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).

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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).

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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.)

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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.)

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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.

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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.

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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).

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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.)

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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.)

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

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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.)

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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.