Tales of Jerusalem 1

(Originally posted on the Abbess blog on the 8th January 2007)

I've just come back from spending 6 days in Jerusalem. An exhausting but special time. There was lots to see and lots to think about. I won't give an ordered diary account here. Just some tales, thoughts and impressions. Here is one of them...our journey to Bethany.

We were staying at St George's Jerusalem so the journey to Bethany doesn't take long. You can walk it if you are feeling fit, up the mount of Olives and around. But we thought we'd save our legs for the journey back, and took the bus, which dropped us off, not very far away from the wall. The big ugly towering, grey concrete wall. We walked along the wall, reading the graffiti, and laughing in a bittersweet way at some of the jokes and comments on there. "Make love, not walls", "Mancs against the tanks" and messages from many different towns and countries throughout the world. We walked all the way to the top of the hill, where the ruins of a once palatial hotel stood, its windows tattered and torn, its walls pockmarked. An old map later told us that it was once called the Cliff Hotel, and it would once have commanded serene and beautiful views over the city while the rich partied and played within. Now it stands like a empty shell, a shadow whispering tales of happier times.

We looked over at the view of Jerusalem, and the mount of olives. It was indeed beautiful, and a guard came over. I think they were probably a little nervous. What were these strange Westerers doing here. What are you doing? They asked. "looking at the view" we replied. They asked us where we were from, and Jem answered but asked the same question in return. Amazingly whenever he did this (and he always did it in a jolly and polite manner, which is why I think he got away with it) they would actually reply. This man came from Russia once. I did wonder to myself why would he come to a place where he would have to join the army for 3 years, and then I remembered that the same thing was probably true of Russia too.

We returned down the hill, following the concrete, which I remembered from last year, when it suddenly stopped at a point where I remembered seeing Arabs clambering over last year. Now there was no gap, just a profound change of style. The grey concrete suddenly morphed into carefully laid honey stone, like a garden wall on growth hormone. Why the sudden change? Well the wall was now not just surrounding a city, it was surrounding a rather nice dwelling that we presumed would be demolished. We didn't know who owned it, but decided that they must have some power and influence to get the ritzy glitzy "pretty?" version of the wall.

Then we came to the convent that is the traditional site of Mary and Martha's garden. We rang the bell, and a nice Polish priest answered and allowed us in to see the church. We took photos of the inside, and then went to explore the garden. The priest said that we were welcome to do so, although we would no longer be able to walk from Mary and Martha's, following the route Jesus took to raise Lazarus from his tomb. For now there was not only a wall in the way, but soliders patrolling the gardens.

We met the soldiers. Actually they were quite nice, in a funny sort of way. They seemed to be a little torn between wanting to be friendly, and trying to be "official". They asked us the usual questions, and they seemed happy for they did allow us to look at the caves in the garden, which the priest told us date from 100BC. So Jesus would have known them. We went inside, and filmed. The light was amazing! And I was struck by how unspoilt they were, like living relics. They were simply carved out stone, with a door, and yet I was sure that an ex-carpenter had once visited this carved out hillside, and been inside this cave. It was an amazing feeling. like stepping into a Tardis. A small sunny sacred space.

Then we tried to get to the tomb of Lazarus further down the hill, but the wrong side of the boundary. The soldiers wouldnt' let us go the direct way. They said it was no longer possible, and perhaps it wasn't. The wall looked very nearly finished. But just outside the monastery gate we found a gap, which had 2 more soliders guarding it. like an unofficial sort of checkpoint. We were glad it was there though. The only other alternative would have been a 40 minute bus ride to a place that was once "just down the hill". A pilgrimage route crudely carved in half.

I waved my Christian pilgrimage guide at them, which seemed to make an excellent substitute for a passport, pointing out the picture of Lazarus' tomb. They let us through. We clambered over the uneven ground, with scattered rubble, emerging on a small road, where we caught site of the tomb, the Greek church nearby, and the giftshop opposite, which they opened for us.

The venue was empty apart from us. I imagined coachloads of day trippers once making this simple journey to a place that Jesus was very fond of, but now all was silent, and business was bad. Did any coaches make the trip anymore? I don't know. But I sincerely hope that they will make the effort, for I am sure that *they* will be waved through like VIPs. They will not have to queue for hours while thier passport is checked and re-checked, or simply made to wait and interminably long time. The country needs them!

And we finally saw the tomb, clambering down many, more modern, steps to the ancient entrance. It smelt a little strange, but somehow that made it feel more authentic. It was, of course, empty. And after lunch, we walked back returning to the citt the way Jesus would have walked, around Bethany and down the mount of Olives. This city is such as city of contrasts. It contains such incredible beauty, and yet such incredible sadness.