How Christmas Trumped Realpolitik--Part II

Eb wanders in the room looking a little disheveled. His hands are in his pockets.

“Where have you been, Mr Milk Groootto?” I smirk.

He rolls his eyes. “Nowhere.”

After the whole Divine Indiscretion fiasco, I wasn’t sure when I would see Eb again. But I’m glad he’s here and I know just what he needs. I produce a plate of sugar cookies. He perks up when he sees all the colored frosting. We sit at at the table, munch, and talk texts. It is Epiphany after all, the 12th day of Christmas. Wise-men day.

A Cold War at Christmas

A Cold War at Christmas

I hold Josephus by the hand and squint into the wind.

Our view is good, but Herod’s was better. I sit with students on the stump of a tower (or “keep”) estimated to have been 120 feet tall. Herod could climb the stairs of this structure (now tumbled downslope) and scan the horizon from a lofty perch. Looking north along the Judean backbone, he could pick out the Mount of Olives. It cast a shadow over Jerusalem every morning. Looking south, he could see, or almost feel, really, the opening up of a vast desert.