23 April 2009

Act 4 :: Scene 3 | Holy Lands :: The Remnant

I reckon the most satisfying and memorable travel experiences are the ones in which you’re not sure if you’re going to make it to your destination until you’re at your destination: such was my visit to Mount Sinai.


The Spirit of God was with me, and working overtime, to get me to the top of the holy mount in the small amount of time I had to complete the jaunt into Egypt; Fortuitously meeting another couple of travellers (a mother-daughter team from France) who had the same aims and time restraints was key to the success of the mission.

As indicated in my last post, travelling devoid of an organised tour sometimes means you get holy sites all to yourself, like Sinai just after sunset – but not before sunrise. (I was fortunate enough to get two bites at the cherry as I met someone who organised for us to sleep on the summit in one of the small coffee shops).





There are quite a few Mount Sinais in the local area (and a few more in places far far away), I ascended the one that pilgrims have been clambering up for more than 1500 years (which was enough for me).




I found plenty more places outside Jerusalem to continue my practice of reading parts of the bible in the places they were conceived.


There is a very old monastery at the base of Mount Sinai that claims to have a bush within its' walls that has grown from the same root source as the burning bush that God spoke to Moses in (cleverly, this isn't quite the same as making the bold claim that it is the bush).



Nobody told me the Jerusalem bus terminal was going to be closed for the four hours (between 1 and 5 am) that separated the two bus rides that were moving me from Egypt up to Galilee where I was to reconnect with Malcolm & Vanessa; Nobody found me on the bench in the children’s playground in the centre of the round-a-bout beside the terminal. (Remembering that someone had said handgun ownership is more common in Jerusalem than Los Angeles did nothing to promote the dream of drifting off to sleep – but I got there in the end.)




The weirdest encounter I had in this week was with the assistant in the information centre located by the Sea of Galilee, who – not two minutes after I had explained that I was in the area to see the Christian holy sites – was eagerly telling me (in no uncertain terms) that: 1) following Jesus was ‘bullshit’; 2) all Christians should really be Jews because Jesus was a Jew; and 3) in her opinion Christians seemed to follow Jesus like sheep following a shepherd. (Sure, she had a few good points, but considering that she was being paid by the local government to work in one of the most important information centres for Christian pilgrims the world over (Galilee being the area where Jesus grew up & spent most of his time teaching and healing) it revealed how little Israel cares to cater for the Christian traveller; her advice on the necessity of hiring a car to see the area rather than relying on public transport was a lot better researched and received than her theological diatribe.)




Some sites in the Holy Lands are over-developed to the point where they bear no resemblance to the scenes they were constructed to remember (such as big churches in densely populated cities like Nazareth), others are hopelessly under-developed, failing to help the pilgrim get to the site or understand what it is they are looking at (such as there lack of an established path to use to walk up &/or down the mount of transfiguration) … rarely does the balance seem right.






Having just finished reading the sermon on the mount – on the mount – and reflecting on Jesus' dislike of hypocrisy & instructions to love your enemies, I opened my eyes and was confronted by the appearance of members of the US army in the church; the ironic situation produced an initial (internal) reaction that contradicted all I would have otherwise believed I had just assimilated.




Below is a shot of the biggest room we booked to sleep in while in the Holy Lands; it's the sports hall of a Jewish Kibbutz in Galilee.


I was happy not to be sleeping in the car again (which is standard practice when you spend your accommodation allowance on hiring a car), and Malcs & ‘Ness were pleased not have to pitch the tent (which they claimed wasn't big enough for three - which I thought was a poor excuse providing poor cover for their non-inclusive activities).





Communicating with your niece in the 21st Century requires a decent degree of technological savvy – knowing how quickly the young learn to work electronic gadgets & how they prefer to interact – I’m not sure it would be any different if I were just down the road rather than half a world away.

(This is one of my favourite photos of all time, which I only thought to take because I couldn't find the appropriate button in the skype program - another example of the importance/significance of accidents.)



Malcolm and I turned our blind eyes toward the sign that forbade casual swimming in the River Jordon and joined those that were being baptised (on mass) in the holy waters; It seemed no more irreverent an activity than some of the baptising techniques used by the Orthodox Priests (who spent as much time splashing one another (pool-party style) as they did dunking the candidates three times each (which they did with much enthusiasm).


It was quite nice and even refreshing to see the old solemn rite performed with so much joy; the light white gowns on the elderly ladies produced sights that were not nice (actually they were quite disturbing).


The plan was to get Malcolm (a man of the cloth) to fake-baptise me if we drew the unwanted attention of the river officials to ourselves, which we nearly did while trying to re-enact the surfacing of Jesus after his baptism. (Macolm maintained his composure and nailed the shot, in the same moment I lost my nerve and reached for a significant event that came much later in the life of the Christ than baptism.)




Taking the task of walking in Jesus’ footsteps too literally can lead you to some strange and slippery places – like the Sea of Galilee.




I try and clean myself up before crossing international borders (no point looking more unemployed and in need of work as drug mule than I actually am) which usually means putting on my cleanest clothes and having a shave for the first time in many days.

(This would definitely rate as one of my all time favourite shaves, my first in sunglasses and my first having softened my bristles up in the Sea that Jesus walked on.)


And so my time in The Holy Lands ended, in much similar fashion to the way it began – sitting under a setting sun with my backpack, waiting for a vehicle.


I certainly didn’t get to everything while in the area, I left many significant activities undone and places unseen, as you must if you want to have good reason to return.

14 April 2009

Act 4 :: Scene 2 | Holy Lands :: Jerusalem (Holy Week)


My initial entry into the old city of Jerusalem came ahead of schedule thanks to the university which insisted on shouting me a weekend there between my two teaching weeks; Before entering the city through the Damascus Gate, in order to heighten the sense of occasion, I stopped to read the story recorded in the Bible whereby Jesus enters the city through the same gate and promptly heals a paralytic man.


(Not long after passing through the gate I was myself confronted by a crippled beggar, in a bit of fluster I offered him some of the nuts/seeds I had in my hand. We both seemed well pleased with the outcome of the exchange. It only occurred to me much much later that I should have tried to heal him. The following day, while re-entering the old city, I saw him getting about a prosthetic leg that was nowhere to be seen the day before.)


With three major faiths all laying claim to one small city with narrow cobbled-stone streets (the Muslim claim being by far the most tenuous), the chances of getting caught in traffic are high. (During my stay I was caught in: a Muslim crush (post-Friday prayers); a Jewish crush (pre-Passover celebrations); and two Christian crush events (Palm Sunday & walking 'the Stations of the Cross' on Good Friday. The Jewish mob was the most unpleasant, at one point I had to pull a couple of young Jews out of dangers way to safer space).




Different faiths have different regulations for right conduct in sacred spaces; in one building I was ordered to remove my cap (in the upstairs room that Christians commemorate Jesus’ last supper) and then directed to put my hat back on in the room directly below (a Jewish synagogue built around the tomb of David). (I also discovered while in a Muslim area that you can cause offence by merely changing the number of layers you are wearing while in public (less & more).)



There is a fourth (major) religion that is clearly visible on the streets (and around the holy sites) of Jerusalem - as the following photographs prove.






The weirdest encounter of the week was with a school kid just outside the Dome of the Rock (the Muslim Holy Site in the old city) who had a plastic gun that he kept shooting me with (at point blank range). (I would love to have known what he was saying as he wasted my Western ass over and over again.)


Walking alone though a tourist zone with a map marks you out as a walking-talking-ATM for locals in the tourism trade. (The 'helpful man' below didn’t actually tell me that he was a professional tour guide until we were well into the private tour; I gave him roughly a tenth of what he initially wanted for his services, and bought him a coffee so he could finish telling me about his life).




Malcolm - an ex-flatmate (who left me for a girl (like so many other flatmates before him)) – and his wife Vanessa joined me in Jerusalem, we were to be pilgrims together for the ensuing three weeks.






Before coming to Jerusalem I highly recommend spending 15 minutes investigating the difference between 'venerating' and 'worshipping.' (It will help you sort out the superstition from the genuine devotion, there being much of both in the old city).


Below is my evangelical attempt to fit in with the local custom of the orthodox pilgrims (whereby they rub objects - often their own body parts - on holy places so as to invest those things with good vibes).


(It was a compromise, I confess.)



For all those Christians struggling to read their Bibles, I highly recommend you try reading the biblical accounts of historic events in the exact same place - or at least a place very near the exact same place, or at the very least, a place somewhat like the exact same place (which was enough for me) - as a strategy to increase interest and motivation. (It is better again to read the accounts at the same time that they are remembered in the Christian calendar. See if you can pick the story, place, and time in the photographs below.)





Expecting to find Jerusalem and its surrounds in the same state as described in the Bible is akin to hoping to find a highly desirable 2000 year old virgin; she’s been more than a bit touched up by many violent menfolk since the time of Jesus.


I managed to avoid the strong temptation to buy another cross pendant from the many sales outlets in Jerusalem. Only because I purchased one before I left with which I am well pleased, let me tell you all about it.


The cross that I choose to bear is made from a section of a bottle top; it holds significance for me for at least three reasons:

1. Being recycled, or better yet – renewed – it reminds me of the great Christian hope that I hold for the renewal of the world; I long for the day when God will finally take what could be construed as rubbish and rework it into something of great beauty (my life included) – which the Bible calls the New Creation.

2. Being transparent, it reminds me of the need I have as a Christian to be open & honest about my faith experiences (the bad with the good, the failures in addition to the successes, the problems alongside the answers).

3. Being a part of a bottle, it reminds me that - just like an open bottle in the ocean - I can be ‘in Christ’ at the same time as He is in me (which reminds me just how close to God I am because of Jesus and the mysterious workings of His Spirit).




Travelling independently, without the assistance of tours and guides, certainly makes getting from A(D) to B(C) more difficult, but often allows you the chance to see the holy sites without the presence of a crowd. (And every now and again, you can even get the site all to yourself, sometimes at very unexpected times – like the garden of Gethsemane late on Maundy Thursday.)


A highlight of the week was the dawn service at the garden tomb on Resurrection Sunday. (Staring at the hole in the rock that Jesus Christ might well have stepped out of all those years ago, while singing songs about the resurrection, and its incredible consequences, in the company of Christian brothers and sisters from all over the world, brought forth many tears from these blessed eyes of mine.)


The whole week highlighted the glory of the Universal Church; hearing the streets of Jerusalem filled with the worship of pilgrims from so many different churches and nations around the world - hearing familiar songs in foreign languages and foreign songs sung with familiar devotion – and knowing that all of us were drawn to the same place by the same man, Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, made the oneness of those who believe and the capacity of the Christian faith to unify people from very different contexts appear both very tangible and attractive.

04 April 2009

Act 4 :: Scene 1 | Holy Lands :: Nablus (West Bank)

After 40 hours of travel - which included: i) a mad dash into Bangkok to buy electronic goods (including my first apple anything) during a very short stop-over; ii) a long night spent waiting for airport employees in the Mumbai airport; iii) four hours of waiting to be asked the same questions by different officials working for different Israeli departments at the Jordon-Israel border crossing; iv) and several expensive phone calls made from other travellers phones - I discovered that the driver sent from the University to collect me was at the other Hussein border crossing an hour up the highway (where I was told to cross so that I wouldn't be given such a hard time by the Israeli immigration departments). (Mind you, if you must be interrogated at an international border after many hours of travel, I highly recommend being questioned by young Israeli girls with incredible eyes.)


In order to prevent the complete removal of all semblance of femininity from the entire female population – who are required to spend two years of their youth serving the State – their uniforms have been modified so as to include hipster pants and fitted shirts. (I'm not convinced that their hand bags are 'standard issue' either.)


On the way to the university I saw a sandstorm, camels, a flock of sheep with a shepherdess, the Dead Sea, olive groves and checkpoints. (Only one of those items did I fail to recognise from the pages of the Bible.)




My first stint of volunteer work was with the An Najal Univerisity in Nablus. (It is the same place that is called 'Shechem' in the Bible, which – low and behold – was also the first place Abraham chose to dwell after entering the promised lands (Genesis 12:6); yet another unexpected parallel - this is getting positively spooky).


I had vastly overestimated the size of the teaching staff in the school of optometry (which was established just five years ago (there is only one fully qualified optometry lecturer for the 80 students spread across 4 years, who is only available to the department a few days each week because of all the other responsibilities she has within the university)) and grossly underestimated how much help they were expecting from me while I was present; As such, I was quite surprised to be met on my first morning, having just made my way past a class of students waiting noisily in the corridor, with the question "what will you be lecturing the students on today Dr Luke?" (For the next two weeks I scrambled my way through two lectures and a practical session each day).



The optometry students either really liked me, or were told that they would be failed if they didn’t treat me like royalty. (It probably helped that I was their first foreign teacher (and that the large majority of students were young and female; I think the other students around the campus thought I was was the worst disguised undercover cop they had seen since the late episodes of 21 Jump Street; I was the only fair skinned male on the premises which singled me out for much attention, especially from the security men at the gate each morning.)


The students were keen to learn but even more eager to take me out during lunch breaks and after class to eat their favourite foods in their favourite places, and to play their favourite sports; They were all very generous to me and I missed them very much when my two weeks were finished.




I was given gifts (lunch everyday, tours, even a farewell party) after being in their lives for less than two weeks.



One of the saddest things I heard while teaching in the University was the students telling me how they hoped that someday they would be able to visit Jerusalem in response to learning that I was going to spend the weekend there. (I live about as far away from Jerusalem as you can get and have no familial links to the land, they live less than a days walk away from the place which their ancestors possessed for hundreds of years, and yet they are denied access at the check point(s) that I do not even have to queue at - it’s all messed up.)



If the best thing about the university was the students, the same can be said for the accommodation I was provided with, which came with an excellent set of flatmates.



Zafer is the university president's right hand man, and a budding theologian of all the Abrahamic religions, who intends to use his considerable abilities to fascilitate further understanding, respect, and ultimately peace in the Middle East. (He is a remarkable individual who assured me he has just the one sin, that being his weekly dose of hubbly bubbly; My one failing is that I am too easily led into the failings of all those I meet and befriend).


I hope that when I am this man’s age I am still looking for ways that I can make the world a better place like Chris – a retired teacher from England who is teaching English to the Palestinians – is presently doing. (Inspiring stamina.)


This is Steve Royl (as in the royal family) one of the international relations team who looked after me so well; He is a top bloke who loves to talk about matters of importance (which, of course, includes international sporting fixtures) and to eat lots of good food (of which there is no shortage in Palestine).


Finally, this is Dr Akram, another man I greatly admire; He is a highly motivated Ophthalmologist who has stuck his neck out in order to see: i) the profession of optometry established in Palestine (by teaching in the university); and ii) fellow Palestinians in his home town (of 1 million people) granted access to public eye care through the establishment of an eye department in the Hebron public hospital.


All the Palestinians that I met were remarkably gracious, hospitable and resilient. (And very Godly.)

It was wonderful to be able to embody the sympathy I have for the Palestinian people and give expression to that concern in such a practical manner (which really should come easily for someone like me who has two degrees that both contain the word ‘practical’ in the title).

My hope that the Palestinians would recognise my coming, as a committed Christian and foreigner (an Australian even!), as being an act of solidarity with them in the current plight was confirmed as fulfilled in the email that I received from one of the students just days after leaving:
‘… thank you, you came from very far place to help us and you exposed yourself to risk when you came to palestine’.