Ending Hunger

My neighbor at Thousand Island Park stood on the stoop of my porch to return the bottle of ketchup she’d borrowed. She glanced down and noticed the book I was reading.* Then she said, “you know me, Thomas, I’m spiritual, not religious. I’m hungry for something bigger, but the hunger is in here (she pointed toward her heart) not up here (she pointed to her head).” In 1933 my predecessor, the Reverend Truman Hemingway was, in essence, run out of town following a 2/3 vote of the parish which called for his resignation. Among the complaints from Epiphanyites was that he was too religious, too concerned about prayer and worship. Maybe even as the Hemingways were driving north to Killington, Vermont, to pastor a country church and farm (the very church in which Tom and I were married almost exactly 70 years later), another person, living in England, wrote a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury, her name was Eve-lynn Underhill. Ms. Underhill wrote to the leader of the Anglican Church about the priests of her church. Remember this was England circa 1933. She was concerned that too much emphasis was placed on the nurture and development of the intellect, and less on the improvement of the soul. She was quick to write, “I cannot underrate the importance of the intellectual side of religion; it’s necessary, but my real hunger is not for the reconciliation of theology and physical science, it’s for the deep things of the Spirit.” She went on to inform the Archbishop that most of the priests she knew were “ignorant of the laws and experiences of the life of prayer.” In that letter to the Archbishop Evelyn wrote, “people are hungry for God,” then she suggested that a life soaked in prayer, and through “adoring worship” we would be helped to apprehend God. I wonder if her words to the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1933 might describe something about all of us in 2013. Underhill’s words certainly capture what my Thousand Island Park neighbor was saying to me as she handed me the ketchup she’d borrowed: she wants something that will nourish her spirit, and she believes she’ll find that in just about any place except a religious institution. It’s not lost on me that both my neighbor and Evelyn Underhill used the word “hunger” to describe their yearning for God. The truth is I’m sometimes hungry for God as well. The irony is that much of the time I try to fill that hunger from my own well, giving my heart over to things that don’t satisfy. Too often I think it’s all up to me, or I fall into the trap of thinking about, rather than worshiping God. I’m no Truman Hemingway either because I often forget that God is the interesting thing about religion. This year your parish’s staff and leaders will do everything we can to capture what Evelyn said to the Archbishop of Canterbury: God is the most interesting thing about religion. Take some time this week to be silent, then consider one step you might take to know God better. Doing so might put an end to hunger.

* Life of Evelyn Underhill: An Intimate

Portrait of the Groundbreaking Author of

Mysticism by Margaret Copper, 2003.

Prayers, Music, and Silence for Boston in the wake of the Marathon tragedy

The Winchester Interfaith Council

 Prayers, Music, and Silence

 for Boston in the wake of the Marathon tragedy

The Parish of the Epiphany

Wednesday, 17 April 2013 at twelve o’clock noon

______________________________________________________________________________

Prelude

Words of Welcome The Reverend Thomas J. Brown, Rector

All stand to sing the

Entrance Hymn O day of God, draw nigh in beauty and in power

All are seated.

A Prayer for Guidance                                                                                   The Reverend Audrey L. O'Brien

The Psalm 46                                                                                                  Fr. James Savage, St. Eulalia Parish

A Litany

The Reverend John Millspaugh, Winchester Unitarian Universalist Society

In the silence after each petition, you are invited to offer individual prayers in silence or aloud.

Leader       Eternal God,  in whom we live and move and have our being, be amongst us with your healing power. Help us to see your presence in  our grief, as we struggle to respond to hatred and violence in our midst. We pray for all those who died in the attacks at the Boston Marathon, and for their families…

Silence

    With one voice we pray,

All         Bring your light and peace, O God.

Leader  For all those who were injured, and for all those traumatized by these events…

Silence

With one voice we pray,

All                 Bring your light and peace, O God.

For all those who responded with courage and compassion: police officers, firefighter, doctors, nurses, volunteers, and others who risked their lives to bring aid and assistance…

Silence

With one voice we pray,

All                 Bring your light and peace, O God.

For our wounded city, and for all who weep this day…

Silence

With one voice we pray,

All          Bring your light and peace, O God.

For those throughout the world for whom terror and random violence are a part of daily life…

Silence

With one voice we pray,

All         Bring your light and peace, O God.

For our enemies, and for all those who would do us harm…

Silence

With one voice we pray,

All         Bring your light and peace, O God.

For ourselves, that you will deepen our faith and resolve to commit ourselves walk in ways of peace and compassion…

Silence

With one voice we pray, 

All         Bring your light and peace, O God.

A Reading Matthew 5:1-12                                                                                     The Reverend Eric Dupee, Crawford United            Methodist Church

A time for silent reflection and prayer 

All stand to sing

The Hymn God be with you till we meet again

All remain standing for the

Closing Prayer

Mr. Sal Caraviello, St. Mary Church

Religious leader Gracious God, you walk with us through the valley of the shadow of death. We pray that the suffering and terrorized be surrounded by the incarnate presence of the crucified and risen one. May every human being be reminded of the precious gift of life you entered to share with us.  May our hearts be pierced with compassion for those who suffer, and for those who have inflicted this violence, for your love is the only healing balm we know. May the dead be received into your enfolding arms, and may your friends show the grieving they are not alone as they walk this vale of tears.  All this we pray in your holy name. 

All Amen.

      

Postlude

During the postlude the liturgical leaders process from the chancel, outside to the forecourt.

All are invited to remain seated or depart quietly. 

The Church will be open for prayer until 8:00pm.

Copyright and Credits

The hymns are taken from The Hymnal 1982 (Church Publishing, Inc., New York, New York), and are reprinted with permission. The Litany was composed by the Reverend Thomas N. Mousin, rector at St. John Church in Charlestown, Massachusetts. The closing prayer was composed by the Most Reverend Katharine Jefferts-Schori, presiding bishop and primate of the Episcopal Church. 

An invitation to holy week, and a holy life.

This is the pastoral article for 26 March 2013 for the weekly newsletter of the Parish of the Epiphany, The Three Crowns.

The early morning hours, still dark, in East Jerusalem were not a hindrance to the neighborhood’s constant bustling. We gathered in front of the hotel, we pilgrims from the Diocese of Massachusetts, with our guide, Canon Iyad Qumri. He was holding a wooden cross, small enough to carry, but large enough to be seen, as if to say, “we’re going to carry this cross!”

The five minute walk into the Old City took us across cobblestone sidewalks, and we were greeted with polite nods from various shopkeepers who were, even at that early hour, unpacking their wares to prepare for the day’s commerce. We kept quiet, helping the elders among us who walked more slowly, and carrying our little books, “A Walk in Jerusalem: Stations of the Cross.” The book had all the short readings and prayers for each of the stations. 

Every Friday in Jerusalem Franciscan monks take groups of pilgrims down the Via Dolorosa, this road Christ likely walked on his way to the cross. We were earlier than the crowds, and said our prayers at each of the stations as a group, just us. The fourteen locations which mark Christ’s final moments retell the passion narrative, naturally, but each station represents something even more than retelling the story because at each station we also prayed. We prayed.

After each station one of us would carry the cross, and we would sing “Were you there when they crucified my Lord?” or we would walk in silence. At the very end, inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, we were in an empty tomb. It's the only church in the world with an empty tomb. It was my privilege, a great, great honor, to lead the litany in that place. My fellow pilgrims were standing in a circle, and I said, “People of God, he is not here; he is risen.” They responded, “Yes, he is risen!” Then me, “He is risen!” They responded, “And he is here, Alleluia!”

This week is ours to do the same thing, figuratively and powerfully. We are not in Jerusalem, but we are here, and that’s what matters. This week, Holy Week, is centered on our walking the way together. On Wednesday evening, something new for us this year, will be a chance to walk our own version of stations of the cross. Then, on Thursday the one, long service in three acts (Thursday night, Friday night, and Saturday night) will take us from tenderness, to betrayal, to death, and ultimately to new life. 

Holy Week asks a question: how can we go deeper and deeper each day to let go of all that is false in our lives? Or, put another way, walking this way helps us remove everything that keeps us from our true existence. What’s discovered, along the way, is an  ultimate beauty, a space which God lovingly fills in the joy of Easter. 

To make this journey with you is death and life, and life again. I’ll see you there. 

Women, lay people, process, and prayer

This post first appeared in "An Epiphany Sunday Morning," our parish's weekly worship leaflet.

The upcoming conclave in Vatican City is rather fascinating to me. Though I have to say Pope Benedict's decision to resign isn't terribly surprising. My own take on things there, at the Vatican, and generally within the Roman church in America, is that its decades-long turn inward and rightward should change. However naive it might be, I actually think the allegations of scandal and of corruption within the curia, swirling around every newspaper in the world, could actually lead the college of cardinals to make a choice that will lead Christianity’s largest church in a different--rather than the same--direction. 

Yet the whole way leadership is chosen is so completely different from Anglicanism’s understanding of baptism, of priesthood, and of the episcopacy. Granted the American church, the Episcopal Church, is uniquely democratic. Every diocese elects their own bishop--with the votes of both laity and clergy having equal weight. Which is to say, that in other parts of the Anglican Communion bishops are indeed appointed, not elected. Still, no province of Anglicanism has a curia or magesterium. In the Episcopal Church, and in a few other Anglican churches, the selection of the Presiding Bishop, our version of an archbishop, the laity play a crucial role. Electing a presiding bishop is not solely up to the bishops of the Episcopal Church. Yes, the bishops elect, but the House of Deputies (equal numbers of laity and clergy) must confirm the election. There is a check and a balance, and an ecclesiology which declares baptism a principal value: the voice and the wisdom of lay people count!

The button many people wore the day after KJS was elected. 

In 2003 I was elected to the Joint Nominating Committee for the Election of the Presiding Bishop, and that committee elected me their secretary. It was wonderful work, for three years, coming up with a profile, and interviewing potential bishops in our church to be on the ballot at the General Convention in 2006. A seminary classmate was ultimately nominated and elected...a woman incidentally with precious little parish experience. Katharine Jefferts-Schori’s colleague bishops saw in her the gifts and skills to lead our church, and those of us in the senior house (the laity and clergy are considered senior!) confirmed handily her election. As the Presiding Bishop-elect entered the House of Deputies I sat there with tears coming down my cheeks. How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven (Genesis 27:18). The moment stands out for another reason, in addition to the tears and the surprise that a woman had been elected because it was the first-ever text I sent! I sent it to my partner, Tom, who was in the Thousand Islands and it read, “KJS on 5th ballot!” Lest I suggest that the Episcopal Church is superior to other Christian communities I must state plainly that we definitely have our share of foibles and challenges. Our history during the Civil War and our reticence to make a pro-Abolitionist stance, and thereby to condone slavery, is appalling! Sadly that’s only one example. The point is we’re not perfect, by any means. But, when it comes to honoring lay people and women, we stand in a different place from our sisters and brothers in the Roman Catholic Church. 

The Bible Challenge...game on!

Tomorrow at 9:00 folks at the Parish of the Epiphany who are interested in reading the Bible in the next year will gather in Hadley Hall to check-in, and to hear from each other how these first four days have been. Who knew Genesis would be this engaging?

I'm grateful to Marek Zabriskie for figuring this out--the Bible Challenge--and to my sisters and brothers at Epiphany who are doing this with me.

Snow...doing God's will

The glory of a New England blizzard. Now the storms are given names, and this weekend's was Nemo.
I love everything about a blizzard: I love watching it, listening to it, I love it that there is still snow, and I even love shoveling it.

In Psalm 148:8 the psalmist bids us to praise God..."fire and hail, snow and fog, tempestuous wind, doing God's will."

I'm praying tonight for all those for whom this blizzard was not welcomed, or for whom it has meant increased hardship, or stress. I pray God's blessing and protection on the men and women from the Parish of the Epiphany who are trying to make their way home from Haiti (they're stuck in Miami).

Tomorrow we'll gather to praise God for gathering us once again, we'll welcome the newest members to our community, and after our worship, we'll have the Junior Choir play. See you in church.

Accepted, Loved, and Freed

For those of us who keep the discipline of the daily office (Morning and Evening Prayer), we commenced this morning with St. Paul’s letter to the Galatians. 

It’s not always the most gracious of the epistles, but it’s definitely filled with passion! In this letter, perhaps stronger than in some of his others, St. Paul makes it plain that Christians do not have to  follow the law, the Torah (including circumcision) to be faithful. He’s upset because some of the early Christian leaders, especially in Galatia, were saying the opposite: that adherence to the law was a prerequisite to follow Jesus.

We know that St. Paul experienced his own liberation. We can too. The endless rat-race of constantly evaluating ourselves,  “am I okay?” can be replaced with a spirit of acceptance and affirmation. In our culture it's especially hard not to concentrate on having “the perfect life,” whatever that is, and that leads to a concern about whether people approve of us. St. Paul knew this struggle, and he had come out on the other side. So, there's hope for us! 

A central gift of the Gospel of Jesus Christ is unqualified, unadulterated acceptance. Paul preached this, and so do we. For the 60% of Episcopalians who have found our church as adults, Galatians reflects a kind of liberation...especially for those who have come from fundamentalist backgrounds where legalism and perfection were emphasized. 

Among the many gifts of Jesus Christ is freedom from anxiety about whether we’re accepted and loved. The answer, always, is “YES!” You are accepted, loved, and freed.

My happy home

It's unclear who wrote the hymn, "Jerusalem, my happy home." Some say it's a 16th century adaptation of St. Augustine, others attribute the text to an 18th century English hymnwriter, Joseph Bromehead. For the purposes of this blog post it doesn't matter. The hymn, of course, is a poem about the heavenly Jerusalem, not the earthly one, but I can't get that first stanza out of my head, as I look outside the window of my own home on this beautiful and frigid Boston morning.

Jerusalem, my happy home,
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end?
Thy joys when shall I see?

It is good to be home. To be home to what is familiar and loving, to a happy dog (who is still alive and shows absolutely no signs of terminal cancer), to a wonderful partner, lover, and friend, to a parish church where I am unceasingly blessed to serve with young and old alike, with colleagues and parishioners who are passionate about the Gospel, our discipleship with Christ, and our desire to proclaim good news to the world. It is indeed good to be home.

But Jerusalem is also home, and ever shall be. Not the heavenly one from the hymn echoing in my heart, but the one on top of those Judean hills. The city that so many call holy. Some scholars call this ailment of mine,  Jerusalem Fever, a yearning for and a seemingly unquenchable interest in Jerusalem.

In the end I don't really have to make sense of this pilgrimage now past. Nobody expects that of me, least of all, I think, God's own self. What I think is necessary, and absolutely my call, is to savor all the sacred moments and places of that Holy Land, and to live now, here in Winchester in 2013, as if every place is as holy and powerful as the Jerusalem of Israel-Palestine. Even more, to pray about the possibility that in some mysterious and awesome way, Jerusalem (the city) is a kind of harbinger, or even an image, of the ultimate Jerusalem, the place where milk and honey flow.

The Way of the Cross

The Muslim muezzin chanting from the minaret next door to the hotel was the first sound which signaled to me that I was not in the United States. The chanting is a kind of wake-up call each day, beginning at 5:00am. This morning it awoke me, as usual, but it has become, just in a few days, both familiar and inviting. 

Iyad, our guide, met us in the lobby at 5:45, gave us a few instructions about the Way of the Cross, and off we walked, in silence, taking turns carrying a wooden cross. We walked past the shops in East Jerusalem, our neighborhood, and into the Old City through Herod’s gate. Even at that hour the city was awake with merchants opening up their shops, gas burners tended by early-risers making coffee. 

The first station, “Jesus is Judged” is a head-on collision with God’s capacity to reverse the order of things. Whatever we hold closely--power, security, wealth, status--they’re replaced with a crown of thorns. Whatever gives us meaning in life, on the outside, is turned on its head. This is the place where it begins, this first station, as God’s son wears a crown of thorns.

We took turns not only carrying the cross, but also reading the scripture for each station, and leading in the prayers. Sometimes we sang “Were you there?” between each station. Our Way ended in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, in the Empty Tomb, and then we made our way to a group of Polish pilgrims standing around as the Franciscan priest led Mass. Most of us slipped in behind them to receive the very essence of who Christ, poured out in the flesh of bread and the cup of salvation.

We leave now, at 9:00am, to Emmaus where we’ll celebrate our own Eucharist. Then to Jericho for a party at Iyad and Simone’s house. We’ll be back in Jerusalem this afternoon. Pray for us.

A Journey of Contrasts

The following post is from Gayle Pershouse, one of the Holy Land pilgrims, and a member of the Parish of the Epiphany.

This is a journey of contrasts: Yesterday, on top of Mt. Tabor, my winter coat felt thin against the wind; by the afternoon I was basking in the sun in my bathing suit and swimming in the Dead Sea, then eating ice cream on the deck. As we go back and forth through “checkpoints” from Israeli to Palestinian areas and back again, we meet the contrasts of the land: lush and fertile/stony and arid; and the economy: thriving and modern/struggling, poor, “third world” in feeling.  Religiously, a pilgrimage is an experience of contrasts as well. Sometimes we encounter strange customs, sometimes funny moments, and then, unexpectedly, the ineffable will take us by surprise. For me, yesterday one bizarre moment was looking at the caves where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found in a starkly barren desert place and listening to Iyod say that this is the place where the controversial Bishop Pike walked out into the desert and never came back.

Are we getting close to the saturation point on beautiful old churches dedicated to an important moment in Jesus’ life? A humorous moment came when, visiting the site of Jacob’s well, Iyod told us to stay close together because one of the vendors has a tendency to “hug the women much too long.” Most of us didn’t think we were in the age category to get such a “hug” but we stayed together as told. Then, at this same place, as we read the story of Jesus asking the Samaritan woman for a drink, drew water from the ancient stone well by lowering a bucket way down on a long rope, and tasted the water ourselves, the ineffable presence of Jesus was suddenly manifest to one of us in a very real way. Jesus was speaking to her personally about her husband.

The next site was an inexplicable contrast for me: an ancient ruin of a church in which ritual animal sacrifice is still practiced. St. Helena, the mother of the Emperor Constantine, built this church in the fourth century. It is dedicated to St. George. The stone steps were saturated with the blood of sacrificed animals and the door jams were marked in blood with many crosses.

This town, Taybeh, gave us an even starker contrast: animal sacrifice in Christian ruins overlooking the “wilderness” contrasted with a visit to a modern micro-brewery making very good Palestinian beer!

“So what?” Is the question I ask myself. So, why come to the Holy Land when I can just as well meet Jesus in my own kitchen? (as my friend asked me before I left.) Each of us forms a different answer to this question. Maybe there are several answers for each of us, and maybe we will find more answers in the weeks and months after we come home. One answer is so obvious but so subtle for us we might miss it: as a little band of pilgrims seeking traces of our Lord, we become a brand new, unique expression of the Christ we are seeking. We are the Body of Christ here in a land that is much in need of peace and healing. Maybe that is reason enough.

Wade in the Water, Children...

The following post is from Marie Lee, a member of the Parish of the Epiphany. 

A crisp, perfectly clear morning in Nazareth, still shuttered as we headed north through Cana on our way to the River Jordan. Nazareth is perched at 1500 feet, so it is downhill all the way to get there. We pulled into a small park near the point where the river enters Lake Tiberias, which Matthew refers to as the Sea of Galilee. The river is only about 25 feet wide at this point. Due to the recent heavy rainfall, the ground was quite muddy and the river was wider and faster than usual. Iyad had prepared a bunch of small olive branches, which Bishop Gayle dipped into the river to bless each of us as we renewed our baptismal vows, and then anointed us with oil. Noah Evans, Rector of Grace Church in Medford then bent over the river, slipped a small plastic bag from his pocket, prayerfully releasing the ashes of a friend to the river.

Lake Tiberias with Horns of Hittin in the background

Lake Tiberias, 600 ft below sea level, is surrounded by mountains: the Golan Heights to the north, and the very striking Horns of Hittin to the east, where Saladdin defeated the crusaders (see photo). Our boat ride across the lake aboard a replica of a wooden boat from the first century provided the perfect backdrop for the gospel reading -- Matthew 14 verse 22-36 (the disciples panicking when a storm came up on the lake, and Jesus appears to them.)






Following another amazing lunch (Tilapia the main course) we hiked in silence from the Mount of the Beatitudes down to a flat shady spot overlooking the lake for the celebration of the Eucharist, led by Thomas. A small block of white marble served as our altar. The gospel reading was the Beatitudes, from Matthew chap. 5. Sitting in a semi-circle, we shared meaningful moments from our day, and each served bread and wine to our neighbor.

View from Eucharist site -- looking toward the Golan

As I've listened to the ancient stories -- so familiar and now envisioned anew in these holy places, I've never been more aware of the passing of time and of my fleeting presence. Sharing the Eucharist today, I was both a part of the timeless place before me as well as a member of the body of Christ.

Poppies in the field on our hike down from the Mount of the Beatitudes
to the clearing where we celebrated the Holy Eucharist.

St. Paul's Church, et cetera

St. Paul's Episcopal Church in Shefa-Amre, Israel.
PHOTO: The Reverend Noah H. Evans

A leisurely morning of it. We didn't leave the convent until 9:15. We walked a few blocks uphill to a Greek Orthodox Church built over a spring, the well where Mary the Mother of our Lord drew water. Their tradition--the Orthodox--is that the angel Gabriel appeared to Mary there, at the well. The church was packed for their weekly liturgy, and in typical Greek Orthodox style it was exotic (to us, at least), chaotic, and exquisite. I told the Epiphanyites to "get ready for next Sunday!" They smiled, sort of. We traipsed through to the back of the well, hung around for a bit, and then made our way to the bus.

Our destination, north and west of Nazareth, was the town of  Shefa-Amre, in Israel proper, on the outskirts of Haifa, to St. Paul's Episcopal Church. The rector, Fuad Dagher, greeted us outside the church, and warmly welcomed us to Shefa-Amre and to St. Paul's.

He's quite the one-man band: delightful, passionate, entrepreneurial, and gifted. The liturgy was exceedingly familiar--adapted from their cathedral's customary, and the hymns--all well-known chestnuts--were accompanied on the Allen organ by Father Dagher himself. Presider, organist, and eucharistic minister! Bishop Harris preached, and Father Dagher translated it into Arabic for the several members of his parish.

After the liturgy we were welcomed again during the coffee hour. A young boy was having his birthday, and there was singing and, of course, cake. In typical Palestinian fashion the hospitality was lavish and unending.

Behind the parish hall is a newly restored 200 year old house which is used for the entire community (not just their parish) for concerts, art exhibits, and assemblies. It's absolutely gorgeous, and could (should!) win an award for historic preservation. With thanks to the Diocese of Los Angeles, who gave them the money to buy the property, and with the sweat equity of the whole town (Christians and Muslims and Jews worked together to rebuild it) the community has a place to gather, and something for which they're all very proud.

We didn't need any more food, but there it was...a feast at a local restaurant, the best in the town, which opened on this Sunday just to serve us. As Bishop Harris said, "when Jesus likened the kingdom of God to a banquet, THIS is what he meant."

A happy and holy Sunday to you all.

Judean desert, Jericho, and Nazareth

A very early morning. We left Jerusalem at 7:15 and made our way east toward the Jordan, about an hour's drive north and east. We disembarked in the middle of nowhere overlooking the Wadi Quelt, the usually dried-up river bed that served as the north-south road where people once dwelt in the canyons and caves of the mountainous desert. It was easy to imagine Jesus telling the parable of the Good Samaritan because before our eyes, as Joan read that parable, we could see it unfolding...it was that real.

From there we traveled east to Jericho, which is 10,000 years old! Incomprehensible to consider that fact, given its current size and modernity. A cable car took us to the top of a mountain, the Mount of the Temptation, to an Orthodox monastery where one monk remains. Again, the pieces fell into place. How is this the spot where the temptation occurred? Of course we don't know for certain, but given that a community of believers has been dwelling in this cliff (think Navajo) since the first century, and that they've maintained a community for 2,000 years, it's pretty easy to say, "yup, this marks the spot."

The sycamore tree in Jericho where Zacchaeus climbed
to see Jesus pass through town.

Once we were back in Jericho we stopped by Zaccheus's tree, the sycamore tree, which he supposedly climbed to see Jesus passing through.

A longer trip north, and turning west into Israel itself, and then north for over an hour, we arrived in Nazareth. En route the scenery was central California...field after field of vegetation, produce, and beauty. Then, almost out of nowhere, the city of Nazareth appears in the distance. It's much bigger than its first century predecessor, which likely had 200 people dwelling in cut-out caves on the hillside. Today, more than 100,000 people live here, and it's exceedingly modern. Our accommodations, the Sisters of Nazareth Guesthouse and Chapel, are straight out of late 19th century, and as one of us said, "don't you feel like you're at the Isabella Stewart Gardner?" Yes, as a matter of fact.

Surrounding the convent, on every side, are churches. One is Anglican (part of the Episcopal Diocese of Jerusalem), and the other three are some versions of Roman, Orthodox, and Armenian. And though each is distinct from the other (stand alone) they're almost integrated, together with shops for locals and pilgrims alike, into a story book of Gabriel's Annunciation to Mary, the God-bearer.

Tradition holds that this is the hometown spot
of our Lord's growing-up-Synagogue.

The grotto in the Basilica, carved out from the
nave's main floor, where the Angel Gabriel
announced to Mary that she would give
birth to Jesus, the Messiah.

We made it just in time to the "Synagogue Church" which of course never existed. It's a simple place dedicated to the time when the adolescent Jesus unrolled the scroll and read from the prophet Isaiah. We read the passage from St. Luke and sat quietly. Just steps away, as if it were some giant lighthouse, is the massive Basilica of the Annunciation, completed in 1969. Think modern ecclesiastical architecture taken to its zenith. Or, if you're not a fan, I guess you could say nadir. And yet, it retains several elements of its 5th century predecessor, including the apse, and even better, there is preserved right there in the middle of the church, the 1st century grotto where Gabriel announced to Mary that she would give birth to Jesus, the Messiah. We gave thanks for archeologists! Around the Basilica, so moving, are artistic representations of the Annunciation from every nation in the world (as the league of nations existed in 1968), most with mosaic, or ceramic tile, some with glass, but EACH conveys the essence of how Mary might be perceived or depicted in that particular culture/nation. "France's is SO French," said Pat Hitchcock (a pilgrim from the Parish of the Epiphany), and another pilgrim, Gayle Pershouse, said, "Look at Mexico's...it takes you there." I agree completely. Unfortunately our own country's rendition leaves something to be desired, even for me, one who adores 1960s-1970s "good" church architecture; I admitted to feeling a tad embarrassed to say it was from America. Another pilgrim, Don DeLollis, from Christ Church Andover, said, "Thomas, you'll just have to get over it!"

A few steps beyond the Basilica is an early 20th century Romanesque church (on the remains of an 11th century church) dedicated to St. Joseph. It's diminutive next to the Basilica, but it's no less embracing of his part, Joseph's, role in the story of salvation. First off, it's unpretentious and sturdy. There are three paintings in the apse: 1) the Holy Family, 2) The Dream of Joseph, and 3) the Death of Joseph in the Arms of Jesus and Mary. Don't miss these! A stairway descends to a crypt where caverns can be seen through a grille in the floor, yes, the very place where Joseph and Mary made their home.

Our supper was in a simple refectory with other pilgrims from around the world. A group of Italian priests, all collared-up (and cutting-up), a group of women and men from a French speaking island off Madgascar (Reunion, I think), and ourselves. After supper the 16 of us gathered in a circle in the convent chapel to say our prayers, and to say good-night.

Poor Nathaniel. Of course he said, "Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?" It's clear that very little existed here in the first century. Now, in 2013, it's a place one could spend a week, easily, and not scratch the surface of meaning, of history, or certainly, of beauty. Get here if you can. 2015 beckons!