In the coming days, many of us will construct an image of Jesus standing before “the Powers.” Such constructions freight the weight of biblical passages like Isaiah 53:7, Philippians 2:6-8, or John 19:5 and are grist for personal reflection in the Easter season.
What Lies Beneath
The Barracks
I enter the barracks. The smell of raw earth makes a first impression. My eyes take a moment longer to dial down from bright sun to deep shadow. A long hall of concrete, steel, stone, and dirt emerges. Excavations beneath the barracks have been conducted over the course of the last decade, but only in the last five months has this archaeological site been open to the public. It is my first visit to Jerusalem’s Kishle and I am excited.
Lost in l'espace
When the baggage carousel stopped, I thought: Welcome back to “Exploring Bible Lands.”
The reason the carousel had stopped, of course, is because there were no more bags to spit out. All the bleary-eyed travelers had yanked and been yanked by that cruel machine empowered to deliver the final punctuation to the experience of air travel. One middle-aged woman (with a bag twice her size) was determined to pound her experience into an exclamation point. She was dragged no less than three times around the loop before she finally arrested the oversized beast. The crowd went from a collective gasp to a cheer as she rose unsteadily to her feet, one fist on the handle, the other, in the sky. She was the unseated rodeo rider who survived a runaway.
On Distractions and Diet
Readers who regularly go to Bible Lands Explorer for a diet of mildly frivolous data are worried. I know because I get your emails. People ask: Did you fall off your camel? Slide backwards into a mountain crevasse? Get arrested by the Mossad? While all of these options are likely explanations for my absence, not one of them is true. Let me put everyone’s fears to rest. In so doing, you will understand why our smorgasbord of stories has grown cold.
The Jesus Trail Goes to Brazil
Sandal Farts
Flock Fort 1
The Ruins of the Sheepfold
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.
The First to Hear the News
Watermelon Walls
This story begins 18 years ago on the road between Ramallah and Jerusalem.
I was driving a vintage Fiat 127 in heavy traffic when the truck in front of me suddenly slammed on his brakes. Despite my cat-like reflexes and the best of Italian engineering, I slammed into the truck. His bumper was bent. My Fiat was less robust. Some aluminum got crumpled. Again.
Old Donkey Blanket
Current Issues
An Austere Idea
A Neighbor with an Odd Letter
Those attuned to world news are aware of the escalating violence that has has rocked corners of Israel-Palestine in the last few weeks.
In the aftermath of a particularly brutal killing of an Arab boy (he was burned alive), residents of Beit Hanina and Shuafat took to the streets in protest. Confrontations between police and protesters resulted in additional human hurt and property damage. Many of us watching these events closely are wondering if the human conscience itself is a casualty? Are there any voices being heard out there, beside those of the extremists? Where does revenge stop? How can the cycle be arrested?
Things that Go "Boom" in the Night
I’m bunking in the middle of Jerusalem’s Old City for a month. It is less than one hundred meters from the desk where I now sit to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. The CHS is perhaps Christendom’s most sacred space and the best guess at the spot where Jesus was raised from the dead. Early every morning the bells in its steeple ring out across the city reminding the rest of us that we need to do the same.
Falafel Chapel
“Orange juice?” “Falafel?” The invitation floats down Jerusalem’s Old City streets, seeking lodging in the ears of the hungry.
In this case, the voice behind the appeal belongs to Sameer. Plump oranges are piled to his knees. To his right is a stainless steel display stretching across the front of his shop. A peek inside reveals buckets of cabbages, pickles, onions, eggplant, salsas, some unidentifiables, and, of course, the magic paste that holds the whole of the Mediterranean world together: hummus.
To the Glue Factory
She looked like a good pony: short, but sturdy and footsure. Her lines were pure economy. Not even Todd, whose appreciation of such things ran ahead of most, would call her elegant. The icon proudly worn on her chest indicated that General Motors played some role in weaving together her DNA, although as I pondered her scruffy coat, I couldn’t remember seeing a breed like this before. We tested her throughly as hardened Westerners are wont to do: I kicked her tire. She didn’t flinch. Satisfied, Seth signed the rental papers and we we climbed aboard.
Little Things
Footwear
A couple of years ago I went to the top of a snowy peak believed by many to be Mt. Ararat (Ağrı Dağı). It was a four day hike. The leather boots I purchased were a wee bit small, but I thought they would work fine. Boy, was I wrong! I developed blisters on the top on my blisters and before it was over I was gimping badly. I pushed through it, but my dogs were sure barking!