Glory Ho

Current Location: Jerusalem

In February, one of my best friends Erin passed on a message from her pastor at Montview Presbyterian. The message was: It’s not our job to love who we love. It’s our job to love who Jesus loves.

A few years ago, I might have rolled my eyes at this comment. But now, I’m in. I believe it.

Because this is a message about kindness. It doesn’t mean I have to necessarily spend time with everyone I meet or know or live with or work for, but I should love them just the same. It’s a message I also received from historical Jesus and it seems to fall into my hands again and again.

On Thursday evening of Holy Week, I went to mass with our friar-to-be friend, Erik at the Church of the Notre Dame, a new France-funded cathedral outside the Damascus Gate of the Old City. This would be my one Catholic mass of the week. Some predictability. A little comfort. A bridge to huddle upon between this crazy land of religion and the familiar rituals of my childhood church.

Holy Thursday or Maundy Thursday, has a heavy load. Not only does it commemorate the Last Supper, but also the agony of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane and the betryal of Christ by Judas Iscariot and the washing of the Disciples’ Feet.

According to Wikipedia:

The word Maundy is derived through Middle English, and Old French mandé, from the Latin mandatum, the first word of the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos” (“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you”), the statement by Jesus in the Gospel of John (13:34).

It seems that on this eve, after washing the Apostle’s feet, Jesus asked them to wash one another’s feet.

Now, let’s consider the time period for a moment, which included a largely shoeless society, no recorded sewage system and the somewhat free mingling of camels, donkeys, dogs and other beasts with humans, (Yes, I know Charlton Heston appeared fairly clean in the Ten Commandments) and you get an idea of just how horrible this task was perceived to be. But all the more demonstrative of his point: Love others as I love you.

As part of the mass, twelve people had been chosen (all men, hmph) to have their feet washed by the priest and other clergymen.

All week, Erik had invited us to attend church with him. And all week, there had been some unavoidable conflict. What’s odd is that prior to this evening, I knew nothing about the significance of Holy Thursday except for the Last Supper. Yet in the sea of the bible’s gospels, parables and commandments, this mass’s message, which lets face it, may or may not have blossomed from an actual foot-washing party, is one I believe in.

This is just the beginning of Jerusalem’s impact on my spiritual road-trip. . .

Old City Hostel (Photo by Michael)

St. Patrick’s Day in the New City (must party before Holy Week begins!)

Us with friar-to-be-friend, Erik. He was our personal religious tutor that week.

Moon rising on Jerusalem.

From the balcony, where we could watch the zealots with glee.

Traveling in a region where most nations aren’t fond of their neighbors isn’t easy.

As we’ve tripped and traveled through these Arab countries, all our answers regarding our future travel would mindfully exclude the word “Israel”. We could never let them know we’d dare to fraternize with their Enemy Number One.  But finally, it was time. Finally, we would hear the other side. Finally, after confusing discussions about exit stamps and entry stamps and border patrol interrogation strategies, we would see if stamping a sheet of paper instead of our passport  (so Sudan would let us in) was actually possible.

To begin with, the Israeli border crossing was an airport security terminal serviced by the military, which is mandatory for both men and women in Israel. I went through four metal detectors, had my passport checked seven times and was thoroughly questioned by three girls with guns who were young enough to be part of my babysitting schedule in the 80s. About the time they asked me if I’d been to any Arab countries and I decided to be honest and tell them exactly where we had been even though the stamps weren’t in our passport because we had switched passports on the bus between Jordan and here, I wasn’t at all sure they would let us through.

But they did.

As we boarded the American-priced mini-bus to Jerusalem, the driver told us to buckle our seat belts. I’m not kidding. He really said that. The only thing more surprising was to actually find a chest strap, lap belt and available and functional buckle for each and every person on the bus of Orthodox Jews and Muslims.

Coming to Israel was a little like taking a break from a big trip. Everything was in English. Toilets were sit-down. Pedestrians waited for the green man. Hostel clerks asked for payment up front.

While Istanbul seems to get the traditional title for East meets West and is a place where modernity blends beautifully with gold teapots and hand-woven tapestries, Jerusalem was always a gamble. After floating through the souk, you could crash-land into just plain modern or just plain biblical. But the two didn’t mix terribly well.

Jerusalem’s Old City is made up of four quarters. Armenian, Jewish, Christian and Muslim. Jews stare into the paper-stuffed crevices of the Wailing Wall, eat kosher and read newspapers written specifically for their sect of ultra-orthodox or Haredi Judaism. Some Muslims attend mosque at the Dome of the Rock, the alleged site where Abraham took his son Isaac for sacrifice and also the place he made a pit stop before ascending to heaven. Mmmhmm. Christians can choose from a list of touristed chapels and churches, each the site of a famous bible story. Mount of Olives, where Jesus went to rest after telling the apostles to stay awake the night before he was crucified stretches above it all with rocks, gravestones, Cyprus and yes, olives.

In contrast, the New City flew a different cluster of freak flags. Reminiscent of Boulder’s Pearl Street, hippies distributed hugs, vegetarian restaurants were packed with patrons and with the afternoon sun as a guide, bartenders stood in the shadows washing glasses for the evening ahead. Merchants sold yarmulkes embroidered with Kenny’s orange coat or Bart’s yellow crown.

On this strange strip of land in the Middle East lies a very large Jewish population. But author and journalist Thomas Friedman tells us in his book Beirut to Jerusalem, that most feel its enough just to live in Israel and are, therefore, not very religious.

But as in any country, its the messianic few who speak loudest. In the Old City, it’s easy to see how people get caught up in the drama. From our balcony at the Petra Hostel, the daily parade included nuns, priests, rabbis, friars, imams or bishops in any combination of processionals or prayers, often followed by an excited gaggle of tourists. The most fascinating for me were the Haredi Jews, whose complex fashion statements, including banana curls, top hats, beards, yarmulkes, torso tassels and fur lampshade-like headpieces (all indications of devotion to) make it feel like everyone’s off to a school play about the Amish. And I am not invited.

But sometimes it’s nice to be on the outside looking in. Violence reserves its own section of this parade. On the way to Bethlehem on Tuesday, just outside the Damascus Gate, we stumbled across the police-taped spot where a Palestinian had just minutes before stabbed a rabbi. On another afternoon, along with loudspeakers and crowd management, we were told to stay off our hostel balcony as a police squad detonated a suspicious looking piece of garbage.

Israel, roughly the size of Massachusetts, was a land of confusion. And we’d only just arrived.

Note: This is a flashback to Beirut. Because I thought it best to wait until we had exited both Lebanon and the Big I before publishing it, it is appearing now. . .

Inma Foundation (for whom we built a website) was founded by a Muslim who follows the teachings of Jesus. Not exactly your typical blend. The foundation does not claim any particular denomination, style or practiced religion, but they follow life in faith, through God’s love. And their foundation strives to give without bias in a country divided by culture, religion and sect.

In January, Inma’s founder hosted an unofficial religious delegation of seminary students, pastors and spiritual leaders, on a three country, five day tour to build bridges between Islam and Christianity. As it turned out, most of these delegates were from Colorado. Cherry Hills Church, Smokey Hill, Denver Seminary, and others. At a reception in their outlandishly Lebanese two-story penthouse, the founder Samir, a charismatic, diplomatic and informal fellow, gave a short lecture on the similarities between the Koran and the Bible and how we are much stronger through unity than division. How we are all living through the love of our Creator. As a souvenir, each delegate was given a large varnished and wood-bound tome, containing each Koran passage which mentioned Jesus.

During their time, Samir organized a meeting with Nabil Kawook, the, Hezbollah’s Southern Lebanon commander. Michael and I were invited along.

TIMEOUT

So for my own sanity, let’s go over Hezbollah for a moment. You might have heard of them. The U.S. and UK, among other countries, classify them as a terrorist organization. Here’s a little more—the most truthful, but neutral description I could find– from another acronym called the BBC::

Hezbollah – or the Party of God – is a powerful political and military organisation of Shia Muslims in Lebanon. It emerged with financial backing from Iran in the early 1980s and began a struggle to drive Israeli troops from Lebanon. In May 2000 this aim was achieved, thanks largely to the success of the party’s military arm, the Islamic Resistance. In return, the movement, which represents Lebanon’s Shia Muslims – the country’s single largest community – won the respect of most Lebanese. It now has an important presence in the Lebanese parliament and has built broad support by providing social services and health care. It also has an influential TV station, al-Manar. But, it still has a militia that refuses to demilitarize, despite UN resolution 1559, passed in 2004, which called for the disarming of militias as well as the withdrawal of foreign (i.e about 14,000 Syrian) forces from Lebanon. As long ago as 2000, after Israel’s withdrawal, Hezbollah was under pressure to integrate its forces into the Lebanese army and focus on its political and social operations. But, while it capitalized on political gains, it continued to describe itself as a force of resistance not only for Lebanon, but for the region.

BUT BACK TO REALITY

There we were. Eleven men, a Lebanese woman and us. Heavy security. A meeting room which had been host to past negotiations and stalemates, I was certain. No cameras or cell phones. A lot of guards.

Nabil Kawook, arguably Israel’s most wanted man, was tall. He had a beard, a turban and a presence.

He strode up and back the narrow, yellow, sofa-lined, fluorescent-energy-star lit room. Past the Kleenex boxes and candy dishes of gold on glass. He shook each man’s hand, meeting eyes with concentration and confidence. Upon reaching me, we both clutched our hearts with one hand, the traditional Muslim greeting between unfamiliar men and women. He then moved to his throne at the head of the room. Samir, the man who made this meeting possible, and today’s translator, sat beside him. A gold Hezbollah flag stand stabbed the ceiling with power behind him.

I have to admit, I was somewhat afraid to move. As if we were all in a flat-bottom boat and the crossing of my legs might throw the whole gathering off balance and splash water into the freshly-ironed folds of the Sheik’s triple layered robes, tip the caricatured cotton off his head, cause him to drop his prayer beads or extinguish the flammable power of Islam floating around him.

He spoke of Hezbollah and their effort to help those who could not help themselves. He told the story of Ashouraa, the Muslim holiday honoring Mohammad’s martyred grandson, Hussein, and he talked about the miracles he believed had occurred. He answered questions from the delegation—about why Hezbollah wasn’t providing more humanitarian aid to refugees and about how he connected with God. I listened, but my absorption was constantly broken by two things: Unfounded fears of imminent explosion and my mesmerized gazing at his face.

But there’s that Lebanese drama again. We would not have gone unless we felt safe. Because we trusted our guides, Rob and Samir. This meeting was about bridges, not bombs.

After an hour, we all participated in a final prayer. One of the visiting pastors even asked if he could put his hand upon the heart of Nawook while we prayed. You can bet security detail was all over that one. But it happened.

As the Sheik exited, he complimented me on my last-minute dash at immersion—a black winter scarf wrapped ’round my head. He said that I looked like Mary—that this practice would strengthen my faith.

I’m not sure about that. But the experience did widen my perspective. This story is not about dispelling myths. I can’t go into Hezbollah’s tactics, strategies or battles with Israel and just how politics play into their motives. And I know nations have their reasons–good ones–for labeling Hezbollah as terrorists. But this IS about remembering there are multiple sides to a fight and about the unfortunate ignorance of those (including me) who sometimes place guilt by association. Just because the Sheik’s costume and look reminded me of the big O does not mean that he is an evil man. Just because Al Qaeda is violent doesn’t mean Islam is. Just because people don’t approve of our government doesn’t mean they dislike us as individuals.

I do know that for sure.

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Mesopotamia (modern day Iraq) means between two rivers. In this case, the Euphrates and the Tigris. This ancient land was where agriculture (hey, maybe we should grow something and then eat it! Or sell it!) and writing (hey, if I write it down now, I can look it up later!) were actually INVENTED. First it was the Sumerians as early as 23rd Century BC, then a ruler by the name of Nebuchadnezzar (have you seen the Matrix?) presided over the Babylonians.

I don’t know how to say this, but I mean, that’s kind of a big deal.

Today, a taxi drove us to Dohuk today in Northwest Iraq. We rode through long stretches of sandy wasteland, squat cinderblock villages and checkpoints with Barzani photos. We passed the road to Mosul and Baghdad. (We were 30 miles from Mosul, if you must know.)

We whizzed by a celebrating wedding party in the cracked landscape. A community of mud huts with a proud UN Flag was a refugee camp for PKK families. Dohuk was happier, more hospitable and more articulate than Erbil. Whatever message we implicitly received along its streets had been carved into the air with care and pride. The town was at the foot of one-dimensional, movie-set mountains, much like the Flatirons from Highway 91. Below, the pink, blue and yellow houses of a Christmas-tree sheltered 1970’s train set city lacked only the open-book roofs to make it a Rocky Mountain mining town.

The next day we rode further north. As the grassless, rocky foothills of the depressing landscape became mountains, they formed the long backsides of a stegosaurus or brontosaurus. Amedya was a village on a plateau pedestal, with the carved white gates of Mosul, now cracked and neglected, serving as a shepherds cliff-side refuge.

A family (I think three of these women are wives) in Amedya. Nothing too new. We were served food and drink in two different homes–sometimes a stone shack, other times a furnished house. Everyone was bewildered, but kind.

On this one hundred and thirty fourth day on our life in the Middle East, cultural differences had become mere nuances. The dash of sugar thrown into the stew, the right clogs with an outfit.

Until we visited Lalesh, the principal holy site of the Yezidi people. While the Yezidis are ethnically and culturally Kurdish and they speak Kurmanji, (Northern Kurdish), their religious beliefs distinguish them from Iraqi’s Muslim majority.

Yezidism, with flavors of Christianity, Islam and paganism , believe that they are all descendants of Adam, rather than Eve. They worship Melek Taus, a peacock, which they consider to be the leader of the archangels. Just as this archangel was given the choice for good or evil by God himself, (he chose good) the potential for both exists in human beings.

Are you still with me?

It gets better, or rather, worse. Superstitious laws of purity govern the Yezidi community with a freshly scrubbed and fierce hand. The color blue cannot be worn. Stepping on the threshold of any temple is forbidden. Spitting on any of the four elements, earth, air, water or fire, is considered impure. Perhaps most narrow-minded, is that Yezidi communities believe that contact with non-Yezidi people is polluting to the spirit and soul. Sharing such items as dishes or blankets with outsiders is forbidden. They do not allow converts and marrying outside the religion is viewed as cause for exorcism from society or honor killing. Sometimes, as a YouTube video exposed, in the form of a public stoning. In 2007, Du’a Khalil Aswad was stoned to death for her involvement with a Muslim boy. I still shudder at the thought.

This is not an uncommon practice and not confined to the Yezidi region of Iraq.
However, as Michael learned about the roots of Mormonism in Under the Banner of Heaven, as we stood within the circle of Christianity’s parables and miracles in Jerusalem and as we’ve struggled to focus on the ever-blurry line between the culture and religion of Muslim countries, one thing has become apparent. All religion, at face value, without promotion, politics or emotion, to someone equipped with an average amount of reasoning, sounds a little wack. Yet we must respect the beliefs of those we encounter.

Yezidism is no different, right? This is what I try and tell myself.

But I just can’t do it anymore. Throughout our travels, we are constantly forced to honor the religion around us. To adapt to misogynistic customs and oppressive rules. To listen with the polite expression of a guest and preserve what’s left of the tattered American image. And we’re usually doing this as they explain to us just what’s wrong with the United States.

Honor killings are wrong. And I’m ashamed that we wandered around with these Yezidis without pressing the issue.

I’m not sure whether this is a sign of self-sufficiency or frighteningly decreasing standards.

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, as I slip into the leather back seat and Bose-speaker-studded doors of this guy’s Alpha Romeo.

We’d taken an expensive service taxi to the Iraq Embassy. That driver, Tyson, was a blue-collar guy with a Detroit Pistons Starter Jacket and an unmistakable American accent. Tyson had been born in Lebanon, but driven a Wonder Bread truck in Michigan. For an unexplained reason that put him on probation, he was now back in Lebanon.

We’d gone to the embassy to apply for visas so we could visit Northern Iraq. The consular employee was an Iraqi himself and had actually laughed, loudly, when we told them we were not reporters or journalists or volunteers but that we wanted to go as tourists. But during our wait, we got to talking. He was Microsoft-certified-with-the-card-to-prove-it and wanted to go to America—what was the best way? Who should he call? Them Americans, they like the Indians, but us Middle Easterns, they don’t trust us, you know?

Now we were headed back to West Beirut and this other IT guy was going our way.

Abd had gone to college in Dearborn Heights, Michigan (where Wal-Mart has just become Arab-friendly, by the way). But his wife, much to his apparent disgust, and despite his $75/hour job offer, had insisted they move back to Lebanon in 2000.

“America is a really great place. I tell you a story,”

“When I was in America, my friend told me if I was ever lost, I should just honk at a policeman and he would help me. So I got lost one day and that’s what I did. And you know what? He drove me 22 miles, you know that’s almost 40 kilometers, to make sure I took the right exit and then he called someone to help me from there!”

“This kind of thing doesn’t happen in the Middle East. Not in Lebanon.”

“Where should I drop you?” he asked.

We gestured.

“Here’s my card. You need anything in Lebanon, anything at all, you ever need help, just call me.”

Michael began. . .”But you realize that you’re helping us right now. You’re doing what that policeman did.”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t do this for an Arab.”

Could it be that all these kind strangers were only hospitable to foreigners? That they wouldn’t help a fellow national in need? It was disappointing to consider, but when I thought about Americans, I considered the potential truth. With a choice between a backpack-attached, foreign-looking hitchhiker and a down-and-out looking American dude, who would YOU pick up? Or, let me rephrase, who would you feel sorry for as you sped by?