Week 7 is a wrap. A quieter stretch with a lot less running around. Weekdays were working in the parish house. I saved my adventuring for the weekend.
I revised my Hebrew language approach. I needed to simplify things and reduce the strain I had imposed upon myself for understanding, comprehension and participation, especially in daily worship. So for morning prayers I simply sat quietly with my book of Hebrew Psalms, reading along and allowing my eyes to follow the others’ speech. My vocal participation was limited to the opening chant, the Lord’s Prayer, and Zechariah’s poem, which I can recite/read in Hebrew without busting any of my more delicate mental machinery.
Mass took a similar tack. I know several of the congregational responses in Hebrew, and for the rest I did a “pre-response.” Say what? Well, I can’t read or recite them fast enough in the moments they happen, so I showed up early and just read them (whispered really) alone before the Mass began, like 20 times each. So then even if I whiffed on them during the worship, by the end of the evening I could indeed say that, yes, I did all the responses. Tick that box.
The first part of the week was spent cleaning up after renovations to the office. Okay, reno people, you know how we skimp on prep so that we can just get to the actual work? Then when the work is done we realize that a little more prep could have saved a butt-load of cleanup? Yeah, the math works the exact same way on this side of the planet.
Now I don’t know a lot, but I do know—oh so very well—that demolishing and constructing with drywall has major cleanup implications. Same with sanding. Same with any work done in masonry, and most all the buildings around here are solid stone/concrete/brick and such. And no surprise, the week had a lot of wiping, rinsing, wiping again, rinsing again. Why the grout lines in the floor tiles have to be so deep only God knows. Father Piotr raised one eyebrow when after many hours I told him, “The first layer is off.” But the next day a swipe of the hand revealed the remaining white dust, and he understood.
In between I took some time to write my weekly report (which I hope you enjoy!) and get some graphics work done for clients back home. Evenings were pretty chill, mostly recovering from cleaning and moving furniture all day. The old office was on the second floor; the new one is on the third, so everything goes up the stairs.
My weekend had the more adventurous outings, starting with Friday after work. Again I walked over to the Zion Community to sing with them. And different musicians and singers this time. Last week was an amazing female voice, acoustic guitar and long-necked lute. This week was an equally astounding male voice, acoustic guitar and cello. It just really is so great.
So I didn’t stay for the whole thing because I was invited to a little party (about a dozen staff people from our community) hosted by Monika, a Swiss woman who works for the community in children and youth ministries. We met at a 150-year-old guest house in the old city, now run by a Lutheran couple from Germany. They made us a supper of amazing and delicious foods. Since one of the invitees was vegan, they made most things with no gluten or dairy (even the rice pudding!), which was right up my alley, too.
Our community is a very tight-knit family, and in typical Israeli style, boisterous and loud and fun at the table. After supper our hosts chased us out of the dining room so they could clean up. We retreated to the upstairs hospitality room where we chilled, sang and bantered the evening away. Father Piotr and I walked home together, and he couldn’t help himself but take me on a slightly less than linear path so I could see some important buildings in our neighbourhood.
Saturday had a few hours of cleanup (another layer…). I then travelled about an hour away to Latrun with Father Piotr for a Mass he was to lead in Russian. It’s true, Father Piotr can lead Catholic worship in at least a half-dozen languages (have I already mentioned Italian and German?). We drove into the monastery there and visited the wine shop where the brothers sell the wine and olive oil they make from their gardens. Always generous, they gave us a few bottles and some chocolate to take back home with us.
My first Mass in Russian. Once you catch on to the “Father, Son and Holy Spirit” bit in the target language, you’re pretty good to go for Catholic worship just about anywhere. The group was small, and we met in the basement of the church, which functions like a B-room for worship services. It was the perfect size, and had nice acoustics, too, which benefitted Anna who led the singing. She had a sweet voice, and the communion hymn she chose had a particularly powerful mystique to it. After Mass is always a bit of simple food that gave opportunity for prolonged conversation. Father Piotr strongly encourages this in all his communities, and I see its worth. Across the table I’m always asked, “Why are you here now?” I still don’t have a very clear and concise answer for this. I just know I should be here now.
Sunday was my grand day out, and getting lost in the old city was the goal. With very few pilgrims and no big tours to speak of, there’s a lot of room in there, narrow streets notwithstanding. My first stop was a revisit to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. You know, that place is an exceedingly good spot to meditate. It’s like a giant deposit of love, awe and devotion, built up over two thousand years. Every pilgrim’s desire, every visitor’s curiosity, everyone who has ever entered and wondered if it’s true. It’s all still there.
I touched a few important bits but didn’t stay long. There’s a walk you can take along the top of the wall surrounding the old city. It’s kind of a touristy thing to do, but inexpensive, and as I discovered also affords you views into new and old Jerusalem you can’t get any other way. I realized how many people actually live in the old city, like just really live there. They work there, their kids go to school there, they play there. And they worship there. The rampart walk ended at the Lion’s Gate, near the entrance to the temple mount, a giant holy space that now houses the Muslim domes (including the big golden one you see in every Jerusalem photo).
This is also near the first of the Stations of the Cross, which retraces key moments in the final events of Jesus’ life before and including his execution. From his condemnation (near the Ecce Homo arch) and flagellation, through to his epic march up the hill to Golgotha—you understand quite intuitively why Simon had to help carry Jesus’ cross—it ends at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where the last handful of events are remembered.
There were a couple of shops I wanted to visit, but they were closed on Sunday, so I went over to the Austrian Hospice, recommended by Father Piotr, and climbed the stairs to the second-floor cafe where they served coffee and cakes and a very famous strudel. Famous indeed! That was spectacular pastry, and after I walked up a few more flights of stairs to their rooftop deck where you can catch an amazing view of the old city in every direction.
I finished my walk through the stations of the cross back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and spent some time in a dark little room below the crucifixion site. More good meditation, as I had the room pretty much to myself for a long while. I sang an old spiritual, “Where You There,” and the moment made itself.
On the way back home I stopped at a popular falafel shop close to the parish house, “The Yemenite”. The old man who runs it was very nice. I got pitas for myself and the boys back at the house, and the old man kept feeding me fresh hot falafels while he prepared our meal. Boy, they were good: fresh falafel, veggies, spongy pita (not like the leathery kind we have in Canada), a few french fries, sauce. Excellent. And as soon as I messaged the two hungry Fathers they were in the dining room pronto to inhale a late lunch and then rest briefly before Mass.
You see, Mass on Thursday had been a bit of a breakthrough for me. My pre-study and repetitions started coming out much more reflexively during the worship. It was maybe the first time I felt like I was truly “there,” and it was magical. I could relax. I could pray. I could just be. It takes a lot of work to do art at an intuitive level. But as any weaver, singer, baker, sculptor or skier can tell you, it’s worth it.
Sunday was equally as rewarding. I finally found the perfect spot to sit in the chapel, where I could quickly and discreetly look up at the songboard which had about two dozen musical pieces listed. I was “on it” for pretty much everything (and what I missed I had pre-recited, of course!). The community sang with quite the extra vigour, too, and we all seemed to be quite “on it” that day.
During after-food I was introduced to a local grade 2 teacher, Renatia Penner! Yes, Menno-roots run deep all over the world. She was born here in Israel, and her family clan was part of the Russian colonies who emigrated to the United States. So no immediate lineage to share, but it was nice to meet someone in Israel who knew what zweibach, vereneki and roll-kuchen were. Coincidently, my grade 2 teacher was also a Penner (Karen)—one of my favourites of all my school years.
At the end of the evening I had a nice long talk with Tomer, a young man who grew up Jewish and converted to Catholicism several years ago. He has fibromyalgia, and deals with incredible pain every day. How does he do it? “I sing the Song of Songs first thing in the morning, and Lamentations last thing at night,” he told me, along with using plenty of varied medical helps. I don’t carry his pain, and he doesn’t carry mine. And one day the pain will be no more. But we did agree on the wonder of divine dignity and intense consolation present right in the middle of the quest. I wouldn’t exchange it for anything.
Highlight: During the little Friday party I sang my one Hebrew song for the group, and they were very gracious in their appreciation. I also sang a few of my oldies from Valemount, including Tennessee Waltz. They all agreed that one was very sad indeed.
Pray for: my two roommates, Fathers Piotr and Benny. They carry quite the concern for this community, this city, this country. On one hand you can’t force a tree to fruitfulness, but on the other hand you can neglect it into impotency. Somewhere in there is the caring middle. Heck, while you’re at it you can include whatever leaders (Christian and otherwise) that also might come to mind.
Thankful for: the opportunity to serve this community in a natural way. They wanted better graphics, I can do graphics. They needed someone to carry furniture up the stairs, I can carry furniture up the stairs. Truly truly, the first weeks of adjustment are hard, but the feeling that follows of flow and shared communal rhythm is pretty sweet.
Photos: 1) Every single roof in Israel is adorned with a hot water tank and solar exchanger; 2) The art and architecture of the Church of the Flagellation is as bold and brutish as should be expected; 3) Most cats I’ve seen here are as evasive as they are engaged in their work. This has to be a rare moment of blissful reward for one old city resident.
