Generously and peacefully, chant rises from the living stones of Abu Ghosh (sometimes spelled Gosh) Crusader Church of the Resurrection overlooking the Judean hills west of Jerusalem. The church is part of a “double monastery” (men and women) of the Olivetan Benedictines. The Arab village of Abu Ghosh was settled more than 6,000 years ago and presumed to be the first home of the Arc of the Covenant. The story of the village and this monastery reveals much about the convergences, commitments, covenants, challenges and convictions about this epicenter of Abrahamic faith, Israel. Interior stone walls preserve the pastel frescoes and monastic setting built during the Crusader period, marking the place where it is believed the risen Jesus revealed himself to two disciples. “Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all the things that had happened.  While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him.” (LK 24:13-35)  Significantly, the Arc of the Covenant resided in this same village until King David moved it to Jerusalem. In more recent times, while scud missiles rolled thunderously overhead during the Gulf War, twenty five or so monks and nuns who live in the monastery sought consolation and hope in the Eucharistic meal of life, nestled in what would otherwise be a cozy entrance to the crypt beneath the main chapel floor. This juxtaposition of realities converges with great complexity, as does most life here in Israel.

This morning, our Tantur community attended liturgy together at this monastery. Immediately the soothing, familiar sounds of Gregorian chant reminded me of the Athenaeum Chorale–especially when the books were distributed and I was abundantly grateful to Tony DiCello for those frustrating rehearsals using neumes.  As one of the monks purposely and reverently incensed the small remnant community of mostly French-speaking Christians, I had a deep awareness of the fragile balance between tradition and revelation, between memory and a hoped-for future capable of transcending the disillusions and torments of memory and history. As one of our instructors, Thomas Stransky, has already suggested, at times “the past is so present it freezes the future.” In the months ahead, it is intended that this fragile balance will be explored and pondered.               

During these first days of my sojourn, I am reminded of the Hebrew idea of “Shekinah.” God pitches a tent of presence, compassion, mercy, and right living in the midst of the people as “a light created to be an intermediary between God and the world.”  Today, many tents are pitched in Arab refugee centers. Tents are pitched in the market throughout the “quarters of Old Jerusalem.” Tents are pitched by transient pilgrims like myself. Some tents are obvious lights for this ancient world which stirs with the possibility of shaping contemporary relationships of understanding and acceptance like no other place on earth. Other tents are reminders that existing relationships thirst for justice and compassion as no other place on earth.

No place in Jerusalem has spoken to me like that of the Valley of Bethesda, located at the Church of St. Anne in what is known as Old Jerusalem. Throughout this experience I am reminded that sadly the Romans were quite thorough in their destruction of Jerusalem, so reporting that this is the “actual spot where Jesus cured the lame man” would be stretching. But immediately upon approaching the cisterns and stone water channels framed by soft, green, grassy earth, I began to imagine the “invalids” arriving, waiting to be cured. This is a place of contrasting elements: water and stone. The flow of life-giving water weaves in, around and through the sturdy unforgiving labyrinth of stone. Mysteriously one cannot help but feel the powerlessness and anticipation associated with waiting for one’s turn in the bath when the water will cleanse away the limitations, the indignities, the burdens, the torments, and the imposed struggles of life.

Potable water in so many parts of our world is illusive. At the edge of the pool and while navigating the irregular stone steps leading down into a grotto and bath, I was reminded of our sisters and brothers at the US-Mexico border who patiently seek out ways to ease the water shortage that defines many aspects of daily life. I recall the many tales told by one of our Mount students who, in her senior years, found herself called to Africa to assist in drilling bore holes for wells. I think of the millennia of believers baptized in the waters of new life. I imagine the powerful water that carved out the great Rocky Mountains, a place I once called home. Water transforms even the already-beautiful! Many have come to this same place and have had similar reflections–so many humans continue to be inspired by the spiritual implications of this pool. This, then, is a place that represents the common ground of longing for and encountering the Holy One, visible in the relief and courage it gives those who come to be immersed.   

Monuments straddle remnants and ruins in an eclectic bundling of ubiquitous stone, all representing the best of religious experience and imagination as well as the most dire of dilemmas for contemporary religion. I’ve never cared much for the word “ruins” because it implies that something is destroyed or finished, heaped on our consciousness with little regard for the present moment. To be sure, there has been plenty of destruction in this part of the world, and as Johannes Metz would say, there is a “dangerous memory;” a lingering and profound breaking open of the past into the present. But Jerusalem’s propensity for transforming what would otherwise lie in waste keeping vigil over the hearts and minds of those who pass through is remarkable. Each and every inch of this city of about 662,000 matters to one group or another for historical, social, political or religious reasons. After arriving, a young Jewish man who was riding on my bus struck up a conversation. As we talked he said, “You will quickly see that Jerusalem is ‘intense.’” This same comment had been made hours earlier by a young woman sitting next to me at the terminal in New Jersey. I cannot pretend to know what is meant by their vision of Jerusalem as a place of intensity, but the ever-present reality of resurging commitments which overlap and collide with previous commitments can be felt everywhere. There are the realities: the military stationed everywhere, checkpoints that make for a very complicated life, and religiously-inspired people living for the most part respectfully around one another’s circumstances. There are the dilemmas: the violence which can erupt without much reason, the sharing of one “holy land,” relations with the Western world, the trials of living in refugee settlements without any sense of it being “home”, the pursuit of “nationalism,” the ever-present dualism of sacred and secular vying for attention. There are also the graces, which ironically are often woven together in part by the dilemmas: the sharing of one “holy land,” the growing economy, the enduring spirit, the rich religious experience growing from the center of human experience.      

There are many details of these months that could not begin to be shared in a weekly post like this. I am here to do specific research in interreligious dimensions of this region of the world and the learning process in a place like this is one that requires many months of “post experience” processing. My intention will be to share a bit of my own spiritual journey here so as to encourage conversation and learning about this part of the world in our Mount community. Enroute to the Bethesda pool, our guide purchased a loaf of Jerusalem bread. Casually strolling past the Armenian, Arab, Jewish and Christian Quarters, we ate the bread, mindful of the profound meaning of manna which nourishes–even as we were passing some on the street who cannot afford even one loaf of Jerusalem bread in a lifetime. My attentions are turned toward these dynamics that have largely been shaped by the best and the worst of religious experience.

These blog entries will be sporadic. They are not meant to be in any way a coherently intellectual formulation about the religious, spiritual, political realities of the region as this will come in the months after my return in other formats. This blog is intended to be a glimpse at how one might do immersion theology as part of one’s formation as a human being, in this case, my own human development which is very much being tested and expanded through this experience. Those of you who are familiar with the Pastoral Cycle (sometimes called the Praxis Circle) will recognize the progression of my entries as flowing from this particular way of doing theology. The process goes something like this: Beginning in the context of experience, I will be immersed in an exploration of the region, then examine what I have explored by doing informed reflection. Reflection is informed through the rigorous application of social analysis in the context of conversation with others. Finally, and as a tool for ministry most importantly, I will be formulating a response out of which to live as a transformed and transforming minister in a wounded world. As theologian Laurie Green says, “We can sit and reflect till the cows come home. If that’s all theology is ever going to do for us, then we would be right to ignore it (theology).” Implementing a growing body of wisdom is one dimension of responsible citizenship. For some implementing a response to what has been learned in theological reflection will be to simply live more prayerfully and intentionally, aware of the realities that bring forth grace and sin in the world. Others of us may be called to participate in creating a more sustainable world through intentional and specific actions–ministry. Some praxis models, including that of Joe Holland and Joseph Cardijn, include a particular step in the pastoral process, namely that of theological reflection that engages questions and texts, particularly Scripture, from the Christian Tradition. But in using the model with students in immersion courses, it is apparent that religious influences weigh in with great import and balance as part of doing social analysis. A separate step may leave the impression that theological reflection and social analysis are not as significantly integrated as they really are. This context of Israel is living proof of the muddled complexities shaped and reshaped by overlapping interests/motivations exposed by theological reflection and social analysis. So the pastoral cycle used in these entries places theological reflection and social analysis together within the sphere of “reflection.”

A final note about this process should be made. Exploration, reflection, and response are not an individual pursuit but happen within a community of people who share the desire to think more deeply, live more abundantly, respond more generously, and attend more intentionally to the wounded world. For this reason, I sought out a place that would provide such a community with whom to share the experience. When matters pertaining to visas and passports are complete, we at Tantur will be a community of 12 (no specific symbolism should be read into this!)

I will try to answer some of your questions in the weekly blog. Most likely it will only be possible to manage one or two each week. Perhaps some of us will want to form a learning community about the Middle East after my return, where we can explore your questions more completely. Hopefully these snippets of my experience will peak your own interest in Middle East affairs and contemporary spiritual experience which invites all humans to transcend the limitations of religion so as to “have life and live it to the fullest.”