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.