At the moment I'm sitting up in bed, typing. It's 11PM Jerusalem time, 3:00 PM back home in Minnesota. Jim Thomson from Peace Lutheran is sacked out in the (very tiny) twin bed next to me. (He's tall and says he feels “short-sheeted.”) We just got back literally minutes ago from our first walk around town. I may keel over at any second myself, so this dispatch may not be very long or substantive.
The flight seemed to go faster than I expected, and we have a great group to travel with. When we arrived at MSP airport yesterday, our tour leader Pastor Mark Nelson was standing next to a pile of cardboard boxes containing 100 brand new copies of the new ELCA hymnal (the “cranberry” book, now replacing the beloved old green book after decades of noble service). The hymnals had been lovingly donated by our friends at Mount Olivet Lutheran—and they thought we'd be good mules to transport these books to the Lutheran Church of the Redeemer in the Old City, where our group will be doing the bulk of our work here.
So I have to be honest and confess a flash of righteous indignation when I first heard we'd be expected to carry more than just our luggage. Those uncharitable, selfish thoughts about my personal comfort quickly melted away when I watched the group adapt to the challenge. Someone had had the idea that the boxes were 25 pounds each, and so two could be taped together creating one parcel that did not exceed the 50 pound limit. The airport scale proved us wrong—each box was precisely 26 pounds! We had ten boxes of books, with ten of us (of our full group of 12) leaving from Minneapolis.
However, one person already had two check-in items to declare, meaning the other nine of us had to carry a full box, plus however many extra books from the leftover box that we could manage. I got one hymnal in my already overstuffed suitcase, and two more in my carry-on. I think Mark put three in his suitcase.
In the end, getting the books into Jerusalem turned out to be kind of a rewarding “bonding” experience—especially considering how much these books are likely to be appreciated by our brothers and sisters struggling to keep our faith alive over here.
For whatever reason, I just couldn't sleep on the plane. Each seat had its own video screen with on-demand programming, so I ended up watching five movies—mostly ones I know Rhonda wouldn't want to watch with me back home. John C. Reilly in “Walk Hard” had the 12-year old boy that still dwells within me laughing like a fiend—even as I could almost hear Rhonda saying, “This is one I don't need to watch with you, sweetie.”
The plane landed at about 5:30 PM—almost exactly 24 hours after we left Minneapolis (not accounting for the time difference). We were met at the airport by Pastor Russ Siler (one of Mark's old friends; they worked in Jerusalem together in the past), and by Marcia Holman, wife of Pastor Mark Holman, who leads the English-speaking congregation at the Church of the Redeemer. We left Minneapolis during a snowstorm (on the last day of March, mind you!) and landed in Tel Aviv to 70 degree temps, lush spring growth, colossal palm trees, and possibly the sweetest-smelling, freshest air I've ever savored. If they could bottle it, I'd buy it.
A short van ride from Tel Aviv and suddenly, here we are, Jerusalem. Our hotel (the Golden Walls) is literally across the street from the ancient parapet-bedecked walls of the Old City. I had a goose-bump moment when I looked up and beheld their enduring magnificence.
We all checked into our rooms and then, minutes later, reconvened in the lobby to eat in the hotel's restaurant. We had a buffet that included fresh and aromatic dolmas (stuffed grape leaves), a fine (basmati? jasmine? jasmati?) rice, and two savory meat dishes—apparently lamb and pork. (Yes, pork.) Alas, this turns out not to be a Jewish owned hotel—hence the decidedly unkosher pork.
Over dinner, Pastor Holman briefed us on his years here and offered some rather profound insights. One that resonated and stuck with me all evening: “There is nothing you can do here that is not political. Where you buy your clothes, where you shop for food, where you buy a new computer, which roads you can or choose to drive on—there is a political implication in every case.” I know this is only the beginning of the thought-provoking moments this trip will provide. Another trenchant comment from Pr. Holman: “I have an identity here as a Christian, and I have an identity here as an American. The two do not always coexist comfortably.” I've had that same gut-feeling for years.
After we ate, about six of us went for a few miles' stroll around the Old City. The walls and their gates are breathtaking at night. We wound our way through narrow cobblestone streets that run though the city like a labyrinth. Fortunately Mark Nelson and Beth Warpmaeker were with us and know this place the way I know lower Manhattan.
Seeing very young-looking Israeli men—and women—wearing army uniforms and loaded to the nines with lethal weapons including submachine guns is something I hope I don't get used to seeing. We had to go through a security check with metal detectors just to get near the Western Wall. When we finally stepped out of the labyrinthine streets into the open air and beheld the Western (a.k.a. “Wailing”) Wall—I had another goose-bump moment.
I've seen the Orthodox Jews praying fervently at the Wall in the mass media, but seeing it in person was an altogether fresh experience. And I've read before that in ancient days, one never turned one's back on the holy site, and so walked away from the walls backwards. It turns out that this is still true today. It was fun to see groups of devout men and (in their own segregated area) women, casually conversing as they took their backward steps away from the Wall.
We stopped at a convenience store for some water and soda, and I got to break my first 100 shekel bill. I love foreign money—how it looks, trying to learn what the denominations are worth, etc. I asked the clerk if it was acceptable to expect him to break a hundred shekel note for a mere can of sodapop. He laughed and said, “Of course! One hundred not worth that much!” My more savvy friends then told me it would be roughly like asking an American vendor to break a 20. No big deal.
Then I got to do my first linguistic botch of the trip, too. Wanting to say thank-you to the Israeli vendor, I said (in Hebrew) “Toda!”
Beth W. (who lived here for a year about nine years ago) laughed and whispered to me, “He speaks Arabic...”
My first interaction and I blew it! But I quickly recovered with a second blurting: “Shukran!”
“Righhhhht,” Beth said, encouragingly.
So now my dilemma: How do people know WHO speaks Arabic and WHO speaks Hebrew?” I clearly have a LOT to learn in this place.
Well, all for tonight. This bumbling American needs some rest.
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