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| A mustard tree overlooking the Kidron Valley |
Unfamiliar but
eye-opening to me was the physicality of the land: the ups and downs of
Jerusalem, where many of the streets are like staircases; the steepness of the
Mount of Olives, which my leg muscles still remember; the deep clefts of the
Kidron and Hinnom valleys; and the sight of Mount Tabor arising alone from the
plain of Jezreel (“one will come who is like Tabor among the mountains” – Jer
46:18). Then there was the shortage of rivers and streams, so strange to an
Englishman, and the closeness of the desert – you only need to go to the Mount
of Olives and look eastwards beyond Bethany to see the first barren hills of
the Judean wilderness. Oddly, because of the return of the rains after six or
seven months of hot drought, the autumn was a time of new life for the grass
and the flowers, a phenomenon that also brings to life the words of the psalm
about the autumn rain covering the bitter valley with blessings. Fiercely
strong midday sunshine meant that even in winter children could be seen playing
in the fountains. The gnarly olive trees are a constant and iconic feature, and
I got a quiet pleasure in using oil pressed from the olives of the friary
garden. I never enjoyed salad so much as I did in the Holy Land, where most of
it, along with the fruit and veg, is fresh and tasty. Last and smallest, but by
no means least among the natural features, were the mustard seeds: so much
smaller than the mustard seeds we’re familiar with, and growing well above
head-height into shrubs with trumpet-shaped yellow flowers, which attract the
shiny blue-black Palestinian sunbird to feed on the nectar.
I never got the
hang of bartering – I probably got ripped off a few times – but it’s a method
that requires you to enter into a relationship with the shopkeeper, rather than
mechanically paying a predetermined price. In the local culture the key factor
is not what you know but who you know. I eventually learnt which people would give
a good price to a poor Franciscan. Family relationships are also very strong
and important. Meanwhile, the obvious religious atmosphere was an unfamiliar
but welcome experience; talking about God is quite normal, and the Muslim calls
to prayer and the Jewish trumpets heralding the Sabbath still echo in my mind.
Going to Masses in Arabic, where God is invoked as ‘Allah’, was an eye-opening
experience. One of my favourite memories is of hearing ‘Laudato Si’ being sung
in Arabic in the Palm Sunday procession.
Less welcome
memories are of the prevalence of checkpoints and guns: it was quite normal to
round a corner in Jerusalem to see a dozen fully-armed police or soldiers
marching towards you. The hostile political atmosphere was unsettling; but I
did realise that it has a lot of similarities with the situation in the time of
the Gospel: then it would have been Roman soldiers patrolling the streets.
All of these
strange experiences serve to make the Bible less strange. But there were other
experiences that were almost as strange in their familiarity. My previous
mental image of the Holy Land didn’t really include green fields; but in fact
for nearly half the year it is a ‘green and pleasant land’. During the wet
season the limestone hills of Judea are not dissimilar to the Pennines, and
Galilee in the winter is like the Lake District in the summer. Dry-stone walls and
flocks of sheep also served to remind me of our National Parks. I knew that the
Promised Land was supposed to be a fertile country flowing with milk and honey,
and John’s Gospel tells us that people sat down on green grass when Jesus fed
them with five loaves and two fish; but I wasn’t prepared for how much the
hills around Galilee could look so much like England or Wales. I also wasn’t
prepared for cold nights, needing several layers to keep warm while sleeping.
The people were
in many ways like people anywhere. Children could be seen playing on their
bikes or in the fountains, families would picnic in the parks, and of course
smartphones were everywhere. Staying a night in a Palestinian village, I played
noughts-and-crosses with the children. People enjoy the sunshine and stay out
of the rain if they can, and they laugh and grieve like other people do. Some
people were aloof, some were friendly, and some would go out of their way to
welcome a stranger and help him on his way. I especially remember an Arab, who
couldn’t speak any English, giving me and another friar a lift to the bottom of
Mount Tabor when he saw us waiting at the bus-stop, and even offering to buy us
something to drink. Traffic rules are much the same as at home, apart from
driving on the right.
All the nations
are flowing to Jerusalem, making it strikingly diverse at times; but even that
felt quite familiar to someone who had been living in multicultural London the
previous six years. West Jerusalem and other Jewish areas looked and felt very
much like European or American cities, while the Old City and the Arab areas
were more noticeably Middle Eastern in their culture. But even the latter could
feel very homely. I loved to visit Bethlehem: there was something wonderfully
comforting about the atmosphere there. And Nazareth, once a village of only 200
and now a small city, still feels cosy in its hollow in the hills. The ancient
houses, being half-cave and half-building, are somewhat reminiscent of hobbit
holes. The grotto of the Annunciation was part of one such home, and still
seems homely, despite the big basilica on top of it.
All these
feelings of familiarity make it seem more likely, more believable that miracles
can happen in my own country, if the great events of salvation can happen under
the same blue sky.
I’m no nearer to
answering the question as to whether the strange or the familiar aspects of my
experiences were the most important. Perhaps they merge into one anyway, as the
initially strange became familiar to me over the nine months I was there. But I
find my thoughts turning again to the unexpected greenness of the grass, so
homely yet the scene of marvelous events. “The green earth, say you? That is a
mighty matter of legend, though you tread it under the light of day!”
