People, like great novels, have themes.
Blog and Vlog
The challenge of moving 48 people through the land of the Bible is felt most acutely in Jerusalem’s Old City. Here, the rhythm of life lived within these walls collides with the press of new arrivals. Together, residents and pilgrims rush, gawk, worship, shop and gossip. The result can be chaotic, or at least have that appearance for first-timers. There is no tutorial for this school; one must simply dive in.
We are busy here at the Bible Land Explorers’ headquarters chewing the magoi. So far we’ve noted how Jesus was born in a Cold War (see here) and how the magoi were savvy politicians with a reputation for king-making and king-breaking (see here). As Christmas morning approaches, however, we lean toward something more festive: wisemen wafers!
Enter the idea of the eulogia.
The bus was nearly at capacity with 47 persons when we rolled into the airport. In a similar way, our hearts and minds were full. Old friendships had been enriched and new friendships had been forged over the course of the past two weeks. We hugged and shared goodbyes, knowing that as we returned home, we did so as changed people.
It may seem odd to be thinking about pilgrims at Christmastide. But it is fitting. Pilgrimage is for every season. There is never a wrong time to undertake a journey for the purpose of encountering God. Most pilgrimages are unexpected and topsy-turvy experiences. Sometimes they get messy. Ask Paul the Apostle. Whom did he expect to meet on the road to Damascus? Or ask the Christmas shepherds. After they heard the angelic announcement, they said:
"Let's go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened" (Luke 2:15).
East of Bethlehem lies an enclosed area known as Khirbet Syar el-Ghanam, “The ruins of the sheepfold.” It is one of three locales in the Arab village of Bayt Sahour linked to the memory of the Christmas shepherds. Issa and I step past its gate in pursuit of deeper desert. Fortunately for us, the gauntlet of trinketmen armed with postcards, stitched bags, keffiyehs, and flutes have yet to assemble. It is still early in the day for tourists, but not for the summer sun. Sweat stripes bleed through my shirt, outlining my packstraps. We thump by, mindful of the hour.
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.
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.
