Things
This place is filled with fascinating “things” – things to see, things to hear, things to touch and things to smell. Five times a day you hear the Muslim call to prayer descending upon the country from a variety of “high places.” On Friday night you hear the blowing of the shofar, with it’s pulsating, eerie summons to come and greet the coming of Shabbat, as a groom longingly watches his bride walking toward him. On certain moments throughout every day, a cascade of sound from ringing church bells covers the Old City of Jerusalem. Vendors hawk their wares – “10! 10! 4 for 10!” Automobile horns blare, men shout greetings to one another in a practiced Middle East male baritone – young Arab boys can already make their voices carry for a city block. Helicopters overhead, wedding fireworks at night, the doves cooing every morning – this place is filled with things to hear.
Almost everything is touchable, and therefore touched – a lot. You squeeze the fruits and vegetables, and of course, you always squeeze the bread. I try not to think how many hands have handled the bread I’m about to eat, and where these hands have been. And the smells, ah, the smells are of life. Fresh bread baking one moment and the stench of sewer ten steps down the way. After my complaining of the latter smell in the streets, a Palestinian friend said, “From time to time it is good to be reminded that your shit stinks, and that shit is a part of life too.” Okay, there is that!
But, by far and away, it is the sights that impact me the most. There is so much to see that your eyes can never take it all in. I never tire of looking at the vast variety of people walking our city streets. Walking from our apartment in East Jerusalem, through the Old City to the post office in West Jerusalem, a mere mile or so, and you see every skin color imaginable – none is not represented. You see every eye combination, every shape of nose, every style of hair, not to mention head coverings, from the Jewish man’s kippa to the Arab man’s keffiyeh, to colorful head scarf’s worn by both Arab and Jewish women, to baseball caps, to cowboy hats, safari headgear and bright bandanas.
You see fedoras, and big, round fur hats, and lids that remind me of the Chicago mob of the roaring twenties. You see beggars, both Jewish and Muslim, women and men and children too. You see soldiers and policemen standing around in full battle gear, along with large, male soldiers riding huge horses, or smaller, leaner soldiers writing slick, swift motorcycles. You see guns everywhere. You will see an Arab boy riding bareback on a small, proud Arabian horse. Boys flying kites, a man dressed like a court jester selling lemonade or orange juice, and Palestinian women from the villages in their black dresses with colorful embroidery sitting along the road selling grape leaves or mint or vegetables and fruits.
And then, of course, there is the art. This place is filled with fascinating words of art, and yes, I meant to say “words,” as these pieces were created to speak. I have two favorites: one in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem and the other in Nazareth’s Church of Saint Gabriel. Just as you go down into the grotto where tradition claims Jesus was birthed and cradled, there is this icon of Mary and Jesus - Madonna and Child. There are thousands of such art pieces of Mother and Child in this land, but this one stands out for me.
In all the others, Mary looks sad and maybe it is because she knows that “a sword will piece your heart too.” But not so on this particular piece of art. Here, Mary has the hint of a smile on her face, and she looks proud to be the mother of this special child.
In Saint Gabriel’s Church, built over the ancient spring that still feeds water into the city of Nazareth, is an icon written on the ceiling. This icon was written – icons are not painted, but written, because icons are meant to proclaim a message, not present an image – by a pair of brothers from Romania.
The father of these two sons was a parish priest in Romania at a time when being a priest in Romania was dangerous work. Every week, this man would take the bread and wine of the Eucharist – Communion, The Lord’s Supper – and he would walk up into the mountains to bring the Host (the risen Jesus) to his parishioners who could not or would not or dare not come down to the church on Sundays. He called himself "Jesus’ donkey," because he was carrying Jesus up to his people living in the mountains. The boys wrote an icon of the “Escape into Egypt.” On the right half of the icon the Roman soldiers are depicted, swords in hand, slaying the innocent children in and around Bethlehem. And on the other, there is written father and mother and child fleeing this horrible event. Eyes glancing back toward the killing fields, Father Joseph is carrying little Jesus on his shoulders. As Dad carries the precious cargo, Mom encourages, an Angel guards, and the donkey trails on behind. The Romanian sons are writing an important message in this icon. In remembering their own father, they are reminding us all that in one way or another, each of us is Jesus’ donkey. We carry Jesus into the world, onto the streets of our cities and towns, into the masses with all the messes – the sounds and smells and sights - carrying Jesus on our thin, bent shoulders.
It’s a wonderful sight, don’t you think!
Almost everything is touchable, and therefore touched – a lot. You squeeze the fruits and vegetables, and of course, you always squeeze the bread. I try not to think how many hands have handled the bread I’m about to eat, and where these hands have been. And the smells, ah, the smells are of life. Fresh bread baking one moment and the stench of sewer ten steps down the way. After my complaining of the latter smell in the streets, a Palestinian friend said, “From time to time it is good to be reminded that your shit stinks, and that shit is a part of life too.” Okay, there is that!
But, by far and away, it is the sights that impact me the most. There is so much to see that your eyes can never take it all in. I never tire of looking at the vast variety of people walking our city streets. Walking from our apartment in East Jerusalem, through the Old City to the post office in West Jerusalem, a mere mile or so, and you see every skin color imaginable – none is not represented. You see every eye combination, every shape of nose, every style of hair, not to mention head coverings, from the Jewish man’s kippa to the Arab man’s keffiyeh, to colorful head scarf’s worn by both Arab and Jewish women, to baseball caps, to cowboy hats, safari headgear and bright bandanas.
And then, of course, there is the art. This place is filled with fascinating words of art, and yes, I meant to say “words,” as these pieces were created to speak. I have two favorites: one in the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem and the other in Nazareth’s Church of Saint Gabriel. Just as you go down into the grotto where tradition claims Jesus was birthed and cradled, there is this icon of Mary and Jesus - Madonna and Child. There are thousands of such art pieces of Mother and Child in this land, but this one stands out for me.
In Saint Gabriel’s Church, built over the ancient spring that still feeds water into the city of Nazareth, is an icon written on the ceiling. This icon was written – icons are not painted, but written, because icons are meant to proclaim a message, not present an image – by a pair of brothers from Romania.
It’s a wonderful sight, don’t you think!
