Jesus' Home

Mount Tabor (transfiguration)

Mount Tabor Valley - ripened fields

Oh Galilee!  Jesus wept over Jerusalem, where I live, but you made me weep as I walked among your long, lush fields of grain, viewed the mountains where He wandered and preached, waded in the water of your sea and ate the fish from it – just like He cooked on those beaches. I gave my own confession to Him where Peter cried “You know I love You!” And where He was transfigured, I glimpsed His glory still illuminated – tears rolling down my cheeks as I knelt on a wooden prayer bench.

In Galilee I sat in the bow of a "Jesus boat", just large enough for a Master and twelve disciples and a great catch of fish. On it I laughed and talked with friends, and we gazed over the smooth surface of the waveless sea. It hadn’t always been that way; sometimes storms lashed and crashed; sometimes the disciples were terrified, especially when a ghostly figure came walking across the water towards them there!! Did He know they’d be scared? He didn’t laugh unkindly, even when Peter attempted to walk on the water too.  I watched a sailor actor throw a net over one side of the bow and then the other.  Needless to say, he caught nothing!

"St. Peter's fish!" Complete with coin!

By an open window in a simple beachside restaurant we ate delicious, white “Peter’s fish”, served on large, shiny plates, head and tail included! Oliver's had a 10 agorot coin in its mouth!!! Good thing he didn't need it to pay taxes – it wouldn’t go far! (There are 100 agorot in a shekel and 4 shekels in a dollar! So his fish had about 4 cents in it! … Still, it was an amazing feast!)

All over Israel you see a mosaic picture of two fish flanking a basket holding four loaves of bread, but only when you get to Galilee do you see the original. It comes from a 4^th century church floor, celebrating Jesus feeding over 5000 people. The observant ask “Why only four loaves, when the Bible mentions five?” The answer given is: Jesus Himself is the final bread of life, broken and multiplied for all who are hungry.   Icons are like that - drawing you further into the story without telling it directly. Elliot and Oliver glimpsed the mosaic and then fed and petted the living fish swimming in the sparkling, sunny courtyard!

Mount Carmel altar

Warning: no fires, please!

 I hadn't known that Mount Carmel was in Galilee! This was Elijah’s domain, and there was a large, rocky altar in the church, built with 12 huge stones and a flat rock top, big enough for an oxen sacrifice! The sign on the fence says “No fires!” and with good reason! I haven’t seen that sign anywhere else in our travels, but certainly this would be the spot for it, given Mt. Carmel’s history of God’s blaze coming down from heaven.  You wouldn’t want some pyromaniac trying the same thing!! (In the church of transfiguration the small statue of Elijah shows him looking up and whistling while he waits!! - May we all be as confident in God's answers to prayer!)

Are these New Beatitudes or just rules?

(I was afraid one meant “no lipstick” ...

but think it’s just “no talking!!” Phew!)

The mountain of Beatitudes: long, low, sloping, down to the sea, is beautifully planted with gardens that are truly pure in spirit, radiant yet meek.  They are immaculate, kept so by smiling, faithful sweepers. I loved how clean it was, because after all, this was where Jesus fed those five thousand – and had the disciples pick up the litter! (As we drove past other picnic spots I wished everyone followed His environmentally friendly example!)

 Capernaum was the heart of where Jesus did much of His central teaching, and many miracles. Here the paralyzed man walked; the withered arm stretched out; here Jesus healed the centurion's servant, long-distance; here He raised the nobleman's son from the dead; unclean spirits were first cast out here, and here He also healed Peter's mother-in-law. (As a result there's a large church soaring over Peter's still-visible house, and a few good mother-in-law jokes!) It was also in Capernaum that Peter said, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. You are the Christ of God."

Water spring is within this church

Nazareth was Jesus' home town. Hidden in Nazareth is a spring of water that has never run dry in this dry land. It's down below the Orthodox church of annunciation, deep at bedrock, in the place where Mary first heard the angel's call to offer her life as Life-bearer. It’s as secret, serene and sure as Mary's faith, twinkling into eternity like water made into wine (oh yes, we went to Cana too!) There by the deep spring we pictured Mary’s Son drinking as a boy and young man, learning hidden truths about unending, Living Water; and our own thirsty souls were satisfied.

A highlight for me was the small, spare church of Peter's confession, right on the shores of Galilee. We waded there, as he did when, after the resurrection he saw the Lord and dashed to shore. Simple and sturdy, with rough, vibrant stained glass, the church is so fitting for a transformed fisherman. The altar floor is original, unpolished limestone. Outside are open air chapels, where we had communion and learned that charcoal is mentioned only two times in the NT, and both are connected with Peter: first in the courtyard when he denied knowing Christ, and then on the beach when he told Jesus that he loved Him. (Into my mind comes the OT image of Isaiah 6, his realization of sin, and the burning, cleansing coal from the altar that touches his lips. The revelation of our darkness and transformation into light always involves a burning.)

Original Nazareth Street

Peter was there for Christ’s transfiguration, where now a big church soars, wondrously bridging earth and heaven. The high mosaic of Jesus shows Him looking still further up, to His final home. Ghada, our guide, stood in this church, under a low acoustic arch, and sang us a haunting farewell song. That was the day we would leave Nazareth, her home village, and Jesus’ village too.

It’s true: every sacred spot here has a church on it, but each is unique, rich and varied. At first I thought all this “building” would be invasive, as inappropriate as building tabernacles to try and contain God’s glory. I thought that  maybe it would be better just to have the grassy “Jesus spots” of my imagination - but in fact the churches have preserved the areas for the ages, and each one is appropriately designed for the occasion it celebrates, whether large, small, ornate or simple.

Beneath an aqueduct

When Jesus was in Jerusalem His tears were from sorrow that they had missed Him. So were mine, in Galilee. I missed Him, but He was everywhere.  In the sweetness of the air, the blue of the sky. In the art and architecture. In the friends and prayers. In Scripture read and bread broken. In two boys' wide open eyes.  In a mystic's heartbeat. In laughter and songs by evening guitar. In reeds by the waterside. I felt His fragrance brush me in the other-worldly scent of orange blossoms, white and pure and tiny. (There’s a matching tree just outside our front door, I’ve discovered since returning, and so the scent lingers even here – I’m so glad!)

Oh Galilee. I will never forget you. I will always be grateful for your influence in shaping Jesus, the Son of Man. I will always be grateful for the Son of God in shaping you first: sweet, strong, wild and true. The early disciples asked, “Master, where do you live?” Jesus replied, “Come and see!”  I have seen now, and it makes me a truer disciple.

 

Easter weekend!

Like a rose, trampled

Our walk to church goes past an open garbage skip which is permanently placed on the street. This is where the locals toss their rubbish and it’s collected weekly, more or less. On Maundy Thursday a red, red rose had been thrown there carelessly, its petals scattered like blood drops all over the rough, grey pavement.  I was on my way to sing in the choir, but a new song filled my mind: “Like a rose, trampled on the ground, You took the Fall, and thought of me above all.” And so Easter weekend began.

In church, the Bishop washed feet, pouring ice-cold water over them into a lovely, local, hand-painted basin as he knelt. He dried them with a white towel. Little kids grinned and wiggled their toes. Adults tried not to shiver! The choir sang, “God is love, and where true love is, God Himself is there.”  It seemed He was! The bread was broken and cup raised, as Jesus had done at His last supper: “My body, broken for you. My blood of the new covenant. Remember Me.” We ate and drank and sat in light. But it would not last long.

Jesus' grave in Holy Sepulchre Church

The altar was stripped, simply and without ceremony. Glorious, ornate cloths, as well as practical linen coverings were removed and folded up by priests and strong women. The room darkened.  Bishop and priests left in white, and returned in simple black robes. Only two candles remained lit, standing before the cross on the wall, where they’d shine through the dark night. I had a fleeting feeling of the night when my beloved mother was dying.

We prayed, and left in silence.  We were going to Gethsemane, where Jesus had taken His disciples directly after their meal in the Upper Room. (I’ve been to the church of the Upper Room. It’s small, dim, made more intimate by several pillars that break up the sacred space. It’s a place where people draw close to shut out the darkness. I could imagine them there on that silent night, so unlike the one we sing of at Christmas. This night no angels broke through.)

The walk to Gethsemane, at the foot of the Mount of Olives, takes about 30 minutes from Jerusalem. We’d so recently walked that road, waving palm branches, singing. Now it was night. The world carried on around us, dashing by, shopping on, blaring music, eating, drinking, hanging out. We did our best to stay together. Pastor Hosam in front carried a large wooden cross, symbolizing pilgrimage rather than journey or casual stroll. (Like the pathway of every Christian's life, I suppose.) One car pulled over to the side of the road at the sight of the cross, as cars used to do when a funeral passed. 

After a while Pastor Hosam asked, “Who else can carry the cross?” He gave it to Elliot, who put it on his shoulder. The one with the cross becomes the leader. As in all of life, authority and burden go together. Yet even as leader, Christ's call to love, His mandate (Maundy), remains – pace yourself for those coming after you. Elliot did so, silently bearing the wooden cross, as we followed him to Gethsemane.

Near the foot of the mount Elliot looked for someone to pass it on to. Oliver was beside him. Oliver took the cross, and carried it up the hill, into the Garden. How good it is, when you have a burden to bear, to have someone near, whom you trust, to take it from you.

Jesus had none of that.  Jesus in the Garden knelt and prayed alone. His disciples, whom He asked to share the burden, fell asleep.

At the entrance to the Garden of Gethsemane were soldiers. Not play-acting people helping us in our pilgrimage, but real Israeli soldiers, with guns, making sure nothing got out of hand. The ancient story continues here in the Holy Land.

Jerusalem at night, from Gethsemane

We stood, a small group in darkness, among the olive groves. Across the way sirens blared incessantly as traffic streamed by. Police were on high alert. Anything could happen on a night like this. The Dome of the Rock glowed huge. We were alone. With the cross. 

Pastor Hosam prayed, and my heart lifted as his first thought was for those who share the land with him, a Palestinian. “Lord, when little Jewish children ask, ‘Why is this day different?’ may they know it’s because a greater Passover has come to them.” After a hymn and reflections, during which time we could imagine Judas coming, the kiss in darkness, the betrayal; we left. The soldiers at the gate had moved on. Nothing more would happen there.

We walked 45 minutes, around the eastern city wall, and arrived at Caiaphus’ house. He had been high priest in the time of Christ. Here was the place where Peter, aroused from sleep in the Garden, went on to deny Christ in the courtyard. We sat where Peter sat, feeling how often we have done the same. 

Prison where Christ was held

Inside the house (now a church), are dungeons. Several levels of dungeons. We went right down to the lowest one, where Jesus was kept on that night after Caiaphus gave Him an illegal trial (outside of “business hours”. You don’t legally hold trials in the dark. But they did, and had to keep Him somewhere till the next day.) Our family stood in the lowest dungeon, small, hollowed out roughly, with only a round skylight that opened it up to the air above. 

Wall relief depicting that night

A Japanese minister and two followers entered.  Without hesitation he stood and read Scripture aloud. They sang a lovely Japanese hymn. Then, in English, he invited us to join together in the Lord’s Prayer. And so the world united in Christ. In a dungeon, hope shone out.  “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done” - even as Good Friday approached. 

Red poppies gleamed amid pure white daisies at the roadside as we walked to church on Good Friday morning. Inside, there was no music. All was quiet. Blood red carnations lay on the cold marble floor at the foot of the altar. The service began. 

“Elai, Elai, Lamech Sabbach thani!” That was familiar, though this time it was in Arabic. Then the voice went on, “Faqala yasu': ya abatah ighfir lahum liannahum la ya'lamun madha yaf'alun." (Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do.)

As the Gospel was read on this Good Friday in Jerusalem, it sunk deeply into my spirit that my Lord is not an Englishman! The culture, context, and content of His Words spring from the soil of this land where my feet are planted for a season. (How blessed I am!)

Pastor Hosam approached the altar from the back of the church, carrying a cross stained scarlet. “Behold the wood of the Cross whereon was hung the Saviour of the world” he cried, as he carried it to the front and stood it there. We sang, “O sacred head now wounded,” blending Arabic and English words as a congregation. Lying below the cross, the red carnations gleamed with the wounds of Christ, as in silence we prayed.

On Saturday night came “The Great Vigil of Easter”. In the church courtyard a tiny bonfire burned. The flame was hardly visible, but it was enough to light the Paschal candle, tall and white, into which the bishop thrust five wooden pegs in cross formation – for the five wounds of Christ. From the large candle we lit our small ones, and entered the silent church together. "The light of Christ!" called Pastor Hosam, and as we entered, the church glowed.

In semi-darkness, lit only by our small flickering flames of faith, we heard the story of Creation – how God made light shine, created birds and fish, plants and animals, and human beings. We heard the story of the new Creation – how God made light shine through His Son, and in Him was life. 

Suddenly the season took a turn. In Him was life! The call came to renew our baptismal vows. We walked to the baptistry. Kids peered into the water, nudging each other. “Do you believe in God the Father?” we were asked. “I believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth.” And so, through questions and answers, we reaffirmed our faith, proclaiming it loudly into that night of vigil, saying we believed in Jesus Christ who suffered, was crucified, died, buried, descended to the dead, and rose again! As we finished, the church bells rang.

And the lights came on!  In the light we could see bouquets of flowers, beautiful and glowing in midnight glory, as Easter morning arrived. “He is risen” the pastor cried. “Hallelujah” we responded, and shared His peace with each other. We’d made it through another season of darkness into His eternal light.

“Christ the Lord is risen today” we sang, as we returned to our seats. Pastor Hosam walked backwards down the central aisle, carrying a bowl of baptismal water. The Bishop, walking forwards, dipped in a cluster of rosemary herbs and flung joyful sprays of water over us in every row. We are renewed, restored, resurrected through Christ’s life!

The organist got excited and before the bishop could bless us in his usual solemn way, she burst into the Hallelujah chorus – and so the great vigil concluded with laughter and applause, and ordinary happy human chaos, just as it should. 

Pastor Hosam & daughter

On the way home we met others who talked about the wonderful Latin and French services they’d attended, the amazing 8-foot bonfires, the incredible music from around the world. Our service was ordinary, even faulty, by comparison, but we had chosen, in this season of death and resurrection, to give up being tourists for a while, and simply join in our local church. Here Pastor Hosam’s generous, humble spirit shone, causing Paul to exclaim, “He’s beautiful! I love him!” And at the happy Easter reception following the service, Pastor Hosam said to Paul, “Your family is beautiful!  I love you!”  Christ’s loving mandate was alive and well in the local church. 

At dinner time the Tantur chef, a Muslim, insisted on cooking a whole roast lamb for the community, legs and all, which he presented to us with great joy and pride. Delicious! Later on, the young college students here invited Elliot and Oliver to join in their massive Easter egg hunt! 183 packages of eggs! And  the roses that border our patio burst into golden bloom. He is risen indeed! Hallelujah!

Easter egg hunt

Easter Sunday roses!

Three days later!

Palm Sunday Procession!

The Jerusalem cross fluttered behind a wall topped with barbed wire. This was the Christ I’d come to know, here in Jerusalem: marginalized, beaten, maligned, sidelined; caged in behind walls of other religions, boxed into churches. Christ competing for space. So as Palm Sunday approached, I’d been apprehensive. The overt walk down the Mount of Olives into Jerusalem seemed like some clownish parade. The sadness of believers, the smallness of Christian life here, is overwhelming. I didn’t want to take part in some spectacle, to add to the ridicule.

But as soon as I stepped behind those barbed wire walls, as soon as I saw palm-lined arches and heard lilting “Pentecostal Palestinian” music, as I floated under dancing flags and fluttering pennants, and glided into the church where “Hosanna Rex Israel” was inscribed around the windows, as I saw Mother Teresa’s sisters (and mine) from Calcutta, then I came alive! Jesus had really been here! Right here in Mary and Martha's home town of Bethany on the Mount of Olives, soon after raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus had laughed and shouted and encouraged the screaming crowds who spontaneously made a red carpet for Him from their cloaks! Jesus had told the righteous leaders to get lost, saying that if these people didn’t yell hosanna, the stones would, for heaven’s sake!! 

I saw the altar painting of Jesus riding the donkey amid throngs of people; then I walked outside and joined them - crowds of all ages, nationalities, ways of life, under smiling skies – and my eyes flooded with tears! This was real! I wasn’t joining in a parade; this was a pilgrimage! What a difference there is between those two words.  I was following His footsteps.

And so I did, with ten thousand others, down the winding road of the Mount of Olives, waving hundreds of palm branches, singing in Latin or Arabic or German or any other language of the world. Babies and grandmas, friends and strangers, young monks with guitars, older, limping men; giggling girls with curly hair and shining black eyes, trying to squeeze through to the front; bands blaring, tambourines beating, palms swaying, hands clapping, some people doing a circle dance all the way down the long, long road.  We paused where Jesus wept over the city, beside a tiny church shaped like a teardrop, designed by a famous Italian architect. Ahead of us were the gates, the Beautiful Gates, where the Messiah was prophesied to enter – they’ve been bricked up for centuries. (No longer needed, I say!) We moved on. 

You had the “Jesus on a donkey” guy, whose photo you could take for a dollar (I missed him, thankfully – he looked like a waxwork figure, I heard); you had the Filipino group with t-shirts specially made for the day – very nice too. You had the Mormons, shiny, young and American with a bit of Jerusalem syndrome hovering over them. You had the Koreans, well organized and fervent but glowing as they belted out “Because He Lives” in their language. Paul and a happy Nigerian danced side by side to the Koreans' singing, and shook hands at the end! Brothers from Africa. We processed on. I heard Oliver’s newly-deep voice beside mine, singing “I am the Lord of the Dance, said he”. “A catchy tune!” said Oliver.

Elliot, at 15, felt held back, restricted, overcome by the crowd. He was one of those who slipped down the edges, making his way to the front. It would take time to get there. The entire hillside was one enormous, long procession, engulfing the road. I was nervous, I must confess. It was a big crowd and I hoped he wasn’t feeling lost. But just like Jesus at about that age, Elliot needed to get lost in the crowd, needed to lose his parents for a bit, so that he could find himself.  When I reached the gate to the city, there he was, relaxed, with shining eyes, smiling at me. “I wasn’t worried!” he said.

We entered the gates with thanksgiving. Long-suffering priests marshaled us to the sides of the garden so that the procession could continue on and on and on, as it flowed through the archway of St. Anne’s church, into sanctuary. This was the church of Mary’s mother – Jesus’ grandmother - where the final prayers were to be offered. As we passed “the birthplace of the Virgin Mary” I thought about how Mary would have felt on that day. Every Mom likes some control, but hers was quite, quite gone. Her Son was much more than hers now. What did “Hosanna” mean to Mary?  How fitting that this procession should end at Mary’s mother, Anna’s, domain.  That’s where you’d go on such a day if you were Mary.

We stood in that archway, clapping and cheering to more “Pentecostal Palestinian” music. Pilgrim groups came through, belting out their own songs, but as they passed under the arch they hesitated, then caught the new melody, and with great big grins, joined in the new song. (I thought how much like heaven that will be; you arrive with your own words and worship but soon hear the different tune, catch on, and join in that more beautiful, united one!) Hosanna!!

And then it happened. The thing that makes a liturgy into an epiphany.  I saw Jesus! As the vibrant young woman beside me cheered and ululated with the high-pitched trill of the land, I watched pilgrims respond with joy at her welcome, and there He was. I knew in that moment: these people are Jesus! After all, He said to His followers, “You are my body. You are my hands and feet. You are my heart.” And there we were, cheering as Jesus Himself entered Jerusalem!

Last came the church patriarch, who in pictures looks stern and tired. Today he was radiant, smiling, waving as if to friends, his traditional deep red clothing trimmed with white lace and a fuchsia pink overlay, complete with perky hat rosette!  We just glimpsed him, and then he was swallowed up by the crowds on his way into the church. Jesus had entered Jerusalem and was coming to pray at Anna’s house before heading on to Friday.