghold in the desert and built the fortress that is called Masada. Put a ruler on the map and these architectural wonders lie in a straight line from the source of perfume to the seaport.
Was Masada built originally to control the perfume trade? Who knows? It stands in the wilderness as a stronghold with many stories – the most famous happening long after Herod’s death. The final rebellion of the Jews was squelched by Rome at Masada in the early ‘70’s AD. It is at Masada that the Roman forces seiged for almost two years, finally breaking through the ramparts to find that the rebels had taken their own lives freely to escape slavery. There was food and water left in abundance, but Rome was cheated out of victory. Herod was long gone when this happened.
Power is a strange idol. Herod definitely worshiped power and perhaps controlling the perfume trace was one of his power plays. However the story is told, Herod, like the Roman forces, was cheated out of a victory.
He heard there was a king of the Jews born in Bethlehem, just south of Jerusalem, smack beside his Herodium fortress. He told the kings from the east to go find the king and come back to tell him where he was so that he “could go and worship also.”
The kings found the young king, worshipped, and left by another route without telling Herod anything. Infuriated, Herod ordered the massacre of all the little boys under two and the mothers of Bethlehem wept in bitterness.
But the little king and his parents had slipped away to Egypt. They financed the escape with perfume.
The sound of coffee
The Bedouin leads a lonely life on the edge of the desert. There are no hotels or restaurants, no news media bringing up to the minute reports. So a visitor is welcome because he brings news – news in exchange for hospitality.
When a visitor arrives, a traveler, he is welcomed. “Sit, sit,” says Achmed the nomad. “I will make coffee.”
Achmed puts a skillet on the fire and throws a handful of coffee beans in to roast. Coffee is a valuable substance, but Achmed will pay for news. He makes small talk with his visitor while the coffee roasts.
When the coffee is roasted, Achmed takes it off the fire. He brings down his mortar and pestle and begins to pound the beans. Achmed is methodical – boom, boom, taka, taka, taka. Boom, boom, taka, taka, taka.
At some distance Hamid, another nomad, hears the sound of coffee. He listens. “Ah,” he says to his brother, “That is Achmed. If it were Nabeel across the way it would be boom taka boom taka boom.” Each man has his own sound of coffee.
The men begin to arrive at Achmed’s tent. There is some jealousy that the visitor chose to stop with Achmed but the scent of news is stronger than the distrust, and the sound of coffee draws them. The visitor is served first. The routine is like the rhythm of the generations. A bitter cup first because it is lonely in the desert. Then a sweet cup because the visitor brings news. And then a bitter cup because he will leave soon.
The small talk is over now. While the women, hidden from view but listening in, prepare a meal, the news is shared.
It may not be earthshaking. A man a days’ walk to the east has a daughter he wants to marry. Ah, Nabeel has a son who needs a wife. Another man, a little close says the visitor, has a herd of sheep he’d like to divide and sell. Achmed’s son wants to enlarge his flock and Hamid’s brother also needs sheep. Then there is news that the tribe to the south are arguing over water. Water is always the source of trouble.
The meal is finally ready and the men sit to eat. A visitor has come and it is an occasion for celebration. The sound of coffee is sweet in the bitter loneliness of the desert.
(Tito’s story told while climbing up the Shephelah from the Dead Sea)
When a visitor arrives, a traveler, he is welcomed. “Sit, sit,” says Achmed the nomad. “I will make coffee.”
Achmed puts a skillet on the fire and throws a handful of coffee beans in to roast. Coffee is a valuable substance, but Achmed will pay for news. He makes small talk with his visitor while the coffee roasts.
When the coffee is roasted, Achmed takes it off the fire. He brings down his mortar and pestle and begins to pound the beans. Achmed is methodical – boom, boom, taka, taka, taka. Boom, boom, taka, taka, taka.
At some distance Hamid, another nomad, hears the sound of coffee. He listens. “Ah,” he says to his brother, “That is Achmed. If it were Nabeel across the way it would be boom taka boom taka boom.” Each man has his own sound of coffee.
The men begin to arrive at Achmed’s tent. There is some jealousy that the visitor chose to stop with Achmed but the scent of news is stronger than the distrust, and the sound of coffee draws them. The visitor is served first. The routine is like the rhythm of the generations. A bitter cup first because it is lonely in the desert. Then a sweet cup because the visitor brings news. And then a bitter cup because he will leave soon.
The small talk is over now. While the women, hidden from view but listening in, prepare a meal, the news is shared.
It may not be earthshaking. A man a days’ walk to the east has a daughter he wants to marry. Ah, Nabeel has a son who needs a wife. Another man, a little close says the visitor, has a herd of sheep he’d like to divide and sell. Achmed’s son wants to enlarge his flock and Hamid’s brother also needs sheep. Then there is news that the tribe to the south are arguing over water. Water is always the source of trouble.
The meal is finally ready and the men sit to eat. A visitor has come and it is an occasion for celebration. The sound of coffee is sweet in the bitter loneliness of the desert.
(Tito’s story told while climbing up the Shephelah from the Dead Sea)
The Vultures of Gamla
The vultures are swirling overhead as we walk out the point of land that overlooks Gamla. They gather here at the intersection of two rivers that eventually flow in to the Sea of Galilee. A sanctuary for the birds who feed on death, and Gamla is a stark death memorial.
Gamla is a triangular camel humped peak with sharp, steep sides rushing down to the rivers on both sides. Thousands of Jewish rebels fled to Gamla just before the 70 AD destruction of Jerusalem. This “Masada of the North” appeared to be self-sufficient and impermeable. There were fields of grain, vineyards, olive trees. Homes and a synagogue nestled inside the gates.
We hike down a steep hill and out a ridge to the city gates, now smashed and broken from battering rams. The Romans held Gamla in siege for several years. Finally, when there was no longer hope for victory, the Jewish men took their families to the crest of the peak and threw them down. Then they themselves jumped to death in a mass suicide of 5000. Rome breached the gates, but like Masada, the victory was hollow. Men who have deep hope of eternal life will chose that alternative to slavery and Rome.
We wander the ruins, look at the olive press, ponder the thoughts like food and water supplies, cisterns and storage. We climb the peak and look down the steep sides to the river below. The sound of rushing water rises hundreds of feet to us.
Hiking back up the steep fact opposite Gamla, we talk about life. Are we so comfortable that we would chose to be captured over taking our lives to be spared from slavery to an enemy?
The vultures continue to circle overhead, though the city is deserted, and we head off across the plains to Mt. Carmel leaving them to their search.
Gamla is a triangular camel humped peak with sharp, steep sides rushing down to the rivers on both sides. Thousands of Jewish rebels fled to Gamla just before the 70 AD destruction of Jerusalem. This “Masada of the North” appeared to be self-sufficient and impermeable. There were fields of grain, vineyards, olive trees. Homes and a synagogue nestled inside the gates.
We hike down a steep hill and out a ridge to the city gates, now smashed and broken from battering rams. The Romans held Gamla in siege for several years. Finally, when there was no longer hope for victory, the Jewish men took their families to the crest of the peak and threw them down. Then they themselves jumped to death in a mass suicide of 5000. Rome breached the gates, but like Masada, the victory was hollow. Men who have deep hope of eternal life will chose that alternative to slavery and Rome.
We wander the ruins, look at the olive press, ponder the thoughts like food and water supplies, cisterns and storage. We climb the peak and look down the steep sides to the river below. The sound of rushing water rises hundreds of feet to us.
Hiking back up the steep fact opposite Gamla, we talk about life. Are we so comfortable that we would chose to be captured over taking our lives to be spared from slavery to an enemy?
The vultures continue to circle overhead, though the city is deserted, and we head off across the plains to Mt. Carmel leaving them to their search.
Cows of Bashan on the Golan Heights
Scaling the Golan Heights is no small feat. The roads run straight up into the sky from the shores of Lake Kinnesserat. Our first stop at the top is where battlements stood looking down on the settlements nestled along the shore. From here Syrian troops regularly picked off settlers in their fields. A long and complicated history between the French and the British divided the land along peculiar lines until the ’67 Six Day War.
Since then the Golan Heights have been in Israeli hands and they are rich. Orchards and vineyards blanket the slightly rolling plateau. Cattle graze, the sleek “cows of Bashan” from Amos 4:1, for this is Bashan.
It looks incredibly peaceful and that is the deception. The mines that still dot the fields don’t show through the thick grass but are deadly. The bunkers and occasional leftover bombed out tanks are mostly covered with trees. Eucalyptus groves disguise the battlement. Mountain tops bristle with communication devices.
It’s a tense and uneasy peace brought with blood. For now there is a veil of safety but it could change quickly.
But life has taken hold in the Golan Heights and a people who are tough and aggressive are willing to hedge their bets, plant, tend, and harvest the rich land. Tomorrow may bring destruction, but what is new about that?
Since then the Golan Heights have been in Israeli hands and they are rich. Orchards and vineyards blanket the slightly rolling plateau. Cattle graze, the sleek “cows of Bashan” from Amos 4:1, for this is Bashan.
It looks incredibly peaceful and that is the deception. The mines that still dot the fields don’t show through the thick grass but are deadly. The bunkers and occasional leftover bombed out tanks are mostly covered with trees. Eucalyptus groves disguise the battlement. Mountain tops bristle with communication devices.
It’s a tense and uneasy peace brought with blood. For now there is a veil of safety but it could change quickly.
But life has taken hold in the Golan Heights and a people who are tough and aggressive are willing to hedge their bets, plant, tend, and harvest the rich land. Tomorrow may bring destruction, but what is new about that?
Shrines and the Green Tour
Something there is in me that hates shrines. Mobs of tourists, matching scarves or caps, sleek bubble buses, guides babbling a potpourri of languages.
A shrine makes me feel I’m being played or fed a story. Even the bare fact that most of the shrines have historical evidence for their existence doesn’t put a better taste in my mouth. I am not a groupie, a follower, a shrine worshipper.
Give me Susita or the cliffs of Arbel. Let me wander with some Israeli teens on a school outing darting down the path in front of me, faces flushed with laughter. It’s the “pilgrims” I detest, however devout they are.
I seem to remember Jesus rebuking Peter when he wanted to build a shrine on Mt. Tabor, if that is actually the right place. There’s a shrine there now. Obviously, the pilgrims that have walked this land for centuries didn’t bother to read the script.
Thanks goodness I took the “green” tour where the grass amid ruins is our usual lecture venue, far from the pilgrims and groupies.
A shrine makes me feel I’m being played or fed a story. Even the bare fact that most of the shrines have historical evidence for their existence doesn’t put a better taste in my mouth. I am not a groupie, a follower, a shrine worshipper.
Give me Susita or the cliffs of Arbel. Let me wander with some Israeli teens on a school outing darting down the path in front of me, faces flushed with laughter. It’s the “pilgrims” I detest, however devout they are.
I seem to remember Jesus rebuking Peter when he wanted to build a shrine on Mt. Tabor, if that is actually the right place. There’s a shrine there now. Obviously, the pilgrims that have walked this land for centuries didn’t bother to read the script.
Thanks goodness I took the “green” tour where the grass amid ruins is our usual lecture venue, far from the pilgrims and groupies.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The city set on a hill
On the eastern shore of the Sea of Galilee, a ruined city rises into the Golan Heights from En Gev. It is called Susita in Aramaic or Hippos in Greek – the place of the horse. A small volcanic outcrop.
We wander off the main road onto a track labeled “farm use only.” Our guide suggests we all moo to give some legitimacy to the venture, but behind the jest he as a permit to take us to this place no one else seems to bother to visit. What they miss!
The bus climbs up a switchback road as high as possible and then we set off on foot up a rocky track. Brimming the crest we find ourselves on a street paved with smooth basalt blocks, neatly set together. To the side are hollow rocks that are the remains of the siphon system that drew water up here from another nearby mountain.
We wander Susita marveling at the remains of four Byzantine churches, a cistern system, a wide marketplace, and tumbled ruins of shops and homes.
This could have been the city set on a hill that cannot be hidden from Matthew 5:14. Certainly it would have been visible by day and night from all around the Sea of Galilee. Rising in the Hellenistic period about 300 BC, it remained until it’s decline after the Arab invasion of 749 AD.
Hiking down later, another woman and I ponder what might have been the rhythms of this place. Isolated and quiet, yet filled with imported marble and granite, one of the Decapolis cities right in the path of the Via Maris – the way of the sea that led to Damascas.
Who lived in Susita? Why? The stones only hint at answers.
We wander off the main road onto a track labeled “farm use only.” Our guide suggests we all moo to give some legitimacy to the venture, but behind the jest he as a permit to take us to this place no one else seems to bother to visit. What they miss!
The bus climbs up a switchback road as high as possible and then we set off on foot up a rocky track. Brimming the crest we find ourselves on a street paved with smooth basalt blocks, neatly set together. To the side are hollow rocks that are the remains of the siphon system that drew water up here from another nearby mountain.
We wander Susita marveling at the remains of four Byzantine churches, a cistern system, a wide marketplace, and tumbled ruins of shops and homes.
This could have been the city set on a hill that cannot be hidden from Matthew 5:14. Certainly it would have been visible by day and night from all around the Sea of Galilee. Rising in the Hellenistic period about 300 BC, it remained until it’s decline after the Arab invasion of 749 AD.
Hiking down later, another woman and I ponder what might have been the rhythms of this place. Isolated and quiet, yet filled with imported marble and granite, one of the Decapolis cities right in the path of the Via Maris – the way of the sea that led to Damascas.
Who lived in Susita? Why? The stones only hint at answers.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Cliffs of fear
We arrive at a farm in Galilee about 1:30 in the afternoon and are met with tea smelling of cardamom and baklava on trays. It’s a donkey farm. Soon we set out, half mounted on little donkeys while the other half of the group lead the burdened beasts. The girls in front of us dub their donkey “Hadassah” so we call ours “Deborah.” This, after all, is Israel.
Hadassah and Deborah have only two thoughts – see how much greenery they can snag along the way and see if they can dismount their riders. Our feet almost drag the ground, and the weeds cut into our legs. Halfway up the thistle bound path to the cliffs of Arbel, we trade places, rider and leader, and proceed to near the summit where the donkeys bid us farewell and hasten back down while we climb higher.
The view from the Arbel is dramatic, even on a misty day. We linger at the summit taking in the fresh green hills of spring, reaching down to the Sea of Galilee. Then we turn to descend a narrow track.
It is rugged but passable for the first few minutes. Then it gets dicey. Iron handles are hammered into the cliffs with stiff chains between them. Hand over hand, foot after careful foot, we creep down a hundred feet or more of steep cliff. The younger ones dance their way ahead but others of the group struggle.
My friend, extremely phobic of heights, is caught between her desire to turn back from a steeper climb than she anticipated and no way to do that. A team forms around her, one man above and one below with a third to coach and encourage. Slowly they creep down the cliff above me. I marvel at the procession. One stands above her hands and talks while the ones below move her feet one at a time from rock to rock. The bonding is palpable.
Finally they drop to a level spot and everyone cheers. The final descent is merely a steep path through pastureland. At the end of the day it is not just the cliffs of the Arbel that have been scaled. It is fear faced, dealt with step by step.
And conquered.
Hadassah and Deborah have only two thoughts – see how much greenery they can snag along the way and see if they can dismount their riders. Our feet almost drag the ground, and the weeds cut into our legs. Halfway up the thistle bound path to the cliffs of Arbel, we trade places, rider and leader, and proceed to near the summit where the donkeys bid us farewell and hasten back down while we climb higher.
The view from the Arbel is dramatic, even on a misty day. We linger at the summit taking in the fresh green hills of spring, reaching down to the Sea of Galilee. Then we turn to descend a narrow track.
It is rugged but passable for the first few minutes. Then it gets dicey. Iron handles are hammered into the cliffs with stiff chains between them. Hand over hand, foot after careful foot, we creep down a hundred feet or more of steep cliff. The younger ones dance their way ahead but others of the group struggle.
My friend, extremely phobic of heights, is caught between her desire to turn back from a steeper climb than she anticipated and no way to do that. A team forms around her, one man above and one below with a third to coach and encourage. Slowly they creep down the cliff above me. I marvel at the procession. One stands above her hands and talks while the ones below move her feet one at a time from rock to rock. The bonding is palpable.
Finally they drop to a level spot and everyone cheers. The final descent is merely a steep path through pastureland. At the end of the day it is not just the cliffs of the Arbel that have been scaled. It is fear faced, dealt with step by step.
And conquered.
Caesaria’s lasting legacy
Caesaria stands bleached in the blazing sun, the Mediterranean pushing up against the old wharf, a lasting memory of Herod the Great. Herod may have been arrogant and brutal, but no one else in his world built a massive port city where there was no natural bay or harbor.
The theater is partially restored and the hippodrome stands waiting for horses. You can close your eyes and almost hear the crowd of men roaring, the hooves pounding the sand as horses pulling chariots make the sharp and dangerous curve in front of the Roman rulers.
Marble and granite columns lie scattered on the ground brought from north Africa and Turkey, two or three to a ship. Some are recycled into Crusader walls that rise behind the ruins.
The sea has done it’s work and most of Herod’s harbor lies beneath the waves. Tsunamis and harsh weather tossed his cement and walls into the air, and then buried them deep. The great port didn’t survive the waves and earthquakes.
All except the broken pieces. But the name of Herod remains today in our minds and world, and after all, isn’t that a fair measure of greatness?
The theater is partially restored and the hippodrome stands waiting for horses. You can close your eyes and almost hear the crowd of men roaring, the hooves pounding the sand as horses pulling chariots make the sharp and dangerous curve in front of the Roman rulers.
Marble and granite columns lie scattered on the ground brought from north Africa and Turkey, two or three to a ship. Some are recycled into Crusader walls that rise behind the ruins.
The sea has done it’s work and most of Herod’s harbor lies beneath the waves. Tsunamis and harsh weather tossed his cement and walls into the air, and then buried them deep. The great port didn’t survive the waves and earthquakes.
All except the broken pieces. But the name of Herod remains today in our minds and world, and after all, isn’t that a fair measure of greatness?
Jaffa, port of the world
POST REFLECTS RECENT TRAVEL IN ISRAEL
Against the sea, the daylight is going rose while the lights of the new-old city of Tel Aviv twinkle in the gathering dusk. There is still enough light to see the crashing surf from where we stand in what was once Joppa, or Jaffa.
A prayer call rises from a nearby mosque and sings a counterpoint with church bells. Far below us are the remnants of city walls, centuries, millennia deep.
This was the crossroad of the ancient Middle East. Trade from Egypt came north toward Babylon on the Via Maris or “way of the sea”, took an east hook here at the river Yarkon, went across the Shephelah, took another turn to the north, right to Meggido, and then across Galilee to Damascus and the East.
Solomon and Ezra imported cedars to Joppa and then schlepped them up to Jerusalem. From Joppa Jonah tried to head west, only to return and take the Via Maris to Nineveh. Peter was served his first non-Kosher meal on a rooftop here. Greeks, Romans, and all the invaders of the centuries have come ashore at Joppa. Early pilgrims of more modern times landed here; there are still visible remains of German, Russian, and African settlements.
Today Jaffa is largely Arab, a split from the war of independence when Israel claimed Tel Aviv, just beside, and left Jaffa behind.
It is all one city now, ruin on ruin with gleaming modern blocks capping the top. The church bells linger against the call of the imam. An Israeli bride poses for a picture on the hillside, white dress gleaming against the ruins.
Darkness falls and we head north to the new old city.
Against the sea, the daylight is going rose while the lights of the new-old city of Tel Aviv twinkle in the gathering dusk. There is still enough light to see the crashing surf from where we stand in what was once Joppa, or Jaffa.
A prayer call rises from a nearby mosque and sings a counterpoint with church bells. Far below us are the remnants of city walls, centuries, millennia deep.
This was the crossroad of the ancient Middle East. Trade from Egypt came north toward Babylon on the Via Maris or “way of the sea”, took an east hook here at the river Yarkon, went across the Shephelah, took another turn to the north, right to Meggido, and then across Galilee to Damascus and the East.
Solomon and Ezra imported cedars to Joppa and then schlepped them up to Jerusalem. From Joppa Jonah tried to head west, only to return and take the Via Maris to Nineveh. Peter was served his first non-Kosher meal on a rooftop here. Greeks, Romans, and all the invaders of the centuries have come ashore at Joppa. Early pilgrims of more modern times landed here; there are still visible remains of German, Russian, and African settlements.
Today Jaffa is largely Arab, a split from the war of independence when Israel claimed Tel Aviv, just beside, and left Jaffa behind.
It is all one city now, ruin on ruin with gleaming modern blocks capping the top. The church bells linger against the call of the imam. An Israeli bride poses for a picture on the hillside, white dress gleaming against the ruins.
Darkness falls and we head north to the new old city.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
March Madness
The Dreamer and the Driver both have March birthdays. Over the years we’ve often celebrated their birthdays together as a family gathering. Memories flood my mind of parties. Eating cupcakes, high in the rice terraces of the Philippines, perched on the edge of the world. Gauze drapes turning the living room into a middle-eastern tent while girls feasted on hummus and lamb, or kimonos, chopsticks, and a low table turning the family room into a Japanese restaurant. A gaggle of Chinese teens eating spaghetti in Hong Kong. Lots and lots of fun memories over the years.
Tonight is March madness 2010. With two of the three daughters nearby, we decide to celebrate birthdays early. The table, decked with candles, is a mix of fine china and IKEA plastic reflecting the age span across decades. It’s Friday night, there’s traffic, and everyone is late getting to the house. At close to seven the four small gremlins are tired and hungry. The Dragon has Skyped in and everyone stops by the computer to chat with her before we hit the table and she heads to a volleyball game. Sticky fingers hug her through the screen.
Bug, beside me, howls loudly all through grace and then gets a stern reprimand from her father. “You don’t need to howl during grace. Get some food in you.” Almost instantly she’s engrossed in her plate and the howling ends. Ever the gourmet, she wants hollandaise on her broccoli and several refills of sparkling apple juice. Bear, the purist across the table, tucks in with equal vengeance but scorns hollandaise and sparkling juice. Jon Boy inhales carrots faster than either parent can get into his mouth until he’s finally willing to gnaw on a tough bread crust and give them a break. Food that missed small mouths piles up on the floor around the booster chairs and high chairs. Boy Blue, who ate enough lunch to satisfy an army, is drooping in his chair to sweet dreams of airplanes or FAY-GEE as he calls them. Our house, in the flight path of the airport, is this boy’s dream. Adult conversation bounces around the table. There’s a Mac vs. PC discussion on the male side while the women are busy feeding themselves and the kids. Main course accomplished, the Driver opts to put Boy Blue to bed before cake and cards.
Bug and Bear are excused to wash and play till dessert. I am clearing dishes when Bug, coming on three, grabs me in the kitchen. I kneel to her level. “Grammy, I have a terrible belly ache.”
I suspect a ploy but reply solemnly, “Oh, do you?”
“Yes, Grammy,” she says with blue eyes wide, “but I think cake would make it go away very fast.”
“Bug, whose birthdays are we celebrating this month?”
“Mine?”
“No, yours is next month. This month it’s your mom and Aunt Jessie’s. Don’t you think we should wait for cake till she’s finished putting your cousin to bed?”
“Well, I guess so, but cake would really help my belly ache.”
Back at the table, we present the cake, a favorite of German sweet chocolate. We're poised to begin but Poppa has a new camera and he’s fiddling with settings.
Bear, beside him, pats his arm. “Poppa, can we begin? I want cake and I’m not allowed to start till you pick up your fork.”
March madness. A maelstrom of activity and noise and food and chaos. Someday we’ll all sit quietly around a beautifully set table and nothing will fall on the floor. No one will howl through grace. It will be civilized and polite and adult.
No wait. This is our family. That will never happen, even if we're all adults, and by then there may be another generation falling out of the booster chairs.
Tonight is March madness 2010. With two of the three daughters nearby, we decide to celebrate birthdays early. The table, decked with candles, is a mix of fine china and IKEA plastic reflecting the age span across decades. It’s Friday night, there’s traffic, and everyone is late getting to the house. At close to seven the four small gremlins are tired and hungry. The Dragon has Skyped in and everyone stops by the computer to chat with her before we hit the table and she heads to a volleyball game. Sticky fingers hug her through the screen.
Bug, beside me, howls loudly all through grace and then gets a stern reprimand from her father. “You don’t need to howl during grace. Get some food in you.” Almost instantly she’s engrossed in her plate and the howling ends. Ever the gourmet, she wants hollandaise on her broccoli and several refills of sparkling apple juice. Bear, the purist across the table, tucks in with equal vengeance but scorns hollandaise and sparkling juice. Jon Boy inhales carrots faster than either parent can get into his mouth until he’s finally willing to gnaw on a tough bread crust and give them a break. Food that missed small mouths piles up on the floor around the booster chairs and high chairs. Boy Blue, who ate enough lunch to satisfy an army, is drooping in his chair to sweet dreams of airplanes or FAY-GEE as he calls them. Our house, in the flight path of the airport, is this boy’s dream. Adult conversation bounces around the table. There’s a Mac vs. PC discussion on the male side while the women are busy feeding themselves and the kids. Main course accomplished, the Driver opts to put Boy Blue to bed before cake and cards.
Bug and Bear are excused to wash and play till dessert. I am clearing dishes when Bug, coming on three, grabs me in the kitchen. I kneel to her level. “Grammy, I have a terrible belly ache.”
I suspect a ploy but reply solemnly, “Oh, do you?”
“Yes, Grammy,” she says with blue eyes wide, “but I think cake would make it go away very fast.”
“Bug, whose birthdays are we celebrating this month?”
“Mine?”
“No, yours is next month. This month it’s your mom and Aunt Jessie’s. Don’t you think we should wait for cake till she’s finished putting your cousin to bed?”
“Well, I guess so, but cake would really help my belly ache.”
Back at the table, we present the cake, a favorite of German sweet chocolate. We're poised to begin but Poppa has a new camera and he’s fiddling with settings.
Bear, beside him, pats his arm. “Poppa, can we begin? I want cake and I’m not allowed to start till you pick up your fork.”
March madness. A maelstrom of activity and noise and food and chaos. Someday we’ll all sit quietly around a beautifully set table and nothing will fall on the floor. No one will howl through grace. It will be civilized and polite and adult.
No wait. This is our family. That will never happen, even if we're all adults, and by then there may be another generation falling out of the booster chairs.
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