Finished week 5. Very full of work and worship.
Monday and Tuesday I got started on a few graphic design projects for the community. Two t-shirts for the youth, and a 365-day desk photo calendar for community donors. The calendar photos have been submitted by community members, so there will be some culling needed—not every desert flower photo can make the cut. Tuesday evening Father Piotr took me out for a local stroll around the immediate neighbourhood, pointing out important places, and stopping briefly at a new ice cream and espresso shop that opened not too long ago. The lime basil was excellent.
Wednesday evening worship was a pretty thin crowd—lots of empty seats in the room. That didn’t seem to matter to Miriam, who asked me in French if the chair next to me was occupied. You see, this was her regular seat. And you see, she is 95 years old, and a little over half my height. Miriam seemed exceedingly calm, as if no one owed her anything anymore. Father Benny dipped his hand into the bronze “sea” at the front then came over to wet her fingertips with the water, so she wouldn’t have to get up and take the extra steps. I enjoyed being with her for the hour.
What is the worship event that Catholics call the “Mass”? It has nothing to do with weight, density or any amount of matter. It is simply a way of anglicizing the Latin word “missa”, which means “dismissed”. It’s the last word used in the worship service, as if to say, “Okay, this part is done, now go outside and continue doing the rest of it.” If I had to use one word to make sense of what the Mass is, I would use “offering.” God offers us access to his heart, and we offer God access to ours. It’s been a long and slow process for me to learn how to enter and participate in this powerful yet delicate exchange of love, and to appreciate why this is such a central part of Catholic worship.
This Thursday was the day the church celebrated the ascension of Jesus after his resurrection from the dead. In Jerusalem a few Christians celebrate it at the Chapel of the Ascension. Muslims control access to this small chapel situated on the Palestinian side of Jerusalem, and allow Christians to conduct worship inside it for one day each year. There are many local groups that celebrate here from sundown Wednesday to sundown Thursday, and our time slot was 6–7am (it’s pretty important to be prompt for this). You know, I don’t usually expect holy places to contain “magic”—they should simply be what they are. But I would not be able to say that there was nothing special in that room while we ate and sang and prayed.
After Mass we walked to the nearby Benedictine Sisters monastery to say morning prayers and have breakfast in their expansive Mount of Olives garden overlooking Jerusalem. They make their own orange and lemon jams. I can witness firsthand, they’re good. We returned home and later that afternoon I finally plucked up the courage to wander solo into the old city and find the sandal merchant. Only a couple of false turns later, I found him and his little store.
He was very courteous, and let me try on as many pairs as I liked. I settled on a couple of nice styles, and pressed him about the price, telling him that I was certainly not a tourist and my priest had told me what the price of the sandals should be. My price was low. His price, citing rising costs and the outstanding quality of his product, was high. It took only a couple of back-and-forth rebuttals to arrive in the predictable middle. I took away two pairs, and was very happy with them, both in their lovely design and a big checkmark on a wish from day one: nice leather sandals from Israel.
Friday a short trip to the neighbouring town of Ein Karem. Father Piotr dropped me off a short distance from the Church of the Visitation (where Mary visited her cousin Elizabeth). I was just a bit on the late side, and the custodian a bit on the early side, and the gate was already closed for lunch. I stood at a little distance and recited the Magnificat (Mary’s poem) in Hebrew. Then an Arabic tour group came up after me and also gazed at the church from outside the gate. The group leader talked for a moment to the group, and gave a Bible to one of the group’s women. She proceeded to read the Magnificat in Arabic, and I very much appreciated hearing it from a woman’s voice.
I met up again with Father Piotr who had finished his meeting, and then a quick visit to nearby Sisters of Zion monastery. Of course they invited us to stay for lunch. I sat next to Regine, who was to turn 103 years old the following week. She only knows eight languages. She encouraged me in French to go back inside to get myself a desert—I do know that much French. It was a delicious honey cake. When she came back with hers, she placed an extra one down in front of me. Sometimes being the baby at the table has its perks.
Saturday I joined Father Piotr as we went to Tel Aviv to worship at the community centre for refugees and asylum seekers, called Our Lady Woman of Valour, on their special anniversary day. The room started to fill with people, and I felt a little weird. Father Piotr wandered by and I whispered to him, “Am I sitting in the women’s section?” Of course not, but over 90% of the centre’s attendees are women. They are there for many reasons: some of them working in Israel and sending the money back home to their husband and children; some of them seeking (temporary) asylum with their children. Their lives are not simple, their days are not easy, and their futures are not clear.
The head of all Catholic clergy in the holy land was there, Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa (you can’t get much more Italian that that!), who led worship and gave a very heartfelt and empathetic address to them. While admitting that these women may not be a highly visible part of Israel’s national population, he insisted they are definitely part of the church’s visible population; that their lives, families and faith mattered, and encouraged them to uphold their witness to hope, and persevere under difficult circumstances.
Afterward was an incredible feast with Indian, Sri Lankan and Filipino food. Folks there cautioned me on the spicy Indian curry, but this white guy found it more than acceptable. The coconut basil chicken was insanely good. These people were so joyful and hospitable, who was I to stand among them? It also occurred to me that the Cardinal must have a lot of faith in graciously subjecting himself to strange foods every single day. We left there and stopped in nearby Yafo (biblical Joppa) to quickly see the St. Peter’s monastery which overlooks the harbour and share a coffee with Monika and Danielle (two other community employees responsible for children and youth ministries).
Sunday I spent half a day helping Father Benny begin rebuilding his old bed frame into a rabbit hutch. “Having pets will keep me from becoming selfish,” he surmised. Most of the materials were recycled bits of wood he foraged from the street’s garbage pile. There was even a small bit of pallet—an essential (perhaps mandatory) piece of salvage collateral. We walked over to the Makhane Yehudah market to purchase some screws and wire caging (there is an olive vendor there that I must revisit), then returned to plan the interior arrangement. He wanted an elevated place for food, and a ramp up to a second level. There are currently a lot of jokes in the house about recipes and what’s for Christmas dinner. We’ll continue the project next week when I return from my two-day pilgrimage in the north. Excuse me while I try desperately to break in my feet and my new sandals in preparation for this epic trip.
Highlight: okay, call me indulgent. The americano I got at the coffee shop at the Yafo coast was the first real coffee I’ve had since arriving here. It’s been instant coffee pretty much since day one. Tasted like heaven.
Thankful for: meeting the religious sisters here. I had no idea these kind of people existed—women who have an ethereal beauty that is completely untouchable. Their truly feminine presence is healing.
Pray for: my own continued habit-disciplines and day-by-day attentiveness. Three months is more than a sprint, but far short of a marathon. There’s a certain pacing that is needed in order to make it to the finish in the best way. Pray for the future volunteers who are coming after me, that God would call to them and invite them also into this great adventure.
Peace be with you. Chat again soon.
Photos: 1) Chapel of the Ascension. It punches far above its weight; 2) the view from our breakfast spot at the Benedictine Sisters monastery on the Mount of Olives; 3) St. Peter’s church at the coast in Yafo, commemorating his commission to go and bring the Gospel to the gentiles. I would not be here without that event.
