Marlin & Sally in Jerusalem

Break Time

Time to catch my breath, and let you do the same. I'm going to begin next Monday with a series of blogs that address some of the "land" texts in the Hebrew Bible. So as I catch my breath, take some time to catch up on some of the Holy Week blogs. Maybe you could look over some of the articles on the left of the post, or the new pictures on the right. Or just click away and be gone. I'll not know, so I'll not be hurt.

Most of all, I want to thank you for tuning into my stories and musings. I'm honored to have you listening in.

God bless you!

BarberShop Trinity

4-5 Minute read

It’s early afternoon when we arrive back on Salaah ad-Din Street.  You remember Salaah-ad-Din Street, right?  Main artery of East Jerusalem, a hundred little shops and stores, you can get almost anything you need on Salaah ad-Din Street.  We live just off this important thoroughfare of what is Palestinian Jerusalem. 

We’re still a little fired up.  As we walk by my barbershop, I note that there is an empty chair.  Sally and Ron go on, I go in.  The place is a two-chair establishment – great old-fashioned chairs, by the way. The kind of barber chair that if given a spin will go round for hours. Reminds me of Harry’s barbershop in Boyden, Iowa where I grew up.  Great place to get your ears lowered and pick up the latest gossip.  You spend an hour in a place like this and you leave knowing you look better and you’ve contributed to solving most of the world’s hairiest problems.  You’ve also been able to re-spin any of the stories being told about you.

An old man with no teeth is the patriarch of this East Jerusalem landmark barber’s shrine.  The elderly guy owns the place.  His son is now the main barber.  The father is always smiling.  He has lively eyes.  I like him.

“Where’s your mother?”  He asks.

“Mother?”

“He means your wife,” interprets his son.  “He’s joking.”

“That’s not funny.” I say, wagging a finger at him.  “That could get you in big trouble.”

The son, who speaks wonderful English, interprets.  The father laughs, ducks his head a bit and offers, “Daughter?”

“That’ll work,” I say, pointing at him.  Laughter – manly humor.  Gotta love it!

“Clean you up?” asks the son, a man about mid-forties with a fine, black mustache.

“Do what you can,” I say.

“I’ll make you look like an Arab,” he declares.

“Like you?” I ask -- he’s a good-looking guy.

“I’ll do what I can.”  A weak promise I think, but think better of saying anything more.

“I just came from the Miracle of the Holy Fire,” I tell them.

“In the Old City?” asks the son.  Obviously they know this is happening.

“Yes,” I say.  Then I briefly describe to them what happened.

“Issa (Jesus) didn’t die,” the father tells me matter-of-factly.

“No?”  I’ve been waiting for this conversation.

“No,” says the son, “of course not.  Issa is the only prophet who did not die.  Allah took him to paradise.”

“What about the cross?” I ask.  “Jesus was crucified on the cross.  He died.  He was buried in a tomb.”

“NO!” Father and son say at once and with vehemence.  “Issa did not die on the cross.  Allah put someone else in his place.  Issa was taken into paradise,” explains the son.

“What about the resurrection?  What about Jesus being raised from the dead?”

“How could Issa be raised from the dead if he didn’t die,” the son asks with a sense of clear logic on his part.  “Do you see?”

“Well,” I say.  “That’s not my story.”

“But this is the truth,” he says, waving his hands in the air.  “Issa is a great prophet.  Do you see?”

“Well,” I say.  I guess I don’t see it like that.”

“Allah tricked the Romans and the Jews.  He deceived them.  Do you see?”

“Well, no.  My father taught me a different story.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, my father.”

“What did your father teach you?”

“Jesus died on the cross, was buried in a tomb, and three days later was raised from the dead.  Then, later, he went up into Paradise.”

“Your father taught you this?”

“Yes.”

“Okay then,” the son says with a shrug. “How you like your haircut?”

“I look good,” I say.

“Do you want some coffee?” asks the father with a smile.

“Of course.”  End of discussion.

Even filled with Holy Fire, it’s hard to convince someone else that your story is the true story.  But, filled with Holy Fire, it’s impossible for someone else to take you away from what you have been taught.

Our story is just that, ours.  The story of the life, death, resurrection and ascension of Jesus belongs to us who believe, and we belong to the story.   I think if we live out of this story, with integrity and conviction, then the Holy Fire lives out of us as well.  Holy Fire, Holy Spirit, for me it is the same, and it is this power that will do the convincing.

By the power of the Spirit, and through the Son, this is what my Father has taught me.

Holy Fire 2 Us

(3 - 5 minute read)

Many historians, archeologists, and theologians believe that the Tomb of Jesus is located in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  Okay, many don’t as well, but can we just leave that debate in the hands of historians, archeologists and theologians and try to let a miracle happen?

From 11 in the morning until 1 in the afternoon Orthodox Christians from all over the world, including Palestinian Orthodox Christian who have permits issued by the Israeli authorities – okay, let’s let go of that as well, shall we? – gather in the church and courtyard to sing in loud voices.  Drums, bagpipes – I don’t know why, but bagpipes.  “We are the Christians,” they sing, “this we have been for centuries and this we shall be for ever and ever.  Amen!”  This to remind themselves of the times in their history when they were not allowed to sing.  This to remind themselves that no matter what is happening to them in the political sphere -- no matter who is the present day occupier -- they would last because they have been, were now, and would always be the Church of Jesus Christ in Jerusalem.  Let’s hope so.  It might take a miracle to make it so.

At 1:00 PM the songs fade out and it is quiet – a tense and loaded silence – the quiet of anticipation.  Israeli officials representing Rome march into the Church and investigate the tomb to make sure there is no source of fire to be found – no tricks, no hidden fire or matches. It speaks hope to have the Israelis participate in this important ceremony.  During Turkish occupation, the Muslim Turks participated as well.  The officials “seal” the tomb with wax and slip into the shadows of the church.

At around 1:45 the Patriarch enters the scene.  Following his entourage, he processes around the Tomb three times, whereupon he is stripped of his royal liturgical vestments, wearing only his white tunic – see nothing up my sleeve.  All the lights are turned off and the Church is enveloped in darkness.  With two big candles the patriarch enters the Chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, first into the small room in front of the tomb and from there into the tomb itself.  What happens next is both miracle and mystery.

What exactly happens in there is a secret that has remained so for over 1600 years.  Skeptics claim there is a trick of some sort.  I, of course, lean in that direction.  I hate it that I do, but I must admit that I do.  The Patriarch claims that immediately after he prays, from the core of the very stone on which Jesus lay an indefinable light pours forth.  “It usually has a blue tint, but the color may change and take many different hues” (Diodorus, Patriarch of Jerusalem, 1998). The light rises out of the stone as mist may rise out of a lake.  It almost looks as if a moist cloud covers the stone, but it is light.  “The light does not burn.  I have never had my beard burnt in all the sixteen years I have been Patriarch in Jerusalem and have received the Holy Fire.”

The Patriarch comes out of the Tomb with both candles lit and shining brightly in the darkness, and the place goes absolutely crazy.  Weeping, singing, laughing, the fire is passed from one torch to another. (No fire marshal in Jerusalem obviously.)  I was told that it was so hot in the church that people felt like they were in a furnace, yet nobody was burned – a miracle in and of itself. The fire is passed out of the church and into the streets of the Old City.  It was electrifying to watch that fire being passed up the street to where we were standing.   As the fire swept by us, and that is exactly how it felt, we could feel the heat – and we were outside in an open courtyard.  Sally received the light first, and stood there beaming – yes, beaming.  I don’t remember her looking that joyful at our wedding. I expect that is because she wasn’t that joyful at our wedding.  It’s hard to be joyful when you’re scared to death.  This was a different kind of fear.  Holy Fire.  Holy Awe.  Holy Fear.  Holy Spirit?

I’m telling you something was happening here.  Maybe it was just all that smoke and fire and excitement.  I mean you can get caught up in it.  Maybe it was the symbolism, so clear and compelling.  The source of our power, our light and our life is the Resurrection of Jesus.  And here was a visual, sensual reminder of the power in that historical event.  Here also was the great commission being reenacted in dramatic fashion with the Holy Fire being passed from one person to another, up and down the streets of the Old City, and I’m told that it even managed to slip past the guards and outside the city walls as well – a wonderful foreshadowing of the resurrection event.  The fire was being held high.  The fire was being shared.  The fire was being spread from one little person to the next little person until it seemed as if the Old City was on fire – Pentecost?  Pretty powerful stuff!

The three of us took turns holding the fire.  We took pictures.  We chattered on and on about what we had just experienced and how glad we were to have lied and cheated and waited to receive the Holy Fire.

Then I finally blew out the bundle of candles and we fought our way through the crowd and out of the city.  We never stopped smiling the whole time.

I don’t know what to make of all that smoke and fire.  I don’t know what to think about how the Patriarch described the fire rising out of the rock and forming a column so that he could light his candles from it.  He might have had something up his sleeve after all, something more flammable than matches.

What I know is that the three of us liked the idea of being near where a miracle might have taken place.  I think we all want to believe in miracles, maybe even need to believe in miracles.  My guess is that the people who come back to this event year after year are people who are waiting for a miracle to happen in their own puny lives, and being close to the possibility of one gives them hope.  And hope is a miracle too, right?  In fact, if a miracle doesn’t give hope, then it’s not much of a miracle, is it?  And if something, say something like this Miracle of the Holy Fire, gives a little hope to a people who feel so hopeless, then it has miracle written all over it no matter where the fire comes from.  And who knows, maybe it came out of the rock after all.  A part of me says, who cares?  But then I live in East Jerusalem with a people under occupation, and like them, I take hope from any hand that offers it, especially if that hand holds Holy Fire.

(Continued)

Holy Fire

(1st photo is of Sally's hand holding a bundle of candles as she waits for the Holy Fire.  The second phote is of holy fire on the way.  The third photo is of Sally with the fire.)

(3 - 5 minute read -- depends how fast you read.)

Holy Saturday is the day between the big two – Good Friday and Easter.  According to Peter’s Letter, Jesus went to hell on the Saturday in question, Holy Saturday.  Jesus descended into hell to preach good news to those imprisoned in the place of death (I Peter 3:18-22).  Try to visualize that if you can.  Boggles the mind, doesn’t it?  Some find it so farfetched and without Biblical support so as to remove it from the Apostles’ Creed.  Me, I like my Jesus in hell on Holy Saturday.  I admire the fact that the Sender of fishers would himself be sent to the one place no one else would (or could) go.  Gives Jesus a lot of credibility with a guy like me.  I wonder if when Jesus got there he didn’t find the place strangely familiar, like a foreign land on the same planet – you know, different and yet still the same.

Holy Saturday is a quiet day for most Christians in most places. Not for Orthodox Palestinian Christians in Jerusalem, or for the many pilgrims that come in from Russia, Greece and other Orthodox strongholds.  For these brothers and sisters, Holy Saturday means Holy Smoke and Holy Fire.

We have a friend from the States staying with us for a few weeks.  His name is Ron Bush.  The three of us, Sally, Ron and me, didn’t go to hell on Holy Saturday of Orthodox Holy Week; we went into the Old City to experience the oldest unbroken Christian ceremony EVER.  I mean like EVER in the whole wide world EVER.  It is called “The Miracle of the Holy Fire.” Orthodox Christians have been experiencing this miracle every year in Jerusalem since the 4th Century BCE.  We’re talking old here.  Not old like we folks from the States think of old, but old as most of the rest of the world thinks of old – ancient, centuries, old old.  When folks talk about tradition here they mean something far different than what people from the States mean when we talk of tradition.  Thanksgiving Day has been turkey day for US for less than 100 years, and we think that’s old.  To these folks a hundred years is but a day, if even that long.  It’s next to nothing.

The biggest problem for the three of us, outside of our skepticism of course, was getting close to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.  The Israeli police and military had the whole city blocked off.  You could not get in unless you had a permit, and we didn’t have a permit.  I tried charm, which is a stretch for me.  Didn’t work.  I tried begging, which wasn’t working even for the real beggars who were also trying to get in.  I tried lying, showing them Ron’s passport and telling them that he was a cousin to President Bush.  They admitted that this was the best lie they’d heard thus far in the day, but still not good enough to get us in.  I told them that they were going to be responsible for losing American aid.  One nice young girl said, “We like you, but it’s not enough.  Even if Bush himself were here we wouldn’t let him in.”

I said I wished President Bush were here.  Get him fired up.  They were not amused.  So much for humor.

Finally we found a gate, Zion’s Gate, where Jewish people were getting in so they could go to the Western Wall and pray.  We joined a group of them and walked right in.  Then we bribed a Palestinian merchant to let us through the back door of his shop which put us as close as we were going to get, which was in a large square about 50 yards from the Church of the Holy Sepulchre where “The Miracle of the Holy Fire” was to take place in about 3 hours.  I was a little concerned as to whether a miracle could take place under these circumstances, but then I did what I often have to do – I reminded myself that this whole miracle thing wasn’t about me. I mean, if sin prevents a miracle from happening then there would be no miracles to speak of, right?

And Mother – everybody was doing it okay!  And don’t give me that jumping off the bridge thing.  It’s far too late for that to work on me.

We found a table and three chairs, ordered cokes and waited.  We sat there for almost 4 hours – the miracle was late in coming.  But when the miracle finally came, WOW!  It was worth the lying, cheating and waiting to experience it.

(Continued)

Knock Three Times

It’s Friday morning of Orthodox Holy Week.  A crowd has gathered in the courtyard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre located in the Old City Jerusalem. When a crowd shows up in the Christian Quarter of the Old City then you know something old is going to happen.  Our office is closed for Orthodox Easter, a crowd of Christians is gathered in the Old City, and so, Sally and I are there.

Sally parks her back against a wall near the entrance into the courtyard.  Her theory is that this crowd is going to eventually process out of the courtyard onto the Via Dolorosa, which means they will walk past her.  (Via Dolorosa traces the last steps of Jesus, from where he was tried to where he was crucified and buried.) “Birdseye view,” Sally insists.  She also surmises that with her back against a wall then she only has to defend her front from the enthusiastic surge of this energized crowd.  I have to admit that her logic is sound, so I dismiss it, and wade into the crowd, finally securing a spot in the middle where I have a good view of the courtyard and the huge wooden doors of the Holy Sepulchre. It’s every man for himself in there as you have to fight off old Palestinian women who have lived in this crowded place forever and know exactly how to throw their weight around to get where it is they want to go.  Whatever stereotypes you have of an Arab woman are constantly challenged here.

Suddenly there is a buzz of excitement and everyone stands (many had found seats).  All heads turn to the left as a large group of bearded men all dressed in crisply pressed, flowing black robes parade into the courtyard.  Backs ramrod straight, heads erect, like someone just elected to high office, they walk with a sense of importance right up to those big wooden doors which are shut up tightly.  A white-breaded older man with a small ponytail protruding from under his black headwear leads the group.  I confess I don’t know who he is, but I know that he is the main man for these folks, the Patriarch, and I admit that I wish I looked like him.

There is a hush as he stands in front of these ancient gates.  He lifts the brass knocker and BANG!  BANG!  BANG! The sound echoes around the courtyard.  Nothing happens.  He lifts the brass knocker a second time and BANG!  BANG!  BANG!  Nothing.  A third time and BANG!  BANG! BANG!  Nada.  (By the way, Sally cannot see a thing.  So much for logic!)  Next, an old ladder is brought and leaned up against those old, blond doors.  A Muslim man – yes, a Muslim man – climbs the ladder holding above his head this long, brass key-looking thing.  It IS a key and he IS the keyholder.  Because of fierce disputes over ownership of the place, the Ottomans (in 1852) placed the key into the hands of a Muslim intermediary.  His family still holds the key.  You have got to love the rich ironies in this rich place.  I do!

The key is inserted and turned, the keyholder climbs down and gets out of the way as the doors are pushed open by the Patriarch, and of course, the crowd goes wild.   The priests file in, and then in a few minutes file back out the same doors.  And yes, they file out right past Sally who now feels vindicated and empowered to argue her logic to her gloating husband.  I am not convinced.

Later in the morning, led by the priests, the crowd – carrying crosses of all sizes, some large enough to hurt, and others tiny enough to be held in the palm of your hand – retrace the Friday steps of Jesus.

“Listen! I stand at the door and knock; if anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me.” (Revelation 3:20).

I don’t know if this verse has anything to do with what just transpired in that courtyard, but it is the verse that immediately pops into my mind.  Logical, right?

I think Jesus is doing a lot of door pounding these days, trying to get someone in the church to open up and let him in.  From the emails I get from colleagues and friends involved in ministry I get the feeling that many of us are wondering who holds the key to unlocking the enormous power of the church? 

As I think about Jesus coming in to sit with us, break bread and talk with us, I can’t help wondering what Jesus will want to talk with us about.  Who sets that agenda?

This June the General Synod of my denomination, the Reformed Church in America, will sit around tables and once again talk about the issue of homosexuality.  Do we really think that if Jesus showed up at General Synod this year he’d want to talk with us about that?  Am I the only one who hears the BANG!  BANG!  BANG!  and wonders if  it is the sound of Jesus knocking on the door, or the sound of the gavel coming down on the judge’s bench?

“Marlin, are you saying that homosexuality doesn’t matter?”

No, I’m saying that it doesn’t matter THAT much.  I’m saying there are other matters that matter a lot more than sexual orientation.  I’m saying that if Jesus came to sit with us and talk with us that homosexuality would not be the first, and certainly not the most important thing, on his mind.  He’d want to talk about water for the thirsty, food for the hungry, visits to the prisoner, justice for the oppressed.  I'm saying that because the Bible is saying that.

Here’s what I’d like us to consider.  As Jesus sits there at the right hand of the Father, what are Father and Son talking about?  What is on their collective mind?  Logic tells me, it’s not sexual orientation.  And this time I’ll trust the logic.  No, this time I’ll trust the sermons of Jesus, which have little or nothing to do with the subject of sexuality, but seem to care a great deal about treatment of the poor, the needy, the oppressed and the proper use of power.

Let’s begin to talk about these matters, and see if the matter of sexuality isn’t dealt with somewhere along the way.

“It’s a matter of purity, Marlin.”

Okay, then it will get dealt with along the way.

“It’s a matter of justice, Marlin.”

Okay, then it will get dealt with along the way.

Any logic in that?

Kissing the Bleeding Feet of Jesus

(The photo is of the priest with the cross.  The cross is turned away from us when we took the picture so you can't see the image of Jesus.  Sorry.  The priest is the gentleman in the ornate robe.  The cross is wreathed with red and white flowers.)

A 4 minute read.

Holy Icons are not the norm for Calvinists, and Calvinists don’t do well with things that are not the norm for them.  Kissing Holy Relics is not standard fare for Calvinists either.  Calvinists are hesitant to give a holy kiss to living, breathing brothers and sisters in Christ, so kissing an inanimate object is well outside our comfort zone.

So imagine two Calvinists in a service where everyone else is kissing the feet of Jesus.  Not a pretty picture is it?

It’s Thursday of Holy Week for our Eastern Orthodox brothers and sisters, which is one week later than our Holy Week.  It’s around 6:00 in the evening and my American friend and I are in a church full of Palestinian Christians.  It is a service of reading and candles being held in Saint Jacob’s Chapel located just off the entrance into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is arguably Christendom’s holiest site.  The Church of the Holy Sepulchre is built around what is believed to be the site of Jesus’ Crucifixion, burial and Resurrection.  It might be the place.  No one knows for sure, but actually, the evidence is pretty strong that this site is the one.  Calvinists, like my friend and me, really don’t care if this is the place or not.  It bothers me some that we don’t, but the fact is we don’t.  Others are visibly moved to be here in what very well might be the spot of Jesus Crucifixion, burial and Resurrection.  But my friend and I are not – moved, that is.  What does it take to move a Calvinist?

The Chapel is ornate, with pictures and lights and candles everywhere.  And I do mean everywhere.  There is not a single space on a single wall that does not have something about Jesus depicted in some form of art.  It is as if it would be a waste not to use every available space in this place to remind you of Jesus.  It’s actually pretty cool once you get beyond the initial assault on the senses.

The service is about 3 ½ hours long and all in Arabic.  It’s difficult for two Calvinists to just sit and experience the possible presence of God without being able to understand anything of what is being read or sung or said.  If I didn’t learn anything, or if it is not relevant in my sense of relevance then “I didn’t get anything out of it.”  Is there anything worse than not “getting something out of a worship service?”  Not for Calvinists there isn’t!

Then it happened.  The priest finished the fifth reading and the cantors began to chant.  The priest went around back and came out with a cross fully loaded with Christ being crucified.  He carried it around the entire Chapel and then right smack dab in the middle of the place he walked three times around in a circle.  All the while the place is rocking.  People crying, singing, coming up to stop the whole procession with a kiss on Jesus’ bleeding feet.  Then the priest lifted that cross and pounded it down on the tile floor with a resounding bang, bang, bang.  He did it again, and then once more.  It was the sound of the pounding of the nails, and it was chilling, and it even moved a couple of Calvinists who now knew exactly what was going on.

After the third pounding of wooden cross on tile floor, the priest planted the cross there in the middle of the chapel and everyone in the place filed by to kiss the bleeding feet of Jesus.  Everyone that is except my Calvinist friend and me who stood there with our hands in our pockets and awkward little grins on our faces.

And I think that’s okay.  We were moved by what we had experienced and we were glad that we hadn’t given up on the worship service.  Different strokes for different folks is one of the strengths of Christianity, I think, as well as our Achilles Heel.  It seems to me that the key to whether variety is a strength or fatal flaw lies in our collective ability to stay focused on the centrality of the Cross and Empty Tomb, which is to say, I think, centered on Jesus.

Palestinians Christians have a visceral connection to the suffering of Jesus.  They feel Jesus’ pain.  They connect with Jesus’ feeling of abandonment and betrayal.  They don’t have to understand it, dissect it the way we Calvinists do; they feel it deeply inside.  The Resurrection of Jesus is then the hope that new life will spring out of the death that these brothers and sisters are dying here in the Holy Land.

So they kiss the bleeding feet of Jesus while I stand by and watch.

I confess that I felt a twinge of envy wondering what its like to feel a faith like that.

The good news is that I got a lot out of that service.  Thank God!  Now I feel better.

Yad Vashem

(The 1st photo is of the sign at the entrance of Yad Vashem. The second photo is of an archway outside of Yad Vashem.  It quotes a portion of Ezekiel 37:14: “I will put my breath into you and you shall live again, and I will set you upon your own soil …”)

(A 5 – 6 minute read.  Read it once and you will take the time to read it again.) 

“Hand and Name.”  YAD VASHEM.

“Monument and Name.”  YAD VASHEM.

“I will give, in my house and within my walls,
        a monument and a name (YAD VASHEM)
        better than sons and daughters;
    I will give them an everlasting name
        that shall not be cut off” (Isaiah 56:5).

Yad Vashem is located on a hill overlooking a beautiful valley outside Jerusalem.  From East Jerusalem to Yad Vashem is a two-hour walk. It is a Sunday afternoon and it’s raining – “spitting out” is my mother’s expression for this kind of day.  Sally and I have been to worship and now we are on our way to visit this haunting place, Yad Vashem.  At the toughest point in the walk it is a mile and ½ up hill – and it’s raining, and the wind is in our face.  We wonder aloud why we are doing this.

We arrive around one in the afternoon and have lunch, a potpourri of salads and bread – delicious.  Then we check our backpacks in the place reserved for that purpose and go into the memorial itself, a long tubular-like cement building into which you descend, like descending into hell.  Sally and I enter along with a throng of two or three hundred young men and women – soldiers, new trainees we discover by asking.  They are dressed in the green uniforms of the Israeli military.  They are unarmed.

And that’s as far as I will go with you.  If you want to know more about Yad Vashem you will have to find some other source, or better yet, you will have to come and experience Yad Vashem for yourself.  For me to try and describe what Sally and I see and hear over the next several hours feels to me like an intrusion on a sacred place, the despoiling of a holy memory.  I won’t do it.  Can’t do it, is more like it.  Can’t bring myself to do it, to be most exact.  Can’t find the words.

Yad Vashem is the world’s largest place of holocaust remembrance.  Hand and Name.  Monument and Name.  YAD VASHEM.  Yad can mean either “hand” or “monument.”  Here I think it might carry both meanings, but I have yet to learn the part “hand” has to play.  Someone will inform me and I’ll pass it on to you.  Shem is “name,” and Va is the conjunctive “and.”  In Hebrew, Yad Vashem means “Hand (or Monument) and Name.”  The phrase comes out of the Isaiah passage I quoted above.  Please go back and read it again.  The place is devoted to remembering the names of those who were murdered by the Nazis and their collaborators.

Sally and I, along with the soldiers, spend 3 or 4 hours just walking through the memorial/museum (I don’t know what to call it for sure).  This is all we can handle for today.  We’ll go back again – maybe with you!

We found our way out -- no easy task -- collected our backpacks, and began the two-hour walk back to our apartment in East Jerusalem.  The sun was shining.  Thankfully, the path is mostly downhill, and now the wind is at our backs.  Heads bowed, brows furrowed, now carrying our jackets, an old married couple comfortable with silent company; we trudged back to our home.

I was thinking about guilt, maybe because I was feeling guilty.  Even though I wasn’t born until after the holocaust happened, even though my father was at the liberation of Dachau -- one of the death camps -- and even though I’m not German, I felt guilty.  You can’t walk out of that place and not feel guilt over what was done to the Jewish people.

I was thinking about anger, maybe because I was feeling angry.  And I can tell you that those young soldiers were feeling anger as well.  I could see it on their faces.  These young men and women were looking at pictures of their grandfathers and grandmothers, uncles and aunts, and they were angry.  Their anger is not some flash on and then off kind of anger, but the deeply seeded variety, a part of their being, a fire in the belly rage.

And I was thinking of the Palestinian people.  Unless I’m missing something they had nothing to do with the Jewish Holocaust, yet they are the ones who are most affected by the guilt and the anger.  Can you see that? It is the Palestinian people who are most negatively affected by the guilt Europe and the United States carry over the Holocaust.  It is the Palestinian people who bear the brunt of the rage smoldering in these young soldiers. 

Jewish people need a homeland, a place of refuge.  I do not dispute that, not for a minute.  Walking through Yad Vashem serves as reinforcement of that strong conviction.  The Jewish people need a State.  The Jewish people have a State.  That’s good, very good.

The Palestinian people need a homeland as well, a place of refuge.  The Arab States have already taken in millions of Palestinian refugees and should not be asked or expected to take in any more.  The fact is this land is home to the Palestinians.  This is their homeland too.  You can argue about who was here first, but it is a little like the chicken and the egg, the argument is an exercise in futility because it is an argument no one can win, and even if someone finally did win that argument the winning wouldn't resolve anything that matters to either side in the argument.   

The fact is most Israelis immigrated to this land, or are second, maybe third generation immigrants.  I have no problem with that, by the way, as I am a third generation citizen of the States.  However, all Palestinians were born here, and can trace their family line back over centuries.  Maybe that doesn't matter as much as the Palestinians would like it to matter, but it is a matter of record and it is a matter we often neglect to remember.

Go ahead and feel guilty over the Jewish Holocaust. There is a sense where we are all to blame.  It was painful to see the role the church played in the holocaust.  It was painful to note that when Jews were looking to escape the Nazis, and then later, when refugees from the death camps were looking for a place to settle, the United States would not take them in.  Go ahead and feel anger over what happened to the Jewish people.  It was an outrage, a disgrace.

But please remember, two wrongs do not make a right!  The Palestinian people ought not be the ones to atone for the atrocities done primarily to the Jews of Europe.  There has to be a both/and solution.  History will judge how well we did in trying to find one.

One final note and then I'll shut up for now.  It took US a long time to get on the right side of that 2nd World War.  History has judged us for waiting, because we now know that our leaders knew what was happening to the Jewish people.  The right side in the conflict between Israel and Palestine is to be on the side of fairness and justice.  Again, history will judge us for waiting.

"... a frickin' wall"

(The first photo is of the Western Wall, a sacred place of prayer and worship for Jewish people.  The second is a sign posted outside one of the sites believed to be the burial place of Jesus.  I thought you would appreciate the irony.  Obviously God opens tombs at his convenience and not on posted hours.  Fun, huh?)

(A 4-5 minute read.)

A few weeks ago, in Jerusalem, a journalist heard about a wise old Jewish man who had been going to the Western Wall to pray, twice a day, everyday, for a long, long time.  So She went to check it out.  She went to the Western Wall and there he was!  She watched him pray and after about 45 minutes, when he turned to leave, she approached him for an interview.

“I’m Rebecca Smith from DNN.  Sir, how long have you been coming to the Wall and praying?”

“For about 60 years.”

“60 years!  That’s amazing!  What do you pray for?”

“I pray for peace between the Christians, Jews and the Muslims.  I pray for all the hatred to stop and I pray for all our children to grow up in safety and friendship.”

“Amazing.  Sir, how do you feel after doing this for 60 years?”

“Like I’m talking to a frickin’ wall.”

I love that story, and for all the RIGHT reasons. 

This story is so Jewish, and as I told you before, I love things Jewish.  What I love most about things Jewish is that things Jewish are first and foremost about faith, especially about faith in the face of facts and feelings.  This old man prays because he BELIEVES God is listening.  What he feels or figures to be fact is secondary to what his faith tradition tells him is so.  What Judaism at its best tells him is so is that God is on his heavenly throne and that God is listening to the prayers of his people.  So that old Jew comes to this ancient wall every single day, twice a day, and prays for peace with justice.  He prays that a day will come when Palestinian and Jewish children will be friends again.

Please pray for your Palestinian brothers and sisters in Christ.  Please remind your pastor to pray during worship for this persecuted people.  They desperately need our prayers.

Yesterday, the day after the suicide bombing in Tel Aviv, a Palestinian Christian friend said: “We are so powerless.  The Israelis are going to do what they always do.  The fanatics are going to respond in the same way as they always do.  And we’ll be the ones to pay the price for it all.  We’re always the ones who pay.”  He was so sad.  This morning Sally and I sat with our Palestinian Christian friends and listened to the stories of what is already happening to them in response to the killings in Tel Aviv.

Palestinian Christians feel abandoned.  Because, for the most part, they have been forgotten.  These living stones need our help.  It helps that Sally and I are here to encourage them, to let them know by our physical presence that there are Christians in the United States that care about them, care enough to leave their home and family and come live among them.  Thank you again for supporting us being here.  My dear mother asked me last night if I was getting to do any “missionary work.”   I assured her, and I assure you as well, that “missionary work” is all we do.  “Missionary work” is our life.  Our physical presence in this tough place is our work, just as your physical presence in the tough places where you live is your missionary work.

So, like that old Jew, pray.  Regardless of how hopeless you feel the situation is here – pray.  Pray because our faith tradition tells us that God is listening.  “Ask,” Jesus said, “and keep on asking, and keep on knocking, and keep on seeking until you get an answer.”  Jesus taught us that God will listen, and that God will answer – and that even in the face of facts that say otherwise, God will act.  In fact, God is acting.  This is what we believe to be so.

Praying is something we can all do – must do.  Tomorrow we’ll begin to think about what else we can do to support our Palestinian Christian brothers and sisters.

Please pray.

So Little Hope

(A 4 minute read)
There is so little hope among Palestinians these days, both Christian and Muslim.  It’s tragic really.  Early Sunday morning, standing on the Mount of Olives overlooking the gorgeous vista to the east, a Bethlehem University professor swept his hand across the horizon and said, “In 50 years this will all be Israel.  There will be no Palestine, and there will be no Palestinian Christian community either. We’ll all be gone.” If he is right, and of course, I have no way of knowing if he is or not, but if he is right, then that means that in a half century’s time the chain that began on the day of Pentecost and stayed connected for all these 2000 + years will be broken.

“You’re exaggerating Marlin.”

I wish I were.

The Christian Right, Falwell, Robertson, Bauer and the boys, believe that a restored Israel will hasten the return of Jesus.  I don’t know what happened to Mark 13 in their Bibles.  You know, the part where Jesus says, “Even I don’t know …” Seriously, what’s up with that?  And how come in this modern enlightened age people still follow those who claim to have inside insight into the Second Coming of Christ?  I mean really, how come anybody is taking these guys seriously?

Maybe these Christian Zionists are right and an Israel restored within Biblical borders will bring the Messiah.  If the Messiah is Jesus, as we Christians believe, then don’t you wonder how Jesus is going to feel about coming back to the birthplace of the church and finding there is no church here, no living stones crying out “Jesus has risen?”  I just don’t get it.

What I do get is that the hope of the world is in the resurrection of Jesus.  If Jesus has been raised, then …

Then what?  Then all bets are off, and there is a strong possibility that the last will be first and the first will be last.  Then there is a good chance that the winners will taste the bitterness of losing, and the losers will finally get to have champagne poured over their bowed heads.

What you and I can do is not lose hope, not even the little bit of hope we have left.  And we can fight the urge to choose sides, as if God is not big enough to be on all sides at the same time.  But then, of course, a 21-year-old Palestinian man blows himself up in a Falafel Sandwich shop in Tel Aviv killing at least 9 others and wounding scores more, and not taking sides becomes almost impossible, doesn’t it?

  Who can understand, let alone explain this kind of senseless act?  Not I!

As I sat on the Mount of Olives at 5:30 Easter Sunday morning, I prayed that one day I could return here with my grandchildren and show them the wonders of this wonderful place.  And I prayed that the place I came back to would be a place that had a place for both Palestinians and Israelis, a place that could be the spiritual home of all three monotheistic religions, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam.  I prayed that I would return to a land where all three of these powerful forces would be working together to bring peace in the world.  I prayed that the church of Jesus would lead the way in this striving for peace with justice.  After yesterday’s bombing, who else will lead?  Who else can?

Yesterday’s suicide bombing was retaliation for a series of assassinations carried out by the Israeli military, including the deaths of 3 children, and the wounding of dozens of innocent bystanders.  These killings by Israel are without due process, and perpetrated in spite of the fact that the Bush administration has asked Israel to stop carrying them out.  Israel has already declared, in the strongest possible language, that they will respond to the deaths in Tel Aviv with appropriate action, which means more killing.  Hamas, the newly established Palestinian government, has refused to condemn the murders, which means more killing.

As I think about all of this, I wonder if I’ll even want to return here someday with my grandchildren in tow.

And last night as I watched the news from around the world I wondered if Jesus isn’t wondering the same thing.

“Peace be with you.”  Come Lord Jesus.

NEW DAY!

(Happy Easter from the Mount of Olives.  Photo taken this morning -- 4.16.06.  Easter Sunrise Service.)

Arise my Love!

Father?

Arise my Love!

Father?

Arise my Love!

Father?

ARISE!

Arise my Church!

Father?

Arise my Church!

Father?

Arise my Church!

Father?

ARISE!