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.