JERUSALEM!

3 & 4 November: JERUSALEM!

 

24 hours before the Obama/McCain election, we toured King David’s city, just outside the current walls of Jerusalem, then walked down to the Pool of Siloam.  It was here that Jesus cured the blind man by spitting on the ground to make mud, putting the mud on his eyes, then telling him to go wash in the pool. (John 9)  As Pastor Jack explained it, Jesus’ direction was rather degrading to the man.  Jesus not only put spit on his eyes, but then told him he wasn’t clean.  However, the man had faith, proven in that he obeyed what Christ told him to do, without question or hesitation, and was healed because of it.  Julie got a good picture of me in one of the concrete baths, as well as on the steps that would have led into the pool.  Sitting on the Siloam steps, I was reminded that Christ does heal, even me, if I have faith in Him.  I don’t.  Maybe for a few seconds, but really, I don’t.  I don’t need some dramatic healing like from illness or injury, but I do need it from the stuff that’s easier to hide – the crap I do time after time and don’t want to do anymore.  But I can’t stop on my own strength – well, not really.  I have moments of victory, but in reality, nothing long-term.  I can’t persevere on my own strength.  And maybe these things will be with me my entire life and are meant to keep me close to God.  As most Christians are very familiar with Paul’s “thorn in his side” (2 Corinthians 12:7-10), we often look at our injuries or diseases or addictions or bad relationships or “issues” in this manner – things that aren’t meant to be healed in this life.  We’re afflicted to help us grow, get character, or increase faith.  But I think I use this idea as an excuse.  It’s a crutch, a cop-out, being chicken, an excuse to not even put the burden of faith on myself.  So all this ran through my mind on the steps of Siloam (which means “Sent”).  And it stayed in my mind, like the picture Julie took of me there.  I can’t say it has changed my behavior or faith or crap I do, but I at least have enough faith to believe that Jesus heals other people.  Maybe one day before I die I’ll get enough faith for myself.

 

The air-conditioned Purple Eggs drove us over to the top of the Mount of Olives – I guess our trip was more gossip than sweat, after all.  Alot happened here: King David took refuge, weeping, as his son entered Jerusalem to overthrow him;  Zechariah prophesied that the Lord would come, His feet standing on the Mount of Olives, overlooking Jerusalem; Jesus spent nights praying on the mountain, sometimes with His disciples, sometimes alone;  Jesus told His disciples about the end times here, warned of many false prophets who would perform signs and miracles and convince many of His followers, and many people’s hearts would forget love and grow cold due to increased wickedness in the world; and finally Jesus walked into Jerusalem for the last time from the Mount of Olives, with all the people cheering Him on and acknowledging that He was God, then killed Him five days later.  We walked down from the Mount of Olives via the “Palm Sunday” path, greeted by vendors shouting “You America!  Obama good!  3 for $10!”, finally taking refuge in the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus had prayed in agony that He not be killed while His disciples fell asleep.  He prayed for escape, but always ending with “Thy will be done, not Mine” – just as Judas led the Roman soldiers into the garden to arrest Him on charges of blasphemy.  Several of the olive trees in Gethsemane were witnesses 2000 years ago, but are now marked with “do not touch” signs.  Leaves from these trees, or even an olive, are likely a great souvenir.

 

In the afternoon, Nir and Itay guided us through the museum at the entry of the Temple so we could understand what it looked like when Jesus was there, then walked to the southwest corner of the Temple.  While we were told that Jesus walked on these stones, on the street where vendors would be wheeling & dealing, I couldn’t really take it in.  The massiveness of the stones, the bricks – something like 8x50 feet and probably 5 (or was it 50?) tons – now that impressed me. 

 

We came to the Temple Steps, which are now steps to nowhere since the Muslims have walled it off to build their mosque.  During Jesus’ time, the Jewish elders would sit at the city gates or on the Temple steps to discuss laws and judge citizens – kind of like my Dad and his buddies at Starbucks.  Pastor Daniel reminded us that Jesus would have sat on these very steps teaching His disciples and even the elders.  Suddenly, I asked myself the question if I would have been among Jesus’ disciples if I were at the temple and listening to him preach and even witnessing the miracles first-hand.  If I were a Jew in the time of Jesus, would I have believed He was the Son of God – if He was who he claimed he was?  I’m not sure I would have.  The Jews are God’s chosen people, with centuries of history to substantiate that.  Suddenly they are told that they are equal with anyone else who claims to believe that this peasant who refutes their laws and traditions is the King, the Messiah, God’s Son.  I figure that if I were a Jew and met Jesus, it would take as much conviction to follow Him as it would for me to convert to Islam now:  going against my family and cultural heritage as well as being willing to lower my social and religious status, considering that I’m a woman.

 

Tuesday morning, election day back home, paper and pens were passed around the bus.  Julie asked if I wanted some.  For what?  A prayer – for the Wailing Wall.  Oh.  No, I wouldn’t know what to pray for.  What one single thing would I pray for?  I still can’t answer that, and so I didn’t leave anything for God in the wall.  But seeing all those kneeling in front of the western wall that once held up the Temple, men on one side, women on the other, I couldn’t help but think that all these earnest prayers really were “incense” to God.  Jewish or Christian, God had to be listening with compassion and appreciation and love.

 

When the Romans got sick of the Jews not worshipping Caesar, around 70 AD, they destroyed the Temple.  The building and huge blocks (like those seen at the southwest wall) were pushed from the Temple plaza, called the Temple Mount, onto the streets below.  As Jesus had predicted on the Mount of Olives that Jerusalem would be destroyed (Matthew 24:1-3), it was done.  Over the years, dirt filled and covered the mounds of stones against the wall of the Temple Mount on the west side. 

 

Now, I have to digress briefly and say that the Temple Mount is now owned by Muslims, is topped with a mosque, and is prohibited from any non-Muslim to enter.  How the Muslims came to worship on the Jewish Temple Mount where Jesus taught is probably some work of the devil that gives him the giggles.  But in 638 AD, the Muslims declared the Temple Mount a holy sight since Mohammed was transported to it from Mecca one night, accompanied by the angel Gabriel, then ascended a ladder of light that took him through the seven heavens to finally meet Allah.  Returning back to the Temple Mount, Mohammed prayed and acknowledged the site of the assemblies of those who followed the prophets Abraham, Moses, Isaiah, and Jesus.  Gabriel then transported Mohammed back to Mecca before dawn.

 

Jews and Christians and interested archaeologists are allowed access under the pile of rubble up to the walls of the Temple Mount.  So we walked along the west wall in tunnels, admiring not only the size of the blocks, but how well they fit together.  No mortar was ever used.  At one point in the tunnel, a group of women, about 8, were seated in plastic patio chairs facing the wall.  No one of our group spoke (well, we weren’t speaking too much anyway), and I finally realized that the women were praying.  This is the place that is the closest to where the Holy of Holies is believed to have been before the Temple’s destruction.  The Holy of Holies in a Jewish temple is where God is.  Once a year, on Yom Kippur, a priest enters to make atonement for all the Jews.  Any other entry at anytime during the year, or by anyone other than the anointed priest, would die.  The first Holy of Holies was built in the mobile tent of Moses and is where the Ark of the Covenant with the 10 Commandments tablets were placed.  So the location of the Holy of Holies is extremely important to the Jews.  Our group passed single-file around the cluster of chairs facing the wall.  I stopped just beyond and touched the wall and don’t know why but tears came.  I’ve never thought of God being in a concrete place that I could touch.  Some cathedrals in Europe make the same impression on me, but this felt different.  Maybe because God told the Jews that He would like them to build Him a temple (told to King David, and his son Solomon actually had it built, although that was the First Temple and this had been the Second).  Maybe because Jesus had been there.  No cathedral was requested by God or Jesus, nor has Jesus visited any of them in the flesh.  And maybe I’m thinking too much – I know I was feeling too much – and it was nothing more than being moved by the devotion of the women facing the wall and praying.

 

Exiting into the sunlight north of the Temple Mount, we walked to the Pool of Bethesda.  Most know this story:  a crippled man sat by the side of the pool, known for its healing powers when “the angel stirred the waters”.  This “stirring” was probably due to the spring at the bottom of the pool that occasionally rippled to the surface.  This crippled man, however, could never be fast enough to get to the water while the angel was still there.  But Jesus healed him.  Stand, pick up your mat, and walk.  Believe, get some courage, and live.  (my translation)

 

Adjacent to the Pool of Bethesda is St. Anne’s Church;  inside is a white, unadorned interior with perfect acoustics.  As we walked in, and Asian group was singing “Amazing Grace” in their own language.  Only the melody was familiar to me.  We sat down, all touched.  As they left, our group assembled at the front, but by this time my tears were ridiculously embarrassing, so I hid behind one of the pillars in the back.  I think heaven is like this – multiplied.

 

Walking back to the Purple Eggs, Julie bought me pomegranate juice – I’d wanted some since I saw a Muslim selling it from a street stand in Nazareth.  The taste was lovely, like cranberry, but better of course, as everything exotic and scarce tends to be.

 

Just as a sidenote, I realize that saying “the Bible says so” might sound cheesy.  After all, I am an engineer and have my moments of being quite logical.  A friend of mine once informed me that being an engineer is incompatible with being a Christian.  But it was actually this logic that finally increased my faith enough to be a real Christian, as opposed to someone who grew up going to church and celebrating Christmas.  The Old Testament of the Bible has been proven true both by secular history as well as archaeology (many archaeologists think the Bible is the best reference for field research and digs).  In the Old Testament are over 300 prophecies of Christ which were all fulfilled by Jesus.  Now there can be all kinds of skepticism over some of the wording and so forth, but for 300, including the place of His birth and hometown?  And the four gospels of the New Testament all were written by eye witnesses to Jesus and all basically corroborate each other and all are written in a historical, documentary style (as opposed to other accounts, like the Gospel of Thomas that reads like a myth) and were all written within 30 or so years after the events took place.   These accounts were written so close to the time that the actual events occurred and so many accurate copies were found (on the order of tens of thousands), that we would have to erase all the history books of anything that happened before the time of Christ (or Before Common Era, as is now politically correct – what’s so “common” about this “era”?) since all accounts of ancient “secular” history, like the Egyptian pharaohs or Alexander the Great, are all based on one or two, maybe three accounts, written centuries after the events happened.  Plus there was this guy Flavius Josephus (cool name), a Roman historian in the first century, who documents Jesus’ life – that He was a Jew and performed miracles and was claimed to have been raised from the dead – that also corroborates the four gospels.   Interestingly, at least to me, I found out at a museum in Singapore that the Qur’an actually means “recitation” and was not written down until 80 years after Mohammed’s death.  In fact, when Allah first called Mohammed to relay his message, Mohammed replied that he was inadequate because he could not write.  So comparing the 4 gospels written 30 years after Jesus’ death to the Qur’an seems to favor the gospels.  I wish I’d known that while discussing my faith with my irritating Moroccan guide Driss, six months ago.

 

And applying logic to Jesus’ resurrection – however silly that sounds –  leads to the only conclusion that He was raised from the dead.  Medically, He was dead, when blood and “water” gushed from His side when the Roman guard stabbed Him on the cross.  His burial was witnessed by Roman guards whose lives were on the line to not let the tomb be raided.  Jesus was pretty seriously beaten up, so to move the stone away from the door – the stone that required a couple of Roman soldiers to put in place – after 3 days without food or water, would be a miracle in its own right.  Then hundreds of people saw Him in his former body – not one that still had all kinds of oozing wounds and red scars.  And 10 of these 11 guys who said they’d never met the guy when He was arrested were now going to die brutal deaths because they believed they saw Him alive again.  I mean, how many Buddhists have gone to their death, or been willing to, because of what they believed?  Considering the whole point of enlightenment is to *poof!* be erased from existence, I don’t know that I’d be that interested…