The End of the Egypt Trip

A Friday night trip helped restore my faith in the Egyptian people. We went on an excursion to see Old Cairo, the ancient Christian district in the southern part of the city. Using Cairo’s subway system, we were helped along to our destination by some kind individuals, none of whom asked for backsheesh. We visited several churches in Old Cairo, the remnant of a once thriving community in what is now an overwhelmingly Muslim country. Since it was Good Friday according to the Orthodox calendar, the churches were packed full of worshippers on the holy day. It may have only been because of the holiday, or as I like to believe because God works in very special ways when the Church is surrounded by hostility, but the Christian community in Cairo seemed incredibly vibrant. It was a small community when compared to the Muslim super-majority, but the congregants were joyful and the sanctuaries full of excitement. It was relief to spot an oasis of Christian faith in the Egyptian desert of Islam.

Saturday morning we traveled to Islamic Cairo to visit several mosques and a bazaar. Our first destination was the Citadel, a fortress-like complex that has been used as the seat of Egyptian government for many, many centuries. Inside we stepped foot in a large mosque, ornately decorated with colorful geometric patterns. I was surprised that so many tourists were allowed to enter the historic place. We were required to take off our shoes, as is the case for anyone entering any mosque, but besides that we were able to roam around inside as much as we wanted (there were some girls not from our group who, because they were dressed so scantily, had to wear green cloth tarps in order to visit. I had to laugh at their mistake).

Also at the Citadel was the Egyptian Military Museum, a tribute to the authoritarian regime’s military “prowess.” A plaque on an exterior wall indicated that the museum had been designed with the help of North Korea, while the interior oozed with a very contrived sense of Egyptian nationalism and praise for Egypt’s dictatorial leaders. In displays memorializing Egypt’s wars with Israel, the Jewish state wasn’t even mentioned. Instead, Israel was referred to as “the enemy,” “the opponent,” or “the adversary.” The designers of the museum, it seemed, kept their heads firmly stuck in the sands of ignorance when they had designed the building. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the way the Egyptian state would twist around facts, but my reading of the history-propaganda led to a clash with my own perceptions of truth and fairness.

Leaving the Citadel, we visited two other mosques. The first, a 19th century building, was home to the grave of ousted-Egyptian King Farouk. The second was significant for its size, decoration, and cost at the time of its building in the 15th century. After three mosques, I was Islammed out and ready for a trip to the Bazaar.

We purchased several souvenirs, including a couple sheeshas and some Egyptian clothing, then returned to our hotel. Saturday night we took an overnight bus back to Taba and then attempted to race across the border to catch our 7:00 a.m. Eilat bus to Jerusalem. I say we “attempted” to race across the border, though, because not all our group made it. Jorie, Elliot, and I crossed successfully to Israel and stood waiting at the port exit for Josh and Lee to be admitted. The pair had a problem, though. Josh, a student of Arabic, had purchased an English-Arabic Koran in Cairo and thought it shouldn’t be a problem bringing it across the border. In addition, Lee had accidentally held on to the Islamic literature she had first received from the Muslim proselytizer in Suez. The combination of the Koran and the Islamic literature meant that the Israeli security was incredibly concerned with (and rude to) my two close Christian friends. They were detained for nearly an hour as they attempted to sufficiently answer the Israeli border guards’ broken-English questions. They also missed their bus, but were eventually allowed to cross and return to Jerusalem several hours later.

The trip to Egypt was quite an experience. I’m glad I went, because I know I would have been upset with myself if I had spent several months in Israel and never saw Egypt. Still, a week in Egypt was plenty of time for me there and I don’t have an itch to return any time soon.

Cairo and a Dubious Day at the Pyramids

After the Valley of the Kings, we returned to our hostel, tired and smelly, for our afternoon naps. Later that night we took an overnight sleeper train to Cairo – my first sleeper train experience. We boarded around 10:30 pm, and were promptly fed a warm meal before being rocked to sleep by the motion of the train. The ride cost us $57 US, but it was well worth the experience to sleep well and travel at the same time.

Seeing the Egyptian countryside along the path of the Nile was eye-opening. We saw farmers in the fields very early in the morning, cultivating the land like people have done for many thousands of years. There were no tractors in sight, but an occasional farmer did have a mule-pulled cart. We saw fields of recently-harvested grains with golden bundles of hand-tied wheat on the ground. The Egyptian countryside seemed completely forsaken by 20th century technology, and I realized how spoiled I am as an American.

We reached Cairo around 7:30 a.m. and were greeted by an eager taxi cab driver who would take us anywhere we wanted to go. Not knowing our way around, he suggested a hostel to us and then took us there. Unfortunately, there was no room for us at the inn. Fortunately, there are plenty of people milling around downtown Cairo looking to take unsuspecting tourists to their hotels. We were convinced by one such fellow to visit a hotel near the Egyptian museum, and ended up staying there for the rest of trip.

Thursday afternoon we had the chance to visit the Egyptian Museum. Built at the turn of the 20th century, the museum reminded me of what a museum ought to be like: plenty of dusty artifacts, very few organized displays (the pieces were instead arranged in hallways by date), and thousands upon thousands of relics packed into large corridors. I spent several hours at the museum, going from hall to hall and doing my best to take in all the wonders of Ancient Egypt. From mighty statues of the pharaohs to humble peasant tools, the museum encapsulated millennia of Egyptian history. The most awe-inspiring part of the museum was the large section devoted to King Tut’s tomb. Countless priceless artifacts, most covered in gold, dazzled the eye and testified to the power of Tut’s position. I saw his famous death masks, which were even brighter and more colorful in real life than they appear in magazines. All in all, the range, quality, and quantity of ancient objects in the Egyptian Museum left my jaw wide-open and my eyes as large as an owl’s in disbelief.

Friday we awoke early for a morning at the pyramids. The same fellow who led us to our hotel was there again, ready to take us on what seemed like a grand adventure. He had a map drawn out for us and promised that he would take us to see the important sites around Giza, the Cairo suburb where the pyramids stand. We were grateful for his guidance as he took us on a bus (that he even paid for!) to a place outside the Wonder of the Ancient World. Our guide showed us to a small Bedouin business, where we were offered tea and an itinerary for the day (see the pyramids, other tombs, the Great Sphinx, lunch, other archaeological sites, the Pyramid light show). Foolishly, none of us asked what the price would be for the day’s excitement. We assumed, very wrongly, that a visit to the Bedouin shop afterwards would be payment enough. The shop’s owner then suited us up with a guide, two camels, and three horses. Once saddled up and ready to go, the Giza trickster told us the price for the day: 350 Egyptian pounds per person. Our jaws dropped, and we told him we were only interested in seeing the pyramids. The man offered to show us the Sphinx and pyramids for 200 E.P. (still an outrageous price), but we had to accept his offer. We were stuck in an Egyptian suburb, still very far from the pyramids, and were incredibly vulnerable to the money-sucking Egyptian’s fancy for foreign cash.

Our caravan began slowly as we learned how to handle our horses and camels. We traveled through a Giza neighborhood, tracing a border fence that the Egyptian government erected to keep non-paying people out of the pyramids complex. After leaving the town, we entered the Egyptian desert and continued to follow the contours of the pyramid park’s fence. Half an hour later, we approached a hole in the fence and turned inside. It seemed sketchy to me, since I didn’t see any ticket kiosks to pay for our entrance. My suspicions of the tour's shadiness were confirmed minutes later when our caravan was approached by gun-toting Egyptian guards. Our guide spoke with them, worked out an understanding (bribe, I’m certain of it), and we were allowed to continue on our way. We approached the pyramids from the back door, but that didn’t impact the way they looked to us. The monuments were enormous, rising high above the dry desert dunes. We walked around for some time, gazing at the pyramids we had seen in pictures. After journeying into the center of one of the pyramids, we returned to our criminal caravan and continued on our way back, stopping long enough only to see and take pictures with the Sphinx.

Camels are really uncomfortable to ride. There are no stirrups on the saddle to support your feet, and your rear must bear the brunt of every bump along the way. When you add the thigh-squeezing that is necessary to prevent yourself from falling off the camel, the ride becomes a monstrously effective workout for your inner legs. Our guide joked that riding on a camel would help us walk like an Egyptian afterwards. I was sore for several days, but the pictures were well worth the pain.

We returned to our shady Bedouin’s shop and demanded he give us lunch. A long moment later he brought us Koshary, an Egyptian fast-food speciality with noodles, lentils, and tomato sauces. We quickly ate, and then escaped from his slimy grasp while he was praying at the mosque.

Walk Like an Egyptian

Well, it’s about time I begin talking about my trip to Egypt. After a tasty ham and sweet potato lunch Easter afternoon, we left for the bus station. We took the familiar Jerusalem-Eilat bus and reached the southernmost point of Israel late in the evening. We had made no reservations (or really any concrete plans at all), and figured we’d be able to find a hostel pretty easily. We were really wrong, though, because it was Pesach and every Israeli was vacationing in Eilat. Luckily, we found a hotel room with five beds for an outrageous price and were able to spend the night inside.

Come morning, we woke up and visited the Egyptian Consulate in Eilat to get our travel visas. We were successful, then took a cab with a Gospel-singing driver to the Taba border crossing. Once in Egypt, we inquired about a bus to Cairo. We were told, whether truthfully or not, that none would be leaving for several hours. We decided to take a cab, which charged each of us 100 Egyptian Pounds (L.E.) for the five hour trip. Our destination was Luxor in Upper Egypt, the location of some temples and the Valley of the Kings (an interesting note about Egyptian geography- Upper Egypt is actually in the southern part of the country, because the Nile flows north and “Upper Egypt” is higher in elevation than “Lower Egypt.”) Halfway along the ride, which took us through the rocky desert of the Sinai wilderness, our driver advised us against going to Cairo and taking the train to Luxor. He claimed it was bad for the girls, so we decided to go to Suez instead to catch a red-eye bus to Luxor. Come to find out, though, our driver was from Suez and probably didn’t want to drive us all the way to Cairo. This was a difficulty we experienced many times in Egypt. It was exceedingly tough to discern whether people were genuinely trying to help us out with advice and hospitality or whether they had other motives and were trying to dupe us for their own benefit.

We reached Suez in the late-afternoon and had a quick bite-to-eat at a local restaurant (where two kabab sandwiches cost me less than a dollar). After the meal, a Muslim fellow approached us with some Islamic literature. Being in a strange place and not wanting to offend him, we smiled and accepted his booklets. The literature would end up causing us some trouble later on.

That evening we took a very long bus ride to Luxor. For the first half of the trip, I sat next to Mohammed, a single 25 year-old Muslim fellow from Cairo. He worked in the hospitality industry, and I was able to speak with him a lot about his background and family. He’s working hard to get a house, which in Egypt is basically a requirement for getting a wife. He also shared with me the expectations of his Muslim family. As an only son, he is expected to continue in the faith and traditions of his parents without question or deviation. Another topic of our discussion was women. I commiserated with him on how difficult it is to find a suitable wife (although, as he pointed out, I would probably be much more successful in Egypt than in the States), and we both agreed on the importance of gender roles (he laughed at the prospect of women doing the jobs of men, finding our modern American concept of equality a farce).

We arrived in Luxor at 3 am and quickly found a hostel. The rooms cost around 2 dollars a night, a great price for my budget travel. I quickly fell asleep, only to be awoken a short time later by the blare of a minaret calling Muslims to early-morning prayer. Later that morning, we awoke and grabbed a bite to eat at the local eatery. I had pita with a warm bean dip that seemed much like refried beans to me, a meal that would suffice for Tuesday’s tour. Our first destination was Karnak, a massive ancient Egyptian temple complex complete with giant pillars and a partially reconstructed roof. The compound was impressive, and every niche seemed to be decorated with ancient hieroglyphic carvings or paintings. At one point, near the back of the temple, we were approached by a guard who led us to panoramic view overlooking the entire area. Once we had taken our pictures, he began rubbing his figures together and muttering “backsheesh,” the Egyptian way of saying he wanted a tip. He was holding a rifle, so we obliged, and had the first of many encounters with Egyptians seeking out our hard-earned tourist cash.

That afternoon, we returned to our hostel for a long siesta. The weather in Luxor and later in Cairo was so hot during the afternoon that it was nearly impossible to do anything outdoors. Instead, each day we toured in the morning, slept or read indoors during the afternoon, and then went out to dinner in the evening.

Wednesday morning we woke up early to visit the Temple of Hatsheput and the Valley of the Kings. Both were on the West Bank (of the Nile) so, after taking a ferry across, we were met by a cab driver arranged through our hostel. He took us first to the temple, an impressive edifice built into the side of a mountain. A few years ago, the temple was the scene of a terror attack where Islamic militants opened fire on the crowd and killed dozens of visitors. It was much calmer on the day we visited, thankfully.

Our driver then took us to visit the Valley of the Kings, the place where several Ramses and Tut were buried. It was, as the name implies, a valley in the desert with dozens of small, inconspicuous entrances to the tombs of pharaohs. Our entrance tickets allowed us to visit just three tombs (and Tut cost much extra), so we visited the burial sites of a couple Ramses and a certain Thutmoses. The burial chambers, barren of any artifacts, were still marvelously mysterious and decorated with colorful hieroglyphic designs. Another aspect of the tombs that impressed me was their stuffiness. One would think that traveling inside a tomb carved out of a mountain would offer a cool respite from the outside sun and heat. The burial chambers, however, felt like stuffy saunas and smelled intensely like people. After every tomb we visited, it was actually a relief to be out in the open again to feel the cool breeze.

I’ll continue describing my trip tomorrow, but for now here is the link to the pictures from my Egypt trip…

Dahab and Holocaust Remembrance Day

I should be writing about my trip to Egypt, but more timely topics beg me to comment. First is the sad news on the bombings in Egypt. Yesterday, terrorists attacked the tourist town of Dahab on the Sinai Coast of the Red Sea. It was the third bombing in the Sinai since 2004, and 18 people perished in the attacks along with dozens of others who were wounded. Dahab, as you may recall, is the place where I spent nearly a week just last month enjoying the beaches, restaurants, snorkeling, and my 21st birthday. At the time, I thought the area was safe. It had a small-town feel and the locals ran small businesses to keep the tourists happy. I ate at two of the restaurants mentioned in reports of the bombing (the Aladin and Al Capone cafeterias), regularly crossed the walking bridge where bombs were planted, and shopped for souvenirs in the bazaar that was targeted. Looking back on my trip to Dahab, the fact that it was chosen as a terror target makes perfect sense to me now. Most of the tourists there are European and the Dahab lifestyle is the epitome of pleasure that I imagine extreme Islam sees as the essence of Western corruption and extravagance. I’m greatly saddened by what took place in Dahab, and I pray for the area that terrorism has so terribly affected. At the same time, though, I’m thankful that God protected me during my own visit to the resort town. Some people I may have met have not been so lucky (my bus back to Israel on Sunday carried some who were on their way to Dahab). I won’t be traveling to Egypt anymore while I’m in the Middle East.

The second timely topic is today’s observance of Holocaust Remembrance Day. The day is important especially here in Israel, where the Jewish state remembers the Nazi genocide with memorial services and a nation-wide moment of silence. As a visitor of German descent, I began to wonder about what I would have done had I been in Europe during the Holocaust. Would I have resisted the Nazi government and sought to protect the innocent? There were perhaps tens of thousands of Christian believers in Germany who did nothing to prevent the murder of some 6 million Jews. Can I assume that I would have been better than those silent Christians? I know myself, and I know that I am capable of serious sin and depravity. I don’t know if I would have been a “righteous Gentile.” I have no idea if I could have been a Dietrich Boenhoeffer, the rightly-esteemed pastor and theologian who participated in a plot against Hitler. Perhaps I would have seen Bonhoeffer as a misguided radical whose actions went against the biblical command to “submit to the authorities” (Rom. 13:1). If I could have been so blind like many Christians were so blind during WWII, I must ask myself, “What am I blind to today?” What am I turning my face away from that is breaking God’s heart? Am I ignoring atrocities and grotesque miscarriages of justice because I am afraid of action’s consequences? Am I scared to be a Dietrich Boenhoeffer because it may label me as a revolutionary? Or, am I seeking out God’s heart for justice and living a radical life for Christ in everything I do? These are some difficult questions that have challenged me today and that I pray will continue to confront me as long as I live.

Easter Sunday

I awoke very early on Easter Sunday to face a chilly and windy Jerusalem. I had to drop off an Easter basket for Josh before going to a sunrise service at the Lutheran Church of the Ascension on the Mount of Olives. My friends and I decided to exchange Easter baskets secret-Santa style, and I had postponed delivering my basket until the last moment. I raced to Josh’s dorm room in the pre-dawn hour, delivered the goods, then hustled up the Mount of Olives to attend the sunrise celebration. In the early morning I felt like Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, who raced all over Jerusalem to spread the good news that Christ had risen.

The sunrise service began at 5:30. I joined a group of about thirty gathered in the twilight around an altar that overlooked the Jordan Valley. On top of the Mount of Olives it was cold -- very cold. Many huddled about bundled in jackets, hats, and scarves. Not much stood out to me about the service except for the moment at the end when the sun finally peaked through the ashen clouds. We had met in the frigid early morning to remember Christ’s Resurrection, and the warm rays of sunshine lighting up the sky encouraged even the coldest worshipper. The sun seemed to be the right metaphor for what we knew full well – Christ, overcoming death and the cross, broke through the clouds of sin to light up the world with the powerful light of his Resurrection.

I returned to my room for a nap and then walked down to the Garden Tomb for another Easter service. Along the way I saw clouds gathering ominously in the west, and when I reached the Garden Tomb the skies opened up. We had hadn’t been praying for showers of blessing, but boy, they certainly did fall on us all. I’ll admit that, besides my jacket and hair getting wet, my spirit also was dampened by the rain. Rain here is so seldom and normally the skies are bright, sunny, and warm. Why did it have to rain on Easter? There I was at the Garden Tomb with several hundred other believers on the cold, grey, wet morning. I was celebrating the Resurrection, don’t misunderstand me, but I was also a little disappointed. I still haven’t figured out why it had to be rainy and cold on Easter morning. The best I can come up with is that God was teaching me to celebrate the Resurrection everywhere and always in my heart, and not just in Jerusalem on Easter morning.

There is something special about being a pilgrim. Spending Holy Week with tens of thousands of Christians, united in purpose to recall the death and Resurrection of Christ, was an amazing encouragement to my faith. I found there is much to be gained from rejoicing, weeping, worshipping, praying, remembering, and meditating together with others. The mystique of Jerusalem heightened every experience as we traced our Savior’s trials and triumphs in sacred remembrance and ritual. We participated in traditions that joined us with thousands of years of Christian practice along with countless millions of saints who have gone before us. I will not too soon forget Holy Week in Jerusalem and the time I spent here with other pilgrims united in faith.

I'm back, safe and sound.

I've returned from Egypt, safe and sound. Unfortunately, I've got an Arcaheology midterm I'll be studyig for, so a more thorough update will be temporarily postponed.

Good Friday

I got up before daybreak on Friday morning and left for the Old City. The air was balmy before the sun rose, and it only became warmer during the course of the day. I was awake early to follow the Via Dolorosa through Jerusalem, the traditional path Christ took carrying his cross. Our procession began at 6:30 am, before the via became too full of pilgrims tracing Jesus’ Good Friday steps. I had traveled the Via Dolorosa twice before, so this time was the repetition of a well-known path. I had trouble focusing, perhaps because it was so early in the morning or because the service was continually interrupted by traffic trying to squeeze through the narrow Jerusalem streets, and later on I regretted waking up so early.

After the Via Dolorosa and a cup of coffee, I was fresh and ready to attend a Good Friday service at the Garden Tomb. The Garden Tomb is an alternative site to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher that offers a place to remember and meditate on the Passion and Resurrection of Christ. There are beautiful gardens planted all around the traditional site of the tomb that held Christ and the rock formations that resemble the biblical description of Golgotha. Today, the Garden Tomb is frequented by many Christians visiting the Holy Land who may find the Church of the Holy Sepulcher iconolatrous (adj., icon + idolatry) and unwelcoming. The type of folk who visit the Garden Tomb are, generally speaking, the type I agree with on most matters of Christian doctrine and practice, so I decided to go visit for the morning Good Friday service.

After being welcomed to the Good Friday service by a friendly staff of volunteers, I took my seat on a bench facing the empty tomb. The air was warm and the day was sunny, but we sat in the cool shade of pine trees. Birds sang sweetly all around. We were in a garden paradise of prayer and remembrance, closed off from the bustle and noise of Eastern Jerusalem. The service opened with a song accompanied by the soft tones of a keyboard piano. The service, which lasted for an hour, incorporated praise singing, reading from the Gospel accounts of Christ’s Passion, and a sermon. I was thankful to know most of the songs, some even by heart, and I sang with gusto. The renditions of the Gospel stories were read by an older British lady whose secure, comforting voice gave beautiful clarity and expression to the “old, old story.” The Holy Spirit also moved through the sermon given by the pastor. He recounted the Passion story, weaving together the varied Gospel descriptions into a single narrative. Along the way, the preacher spoke on the significance of the story and its application to our own lives. I’m not sure if I was paying more attention than usual to the sermon because of its Good Friday significance, but I walked away after hearing it feeling equipped and much better able to appreciate the significance of Christ’s suffering.

The Garden Tomb service, though set in an idyllic place probably much different than the chaotic scene of Christ’s crucifixion, offered me a chance to peacefully reflect on the magnitude of Christ’s sacrifice. It was a welcome respite after the Via Dolorosa, and I felt God’s presence through the singing, scripture readings, and message. The service was good for me to attend.

After visiting the Garden Tomb, I returned to campus for a quick rest. My fatigue wasn’t enough, though, to keep me from traveling back to the Old City in the afternoon to remember the hour of Christ’s death (3:00 pm). At that time, I ventured into the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, which was full (but not chock full) of pilgrims. I climbed the steps to the traditional site of Calvary, where I found a host of people praying, reading scripture, and waiting in line to touch the rock where Christ’s cross was planted in the ground. I was able to kneel before the cross in prayer, remembering the awesome sacrifice of my Lord. There he died for my sins, Jesus Son of God taking the punishment for my dirtiness and filth. There he was forsaken by God in my place, so that I might have hope and a relationship with my Creator. It was a powerful moment to be kneeling in prayer at the foot of the cross when the church bells rang out to mark the moment of Christ’s last breath. “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit!” he cried, and, taking the weight of the world’s sin on his shoulders, died.

Maundy Thursday

I went to the Western (Wailing) Wall on Thursday to see if there were many Jews there praying to mark the beginning of Pesach. Come to find out, there weren’t, but when I handed my bag to the security guard to be searched there was a problem. I had brought some pita as a snack, and I was informed that I could not bring the chametz into the holy area of the Western Wall during Pesach. I felt like a confused, silly goy, and I had to leave my bread by the metal detector while I went in to scope out the area. It seems that Jewish guards, who are normally on the lookout for terrorists, turn their attention to more serious matters of ceremonial purity during Pesach.

Thursday I celebrated Maundy Thursday for the first time. This holy day commemorates the last supper of Christ, his institution of the Lord’s Supper, his washing of the disciples’ feet, and his agony in the Garden of Gethsemane. I had the chance to visit the Upper Room, the traditional place of the Last Supper(and very similar in appearance to the room in DaVinci’s famous painting) during the day, and later attended Maundy Thursday services with the St. Andrew’s congregation. The evening services marked all three major events in the final night of Christ’s pre-resurrected life. The pastors of the congregation, dressed in their liturgical finery, spent several minutes washing the feet of congregants who came forward. It was a moving reenactment of the final hours of Christ life, where our Lord led his disciples through humble service. I chose not to participate, but eagerly watched as people went forward bare-footed to receive their washing.

Following the foot-washing was a sharing of the Lord’s Supper. Thankfully, the church offers communion even to those who are not official members of the congregation. I was able and eager to participate in the meal remembering Christ’s final night.

After Communion was finished, the pastors “stripped the altar.” They removed all the candles, clothes, and other symbols of faith from the altars and podiums up front. As a final symbolic gesture of the evening, they removed their own pastoral robes. The “stripping of the altar,” as the ceremony is known, symbolizes Christ being stripped of his glory during the Passion.

From the church we proceeded to a place overlooking the traditional sight of the Garden of Gethsemane. Here we remembered Christ’s agony as he submitted to the Father’s will and the taking-on of humanity’s sin. After the service was over, I went to the Church of All Nations which is located adjacent to the Garden. Inside, the church was packed with people remembering the anguish of our Lord. I chose to stay outside near the garden, which is a square plot of land, perhaps a quarter acre, surrounded by a fence. Visitors are not allowed inside the garden (for fear that the ancient olive trees might be stripped clean by souvenir/holy object hunters), but can spend time outside in thought and prayer.

In the Garden of Gethsemane are olive trees dating back perhaps thousands of years. Their disfigured and twisted forms cast eerie shadows over the ground where Christ sweat drops of blood. It’s easy to imagine our Savior here in the darkness and isolation of the olive grove. You can almost see him, falling face-down into the rocky soil crying out, “My father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me.” Here is the God-Man, laid-low by the weight of humankind’s sinfulness.

Many pilgrims line the Garden, praying and weeping at the thought of our Redeemer’s pain. We want to comfort him, to do something to ease his anguish, to keep vigil for him as the disciples had been asked to do. The agony that Christ endures, however, he endures alone. He is “despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief; as one from whom men hide their faces he (is) despised, and we esteem… him not.” (Isaiah 53:3) Even his disciples abandon Jesus, and as pilgrims tonight we too will eventually leave the garden where Christ suffers alone.

Pesach seder

Yesterday marked the beginning of Pesach, the Jewish holiday of Passover. I began the morning with a walk through the ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods around Jerusalem, where I found entire Jewish families burning piles of garbage in the hazy morning sunshine. I found out later that they were burning all the trash from their houses that came into contact with chametz (yeast) according to the Exodus 12:15 command. Some Jews during Pesach symbolically sell their chametz foods to goyim (non-Jews) for a shekel. I, for example, “own” all of my friend Jorie’s food containing yeast. It’s still in her room, and I won’t use any of it, but it’s reflective of Jorie’s practice of the Pesach tradition. Most grocery stores have covered the shelves of chametz foods with plastic tarp, as these foods will be forbidden for Jews in the next week.

Last night I was adopted by a Jewish family for the traditional Passover Seder. If you’ve never been to one, I would highly recommend it as it carries significance for both Jews and Christians (Christ’s Last Supper was a Pesach Seder meal). I spent the evening with Arik, an Israeli fellow in my dorm I’ve come to know quite well. We left Jerusalem around 3:00 pm for his sister’s apartment in Tel Aviv. At 5:30, Arik’s mother picked us up and we drove to his grandparents’ house in Haifa. The highway was packed with traffic, reminding me of Thanksgiving in the States. In Israel, Pesach is much like Thanksgiving. Families, religious or not, assemble to celebrate a large meal in the Passover tradition.

We arrived in Haifa around 7:30, and soon after the rest of Arik’s extended family arrived. There were aunts and uncles, cousins and nephews, moms, dads, brothers, sisters, and grandparents. Arik’s family is secular, but his German grandmother wanted the guys to wear their yarmulkes during the reading of the Hagada, the seder liturgy (?). Family members took turns reading Scripture, prayers, and rabbinical interpretations of the Pesach event while we ate matzah bread, drank wine, and shared in the symbolic Passover foods. It was my first real family-style seder, and I did my best to follow along even though I lost my place in the Hebrew readings several times.

After the Hagada, we shared in the Pesach meal. For starters we had matzah, salad, and chicken-liver pate’ (which, I’m proud to say, I’ve made before and was able to recognize last night!). Next came the matzo-ball soup, flavored with a traditional celery and chicken-broth base. For the main course, we had schnitzel (fried chicken breast breaded with sesame seeds), potatoes, sweet carrots and dates, and a rice dish. The food was delicious, and I was glad to share in a meal that tasted so well coming from an entirely different culture.

After supper we sat around and sang Hebrew songs. I knew a few of them from previous seders I’ve attended, but for some I had to mumble along in my broken, barely-comprehending Hebrew. Arik’s aunt, who led the singing, was kind enough to point out to me the songs we were singing in the song packets. I was definitely a foreigner to the language and tradition, but Arik’s family made me feel like a cousin. The hospitality was incredible, and I was glad to be sitting at the Pesach table last night.

Arik’s grandmother, the matriarch of the family, was the one who headed-up last night’s festivities. She was the first one to serve everyone else, selflessly carrying in dishes and loading up plates before her own. She was not satisfied with the meal until she was certain that everyone had been stuffed to the rim with spectacular Ashkenazi (Western European Jewish) cooking. When we were singing the Hebrew songs, she smiled and looked over at me to make sure I was enjoying myself. At one point, she took me aside to show me the view of the Mediterranean coast from her back porch. During the course of the Pesach meal I realized how much I missed my own grandmas, both having passed away by the time I was seven. I’m not usually one to be sentimental, but the intense desire to be loved by Grandma hit me like a ton of bricks. It’s not that other people in my church and family haven’t taken the place of Grandma in my life, because I do have an amazing family that loves me a lot. It’s just that, for a moment last night, I strongly pined for the grandmotherly touch after experiencing the concerned affection of a Jewish Sabta (grandma).

The evening finished late with hugs, kisses, and goodbyes of "Haag Sameach" (Happy Holiday). We arrived back to Jerusalem around 2:00 am, full of great food, sleepy, and content after a long evening of ancient tradition and love.

Palm Sunday Jubilations

Today (Palm Sunday) was a blessed day for me in Jerusalem. It began early, with me meeting Elliot and Leigh at 8:30 am for my weekly Sunday morning walk to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in southern Jerusalem. The weather was a balmy 70 degrees, and bushes of fragrant flowers seemed to line our path to church. If Heaven has a smell, I'm nearly certain it is of the sweetest flowering bushes I get to enjoy here in the Holy Land.

After the church service, we left for Bethpage with a group of Scots. The first part of our pilgrimage took us around the southern side of Mt. Zion and down into the Kidron Valley. We took a short rest at the Grotto of Gethsemane before hiking up the Mt. of Olives (which, by the time we reached the top, seemed like a very real mount to us! I might add that, since we live in Jerusalem, we often do things the difficult way to make them seem more like the treacherous pilgrimages of yore).

Upon reaching the top, we followed the road along the Mount of Olives ridge that leads to the Pater Noster Church, and then turned left down the east side of the mount towards Bethpage. After a short walk we reached the Church of Mary and Martha, where a group had already begun to assemble for the procession. There were all sorts of believers congregating -- Koreans, Germans, Africans, Latinos, Italians, Arabs, Frenchmen, Brits, and countless others. There was an anticipatory and festive feeling in the air. The group, though composed of many nationalities and denominations, was there to honor Christ as our Lord and King in the procession to Jerusalem.

The Palm Sunday procession began with “regiments” of Arab youth marching in Christian uniform. These groups, similar to the Boy and Girl Scouts, wore colorful attire, carried even brighter flags, and were a fine-looking display of Arab Christian youth organizations. Once the children brigades had passed through, those of us watching joined in the procession. Many waved palm fronds, while others carried olive-tree branches plucked from unsuspecting trees. I belonged to the latter group, proudly waving my small bough in honor of the Messiah-King. (I was at first worried that I wasn’t following the tradition properly because I lacked the name-sake Palm Sunday palm branch. Later, though, I read that Matthew and Mark record the crowd as waving “branches from the trees” and “leafy branches,” so I was relieved to realize my participation was thoroughly biblical. Be that as it may, it was a bad day to be an olive or palm tree in Jerusalem.)

We marched again to the top of the Mount of Olives then continued down the western side of the hill towards Jerusalem. The crowd was so excited. People sang praises to God in countless languages, but the resounding “Hosanna, Hosanna, Hosanna” allowed everyone to sing in unity during the choruses. Some groups worshipped with bongos, guitars, and accordions, others sang ancient hymns in Latin, while still more praised with flutes and waving-flags. It was a bright scene, with emblems of the Jerusalem cross and other Christian characters fluttering in the wind. “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” we remembered and sang while re-tracing the Savior’s path. The mountain itself seemed to resonate with the excited praises and joyful dances of the crowd. The Palm Sunday procession today was the sweetest foretaste of Heaven described in Revelation 7:9-10 that I’ve ever experienced. “After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, and crying our with a loud voice, “Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!”

Somehow, everyone in the procession made it to the Lion’s Gate of the Old City. The path we took led past the Church of Dominus Flevit, a building resembling a tear drop where Christ’s weeping over Jerusalem is remembered, and the Garden of Gethsemane, where Christ submitted to the Father’s will on the night of his betrayal. While we were all rejoicing in our Lord and Savior, there was still the solemn reminder that in a few days we would be remembering his passion and death. While today was a day of great joy, celebration, and praise, I couldn’t forget that our Lord was welcomed into Jerusalem only days before he was crucified there. It seemed a strange juxtaposition to me. The Christian Holy Week, marking the suffering, death, and resurrection of God himself, begins with a day of great celebration and triumph. I’m still trying to grapple with how this can fit together so beautifully.

Pesach break

After a week of midterms and a paper, I’ve made to Pesach break. I now have two and a half weeks for Passover break. I really like going to school in a Jewish state, as the holidays break up the semester so well.

The weather seems to have finally warmed up here. Today was mid 70’s, and tomorrow should be about the same. I’m looking forward to Palm Sunday services tomorrow morning at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church followed by a walk to Bethpage (near the Mt. of Olives) for the traditional Palm Sunday procession into the city. Holy Week is beginning, and I couldn’t be more excited. Some friends and I are going to attend Holy Week services, exchange Easter baskets, and have a great lunch of ham on Easter Sunday (we’ve found a single place so far that sells pork in Jerusalem).

The longer I’ve been here the more thankful I am to be an American. I spoke with an Israeli friend of mine who spent some time working the U.S. He told me that while there he was able to save about a grand a month, something that is impossible for him here in Israel. Wages in the States, he told me, are much better than they are in Israel -- something I never realized. His sister, he shared, makes $25K/yr. as a lawyer in Israel. I’m pretty certain that she could make three or four times that much in the States.

It’s hard for me to take American citizenship for granted anymore. With my State Department-issued passport I am able to travel freely between the West Bank and Israel, unlike many Israelis and Palestinians. Whenever I cross borders, I simply flash my eagle-imprinted blue book at the soldiers and I’m rushed through with ease. It’s an incredible gift to be a citizen of perhaps the most powerful state in the world and be often treated like gold by the militaries of other nations.

I saw some justice happen today, Palestinian-style. I was sitting at Damascus gate, an entrance to the Arab-Muslim part of the city and popular place of buying and selling, when I saw a fellow race towards the gate with something he had stolen. A huge line of young guys chased him until finally they caught him and beat him to the ground. He couldn’t get away, and later collapsed from his injuries. I think he made it all right, though, because I saw him limping away later on. Moral of the story: stealing in Arab society is bad.

I’ll be sure to keep you all updated on Holy Week festivities, with plenty of pictures to go along. Until then, take care.

On Conflict and Terror

I awoke this morning to the unmistakable sound of an explosion. My eyelids popped wide awake and my heart nearly jumped from my chest -- I was certain the university had been the target of a terror attack. I sat up in my bed and looked over to see if my roommate had been awoken by the blast. After a few seconds I realized that he, too, was no longer sleeping. I asked him what the big bang was, and he replied, “If it was anything bad, we would have heard sirens by now.” He and I both thought that the explosion was a bombing. Thankfully, though, the university had been hit by lightning, and not by a Muslim extremist.

I’ve noticed since coming here that I’m jitterier than usual. I jump at loud noises, from the snapping of bubble gum in peoples’ mouths to the popping of grocery bags blowing across the road as they get run over by motor vehicles. The most annoying and frustrating blasts, in my opinion, are the firecrackers that some Israelis light off in the streets for holidays and the beginning of Shabbat. I have no idea why anyone living in a nation of conflict would light off firecrackers that sound at best like gunshots and at worst like exploding grenades. I’m not sure if Israelis are incredibly adept at discerning bomb blasts from every-day exploding sounds or if I’ve just got a lot to learn. Either way, it’s a great testimony to the Israeli spirit that they’re able to live here without losing their wit’s end or giving in to the frights of terror.

Continuing on this cheery vein of thought, it seems like everyone around here carries a gun. At the entrance to most restaurants, cafes, and stores are armed guards who search people and their bags. It is not uncommon to ride the bus and see a person dressed in street clothes armed with a semi-automatic weapon. I’ve heard that it’s illegal for regular Israelis to own a gun, but many here seem to carry around pistols like their lives depend on it. Israeli soldiers are everywhere too – from the market entrances to the Hebrew University hallways. Most soldiers are my age (3 years of military service for guys and 2 for girls are mandatory here), and they all carry big weapons. Thankfully, most of the time their guns require the ammunition clips to be loaded before they can be effective.

Living in such a military-oriented, conflict-conscious culture bothers me sometimes. It seems like this city and this nation are always on the edge of war and that the present circumstances could always escalate into something bigger. When I get back to the States, I’ll be much more thankful for the stability and safety of DC and my home in Midwestern Ohio. I look forward to going to Wal Mart without having to turn over my backpack to an armed guard for searching. I’ll appreciate going to a street-front restaurant and not having to keep my eyes peeled for suspicious cars.

Being in Israel also makes me look forward to a time when war and conflict won’t be a part of life anymore, anywhere. As a believer in Christ, I’ve got an eternity of peace with God to look forward to regardless of what goes down here on earth. Zion’s Harp #259 goes, “There is a truly blessed land Where purest joy is known, Where hate and strife are ever banned, For Love rules on the throne! For love rules on the throne! No worry entereth that land, No trouble gnaws the heart; There darkness fades at light’s command, And joy makes pain depart! And joy makes pain depart!” Amen to that.