6-30-2018 Tour D’Jesus

Some trust in chariots and some in horses,

but we trust in the name of the LORD our God.      —Psalm 20:7

 “Why?”

“Because those are the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

These were the basics, Lord, of the discussion going on in my head, the first day of our group’s engagement in the land. It was pre-Shabbat Friday, our first full day in the city of the Great King and I wanted to feed on the energy I felt from these excited folks. They were ready and willing to experience all that Jerusalem had to offer, so we started early.

This was the day that we ran into Ron the condemning Rabbi. “You Christians are not welcomed here,” he proclaimed in front of the Christ Church entrance.

This was the day we learned of and saw the hidden room where you had been sequestered prior to your trial before Pilot.

This was the day when I saw the eyes of seven people who have not been to the land, opened with wonder and expectation for more. What better time to prepare for Shabbat.

You would think that might have been enough considering all were still adjusting to an 8 hour time difference. But not these sturdy folk, they were hungry to learn your history, touch your roots; encounter your people.

And we were just getting familiar with one another, so a family meal and study seemed a right next step. Some volunteered to cook and prepare while others offered to go get groceries and necessities for the gathering. At 1 pm in the afternoon, five of us set off to find the local grocers and load up. Oh, Lord: did I mention that as we had walked about the streets of modern Jerusalem that morning, on our way to the Old City, we saw much preparation on the streets for what looked like some kind of citywide festival?

We learned as we headed out from our apartment that the event was nothing less than the Tour D’Italy Bike Race, an international extravaganza which is held in a different country each year. This was the first year it was to occur in Israel and the crowds gathering along the sides of the pyloned streets testified to its significances.

This was not why we had come to the land, and it seemed an interesting sideshow to we weary travelers, nothing more. We were primarily focused on grabbing our goods and hustling back the 3 city blocks to our sanctuary where we might watch some of the goings on from our comfortable balcony above.

As we crossed the last major street before our intended target, the grocery store, I noted behind us that some official looking guards planted more orange pylons across where we had just trudged. No worries, I thought, we’ll be a few minutes and then hustle right back, they have to let us back across to get to our domicile. We found the store and stocked up on goods we anticipated needing for a portion of our two-week stay. Three cases of water, numerous can goods, many boxes of food and supplies later, we were ready for our trek back. By then, the race had officially started. We arrived back at the cross-street headed toward our apartment and gave a friendly nod to the pylon guards. They did not smile back.

“You will have to wait. We cannot allow passage,” said one fellow sternly.

“But we live just a block up on this side of the street, we need to get over there to prepare for our Sabbath meal,” I pleaded. We were politely refused, though not a bike was in sight. “Where can we cross,” we asked. There was discussion among the uniforms and one suggested we walk up the cross-street—a healthy incline without our totes—and that perhaps there would be a way to negotiate our passage at the next major intersections, a good half mile in the wrong direction. We were willing to do anything at this point in order to return to our waiting friends and so took the bait.

Lord, I forgive those guards because I suspect they knew it was bait—our departure from the encounter with them was their only intention. As we lumbered on we noted that others were as confused as we as they tried every means to egress the island we were all now trapped upon. One man tried to ignore the refusal of the authorities and their handling of him was equally aggressive and un-pretty. We chose not to follow his example. Finally arriving at the next junction, we were informed that there was no passage available, no tunnel, no bridge, and that we must wait until the completion of the repetitive circuit the cyclists must perform.

“How long might that take?” We implored. The answer was even less attractive as the handling of the rebellious man we observed earlier...

“—Three to four hours; sorry.” I did not hear sorrow in their voices.

What? Were they joking? We with our heavy parcels and backpacks full of sundries were not amused, but no one seemed to care. After sitting for a few moments and watching the occasional bike speed by, we all decided to head back down to our original crossing location to see if any options were left out. After an hour of inquiring and beseeching, we concluded that the only two possibilities seemed to be to wait-it-out, or circumnavigate a two-mile hike, up King David Street (in the opposite direction of our desired location), then over to the Old City, over across a bridge and try to egress through at an intersection at the starting point of the race. Maybe, just maybe the “head-officials” would be more understanding.

Nearly an hour, much

sweat and not a few consumed bottles of water later, we arrived at our hoped for objective-point. Here we encountered no-less resistance. Ironically, from this vantage point, we could stare 30 yards ahead and directly up to see our goal, the comfort of our apartment dwelling, taunting us. Frustrated and tired we all decided to simply enjoy the show. Now, as a captive observer I couldn’t help but marvel and the precision with which riders would breeze through, followed almost instantaneously by a motorbike with passenger cameraman perched daringly on the back seat leaning out precariously in search of the money-shot, that picture which the various tv networks would pay extra for. In final pursuit followed the sponsorship car, emboldened with logos and bold adverting murals that announce the bike builders. Of course, strapped to the roof were at least six to twelve additional bikes for that particular rider, I guess in case he or she had a tremendously bad run of misfortunes. My mind was racing too; could someone have that many debacles to need twelve bikes for the circuit? If so, would the rider not be injured to the point that by number 4 or possibly 6, the rest of the cycles would have become pointless? Not being a bike touring enthusiast, I’m sure someone who is could explain the operation of a trial and race to me…but now I’m thinking Lord, this blog has gone on too long, as did the Tour itself.

The competition did finally end and we were allowed to cross the street, access our apartment and enjoy our much-desired meal. I realized as we relaxed and reviewed the strange day that it is so easy to complain and get worked up about the uncontrollable, much as it is easy to argue against another’s opinion, rather than consider, observe and then seek alternative routes to the desired destination. The same might be said of our relationship, Lord God. How often do I try to plow a path of my choosing, when you already have prepared the best route for the best result—if I will just stop debating long enough to consider my circumstances from your point of view?

The Tour D’Israel bike race had far more impact on our trip then I realized at the time. In fact, the very next day’s itinerary was also impacted—but that’s another blog entry altogether.

“Why?”

“Because those are the rules.”

“Whose rules?”

Yours, of course, Lord. I rest in the knowledge of your plan for me; a plan based on a much more significant future, unseen by me, perhaps filled with what I consider inconveniences, but with an extraordinary life-outcome by your design.

I pray for your continued patience with me as I continue to figure out the rules, how to trust you in that journey, how to Tour my own destiny…

—in you, Jesus.

Mark C.

6-10-2018 Apprehended

 Apprehended

I appeal to you, kin, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree, and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same judgment. 

For it has been reported to me by Chloe’s people that there is quarreling among you, my brothers. What I mean is that each one of you says, “I follow Paul,” or “I follow Apollos,” or “I follow Cephas,” or “I follow Christ.” Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Or were you baptized in the name of Paul? 

I thank God that I baptized none of you except Crispus and Gaius, so that no one may say that you were baptized in my name. (I did baptize also the household of Stephanas. Beyond that, I do not know whether I baptized anyone else.).

For Christ did not send me to baptize but to preach the gospel, and not with words of eloquent wisdom, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power. For the word of the cross is folly to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.                               

1Cor 1:10-18

A special day: Starting off with a wonderful breakfast at the Christ Church kitchen and then some shopping in the Jewish Quarter. That was the plan anyway, but something got in the way.

I will not call him by his real name, let’s just say I perceive that he thinks he’s important, Lord, and I don’t want to even chance a contribution to those thoughts. So, his name will be Ron.

As we approach the entrance to the Christ Church compound, just inside the Jaffa Gate of Jerusalem’s Old City, there he stands.  Nothing threatening about his demeanor, mind you, but he has certainly strategically planted himself in our path, ready to engage. And it works.

“Shalom,” we state politely as we walk toward him.

“Are you Christian?” He replies with a serious countenance.

“We are here to see the land,” I reply, sensing there is an issue about to arise.

“If you are Christians, you are unwelcomed here,” He warns, his face remaining stern. “I am of the Torah and we do not believe the same as you.”

“What is it we believe?” I ask.

“Trinity.” He replies immediately. It appears he has had this conversation with others before and his practiced attack continues. “Our God is not a Father, son or Spirit. He is one.

“Yes, Echad,” I return. I am thinking he and I are one—echad— in our belief that you, YHWH are one, with characteristics that present themselves as you and only you deem necessary. Ron now looks at me with a puzzled glare after I offer the Hebrew word-form for unity: so I carefully continue. “We agree. God is only One.” It would take all day (maybe an eternity) to elaborate and distinguish the totality of that statement. We only have this moment. “God created the world to love in unity, in relationship, did he not?”

“God is not of this world, he is separate of the creation,” mater-of-factly replies our new acquaintance. Then he turns to a woman member of our group, a Messianic believer who has expanded, not rejected her Jewish heritage by recognizing you, Yeshua, as her Messiah. “Are you a Christian?” he points at her as he demands an answer.

My traveling companion stares Ron right in the face and states. “I am Jewish and believe in YWHW the one true God. I am also a follower of Yeshua HaMashiach.”

“Then you are a heretic.” Our adversary can’t accept that a Jewish believer with deep roots would be associated in any form with we Christian scum. Lord, I don’t want this confrontation, but here it is. Ron is no questioner, contrary to many rabbinical students I’ve dialogued with. He is one who believes in setting the record straight and according to his line of attack, we are nowhere near being on the same path as he. I sense it might be a good time to offer an olive branch of peace.

“Isn’t this a good moment then? We’d love to hear about the differences in Jewish ideas about Torah.”

“There is no difference in Jewish belief. We all believe the same thing and there is no disagreement concerning scripture.”

Really? I don’t disagree with the idea that scripture does not contradict or disagree with itself, but as for humane wrestling with the word? My mind raced back to conversations with many of my Jewish friends in faith and I recall many who would not only disagree with this man but would point out the healthiness of point and counter-point in exploring and debating the nuances of scripture. So I pressed, “What about Mishna?” I realize I’m opening a can of worms, bringing up the well tested Hebrew method of seeking agreement and deeper truth through the contrasting and comparison of ideas. I hope it will invite a better way for us to learn from one another. Ron thwarts in my ambition.

“You do not know Mishna—how it solidifies the law. You are twisting the concept,” Ron reacts.

I find it interesting that he is accusing me of twisting a word when all I had done was ask a question. And then you lead me, Lord, in your most patient of ways, to offer a deeper consideration.

“I’m probably not qualified to dialogue with you, but there is one thing I’ve been studying and maybe you can help me with the answer to a very puzzling question. Why would God do such a thing as creating, and then not relate directly to his creation? Why would he even bother creating if he didn’t plan on loving his work?”

Ron looked at me long and hard. He then spoke about his upbringing and how important his father was in the community and how Ron himself had studied in depth. But for some reason, he ignores my question.

I sense in my spirit that you are doing a work and feel encouraged to let the questions continue to fly. “What about when the scriptures speak of God loving and hating and crying and rejoicing? Is that not a God who sounds passionate about a relationship with his creation?”

“God does not have emotions; those writings are personification,” Ron answers.

“So the scribes are transferring their emotions to God? Are those emotions not actually written attributes of God, written in the Psalms and other places? I’m honestly really confused because I thought you had said scripture can’t be debated.”

“Your words are killing me, you are not my friend. I will hear no more of this. You do not believe in our God.” And with those condemning words, meant not to invite but divide, Ron turns and walks away. It appears that today we will not be of one accord.

“Go with our love,” I shout after him, but I’m pretty sure you, Lord, have been shouting your charged desires after him for quite some time.

It was quite an experience for our first day in the Land, particularly for the others in the group, none of whom had previously experienced any sort of theological attack from a Jewish perspective. Me, Lord? You seem to have made me a magnet for such encounters, and that’s fine. I just pray that you guide me in ever-increasing understanding of how to dialogue while avoiding disparagement. It would have been so much more fulfilling to continue the discussion with Ron; discerning how he arrived at his opinions; comparing rather than condemning ours to his. Instead, I personally felt apprehended, baited into a hostile confrontation in which there could be no fruitful outcome; no hope of restoring the shards of our shared spiritual heritage back into the perfect vessel you once fashioned. It will come, it will happen, you have promised it. What an amazing thing it would have been at this moment for all of us to have received it together…

—as one. 

As for this day, it had just begun and you supply a great comparison in the next moment. We enter into the Christ Church courtyard and encounter some other amazing people. Alex Wolfe, on staff at the Archeological Museum walks us through a methodical explanation of the engineering and substructure which lay beneath the temple mount, including a schematic description of where you, Jesus would have been held at Pilot’s quarters within Herod’s palace: He then reveals that this room was not at the “traditional site”. Most folks are directed to visit those tourist locations because they are convenient and set up for display, but I have learned in my travels that the “actual” event localities, though not as alluring, often offer a more profound and realistic experience when visited. Wolfe leads us to such a site this day; incredibly, a place below the foundations of a coffee shop next door.

We have to climb down a steep and ancient stairwell, into a dark vault which we learn was once a water cistern, converted into a holding cell. The foundation stones of much earlier times speak to the authenticity of this place. Lord, I can almost hear your anguish from when you were once chained in this chamber, or one like it, awaiting the terrible fate you willingly took on. Even knowing that it lead to the greatest spiritual victory of all time; humanity’s…my salvation by your suffering and resurrection.

Being in this place and this time…I draw from your example. These walls tried to close you in, imprisoning your love which you courageously share not only with the oppressed but with your oppressors. They decried you as a heretic for your efforts. My own recent experience,—being unwelcomed as a heretic, so minuscule in comparison to your experience—comes flaring back to memory. It happened not even fifty feet above where we now stand; fifty feet from the very spot where you were held captive prior to your trial and execution. And I’m again saddened that our dialogue with Ron ended on such a dark note. You too were apprehended, baited into a hostile confrontation. But you knew there would be a different and magnificently more fruitful outcome; planned by you to restore the shards of our shared spiritual heritage back into the perfect vessel you had originally fashioned.

I’m astounded at how a particular piece of ground, like a belief, can become someone’s fortress through which none are allowed to pass. For others, The Christ Church neighborhood is a place of welcome, lively discussion and fellowship, regardless of affiliation. My wife reminded me of a man we encountered on our last journey there, who had been outcast from his home and who was recovering from accusations of abuse. He was not there to be judged but to seek repentance and recovery. Both were offered and received—praise to You!

Many other examples flood my mind, Lord, your people reaching out to invite, not to condemn, and that gives me hope even for a strong-willed theologian threatened by counter concepts to the point where pursuit of Truth through honest exploration is refused.

Let me not be that man, Lord: As strong as my belief in you has become, let me hear others. Let me try to understand them, and if we disagree, let me not apprehend—imprisoning them within walls of condemnation; just as I would pray they not condemn me. Let us seek together what eludes us both, the completeness of your Kingdom: It will come, it will happen, you have promised it. What an amazing thing it might be for all of us to receive it together…

—as one. 

Shalom echad,

Mark C.