Bethlehem, O Bethlehem

I realized as I was writing that I already an entry about our visit to Bethlehem, so this added discourse is probably not necessary--except I can add more pictures I suppose, and again try to flesh out my feelings about going to so critical place in the history of humanity and yet, in this case, not quite comprehending it for all the noise and the speed of a pilgrim's progress from day to day. I probably "felt" the least here about what should, in my mind, evoke the most sense of awe.

I suppose it was hardest for me to translate what I saw in modern day Bethlehem to the time when Christ was born there in a manger--not in a stable, as is so often promulgated, but in a cave hewn out of rock. As we wound through the narrow streets in our large tourist bus in a part of the land governed by the Palestinian Authority, while I was not particularly afraid, I did sense the tension of centuries. Perhaps it was seeing the grafitti everywhere, despondent in its satire, and that big mural of Yasser Arafat, to me a terrorist, to the people who call themselves Palestinians, a hero. This is a city that feels sad; so many of the faces, particularly of the men, seem sad. Angry and sad.

We parked in a large depot; as with anywhere you went, there were people selling souvenirs, but here, prominent was the politic of the locale. From here we would take a short walk on the streets to Manger Square.

Just at the entrance to Manger Square a police booth. And then the famous tree, in the process of decoration, as it was just the end of November on the edge of the first Sunday of Advent.

There are two Churches next to each other, one modern, and then this, as you see above, the entrance to the Church of the Nativity. Note the small door. Somewhere else in this series of posting, I believe I mentioned that the original arch (which you can see in the photo) was made smaller to prevent carts of various marauders from easily entering. We passed first, though, through the newer Church, St. Catherine. 

We went into the Cave of St. Jerome and Mass was celebrated. To be in this space was to have a small sense of what it might have been like for early Christians to meet to share the Eucharist (for those who have read some or all of the Early Church Fathers, the significance of the Eucharist as way more than a symbol, rather in fact the Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ was already well known; I mean before the actual first writings of the Bible circa 60 AD). The back wall of where the priest celebrated, we were told, abutted the sacred place of the Birth, which we had not yet seen.

After Mass, we re-stacked the chairs we had used for seating, and wended our way to the old Church, with its layers of history from the time of Christ, to the building of the Church by Constantine in the 4th century, reconstructed by Justinian in the  6th century, occupied by the Crusaders in the 12th century and then the Turks in the 13th.  The interior has probably been under siege or reconstruction endlessly through the years, and now again there is a restoration in progress.

The photo exactly above is the entrance into a kind of anteroom on the way to the stairs down to the cave where the Manger and Our Lord Lay. Again, it was hard to imagine the scene that one hears in the old hymns, "O Little Town of Bethlehem, how still we see thee lie, above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by. . . " a scene of village, and shepherds and creatures wandering. Here was intense and even fevered activity to go to a spot, and to touch it for only a moment, as a security man moved us along. But still, the honor of that moment!

Down those stairs, beyond that arch, many believe, I believe (Lord, help my Unbelief) that it was here that God broke into the time He created to restore us to Himself as His friends.

And then it was over; we were outside. We took our group photo which I believe is included in one of my other entries and we walked back to our bus for the trip back to the Israeli side and our many other adventures to come.

Forgive the repetition this entry represents. But it is done and now sent on the digital wave.

The Western Wall

The Western Wall visit was another in that marathon series of sites in just the first couple of days of my late 2018 trip. What you see above is a model that gives a serious idea of what that wall was once part of--the Second Jerusalem Temple . If memory serves, and if not, anyone can feel free to correct me, when the Temple was destroyed in 70 A.D. the only part left standing was behind the Holy of Holies (the little building in the center, the front facing us in the picture). It is that remaining part which is the Holy prayerful place of the Jewish people.

Just before I left for my trip, someone sent me a video of a group of Jews praying above the site of the Western Wall when a strange mist that was neither fog nor fire began to issue from the area--folks saw it as a mystical, probably apocalyptic sign. As for me, as I watched the video I had a sense of the area of the Wall as being incredibly large. In fact, the expanse of the wall, though sizeable, feels more contained, intimate, if you will.  I felt the history. I felt the memory of petitions, over centuries.

I had brought a not with me to place into the wall and to pray for the intentions of those whose names it contained. There are two sections, one for men and the other for women (yes, modern fems, this is secular sacrilege) and I wended my way down toward the wall with my note.

Though it was late in the day and there was no particular holiday, there was a substantial line of petitioners at the wall. I had the sense that many of the individuals spent a long time in prayer and I wondered, given that we pilgrims were always on something of a schedule if I would get my time to stand, place my note and quickly pray.

I was impressed by the intensity of prayer at this spot, just feet from the Dome of the Rock--a source alas of struggtle among the great faiths and controlled by Islam at this time and closed to visitors this day--which is on the spot of what once was the repository of the Holy of Holies. This is the remnant of the Temple at which Jesus prayed, at which He cast out the sellers of trinkets for humanly insufficient sacrifices of animals to God. I stood ultimately where the young woman in denim stands in this picture. I tried to stuff my note into the crevice. I think it fell, but the intention was raised to Heaven.

Many of the pilgrims to the wall would not turn their backs to the wall as they exited the space, much like so few of us Catholics back away (I rarely have; never was taught to, but I have seen it in the reverent visitor) from the Tabernacle in which we believe God is present body, blood, soul and divinity.

Here you can see, beyond me, the closed entrance to the Dome of the Rock

And, a "fun fact" I suppose? Those plants growing out of the wall? Caper plants.

This was a place of prayer, and joy. And still it was early in the trip.

Gethsemane

So slowly am I moving through the days of my trip in November-December 2018 in these pages. It already feels as if the trip itself happened in another lifetime. Still, after more than a week with a tenacious cold/flu in which my only focus was on how bad I felt--that left little room for prayerful contemplation (or there was room and I simply was unable to accept the Grace), I think I need the reminder of a part of my late trip in which I first felt the stirrings of God's Presence in the place where He walked. It was at the Church of All Nations, also known as the Basilica of the Agony.

The Trip to Gethsemane came at the end of a day of whirlwind spiritual archaeological spin through the Church of the Nativity, St. Joseph's Chapel, Manger Square about which I anticipate I will write in later entries. We arrived at the portico and entrance of the Church as the gloaming descended on the Kidron Valley. We stood to hear the history of the place at the third arch from the left, the building itself actually of 20th century design and build but known to be in the precise area where Jesus waited for his betrayer and the Roman soldiers to take him to Calvary and where He prayed for deliverance before accepting that His portion was the salvation of the world. This picture is not one of mine, but I wanted to give a sense of where I was looking from as evening descended.

The Church of All Nations/Basilica of the Agony.

I could see back across to the Walls of Jerusalem, to the Temple Mount, to the place where legend has it, Suleiman, sealed up the Eastern Gate to keep the Messiah from coming (silly Suleiman!) We were reminded that at the time of Jesus, Olive Trees were everywhere--what we saw were relatively few, though presumably some of 1000 or more years endurance.

From His perspective, Jesus would have seen the soldiers coming for Him, as the only light would have been their torches. He could have escaped at any time, but after His prayer, He was committed to a death that would transform Death. 

And then inside we went.   

Up to this point in the trip, this being the second full day, I had experienced an intellectual awe, if you will, but I had not really felt anything other than overwhelmed by the having old vague images of places I knew of since childhood become real. And yet they still required imagining as all the building over building over building of generations of conquerors and pilgrims had obscured where the events unfolded. This was the first place where I still could see essentially what Christ might have seen from that hill. At least my imagining was more connected to the topography. But still no feeling, as if feeling is proof of faith--it is not of course. Faith is an act, a regularly repeated act, of assent. It is saying and meaning "I believe" especially when feeling has abandoned you. I am amused so often when people say that religion is for the simple minded, the not so rational. It is the hardest thing, to assent to faith, when all around you is denying its validity. The subject for another reverie perhaps.

Anyway, when we entered towards the altar, there was this rock, surrounded by a thick black small fence molded into a series of Crowns of Thorns. I could barely see it for the people who were surrounding it, a Korean group of women I think, praying, and singing. We were able to merge into the pews behind them. "This isn't THE ROCK, of course, I thought to myself. Well, anyway, how do we know that it is one way or the other?" But I was satisfied to be there. There are certain mysteries of the rosary I particularly favor, to the extent that I pray the rosary, which is not often enough--I have my periods of regular praying of it, and then my fervor dissipates. Of the Sorrowful Mysteries, the time of Our Lord's terror and loneliness in Gethsemane is one. We all have things we don't want to face. And I have resonated with the begging to be spared that which I most fear and then realizing that it isn't going to happen. He is, in that moment, as human as I am every day of my life. 

I wasn't thinking about the Rosary particularly or my affection for that Mystery, as I sat behind the women. I did have the feeling that I couldn't, or shouldn't go any where near the rock, that I didn't deserve to be closer than I was, whether it was THE rock upon which Christ sweated blood or not. 

Then the women began to sing.

 https://www.facebook.com/DjinnfromtheBronx/videos/10218924931373802/?t=33

And I began to cry. When I watch the video of it, which I seem unable to post, though I hope this link to Facebook for December 24, 2018, will bring you to it, I cry again. I am transported to that spot, again. I am certain that I should never give up assenting to my faith.There is no explaining this. And even if there were, the explanation is, as Paul said, foolishness to some and a stumbling block to others.  Perhaps every day I should look at this video to remind myself not to see foolishness or to stumble more than I do. 

And then, when the women stopped singing and I was still crying, two of them turned around, and each, without any words, hugged me. Any who know me are aware I am not comfortably hugged. Something old and unaddressed still makes that a bug a boo. I'll do it, if it is initiated, but it does not come naturally or without great self-consciousness. And yet. When these two strangers hugged me, I felt safe, and warm and grateful. I saw Christ in these strangers I would never meet again. 

Planting Trees at the Jerusalem Bird Sanctuary

Prior to my trip to the Holy Land a stop at a bird sanctuary next to the Knesset wasn't on the scheduled activity list. But after the shooting of 11 people in Pittsburgh at the Tree of Life Synagogue on October 27, the idea of honoring the victims became a part of the agenda of our pilgrimage organized by Mark Furlan and Dream Vacations.

Planting trees is a symbol and a duty in Israel. And planting trees in memorial of loved ones is integral to both symbol and duty. So we, the visitors from the United States would spend part of an afternoon planting 11 trees, one for each victim at the Sanctuary.

And so we did.

We pulled into the parking lot in our big bus and walked to the entrance.

Not to the Knesset, this time, alas, but to the Bird Sanctuary. We were met by some of the staff and ushered into a little office, gift shop and then a small lecture hall. There we met a Rabbi who gave us a broad history of the  holy significance of tree planting and then our spiritual leader, Fr. Francis Benedict had us pray, after the name of each victim,

Irving Younger, Melvin Wax, Rose Mallinger, Bernice and Sylvan Simon, Jerry Rabinowitz, Joyce Fienberg, Richard Gottfried, Daniel Stein, Cecil Rosenstein and David Rosenstein. 

"Eternal Rest grant unto them O Lord and Let Perpetual Light Shine upon them. May the rest in peace, Amen. 

The joining in prayer of the Rabbi and the Priest and we Pilgrims was moving. And profound. And then the act of planting a tree for each individual sealed the significance of the connection between those of us living and those that were lost to us.

Then we were off to join the staff in a planting of 11 trees that will stand always, we hope, in memory of those who are no longer on earth. 

As we left a few young men wondered what we had been doing, and one of our number shared the moment with them. 

It was a meaningful unexpected part of an overwhelmingly powerful journey. 

And now I have found the Jewish Mourner's Prayer, El Malei Rachamim, to add to our Catholic Prayer. I have edited it only to make it for all of them, rather than for one person.

God, full of mercy, who dwells in the heights, provide a sure rest upon the wings of the Divine Presence, within the range of the holy, pure and glorious, whose shining resemble the sky’s, to the souls of (the victims of the Tree of Life Shooting) for a charity was given to the memory of (their souls).  Therefore, the Master of Mercy will protect (them) forever, from behind the hiding of his wings, and will tie (their souls) with the rope of life. The Everlasting is (their) heritage, and (they) shall rest peacefully upon (their) lying place(s), and let us say: Amen.

Amen, indeed.