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.”
