Thursday, June 18, 2009

Grace Like a Warm Tailwind























Tuesday June 16

By the time I hike from my hotel to the dig site on Mount Zion at 6am, the workers are already assembled for their morning instructions from the head of operations. There are more than I remembered – at least 40 brave sunscreened souls ready to get down to business. They are praised for their clean-up work yesterday, when a bobcat was excavating huge rocks from the site and opening access to the vaulted ceilings of the former home beneath. The real fun won’t begin until tomorrow, when they can begin to dig in earnest. We are so close to the wall surrounding the Old City that it is likely this was a palace inhabited by the wealthy – they anticipate many valuable finds here. I put on thick gloves, and set off to work.

It is a back-breaking undertaking. We are filling black buckets with earth and rocks and hauling them 2-by-2 to the other side of the site, where we take turns filling large white bags and tying them off with heavy string. A mergers-and-acquisitions-man from Miami and I become a tag team, holding and filling, filling and holding. “Turn your face” he warns me, as dust from the 1st century flies around my head. What ancient muck or disease could be in this swirling earth, heaven only knows. I meet several dozen people – most speak English but there are also some speaking Arabic and Hebrew. Among the assembled workers: a perky blonde musician from upstate New York, a young father from North Carolina missing his wife and kids, a pretty female professor from Rhode Island who was published books on the topic of women in the Bible, a serious 20-something documentary film-maker from the University of Chicago with his HD camera ever in hand, a shy female Asian student, a vivacious African-American woman who performs medical and meal assistance for the group at large, and dozens of others bound together in this amazing common experience.

Checking the time after what feels like at least half a day’s work, I am stunned to find it is only 9:45 am. No one pauses to use the restroom on these sites, I discover, because everyone sweats so much the body has no need to urinate. At 10am, tea is served and it is time for lunch break. Boxed white cardboard lunches come out, filled with tuna sandwiches, or hummus and pita with veggies. Food is passed and shared here, and the camaraderie is contagious. I bite into a tomato like an apple, and am offered a crunchy pickle someone doesn’t want. “Hey, reciprocity!” I am reprimanded; I offer him a portion of my cheese croissant. Hearty laughs abound and it is as if we are all old friends. The workers love to tease (“Hey, watch out, I think you just crushed the arc of the covenant”, and “Wow, I wish we could find some dirt around here….seems to be running out!”)

I leave at noon, bone tired but paradoxically energized. I estimate I have carried more than 50 buckets of heavy rocks and dirt across the site, as well as assisting in other stooping and gathering labor. I head to the Mount of Olives for a brief hiatus and am disappointed to realize the garden of Gethsemane closes for lunch from 12-2:30. I am too tired to wait it out, so I grab a cab and head to the hotel. When I shower dirt puffs off every item of clothing I wear, head to toe, like Pigpen in the Peanuts cartoons. I’ve worn brown and beige, which helps, but those white socks may as well go straight into the trash bin because I’m pretty sure there’s not enough Clorox on earth…

From 2-4 I enter a deep and necessary nap. I have been invited by the head of the dig to join them again for their afternoon field trip into the Jewish Quarter of the Old City. We visit the Wohl Museum and the Burnt House. I learn about Caiaphas’ home and likely trial-place for Jesus after his arrest. I stand in the courtyard of a 2,000 year old Herodian mansion and am told that it is possible, even likely, that I am standing on the exact spot where Jesus was brought to trial. I look at the lay-out, imagining Mary, Peter, and Mary Magdalene just outside the stone entryway. The familiar feeling I’ve juggled all week moves me once again – my intellectual investigation gives way to spiritual contemplation and emotional release. Surrounded as I am by thinkers, I discreetly wipe the tear and take notes into my little purple notebook.

We end our tour at the Wailing Wall. A lovely 24 year-old archeology student from Florida walks with another new friend and me. At the wall we write the names of family members and friends on tiny slips of paper and tuck them into the wall – the holiest site in the world for Jews. My prayers join thousands of others as women cry on the right side, men on the left. The wailing is almost universal – the bobbing and reading and sobbing are very moving. I look up at a very blue sky, and silently pray the Our Father (not kosher to be sure, but hopefully not an offense to those around me.) I ask for mercy, for forgiveness, for grace. For some: healing. For others: hope. I pray and pray and pray.

Walking backwards from the wall is the respectful practice here. I suppose the idea is to never turn your back on G-d. I walk backwards as far as I can, then turn and face my life in forward motion. I’m hopeful the grace I have sought here will follow and propel me like a warm tailwind.

For dinner, I am taken to a Georgian (Russian) Restaurant hidden from the beaten path and known only to locals. My dinner companion is a brilliant man who is one of the world’s leading authorities in the area of Biblical Archeology. I feel fortunate indeed to have had the introduction through mutual friends -- we talk all night of the state of affairs in his field and the many changes that have come and gone in his lifetime, but we also talk about film and music and life in America (where he was born) versus life in Israel. He asks me about my faith background and I tell him I was raised by a Roman Catholic mother but later converted to non-denominational Christian faith. He smiles and we are kindred: he was raised Catholic also, converting to Judaism as an adult. He even grew up in a state where I once lived. There is much common ground between us and he feels like a long-lost family member to me – that really smart uncle with whom who you love to talk.

After dinner we walk through neighborhoods in the New City of Jerusalem where he lives. He brings me to the home he shares with his wife and offers me mint tea. He gives me a copy of a DVD on Magdalene which he recommends. He is, as they say in Yiddish, a real mensch. He walks me home to my hotel well past midnight. It has been a marathon day, but there is no rest in sight. I have been invited back on the Mt. Zion dig tomorrow morning and wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Wednesday June 17

Today is my last day in Israel. I sleep later than yesterday but make it to the dig site by late morning. I am tickled to be greeted by “Hey, Pamela’s here!” from several workers. I jump right in, and notice they have unearthed a beautiful mosaic floor with carefully cut square stone pieces. It was probably the entryway to a foyer of some sort. It is marked off with dirt bags like the ones we filled yesterday. I greet everyone, and jump down into the pit. I am about 10 feet below ground level with a pick, a sturdy nylon brush, and a metal dustpan. Painstakingly, I help two men sift through what we come to realize was the kitchen area of the home. How can we tell? There is charcoal here, which we carefully bag and label, there are bones of animals presumably slaughtered and consumed on this spot. And there is a black type of pottery stone commonly used for oven purposes. We fill a green “find” bucket with shards of pottery from dozens of vessels. The dirt and rocks go into the black buckets which we periodically sop and empty up above. It is quite the little village of cooperative workers. I am moved by the efficiency and generosity of everyone I meet. The big find of our section this day is a small copper coin. A supervisor comes with a metal-detector to help us find it. Everyone gathers round and takes pictures. The site experts feel this item dates to the early 1st century. My mind is boggled; I want to know more about how they can know such things.

Near the end of the dig, a group of several dozen Texans and an archeology tour guide come onto our site with the blessing of the head honchos. I happen to be in the front-most pit, and before I know it I am being photographed by a bunch of strangers as if I’m some sort of actual archeologist. Pushing my sense of misrepresenting myself aside, I look up from under my camouflage bandana and smile, pick in hand. As my 3-man team works, they watch and shoot us. Every time we find a jug handle or any little item of interest they lean over the edge to get a look. I feel super cool. I feel way cooler than anything I’ve done in ages, in fact.

By 2pm we are clearing the site – all tools have to be brought down the steep decline to waiting vans, if left outside they’d be stolen. I join a long line of workers carry boxes of hoes and gloves and picks and sifters like ant marching down a hill. I am invited once again to participate in the evening’s activities - -this time a lecture 20 minutes outside Jerusalem. I meet them at Jaffa Gate at 6pm and we ride in rented vans, chatting all the way. By now everyone knows I am writing a screenplay about Magdalene. There is heated debate among the men who should play the role. Several want Angelina Jolie but there is a heated Latina contingency that would prefer Eva Mendes. By the time I get home, the role will have evolved so substantially that neither may be suitable. But what a tour de force for the right actress!

I listen to an hour-long lecture with power point on the topic of several digs in Moza, about 6 kilometers outside of Jerusalem (have I mentioned yet how annoyed I am with the metric system? How many kilos are in a mile is something I haven’t had to really think about since 5th grade and I am one dog who doesn’t enjoy new mental math tricks.) The lecturer is the head of the Israeli Antiquities Authority and I am somewhat lost in his professional lexicon. He is sincere but perhaps lacking in what one would compassionately call charisma. But I catch the gist, learn a few things about Iron Age scepters and silos, and get to view boxes of artifacts from the cave at Suba (which is a very prominent topic of conversation among archeology aficionados.)

When I get back from the lecture it is late – already 8pm. My friend and I decide we want one last trip to the Wailing Wall. We go, we pray, I write more little notes with the names of any loved ones I forgot yesterday. I want to write one that says “and anyone else I am forgetting” like a little kid saying their nightly prayers (“and God bless the whole wide world, amen” was a favorite when I was a little girl.)

Dinner is at 10pm, late indeed for this LA lady. But I am delighted when my dining companion from the night before invites me and my friend to join in with him and a business associate of his. We meet at a very upscale hotel called the American Colony in Jerusalem. They are shooting a movie outside the gilded entryway, and the list of people I am told have recently stayed here is like a who’s who of the world stage: Jimmy Carter, Tony Blair, Netanyahu, the oh-so-hip director of the film out front and his oh-so-young Moroccan lady friend…the list goes on and on. I make friends with a woman who writes for several national magazines in the U.S. and who has published a book about the topic of greed in the world of biblical archeology. It turns out she is leaving for New York the same day I am. She asks for my email and we plan to meet on the other side of the pond to chat and get to know each other. Then off I’ll fly on Saturday to rejoin the previous program of my life, left behind as if via a pause button on the VCR in my mind, but no doubt welcoming me with unknown developments during my absence.

The many new friends who’ve shared their hearts and smiles with me, I will bring along as I board my flight back home. I will tuck them in my carry-on, and keep their memory close at hand.

I have learned many things on this trip: things about serendipity and synchronicity and life. But the main thing I’ve learned is this: never never never underestimate the flight that follows a big ole’ flying leap of faith.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Digging Jerusalem

















Sunday June 14
Finished out my research in the Magdala region with a closer look at Mt. Arbel. This towering rocky mountain still has visible caves and holes where Jews escaping persecution in Jerusalem his during the time of King Herod. Legend has it that soldiers were lowered in baskets from the top of the rocky cliff to reach into the holes dotting the sheer face of the mountain and remove those who were hiding. They were then thrown off the top of the mountain to their deaths. Some have speculated that the psalmist who wrote of the “valley of the shadow of death” may have referred to this or a similar location.

I am glad to leave Tiberius today. The city is crowded and filled with more shops than culture. The best aspect of my time there were the evenings, looking out over the Sea of Galilee from a cushioned bench swing near my room. I am headed back to Jerusalem, 2 hours south, where I hope to complete my research for the script. So many new possibilities have opened up as a result of information I’d have never known without making this journey. I am very grateful I came, even though the enormity of the re-write expands with every new “aha.”

Monday June 15
My day begins at 5:30 am and was by far the most intense physical day of my trip. After working out at the hotel gym, I head out on foot to look into touring the City of David. This is an ancient area dating back to BC, just outside the city walls of Old City Jerusalem. There is a tremendous amount of excavation there, and since Biblical archeology is an important part of my story, I am here to learn. On my way, I remember to stop and buy water; I also have half a sandwich tucked in the patchwork satchel I wear slung over my shoulder. I am slathered in 50 SPF, wearing a broad-brimmed beige hat, and ready for adventure.

As I round the western corner of the outside of the city walls, I spot an excavation team already at work. A large blue tarp hangs from poles jammed into the stony earth, sheltering about 25 workers from the already-blistering sun. In front of them a backhoe digs huge white rocks out of a huge hole in the ground that looks like a house-sized meteor tore into it. Chain-link fence provides an imposing barricade, and I almost walk right by, until a woman begins to walk down the hill toward me. She is blonde, she is my age, she could be my sister. Her name is Marika, and she is a German archeologist working on an international team funded by (of all places) the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I introduce myself as a writer from Los Angeles and find a warm welcome here. I tell them I am writing a modern mystery film about Biblical archeology, and that I hope to learn from them. I tell them I want to help dig, and offer my services. How better to learn the tools and process of excavation?

I am introduced to several men who are in charge here – a leather man with twinkling eyes and a grey scruffy beard tells me visitors are not welcome to participate. I nod. “Too many insurance complications.” “Of course,” I say. “And we take this work very seriously.” “As you should,” I say, “It’s such a privilege to be given permission to excavate such a historic site.” (We are literally 1000 feet from the Wailing Wall, in case the importance of the location is not clear…) Someone says the reason this team was selected and approved is that the leather man led a team that discovered an alternate “Jesus Tomb” a few years ago. He is an archeological celebrity.

There is a pause. The leather man squints at me in the bright morning light. He lights a cigarette. Marika and I are about to walk away when I hear him say, “But we will make an exception for you, of course.” He tells her to prepare the paperwork; I will need to sign a waiver. I am told what type of shoes to wear and to eat a big breakfast. Pack lots of water; pack a lunch. Tomorrow there will be 26 members on the team. It is a 5:00 am wakeup call I cannot wait to answer.

I am laying my head on my pillow in a state of utter exhaustion tonight. Tomorrow will bring more of the same. The incredible joy of physical labor driven by spiritual motivation for a creative purpose has me ready to sweat.

Saturday, June 13, 2009

Rollin’ on a (Jordan) River


Sat. June 13

Rivers are wonderful places to encounter people. Something about all that rolling water makes them mellow, weightless, inclined to joy. After five days of disciplined research and writing, I am experiencing my first weekend in Israel. Several kayak-and-rafting operations dot the upper Jordan River, north of the Sea of Galilee, near the Golan Heights. Wars have raged in this area for years as the Syrians and Lebanese have wrangled for turf. But the river is indifferent to all of that: the water, cool and clear, flows over oval gold pebbles and peace reigns. The river measures 1 to 3 feet deep in most places: 90 feet across. Thick reeds and bamboo-like bushes hug the coastline like those cushioned inflatable tubes used in bowling alleys to help children not cry over gutter balls. The water is swift here – those who leave their rafts are surprised at the current’s tow. Life-jackets are mandatory.

The variety of people on a Saturday on this popular stretch of water is simultaneously fuzzy (families singing and smiling as they row) and fearsome (rowdy groups of male Israelis in their early 20s trying to one-up each other with paddle fights and beer.) Occasionally the bushes open up on either side, and tents adorn the landscape with barbeque pits and visible hookahs. About 20% of the people I see are Arab/ Muslim – the women endure the 88 degree day in tight head wraps and long sleeves under their life vests. The rest are locals, more casually dressed, all speaking Hebrew. My friend and I are conspicuous here – but no one seems to mind that two Americans have joined in for the day’s fun. We make a game out of taking turns singing river songs; it’s funny, you know, how many there are. We sing Proud Mary, Old Man River, and River of Dreams. Then it’s Michael Row Your Boat Ashore, Moon River…by the time Row Row Row Your Boat is all we can think of, the game is done. (Later on I will Google “river songs” and be amazed there are over 100 titles – many of which I love, like Styx’ Boat on a River and Talking Heads’ Take Me to the River.)

Literally hundreds of people, all bumping into one another, smile perpetually as they make this trek. I wonder how much they must all look forward to this, how many of these children will remember this as a fondest childhood memory – rolling down the Jordan with Daddy in the front and Mommy in the back, drinking lemonade. Occasionally my red kayak accidentally steers into their rafts, but there are only smiles and assistance as we disentangle ourselves from each other and the landscape, me speaking my one Hebrew word, “Todah”, to thank them for being kind. The river is having its way with all of us, you see, so no one takes anything personally. We are united but we are each distinct. I am wearing a one-piece swimsuit with yoga-Capri pants for modesty, a lavender life-jacket, sunglasses, and a baseball cap. If there were an award for being the whitest, least tan person on the river today, I am sure I’d win the title. I am possibly the whitest woman in all of Israel; I see no other blondes and feel like an alabaster albino next to all the lovely olive-skinned natives with their long glossy dark hair. My SPF is 50, say no more. But I am me and they are them and it honestly doesn’t matter at all what any of us looks like. After spending the past two years in Los Angeles, this is blessed relief.

At least half a dozen men on the river today look like Jesus – you know: the goatee, long hair, brooding eyes vibe. One of them speaks to me as I am docked on the right side by some rocks near a deep swimming hole. He is about 30, and has a massive dog with him that seems to be a cross between a golden retriever and a Saint Bernard. He sees me smile as I reach towards the rocks to pet the dog. He smiles down and says in perfect English, “His name is Noah.” Okay, so I’m thinking this is really cool, a Jesus-guy just introduced me to his Bible-named dog. I pet Noah, who is by now quite stinky in his wet fur coat and happy panting from swimming in the current like the big sweet baby that he is. It all seems quasi-spiritual until I look up at the rocks and see ”Jesus” light a Winston cigarette and crack open a Lowenbrau. So much for the messiah-thing, but this was still a super-nice man with real kindness in his eyes.

My friend and I have been paddling for almost two hours. It is a surprisingly long stretch of river, and I begin to observe that no matter what we do, the kayak is still floating downstream and will continue to do so until the very bottom port, where the raft-employees will fish us out on the banks. I think about life and realize that although it is a hackneyed metaphor, I cannot help thinking that life is a river, too. In life, I have always been the type of person who paddles with intention: I’m the map-girl, the strategy-girl, the one who works up a sweat trying to cross invisible (and possibly non-existent) finish lines. But I am noticing something as I float down the Jordan River on this sunny Saturday in June. The current is carrying me along – something unseen but real propels me even when I don’t steer. Sure, I might hit a few more braches on the borders if I simply coast, maybe I’ll be spun backwards by the unknowable subsurface currents. But my exertion is entirely my choice. There is no way for me not to move forward, one way or another.

I reach a shallow, rocky place that for several minutes seems suspended in time. No other rafts come through, probably because just north of here a deep swimming hole and nearby U2 blasting on a boom box has captured my fellow floating pilgrims. I look at the water, and at my kayak. Then I look at the sky – where a huge cumulus cloud is framed by bright blue. It looks like the profile of a baby elephant facing downstream. I unbuckle my life vest, remove my sunglasses and hat, and climb out of the kayak.

The water is colder than I expected but that feels great after almost two hours of wrangling tides with my red plastic paddle. I find the deepest pool of water in the area. I take a deep breath, and fall backwards, looking up at the baby elephant. Bono sings, not so far away, about world peace. A raft of stranger-friends floats past. For a moment, just a moment, I am adrift.

You know what? I kind of like it.

Friday, June 12, 2009

Grace and the End of the Innocence


Thursday June 11

Today I am visiting a closely-situated trio of holy sites all strung like pearls across the northern shore of the Sea of Galilee. First stop is Capernaum: I have returned in modest dress, with my knees covered, and pay five shekels to enter. The exchange rate is approximately 4 to 1, so when I see a price here in “NIS” (New Israeli Shekels) I simply divide by 4. I think $1.25 is very reasonable to enter such a historic place, but then again all of the other sites I’ve seen so far have been completely free. When I came yesterday there were 5 or 6 tour buses filled with tourists paying to get into this place, so somebody’s making a pretty good living. Not that I begrudge it, but if I can visit the Church of the Holy Sepulcher for free, it just confuses me a bit.

So, what is important about Capernaum? Well, for starters it has a beautiful view overlooking the northern tip of the sea. The water looks turquoise (at least though my sunglasses it does, perhaps it is a milder shade of blue au natural). A small gift shop is to the right as I enter – the usual rosaries, painted icons, maps and postcards for sale. To my left is an archeological site of ruins: the town is the home of the apostles Peter, Andrew, James, John, and Matthew. It also became the home of Jesus himself after he left Nazareth – quite an upward move considering that Nazareth is to Capernaum what Queens is to East Hampton (!) It is actually not a large area at all – easily walk-able in 5-minutes as it is currently sectioned-off. There is an impressive synagogue where Jesus taught in Capernaum on the Sabbath days – that site has been renovated but brass plaques describing the original structures are on display. It looks more like Greece than Israel to me – Corinthian columns and lots of white marble. There is a church shaped like an octagon over some other ruins, with a glass floor letting people see what’s beneath. Honestly, this site leaves me rather indifferent; it feels more mercantile than spiritual. I decide to sojourn on.

After Capernaum, it’s a five-minute drive to Tagbha. This is the site of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes – one of Jesus’ best-known miracles, and a story I remember being told time and again as I grew up in the Catholic Church. There is a Byzantine church run by Benedictine monks that has impressive inlaid mosaic tiles of fishes, loaves, and other religious iconography. I see two tables with candles, one on either side of the altar. On the left is a portrait of Mary, on the right is Jesus. The faithful have been lighting votives here, asking for miracles of their own. I kneel in front of the portrait of Jesus, place a small donation in the little slot by the unlit candles, and place three candles in front of the portrait with dozens of others already there waggling their reflections onto the gilded picture. One by one I light them and name my daughters in this sacred place for special blessings of protection and grace. For Hannah. For Lily. For Annabel. I am not superstitious, but I like this ritual. It makes me slow down. It makes me feel. It makes me connect to my gratitude. I believe God hears all prayers, whether in Israel or anywhere else on earth, but it occurs to me that perhaps there is special grace available at this miraculous site. If so, may it be a blessing to my girls.

In the gift shop here I buy a few items. I ask the man behind the desk if he has any portraits of Mary Magdalene and he looks both surprised and mildly irritated that I have requested something he cannot sell me. Peter? Oh yes, piles of Peter portraits. Got your Andrew, got your James. Plenty of Mother Mary and shelves of Jesus. But Mary Magdalene? Why would anyone want a picture of her?

A final stop today before heading to a new city and a new hotel: The Mount of Beatitudes, high on a hill above Tagbha and Capernaum. Again, this location – site of the Sermon on the Mount – is shockingly close to the previous places I’ve seen today. Then again, why should this be surprising? Travel was on foot in Jesus’ time so even this “short drive” must have been quite a half day’s uphill climb. There is a very pretty round chapel here and many plaques and stained glass windows commemorating Jesus’ most famous speech. I can remember teaching the beatitudes to Hannah and my step-daughter Julia when they were teens: “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy,” “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God,” “Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled…”

I like it here but I also feel a wave of sadness sweep over me. Maybe it is the warm breeze or maybe it is a lifetime of accumulated armor as an American trapped in cultural miasma. But something falls away from me and I am naked here, a helpless baby who sees in quick glances how far she is from the lofty ideals celebrated in this speech. Am I meek? Am I poor in spirit? How can I navigate these spiritual ideals from my pitiful feet of clay? It occurs to me that I spend most of my time trying to attain some semblance of the opposite of many of the values taught here. I find that once again this week, I am crying. Not sobbing, just silently puddling wetness on my lap and trying to hear if God can reach through steel and touch me as I am. Feeling quite alone, I venture out, past the ancient nun who guards the door, past the long line of Asian tourists pouring in to take photos with their tour guide. Something catches my eye as I am leaving – a final beatitude that I hadn’t noticed before: “Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Inhaling deeply, I muster a weak smile and look out to the blue-blue sea and the blue-blue sky. I sigh, completely aware of my utter dependence on grace.

Friday, June 12

For the next few days I will be basing out of a big stone hotel in the city of Tiberius, about 40 minutes south of Capernaum. The building looks like a fortress set from Macbeth. This is a bustling urban area situated right on the water; it’s at about “9 o’clock” on the Sea of Galilee -- if you were looking at a map, it is on the western border. It is hotter than you-know-where today, and I am launching out to see Nazareth, about 30 minutes away due-west. Moving away from the sea, the temperature immediately spikes in my little blue rental car. Thank you Avis for making sure my air conditioner works well. I see several “kibbutzim” dotting the rolling valleys as I drive – these communal living farms fascinate me with their socialist utopianism. The rolling hills give way to steeper inclines, and by the time I reach Nazareth I realize the terrain is not the only thing that is different.

Every sign I see is in Arabic, not Hebrew, and there is almost no English. (I might mention how recent a development it is that I am to now be able to identify Arabic as distinct from Hebrew – LOL!) The streets get more and more narrow; there are almost no road signs. It is very easy to get lost here. It suddenly occurs to me that the reason I see so many children wandering the streets is that today is Friday, the official day of prayer for Muslims. Children off all ages are darting up and down the narrow streets and sidewalks – I see one boy of about 5 completely unattended, and several girls between 5 and 8 also left to roam alone. The echoing sounds of a P.A. system get louder and louder as I approach Mary’s Well Square. A man is praying Arabic – I know he is praying by two things: 1. His tone of voice sounds as fervent as a Pentecostal pastor and 2. Every once in a while I hear the word “Allah”. When I am close enough to see the gathering, there are over a hundred men sitting and praying to Allah around this square named after the Virgin Mother. No women participate, although some run the shops and restaurants nearby. I am glad I have a shawl with me today. I wrap it tightly around my head and shoulders, careful to completely cover my hair and skin like all the other women I see.

My search for Christian sites reveals only one place: a lone, empty church high on one of the tallest hills in Nazareth. I have been looking for the Church of the Adolescent Jesus, but there is no sign here so I am unsure whether I’ve found it or not. Its imposing concrete structure looks more like a military fort than a place of worship, but given the very non-Christian environment here I suppose I am impressed it is standing here at all. I park on the street, timidly approaching the heavy steel door. To my amazement, it swings open, unlocked. As I enter, my eye quickly catches notice of something to my left: in an adjacent building there is an armed guard watching my every move.

Inside the church, things feel simultaneously familiar and foreign. There is holy water in a marble cistern by the door; there are statues, art, and many of the usual decorative items seen in churches all over the world. The altar up front has an enormous and graphic statue of the suffering Jesus, crucified on a 20 foot cross, behind the altar. Somehow, based on the name of the place, I’d expected … what? A cheerier place? There is no evidence of homage to the adolescent Jesus at all. (When I get home I will Google the church I was trying to find, and discover I was in the wrong neighborhood entirely – quite easy to do in Nazareth, let me tell you.) In fact, as I get closer to inspect the art, I see even the text accompanying the paintings is in Arabic. Who knew that the birthplace of Jesus was almost entirely Arabic now? I certainly didn’t. I somehow feel lonely for the more Jewish venues of my previous sojourns. On the way back to Tiberius, I place my Blackberry’s music option on “Shuffle” – I love the randomness of the 100 songs I’ve loaded coming up in unexpected ways.

I ponder the passage of time as Don Henley serenades me. I drive back to the sea, and find that I am singing along, a little bluesy as my spirit takes expression in a minor key: “…I know a place where we can go, still untouched by man, sit and watch the clouds roll by, tall grass wave in the wind, just lay your head back on the ground, and let your hair fall all around me…offer up your best defense. This is the end of the innocence.”

Wednesday, June 10, 2009




















In Search of Mary Magdalene

Sunday, June 7

I am boarding El Al airline flight 0002 (an unlikely number, it seems to me, but then again I suppose there are not that many flights to Tel Aviv from New York City.) I am being questioned by a very stern 20-something security agent. “What is the purpose of this trip? Do you speak Hebrew? What will you do while you are there?” I realize the reason for heightened security to such a volatile place, and look around to notice that many of my co-travelers are wearing yarmulkes and/or long curling sideburns. The women’s heads, arms and legs are covered and they wear no makeup. The children are perfectly behaved. It is a far cry from my American Airlines flight to NYC from LAX, which was complete with screaming babies, teens in baggy pants, and women whose cleavage would never make it onto that El Al flight. I am a stranger here. I answer with deference and check my bags.

The 10 hour flight from row 54 is eventless. There is a TV in the back of the seat in front of me but no film is being shown so my only entertainment is watching the slow-motion airplane icon follow its dotted course across the Atlantic – Greenland, “oh look, there’s Reykjavik” – and onward. I alternate reading the paperback I’ve picked up in the bookstore, Obama’s The Audacity of Hope and scribbling notes onto the legal pad where I’ve been hashing out ideas for my second draft of my screenplay about Mary Magdalene. My hope for this project feels audacious, indeed, and I like peppering my work with inspiration from our very articulate president.


I am fine until descent, when turbulence hits. I reach for the bag. Yes, that bag. That awful little bag that no one ever wants to use but everyone is glad to have nearby when it is needed. And so it was that I landed in Israel for the first time.


Monday June 8


I wake up after sleeping heavily in the beautiful King David Hotel in Jerusalem. I’ve driven 30 minutes east from Tel Aviv and am astounded to realize my view from the room is of the Jaffa Gate entrance to the majesty of Old City Jerusalem. There are cute little sugar-coated jellies and a platter of fruit in the room, and I graze listlessly as I try to figure how to turn my body’s time schedule around. Three days ago I was on Pacific Time, now I am 10 hours ahead and feel my brain is somewhere back over Europe. I go out to a neighborhood restaurant for a salmon dinner, and am solicited as I walk down the street to bring my business to them. A sweet girl who works for a local bar realizes I am American and we strike up a conversation. She tells me she learned English in school and perfected it when she lived in Florida last year. Her boss has asked her to chat up the tourists who wander down the street from the hotels. I feel guilty when I don’t want to eat in her bar. After dinner I look up above the street lights lining the cobblestone street and see a very full, very orange moon. It lights my way up the hill to the hotel. I call it an early night in anticipation of launching out to the Old City tomorrow.


Tuesday June 9



I awaken at 5:30 am local time. I eat some more fruit and one of those little sugar jellies (Apricot? Peach?) I apply 50 SPF sunscreen. I put on a loose cotton dress and flat walking shoes. I remember everything but water as I walk out into the warm-getting-hotter-by-the-minute morning. The stroll to the Jaffa Gate is only 15-20 minutes. The sun rises over the stone walls – it is misty and sherbet-orange, like a watercolor remnant of last night’s moon. The people of Jerusalem are slowly stretching awake, a few cars wind through the narrow streets, and vendors are barely beginning to set up their fruit stands and their cafes. I have to climb over 50 steps to get to the entryway of the Old City; I am shocked to see the machine guns slung over shoulders of two Israeli guards drinking their morning coffee. This will come to be commonplace as I travel through Israel, as common as women hitch-hiking, men bobbing and praying with shawls over their heads, and other anomalies that catch me off guard.


Wandering the streets of the Old City is almost indescribable. I feel I am in a marble labyrinth. I remember a mouse-maze I built for the Science Fair in 7th grade, and imagine that from above, God can see me scurry up and down the narrow stone passages. I veer right at a fork, following two militant looking young women in olive dresses, black boots, and long braided hair. The quickly tuck out of sight and I realize I am lost. Everything I see says “Armenian” on it – a chapel here, a souvenir shop there. Nothing is open yet. My heart quickens as I hear footsteps behind me. I realize I am actually quite vulnerable in this moment. No one knows I am here, and I don’t even know exactly where “here” is. The man passes by me without a word, and I soldier on with a prayer for safety – again mindful I am in a place where machine guns are as common as Turkish coffee.


I have been away from the hotel for the better part of an hour now. It seems I am living within the walls of a rook in a chess game. The regular squared-off intervals form a serrated edge – the city is a knife that cuts into the sun rising over it. I am a mouse in a maze, an amazed mouse. And now, a thirsty one. I see only one man as I wander. He is dressed in a Muslim tunic and head cover, and is sweeping the stone walkway by a parking lot. I approach him, ready to perform pantomime to try to get a drink. “Water?” I ask him. He shakes his head, says something in Hebrew which may as well be gibberish to me. I mime holding a glass, pretending to drink. “Water?” No response. I touch my throat, indicating distress with my face. “Water?” No response. I then remember the flight attendant on El Al walking up and down the aisles. ”Mayim?” she’d asked again and again, offering water in little carafes. How this comes to me I’ll never know, call it desperation. Mayim is water! I am so thrilled I say it too loudly. “Mayim!” My new friend smiles back at me. “Water,” he says, and goes to fetch me the coldest most wonderful bottle of water I’ve ever seen from a hidden nook at the bottom of the parking lot. I point to the little map in my hand – much too vague to have been of any help, as it turns out. But in the center is a picture of my destination, The Church of the Holy Sepulcher. He points in the general direction and says “Street, street, street, left.” I set out smiling. Guess he does know some English after all. I thank him and watch him return to sweeping as I climb the shadowy stone stairs through an archway and into what is finally the Christian quarter of the city.


The Church of the Holy Sepulcher is the most sacred physical site in Christianity. It is said to have been built over the site of Golgotha, the site of Jesus’ crucifixion. Contained within the large structure is a smaller basilica. It looks like a small domed building within the building. Benches surround it on three sides; a small thrust juts out into where the faithful meet for worship. Candles, ornate lamps, podiums, all the usual accoutrements attend this most central of all churches. I am unprepared for what happens next. Only three other people are here this early as I sit in meditation on a rear bench. I am praying for my family, one by one by name. I am asking God’s special grace to protect and guide them. And then an organ blast announces the entrance of a round priest in a red robe. He is attended by one acolyte, and followed by one housewife-tourist who looks about 55. They walk up to the thrust, entering a room past a heavy gilded door. The other three people who were sitting on the benches near me rise and quickly follow the priest. I look left, look right, and seeing no reason not to follow suit, fall in line like a soldier.

I must dip my head to enter the door, and once inside I realize that the priest is speaking in Italian and that this is a Catholic mass. Having lived in Milan as a model in the early 80’s, I understand about 1/3 of what I hear; but having rarely missed a mass in 18 years, growing up with a Catholic mother, I almost completely translate, verbatim, the familiar text of the mass. I am standing in an ante-chamber – it is so small that if there were one more person it would be uncomfortably intimate. There is one more room past the room where I stand – I am separated from it by a very low doorway carved in magnificent grey and white marble, with the image of Jesus rising bodily from an open casket carved over the flowing leaves of ivy. All I can see through the door is the edge of the red robe of the priest and the sandaled feet of the housewife. Small as we are, this perfect gathering of attendees is here to celebrate mass on a hazy Jerusalem Tuesday morning in June: the housewife-tourist, a stylish Italian woman of about 40, a gentle Italian man of maybe 33, an ageless nun with ebony skin, and me. The time comes to “pass the peace” and each of us in the antechamber reaches out a hand. “Pace” … ”Pace.” The last hand I shake is the nun’s – she wears a crisp grey linen habit, and has the kindest eyes I’ve ever seen. When I shake her hand I feel she is amorphous, like the sugar-jelly back at the hotel, or like a human who has somehow managed to elevate spiritually to a place where the body ceases to be tangible. I am concerned I may have hurt her hand, being too used to the American way of shaking hands – keep it firm, and how do you do, let me show you my confidence. Her handshake is something I will never forget. And confidence has nothing to do with it.


Communion time. It has been many years since I’ve practiced Catholicism but I am a repentant believer in Christ and sincerely pray “Lord I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed.” Dogma falls away, grace resides. I know I am welcome to receive by the Father, if not by the father. The priest places the wafer on my tongue. I look into the small room that houses the tomb. I think of Mary Magdalene standing on this spot. I begin to tremble and before I realize it I am weeping -- that silent sort of tear, punctuated only by an occasional sniffle. Mass is soon over and I am invited to enter the inner sanctum. “Hurry, hurry” says the acolyte to the four of us, surprising me with his English, “Another mass begins in 2 minutes.”
The room is small, with an oculus above opening to the sky through the roof of the larger church housing it. I hear a bird fly overhead and am sure I only imagine that it might be a dove. I kneel at the side of the well-worn stone; a tentative hand reaches out to touch the place where the Roman guards laid his head 2,000 years ago. I am drunk with joy.


Wednesday June 10



Today I leave Jerusalem, with plans to return next week in order to connect with a local business contact who is an expert in regional archeology in the Holy Land. My list of questions fills most of a page of a legal pad, but for now that must wait. I am driving to the northern are of the Sea of Galilee. There is a pretty little organic farm and retreat that hugs the hillside of Golan Heights and watches down over the valley leading to the Sea. From here, I make my 30 minute drive to my second site for research, Migdal. This small town was once called Magdala, and was known as the successful fishing village home of Mary Magdalene. It is not an easy place to find.

It barely appears on most maps – indeed, it is as if there “isn’t any there, there.” Finally I find my spot, the place I have been imagining and writing about in my first draft for the past eleven months. At the foot of a small rocky mountain called Mount Arbel, the Sea of Galilee arrives in shallow warm waves onto fine, dark sand in a sad little retreat of empty picnic tables and rusted umbrella stands. As I approach to take a closer look, it is clear that this has become a sort of weekend retreat for locals. But I am here on a Wednesday afternoon, and the only sounds I hear are four raucous Russians bobbing in the water just past the “Do Not Swim” signs. Their voices echo across the empty campgrounds as I explore with my senses. The water is bath temperature, and only four inches deep for at least 10-20 feet out there. My imagination conjures fishing boats slipping easily in and out to sea, filled with sardines and fishermen’s nets.


The sand is fine and sticky and smells like sulfur. There are dozens of tine little swirling white shells washed ashore, I grab a littered plastic cup nearby and fill it with treasure – mollusk shells, a large fish bone, and my funniest surprise of the day – an upside down playing card in the sand near the water. When I turn it right side up, I smile: it is a joker, my father’s favorite card. I imagine he is somehow alive again, here with me on my adventure, and place the card in my pocket for safekeeping.


Half an hour to the north I try to enter Capernaum. I am turned away because I am wearing long cargo shorts that do not cover my (presumably indecent) knees. Capernaum is the main home of Jesus for much of his ministry, it is where he met Peter and Andrew, and nearby the location of the multiplying of loaves and fishes. In stark contrast to Migdal, this place is glorified. It is sanctified. It is marbleized and sanitized and commercialized, complete with an entrance fee and dress code. Poor Mary Magdalene, I think: the chosen handmaid of God still gets so little respect.


There are tour buses lined up in a large parking lot – Asian tours, Catholic tours, Protestant tours. All the matching people in their matching shirts or matching badges “Hi, My Name is Bessie”… I can only say that I am glad to be venturing solo.

I am glad that I have come here to lend audibility to a woman long overdue for her voice.