Shemuah (A “heard thing,” “report,” or “announcement”).
First, please accept my apology for the interruption. The last few weeks have been overwhelmingly busy. I hope to return to the Jesus Trail soon.
Dead Reckoning to the Horns
Roads
I bend forward into the sink. Icy water runs across my hair, face, and neck. The cold shocks the leftover night from my head. It is 4:00 am. The call to prayer sounds in the distance.
I back away from the flow, close the faucet, and shake like a dog. Satisfied, I pull a shirt over dripping hair and skin, and don the elastic band holding a headlamp. I flip the switch.
Down on the Eco-Farm
I tumbled into consciousness in the decade of the 1960s. For some it was a return trip. For me, it was a notable first. That it happened in the state of Oregon where both firs and fungus grow tall, means that flower-power, hippies, and leather fringe jackets will forever trigger childhood flashbacks.
The Green Goat
Desperate for a good night’s sleep, I exchange the Jesus Trail for asphalt. I backtrack up the highway to an Israeli hostel. It carries a most curious name: Yarok-Az, or the “Green Goat.” It is advertised as an “eco-friendly organic goat farm.” Such a description will charm a sticky tick out of a tight place. I tug the cinch strap on my pack, set my jaw, and make for a bunk.
McRevived
Monkey Butt
I stand by the road in the wood and wave goodbye to a dear friend. He smiles weakly and waves back. I detect concern in his eyes, as if he thinks I shouldn’t be left alone. Hani is a trained pastor who knows how to read the signs. I am far from home, a babe in the woods. The car begins to roll away then stops suddenly. Hani cranks his head out the window. “Call me, ok?” he pleads.
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
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.
A Divine Indiscretion
Our Lady of the Milk. Metal image on the front door of the Milk Grotto entrance.
There is nothing more natural, beautiful, or healthy than a mother with a baby at her breast. Agreed?
So why do I feel weird?
It is because I have never been inside a building devoted to the celebration of lactation.
Until this moment.
From Plonk to Krug
Befuddled
Antihero
Duct, Duct, Sluice
A Frankish Fort
Gwuf . . . gwuf . . . gwuf . . .
My walking shoes exhale as they press against the stairs. The pitch is steep, the steel rail, helpful. The passage is constructed of creamy limestone, glossy from the rub of countless hands and feet. I reach out to touch the wall. The surface is cool under my fingertips.
Hide and Seek, Seek and Hide
Jesus insists that we do the right thing. In his Sermon on the Mount, he calls his listeners “salt” and “light.” We can make a difference. Our deeds are not done in secret. And then he drops the metaphor:
“A town (Gk, polis) on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matt 5:14).
I wonder if Jesus had a particular place in mind?
And then I Stopped Breathing
Ribs of Stone
The dried seafloor is peeled back to reveal the road. It runs away from me like the pith of a split banana. The creamy ruts of farm vehicles are baked hard and pie-crust frilly on the edges. They issue commentary on a day prior to my own. I’m guessing it was a sweltering one, a humid afternoon of work in the hayfields.