Live Nativity

I directed the live nativity in New Dundee this year. We made do with dress-ups and bathrobes and pillow-cases. Many of the actors have winter coats on under their costumes, and you can see Mary's hands fisted against the cold.

There was something quite charming about the rustic setting. We were in a real, modern-day farm shed.

That is actual ice gleaming on the wooden backdrop.

Yes, some of the Wise Men forgot to take off their glasses, and one has black leather gloves on. But the spirit in the room was warm, and many folks loved it just the way it was.

If it was all about perfection, Jesus wouldn't have been born in a stable, would He?

So, enjoy these images, and have a Merry Christmas.

Christmas Letter

Tis the season for our Christmas letter. Here it is, such as it is.

I put it out with great love, and the firm desire that I could sit down and have a long, heart-to-heart chat with you and really catch up.

www.CliffsideChapel.com/Christmas2007.htm

Blessings this Christmas.
Alison

Feeling

Today I am too tired to keep running. There's so much to do before Christmas. But my spirit is begging me to stop and sit for awhile. So I have done this, and I am feeling.

I think that that is a huge part of why I work so hard to fill my life with so much activity---so I won't feel.
When I stopped today, I felt very sad. There have been so many losses, and I don't want to feel them.
We've lost home in the deepest sense of the word.
So if I sit, I start crying. Who wants to do that? No wonder I keep so busy!
But all the psychologists say it is good for me to feel my feelings, so today I am doing that.

Our dear former pastor and his wife are having an exceptionally hard year. They are suffering. There's nothing we can do to help but stand by and love them and pray for them.
Perhaps all the feelings are catching up to them too.

It being the Christmas season simply intensifies the feelings. It is a time of celebration for so many. On the flip side, it is a time of intensified loss for those who are grieving. Working at a hospital as I have been doing this fall has heightened my awareness of all the families who are grieving this Christmas.

And I am grieving today.

I want my life back. I want my home back. I want my pastor back. I want my church back. I want my dreams back. I want my writing back. I want my community back.

Please? It hurts.

Sick and Tired . . . Yay!

I'm not the only one who had a dreadful week. We decided dementors had gotten loose and were on the prowl.... (Harry Potter reference)

I've discovered that "Expecto Patronum!" actually helps a little! (Especially when one "expects" a "Patron" of unfathomable love and power....)

Day One: No longer JUST PICTURES

Here we are, boarding the bus outside Ben Gurion airport. It is late afternoon and the sky
is bright blue. At the front of the bus looking back is Lorne, our Canadian tour director. David Wirt is halfway back, finding a seat. Rev Dr. Timothy Hegedus is closer, chatting with someone, and that's MJ and her camera right next to me. Carl O. is in front of me with the green shirt.

This is a shot that fascinated me. It is taked down and through one of the twisty, outdoor passages that were everywhere in this land. Though this is an outdoor stairway, it is within the Bethlehem Lutheran hostel proper and was along the way from our sleeping quarters to the dining area and main building. This is our first day in the Holy Land. We are on the way to breakfast. From bottom to top we have John K. (amazing photographer), Sebastien, Catharine H., Darranne, and Marge K. See how beautiful the stonework is. It was like this everywhere.

In the afternoon of our first day we visited the "Shepherd's field." We were purportedly standing approximately where the shepherds had been during our lecture. The gentleman lecturing is Faraj-el-lati, and we are on the Palestinian side of the wall. Most of his lecture was about the events occuring today in this area.

The hilltop in the first picture used to be covered in a forest. It was a park area in Palestian territory. It is now solid houses, 60% uninhabited. It is a "settlement" which means the Israeli govenment has annexed it for their own purposes. Conversely, one of the houses in the near distance belongs to the lecturer, and he has been threatened that his house will be bulldozed to the ground because he could "fire on" the Israeli houses. At any time, any of the half-dozen families whose land happens to be on the same hillside could suffer the same fate.

The hills here are very steep and rocky, as you can see, and beside modern buildings and power lines, look much like they would have in the shepherds' day. The next picture sits to the previous picture's left. In it, (besides Bishop Pryse, and Virginia and assorted heads) we can see the road the Israelis constructed as part of their land-annexation project. It has a high, barbed wire that runs along the Palestinian side. Military vehicles drive up and down it regularly. It curves around the valley, and up between the settlement and our lecturer's home. It was arbitrarily drawn, and it cut off one family from their olive orchard. They now have no means to support themselves.

Here is our lecturer and his young daughter. This picture, to the left of the previous one, shows the bend in the military road. It shows the way the hillsides have been terraced for easier pasturing and travel, a practice that goes back to ancient times.

We are looking primarily at Palestinian land here. I believe that is Bethlehem in the distance.
After the lecture, we clambered along the rocky path to Faraj and his family's gracious home, where we enjoyed fruit juice and chocolates.

Again moving to the left, we see the old Palestinian road, which is their only permitted route of travel. Palestinians are not allowed on Israeli roads, which are broad and well-paved and modern. They must take old, broken circuitous routes. What would take an Israeli fifteen minutes to drive could easily take a Palestinian two hours.

This is the Pastor in Ramallah, who helps with the school.

We are in the church attached to the school. In some of the pictures of the school yard (Peace in Palestine? entry) you can see the unusually shaped windows and the church tower. This was a lovely church. This pastor described to us the congregation's struggle to survive, and in what ways they continued their Christian outreach of kindness and support to all the old and feeble of Ramallah, no matter what their religion.

The windows' colours were much brighter than they show here, and such a neat shape. The walls were actually a buttery yellow, almost the colour shown, but brighter.


This was just the morning of the first day. We lunched with another lecturer, and then went to the shepherd's field. Our days were FULL.

Starting year three exhausted

So here I am. The starting gun fires, and I'm stumbling and staggering already. It is my third year and the novelty has worn off. I'm really tired. I'm already loving some of the reading, ("Healthy Congregations" by Steinke, aka "stinky").
But I'm wondering where my scramble is going to come from. Is this more learning that God is doing this, not me?
It will be a fact. If I get through this, it will have been God's doing. I'll be passed out somewhere back around the start of the home stretch. God will be the one jogging through the tape, arms lifted in triumph. With luck, I'll have enough strength to lift my head and say, "yay" and waving a finger before passing out again.
"And there was much rejoicing."
I'm homesick for former students and homesick for former classes.
I'm terrified about hospital visiting. I know it will be much better once I've started. Meanwhile, I'm quivering in my boots.
Pray for me?

Can There Be Peace in Palestine?

- a "sermon" that will need to serve as some of my Israel reporting.

"Can There Be Peace in Palestine?
- reflections on my trip to Israel"
Alison Longstaff, August 26th, 2007
Church of the Good Shepherd
Psalm 122: 1-9; Matthew 24:1-13

As many of you know, I went on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land this past Spring. Because the Holy Land is not the most stable of regions, preparation for the trip included a day-long session on culture shock, cultural sensitivity and diversity, and post-traumatic-stress disorder, among other things. In our information packets we found articles on how to recognize post-traumatic-stress disorder, both in ourselves and in our fellow travellers. We learned that we could be affected by the general atmosphere of trauma-survival among the peoples we would be visiting. We discussed how we should care for ourselves and each other should violence occur. It was sobering.

(picture: The Lion's Gate in Jerusalem. Notice how bullet-riddled it is.)
Above all, we were taught, "The situation in Palestine is complicated." We must try to withhold judgment. We must avoid taking sides, and instead, simply keep our eyes and ears open. Apparently, westerners characteristically assume that the problems over there could be easily fixed if someone just said the right thing or took charge the right way. It is not so.
I was immediately struck by the warmth with which the Jews in the airport greeted us. They welcome all visitors. The arrival of tourists helps them not feel so isolated—nor so judged and feared and cut-off from the rest of the world. We also met our tour guide at the airport, a Palestinian Arab Christian Israeli.
His name was Husam, not Hussain, but Husam. He advised us to call him "Who? Sam?" to remember the correct pronunciation. His name was as unfamiliar in my mouth as his identity was to grasp in my brain. An Arab Christian Palestinian Israeli. He was an Arab, which is a blood-line or ethnicity, but he was not Muslim, like many Arabs are. He was a Christian. There are many Christians in the Holy land still, Christians descended from the Christians who have been there since the time of Jesus. He is Palestinian, which means his family has lived in the Palestinian territories for centuries, but he is not a terrorist. It is terribly unfortunate that the western media has somehow gotten many of us in the Western world to equate "Palestinian" with "terrorist." It is an emotional and fearful association and entirely uneducated. There are so many good and peaceful Palestinians. To think every Palestinian is a terrorist is as accurate as thinking that, because I am a woman and a seminarian, all women are seminarians.
And, Husam was an Israeli. Both a Palestinian and an Israeli? At the same time? Yes. He was born to a Palestinian family in Palestinian territory, but he is one of the lucky few to have an Israeli passport. He is recognized as a citizen of Israel. Many Palestinians are not, for all sorts of reasons, which is a huge part of the problem over there. But he is. So He is an Arab Israeli Palestinian Christian. Even he doesn’t know where he fits.

(Picture: Husam [white hat] talks to some of us on the school steps. See the clear, brilliant blue of the sky.)
There are so many ways I could describe our travels over there. I could speak of the land, the light, and the locations. I could describe all the many churches vying to be sitting on the "original spot where" something religious maybe happened. I could describe the crazy mix of old and new, and the march of time in a place nearly older than time.
But I choose to describe my observations of the people of the land, the desperate religious sincerity, and the age-old battles for dominance and control. I choose to describe both the beauty and courage, the resilience and hope in the face of the repeated failures of the peace efforts. And the heart-breaking violence that seems to have a life of its own.
At no time did we witness open violence. We were never exposed to any real danger, ever. But we witnessed evidence of the tension everywhere we looked. From the thick razor-wire topped walls that Israel is unremittingly erecting around section after section of Palestinian territory, to the machine gun toting soldiers, to the bullet holes riddling the walls of Jerusalem, we could not help but be aware of the tension.
These people have lived through things I can’t even imagine. We had to pass through heavily guarded check points. We had our bus driver yelled at by an angry Israeli guard at one check point. We had soldiers barely out of their teens march through our bus, examining our passports, machine guns slung on their hips. One pulled off his sunglasses, and looked just like our neighbour’s son, except he had darker hair.
Israel is a military state, and every young person must spend two years in the army. Imagine if we lived there. That would be every young person you know, taught to handle guns. To shoot to kill. To obey orders. To see violence as a common occurrence. Jake and Sam, Stephanie, and Megan and Kate, Heather and Joshua. . . . Both my girls, and eventually, Jordan. And this, not in Canada, but in a country born in the holocaust, and shaped by a lifetime of hatred and oppression. I simply can’t comprehend it.

(Next two pictures: school children, Christian and Muslim, playing soccer together in Ramallah. Will they also grow up to kill or be killed?)
We stayed in Bethlehem first, beyond the wall. The Palestinians nearest Jerusalem live in some of the worst conditions. Though our hostel was spacious, clean, and quiet, we saw the rubble and neglect in the streets. The severe water restrictions were evident in the bathrooms though never shoved in our faces. Some of us blithely and ignorantly took our long western showers, not realizing the desperate need for every drop behind the walls. You see, Bethlehem, a scarce five miles from Jerusalem, is Palestinian. It is the distance of about eight kilometres—from here to the St Jacobs farmers market or from here to Sports World. For that matter, from here to the Carmel Church, our Swedenborgian cousins. By now, development is as continuous between Jerusalem and Bethlehem as it is between Good Shepherd and St Jacobs. It could be one big city—except the Israelis have been and still are erecting a wall all around Bethlehem, and around Ramallah, and around many other places. Imagine having friends who lived near the St. Jacob’s farmer’s market who were walled in, and never allowed to leave. Imagine them cut off from their jobs, their doctors, their families. Imagine trying to invite them to a wedding or a funeral, and them being refused permission to come. This is the reality of many Palestinians in Israel. No wonder many have resorted to violence. Some are cut off from their family vineyards which have been their livelihood for centuries. It is arbitrary, cruel, and they are completely powerless. There is 70% unemployment within these walled areas.

(picture: overlooking the school's playground in Ramallah)
Seeing the conditions behind the wall and hearing the stories, it was hard not to take sides against the Israelis. On the first day, a group of us went to visit a Christian school in Ramallah. Because our bus and tour company had all the right passes and papers, and because tourists bring welcome dollars to Israel, our bus was allowed to traverse the two heavily guarded check points in order to make this trip. Ramallah, yes, the Ramallah in the news, is another stone’s throw out the other side of Jerusalem. We travelled from the dusty, broken, and run-down Palestinian streets of Bethlehem into the clean, new, well watered and beautifully landscaped Israeli neighbourhoods on the right side of the wall, and then back into the pock-marked, rubble-strewn, and neglected streets of Ramallah.

We met some of the most courageous and called teachers and volunteers at this school, as in the many other Christian centres we visited. The school in Ramallah has several hundred pupils from Kindergarten to about grade eight. They are Muslim and Christian. Yes, this school welcomes Muslim children, and educates them as Muslims. The Muslims have a separate religion classes from the Christians, but also, all the children have religion together once a week, where they learn about each other’s religions as well as the many other religions of the world. The Christian and Muslim families in these Palestinian territories are bound together by their shared hardship. They want only peace, and for their suffering to end.

(Picture: Children cluster around Debbie Lou and others of us, including our tall photographer)
Everything looked normal. The children’s happy voices rang out from the recess yard as we sat and spoke with the head teachers. Debbie Lou, one of our group who is a music instructor at Wilfrid Laurier, went out to mingle with the children. When the children learned that she loved music, they wanted to sing her their songs. One little boy sang her "his song." The interpreter described the story to Debbie Lou as the little boy happily performed his long composition. It was a song about his grandfather, who was taken in the night from their home, by soldiers with guns. It was about how he would never see his grandfather again, and it went on and on.
The teachers told us that this type of song is a form of trauma therapy for the children. That the primary task the teachers face, daily, is helping the children deal with the precariousness of their lives. Almost nightly, Israeli soldiers come into some part of Ramallah and arrest someone or shoot up a home, occasionally just because they can. It is a form of intimidation. It is meant to keep the Palestinians off balance.

(Picture: in the crowd is the little boy singing to Debbir Lou.)
The children come to school chattering about the soldiers being on their street in the night, much the way our kids might chatter about an extra violent thunderstorm or a tornado scare. This is normal for them. The safest place these children have is the school. The teachers do everything they can to help the children, Christian and Muslim together, to feel safe and loved and cared for by God. Even so, in 2002, the soldiers came to the school in the day. They blasted open the doors and shot up the walls. When the teachers complained they were told, "No one was hurt."
"No one was hurt." Imagine if a huge explosion rocketed those doors off their hinges and a mass of armed soldiers stormed in screaming and ordering everyone onto the floor, and then proceeded to shoot up our walls and windows. Then after yelling at us all and calling us names—filthy terrorists, vile English, dirty Canadians, and threatening to kill us and our families, for several hours, they left. ? ! "No one was hurt," simply doesn’t adequately describe the shock we all would have sustained
Just looking at the blast-blackened and twisted front doors would be enough to bring all the emotional trauma back. And we would be left to pick up the shattered glass, and see our dear sanctuary all bullet-riddled, and try to decide how to go on.

(picture: One of our Canadian peace-workers, one of the seminary professors, and the brave head teacher of the school.)
This is one tiny piece of one tiny reality in all of the stories and sights we heard. I haven’t even told you about the three empty dialysis chairs awaiting children who would never show up that day at the hospital. The guards at the check-points refused three children permission to come get their dialysis treatments at the hospital. It makes no sense. Three children, who would be dead in two days if they are not allowed through the wall to the hospital for their treatments. That was four months ago. Are any of them still alive?
If I think too much about it all, I get choked up.

(picture: The head teacher and some students.)
The same day that we visited that hospital, we went to the holocaust museum. We only had a half-hour for the museum, which needed at least three. I could barely take it in. I sat and wept and wept. That night tempers erupted in our group. There was shouting and accusations resulting in withdrawal and tears. We were all dealing with more than we could handle. The scope of the human on human abuse and horror was more than we were capable of comprehending We were shattered.
We are very sheltered here in Canada. And we kid ourselves if we think we are incapable of the behaviours we heard of and saw in Israel. Everyone of us, under the same conditions, would exhibit much the same behaviours. Just witness the small violence of barking, hurtful accusations that arose in our tiny, peaceful, Canadian group after the one day of witnessing the hospital and the holocaust museum. We were overwhelmed. The helplessness and grief had to pour out somehow. We were able to apologize and heal within 24 hours. These people are dealing with a legacy of trauma and violence that spans generations, crosses cultures, and touches everyone of us. It’s not going to be a simple fix.
(Picture:The school pastor looks on and our Canadian tour director talks to the head teacher.)

Though it is understandable, the fact of the holocaust does not give Israel a right to bully and oppress the Palestinians. A battered wife will take a long time, a LONG time before she will trust a man to treat her kindly. How much more is Israel a battered wife. The horror of the generations of abuse must work its way out somehow, and it will take time.
"O Jerusalem, Jerusalem. . . . How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not ready." (Matt 23:27)
Before we become too depressed by the stories we’ve explored together today, before we decide that it is all hopeless and horrible, let’s remember that God was born into this very place. He did not and will not give up on us, though He himself, his beauty and love and truth was spoken into this darkness and treated much the same way. Standing with and bearing the horror, and still staying open to love is the way out. And I need not go to Israel to do this work. I can find it readily in my own family and neighbourhood, and yes, even in our church.

(picture: watching the children at play)
When you and I work to face and, without passing on the harm, express and release the hurts and little traumas and small betrayals we face within our lives here and now, we are helping to strengthen the great global consciousness of peace and forgiveness. It has long been known that abuse will be passed on and on until someone is strong enough to stop the transmission. The abuse will stop when the human race is ready and strong enough and conscious enough to stop it. AND, what you and I do in our hearts, here and now, today, makes a difference. Forgiving my brother, my sister, my father, for abuses and hurts in my family, is the way I help the world move toward forgiveness.
Yes, there are many active and hands-on ways we can try to help in Israel. They need help. They particularly need volunteers who speak Arabic. I can put you in touch with any number of ways to provide support and caring if you feel called.
But more than that, you and I can stand, hand in hand, and believe in peace and forgiveness. You and I can look fearlessly into the horror and hopelessness and speak love into the darkness. We are not alone in the desire for peace. We have God on our side. And God is infinitely patient and infinitely healing. If our hearts break at the sights and stories, God’s heart breaks a thousand times more. But while we become weighed down by hopelessness, God has never given up and never will give up. He knows what He’s doing. Nothing, absolutely nothing is hopeless in God’s care.
As we read in Jeremiah:
For surely I know the plans I have for you, says the Lord,
plans for your welfare and not for harm,
to give you a future with hope. (Jeremiah 29:11)
Thank you for listening. Amen.

Graduation!!

Today was my official graduation from Wilfrid Laurier University. I have achieved the degree of Master of Theological Studies. Only Phil was there, but I felt the presence of many others cheering me on who couldn't be present.

It was a huge moment for me. Only one picture from the university ceremony came out. The others are from the smaller ceremony at the seminary.

It meant a lot to graduate with so many great friends from my classes, like Christine and Annabelle. And great to see my loved professors' faces again. I'm going to miss the people, if not the hard work!

James Bartleman, Lieutenant Governor of Ontario (among many other things), was granted an honorary Doctorate at the university ceremony. In honour of this award, a native elder spoke this prayer:

"Great Creator you have given me my walk, my journey on this earth. I do not know what comes next, and what I have just passed now makes sense to me. You have given me instinct and insight, which helped me on this journey of service to the people, to the family, to the nation, to the earth our Mother, and the universe to which we are constantly connected. You have protected me when I have been hurt and given me the medicines to get through the physical hurt, the mental hurt, the emotional hurt, and the spiritual hurt. And still the vision of my journey was clear and yet unknown."

"I knew my service to creation was not for me, even though people give me recognition. I knew I had a family to teach me purpose for love and for life. My larger family of [humankind] also taught me that "all my relations" included all living things. [Humankind] is set in a relationship with all Creation and dependant on all things for our life. The Seven Sacred Teachings of the Anishnabe people, Love Respect, Courage, Honesty, Humility, Wisdom, and Truth, guide me as I walk through this life I have been given."

Jean Becker, Elder in Residence, Faculty of Social Work, Wilfrid Laurier University
and Professor Malcolm Saulis

This seemed symbolic for me too, given all I have been through, and what I continue to face.

It was a huge day for me. Huge.

Here is the group of us from the seminary:

Prof. Lund, Prof. Jorgenson, Prof. Hegedus, Prof. Cutting, Prof. Kelly

Gocia, Holly, Amanda, Annabelle, Me, Jun Gao, Elizabeth

Cindy, Jamie, Michelle, Alma, Christine, Trudy, Prof. Pfrimmer

Clap for us!

Heathrow to the Holy Land

The fun really began at Heathrow. Once we were finally loaded on the plane, (and it was FULL, with many orthodox folks heading to see relatives in Israel) we had a bit of a wait, and then we began to taxi.

We taxied so long, I wondered if we had decided to drive to Jerusalem.
We finally stopped, and we all got buckled for take off.

We sat and sat and sat.

Then the pilot announced that there was a problem with the luggage and we had to go back to the terminal.

We taxied and taxied and taxied all the way back.

When finally we came to a jerky stop back at the terminal, the fellow next to me woke up and thought we had arrived in Tel Aviv.

No such luck.

We learned that one of the pieces of luggage had to come off the plane. They had to dig through and find it.
This news caused understandable consternation. There were those of us who were simply tired and annoyed. But even more so were the observant Jews who were hours away from the beginning of the Sabbath. If the plane didn't take off soon, they would all have to get off the plane and miss the flight because of the Sabbath. If they got off, all their luggage would have to be found and removed too. Oy vey!

There were many busy cell phones upon this realisation. Family in Israel needed to be warned not to expect the travellers. Even should the plane land before the Sabbath, picking up bags and driving was a problem.

There's something lovely about such devotion. Still, I'm glad personally not to have such a restrictive faith.

Most observant Jews will not even book a flight on Friday because of this time restriction, but the ones with whom I chatted had been forced to miss their intended connecting flight the day earlier, and were bumped onto ours.

There was a lovely young man from New York with whom I chatted as we stood in the back of the plane stretching our legs and waiting. He was going to Jerusalem to study Judaism's holy books. Our chat felt respectful and mutually curious. He lit up with love for God and earnest scholarly longing as he told me about his opportunity to study in Jerusalem. I could certainly understand a love of studying Holy Books in order to understand and love God more! We had a lovely chat. I wished him luck in making it safely to his destination before the Sabbath.

Finally, the speedy team had located the problem luggage and removed it. The pilot got special permission to jump the queue of planes awaiting take-off, and we were airborne. Thanks to a strong tail wind, we made it in plenty of time. Whew!

I was struck by the spaciousness and newness of Ben Gurion Airport. The walls and floors were sand-coloured stone and marble, fitting every stereotype I have of Holy Land buildings. I almost laughed.
It was beautiful.

Several of the Israelis on the plane as well as some we chatted with in the airport thanked us earnestly for visiting Israel. Apparently they feel very alone, and every tourist gives them heart and hope. It was touching.

We got our bags, counted off, and met up with our tour guide for the duration---a Christian Arab Palestinian Israeli named Hussam. Figure that one out.

It is a crazy, complicated place.
He was lovely and funny and smart and seemed to know everyone in Israel.

Our enormous, comfy tourist bus climbed from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem on wide, new highways. (The picture shows M.J., Professor Tim, and David W. finding seats on the bus at the airport.) Evidence of new construction was everywhere. The terrain was very like the hills of San Diego, only even rockier and more barren. And there was a new tree, a very thin and tall and pointy evergreen which I later learned was called the Jerusalem Pine. I hope that's right. It might not be the right name at all.

I felt like I was driving through an illustration in a book. It was the only place I had seen trees like that.

I stared and stared at everything, so curious and excited and full of wonder was I.

This is not Hussam but a wonderful peace-worker named Mark, speaking to us on the Mount of Olives. But is is an excellent example of the really skinny pines.


The fellow facing the camera with the white hat and shades is Hussam. He said that he didn't fit anywhere. Arabs are "supposed to be" (common stereotype) Muslim, but he is Christian (like many other Arab Palestinians). He is a Palestinian, which means he is not a Jew and his family has lived in the land since the time of Christ. But the name "Palestinian" makes people think he's a terrorist. The news doesn't talk about the thousands of Palestinians who just want peace and justice. It doesn't remember the hundreds of Palestinians who are Christians. He is Israeli because he is lucky enough to have an Israeli passport, unlike many Palestinians, simply because his house was on the right side of the "wall."

So he is everything, yet feels like he doesn't really fit anywhere. It is a big problem for all the Christian Palestinians.

Shrines, more shrines, and Flat Stanley

I am home.
Israel is a land of many shrines. Everywhere we went, we saw another shrine. I hadn't expected that, though reflecting on what I know of the human race, of course it is so.

If anything happened anywhere in Israel, somebody built a shrine about it.

There are many disagreements about where things took place, so some events have more than one shrine, like the tomb of Jesus, Mary's well, Mary's birth place, etc.

Some of the Holy Land shrines are quite lovely. Others are not to my taste. Most have lovely acoustics.

Some places are inconvenient---like where tradition says John baptised Jesus---so they picked another place that was more attractive and more convenient as a commemorative site, and MANY miles away, where one can buy a white robe, (with an optional iron-on cross or face of Jesus) and wade in the water like so many cattle.
Sigh.
It IS the Jordan river, after all.

You may even purchase a bottle of Jordan river water, if you are so moved.

But there isn't a shrine here.

The shrine(s) for Jesus' baptismal site are down in the remote desert regions near Jericho, in No Man's Land.

But I was hoping somehow to feel a Presence, or a sense of holiness, or a sense of being somewhere unusually sacred in these holy places, but I didn't. Instead, the phrase kept popping into my mind, "He is not here. He is risen."

Instead, I felt His presence in and among the people with whom I traveled, and in the people I met. I felt peacefulness in the cool breeze on the mount of the beatitudes. I felt awe looking at the view from Mount Tabor and Mount Carmel. And I loved walking on the Mount of Olives.

But I found Him in the kindness, the joy, the laughter, and the compassion in the living people. The stories of the Christian Palestinians struck most of us with awe for their courage and humour in the face of increasing oppression. (If your life needs purpose, go live with some Palestinians in Bethlehem or Ramallah or Nazareth for a few days, and you will find ten times over what you seek.)

And everywhere we went, Flat Stanley came too.

Who is Flat Stanley? He looks a little bit like the gingerbread man. He is the school project of a child. Marge Knebel promised to take him on all her travels and photograph him in all the exotic places she travels to with her husband. "What is his name?" she asked the child.
"Flat Stanley."

So John and Marge dutufully photographed Flat Stanley everywhere---in the shrines, on the boat, on the mountain tops....

Here is a picture of them photographing Flat Stanley in an olive tree in Nazareth Village.

It was so darn cute.

The trip was full of such moments---human moments. The way we care for each other and play with each other. The way we seek meaning in one place and find it in another.

Who knows? Maybe in a few years we will come and find a shrine to Flat Stanley.

Even More Pictures

This is Augusta Victoria Hospital, on the Mount of Olives.

This is Mark, who gave us the tour of the Hospital. Here he is talking about his work, and what they have to do to serve the people and keep their land. We are seated on the lovely property, overlooking Jerusalem. This little fella ran around and nipped at our pant legs during Mark's talk. His name is "Happy Feet."This is the interior of the Church on the Mount of Olives. With it's open Bible and many images from Revelation, it was the interior that felt the most "Swedenborgian" to me, despite it's very ornate style. This is the ceiling mosaic inside the central dome. This face of Jesus was one of the kinder, more accessible depictions of many that we saw.

Here is Virginia D. and I in the garden at the Jerusalem hostel.Here is Virginia D. in the garden at our Jerusalem hostel. The lower set of three windows was the room I shared with Daranne.A lovely garden in a lovely hostel.Rev. Dr. Tim talks to us about the story of Jesus' ride into Jerusalem half way down the Mount of Olives.Looking up the southern slope of the mount of Olives, with its massive Jewish burial place---all stones.

The Arabic Lutheran pastor in Jerusalem and his charming family with Sebastien.
One of the many churches along the via dolorosa.




The Bullet-riddled Lion's Gate in Jerusalem.

A model of Masada.

Looking down from the top of Masada.

This is Haifa.