From the north to the south, the beaches of the Galilee to the stone-cobbled streets in Jerusalem, the country shouts the name of our Emmanuel - God with us. But the echoes in the religion and the hate and the noisy youth murmur the depravity of our human souls.
This is my second time in Jerusalem, and again the wailing wall is exactly that, a cause for despair. Against the wall an old woman is rocking back and forth. Pilgrims come from afar to leave their prayers rolled up in wads of prayer, stuck in between two rocks. On the chair next to me an American woman is also crying out of the depths of her being. A few metres away the men are celebrating bar mitzvahs. Devoted to the law the peculiar boxes on their foreheads and leather straps around the wrists form an age-old picture. Generations gather at this holy place to celebrate a holy moment, while others gather to mourn the remains of a holy temple.
My people perish for a lack of knowledge, I think as I retreat and watch the commotion next to the wall. I realise again that Judaism is one of the saddest religions in the world; waiting for a Messiah that has already arrived, working for a salvation that is already earned, crying at a wall where "the presence rests" while I can testify of the presence within me. My people perish.
In the Holy Sepulcre - built on what is believed to be Golgotha, the masses of people bend down to kiss the rock on which Jesus is said to have been laid, even placing their newly acquired souvenirs on the rock, hoping for some holiness to rub off. No wonder extremists call christians the people who worship the cross. The Christian pilgrims I see in Jerusalem are more interested in the things of God than God himself. The smell of incense takes hold of me making me nauseous and the overwhelming sadness of it all makes me want to run outside. So far removed from the Jesus that I know. My people perish.
In Bethehem I walk next to the wall that is still standing. Splashes of paint cry for peace and freedom and reconciliation. But the Israeli police woman on the bus abuses her power, smugly smiling and high fiving a colleague after pulling a Palestinian man from the bus.
Next to the Kinneret Israeli youth arrive by the masses for a night of loud music, dancing and drinking in a celebration of independence. It is a far cry from the absolute peace I experience in submerging myself in the calm waters a few days later with the sun setting across the lake and the line of the horizon vanishing in the hazy dusk.
The feeling of emptiness in all the devotion and religion culminates and becomes a beautiful God-moment in going up to Temple Mount. No picture of Jerusalem's skyline is complete without the golden Dome. Getting lost in the narrow streets are often done with random surprise glimpses of the dome. After having braved the long queue a few days before just to be told that it is not possible to go in anymore, I was pleasantly surprised at the relatively short queue. Considered a holy site for both Jews and Muslims I was struck by the law that coloured in our visit. Jews are warned that according to Torah law they are not allowed to enter because of the holiness of the site. Having read some tourist reviews we covered up with long pants and shirts and a scarf to wrap around our head and so the "temple police" on the Muslim side deemed us appropriate to enter. On the inside these same guards patrol the grounds and ask men and women to stand further apart when taking pictures "No hugging!"
The dome is beautiful to behold, more so with the unobstructed view that the temple square allows for. Blue and turqouise mosaic built up and ended off with the bright gold reflecting in the bright sunlight. Beautiful yes. More holy than standing on top of a mountain or next to the ocean? For me, not at all. The temple square gives my imagination chance to go to the story of Jesus that turned the tables in holy anger - also reverent of His Father's house and aware of the holiness - He couldn't believe that people were missing it. Standing next to a "holy" mosque, on top of a "holy" old wall, looking at a "holy" hill I experience a true moment of holiness in simply speaking with my Father, right there on a little wall, and I know - even more so in this holy city - so many are missing it. In seeing the devotion and reverence with which Muslims and Jews and even Christians treat their holy sites I am struck afresh by what it means to say I have the Holy Spirit inside of me. By the significance of experiencing something of God's holiness and presence during worship and prayer. The wonder of Jesus that made a way so that we can enter "the holy of holies"or the fact that in Christ, I - with my shorts and short temper and shortcomings - am called holy.
Israel was again a bag of mixed experiences, and both as tourist and pilgrim it was rich with great moments. And yet I walk away with something that dropped in my spirit - the knowledge that the realness of Christ is freely available to everyone, everywhere. The beauty of the way in which Jesus fulfilled the law and opened up a way to him and knowing that so many are missing it. This is why I come back to the nations.
“Come, everyone who is thirsty, come to the waters; and you without money, come, buy, and eat! Come, buy wine and milk without money and without cost! (Isaiah 55:1 HCSB)
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