My time here is coming to an end and my heart breaks. It is my prayer that I can take some of this profound peace, profound stillness, and profound sense of connection back in with me upon my return. I need to be able to visit that God place when the insanity of the details threatens to overwhelm me. I cry, I cry, I cry. Someone says that I’m like a tap and I am hurt – it is a gift for me to worship and be IN the worship rather than leading it. We are at Abu Gosh – the site of Emmaus where Jesus meets us where we are – and I am overwhelmed with emotion.
I wander through the Old City through the Jaffa Gate and pick up a few last minute items with Carol and Doug. I am cursed by a shop keeper for saying to Carol that what he was offering was not what she wanted. I am blessed by the fellowship of my companions on this journey. I rush through the city, out the Damascus gate and up Sallah Edin street to the College. Alas, my rushing is in vain because once again I have missed one last meeting with Khalil. This time though, I am disappointed but not sad. I sit in the College and write him a letter telling him that we are not meant to say good-bye and that I will be back again. It is my every intention to collect enough Air Miles and save enough money to bring my family to this place that I love, that owns a piece of my heart.
Of all the places I have been – from Jerusalem to Nazareth, from the Sea of Galilee to the top of Mount Sinai, I cannot pick the best. God is in all of these places and the gift of Jesus journey is literally around every corner, in each rock and drop of water. The stories of Jesus preaching in the Temple come alive on the Temple Mount, Jesus healing a cripple is vivid at the entrance to Bethesda pools. The teaching of the Beatitudes echo in my ears on the shores of the Sea of Galilee and Jesus reaching out to his disciples and telling them to have faith seems in the present while on the lake. Abraham and Sarah’s journey seems so much more real when we stand at the gates they would have entered some 4000 years ago and the struggle of Moses in the desert takes on a life on its own as we slept in the desert.
As we leave, we leave behind the people of this land in its current state but we take with us their stories, the ones of joy and the ones of sorrow. In each of us 32 pilgrims that have journeyed together we take a piece of this place back with us. It is up to us to carry the Fifth Gospel with us – the Land in which our scriptures come to life. We have a responsibility to share the beauty, the sorrow, the stories and the gift of this place with those in our lives that remained behind so that we might be here. What a gift it has been.
Tonight after dinner we will nap for a while and get the wakeup call at 12:30 in the morning. We will board the bus and travel to Tel Aviv to board our flight home to Alberta. And at the request of a few in our group we will sing one more time the song which I learned four years ago before we depart.
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
God gave to the world, ten measures of beauty, nine to Jerusalem, one to the rest.
God gave to the world, ten measures of beauty, nine to Jerusalem, one to the rest.
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
God gave to the world, ten measures of sorrow, nine to Jerusalem, one to the rest.
God gave to the world, ten measures of sorrow, nine to Jerusalem, one to the rest
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
You may greet your neighbour with the word Shalom, you may greet them with Selah.
You may greet your neighbour with the word Shalom, you may greet them with Selah
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
Pray for the Peace, pray for the peace, pray for the peace of Jerusalem.
Amen.
Showing posts with label Pilgrimage 2009. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pilgrimage 2009. Show all posts
Monday, May 18, 2009
Turning 40
On Friday evening at the resort in Nuweiba I take the time to think about my life in my 30’s. I have been so blessed – not to be confused with having been easy – and so much in my life has changed. I had just turned 30 when Tyler joined us – a wonderful addition to Wesley who was already 18 months and Drake was 7.
I was 31 when I made enough time to hear God call my name for ministry. What seemed like insanity at the time now feels as if I finally live in my own skin. Those years of university are all a haze with two young boys in Hamilton while I struggled with a full time course load in Toronto. I often chose to quit but every time God would find me in a quiet place and call my name again.
In 2005 my trip to Jerusalem with St. George’s College changed everything for me. This place, this land, these people call to me and own a piece of my heart. As graduation approached a meeting with Barry Foster changed the course of my life again and out to Calgary we came. Trusting God, truly trusting God, sometimes means jumping in knowing that Gods grace will sustain you.
We settled in, barely getting by but receiving such love and support (emotional, spiritual and financial) from people that we barely knew. Ordination, ministering, ordination and priesthood, and it seems that I had accomplished the goals that God set out for me some 10 years before. My children flourish, my husband finds his groove, my mother completes our extended family unit and I know that I have been blessed.
I sit on the beach in this resort watching the sun grow dim in the sky and say good-bye to my thirties. They were great so my forties can only be better.
I am in Egypt when the sun dawns on my 40th birthday. My fellow pilgrims embarrass me by singing happy birthday in the restaurant. I feel so blessed. Security stops and border crossings and suddenly we are back in Jerusalem and I am home. A phone call home after five days in the desert to catch up with my family, an intimate dinner with Irene ( a new friend ) and Jill ( an old friend ) and I have had the most perfect, perfect birthday I could have every wished for.
Thank God from whom all blessings flow....
I was 31 when I made enough time to hear God call my name for ministry. What seemed like insanity at the time now feels as if I finally live in my own skin. Those years of university are all a haze with two young boys in Hamilton while I struggled with a full time course load in Toronto. I often chose to quit but every time God would find me in a quiet place and call my name again.
In 2005 my trip to Jerusalem with St. George’s College changed everything for me. This place, this land, these people call to me and own a piece of my heart. As graduation approached a meeting with Barry Foster changed the course of my life again and out to Calgary we came. Trusting God, truly trusting God, sometimes means jumping in knowing that Gods grace will sustain you.
We settled in, barely getting by but receiving such love and support (emotional, spiritual and financial) from people that we barely knew. Ordination, ministering, ordination and priesthood, and it seems that I had accomplished the goals that God set out for me some 10 years before. My children flourish, my husband finds his groove, my mother completes our extended family unit and I know that I have been blessed.
I sit on the beach in this resort watching the sun grow dim in the sky and say good-bye to my thirties. They were great so my forties can only be better.
I am in Egypt when the sun dawns on my 40th birthday. My fellow pilgrims embarrass me by singing happy birthday in the restaurant. I feel so blessed. Security stops and border crossings and suddenly we are back in Jerusalem and I am home. A phone call home after five days in the desert to catch up with my family, an intimate dinner with Irene ( a new friend ) and Jill ( an old friend ) and I have had the most perfect, perfect birthday I could have every wished for.
Thank God from whom all blessings flow....
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Journey up Mount Sinai
We are at Nuweiba Resort and diving centre – our first unscheduled day in the program and we are already 17 days in. Breakfast any time between 7 & 10, lunch between 1 & 3. Astonishing. We can just show up. We’re like 32 lost souls wandering around waiting to be told what to do as if we’d all lost our ability to make our own decisions.
Our night in the desert on the hard ground, the cold wind blowing sand in our faces seems like a lifetime ago. We’re all grateful – especially the ladies – for the porcelain toilets instead of ladies on the right of the rock and men on the left – and matches for the toilet paper. The silence of God’s Cathedral and the bright light of the night sky against the blackest backdrop – only three nights ago but another lifetime in my memory.
From the desert we went to St. Catherine’s monastery at the foot of Mount Sinai. The mountains in the Sinai desert are so different from the Judean. The Sinai is mountains of rock where as the Judean looks like mounds of sand. We had hiked a lot during the day in the forty degree heat so after having not really slept during out night in the “ten thousand stars hotel” the accommodations seemed five star when they were really only two – and one was for the location. To bed early and sleep came easily in preparation for the 3 AM wake up knock on the door.
Those of us who had chosen to make the trek up the mountain gathered in the courtyard at 3:30 AM to go to our camels. We were bundled up against the cold – 2 pairs of pants, 2 shirts, one hoodie, one jacket and one Bedouin Kaifa. There was silence mixed with nervous laughter as we walked the 50 metres to where the camel drivers waited. They negotiate and one by one they take us by the hand and guide us to our camel that will be our companion for the next hour and twenty minutes. Getting on the camel that is lying down was not too hard but there is no warning when the stand up and you are thrust forward sure that your nose will soon meet the ground. And then suddenly you’re up on the this magnificent beast with the safety of the earth far below.
There are no stirrups for your feet so the challenge is what to do with your legs. The moon is high in the sky so the shadows are long and the only sound is the drivers who walk along beside chatting to one another. Thankfully someone had told me that you could wrap your legs over the camels neck – my right one goes up easily but I have to lift my left with my hand. I can feel the strong shoulder muscles of my camel moving beneath my ankles. For part of the ride I bend my knees backward as if I’m riding a horse bareback – anything for a change of position – and there I feel the power of this beasts hips moving slowly, slowly with each step.
Although we are moving slowly up the mountain it is clear that my camel is used to being in the lead and we pass any who dare to go in front. My driver drops away almost immediately so I am on my own and my view is unobstructed. We meet empty camels with drivers coming down the mountains that click and cluck at my camel so he speeds up. I am afraid to make a sound in case I accidentally tell him to start to gallop. The front horn of the saddle digs into my diaphragm and my near empty pack feels heavy on my shoulders but as the temperature drops and we rise in altitude I am elated that I am here – doing something that I didn’t think I’d be able to do. Not for the first time on this trip I give thanks for the pharmaceuticals that made this possible.
When we arrive at the top my camel enters the “parking lot” and immediately sits down before a picture can be taken. He turns his head towards me and growls and snorts to clarify in no uncertain terms that the ride is over. My legs feel like jelly and I have to get a driver to lift me down. We go through a pass in the rock and enter a tea house to eat our bagged breakfast. The owner has to wake the guides who are sleeping on the benches under thick wool blankets. Most of us realize that our legs are shaking too much to hold them together to create a stable lap to unpack our breakfast.
Out we go to watch the sunrise and prepare the Eucharist. Ronda had decided not to travel up the mountain so I was able to take her place and assist Betty Piowar at the service. It was very meaningful for both of us as Betty lead my pre-ordination retreat in 2007. Surely we shocked some of the Eastern Europeans – not that there was a Eucharist but that there were two women presiding. There was music and prayers and a profound sense of the magnitude of where we were. When Betty and I consumed the remaining bread at the end (a very crumbly bun) we decided that we were on sacred ground and let the crumbs fly.
Some chose to continue up the remaining 800 or so steps to the summit but I knew that even with pharmaceutical assistance my hip would never make it. We see at a point just below there is an oasis – unusual at this altitude. One of the reasons that this is thought to be the place where Moses received the Ten Commandments on the Mount of Sinai is because of this oasis. He could have sustained himself for a long time up here by himself with the precious gift of water so unusual in the desert. We did not find any more commandments while we were there so we began our descent.
Dean Houghton and I maintained a good steady pace on the trek down. As camels and their drivers passed and asked if I wanted a ride down my legs screamed out “No!” About two thirds of the way down I became aware of my hip and as we had our first sighting of the monastery I was sure that I couldn’t take one more step. But I did, one foot in front of the other, and I was elated beyond belief. I celebrated with Doug with a beer at 9:00AM but considering all that we had done since 3:00AM when we woke it seemed appropriate.
I must ask for the details of St. Catherine’s monastery again. At the time we went through the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. I recall being really impressed by how the conquering Muslims dealt with this place and allowed the monks to stay and the for the Christians to remain. At some point they built a Mosque within its walls – a minaret for all to see – and charging armies would not attack. Very clever indeed. It was one of the only churches (Greek Orthodox, incidentally) that they did not allow visitors to take picture and no talking was allowed. Even with the hundreds of tourists that travelled through every day the monks were able to maintain a prayerful space amidst the insanity.
I sleep on the bus between the monastery and the resort at Nuweiba. We are on the shores of the sea of Abaca and even though the internet is down and I can’t make a phone call to Canada it is nice to rest, if only for a day.
Our night in the desert on the hard ground, the cold wind blowing sand in our faces seems like a lifetime ago. We’re all grateful – especially the ladies – for the porcelain toilets instead of ladies on the right of the rock and men on the left – and matches for the toilet paper. The silence of God’s Cathedral and the bright light of the night sky against the blackest backdrop – only three nights ago but another lifetime in my memory.
From the desert we went to St. Catherine’s monastery at the foot of Mount Sinai. The mountains in the Sinai desert are so different from the Judean. The Sinai is mountains of rock where as the Judean looks like mounds of sand. We had hiked a lot during the day in the forty degree heat so after having not really slept during out night in the “ten thousand stars hotel” the accommodations seemed five star when they were really only two – and one was for the location. To bed early and sleep came easily in preparation for the 3 AM wake up knock on the door.
Those of us who had chosen to make the trek up the mountain gathered in the courtyard at 3:30 AM to go to our camels. We were bundled up against the cold – 2 pairs of pants, 2 shirts, one hoodie, one jacket and one Bedouin Kaifa. There was silence mixed with nervous laughter as we walked the 50 metres to where the camel drivers waited. They negotiate and one by one they take us by the hand and guide us to our camel that will be our companion for the next hour and twenty minutes. Getting on the camel that is lying down was not too hard but there is no warning when the stand up and you are thrust forward sure that your nose will soon meet the ground. And then suddenly you’re up on the this magnificent beast with the safety of the earth far below.
There are no stirrups for your feet so the challenge is what to do with your legs. The moon is high in the sky so the shadows are long and the only sound is the drivers who walk along beside chatting to one another. Thankfully someone had told me that you could wrap your legs over the camels neck – my right one goes up easily but I have to lift my left with my hand. I can feel the strong shoulder muscles of my camel moving beneath my ankles. For part of the ride I bend my knees backward as if I’m riding a horse bareback – anything for a change of position – and there I feel the power of this beasts hips moving slowly, slowly with each step.
Although we are moving slowly up the mountain it is clear that my camel is used to being in the lead and we pass any who dare to go in front. My driver drops away almost immediately so I am on my own and my view is unobstructed. We meet empty camels with drivers coming down the mountains that click and cluck at my camel so he speeds up. I am afraid to make a sound in case I accidentally tell him to start to gallop. The front horn of the saddle digs into my diaphragm and my near empty pack feels heavy on my shoulders but as the temperature drops and we rise in altitude I am elated that I am here – doing something that I didn’t think I’d be able to do. Not for the first time on this trip I give thanks for the pharmaceuticals that made this possible.
When we arrive at the top my camel enters the “parking lot” and immediately sits down before a picture can be taken. He turns his head towards me and growls and snorts to clarify in no uncertain terms that the ride is over. My legs feel like jelly and I have to get a driver to lift me down. We go through a pass in the rock and enter a tea house to eat our bagged breakfast. The owner has to wake the guides who are sleeping on the benches under thick wool blankets. Most of us realize that our legs are shaking too much to hold them together to create a stable lap to unpack our breakfast.
Out we go to watch the sunrise and prepare the Eucharist. Ronda had decided not to travel up the mountain so I was able to take her place and assist Betty Piowar at the service. It was very meaningful for both of us as Betty lead my pre-ordination retreat in 2007. Surely we shocked some of the Eastern Europeans – not that there was a Eucharist but that there were two women presiding. There was music and prayers and a profound sense of the magnitude of where we were. When Betty and I consumed the remaining bread at the end (a very crumbly bun) we decided that we were on sacred ground and let the crumbs fly.
Some chose to continue up the remaining 800 or so steps to the summit but I knew that even with pharmaceutical assistance my hip would never make it. We see at a point just below there is an oasis – unusual at this altitude. One of the reasons that this is thought to be the place where Moses received the Ten Commandments on the Mount of Sinai is because of this oasis. He could have sustained himself for a long time up here by himself with the precious gift of water so unusual in the desert. We did not find any more commandments while we were there so we began our descent.
Dean Houghton and I maintained a good steady pace on the trek down. As camels and their drivers passed and asked if I wanted a ride down my legs screamed out “No!” About two thirds of the way down I became aware of my hip and as we had our first sighting of the monastery I was sure that I couldn’t take one more step. But I did, one foot in front of the other, and I was elated beyond belief. I celebrated with Doug with a beer at 9:00AM but considering all that we had done since 3:00AM when we woke it seemed appropriate.
I must ask for the details of St. Catherine’s monastery again. At the time we went through the exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. I recall being really impressed by how the conquering Muslims dealt with this place and allowed the monks to stay and the for the Christians to remain. At some point they built a Mosque within its walls – a minaret for all to see – and charging armies would not attack. Very clever indeed. It was one of the only churches (Greek Orthodox, incidentally) that they did not allow visitors to take picture and no talking was allowed. Even with the hundreds of tourists that travelled through every day the monks were able to maintain a prayerful space amidst the insanity.
I sleep on the bus between the monastery and the resort at Nuweiba. We are on the shores of the sea of Abaca and even though the internet is down and I can’t make a phone call to Canada it is nice to rest, if only for a day.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The Desert
The Desert
It is difficult not to wax poetic while in God’s own Cathedral. Even waking up throughout the night because the pain from sleeping on the hard sand seems worth it if only to stare at the stars and watch the moon as it moves across the sky. The profound silence and absolute stillness surrounds you like an embrace and surely the wind is God’s own breath.
In Nuweiba when we dropped off the few people who were not able to make this part of the journey when I said “surely God can find me here” I knew that I was being called further into the wilderness. Throughout the bible Moses, Jacob, John the Baptist and Jesus himself were called INTO the wilderness – not out. Perhaps that is because in this place, in God’s own Cathedral, one is commended to go IN to ones self. There are no distractions here, no clocks, no alarms, no phones, no computers and no one asks anything of me – it is only God that greets me here even as I am surrounded by my fellow pilgrims and our Bedouin hosts. Come into the wilderness Tara, my child, my beloved, and I will meet you there.
The sun rises and begins to warm the rocks, illuminating the details not visible the night before. The wind that blows, the one that I protected myself against during the night, warms up with every passing moment. There is much to do, much to see, many more conversations to have and so the day begins with a new dawn.
We travel first up the mountain that has been our backdrop for the night. Rocks slip as your feet Passover and I am grateful for the poles that support me. At each summit a grander view of the magnificent barren landscape that lies unending before us. It is so empty and yet so full. We journey ever onward IN to the wilderness.
The oasis suddenly at the last turn, two palm trees on a mountain face. Acaba trees – only a few, but you know that there is water there. We hear about the make up of the mountain – sandstone on top of a harder rock at the foundation. Then we hear that at a certain place, water will flow if hit with a stick. Seems that we’ve heard that somewhere before. Things I’ve always understood as allegory now in this place become indisputable fact. Perhaps there is more to this book, these scriptures, than it first appears/.
Our Bedouin hosts make us tea and I visit our guide four desert excursion. He is kind and gentle as he generously answers questions about the culture, beliefs and daily life of the Bedouin. Once again we are blessed by amazing leadership.
We board the jeeps and take a harrowing ride through the desert – roads would be an overstatement. The challenge is to find shad in the mid-day sun. Again we’re in good hands. I go off by myself around the outcropping of rocks that surround us and find a quiet place. God will find me here.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem.
It is difficult not to wax poetic while in God’s own Cathedral. Even waking up throughout the night because the pain from sleeping on the hard sand seems worth it if only to stare at the stars and watch the moon as it moves across the sky. The profound silence and absolute stillness surrounds you like an embrace and surely the wind is God’s own breath.
In Nuweiba when we dropped off the few people who were not able to make this part of the journey when I said “surely God can find me here” I knew that I was being called further into the wilderness. Throughout the bible Moses, Jacob, John the Baptist and Jesus himself were called INTO the wilderness – not out. Perhaps that is because in this place, in God’s own Cathedral, one is commended to go IN to ones self. There are no distractions here, no clocks, no alarms, no phones, no computers and no one asks anything of me – it is only God that greets me here even as I am surrounded by my fellow pilgrims and our Bedouin hosts. Come into the wilderness Tara, my child, my beloved, and I will meet you there.
The sun rises and begins to warm the rocks, illuminating the details not visible the night before. The wind that blows, the one that I protected myself against during the night, warms up with every passing moment. There is much to do, much to see, many more conversations to have and so the day begins with a new dawn.
We travel first up the mountain that has been our backdrop for the night. Rocks slip as your feet Passover and I am grateful for the poles that support me. At each summit a grander view of the magnificent barren landscape that lies unending before us. It is so empty and yet so full. We journey ever onward IN to the wilderness.
The oasis suddenly at the last turn, two palm trees on a mountain face. Acaba trees – only a few, but you know that there is water there. We hear about the make up of the mountain – sandstone on top of a harder rock at the foundation. Then we hear that at a certain place, water will flow if hit with a stick. Seems that we’ve heard that somewhere before. Things I’ve always understood as allegory now in this place become indisputable fact. Perhaps there is more to this book, these scriptures, than it first appears/.
Our Bedouin hosts make us tea and I visit our guide four desert excursion. He is kind and gentle as he generously answers questions about the culture, beliefs and daily life of the Bedouin. Once again we are blessed by amazing leadership.
We board the jeeps and take a harrowing ride through the desert – roads would be an overstatement. The challenge is to find shad in the mid-day sun. Again we’re in good hands. I go off by myself around the outcropping of rocks that surround us and find a quiet place. God will find me here.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Finding God
Khalil, my Khalil. I take a taxi to St. George’s College on Monday morning. The driver doesn’t know where it is and by some miracle I am able to tell him. I arrive and hurry through the gates – my white privilege ensures that no one questions my being there – and ask at the desk for Khalil. I wait for a while and when I turn and he is there coming off of the elevator. I hug him and see that his face, his smile, has not changed a bit. We embrace and I cry then get coffee and go to the roof.
His life is no easier than when I last saw him four years ago. In fact it is harder – now he has to check out with the border guards at the end of his day before he boards the bus near the Damascus gates. But he joyfully shows me pictures of his daughter’s wedding – a lovely beaming bride who on that special day does not have to be fully covered, so her arms show and her hair is elaborate. She married a baker and they have two lovely daughters now. He speaks of his sons still living it home. “But I will always take care of them, as long as they need” says Khalil. There is much love in this family that still lives so close together in Bethany.
It is like no time has passes as he shares his cigarettes with me and insists on lighting them even though the wind is blowing fiercely on the roof. He echoes the sentiment of Yakir Englander from the day before – we do not want peace, we just want a life; to live. Time passes quickly and suddenly a whole hour is gone. He must get back to work but we make plans to see each other when I pass through Jerusalem in a few weeks – on my 40th birthday to be exact. I will see my friend again.
I then go to the Dean’s residence and visit with Jill. Again, it is like no time has passed. We catch up on each other’s lives, lament the state of Israel and try to solve all of the problems of the Middle East over lunch. She mentions something that I had not considered before. Some of the new settlers who come to Israel with promises of subsidized mortgages, good schooling and health care, are horrified to find out that the property that they live in was confiscated from the Palestinians. They will never meet the family from whom the house was taken but once they know this they try to sell it – only no one is buying anymore. Times are changing, people are changing. May be there is hope.
Jill walks me to the Garden of Gethsemane then takes her leave. I catch up with the group in this place, the place where Jesus asked his disciples to stay awake and pray. Can you not do this one thing for me, he asks? It puts me to thinking that I myself have been so busied with the tasks that seem to demand my attention that I, too, tire and fall asleep. In this place, in this garden, I can hear Jesus ask me, can you not do this one thing for me? I am humbled.
On Tuesday we go to the desert – the wilderness – where Jesus surely walked from the Jordan River, near the Dead Sea and up to Jerusalem. And it really is up – the Dead Sea is 400 metres below sea level and Jerusalem is 800 metres above. We sit at the top of Wadi Qelt and just sit in the silence. Even with the sound of military manoeuvres happening out of our sight the silence envelopes you. It is at once peaceful and terrifying, full and lonely. I can see the spot where we celebrated Eucharist the last time I was here – the moment that God came and met me in the desert – and I remember that God comes to find you in unexpected places. If is not in the Churches – the Nativity or Holy Seplecure – where the Eastern orthodoxy slightly offends my Western sensibilities. It is here, in this place, in the silence of the true wilderness, that I feel the presence of God.
God cannot be contained in an Arc, or in a Temple, or in a Church. God’s presence is surely there but it is not the only place where you can find Him. God is in the wilderness, a gentle hand reaching out and guiding you. God is in the people, the people who live hard lives and who want only to live a life. God is in the beauty that amazes and overwhelms you. I hope that God is also somehow working in the wall – the real wall in Israel that snakes through the desert and steals the sky – so that we might be reminded of our responsibility to see God in ALL of those people around us. I pray that God is in the wall.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem.
His life is no easier than when I last saw him four years ago. In fact it is harder – now he has to check out with the border guards at the end of his day before he boards the bus near the Damascus gates. But he joyfully shows me pictures of his daughter’s wedding – a lovely beaming bride who on that special day does not have to be fully covered, so her arms show and her hair is elaborate. She married a baker and they have two lovely daughters now. He speaks of his sons still living it home. “But I will always take care of them, as long as they need” says Khalil. There is much love in this family that still lives so close together in Bethany.
It is like no time has passes as he shares his cigarettes with me and insists on lighting them even though the wind is blowing fiercely on the roof. He echoes the sentiment of Yakir Englander from the day before – we do not want peace, we just want a life; to live. Time passes quickly and suddenly a whole hour is gone. He must get back to work but we make plans to see each other when I pass through Jerusalem in a few weeks – on my 40th birthday to be exact. I will see my friend again.
I then go to the Dean’s residence and visit with Jill. Again, it is like no time has passed. We catch up on each other’s lives, lament the state of Israel and try to solve all of the problems of the Middle East over lunch. She mentions something that I had not considered before. Some of the new settlers who come to Israel with promises of subsidized mortgages, good schooling and health care, are horrified to find out that the property that they live in was confiscated from the Palestinians. They will never meet the family from whom the house was taken but once they know this they try to sell it – only no one is buying anymore. Times are changing, people are changing. May be there is hope.
Jill walks me to the Garden of Gethsemane then takes her leave. I catch up with the group in this place, the place where Jesus asked his disciples to stay awake and pray. Can you not do this one thing for me, he asks? It puts me to thinking that I myself have been so busied with the tasks that seem to demand my attention that I, too, tire and fall asleep. In this place, in this garden, I can hear Jesus ask me, can you not do this one thing for me? I am humbled.
On Tuesday we go to the desert – the wilderness – where Jesus surely walked from the Jordan River, near the Dead Sea and up to Jerusalem. And it really is up – the Dead Sea is 400 metres below sea level and Jerusalem is 800 metres above. We sit at the top of Wadi Qelt and just sit in the silence. Even with the sound of military manoeuvres happening out of our sight the silence envelopes you. It is at once peaceful and terrifying, full and lonely. I can see the spot where we celebrated Eucharist the last time I was here – the moment that God came and met me in the desert – and I remember that God comes to find you in unexpected places. If is not in the Churches – the Nativity or Holy Seplecure – where the Eastern orthodoxy slightly offends my Western sensibilities. It is here, in this place, in the silence of the true wilderness, that I feel the presence of God.
God cannot be contained in an Arc, or in a Temple, or in a Church. God’s presence is surely there but it is not the only place where you can find Him. God is in the wilderness, a gentle hand reaching out and guiding you. God is in the people, the people who live hard lives and who want only to live a life. God is in the beauty that amazes and overwhelms you. I hope that God is also somehow working in the wall – the real wall in Israel that snakes through the desert and steals the sky – so that we might be reminded of our responsibility to see God in ALL of those people around us. I pray that God is in the wall.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Coming Home
Thankfully the day begins a little later. I am refreshed and well rested after having finally slept through the night until 6:30 – a record for me to be sure. I am once again in the garden – with a coffee and a cigarette – when a man comes up to me and gives me three freshly picked roses. All he says is welcome to Jerusalem. For some reason on this trip men want to give me flowers – between this guy and the steward on Lufthansa there seems to be a trend starting. We’ll see if I can keep it up!
We have our group picture taken and then board the bus to go to St. George’s Cathedral for worship at 9:30. As we fight through the traffic I catch a glimpse of the streets that I walked when I was here and then see the College – the entrance with the big metal gates and the garden that lies behind. We enter through the other side where the Church entrance is and again I am overwhelmed. We have some extra time so Richard takes us through to the garden of the College and I cry. This is where I came to heal. This is where I restored my soul with Psalm 139. O Lord you have searched me out and known me. I am home. This feels like home.
I see Tamir – the gatekeeper. He remembers me after a time. I am so delighted to see him again. Quickly we go into the College to have a quick look around and then after a few minutes in the garden we go to the service. It is an Arabic service – we are definitely the guests here. Richard tells us that in the 90’s when he was here there were maybe 100 people in the Arabic service but because of how difficult it is to travel into Jerusalem for so many Palestinian Christians the numbers have declined significantly. The service begins – our group responding in English, the rest of the congregation in Arabic. They read the Gospel in both languages and the presiding Bishop offers his sermon twice to include us all. The lovely cacophony of sound – the hymns sung in two languages, the creed in two languages – all at the same time. We are truly the one in the body of Christ. We sing – in two languages – the Church has made a true foundation – and that has never been truer than in this place. It is overwhelmingly beautiful and moving and I am grateful to Richard for not having us attend the later 11:00 service where only English is spoken.
At the end of the service I turn to see Jill, the wife of the Dean, the one who travelled with me on my last journey. I throw my arms around her and cry. I step back, look at her face and embrace her again. I am so delighted with this unexpected surprise – I didn’t think that she and Steven would be here in May – that again the memories come back but now they are the good memories; the memories of learning, of praying, of fellowship and of healing. We make plans to meet on Monday morning to catch up and she is gone.
I had decided not to participate in the afternoon program. I just needed some time away from the group and hustle and bustle and decided I’d rather spend it in the hustle and bustle of the market. Ronda (friend for years, Trinity grad and Priest in Medicine Hat) and I walk the familiar streets. For me it is memory lane and for her it is all new. It is great to see it through her eyes. We enter the Damascus gate where the first sign you see is still “money changer”. I love that irony.
The smells of the spices the sight of the crowded streets and the sounds of the people overwhelm our senses as we enter. I barter for a gift for a friend back home (but she’s not a forty sheckle friend, only a 30 sheckle friend....) and get into the rhythm of the game. We stop to have lunch at a cafe – wonderful food and good prices, although he assured me that it was the same price for tourists and locals which made me suspicious that that wasn’t true... – and watch the people. A woman comes with a massive package balanced carefully on her head. She calls out in Aramaic for help but before I figure out what she is asking someone else stops to help her take it down. She sets up on the ground with her freshly cut herbs to sell. Life must be unbearably hard for this woman – a woman forced to sell on the ground of the streets – and I realize that she must be a widow just trying to get by. I am struck by how little has changed since the time of Jesus. He asked us to look after the widows and orphans and here we are watching this old woman with an enormous weighted pack on her head – only the full strength of one’s body could bear it.
We continue down the street and Ronda enters into the game of bartering (but my daughter is in hospital and I must pay.... you would cheat an old man cough, cough). And I am home.
We go back to the hotel for some rest (I just ended up sewing for the afternoon – and I don’t sew!) and then back down to St. George’s College to hear our guest speaker. His name is Yakir Englander and he is with the Kids for Peace organization. Their mandate is to bring 10 Orthodox Jews, 10 Palestinian Christians and 10 Palestinian Muslims together. They meet together – for the first time. Those kinds of boundaries are not crossed here in Jerusalem. If not for this program they could go their whole lives and never have a conversation with the “other”.
“Others” loom large here. There is so little communication and so much misunderstanding. Everyone points their fingers and blames the “other” without knowing who that is. Yakir tells us of his escape from a Hasidic Jewish community where they only studied Torah – no math, no languages and certainly no world events. Because they studied all of the time they could not work so the state supported them. These are the orthodox of the orthodox. When he left he had to fulfil his commitment to join the Israeli army and was eventually asked to be in a special unit that dealt with dead bodies. Dead Jews, he said, look and smell exactly the same as dead Palestinians. Palestinian mothers, he said, cry and mourn in the same way as the Israeli mothers. Hmmm. May be “they” are not so different after all.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem!
We have our group picture taken and then board the bus to go to St. George’s Cathedral for worship at 9:30. As we fight through the traffic I catch a glimpse of the streets that I walked when I was here and then see the College – the entrance with the big metal gates and the garden that lies behind. We enter through the other side where the Church entrance is and again I am overwhelmed. We have some extra time so Richard takes us through to the garden of the College and I cry. This is where I came to heal. This is where I restored my soul with Psalm 139. O Lord you have searched me out and known me. I am home. This feels like home.
I see Tamir – the gatekeeper. He remembers me after a time. I am so delighted to see him again. Quickly we go into the College to have a quick look around and then after a few minutes in the garden we go to the service. It is an Arabic service – we are definitely the guests here. Richard tells us that in the 90’s when he was here there were maybe 100 people in the Arabic service but because of how difficult it is to travel into Jerusalem for so many Palestinian Christians the numbers have declined significantly. The service begins – our group responding in English, the rest of the congregation in Arabic. They read the Gospel in both languages and the presiding Bishop offers his sermon twice to include us all. The lovely cacophony of sound – the hymns sung in two languages, the creed in two languages – all at the same time. We are truly the one in the body of Christ. We sing – in two languages – the Church has made a true foundation – and that has never been truer than in this place. It is overwhelmingly beautiful and moving and I am grateful to Richard for not having us attend the later 11:00 service where only English is spoken.
At the end of the service I turn to see Jill, the wife of the Dean, the one who travelled with me on my last journey. I throw my arms around her and cry. I step back, look at her face and embrace her again. I am so delighted with this unexpected surprise – I didn’t think that she and Steven would be here in May – that again the memories come back but now they are the good memories; the memories of learning, of praying, of fellowship and of healing. We make plans to meet on Monday morning to catch up and she is gone.
I had decided not to participate in the afternoon program. I just needed some time away from the group and hustle and bustle and decided I’d rather spend it in the hustle and bustle of the market. Ronda (friend for years, Trinity grad and Priest in Medicine Hat) and I walk the familiar streets. For me it is memory lane and for her it is all new. It is great to see it through her eyes. We enter the Damascus gate where the first sign you see is still “money changer”. I love that irony.
The smells of the spices the sight of the crowded streets and the sounds of the people overwhelm our senses as we enter. I barter for a gift for a friend back home (but she’s not a forty sheckle friend, only a 30 sheckle friend....) and get into the rhythm of the game. We stop to have lunch at a cafe – wonderful food and good prices, although he assured me that it was the same price for tourists and locals which made me suspicious that that wasn’t true... – and watch the people. A woman comes with a massive package balanced carefully on her head. She calls out in Aramaic for help but before I figure out what she is asking someone else stops to help her take it down. She sets up on the ground with her freshly cut herbs to sell. Life must be unbearably hard for this woman – a woman forced to sell on the ground of the streets – and I realize that she must be a widow just trying to get by. I am struck by how little has changed since the time of Jesus. He asked us to look after the widows and orphans and here we are watching this old woman with an enormous weighted pack on her head – only the full strength of one’s body could bear it.
We continue down the street and Ronda enters into the game of bartering (but my daughter is in hospital and I must pay.... you would cheat an old man cough, cough). And I am home.
We go back to the hotel for some rest (I just ended up sewing for the afternoon – and I don’t sew!) and then back down to St. George’s College to hear our guest speaker. His name is Yakir Englander and he is with the Kids for Peace organization. Their mandate is to bring 10 Orthodox Jews, 10 Palestinian Christians and 10 Palestinian Muslims together. They meet together – for the first time. Those kinds of boundaries are not crossed here in Jerusalem. If not for this program they could go their whole lives and never have a conversation with the “other”.
“Others” loom large here. There is so little communication and so much misunderstanding. Everyone points their fingers and blames the “other” without knowing who that is. Yakir tells us of his escape from a Hasidic Jewish community where they only studied Torah – no math, no languages and certainly no world events. Because they studied all of the time they could not work so the state supported them. These are the orthodox of the orthodox. When he left he had to fulfil his commitment to join the Israeli army and was eventually asked to be in a special unit that dealt with dead bodies. Dead Jews, he said, look and smell exactly the same as dead Palestinians. Palestinian mothers, he said, cry and mourn in the same way as the Israeli mothers. Hmmm. May be “they” are not so different after all.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem!
Friday, May 1, 2009
The Traveling Day
The day begins early on Wednesday with one last re-pack and one more tearful good-bye with my boys. Buy some sheckles, call the accountant and suddenly I am at the airport. I am going to Jerusalem!
On our Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt we receive amazing service. I sit beside a lovely Romanian/Canadian gentlemen with whom I pass the time as the TV and audio sets in our few rows blew a fuse. For some reason a steward on this flight has taken a shine to me so he brings me an extra-large coffee cup – and then refills it from a silver tea service. Towards the end of the flight he makes sure to tell me that he has three days off coming up in Frankfurt and for some reason shows me his legs (something about this job keeping him in shape). He was so shamelessly flirting and I was so shamelessly laughing as my seat mate keeps saying “she’s a Priest! She’s a Priest”. Just before we disembark the steward brings me a lovely yellow flower in its very own vase and wishes me a pleasant journey.
In Frankfurt – the airport that goes on forever – we ready ourselves to go through Israeli security before boarding the plane. I did not have a good experience the last time so I was a bit nervous. I went into a smoking room – a glass enclosure – and met a man from Ottawa who said that we were like a side-show at a circus and we should charge people to stare at us smokers in a cage. When he found out where I was traveling to he threw his arms open and embraced me, kissing me once on each cheek. It was as if we were long lost friends coming together after a long absence. Originally from Egypt he told me of a play that he wrote in the 70’s that was too controversial to make it to the stage. In it a young enthusiastic new member of the UN entered a meeting and declared that all of the Jews had agreed to leave Israel in two weeks and needed help packing. “Hey you”, as he had introduced himself, insisted on it having been a comedy but I understand why it was not endorsed by anyone to get onto the stage! We laughed, shared stories and eventually solved all of the world’s problems over inhaling two cigarettes a piece. And suddenly he was off, with another embrace and two more kisses. It’s amazing who you can meet when you say hello.
Thankfully I make it easily through security after having been touched and frisked in places that only a husband should go. As I stood there with my arms spread facing the line up of people coming through after me I had some overwhelming compassion for the middle-aged nun standing nervously in line. I can only imagine what that kind of going over was like for her....
I doze and wake, doze and wake so by the time I arrive in Tel Aviv about twenty four hours after I left home I have only slept a total of may be an hour. Giddy with sleeplessness I board the awaiting bus to enter the land that has been calling to me since I left it four years ago. I am here and I am home.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem
The day begins early on Wednesday with one last re-pack and one more tearful good-bye with my boys. Buy some sheckles, call the accountant and suddenly I am at the airport. I am going to Jerusalem!
On our Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt we receive amazing service. I sit beside a lovely Romanian/Canadian gentlemen with whom I pass the time as the TV and audio sets in our few rows blew a fuse. For some reason a steward on this flight has taken a shine to me so he brings me an extra-large coffee cup – and then refills it from a silver tea service. Towards the end of the flight he makes sure to tell me that he has three days off coming up in Frankfurt and for some reason shows me his legs (something about this job keeping him in shape). He was so shamelessly flirting and I was so shamelessly laughing as my seat mate keeps saying “she’s a Priest! She’s a Priest”. Just before we disembark the steward brings me a lovely yellow flower in its very own vase and wishes me a pleasant journey.
In Frankfurt – the airport that goes on forever – we ready ourselves to go through Israeli security before boarding the plane. I did not have a good experience the last time so I was a bit nervous. I went into a smoking room – a glass enclosure – and met a man from Ottawa who said that we were like a side-show at a circus and we should charge people to stare at us smokers in a cage. When he found out where I was traveling to he threw his arms open and embraced me, kissing me once on each cheek. It was as if we were long lost friends coming together after a long absence. Originally from Egypt he told me of a play that he wrote in the 70’s that was too controversial to make it to the stage. In it a young enthusiastic new member of the UN entered a meeting and declared that all of the Jews had agreed to leave Israel in two weeks and needed help packing. “Hey you”, as he had introduced himself, insisted on it having been a comedy but I understand why it was not endorsed by anyone to get onto the stage! We laughed, shared stories and eventually solved all of the world’s problems over inhaling two cigarettes a piece. And suddenly he was off, with another embrace and two more kisses. It’s amazing who you can meet when you say hello.
Thankfully I make it easily through security after having been touched and frisked in places that only a husband should go. As I stood there with my arms spread facing the line up of people coming through after me I had some overwhelming compassion for the middle-aged nun standing nervously in line. I can only imagine what that kind of going over was like for her....
I doze and wake, doze and wake so by the time I arrive in Tel Aviv about twenty four hours after I left home I have only slept a total of may be an hour. Giddy with sleeplessness I board the awaiting bus to enter the land that has been calling to me since I left it four years ago. I am here and I am home.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
The Promised Land - 2005
The following reflection was written upon returning from Israel in 2005. It is my hope that I will be able to reconnect with Khalil, my friend, on this current Pilgrimage in 2009.
I have been to the promised land and I am forever changed. In the summer of 2005 I traveled to St. George’s College in Jerusalem to study Abraham, the father of three faiths. Me, Tara Livingston from a working class town traveled across the ocean and stood at the footsteps of history.
On my first day I entered the walled city of Old Jerusalem, three blocks from the college. I stood for a moment caught by the sight of the first great sign that I saw – “money changer”. I was not yet near the temple but the irony was not lost. I walked over the cobbled streets with its wet stones caught in a forever dampness that I’m sure never leaves – the sun does not penetrate through the crowded buildings. The smell of spices mixed with sweat as the people jostled and called out to one another to lure each passerby into checking out their wares. I imagine that this Jerusalem was not so different than the Jerusalem that Jesus entered in his youth.
All these many years later I can still recall the sights and sounds of the most foreign land that I have ever entered. I can still recall the people; oh the people. The Christian and Muslim Palestinians who worked at the college, kept on even during the intifada of years before. The Jews gathered at the Wailing Wall dressed in their Sunday best on Friday Sabbath. The Rabbi’s who were so gracious and kind in their words and their hospitality. The Palestinian Muslim named Abu Hani who gave us a tour of Hebron and invited us into his 700 year old home for coffee. Here too, you could feel the dampness permeate from the one metre square stones that framed his house even as the plaster fell silently into my coffee from the carefully painted ceiling.
I have been to the Promised Land and I have been forever changed. I, Tara Livingston, wife of Chris, mother of Wesley and Tyler followed the call to cross the ocean and touch the story of Christ in a way that is not possible anywhere else. I, Tara Livingston, walked in the footsteps of our Lord, waded into the water of the Sea of Galilee and floated on the Dead Sea where the minerals do not let you swim. I, daughter of Jim and Shirley, working class parents, travelled to follow God’s call.
Years after my first acknowledgement of my call to ministry I found myself travelling in the desert, sleeping under a goat hair canopy in the middle of a Bedouin camp looking up at the darkest sky I have ever seen – one filled with more stars than I ever imagined existed. I lay there in the desert smelling the cold snap of the air and listening to the snorting and braying of the camels chained near my tent and realized that it was in fact I, Tara Livingston, that was following the call of God, the voice in the desert calling to me as gently as a lullaby and as persistently as a baby’s cry.
After the course had ended, after my classmates had boarded their planes in Tel Aviv to return to the safety and sanity of the U.S., Britain and Australia, I booked a driver to take me to Bethlehem. I had missed the trip due to an illness during which I was ever so carefully nursed by Khalil, one of the gentlest men I know. Henry, the driver and Jill, the dean’s wife and I boarded the van and left for my one last adventure. By this time I was used the security stops; show your passport and ignore the guns pointed at the vehicle. By this time I was used to passing the wall, the real wall, the wall that towers 30 metres high and steals the sky. The real wall that separates the land that Jesus walked and prohibits free movement of all. I was used to the security and the scrutiny.
We entered a refugee camp called Deisha founded in 1948 after the first intifada by the United Nations. We entered an area filled with two floor apartments with no glass in the windows to fight against the cold night air. We encountered two little girls who, when they saw our camera’s, posed shyly for a picture. We encountered nothing green; nothing of the earth but stone and rubble. We encountered people some of whom were third generation resident’s who had never lived anywhere outside of the camp. Seeing the Muslim mosques and listening to the call to worship I asked, where are the Christians? Surely Christian Palestinians were sent here, too. Yes, I was told, but the churches from around the world raised money to get them out. Why are these people still here, I asked. Because there is no money to be raised because it might be for terrorism. Because these people have been forgotten by the world. Because love only danced around the edges of this place but could not make a home here.
I left this place a different person than who I was when I entered. I was inspired by their spirit, by their art, by their passion. I was saddened by the stories, by their tears, and by their passion. We drove to Bethlehem, to the oldest church in the world that has never been used as a Mosque. I saw the floor that was laid by the mother of Constantine, the great defender of Christianity. Surely I was in a Holy Place but my soul was troubled. Again we met the locals who told stories of being under curfew by the soldiers. They were forced to throw their garbage in the streets because there was nowhere else for it to go only to have it blown up by the soldiers in case there was a bomb hidden inside. And then the rats came. The distrust, the misconceptions, the lack of communication weighed heavily on my heart.
We left the city of Bethlehem having received some of the best of Palestinian hospitality. As we drove toward the next check point, the one that would take us back into the West Bank and Jerusalem, our driver suggested that we stop because of line up at the crossing. While we waited Jill and I took pictures of the graffiti on the wall; the real wall, the one that steals the sky. We noticed that there was another wall only metres away from the one we were next to. We looked for the reason that they would build them so close together and then we saw the well. The well of Rebecca, a Holy site and it was being enclosed by this new wall. We heard from the local street vendor that once the wall went up completely the Olive trees that surrounded it would never be harvested. We live in the desert, he said, whoever rules the water rules the world.
As we stood there talking to this man, as he told us about his life, six soldiers began running towards us with rifles, locked and loaded. The sound of their gear and their footsteps filled my head and I became aware of my heart beating and nothing else. They ran at us without seeing. At the last moment five of them moved to my right and only one continued his charge. For a moment that lasted forever our eyes met and I saw that he was terrified. I saw that he was scared and that what was missing was the anger that I would think it would take to run after people with guns. At the last moment he veered away from me – I was clearly not the target. There was shouting back and forth between the street vendor and a car parked across the street and the soldiers changed their course once again and snaked down beside the wall – the real wall, the one that steals the sky – that lead to another refugee camp just out of our vision. Conversation resumed. The sandwich guy began laughing at a joke from my driver and the vendor was trying to sell us his wares. My life was flashing before my eyes and he was trying to sell me a necklace. I looked at Jill and said that I had to leave. We crossed the checkpoint – the sound of the soldiers still ringing in my head – but this time the soldiers with their guns looked more menacing, more powerful than they had before.
And when we had passed through, I cried. I cried and cried until I could not speak. I cried because I was terrified, I cried because I was confused. I cried because I could not figure out who the bad guy was but I knew this place was bad. I cried because I was in the land of the between. Jerusalem, Israel, lies between Heaven and Earth, between the East and the West, between Jews and Muslims – between God and Peace.
I recovered in the garden at the college, a peaceful place. I read the Psalms and found only ones about petitions for God to spite thine enemy. I couldn’t tell who the enemy was. I then found Psalm 139.
O LORD, you have searched me
and you know me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3 You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
4 Before a word is on my tongue
you know it completely, O LORD.
5 You hem me in—behind and before;
you have laid your hand upon me.
The next day, the day after I had been profoundly changed by my experience at the Deisha camp and the wall, was to be my last day in the land of the between. Khalil, the chief cook and bottle washer at the college, the man who had nursed me through my illness, was to take me on my final journey through Jerusalem to see all of the things that I had missed – and to ride a camel at the top of the Mount of Olives.
Early that morning the phone rang in my room and I heard Khalil’s voice. I cannot come, he said, they have closed the wall and will not allow me through. I will try later, Tara, I am a man of my word. No, I reply through my tears, please do not put yourself at risk. Stay home and stay safe I tell him and with every breath by heart breaks a little more. Khalil tells me that he has something for me and tells me where to find it. We say our good-byes and I go upstairs to his closet in the laundry. In his trouser pocket there is a lighter. I lighter that I had admired and it is Khalil’s gift to me. They find me on the roof, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes just as Khalil and I had done every morning while we watched the sun rise. I cried and yelled and railed against the wall – the real wall in Israel, the wall that snakes through the desert and steals the sky. I railed against the humiliation that employees – citizens- had to endure every day just to make it to work. I railed against the fact that I, a white woman from the Western World had more rights in this country than people who had called it home for generations.
I did not know who the bad guy was. I could not point to the Jewish people and hold them responsible. Not the Jewish people that I had met that had greeted me with enthusiasm, love and hospitality. Not the people who had welcomed me into their synagogues and their homes. Surely not them. Certainly not the Palestinians, both Muslim and Christians, who sought peace through justice and dismissed violence as a way to freedom. Certainly not the young soldier whose eyes were filled with fear, not hate, as he ran toward me with his rifle ready.
The voices of generations before me rang in my head. “Tear down this wall” President Reagan said about the wall that separated East & West Germany. “Never again” the world cried out.
The wall that snakes through the desert landscape that reaches 30 metres high and steals the sky. The wall that does not allow for justice, the wall that does not allow for peace. The wall that represents the land of the between – Jerusalem, Israel, lies between Heaven and Earth, between the East and the West, between Jews and Muslims and between God and Peace. May be if we help Jerusalem find justice then the world may just find peace.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem.
I have been to the promised land and I am forever changed. In the summer of 2005 I traveled to St. George’s College in Jerusalem to study Abraham, the father of three faiths. Me, Tara Livingston from a working class town traveled across the ocean and stood at the footsteps of history.
On my first day I entered the walled city of Old Jerusalem, three blocks from the college. I stood for a moment caught by the sight of the first great sign that I saw – “money changer”. I was not yet near the temple but the irony was not lost. I walked over the cobbled streets with its wet stones caught in a forever dampness that I’m sure never leaves – the sun does not penetrate through the crowded buildings. The smell of spices mixed with sweat as the people jostled and called out to one another to lure each passerby into checking out their wares. I imagine that this Jerusalem was not so different than the Jerusalem that Jesus entered in his youth.
All these many years later I can still recall the sights and sounds of the most foreign land that I have ever entered. I can still recall the people; oh the people. The Christian and Muslim Palestinians who worked at the college, kept on even during the intifada of years before. The Jews gathered at the Wailing Wall dressed in their Sunday best on Friday Sabbath. The Rabbi’s who were so gracious and kind in their words and their hospitality. The Palestinian Muslim named Abu Hani who gave us a tour of Hebron and invited us into his 700 year old home for coffee. Here too, you could feel the dampness permeate from the one metre square stones that framed his house even as the plaster fell silently into my coffee from the carefully painted ceiling.
I have been to the Promised Land and I have been forever changed. I, Tara Livingston, wife of Chris, mother of Wesley and Tyler followed the call to cross the ocean and touch the story of Christ in a way that is not possible anywhere else. I, Tara Livingston, walked in the footsteps of our Lord, waded into the water of the Sea of Galilee and floated on the Dead Sea where the minerals do not let you swim. I, daughter of Jim and Shirley, working class parents, travelled to follow God’s call.
Years after my first acknowledgement of my call to ministry I found myself travelling in the desert, sleeping under a goat hair canopy in the middle of a Bedouin camp looking up at the darkest sky I have ever seen – one filled with more stars than I ever imagined existed. I lay there in the desert smelling the cold snap of the air and listening to the snorting and braying of the camels chained near my tent and realized that it was in fact I, Tara Livingston, that was following the call of God, the voice in the desert calling to me as gently as a lullaby and as persistently as a baby’s cry.
After the course had ended, after my classmates had boarded their planes in Tel Aviv to return to the safety and sanity of the U.S., Britain and Australia, I booked a driver to take me to Bethlehem. I had missed the trip due to an illness during which I was ever so carefully nursed by Khalil, one of the gentlest men I know. Henry, the driver and Jill, the dean’s wife and I boarded the van and left for my one last adventure. By this time I was used the security stops; show your passport and ignore the guns pointed at the vehicle. By this time I was used to passing the wall, the real wall, the wall that towers 30 metres high and steals the sky. The real wall that separates the land that Jesus walked and prohibits free movement of all. I was used to the security and the scrutiny.
We entered a refugee camp called Deisha founded in 1948 after the first intifada by the United Nations. We entered an area filled with two floor apartments with no glass in the windows to fight against the cold night air. We encountered two little girls who, when they saw our camera’s, posed shyly for a picture. We encountered nothing green; nothing of the earth but stone and rubble. We encountered people some of whom were third generation resident’s who had never lived anywhere outside of the camp. Seeing the Muslim mosques and listening to the call to worship I asked, where are the Christians? Surely Christian Palestinians were sent here, too. Yes, I was told, but the churches from around the world raised money to get them out. Why are these people still here, I asked. Because there is no money to be raised because it might be for terrorism. Because these people have been forgotten by the world. Because love only danced around the edges of this place but could not make a home here.
I left this place a different person than who I was when I entered. I was inspired by their spirit, by their art, by their passion. I was saddened by the stories, by their tears, and by their passion. We drove to Bethlehem, to the oldest church in the world that has never been used as a Mosque. I saw the floor that was laid by the mother of Constantine, the great defender of Christianity. Surely I was in a Holy Place but my soul was troubled. Again we met the locals who told stories of being under curfew by the soldiers. They were forced to throw their garbage in the streets because there was nowhere else for it to go only to have it blown up by the soldiers in case there was a bomb hidden inside. And then the rats came. The distrust, the misconceptions, the lack of communication weighed heavily on my heart.
We left the city of Bethlehem having received some of the best of Palestinian hospitality. As we drove toward the next check point, the one that would take us back into the West Bank and Jerusalem, our driver suggested that we stop because of line up at the crossing. While we waited Jill and I took pictures of the graffiti on the wall; the real wall, the one that steals the sky. We noticed that there was another wall only metres away from the one we were next to. We looked for the reason that they would build them so close together and then we saw the well. The well of Rebecca, a Holy site and it was being enclosed by this new wall. We heard from the local street vendor that once the wall went up completely the Olive trees that surrounded it would never be harvested. We live in the desert, he said, whoever rules the water rules the world.
As we stood there talking to this man, as he told us about his life, six soldiers began running towards us with rifles, locked and loaded. The sound of their gear and their footsteps filled my head and I became aware of my heart beating and nothing else. They ran at us without seeing. At the last moment five of them moved to my right and only one continued his charge. For a moment that lasted forever our eyes met and I saw that he was terrified. I saw that he was scared and that what was missing was the anger that I would think it would take to run after people with guns. At the last moment he veered away from me – I was clearly not the target. There was shouting back and forth between the street vendor and a car parked across the street and the soldiers changed their course once again and snaked down beside the wall – the real wall, the one that steals the sky – that lead to another refugee camp just out of our vision. Conversation resumed. The sandwich guy began laughing at a joke from my driver and the vendor was trying to sell us his wares. My life was flashing before my eyes and he was trying to sell me a necklace. I looked at Jill and said that I had to leave. We crossed the checkpoint – the sound of the soldiers still ringing in my head – but this time the soldiers with their guns looked more menacing, more powerful than they had before.
And when we had passed through, I cried. I cried and cried until I could not speak. I cried because I was terrified, I cried because I was confused. I cried because I could not figure out who the bad guy was but I knew this place was bad. I cried because I was in the land of the between. Jerusalem, Israel, lies between Heaven and Earth, between the East and the West, between Jews and Muslims – between God and Peace.
I recovered in the garden at the college, a peaceful place. I read the Psalms and found only ones about petitions for God to spite thine enemy. I couldn’t tell who the enemy was. I then found Psalm 139.
O LORD, you have searched me
and you know me.
2 You know when I sit and when I rise;
you perceive my thoughts from afar.
3 You discern my going out and my lying down;
you are familiar with all my ways.
4 Before a word is on my tongue
you know it completely, O LORD.
5 You hem me in—behind and before;
you have laid your hand upon me.
The next day, the day after I had been profoundly changed by my experience at the Deisha camp and the wall, was to be my last day in the land of the between. Khalil, the chief cook and bottle washer at the college, the man who had nursed me through my illness, was to take me on my final journey through Jerusalem to see all of the things that I had missed – and to ride a camel at the top of the Mount of Olives.
Early that morning the phone rang in my room and I heard Khalil’s voice. I cannot come, he said, they have closed the wall and will not allow me through. I will try later, Tara, I am a man of my word. No, I reply through my tears, please do not put yourself at risk. Stay home and stay safe I tell him and with every breath by heart breaks a little more. Khalil tells me that he has something for me and tells me where to find it. We say our good-byes and I go upstairs to his closet in the laundry. In his trouser pocket there is a lighter. I lighter that I had admired and it is Khalil’s gift to me. They find me on the roof, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes just as Khalil and I had done every morning while we watched the sun rise. I cried and yelled and railed against the wall – the real wall in Israel, the wall that snakes through the desert and steals the sky. I railed against the humiliation that employees – citizens- had to endure every day just to make it to work. I railed against the fact that I, a white woman from the Western World had more rights in this country than people who had called it home for generations.
I did not know who the bad guy was. I could not point to the Jewish people and hold them responsible. Not the Jewish people that I had met that had greeted me with enthusiasm, love and hospitality. Not the people who had welcomed me into their synagogues and their homes. Surely not them. Certainly not the Palestinians, both Muslim and Christians, who sought peace through justice and dismissed violence as a way to freedom. Certainly not the young soldier whose eyes were filled with fear, not hate, as he ran toward me with his rifle ready.
The voices of generations before me rang in my head. “Tear down this wall” President Reagan said about the wall that separated East & West Germany. “Never again” the world cried out.
The wall that snakes through the desert landscape that reaches 30 metres high and steals the sky. The wall that does not allow for justice, the wall that does not allow for peace. The wall that represents the land of the between – Jerusalem, Israel, lies between Heaven and Earth, between the East and the West, between Jews and Muslims and between God and Peace. May be if we help Jerusalem find justice then the world may just find peace.
Pray for the Peace of Jerusalem.
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