The Feast of Mary Magdalene

In just a few days Catholics will celebrate the Feast of Saint Mary Magdalene. This post is a reflection I wrote for a Communion Service on December 27, 2018

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Christmas Weekday - John 20:1a,2-8

Feast of St. John, Apostle and evangelist (Lectionary: 697)

The verses that make up today’s gospel portion are also the opening verses of the gospel now proclaimed on the July 22 Feast of St. Mary Magdalene in the Church’s lectionary. Mary Magdalene is a figure in the New Testament worth considering, especially since she spent the greater part of the last 1,400 years misrepresented in the western, Catholic imagination as a penitent prostitute. Biblical scholarship however has given us modern Christians the opportunity to rediscover this important figure of early Christianity.

Mary Magdalene is significant, in part, because she is so prominent in the Christian Scriptures: appearing many times in the New Testament and in all four gospels: (Mt 27.55-56, 61; 28.1; Mk 15.40-41, 47; 16:1, 9; Lk  8.2; 24.10; Jn 19.25; 20.1, 11, 16, 18.) Mary was a follower and close companion of Jesus, she stood by Jesus as he died on the cross and, with two other disciples, discovered the empty tomb. Being named in all four resurrection stories, we see that early Christians not only recognized Mary Magdalene as an important figure in Jesus’ earthly life, but also in spreading the message that Jesus is the Christ.

I was blessed to go on pilgrimage to the Holy Land a few years ago where I visited the relatively new archeological site at Magdala, the town from which Mary came. It sits on the west coast of the sea of Galilee, about six miles from Capernaum where Jesus made his home during his ministry. New archeological discoveries of this town and its culture are still coming to light and I think it will be exciting to see how the Church rediscovers and reimagines this early Church leader.

So today, as we read this Easter story during the Christmas season, let us rejoice in the knowledge that Scripture is truly the Living Word of God – always new and always being reborn in the hearts and minds of us Christians. Is this not the message of both Christmas and Easter?...that God is the Living God; that God is the God that gives and sustains all life. And although darkness may come to this world, the birth of a newborn child offers hope. And though death may come to each one of us, is our death not always followed by life? This is the hopeful message of Christmas, and the promise of Easter.

We modern Christians have been given the gift of rediscovering St. Mary of Magdala. How will she evangelize us and bring us closer to her Lord, Jesus? How will she renew our life in Christ? Let us pray: St. Mary Magdalene, pray for us. St. Mary, friend of Jesus – pray for us. St. Mary, first witness to the resurrection – pray for us. St. Mary, apostle to the apostles, pray for us. In the name of the father…

Seasons of Liberation

Holy Thursday 2017

Originally published in my parish bulletin on the fourth Sunday of Easter, 2016 ... I wrote this piece following the Jewish-Catholic Interfaith Passover Seder shared by Brith Shalom Synagogue and St. Theresa Catholic Church in Houston, Texas on March 31, 2016. 

Easter joy! In Christ we have journeyed through the darkness and bitterness of Lent, have been freed from the slavery of our sins, and raised to new life with the promise of eternal joy as God’s people. This is our story. It is the universal story of salvation when the Word of God breaks into history to free God’s people – Jew and Greek, slave and free person, male and female – “so that they may be one.”

Beginning this Friday Jews around the world will tell their own story of salvation at Passover. On March 31, one week after the Church celebrated Holy Thursday, St. Theresa parishioners joined members of Congregation Brith Shalom for a model Passover seder and the retelling of the Pesach story when God saved the Hebrews from slavery in Egypt. The evening was led by Rabbi Ranon Teller and Cantor Mark Levine, with reflections by Fr. Phil Lloyd. The planning committee was itself an exercise in interfaith dialogue and collaboration. I was fortunate to serve on the Programming/Education sub-committee with the clergy. The theological conversations and discussions about our respective religious experiences were some of the most meaningful dialogues in which I’ve ever participated.

In Judaism it is commanded that in every generation it is the individual’s duty to regard himself as though they personally had come out of Egypt; for we, too, were redeemed with the ancient Hebrews. As Jewish tradition teaches, Rabbi Gamliel said, “anyone who has not discussed these three things on Passover has not fulfilled his duty, namely: Pesach (the Passover offering), Matzah (the unleavened bread), and Maror (the bitter herbs).” During our Jewish-Catholic seder we were reminded of the lamb that was sacrificed and whose blood marked the doorposts of God’s people. As we broke bread together, the pace of the evening felt rushed with so much ritual to cover in only two hours. But this hurried tone recalled for us how the Hebrews put their full trust in God, escaping Egypt without delay, not even having time to ferment their dough or prepare provisions for the journey. Together, we tasted the bitter herbs on our seder plates and united ourselves with those who have been enslaved throughout history and those who are enslaved today. We opened the door in welcome to the prophet Elijah as a sign of the world to come when all people will be free and all will be one as God in Heaven is One.

Rabbi Teller and Cantor Levine leading Jews and Catholics in song. - Uploaded by Jewish Herald-Voice on 2016-04-06.

But perhaps the most memorable moment of the evening was a ritual foot washing – a Christian tradition that Rabbi Teller was eager to include in our Jewish-Catholic seder. As we planned the seder, he was moved by the Christian ritual that John’s Gospel tells us was performed by Jesus at the Last Supper and that tradition tells us was also his final Passover meal. Following the first handwashing ritual of the seder, both clergy took turns kneeling at the other’s feet and performed this humble act of love for one another. It was a powerful moment that brought tears to the eyes of us witnesses. For nearly two thousand years the season of Easter and Passover had been wrought with hatred between our two communities. For centuries Christians condemned the “perfidious” Jews during their Good Friday services, too often inciting pogroms against Jewish communities. The “blood libel” that anti-Semitic Christians spread well into the 20th century told the lie of Jews sacrificing Christian children to use their blood in making matzah.

So many have suffered because of the sin of anti-Semitism; leading Saint John Paul II to meditate on the First Station of the Cross, Good Friday 1998. “Oh no, not the Jewish people, crucified by us for so long, not the crowd which will always prefer Barabbas because he repays evil with evil, not them, but all of us, each one of us, because we are all murderers of love.”  With this gesture of love shared between Fr. Phil and Rabbi Teller, the darkness of the past was once again conquered by God’s saving power and I witnessed the Resurrection for myself. I am forever grateful to the clergy and congregants of Brith Shalom synagogue for this gift and the gift of their friendship.

Pope Francis washing the feet of Syrian refugees on Holy Thursday, 2016.

Pope Francis washing the feet of Syrian refugees on Holy Thursday, 2016.

The Invisible Man -OR- Jesus Heals the Man Born Blind

4th Sunday of Lent – John 9:1-41

“but everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything that becomes visible is light.”
— Ephesians 5:13-14

Meditating on this Sunday’s lessons in light and sight, I consulted Wikipedia to familiarize myself with the history of optics and make sense of Paul’s letter to the Ephesians and the divergent Gospel of John. Ancient people did not separate scientific truths from philosophical ones the way we moderns tend to do. The behavior of earth, wind, fire and water had affective counterparts within the human person. The stars in the sky were heavenly bodies whose stories revealed truisms to their human observers on earth. And an illness in the human body signified illness in the community.

An illness of the mouth or ears signified a barrier to self-expression. I think of the spectrum of ways people interact with their world and how many individuals, once invisible in society, are now made visible by a growing acceptance of neurodiversity. An illness of the hand or feet signified a lack of purposeful action. I think of those living with depression or mental illness who are brought out from the shadows as our culture becomes more aware of mental health’s importance. An illness of the heart or eye signified conflicted thought or lack of judgement. I think of those who are paralyzed by uncertainty and rattled by the unexpected; who seek black and white answers that do not exist; who seek control of the world around them, but are themselves ruled by anxiety.

The characters in today’s lesson are all blind in some way. The authorities and some Pharisees are conflicted by what the Law tells them and what Jesus shows them. They cannot distinguish between legality and morality. How many people must die before we distinguish between the legality and morality of guns? How many stories of broken American dreams must we hear before we stop labeling a human being as “illegal?” How many young, brown and black lives must be lost before we mourn their deaths without first being convinced of their innocence? How often do we cite legalese to justify the actions of institutions, but are hell-bent on judging the actions of individuals? Blindfolded by a privileged sense of justice, the Authorities in today’s lesson are unsettled by the contradictions Jesus embodies and so remain blind to the Divine Goodness illuminating from his very personhood.

The neighbors in John’s gospel story are also blind. They cannot see beyond their own prejudices and therefore don’t recognize the individual standing before them. His daily presence on their street corner disrupts their privileged goings-on; so they have learned to ignore him and make him invisible. How many days in a row do I drive past the same man standing with his dog at the corner of 83rd and Ward Parkway? How often do I forget to send him my wave of acknowledgement that says “I see you?” And when he is not there one day, do I wonder where he is? Do I wonder if he is okay? Would I even recognize him if he sat next to me at the neighborhood café? Would I remain blind, doubting my own judgment if I saw him as anything other than a beggar?

The disciples are also blind in their own way. Culture tells them that suffering is caused by sin, but their time spent with Jesus has challenged the simplicity of that assertion. Seeing the man born blind, the disciples wonder if his suffering is caused by his own sin or the sin of the society that raised him. Jesus resists the human temptation to pass judgment and replies to this eternal question of unjust suffering with a response rather than an answer.

When the disciples ask Jesus, “who sinned, the blind man or his parents,” Jesus replies saying, “neither. He was born blind so the works of God may be made visible through him.” And then he intimately touches the man and offers healing. In today’s gospel Jesus sheds light on a different way to view the world. He shows us how to respond in love rather than react in judgment. Jesus disregards anything that attempts to place judgment on the man born blind because he sees all of Creation through God’s eyes…and it is good. Jesus’ anthropology acknowledges that “evil” may at times possess a person, but the person them self remains good. He lives out a new way of seeing people that can ease our conflicted judgments, gives refuge from our anxieties, and frees us from our prejudices. He calls each of person to look past what society, culture, or tradition deems as “illness” and SEE the individual who stands before us in all their created goodness.

As the Light of the World, Jesus’ ecological anthropology makes visible the goodness present within each unique creation – especially the creature made in God’s image. The person born blind is good. The person who is autistic is good. The person who is gay is good. The person who is developmentally different is good. The person who lives with mental illness or addiction is good. And by being themselves they each make visible the wondrous works of God!

The Woman at the Well: A Midrash

Third Sunday of Lent (John 4:5-42)

“Sir, give me this water, so that I may not be thirsty or have to keep coming here to draw water.”

I feel for the Samaritan woman who comes to draw her daily water in the hot, afternoon sun. All the other women have come and gone from Jacob’s Well hours ago, when the morning air was still cool. She is intrigued by Jesus’ offer of a water that will take away her thirst and save her from having to make this daily trip to the well. Why does she resist this social chore where women gather? Most commentators point to a biographical detail that Jesus reveals in the narrative. The Samaritan woman has had five husbands and currently lives with a man who is not her husband. There seems to be a consensus among homilists that she is shamed by the women at the well for her less than virtuous ways.  

But the Johannine story tells us more than simply the marital status of the Samaritan. When she speaks of the ancestral Jacob and his well, there is a sense of pride in her people’s tradition. She is sensitive to proper societal norms; questioning Jesus’ forwardness when he asks for a drink. She is somewhat educated since she understands the differences between Samaritan and Jewish practices. Perhaps she is even an intellectual who enjoys a good, theological discussion over the correct mountain from which to worship God. Perhaps she is seen by the townspeople as a wisdom teacher in their midst. Is she a prophet in her country? After all, the town first comes to believe in Jesus through her witness before coming to believe through their own experiences.

Reading this Gospel for the third Sunday of Lent, I wondered why the same people who shame the Samaritan woman into drawing from the well later in the day would give her any credence when she claims to have met the Messiah. Have we misjudged her? What, then, might be another reason the Samaritan wants so desperately to have her thirst quenched or need no longer come to the well? Listening to the Gospel, I wondered if I might have something in common with the Samaritan woman. I too have a thirst that cannot be quenched. I too avoid certain gatherings of women.

I think it is safe to assume that the woman comes to the well alone that day since no one else is mentioned in the story. Jesus even tells her to go home to fetch her husband. And yet, the other women most certainly have children in tow when they make their daily trip to Jacob’s Well. Could it be the Samaritan woman is childless? Is her infertility the reason five husbands have left her and she now must depend on a man unwilling to commit without the promise of heirs? Each time she travels to the well that Jacob built for his children, does she mourn a legacy that will never be? An early morning trip to the well, where the women and children are gathered, is a daily reminder of what is lacking in her life. It is a reminder that she will never have the life she imagined as a little girl accompanying her own mother to the same well.

Each time the Samaritan approaches Jacob’s Well in the rush hour of morning, she takes a deep breath and prepares herself for the encounter. She forces a smile as the other women commiserate about the trials and tribulations of motherhood – and how men just don’t understand. But on this particular day, the day she would meet Jesus, she can’t bear to face the women at the well. Today they are gathering to celebrate the birth of a new baby. There would be hugs, cooing and laughter all around. There would be stories about the pains and euphoria of childbirth. It would be proclaimed once again that this special time is “woman’s work.” Each woman would promise the new mother that she can count on them; because they share something that only women can share.

The Samaritan woman longed for the day when her thirst would finally leave her and she could celebrate with the same joy and solidarity felt by the others. But today was not that day. Today she couldn’t face them. Today she would wait to go to the well, despite the noonday heat. It was on this day, in her despair and desperate search for meaning, that she comes across Christ.

Christmas in October

This week began and will end with the Crucifixion. In the middle of the week, we sang Christmas carols. 

Note: There are a few video resources below this post.

If I am not woken by the Call to Prayer each morning, then I am woken by the sweet song of little sparrows nesting in the date tree outside my bedroom window. But on Monday, I had to set my alarm because our group was set to depart from Ecce Home before sunrise for a tour of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher - the Church built on the hill where Romans crucified Jesus 2,000 years ago.

Like all other excursions, we met at Reception on the ground level of the Ecce Homo convent, the house I have called "home" these last three weeks. This place, where I've dined, drank, slept and studied (not necessarily in that order) is also the traditional site marking the Second Station of the Cross (2nd Station: Jesus Takes Up His Cross) along the Via Dolorosa. "Via Dolorosa" is translated as the Way of Grief, the Way of Sorrows, Way of Suffering, or the Painful Way. It is remembered as the path Jesus took as he carried his cross to Calvary (a.k.a Golgotha).

Under this convent and pilgrim house lies ruins that date to the first century C.E., including the Lithostrotos (Roman pavement). And extending over this ancient roadway is the ruins of an archway that was discovered during the construction of the house in the mid-1800’s. Until recently this archway was believed to be Herod's Antonia Fortress where Jesus is believed to have been condemned to death by Pontius Pilate. Upon its discovery it was incorporated into the sanctuary of Ecce Homo's basilica.

Ecce Homo Basilica. Directly behind the altar is one of two smaller arches. To the right of the picture begins the larger of the three arches found under Ecce Homo and spans the 1st century Roman pavement. 

In recent decades however, archaeological findings would again remind us that our current context can sometimes influence historical interpretation. It has since been determined that the basilica’s arches are in fact what remains of Hadrian’s Triumphal Arches built after he conquered Jerusalem in the early 2nd century. The Antonia Fortress is likely across the street from the convent, under a Muslim school. This convent and what lies beneath it is an appropriate place to commemorate Jesus' condemnation, Passion and death at the hands of an oppressive occupier.  It is perhaps ironic that an archway built as a monument to a conqueror’s great triumph over a people now adorns the sanctuary of a Catholic convent that promotes peace and justice.

The Frailty of Humanity

In the wee hours of Monday morning we walked along the Via Dolorosa toward the Holy Sepulcher. Living in Jerusalem’s Old City, this much travelled street at times feels more like a nuisance than a way of contemplation. It is a main thoroughfare used by Old City dwellers and visitors. The street bursts with tourists, pilgrims, shoppers and people simply trying to get to and from work or school. The road to the place where Christians commemorate Jesus’ death and resurrection is not a straight path. It makes several sharp turns. The first turn is at the bottom of the hill from Ecce Homo. There, armed Israeli soldiers and police are ever present, standing behind their road blocks each day and night. I'm sure for some, their presence makes them feel safer, but it makes me uncomfortable as an inhabitant of this neighborhood. And I am pretty sure that the people who make their home in the Old City's Muslim Quarter are also not comforted by their presence either. 

The corner of the second turn on the Via Dolorosa also happens to be the location of the Fifth Station of the Cross (Simon of Cyrene Helps Jesus Carry His Cross). During the day this corner is always a quagmire of people trying to maneuver through the very tight space. Here also begins a long, steep climb up to the "Place of the Skull," a hill that at one time was outside the city walls and was where Roman soldiers crucified their victims so that all who entered the city could see their imperial power. Today, this climb on the Via Dolorosa is flanked by holes in the wall and vendors trying to draw you into their shops.

Along this “Way” one hears many languages and witnesses a variety of religious acts of piety. In the moments when I am able to ignore the chaos around me and recall the history of this place, I am moved by the fact that among the diversity of those who revere this roadway there is the common reason they journey to this place…to remember the death and resurrection of the Christ of their faith. The crescendo of this remembered story is marked by a sacred space so nondescript among the surrounding buildings that one easily stumbles upon by accident. Below is a quote that aptly describes this phenomenal place. Following this post I've embedded a helpful video about the history of this Christian pilgrimage site.

Entrance to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

“One expects the central shrine of Christendom to stand out in majestic isolation, but anonymous buildings cling to it like barnacles. One looks for numinous light, but it is dark and cramped. One hopes for peace, but the ear is assailed by a cacophony of warring chants. One desires holiness, only to encounter a jealous possessiveness: the six groups of occupants—Latin Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Armenian Orthodox, Syrians, Copts, Ethiopians—watch one another suspiciously for any infringement of rights. The frailty of humanity is nowhere more apparent than here; it epitomizes the human condition. The empty who come to be filled will leave desolate; those who permit the church to question them may begin to understand why hundreds of thousands thought it worthwhile to risk death or slavery in order to pray here. Is this the place where Christ died and was buried? Yes, very probably.”
— Jerome Murphy-O'Connor, The Holy Land (Oxford University Press, 2008)

Me reaching into a gilded hole in the ground in order to touch the natural rock of Golgotha.

Pilgrims venerating the Stone of Unction that commemorates the place where Jesus' body was prepared for burial. The current stone is only about one hundred years old. 

A first century tomb in a side chapel within the Holy Sepulchre.

It was good to visit the Holy Sepulchre in the early morning hours, before the rush-hour of pilgrims. It was the best way to be formally introduced to all of its various rooms and hidden memorials. In many ways, despite the “frailty of humanity” represented by the clash of people in this space; there is something sacred in the shared experience of all those people, trying in their unique way, to navigate the meaning of what happened here 2,000 years ago. It seems to me that this communion of pilgrims who have traveled here for millennia to remember and participate in Jesus Christ's Passion and Resurrection is in fact the source of holiness in this place.

The stone walls throughout the church bear the markings of pilgrims who have worshipped at this place. You can still run your fingers over etched crosses carved by pilgrims centuries ago...saying, "I was here."

Monday began with a reminder of Jesus’ suffering on the cross; it ended that evening with our guest speaker, Dr. Samah Jabr, who opened our eyes to the suffering of the Palestinian people. At the end of this blog I encourage you to watch a video of her speaking about the effects of the Israeli occupation on Palestinian women. However, on Monday she spoke with us about the trauma suffered specifically by the children and adolescents who make up nearly half the Palestinian population.

O Little Town of Bethlehem

The following morning our Biblical Formation group climbed onto a tour bus for our final excursion outside the walls of Jerusalem’s Old City. We headed to Bethlehem, a small town just five miles away from Jerusalem, but outside of Israel. We were entering Palestinian territory. With passports in hand, it seemed we never left Jerusalem since the suburbs of Israeli settlements in the West Bank filled the gaps of land that had previously separated the two states. I thought about a common Mexican-American trope uttered by those whose families have lived in Texas since before it was a U.S. state.

"We didn’t cross the border, the border crossed us.”

Staring out the bus window, I wondered… “how many of the construction workers building these settlements are Palestinians?” Some settlers certainly buy up this land - often illegally - in order to stake a claim and expand Israel's territory. But I also wondered about those Israeli “settlers” – perhaps not unlike many settlers of the U.S. West – who are young, economically poor families relying on government subsidies for cheap housing in order to finally have a home to call their own...with no intention of “occupation” on their mind.

On the road to Bethlehem. You can see one of the settlements built on the hill.

Our first stop in Bethlehem was “Shepherds’ Field,” the location that since the 4th century, tradition has commemorated as the place where angels proclaimed the birth of the Messiah to shepherds. At the pilgrim site there is a small chapel adorned with angels and frescos depicting the Lucan scene. The domed ceiling is modestly decorated with small, circular skylights. We sat facing one another, eyes raised, and imagined ourselves on a hillside looking up at the night sky like shepherds years ago. Together we lifted our voices and sang the chorus to “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” Another tour group filed into the chapel one by one as we sang....a tourist faux pas…and their gradual presence seemed like a flash mob of Christmas carolers descending upon the unsuspecting fresco figures.

Chapel at Shepherds' Field.

After caroling we wandered around the grounds with more time on our hands than intended. I sat down in front of a tall, beautiful fountain at the center of an open square. On the side is a quote from the Infancy narrative in the Gospel of Luke. There are two tiers of realistically carved sheep. The fountain is topped with a statue of a simple shepherd clothed in chiseled wool, with crook in hand. It is not often that one sees such a humble human figure atop a monumental structure. We usually think of kings, mighty warriors, political power brokers or mythical gods crowning such towering monuments. But on top of this fountain stood a simple shepherd who had neither home nor a country to call his own.

"There were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock.” (Lk. 2:8)

Staring up at this humble figure I thought it fitting that this shepherd was chosen as the witness to a message brought by a baby….the helpless child who would bring the Good News to the world. That Good News proclaims that true and lasting power is not what we think it is; that the kind of power which lasts eternally is available to the humble shepherd, or a young girl, or a helpless infant. This Good News sheds light on the impermanence of the power possessed by kings and imperial states. It reveals that the powers which seek to control and oppress will one day decay and be forgotten. Looking at the stone shepherd perched in prominence, I smiled at the humor in Percy Shelley’s “Ozymandias.”

“I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:
’My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
— Percy Shelley

Jesus, formed by his Jewish faith, announced a different kind of Kingdom with a different kind of lasting power. He would eventually give his life for this Good News and the Resurrection that Christians celebrate on Easter Sunday would be the first fruits of what is possible in such a kingdom (1 Cor. 15:20-28). Jesus’ followers would continue to experience his Presence after he had left them because the Peace incarnated in him, through his life and his death, does not crumble, but leaves a final and lasting legacy.

“Come and see the works of the LORD, who has done fearsome deeds on earth; Who stops wars to the ends of the earth, breaks the bow, splinters the spear, and burns the shields with fire; ‘Be still and know that I am God!’”
— Ps. 46:9-12

Be Still and know that I am…

Studying the Gospel of Mark this month I have come to better understand Jesus’ command during the storm on the sea..."be still." Truly, sometimes the actual miracle is the calming of the storm within ourselves during chaotic times, rather than the cessation of the chaos that surrounds us. Did the disciples misunderstand when they said, “who then is this whom even wind and sea obey?” (Mk. 4:41)

Like with all study of Scripture, hearers of the Word are meant to also find meaning within their own context....this is what makes it Scripture rather than a historical text. And so it is no wonder that the theme of peace, stillness and letting go of control keeps surfacing for me as I move through this course at Ecce Homo. In recent years it seems that “stillness” has eluded me. The past few years I’ve become increasingly aware that the cause of much of the suffering in my life comes from a desire to control things (events, circumstances, people)…and my inevitable inability to do so. I have had to learn this lesson the hard way; sometimes to the detriment of my sanity it has seemed.

While others wandered as they wondered, I sat reflecting on the fountain that honored the shepherds in the field. Andrew from our group then called me over to follow him into another nearby cave that had been fashioned into a chapel. We had a half hour to kill before our bus was scheduled to arrive, and so the group spontaneously decided to celebrate Mass. Father Andrew would be our presider and he asked if I would present the Baby Jesus during the Offertory, when the gifts of bread and wine are brought up to the altar. He handed me a nearly life size ceramic Baby Jesus to hold until the time came to place him in the small wooden manager. The Baby Jesus was of a size that demanded it be held the way one would hold an actual baby. To hold the ceramic likeness any other way would at best look awkward and at worst seem sacrilegious. And so I cradled the ceramic Baby Jesus in my arms.

Fr. Andrew Ebrahim, SDB. Photo Credit: Heather Cousins

The Mass was beautiful and intimate. We read from the Gospel of Luke and sang more Christmas carols. As we made our way through the Liturgy of the Word I lost all control of my emotions, and tears streamed down my face. I frantically looked for a handkerchief, for no matter how hard I tried to control the tears, I could not. Cradling Baby Jesus in my arms, I grieved for the baby that had died inside me almost five years ago. I grieved for the child that will never be. I grieved for my husband and a family legacy that ended as quickly as it began…or so it feels. I cannot control this body that for too many uncertain reasons has refused to give life; I cannot control the passage of time that makes me despair of any hope.

In that cave-turned-chapel it was evident that I cannot even control my own grief since no matter how hard I try and how many years pass, I still have been unable to fill this hole inside me. Nor can I control the suffering of oppressed people an ocean and continents away. I grieved as I held Baby Jesus….I grieved for the children of this Land; the ones who are harassed by the constant presence of militant authority; for the children who are pulled from their warm beds and incarcerated, even tortured; for the adolescents who enter mandatory military service as teenagers and come out as scarred soldiers; for the children who come home from detention and are changed forever; and for the children who never come home at all. I wept because I cannot control any of it.

If you think you’re in, you’re really out…

At our impromptu Mass, and in the cramped space, we passed around the consecrated Host and the cup. During the Communion service our little enclave was disrupted by a man and woman entering the chapel. Despite the disruption we continued caroling and the uninvited couple entered into our song. Then they entered our Communion circle, partook of the Eucharist and sat down with us for the closing rituals ending with a verse or two from “O Holy Night.” My initial, involuntary instinct was one of judgement. Who do they think they are, interrupting our private and intimate celebration? How do we even know if they belong here; that they are Catholic and “should” be partaking in the Eucharist?

Here I was, rattled again by the unexpected; trying to find a way to grasp control where control wasn’t even necessary. Realizing the frailty of my own humanity, my eyes were opened and I saw the beauty of the strangers’ participation and the communion we shared. I wonder, what impression did that experience in Bethlehem have on these two strangers as they continued their tour of Jesus’ birthplace?

What did Mary and Joseph think about their unexpected visitors?

Is it the “desire to control” that is the frailty of humanity?...What if it benefits a righteous cause? But even a desire for peace by means of control inevitably overshadows any possibility for a Peace that is everlasting. Such desire for control is played out by the multiple “caretaker’s” of the Holy Sepulcher who have abandoned their posts as shepherds watching over the flock, in favor of judge who litigates liturgical infractions in order to control the "purity” of piety. Is this not the kind of fleeting, impermanent power that some in Jesus’ own community lorded over the people of Israel? A responsible reading of such contentious texts where Jesus confronts religious leaders of his day requires a "listening with two ears," as our professor Michael Trainor would say. Not only should we hear what is being said during Jesus' own time, but also recognize that any story chosen by the Evangelists was chosen because it was relevant to their own post-Easter community decades later. 

In Mark’s mostly gentile, Roman community living in 70 C.E. – following the destruction of the Second Temple – the need for purity laws was irrelevant. So we might ask then, “what was the meaning of Jesus’ confrontations with purity laws and why are they remembered by Mark’s community?” These stories ask the early members of the Jesus Movement, as well as us today, “who are the people being excluded from our community because of an imposed system or our desire to give order to chaos? What are the reasons the marginalized are deemed unfit and unwelcome...and is this a reason to exclude them from the kind of kingdom Jesus announces? If they should seek, who are we to say whether or not the find?"

Hope against hope

Our next stop on Tuesday was Bethlehem University, a Catholic university run by the order of De Le Salles Brothers. We were greeted by the university’s P.R. manager and six students, all of whom are Palestinian. These beautiful young people were articulate, passionate and most of all, filled with hope. If I were to describe in one word all of the students who greeted us as we toured the campus, it would be “joyful.”

Palestinian college kids enjoying time together.

Their campus buildings carry the scars of Israeli missiles; their friends remain detained without trial; and color-coded cards distributed by a foreign power arbitrarily segregate them from their fellow countrymen. Yet, these young people - Muslim and Christian - have found peace within the university walls. Everyone in our group was so very impressed and inspired by the hope and courage of this next generation. In a Q&A session with the students it became clear that even at their young age they have come to understood the limits of the kind of power that seeks to control. They see neither the Palestinian Authority nor the Israeli government as the answer to the conflict that began before their birth.

Students at Bethlehem University spoke with our group from Ecce Homo.

On Monday we toured the Holy Sepulchre. On Friday, along the Via Dolorosa, we will remember Jesus' passion and death by praying the Stations of the Cross. Our week may have been bookended by suffering and death, but in the middle we sang Christmas carols. The frailty of humanity that seeks power through control - the same kind of power that nailed Jesus to the Cross - may find redemption in these Innocents. Remembering the child in the manger who reveals the Power of God, I wondered...will it be children, like these Palestinians at Bethlehem University, who will finally bring the peace of God’s Kingdom to this Land?

Muslim Palestinian college kids enjoying time together. 

Jewish children enjoying a day at Mamilla Mall celebrating the Simchat Torah holiday.

Muslim college student studying at Bethlehem University.

This Jewish Israeli child joined out group as we listened to our tour guide introduce us to the Jewish Quarter in Jerusalem's Old City.

“Blessing of the Children.

And people were bringing children to him that he might touch them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this he became indignant and said to them, ‘Let the children come to me; do not prevent them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Amen, I say to you, whoever does not accept the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it.’ Then he embraced them and blessed them, placing his hands on them.”
— Mark 10:13-16

Video Resources Mentioned Above....

A journey back in time to tell the story of the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the site defined in many Christian traditions as "the Centre of the World". Divided in chapters, the video by Mrs.

"Women of Palestine. Living through Trauma, Building Resilience" an interview with Palestinian psychiatrist and writer Dr. Samah. Jabr, by director A.

On 1 October 1973, with 112 students and 17 faculty members, Bethlehem University opened its doors and became the first registered university in Palestine and the only Catholic university in the Holy Land.

I couldn't resist...this makes me giggle every time!

Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby movie clips: http://goo.gl/xo6Tb BUY THE MOVIE: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_0_7?url=search-alias%3Dmovies-tv&field-keywords=talladega+nights&sprefix=tallage%2Caps%2C432 Don't miss the HOTTEST NEW TRAILERS: http://bit.ly/1u2y6pr CLIP DESCRIPTION: Ricky Bobby (Will Ferrell) says grace over his fast food dinner and gets in an argument with Carley (Leslie Bibb) over the specifics of prayer.

How did I get here?

This week marked the halfway point of my time in Jerusalem. I thought it would be good to get a little more personal and devote this post to the question, “how did I get here?”

School Daze

I have never been a good student. I never stood out in the classroom. My teachers gave little notice to me because I didn’t cause any trouble - home was a different story though. Some thought of me as a shy little girl; but looking back I know that my apparent shyness wasn’t an attribute of my personality so much as it was my desire to fade into the background during our lessons so the teacher wouldn’t call on me.

I believe this is my Kindergarten school picture. Aren't I adorable!

I had trouble keeping up with the lessons, especially with the reading. I was terrified of reading aloud. I had trouble “following directions.” The other students seemed to always know what they were supposed to do. And those terrible timed math tests – the ones that come on a half sheet of paper, ten questions at a time to be completed within 60 seconds – I have decided were forms of torture that turned an otherwise happy-go-lucky little girl into a knotted ball of anxious flesh chained to a desk with no hope of escape.

I would later come to find out – not until my college years – that among other learning disabilities such as dyslexia, I have Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD)…for whatever that’s worth. Perhaps it is true that I owe my creativity to the three-dimensionality of dyslexia...and my ability to effortlessly write in mirror image. And the path that led me to Jerusalem can perhaps be credited to my A.D.D.

A.D.D is really a misnomer. My neuroscientist husband scoffs at the term “disorder,” since the brain’s activity is different in every person, creating a spectrum of behavior. It is only called a “disorder” by those who wish to define themselves as “normal.” My husband would also argue against a diagnosis that suggests a lack of attention, or "deficit." In fact, by being married to me he has observed that although my attention might flit from one thing to the next, when it finally lands on something it becomes nearly impossible to break my attention away. He has learned in our relationship - or simply resigned to the fact - that he sometimes needs to physically draw me out of whatever is holding my attention. And I have had to learn that it’s okay to say, “Honey, could you please repeat everything you have said in the last five minutes?” 

Me and Michael on our wedding day. July 31, 2010. Do you think he knew what he was getting into?

Mr. Farnan’s High School Honors English Class…

So why am I talking about my school-day woes on a blog about my biblical and interfaith studies in Jerusalem? The reason is, that this schoolgirl had a recent flashback to a moment that has held her attention, defining much of the past 25 years and leading her to this place. It all started in Mr. Phil Farnan’s classroom at St. Thomas Aquinas high school in Overland Park, Kansas. He was my English teacher, perhaps my favorite teacher…which (sorry, teacher friends out there) wasn't hard to be admittedly – see above explanation. I’m not sure how much I learned about English/Literature per se, or how many of the assigned books I actually completed. I mostly enjoyed the class because he made learning fun and also because I sat next to my best friend Jenni...passing notes written in mirror image between us. But one unit of that freshman year English class captivated my attention and would stay with me until today. This first stepping stone would define me as a person more than I could ever have imagined, and is still defining me and my place in the world. Mr. Farnan had taught me about the Holocaust (Shoah).

On Monday our group visited Yad Vashem, the Holocaust Museum here in Israel. Dr. Deborah Weissman, an American Jewish educator and interfaith activist based in Jerusalem, gently accompanied us through the horrible memories of the individuals and a people who suffered during the Shoah. Walking through Yad Vashem I was transported back to Mr. Farnan’s class; back to the Holocaust History and Literature classes I would take in college; back to the hours I would spend volunteering at the Holocaust Museum in Houston. With no intention of diminishing the uniqueness of the Shoah, I wandered through the museum halls and not only thought about the millions of refugees throughout the world today, but also about the suffering of the Black community in America. The history of marginalization, white flight and ghettoization, laws that target minorities, mass incarceration, families broken apart...and now their very lives not mattering as much as the fears that have paralyzed a nation. The lessons of the Shoah not only inform my perception of other injustices, but became the trailhead that started me down this path to Jerusalem. The lessons gleaned from the Shoah would lead me to a moment of conversion; just as it had done for the Sisters of Sion and for the universal Catholic Church. 

“The history of the Jewish people makes us particularly sensitive to the rights of minorities, of the poor, and of all who are marginalized in our society. These situations provoke our reflection and our prayer; they demand concrete commitments.”
— From Sion's Mission Statement

A life made up of question marks ??????

In his remarks at the dedication of Yad Vashem, Elie Wiesel said regarding the Shoah, “Oh, I don’t believe there are answers. There are no answers. And this museum is not an answer; it is a question mark. If there is a response, it is a response in responsibility.” How right he was. Many years ago, in my high school English class, my teenage-self had many questions. The one that I had to answer was…“how could this happen?” I entered my undergraduate studies with this question in the back of my mind. I’m not entirely sure that I was even conscious of it as I began college.

At the University of Kansas I studied the development of ideas and the nature of change as revealed in history, philosophy, religion, literature and art. The electives I chose for my Western Civilization degree included Holocaust Studies. I would eventually write my senior thesis on “Post-Holocaust Jewish Theodicy.” Juxtaposed with my classwork were my first experiences with non-Catholics. I had attended twelve years of Catholic school after all. Sure, I had the occasional Episcopalian or Lutheran classmate…but our friendships were cultivated within the walls of a Catholic institution. For the first time in my life I faced criticism from others because of my Catholic religion. Oddly, my response wasn't a defensive one – my parents didn’t raise me to be a “warrior for Christ” – but my feelings were hurt by the stereotypes my friends attached to “my kind.” Naively, I didn’t understand how they could hold such views when I, a Catholic Christian, didn’t fit their stereotypes. They might say things like, "well, you're not like this but...." Perhaps it was naivete, or perhaps because I was born into a decade that straddles the cynical Gen-Xer’s and optimistic Millennials; but instead of holding a grudge and writing off my friends as simply “anti-Christian,” I turned the experience inward. Their “ignorance” about Catholicism led me to ask the question…”what do I misunderstand about other people’s religions?”

Me in college circa 1996; complete with pleather jacket, thriftstore-find shirt, ripped jeans and dyed hair.

It was at this moment when I decided to continue my education in theology and religious studies. I decided to begin with Judaism. I wanted to learn more about the religion and the people whose suffering had affected me so much. At this point I had yet to connect my own Church's history of anti-Judaism to the horrors of the Shoah in any concrete way. I was only 22 years old after all…and perhaps a slow learner still. 

From School to Shul

My education in Judaism was in many ways similar to how most Jews learn about their own tradition…through living out the liturgical seasons. With college graduation approaching, an otherwise unnoticeable article in the Kansas City Star’s business section would provide my next stepping stone to Jerusalem. It announced the hiring of a new Executive Director for Congregation Beth Shalom - a large, Conservative synagogue in Kansas City. The new Executive Director was a Baptist, the article reported. I thought to myself, “if a synagogue will hire a Baptist, surely they will hire a Catholic.” I wrote a letter to him and the Rabbi and I was hired. I would spend the next two years living out the Jewish liturgical calendar in my unique way as a synagogue staff member. I would spend the next two years learning at the feet of rabbis and participating in the lives of the Jewish community. There was something special about being a gentile fly on a synagogue wall. I could learn about Judaism in a non-polemical way.

After years of participating in and moderating interfaith dialogues I have come to learn that sometimes, when speaking to a mixed crowd, we tend to explain our identity in comparison to another’s. There are a few problems with this method of teaching/learning, especially when it involves communities/ideologies that have a turbulent relationship. Firstly, if a practitioner is explaining their own perspective by referring to another’s perspective, then the “other” is not being allowed to speak for themselves…which breaks the first rule of dialogue in my opinion. Another pitfall of dialogue is the temptation to "water down" one's own tradition/perspective in order to make it accessible to the "other." I was lucky to learn about Judaism in a context meant for Jewish learners.

Former Congregation Beth Shalom synagogue at its 95th & Wornall location in Kansas City, Missouri. The synagogue has since moved south to Overland Park, Kansas.

The Beth Shalom community could have chosen to be suspicious of my motives, but I was welcomed with open arms anyway. They could have closed the doors to their classrooms, but instead they invited me in to learn with them. Although I was a non-Jewish staff member, a few months each year stood apart as I became entrenched in the preparation and celebration of the Jewish High Holy Days. When I could not be found at my desk a fellow staff member might suggest, “check Rabbi Margolis’ office.” They could often find me there. I loved sneaking away and sitting at the feet of this beloved rabbi emeritus; a fixture in Kansas City’s Jewish community - may he rest in peace. The congregants of Beth Shalom became like family to me. And when the shootings at the Jewish Community Center in Overland Park, Kansas occurred on the eve of Passover 2014, I wept.

One day, I learned that a Catholic religious sister was coming to speak with the Jewish Community’s young adult group about Catholic-Jewish relations. I am a little ashamed to admit it today, but I had never heard of such a thing..."Catholic-Jewish Relations." I phoned the JCC and asked if I could attend her talk even though I was not Jewish. I was told “no.” I missed that meeting with the young adults, but the next day my rabbi (Alan Cohen) intervened on my behalf and I was given an invitation to attend a luncheon in honor of the sister’s visit. Had I known that the people I would lunch with would be the JCC’s board members I would have been too intimidated to attend.

Again, my ignorance would become a blessing. The sister I met that day was a Sister of Notre Dame de Sion and her name is Audrey Doetzel. After her talk I approached Sr. Audrey and asked her where I should do my graduate studies. One of the schools she suggested was Boston College, a Catholic Jesuit university. A year into graduate school, Audrey arrived at Boston College as a scholar-in-residence. Neither of us could have known that our fateful meeting in Overland Park, Kansas was the beginning of a fifteen-year friendship that continues to grow.

Boston, You’re My Home…

And so I was off to Boston. This strange journey began with a high school unit on the Holocaust. In college it took an important detour that gave me a different perspective on what I thought I knew and what I didn’t know about the world around me. At the synagogue I participated in the lives of the “other” and was changed equally by our commonalities and our differences. I had turned inward and instinctively gave critical thought to my admittedly limited worldview. In graduate school I learned HOW to think critically about my religious tradition. It might seem strange then, that my time in Boston actually strengthened my Catholicism - of which much credit is due to the holy men and women I met there. Through graduate classes and my work at the Center for Christian-Jewish Learning I came to understand the history of the Jewish-Christian relationship. I learned about the role that Christian anti-Judaism played in the Shoah. And I learned about the hope that has risen from the ashes of those terrible centuries engulfed in the smoke of misunderstanding and consumed by the fires of hatred. It was in Boston where I began participating in and leading my first, formal interfaith dialogues. 

I found out that my former Boston College professor, Rabbi Ruth Langer, is in Jerusalem for the year on sabbatical. We had a nice visit on the campus of Hebrew University, Israel.

I continued learning about other religions from the people who live them out. I brought my dialogue experience and skills to Houston where, for the last eight years, I’ve been a religious leader engaged in interfaith collaboration and understanding. I have been blessed with opportunities to act both as an individual and as a representative of the Catholic Archdiocese in the most ethnically and religiously diverse city in the United States. It was while I was living in Houston that Sr. Audrey settled in Kansas City. We reconnected one year while I was home for Christmas. She introduced me to the Congregation of Our Lady of Sion as a community and I realized that I had already been living out their charism.

Days of Awe...

I began writing this post on Wednesday, Yom Kippur, as I sat on the Ecce Homo terraces in Jerusalem’s Old City. Here I continue to be a student of change, and try to keep my mind open to change…to metanoia. On this Day of Atonement, this “Sabbath of Sabbaths,” I recall the stepping stones that led me to this place. The memory of Monday's visit to Yad Vashem is still fresh in my mind as a group of us headed over to the Western Wall to watch the stream of people coming up to Jerusalem as the sun went down. As the sun began to set on Yom Kippur, after 25 hours of fasting and prayer, a sense of joy and celebration filled the air.

Jews gathering and praying at the Western Wall toward the close of Yom Kippur.

Yom Kippur is a day for self-reflection on one’s actions over the past year. It is an opportunity to turn inward and be self-critical, both as an individual and as a community. In preparation for this day, Jews also turn outward and seek forgiveness from those they have offended. Yom Kippur is a day devoted to humility and the recognition that we are flawed, that we are not always righteous in our ways, that sometimes we fail God and others. But one’s humble contrition and confession are accompanied by confidence. The prayers throughout the day increasingly express confidence in God’s mercy. They reveal a hope in the fact that our iniquities do not have the last word, that they are not final condemnations. We can be forgiven and we can start over.

On March 26, 2000 Pope St. John Paull II also prayed at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. His prayer was written on a piece of paper and placed in the cracks of what remains of the Second Temple.

“God of our fathers, you chose Abraham and his descendants to bring Your name to the nations: we are deeply saddened by the behavior of those who in the course of history have caused these children of Yours to suffer, and asking Your forgiveness we wish to commit ourselves to genuine brotherhood with the people of the Covenant."

From the steps entering into the Western Wall plaza, we watched as it swelled with hungry and tired Jews. The sky grew darker and more people gathered at the site. The sounding of the shofar marked the end of Yom Kippur and prayers were transformed into joyful dancing and singing. The jubilee celebrated their reconciliation with God and with others.  

The first stepping stones on my journey toward Jerusalem were covered with the ashes of the Shoah. But those ashes became the ground for new growth that would uncover the stepping stones toward reconciliation. As for myself, as well as my Church, I am confident that we can make atonement for our sins of the past and be reconciled with those we have offended. It will perhaps require a little bit of naivete, and certainly a lot of humility; but I am confident that hope and peace are not lost. I would also like to add one other truth - which is perhaps even more central to my own personal creed – that it is equally important not to despair of those questions that remain unanswered, for these unanswered questions drive us forward. How did I get to Jerusalem?...I had Elie Wiesel’s “question mark” as my map.

The view as you exit Yad Vashem.

And just for fun!...a little Sandells.

Pictures and music from the City of Boston

Into the Wild

Note: The past week has been packed with excursions into the wild, to archeological sites of past civilizations, and to religious sites commemorating stories about Jesus’ ministry in the Galilee. In this post, I’ll mostly share my thoughts about the natural landscapes we visited. In a future post I hope to share in more detail my travels to the archeological and religious sites of Galilee….but for now there’s just too much to say in one post.

My last post talked about the people who share the story of Jerusalem. The ruins at the City of David and the Temple Mount both currently exist within a modern, bustling city that is still inhabited by the descendants of those who settled here long ago. In the city, the senses are overwhelmed…the sound of crowds speaking many languages; the smell of incense wafting from the marketplace; the sights of dress and décor displaying the piety of religious practitioners; the feel of uneven, stone walkways underfoot; the taste of foods unfamiliar to my tongue. I suppose the traders and pilgrims who traveled here two millennia ago from far off lands had similar sensory overload.

After my first week in the Old City and the hyper-stimulation of my senses, our group retreated into the Wild just east of Jerusalem. The mountain ridge that runs through Jerusalem stretches north-south, becoming a barrier for the rains traveling from the west. Just a few miles from the city we found ourselves in the wilderness of the desert. These aren’t the deserts I recall from schoolbooks or movies. These are towering, seemingly-barren hills that stretch as far as the eye can see. It was into this wilderness that the Gospel writers say Jesus was driven after his Baptism. 

"Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff comfort me." (Ps. 23:4)

"At once the Spirit drove him out into the desert and he remained in the desert for forty days, tempted by Satan. He was among wild beasts, and the angels ministered to him." (Mk. 1:12-13)

What is it about the human need to get away, to flee into the wild in order to contemplate reality? After witnessing the “four sights,” the Gautama Buddha escaped his palace of privilege and entered the wilderness where he contemplated the nature of suffering, its cause and the path to liberation from it. After the revelation that he is “God’s beloved son, with whom God is well pleased,” Jesus also sought clarity of mission in the wilderness. He wandered among the wild beasts for forty days while contemplating his mission and rebuking the temptation to reject God’s Will for him. And just a few decades after Theodore Ratisbonne wrote about the “three books;” naturalists like John Muir came home to the Wild, where Nature became his great teacher and revealed the Mind of God.

Listening to the silence of the desert that day brought to life the Psalms for me as I imagined shepherds like young David watching over his sheep in solitude for days on end. While our group gazed across the endless wilderness, our tour guide read from the prophet Isaiah whose words would later be echoed by John the Baptist proclaiming "metanoia." 

“A voice proclaims: In the wilderness prepare the way of the LORD! Make straight in the wasteland a highway for our God! Every valley shall be lifted up, every mountain and hill made low; The rugged land shall be a plain, the rough country, a broad valley.” (Is. 40:3-4)

From a distance the vastness of the desert appears barren. But when I entered into the desert I found life. Even today the desert outside Jerusalem is home to goats, wild and domesticated, and the the Bedouin shepherds who care for them. A father and his children carefully displayed their wares, hoping to trade with us. Many in our group were concerned for the young Bedouin children. Their poverty saddened us and we wondered if they had enough to eat or whether they should be in school? The paradox of being drawn to “civilization” on the one hand, and the desperate desire to escape it on the other became apparent as I watched the loving father with his children. As a person who is regularly itching for the outdoors, who loves camping and laying in my hammock under the redbud tree in my backyard, I wasn’t so certain that these Bedouin children were in need of our pity. The wilderness to which we escape in hopes of experiencing the Divine – they call “home.”

An Oasis in the Desert

We then traveled further below sea level (1,388 feet to be exact), far from the heights of Jerusalem to the national park in the En Gedi. Wild goats welcomed us. Our path was flanked by lush greenery in an oasis that is fed by an unexpected waterfall descending onto the valley floor. After a morning in the hot desert sun and a turbulent bus ride, I was nauseous and felt faint. When we reached the waterfall I instinctually blessed my head and neck with its cool water. Then I stood back and took in the majesty that rose above me. While others in our group took out their cameras to capture the miracle, I struggled to restrain myself and let the mystery be for a few moments longer. The images I eventually captured with my camera cannot do justice to the waterfall’s beauty and the grace it brought; but my mind’s eye can still recall it as I sit here and sip my water in the dry, Jerusalem air. 

"David's Waterfall" in the En Gedi Nature Reserve.

We moved on to the excavated site at Qumran where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found in 1946 by a young Bedouin boy playing in the caves. Much is still being debated among scholars, but most agree that the early, first century Qumran community were Jews who fled the profane city of Jerusalem and escaped into the wild to encounter God. Some scholars believe they were one of several Jewish sectarians who protested the political and material corruption that had grown up around Temple worship.

In the desert they feasted on the Word of God and bathed in the ritual waters they captured from the winter rains that slowly make their way down the mountain to the desert valley below. Only a few meters away from the salty Dead Sea, these ancient people spent their days copying down Scripture onto scrolls and purifying themselves in the mikvah waters that were central to their religious piety. Under the hot sun, and with no trace of the natural oasis on my now dry clothes, I envied the Qumran people and their ritual baths that today are only ruins of a man-made oasis in the desert. Our day in the wilderness ended with a trip to the Dead Sea, a constant neighbor to our trek across the desert floor. Although a sight to see and feel, the Dead Sea’s soupy, warm, hypersaline water could not quench my thirst. The Wilderness had drained me and I was eager to return to society. A relaxing weekend waited for me at Ecce Homo before hitting the road again the following week on pilgrimage to the Galilee.

A cave where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered. 

A view of the Dead Sea from the ruins of Qumran.

On the road again

Like the Wilderness, the Road is another setting that stimulates transformation of the soul. "On the road" is where so many have gained new perspective…and found themselves. Stepping onto the bus outside the gates of the Old City I called to mind images of the “road” described in literature and song. I thought about the road trips that have marked the many beginnings and endings in my life. I thought about the road trips with my husband and how the road easily became "home" simply because we were traveling it together.

Perhaps the Road offers the “change of scenery” necessary to continue growing in our humanity. The Road changes our perspective, allows for the kind of metanoia that is proclaimed by the voice in the Wilderness. It is on the road that the Samaritan man became “neighbor” to his enemy. It is on the road to Emmaus where two disciples, trying to make sense of the injustice they had just witnessed, turned to God's Word, broke it and shared it.  It is on the road to Damascus where Paul was blinded by Love and was transformed. It is on the road to Caesarea Philippi where Jesus asks his disciples “who do you say that I am?” 

On Tuesday we hit the road for the Galilee. It was the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the New Year and the beginning of the Jewish High Holy days. How appropriate also that this year, the Feast of St. Francis of Assisi also fell on this day. The New Year festival celebrates God’s creation of the universe and God’s “kingship” over all things. With Creation on my mind, it was a wonderful time to begin our week of travel and reflection in the beautiful Galilean countryside.

The Galilee isn’t a city, but rather a region where flora and fauna thrive, and underground waters miraculously spring up from a rocky terrain. The Gospel tradition tells that Jesus’ ministry began here as he traveled the roads to and from the villages inhabiting this pastoral setting. It is easy to see how Jesus came to know God along these roads. I was amazed at the landscape where the Jesus Movement took root and captured the imagination of the first disciples! We drove just a few hours from Jerusalem to arrive at the clear waters of the Sea of Galilee. Not technically a sea, it is a body of fresh water teeming with fish and surrounded by lush prairie, fruitful orchards, and thriving towns. The large lake and its congregation are hugged by the rolling hills that surround them. 

Kibbutz farms dot the plains, watered by the Israeli-invented "drip irrigation" system.

Sea of Galilee in the early morning.

View from the holy site commemorating the Sermon on the Mount.

The central role that the Lake of Gennesaret (a.k.a. Sea of Galilee) plays in this paradise setting cannot be overstated. Although our four-day pilgrimage took place in the dry season, when the ground still awaited the winter rains, the Galilean countryside brimmed with life. A few weeks from now, during the festival of Sukkot, Jews will pray for the rains to come. And when they arrive in mid to late October, the hills of Galilee will bloom.

The Sea of Galilee is approximately 13 miles long and 8 miles wide, with a circumference of 33 miles. It was along its shores that a man named Jesus encountered ordinary people in their every-day lives. It was on the roads of Galilee that he traveled from town to town, offering words of healing. It was among these hills and valleys where crowds gathered to hear this itinerant preacher speak. It was in its houses and synagogues – the ruins of which our group saw with our own eyes – that he taught as one with authority. 

Galilean fishermen coming into harbor after a night of fishing.

This place, the Galilean countryside, is a sharp contrast to the desert outside of Jerusalem that we visited the week prior. I used to think that Jesus came from a secluded, small town – that he was a “country bumpkin” so to speak. And perhaps compared to the big city of Jerusalem, Jericho or Bethsaida, he was. But much of our time in the Galilee was actually spent visiting the many archeological sites of first century towns. We stopped in Nazareth, Magdala, Caesarea Philippi, ancient Dan, Capernaum, Tabgha and Zippori. The close proximity of these ancient cities and their diverse populations told a much different story of Jesus’ upbringing and his ministry on the road. I imagined Jesus walking along the shores of the lake and chatting with the fishermen as they brought their boats in at sunrise. I imagined him befriending some of them and being invited to join them on their trip out to sea. I imagined Jesus telling sea stories that offered comfort through the long, dark, laborious night of fishing. I imagined him inviting the fishermen to become fishers of men. I imagined them walking along together from town to town with moments of silence between them, stopping to rest under the shade of the olive and pomegranate trees that still grow along the side of the road. 

The only first century boat from the Sea of Galilee known to exist and discovered in 1986.

Biblical Formation group (English) from Ecce Homo.

Leave no trace

One of many aspects to my Galilean pilgrimage that I don't discuss here are our visits to the holy sites commemorating the traditional locations attributed to important biblical events. These sites no longer resemble the moments that they commemorate, but have long since become destinations in themselves. Churches have been built upon churches built upon churches built upon churches. I had mixed feelings about these sacred spaces that throbbed with pilgrims and tourists. For the most part, the tourists were respectful of the meaning attributed to these places of worship. However, with people come concrete, trash, and signs that say “stay off the grass.” I longed for the Wild. I wondered...why are we pilgrims not as offended by the desecration of nature as we are by the desecration of our houses of worship? 

Photo credit: Joe Payne

1st century ruins of Capernaum. This is where the Gospels say Jesus made his home and healed the paralytic man that was lowered from the roof of a house. (Mk. 2:1-12). 

Pilgrims

Church of the Beatitudes near Tabgha and Capernaum, Israel.

My trek into the Wild these past weeks were opportunities for me to more readily remain in the present moment and contemplate God. But at the pilgrim sites where civilization holds a tight grip on memory, I found my mind wandering and it was difficult to focus on the Scripture passages our group leader asked us to reflect upon. Recalling the ruins of the ancient Galilean villages we visited, I wondered…what will we modern humans leave behind in these spaces? What scars will the Wilderness carry?

The first century historian, Josephus describes the Galilee this way. “Skirting the lake of Gennesar [Sea of Galilee], and also bearing that name, lies a region whose natural properties and beauty are very remarkable. There is not a plant which its fertile soil refuses to produce, and its cultivators in fact grow every species; the air is so well-tempered that it suits the most opposite varieties.” Other ancient sources speak of the “sweet water” of the Sea of Galilee, now made undrinkable by pollution. 

Photo credit: Joe Payne

The human-caused pollution of the earth, the unrestrained use of natural resources, the belief that we have dominion “over” other creatures…these are all counter to the Gospel of Creation Pope Francis proclaims in his encyclical Laudato Si. He calls for a reconciliation between human beings and nature.

"When we speak of the environment, what we really mean is a relationship existing between nature and the society which lives in it. Nature cannot be regarded as something separate from ourselves or as a mere setting in which we live. We are part of nature, included in it and thus in constant interaction with it. Recognizing the reasons why a given area is polluted requires a study of the workings of society, its economy, its behaviour patterns, and the ways it grasps reality." (No. 139)

Next week Jews will celebrate Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. On this day people will seek forgiveness from God and from the people they have sinned against throughout the year. For my part, I will ask forgiveness from the Wild Things and seek reconciliation.

Mount Hermon waterfall.

They paved paradise And put up a parking lot With a pink hotel, a boutique And a swinging hot spot Don't it always seem to go That you don't know what you've got Till it's gone They paved paradise And put up a parking lot They took all the trees

How to share a story

On the same day world leaders were arriving in Israel to mourn the passing of Shimon Peres, I began my day with an early excursion to the Dome of the Rock. On our way to the Temple Mount/The Noble Sanctuary we passed children dressed in uniforms. Some rushed, others meandered, and the littlest ones held tightly to their father’s hand as they made their way to school. After the first level of security we entered the plaza that introduces the Western Wall of the Second Temple. Before beginning their day, scores of Jews lined up facing the wall davening in prayer. Crossing through a second security barrier we ascended toward the Dome of the Rock. In these few steps we crossed the border into “Israeli occupied territory” and the epicenter of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. You could feel the hyper-sensitivity and the tension was thick. A compromise had been made and the territory atop this mount remains “occupied” by Israel, but is administered by Arabs. 

The natural landscape underfoot that had once inspired transcendence in ancient people millennia ago is now leveled by an expansive, human-made platform. The space seemed like an underused, city park. For all the conflict this place has wrought over the centuries, it was quiet and empty in the early morning hours. Just an hour before, it was crowded with Muslim worshipers responding to the early call to prayer. But now, only a few people meandered with their cameras. And just as in any city park, there were people with nowhere else to go; sitting on steps, lying under trees, leaning against pillars. There are scattered trees and bushes, patches of dirt framed by concrete curbs, a fountain at its center for ritual washing, and a stone floor that is kept immaculate by regular passings of street cleaning machines.

Across from the golden domed, mosaic-clad shrine is a large but comparatively unimpressive mosque - the Al Aqsa mosque that just an hour earlier was the center of Muslim prayer in Jerusalem's Old City. Past acts of violence in this place meant that as Christians we were not allowed to enter either building. We stayed standing as a group so as not to suggest a congregation of worshipers. We avoided touching each other or making sudden movements so as to not suggest any intention of violence. Like the dozens of feral cats that wandered the plaza, we could only observe our surroundings; we could not participate. We were not allowed, perhaps even for good reason, to experience for ourselves what so many revere as their most sacred site, the place where their most treasured stories are set…the binding of Abraham’s son, the ascension of the Prophet, the Holy of Holies. It made me wonder…how does one share a story with another person?

How to share a story...

There is no shortage of advice on how to tell a good story. But this is not my question. And I am also not trying to state the obvious by saying that we all share “similarities” in our stories either. After all, why should such narrative similarities among religions come to anyone’s surprise when the best stories that have shaped human culture always have common elements, motifs, and archetypes. Dark versus light, the humble beginnings of greatness, coming-of-age angst, betrayal, sacrifice, redemption, mistaken identity, past debts, a lovers’ quarrel….and that’s just the storyline of Star Wars. No, this is not my question as I gazed upon the Dome of the Rock and was not allowed inside. The question I pondered that day on the Temple Mount/Haram El Sharif was, “how do we share a story?”

The archeology and historical sciences of the last 120 years allow us modern people to become sharers in these stories as well. After a short coffee break at the pilgrim house we walked as a group out of the city gate, down the hill to the City of David and the archeological ruins of an ancient palace. We waded through the dark tunnel carved under the hillside that diverted water from the Pool of Siloam’s natural springs to the protection beyond Jerusalem’s walls. The tunnel was the technological feat that saved the southern kingdom of Judah from the Assyrians siege nearly 2,800 years ago. We were one of several tour groups learning about the people who occupied David’s city so long ago. Throughout the tour we followed a band of young Israeli soldiers in their first year of service. They were just children themselves, barely 18 or 19 enjoying a field trip around the city. These young Israelis have been the target of fatal stabbings in recent years; and so some of the adolescents carried guns at their side. Watching them, I thought of the school children we had passed earlier that morning. 

After a long, hot day of walking I was glad to see that we would be shuttled back up the hill to Archeology Park where we learned about the first century people who lived in this place and built the Second Temple. We walked along the same stone steps that pilgrims to the Temple walked on 2,000 years ago. We looked up in awe at the remains of an amazing accomplishment in human architecture and walked amid the ruins of the marketplace where spiritual teachers came to preach. I imagined Jesus and his disciples as I listened to the tour guide paint the picture; and scenes from Monty Python’s “Life of Brian” played in my head. 

"A good friend knows all of your best stories…a sister has lived them with you."

The indigenous people who were drawn to the life-giving waters of the valley; the nomads who were called up to the mountain that houses the Divine; the mystics who fled into the wilderness to hear God’s voice in its silence; the community that experienced the Divine among themselves; the people led by a prophet who contemplated Oneness in his divided world; the archeologists who unearthed the truth of the Bible and found that the absence of evidence is not evidence of absence….they all share the story of this Land. They share in the story of this Land like siblings who share a story of childhood. 

I am the middle of three sisters. We are all so very different - as siblings tend to be. I’m sure there is much written about why and how siblings diverge from one another in personality despite having grown up in the same household. But when it comes to living day to day, in peace with my sisters, I’ve come to realize that we might share in the same story, but we have experienced it very differently. We might have the same memories of events, but their effects on the way we view the world can be very different from each other’s. We might have the same people come and go from our lives, but our relationships with them are unique to each of us. It is sometimes difficult to understand where my sisters are coming from, especially when we have opposing reactions to the same story; or different interpretations of the same facts.  

I love my sisters, and I believe them when they tell me their childhood stories. I know them to be true, just as I know that my own story of childhood is true. At times I am even hurt by their memories; and my memories have hurt them in return. But I listen to their stories, and they listen to mine. Sometimes I even understand my own childhood stories more fully when I can experience them through my sisters’ eyes. And when my sisters are happy I celebrate with them. And when they are sad I mourn with them. We participate in each other’s lives because we are family.

You may say I’m a dreamer…but I’m not the only one.

My day began atop a mountain, at the center of one of the greatest political-religious conflicts affecting the world today. It ended on a rooftop at an interreligious prayer gathering for peace. Nearly one year ago a small group of Jews, Christians, Muslims and Nones living in Jerusalem started gathering on the last Thursday of each month to pray side by side for peace. The group is mostly made up of expatriates living in Jerusalem who wanted to respond to recent outbreaks of violence by showing that religious faith can be a source of peace, not just a cause for conflict. At the very moment in history when world leaders were gathering in Jerusalem to mourn the death of Shimon Peres, this small group of people gathered on a rooftop in the Old City and prayed for peace.

I do believe that peace is possible. I do believe we can share stories as siblings who genuinely love one another. Shimon Peres came to believe this also in the latter part of his life and was called a “dreamer” for his apparent change of heart. To Shimon Peres I wish to say, “you’re not the only one.” 

Three Books

This past June I had the pleasure of learning from and dining with Murray Watson, a Canadian Catholic Biblical scholar who spends much of the year in Jerusalem. In anticipation of my pilgrimage to Israel and Palestine, he shared an observation regarding those who travel to this region of the world. He said [I'm paraphrasing] that people who spend a week in Jerusalem return home and write a book. Those who spend a month in Jerusalem return home and write a journal article. Those who spend a year living in Jerusalem return home and write a blog post. And those who live here longer struggle to find words to describe this place, the land and its people.

Marie Theodore Ratisbonne

Marie Theodore Ratisbonne

In the mid-19th century Theodore Ratisbonne wrote, “there are three books which have come forth from the hand of God, and whose riches – riches of beauty, truth and love – you will never manage to exhaust. These three books are Sacred Scripture, the wonders of nature, and the human heart. It is these three books which must be studied, and it is in them that you will find eternal life.” (Sources de Sion, No. 3, p. 17)

I’m sure that I will never exhaust all the things worthy of reflection during my time here in Jerusalem and the surrounding areas. But Theodore’s “three books” – the human heart, the wonders of nature, and Scripture – give me a framework for this blog. I hope to record my thoughts about this Land that has shaped a People who, over centuries, have handed down the Word of God. 

Leaving Home...

My travel to Jerusalem started at 2pm on Sunday (Kansas City time) and ended on Monday at 6:30 pm (Jerusalem time). My goodbyes to family were foggy, having woken up on Sunday with a cold. What timing! Why now?! It made for uncomfortable plane rides, but was perhaps a blessing since all my energy and thoughts these first two days were focused on getting through the physical struggles; leaving little room for the emotional ones.

The plane from Newark, NJ to Tel Aviv signaled to me that I was entering a world so very different from my own. There were men and women donning a variety of outward Jewish signs. Scarves and hats covered the hair of women young and old. Most men wore kippot on their heads, some wore tzitzit, others dressed in black with side-curls hanging below their ears. An hour or so into the flight an older gentleman walked up to the open space in the middle section of the plane, just two rows in front of me. He had a long white beard, dressed in black with tzitzit hanging from his waist and a tallit draped over his shoulders. He held a prayer book and quietly prayed to himself as he swayed side to side, forward and back.

Shortly after the man started his evening prayers, another man stood up on the right side of the plane. He was a young, handsome man. He wore a white t-shirt and jeans, with tzitzit hanging from his waist as well. His hair was pulled back in an ever-so-fashionable (and sexy) man-bun and a kippah on top of his head. Before beginning his prayer, he took out a small, black box attached to a long, thin, black strap and began to ceremonially wrap it around his left arm. He took another small, black box and affixed it to his head. These were tefillin and they carried tiny slips of paper with scripture passages.

Customs.jpg

Witnessing this outward sign of religious practice, I wondered how they might be received on a plane traveling from Kansas City to Houston. How comfortable would the average American feel with such personal yet open display of religious practice? Would those same American Christians who see themselves as warriors of religious liberty defend such acts on an airplane; maybe even applaud them? I'm not sure they would. And as I watched these two men daven in personal prayer, I couldn’t help but think of those Muslims who have been harassed and even evicted from airplanes simply for speaking Arabic or reading the Koran.

But this is perhaps what makes Israel set apart. It is a relatively secular, democratic state where religiosity is omnipresent, and not just reserved for the Sabbath. (I would love to visit India one day too!) I wondered, does Israel have something to teach the United States, or would a similarly overt display of religion from a Muslim or a Christian be unacceptable on a plane to Tel Aviv as it might be on a plane to Kansas City?

Good natured Aussies!

Good natured Aussies!

Arrival…

I was met at the airport by a Palestinian taxi driver whose family has worked for the Sisters of Sion for many years. Riding along with me in the taxi were three Australians who are in the program with me. How wonderful to be greeted by the friendly, good-natured attitude of Aussies! Majed, our driver, pointed out different sites along our drive from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. On the road into Jerusalem we were flanked by two walls. Both walls were made of concrete. The shorter wall had barbed wire on top and hid Palestinian territory behind it. The other wall guarded Israel. The Israelis call this wall the “Wall of Security,” while the Palestinians call it the “Wall of Apartheid.” I couldn’t help but think about the wall so many Americans want to build between us and Mexico and what that wall might be named. I also imagined Jesus riding into this Jerusalem, his road flanked by two walls, and wondered what he would think. 

View from the terrace at Ecce Homo.

View from the terrace at Ecce Homo.

The sun was setting as the taxi entered the Muslim quarter of the Old City. The air was cool and our windows were down. In the twilight the evening call to prayer echoed through the streets. It is difficult to describe the beauty of these prayers when heard in person. We’ve all heard samples of the Call to Prayer on TV and in the news; but the physical reverberation, the echo bouncing off the walls of the city, the calls heard in the distance…it is a mystical experience. It is only Wednesday and I now look forward to the Muslim call to prayer I hear throughout the day. This place, Jerusalem, is a holy place. It inspires the study of the “three books” that Theodore mentions…Scripture, Nature, and the Human Heart. This city is steeped in religion…this perhaps is its weakness, but it is also its strength. 

A Tree Grows in Jerusalem

My name is Teresa (a.k.a. Tree), and one week from today I will board a plane destined for Tel Aviv. From the airport in Tel Aviv I will take a taxi to the Muslim quarter in Jerusalem's "Old City" and collapse from exhaustion onto a small bed in a small room. This room will be my home for one month, in an old pilgrim house run by religious sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame de Sion. Here, at this convent, I will study Scripture and participate in the lives of Christians, Jews and Muslims who call Jerusalem "home."  

Old City of Jerusalem. Ecce Homo Pilgrim House is located in the Muslim Quarter.

Why this means so much to me...

I have worked in peacebuilding for 15 years. Under the tutelage of others who have worked for peace, especially through interfaith dialogue and collaboration, it is my desire that this trip to Israel will give me the knowledge, wisdom, and hope to continue building loving communities around me. 

A little about my Sion sensibility... 

I am an Lay Associate of the Sisters of Notre Dame de Sion, a Catholic congregation of women set out "To Heal a Fractured World" by building bridges of understanding among all faith traditions; by working for justice, peace and love among peoples; and by choosing life, including all creation. There are two realities of the modern, geographical Jerusalem. One is a city of religious fanaticism and interreligious warring; distrust among neighbors and violence between strangers; a city divided by ancient rivalry that eludes all attempts at peace and justice. The other is a city where three faith traditions share, in their unique ways, a common spiritual home; a city that is the beating heart of a network of grassroots peace initiatives; where religious leaders and scholars put aside the agendas of politicians and sit at table together; where Palestinian and Israeli neighbors live and work side by side. "Sion" is the (french) biblical name for Jerusalem and represents a utopian place of unity, peace and freedom...the "world to come" or the "kingdom of God." I am so fortunate to be journeying with others on the road to this "City of Peace."

Thank You!

As I prepare to leave for Israel at the end of this week, I am feeling a bit anxious. It will be difficult to be away from my husband and little Maple for so long. But whatever fear I may have, it is overwhelmed by the excitement I feel when I think about the new friends I will meet; others who wish to be light that penetrates darkness.  

I want to thank all those who have generously helped me get to Jerusalem....Nikki & Tim, Seyi & Jason, Katie & Aaron, Pam B., Alison, Catherine, Candy & Tom, Lauren & Mark, April & Greg, Pat & Mel, Pam M., Mary & Gary, Sarah & Jeff, Erin & Ather, Gina & Dan...and especially the Sisters of Notre Dame de Sion and Sion Associates from around the world.

But I couldn't do any of this, nor be "my best self," without the love of my life. Thank you, Michael, my best friend and partner. I will miss you terribly!

P.S. - You can donate to my Go Fund Me campaign at https://www.gofundme.com/treeinjerusalem.