Holy Land Pilgrimage 2015, from Michael B. Chesson, the Epiphany in Winchester

The Church of the Holy Make Believe

After our visit to Bethlehem and the Church of the Nativity, I felt that the morning's experience had cost me a good deal of my faith.  I silently said a pious little prayer for the grace to recover at least part of it.

Thanks to our priests and two wonderful guides, we arrived quite early.  Manger square was cold, slippery, and wet.  Deep in an encounter with the other, one of my favorite quotations did not intrude on my scant consciousness: "An haughty spirit goeth before a fall." For that spirit was mine.  Bouyed by kind souls and the grace that I prayed for, I have begun to realize the depth of my fall.

After some introductory remarks, we were given our liberty to roam about, but sternly instructed to meet by 9:00, or perhaps it was changed to 9:30, at the rear of one of the several churches that cling to the complex "like barnicles," a figure of speech used by two different writers I have encountered since our Holy Land pilgrimage arrived in Jerusalem.  I wondered idly which writer was the plagiarist, or whether both had lifted the language from yet another author?  The change in time was only a mild irritant for one who likes certainty, but bridles when urged to be flexible, a near constant admonition.

Some places we were told not to enter lest we cause a theological or possibly a diplomatic crisis leading to another holy war, a term that I group with those used by military historians, like "friendly fire." Both can kill you, but always for the best of reasons.

I realized then that I was in the supposed birthplace of the Prince of Peace, the Nazarene whose nativity was moved in a wonderful slight of hand by leaders like Jerome, reeking with incense, as Helena reeked with the gold and power of empire that enabled her to find the true cross, an Indiana Jones in the garb of an empress.  It is contested ground, but I had known that even before our bus ride from Ben Gurion airport to the St. George's guesthouse, through a landscape marked by walls, razor wire, and restricted access highways, a nightmarish blend of the Jim Crow South and Orwell's 1984.

The spiel given to pilgrims by A-list guides now tells one that my Lord and Savior was born not in a wooden stable but a cave; that the inn that was full was not a franchise brand, but a cave full of cousins; and that Mary gave birth in a recess of the cave that offered some privacy, but was also used by animals.  There may have been a manger, but it was carved out of stone, but yes, it would have had the benefit of animal warmth, like any stable.  It's one of my fondest childhood memories, that babe and the animals.

I had become increasingly uncomfortable before our group gathered.  Seeking a quiet place, not to pray but to think, and try to control my nerves, I found that I was back home, with the sexton, lectors, and ushers all rushing busily and importantly around the church.

When our group did finally gather in respectful silence, one of our number being designated as pool photographer, the church and the Latin Mass was soon awash in a flood of stereotypical Asian tourists, each with at least one camera, and some with a battery of electronic gadgets.

We soon left the guitar strumming Mass, a ceremony that could have been found in almost any American Catholic church, for a Greek Orthodox service, or perhaps it was Armenian.  What I do recall was the metal scaffolding, and one little cherub swinging on his own personal liturgical jungle gym.

And oh the wiring!  Haitian wiring simply cannot compare with the Palestinian variety.  It's all exposed, whether inside or outside. 

Our worship had become a movable feast for, led by our faithful guides, like Virgil leading Dante, they found a service deep underground where we became, if only for a moment, participants and not mere spectators.  The ancient officiant wore a stocking cap of a design I've never seen in the Bean catalog, and he looked a bit like the misshapen character in The Lord of the Rings movies who keeps whining about "my precious," the difference being that this ordained and vested gnome really did dispense the precious.  Seldom have I tasted better.

Still, I was overcome by the profusion of trappings and decorations in worship spaces that looked as if they had not been dusted in a century, if ever.  The walls, or in some cases canvas tarps, were covered by carefully framed black and white photographs of dignitaries, all male, whose highest earthly honor was to rate their likeness being hung somewhere in the God complex.  Few living now remember them, and even fewer knew them.

Emerging, finally, from the welter of competing Christian services, we were told that the wild cacophony of unintelligible liturgies was produced by only three denominations that "controlled" the space, unlike the six that compete at the NFL level in the Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem.

Bethlehem is a sad, tawdry little tourist town that one could find in a thousand American burgs.  There was nothing that made me feel spiritual, much less holy, depressed as I was by the ever present wall.  The excellent food and attractive gift shop, both run by "cousins" of our chief guide, could not disguise the sour taste I felt when I discovered that the "authentic" shawl pressed on me by a street vendor had been made in India.  It does make me look a bit like Omar Sharif, but in wire rim glasses and without the bedroom eyes.

After my Bethlehem visit I felt, not like a rude beast lumbering somewhere to be born, but a sullen sinner who wanted to rant but lacked an audience.  I wanted to escape, to get away even from my fellow pilgrims.  But I could not.  As our guide Iyad reminds us, "you have no choice."

I reached bottom on the bus ride through the checkpoint back to St. George's when I read one of the many handouts we've been given.  In "Bethlehem," Annie Dillard says everything I felt and have tried to say and achieved an epiphany, while telling me I've not even reached the level of an agnostic much less a heretic or atheist.  Who better to teach that lesson than the Pilgrim from Tinker Creek.

Tomorrow we head into the desert.

Michael Chesson

Holy Land Pilgrimage 2015, from Alice Krapf, St. John's in Charlestown

This post reflects our day from Wednesday, 14 January, but was posted on the evening of 15 January 2015. 

We are off early to Bethlehem, passing by the Jaffa Gate and seeing much more of the Israeli section of the City.  Clean streets, impressive buildings, especially the housing, without equipment and wires hanging off the roofs and sides of the buildings.  Less than 15 minutes later, we sail through a long line of cars and the checkpoint and find Bethlehem.  I was prepared for a modern city, a tourist city; but I did not expect to find a city hanging on a steep hillside with lovely vistas, and I certainly didn't expect to see it completely surrounded by a 30 foot high concrete wall (Iyad says there is a part that is a fence). 

The wall makes several  statements beyond the obvious ones of separation and fear.    Palestinians have painted posters on it, with stories of the occupation, along with slogans, a little art work and some basic graffiti.  At one point, we stand in front of barbed wire,  an observation post with conical roof looming above us.  It looks like something from a prison, and I can think of some other historical antecedents, but don't really want to go there.  Later, someone comments that violence has substantially decreased since the walls have been built.  But that has also been accompanied by rerouting of roads, the checkpoints and other driving restrictions.  It has also resulted in a major decrease of the Christian population of Bethlehem, now down to 18%.

The town itself is quite pretty and appears much more prosperous than East Jerusalem, newer, all white limestone, washed by wind and sun.  In the near distance are rolling hills, dotted with other Palestinian towns, more walls, and new Jewish settlements.  The settlements are also a surprise, not rural or even suburban, but many thousands of multi family apartments in mid and high - rise buildings, whole cities of well over 100,000 people.   They represent a massive, coordinated effort - architectural, governmental and financial; the real estate developer part of my brain starts calculating the myriad vested interests in their creation and sustained operation.

The political situation has quickly incurred on what I think is my primary purpose for being here, so it is some relief to arrive at a quiet Manger Square - it is about 8 a.m. In the morning!  The Church of the Nativity is, of course, under construction, lots of exterior scaffolding with about two workers, no hard hats, hauling construction material up in what looks to be a reinforced plastic bag. OSHA would be horrified.  Construction inside also, in the Greek Orthodox portion of the building, with three tiered chandeliers and more sanctuary lamps than I can count actually hung from the construction scaffolding.  OSHA would be apoplectic, at this, especially if they saw the three year old using the scaffolding as a jungle gym.  We plaster ourselves against a wall a few steps below this makeshift sanctuary, with its incredibly rich backdrop of elaborate gold framed icons, trying not to intrude.  There is a busy pageantry with its own choreography of singing, ring kissing and movement of people around the altar.  The congregation responds, sings, stands, etc., with no prayer books or hymnals. 

We head down a stair into the room said to be where St Jerome wrote the R.C. Bible, referred to as the Vulgate, with two faithful women helpers, and then further down into a multi room cave, recently excavated, that Mark says is more like the Christmas manger than the official site.  It is lovely in its emptiness, and a good place for us to gather for a reading from Matthew and a heartfelt rendition of O Little Town of Bethlehem.

Outside again, there is a lovely cloister with orange trees, anemones, freshly turned earth, and elegant double columns. I could stay here all day.  I look through the entrance and see four women in headscarves, and realize they are all from our group.  A photo opportunity impossible to resist, we manage to find about eight of us at once.   We visit the Roman Catholic sanctuary off the cloister, which is a nice space, but the service with multiple tour groups and nine priests, seven of whom are in bizarre white chairs, does not draw me in.  When Iyad signals we should leave, I'm wondering whether we've been thrown out like the early Christian initiates who have to leave after the readings and before the Eucharist. 

When we do finally get into the area with the star in the floor which represents where the Christ child was born, I'm impressed by its smallness and cavelike appearance despite the tapestry, marble and gold.  An old R.C. priest with a brown watch cap conducts a beautiful Eucharist in Italian in a minuscule cave two steps down (the location of the manger) from the birthplace.  I think it must be very hard to concentrate on a holy task when there  are no assumptions one can make about the intentions of the impromptu congregation, which changes constantly. 

After lunch, we stroll the Shepherds Field, which is a lovely garden and in no way suitable for sheep.  But it has an archaeological excavation of a typical cave of the region, and a chapel with marvelous acoustics.  We are treated to a gorgeous concert by Korean nuns and then try our own voices out on the space.  We are fortunate to have good representation from the Parish of the Epiphany's choir and Father Tom Mousin's excellent voice and conducting.

We are all exhausted when we get back, but rally for dinner and conversation after, getting to know each other better.  We seem to be a pretty comfortable group.  There is a cake for Carol Bellamy's birthday and she shares with us a present she received from some local UNICEF colleagues she visited: a carved manger scene, with a wall and watchtower as a backdrop; when she turns it around, there are the Magi, unable to get to the manger.   

From Jane B. Sherwin On the Church of the Resurrection/Holy Sepulchre

Tuesday January 13

The Church of the Resurrection in Jerusalem is a vast confusion of architectures and centuries and, as in most of Christian Jerusalem you go deeper and deeper underground the closer you get to the original sites, the first century ones, many of them identified by Helena, mother of Constantine. 

Helena built the original fourth century structures to identify and protect the central Christian sites. Then the Byzantine emperors and the Crusaders and a total of six different organized Christian religions (not including any Protestants) rebuilt, tore down, and rebuilt. The little that remains of Helena’s buildings are limestone walls, high and thick, with heavy columns headed by capitals in an odd three-dimensional basket weave, and no windows.

At the main entrance we approached the anointing stone, cracked and uneven pink and white marble lying on the floor under a canopy. People kneel to kiss the stone or bring something they care deeply about for anointing by a fragrance that our guide said often remains. I’m always willing to give these things a try—placed my hand flat on the stone but it remained cold as an egg, and I didn’t smell anything. Someone had left a little round rubber band, distracting, on the surface. Penny kindly brushed it away. Jerusalem is a cold place in winter. The stones hold the cold.

After the anointing stone we passed the blackened wooden structure covering the actual tomb and began going down and down again, this time along a corridor past the walls of the out-of-use stone quarry identified as Golgotha, the place where Jesus hung on his cross. Through a glass window one is able to view a rough limestone crag in the quarry, a crag which Helena had identified as the precise location of Jesus’s own cross. The crag was behind glass to stop pilgrims from chipping off bits to take home. 

Down and down again we went to a chamber where there was neither gold nor mosaic nor brass hangings nor icons nor shabby oil painting, but one remaining wall of the same out-of-use quarry where we were shown the marks laborers made to extract stone for all the buildings the Romans were busy constructing, especially walls to defend their possessions. And at the very bottom of the passage, at floor level, were rectangular spaces cut for placement of the dead—much as Jesus’s tomb might have looked. It was still cold, but there was enough air.

Our guide said the church is a numinous place with all the wild variety of religious construction, devices, hangings, brass, candles and altars. Easter must be brilliant, filled with people standing in the dark shouting Come Lord Jesus and suddenly filling the huge place with the lighting of thousands of candles. Still, for me, the notion of Helena’s determined effort, a resolute detective, a careful questioner—I admire her. 

Looking at the chipped quarry walls I thought, there could have been one stone worker there, even if they had closed the quarry. Maybe he needed a little cash to buy a drink. Maybe during yet another crucifixion he was just working away, like the horse scratching his behind while Icarus fell from the heavens, his wings melting, in Breughel’s painting. Maybe his great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter gave evidence to the great Empress herself. The mystery of presence is evoked as much by story as by any kind of proof. The more the story begins to come together the more my heart fills.

Jane B. Sherwin

The Parish of the Epiphany, Holy Land Pilgrimage 2015

Living Stones, Tuesday, 13 January 2015

We arose early and gathered inside the very chilly nave of St. George Cathedral for Morning Prayer. The winter sun beams illuminated the starkness of all that is English and Gothic, even if they didn't do much for actually warming us up. A group photograph revealed that several of us are organizers, then we were off to the edge of the city, to Mount Scopus, to get a bird's eye view of Jerusalem, especially to the south and east and west. 

Canon Qumri spent several minutes describing the geography along the Jordan River, and the Syrian-African Rift--the natural boundary between contemporary Jordan and the West Bank of Palestine. Then, he spoke vulnerably about what it's like to live with increasing Israeli settlements right here in East Jerusalem. Some of us had our eyes opened.

The rest of the morning was spent listening to Archbishop Suweil Duwani, the Bishop of Jerusalem, speak about the ministry of the Anglican-Episcopal Church in Israel/Palestine, Syria, Lebanon, and Jordan. It was our honor to present him with a small gift to support the ministry that is theirs, and now ours, in this place. Bishop Duwani spoke about "living stones"--that what's needed here in the Middle East is for young people to stay as witnesses, so that Christianity remains alive (less than 2% of the population is now Christian). 

God is making something of us to be these living stones, at least for the next several days. But then, after we're home, who knows how our enlivened faith might catch hold in the communities where we live and serve--living stones indeed! 

Thomas J. Brown

P.S. we have organized ourselves for business and we're ready to blog every day beginning on the 14th--so you'll get to read from other pilgrims, thankfully, and not just from me!

HOLY LAND PILGRIMAGE 2015 Arrived in Jerusalem!

Following near-perfect travel from Boston to Frankfurt, then a several hour connection time at Frankfurt (including comfortable cots on which to sleep a couple of hours), we made our way right on time to Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv. Canon Qumri was there to meet us, and Muhammed, our bus driver, got us safely and quickly to East Jerusalem, to St. George's Guest House, on the close of the Cathedral of St. George. We had a brief meeting at which we introduced ourselves, and stated aloud what we were leaving behind and what we hoped to take away from our pilgrimage, followed by dinner. Now, we're headed to sleep to commence tomorrow with 6:45am breakfast. We will use this blog and Facebook to update you. Please remember us in your prayers; all of you are in ours:

Mary Adkins & Diana Reed, Pat & Will Aldrich, Mary Hannah Arnot, Elaine Barger, Carol Bellamy, Mike Chesson & Jane Sherwin, Charlie DePuy and Mary Ann Haagen, Mary Kay and David Donovan, Kate Ebbott, Ralph Engstrom and Suzanne McAllister, Carol & Ted Kellogg, Alice Krapf, Maureen Lavely, Kathleen McCormick, Thomas Mousin & Thomas Brown, Suzanne & Solomon Owayda, Matthew Owayda, Penny Partlow, Susan Reed, Barbara & Fred Rowland, Mary & Scott Street, Holly & Ashely Stevens, Cynthia Terzariol, Sarah Wasdyke, and Jane & Robie White.