Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land (13 page)

“Can you name some leaders who were shepherds?” Sam asks.

We call them out: Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Moses, David.

“Shepherding is good training, like fishing,” Sam says. “Shall I tell you about that?”

Ashley shouts, “Preach it, Sam!” and our group applauds.

So he does. In a few sentences Sam talks about fishermen, how they learn to be quiet and stay out of sight. How they must know their fish well to know what kind of bait to use.

JoAnne whispers to me, “We'll be in Galilee in two days, you know.”

My heart fills with anticipation. Already I'm approaching that place, which I've never seen, with new eyes.

Then it's time to leave the embrace of the cave and board the bus. We are going up the long hill to see “the actual place where Jesus was born.”

The Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem

CHAPTER 11

Love Is Difficult

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

1
 C
ORINTHIANS 13:12-13

T
HE
C
HURCH OF
the Nativity is one of the sites established by Constantine in the fourth century. His mother, Helena, was pretty sure it was the authentic place of Jesus' birth, since people had been worshiping there for centuries. Helena had a church built at the exact location where the actual manger stood. That structure was destroyed in the sixth century and rebuilt. Along the way, the Orthodox argued with the Catholics, who argued with the Armenians. The result was that two sanctuaries were built over one holy site. Dual sanctuaries. Dueling sanctuaries.

Stephen explains that the building's disagreeable history doesn't end there. In the eleventh century, the Crusaders rode into Bethlehem to bring Christ to the masses through brute force. They did some good things for the church building — such as enlarging it. But their presence also created some unusual problems. People would sometimes ride into the church on a beast — horse, donkey, camel — charge right up to the altar, and grab some holy object, then gallop off. It is unclear to me who did this, or why, or exactly what they would grab. Was it common theft or something more? The Crusaders solved the problem by
adding a new entrance with a doorway low enough to keep out mounted marauders. They called it the Door of Humility.

This story is told to explain why we must bend low as we pass through this door. In fact, we must bend from the waist, as if we are entering a cave. It's a pleasing metaphor, but I doubt whether it was, or is, effective pedagogically. The spiritual lesson of humility cannot be taught through architecture.

There's a more recent chapter of this building's history, also violent, that needs to be told. In April 2002, armed Palestinians forced their way into this church. Using two hundred nuns and priests as shields, they refused to surrender their position for thirty-nine days. The world paid attention, and there was great pressure on the Israelis not to destroy this holy site. Ultimately, the Palestinians surrendered.

Surely, if there is any place in the world that should be bathed in blissful love, it should be the place where Jesus was born. But Bethlehem is not a sweet place. Perhaps that's fitting: Jesus wasn't born to bring “niceness.” Jesus was born to inaugurate the kingdom of God. The world was so allergic to that kingdom that they tried to stamp him out. It isn't surprising that the raw ingredients of sacred presence are too powerful and intoxicating to be sweet.

Faith is full of such paradoxes. I think how, for years, my family ended our mealtime prayers with a simple chant: “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for our food.” Saying God is great means that God is all-powerful. Saying God is good means that God is all-loving. We experience God's power and love through the simple gifts we receive, like food on the table. But sometimes there isn't food on the table, so to speak. Why is that so? As some theologians have put it: If God is so great, why is everything not so good?

If maturity is the ability to hold two conflicting ideas in your head without your brain exploding, spiritual maturity is the ability to wrap your head around God's being both good and great without your faith exploding. The truth is that God's goodness and greatness present a paradox, and rather than try to understand that paradox, we must simply stand under it. Within that
paradox is the space where we humans live our lives: exercising our free will, making choices, and experiencing the results of our choices, and the choices of others.

Seminary taught me to resolve this paradox with a doctrine that we Presbyterians are particularly fond of: the sovereignty of God. That's what theology does: it gives us labels to contain things we can't explain. I've drawn on these labels as I've written sermons, to help name the unnameable. Yet, standing in this open plaza in Bethlehem, in front of a church that marks both God's incarnation and human mayhem, the poignancy of these paradoxes deepens.

The sun shines brightly on the Church of the Nativity. Our group is clustered around Stephen in a section of the paved courtyard; similar groups dot the plaza. At the edges of each group, street-sellers ply their wares. Out of the corner of my eye I notice some sellers waiting near our group. Sam is explaining that in some places we will be able to see the original mosaic floor. Underneath this church is the original cave where Jesus was born, and the exact spot where his manger stood. Each time Sam says “original,” his voice underscores the word.

As the group breaks up to move into the church, street-sellers swarm us, pushing postcards into our hands and pleading. “Please, I have five children at home, please to buy.” Many of them have arms draped in stone necklaces, which they swing before us. One man has Palestinian scarves that catch my eye. “My name is Hakim,” he says.

We enter the church and peer at a roped-off piece of mosaic floor. It seems very dark and dirty, and I want to call for a scrub bucket.

There is a funeral going on in the Orthodox sanctuary. The top of the coffin is propped in the corner. It bears a large, Crusader-style cross and seems like a stage prop. But it isn't. I'm used to caskets with closed lids, death one step more remote than this. I want to glimpse the coffin but can't because the sanctuary is full of people standing.

We pilgrims must walk alongside a railing that separates us
from the mourners, which we do respectfully. There's a silent traffic jam as we stoop through a narrow doorway one at a time. We continue single file down a long grade to the cave where Helena built her shrine so many centuries ago. It feels like we are deep underground when we come at last to the shrine at the manger. Set in a slab of marble is the fourteen-point star. Hanging over this star is a row of lamps. I drop a shekel in a box and light a long taper, which I anchor in a bed of sand. Then I kneel and pray for the peace of Bethlehem.

We head out of the cave through a passageway in the opposite direction. Along the way — as if we might need another reminder that joy is never unmixed with sorrow — we pass the Chapel of the Innocents, which commemorates Herod's order to kill all Jewish boys under the age of two in his attempt to kill the baby Jesus. This is the morning-after-Christmas story that doesn't get as much press.

We crowd into another chapel that once housed the bones of the church father Jerome. Sam tells us about Jerome, who lived in Bethlehem from 386 to 420
CE
, and translated Scripture into Latin, possibly in this very room. The rock walls are beautiful in their irregularity, hewn by hand. Jessica whispers to me, “Now this is some kind of study.” I nod my agreement. We writers understand the pull of contemplative space.

The passageway continues up into the other sanctuary, Saint Catherine's, which is Catholic, a mere 120 years old. We are given a few minutes alone. I go forward to kneel and listen to the words of the red-robed priest who is celebrating the Eucharist: “We proclaim your death, O Lord, and profess your resurrection, until you come again. When we eat this bread and drink this cup, we proclaim your death, O Lord, until you come again.”

As I listen to these ancient words, it occurs to me that this sacrament — like everything about this Church of the Nativity — points to the glimmering threshold between life and death. In this sanctuary, worshipers celebrate Jesus' death and resurrection; in the other sanctuary, worshipers witness a funeral; both sanctuaries like legs straddle the place where Jesus was born.

Birth and death. On the one hand, birthing and burying are common human experiences, going on all the time. Yet for the main actors — and the persons watching and waiting — they are pivotal and life-altering. A birthing bed or a deathbed are each a holy place where we wait with bated breath for the threshold to be crossed. This sanctuary is the same. We see that God is on both sides of the threshold and that indeed the doorway between these realities is more translucent and temporary than we know. For a brief, holy moment, I can glimpse both directions at once — toward life and toward death — and feel God's presence. My fingers grasp the wooden pew, my feet are anchored on the stone floor, my eyes rest on the lifted communion chalice, and time ceases. Eternity surrounds me.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. My sense of time isn't good in the best of circumstances. As a pilgrim, I'm a complete time failure. Why do I even wear a watch?

We begin to walk down a long hill to the bus. Along the way, I decide to buy one of the headscarves, wanting to express solidarity with the Palestinians. I see the street-seller named Hakim and call his name. He responds with delight and comes running. He knows he has me.

Now I must decide between red and black. Red is Bedouin; black is Palestinian. I try to picture one of them draped across the communion table in my church. I dither — rubbing the fabric between my fingers — until I decide I want to buy both. I will try to haggle as I should, but it won't be easy. I offer to buy two for the price of one as Kyle and I start walking toward the bus. Hakim trails beside me, and Camera Michael shows up, camera rolling. Hakim protests that he has no profit margin at all; I must pay a little more. I am no good at this. I don't know if what he says about profit margins is true, but I do know that I am rich to him. I flew here in a plane, didn't I? I finger the scarves again.

“Excellent quality,” he promises.

We negotiate the price from 80 shekels ($20) each to two for 120 shekels ($30). I have left my money on the bus, so Kyle loans me some. When the transaction is finished, Hakim continues
walking beside me, companionably. I'm surprised. All around are other tourists, potential targets.

“What state are you from?” he asks.

“Virginia,” I say. “Do you know it?”

“Is it near New Jersey?”

I nod, and he shakes his head sorrowfully. “I will never go there. Never! A girl from New Jersey broke my heart.” He beats a closed fist against his chest.

I'm glad Camera Michael is filming. I love Hakim's theatrics. I play along. “I'm especially sorry,” I tell him, “since I am also a girl from New Jersey.”

Now his shock is unfeigned. “Really?”

“Really,” I say. “I lived there for ten years. I went to high school there.”

“Have you broken a heart there?” he asks dejectedly.

“Not in New Jersey. Not that I know of.”

He shakes his head again, as if he is an old man and all of his grandchildren have disappointed him. “If someone breaks your heart, it is broken forever. Love is forever. You cannot help it.”

I commiserate: “Yes, love is difficult.” We walk down the hill toward the bus — with me clutching my two scarves and him trailing an armload. We both wag our heads over love, then part with a firm handshake beside the noisy bus.

Deheshieh, Palestine

CHAPTER 12

The Hope

How very good and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity!

P
SALM 133:1

T
HE BUS TAKES
us to a Palestinian refugee camp called Deheshieh (duh-HAY-shuh). We are served lunch in a community building that is owned by the United Nations. The food is typical of what we've been served before: hummus, cucumbers, tomatoes, pita bread. The main dish is served by the plate: a large mound of white rice topped with a bone. The bone has a knob of dark meat, probably lamb. My body seems to be toying with a case of what Stephen politely calls “Herod's Revenge,” so I offer my meat to Brian and eat enough of the rice to get by.

After lunch we're given a tour of the camp. Our guide's name is Jihad Ramadan. Now there's a name that communicates! He looks to be in his early twenties, a compactly built man with pronounced muscles, shiny black hair, and olive skin. His face is beautiful, lit with fervor. A pack of cigarettes bulges in the pocket of his tight-fitting T-shirt, which is red, white, and blue. I suspect that he isn't wearing those colors to honor the U.S. flag.

He speaks with impassioned eloquence. Deheshieh is one of fifty-eight refugee camps. In fact, it was the first camp, established in 1948. From 1948 to 1967, the West Bank was owned by Jordan; but in 1967 the United Nations began to rent this land
from Jordan for a term of ninety-nine years. All housing and services are managed by the U.N. This camp covers one square kilometer and houses 11,000 people. That density is shocking, even to me, living in densely populated northern Virginia. But I am stuck on another fact. This has been a refugee camp from 1948 until now? Doesn't “camp” imply that it's temporary? How many generations have already been raised here? Being a refugee isn't the temporary condition I naïvely imagine it to be.

There is one clinic with one doctor for the entire camp. One doctor sees 280 patients per week. Again, I attempt calculations in my head: Is that fifty-five patients per day, some five minutes per patient?