Life Matters - December 13, 2023
As the dark skinned, chisel-faced, handsome, middle-aged man with flecks of gray in his black beard wearing turban, robe and sandals, astride his sturdy donkey, disappeared from view on the descent into Jerusalem, my mind returned to its reverie, only now with that donkey and rider permanently imprinted upon my brain. That image remains as a symbol of the variety, even contradictions, of this place we refer to as the Holy Land. It is “Holy Land” to Jew, Christian, and Muslim. In that historical order. The Christian, with a faith rooted in non-resistance, in “turning the other cheek,” has long since relinquished his claim to this place beyond appreciative visits to “holy sites” which include the “Mount of Temptation” where Jesus was tempted by the devil, “Jacob’s Well” where He met the woman of Samaria, the “Mount of Olives,” the “Garden of Gethsemane” and others. But to the Jew and Muslim it is more than mere “holy sites.” It is an identity rooted in the land, in the area itself and centered upon one specific spot. A spot to which my eyes turned again as my gaze rested upon the magnificent gold dome of the mosque below me as I stood on the Mount of Olives.
As a side note: the non-resistant Christian “church” has not always been so non-resistant. Tabirii, our informal guide, was from Bedouin background, a nomadic tribe whose movements from place to place have been limited by modernization, yet nonetheless, do their shepherding and farming from traditional tent dwellings with a subsistence rooted in tradition and age-old ways of doing things. Through Tabirii we experienced the privilege of visiting several such farms and their extended family occupants. At the first, there were no women present and Tabirii explained to us that these men are very jealous of their women and the women very shy, therefore they likely disappeared when they saw us coming. “Where to?” I asked as my eyes swept the treeless landscape with its barren hills. “Probably taking care of the flocks.” Oh yes, down between these hills is often where the vegetation is. Our host, however, was very cordial and invited us into his tent, an abode consisting of only two but ample size, rooms, a “kitchen” and a “living room.” We entered through the kitchen and settled down onto mats on the broom swept dirt floor of the living room. Across the room from me and close to yonder tent wall lay an object closely resembling the bloated, dried, and blackened corpse of a roadkill one might find alongside a country road “back in the boondocks” of rural America. My curiosity was more than piqued, but as our friendly host was now serving tea, I tucked that curiosity away on a “shelf” in the back of my brain. Beginning at the far end of the half dozen of us men sitting on mats, our host poured tea into the cup he was holding, handed it to his guest, waited till he was done, poured tea into the same cup and handed it to the next guest. When the community cup was handed to me, I silently prayed over it, drank its contents and handed it back for the next guy.
When the conversation (with Tabirii interpreting) lulled, I took the opportunity to go to the kitchen for a drink of water from the plastic cooler I had spotted on our way in. It was setting on the type of coffee table one might find at an American yard sale and as I got a drink, I saw for the first time that it was, in fact, the only set of “kitchen cabinets” in the room. In a corner between the kitchen and living room was a stack of rolled up foam mats, the closest I saw of beds in the home. When I returned to the living room, our host was crouched next to the aforementioned “corpse,” now rolling it back and forth in a rocking motion. For the 1st time, I saw a headless neck tied shut with a leather thong, as it dawned on me that what I was seeing was a goatskin jug. Our host untied the neck and poured a thick white liquid into a pitcher and served it to us, following the same procedure as with the tea. And I followed the same procedure in drinking it, having been informed by Tabirii that we were being served a drinkable goat yogurt. I thought of Heidi and her grandfather and relished every swallow of its refreshingly tart goodness. And yes, I’m serious.
At the next Bedouin home, the women were present and the lady of the house talkative. But the most outstanding experience here was observing the blond-haired, blue eyed little boy who seemed a part of the family, but must be adopted, I thought, as he certainly didn’t fit with this dark skinned, black haired, dark-eyed family. Oh no, I was informed, there are blond-haired, blue-eyed genes among these people that show up periodically, a result of their women being raped by “Christian” crusaders during the middle age crusades to retake Jerusalem from the Muslims. A sad commentary on the so called “Christian” church. One with which the Spirit of Christ has no identity. Christ’s identity is with the heavenly choir heralding His birth, ‘’Peace on earth, goodwill to men.’’ Jesus taught us, “Do unto others as ye would have them do unto you.” Giving us a template for good and wholesome relationships with our fellow wayfarers and a place of healing, by His grace, when we find it otherwise. He is the Master of new beginnings.
He rode into His earthly capitol city, our King riding on a lowly donkey, ministering to the needs of people. From His place in the heavens, He is ministering still, to all those who receive Him with repentant hearts and minds. He will come again!