Korazim, Bethsaida, Gamla

In my previous post I mentioned Paul and Mary Hewerdine. I ought to say a few more words about them.

I met them at Mass at St. Peter's Church here in town on Monday evening, the day I checked out the rabbinic tombs. I hadn't been feeling well, both physically suffering from a cold and having experienced a growing sense of purposelessness over the past week or so. I'd determined to get up and check out the tombs for the day in order to get myself back on track, and make it to Mass that evening.

After chatting with them for a bit and explaining what I was doing here all by myself, they invited me back up to their place for a coffee (which inevitably, due to their generous hospitality, turned into a delicious turkey and chili dinner). Paul and Mary Hewerdine are originally from Illinois, but have been here in Israel for twelve years as part of a ministry of prayer for this land and its people. As part of their ministry they take care of pilgrims and other wayward souls who happen to pass their way. It's a fine Catholic tradition of prayer and hospitality that pops up every now and again in history in such organizations as the Benedictine monasteries and the Knights Hospitaler.

As part of their ministry, they offered to take me around to a couple sites that I wasn't sure how I'd get to: Korazim, Bethsaida, and Gamla. Korazim and Bethsaida are known to those of us who read our New Testament; Jesus curses both towns for their lack of faith: "Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! For if the mighty works done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented long ago, sitting in sackcloth and ashes." (Luke 10:13).

These sites are now uninhabited but they were sporadically settled for the eighteen centuries after Christ. Both are build in rock like at Capernaum. Korazim has a particularly impressive reconstruction of its fourth century (A.D.) synagogue, pictured left. Both towns sit on hilltops overlooking the lake; however, Bethsaida was on the lake in Jesus' day. An earthquake in the fifth century changed the topography of both the lake, causing it to retreat back from the plain that now sits on its north shore, and elevating the site of the town. Bethsaida was at the time a fishing village much like Capernaum. Two of the more interesting ruins there are a set of houses, one of which contained numerous wine-making instruments, of which clearly belonged to a fisherman's family. These have been appropriately dubbed 'the winemaker's house' and 'the fisherman's house.' There isn't much to take pictures of at Bethsaida (and best of luck finding any on Google image search), but I managed to snap a photo of the wine cellar in the one house.

Gamla is not mentioned in the scriptures, but it was a major site in the first century. The identification of the well-known Gamla of today, where I visited, with the Gamla detailed in Josephus is up for debate. Josephus records the destruction of a mountain village called Gamla at the beginning of the first revolt against Rome (A.D. 66) and indeed, the site today called Gamla was a mountain village destroyed by a Roman attack at around that time. Numerous arrowheads and a breach in the wall evidence the destruction. However, Jerome Murphy-O'Conner in his The Holy Land: An Oxford Archaeological Guide, places the site of Josephus' battle farther to the east, in present-day Syria, for a number of incidental topographical reasons (for instance, the citadel in Josephus' account is on the south side of the mountain summit, whereas the citadel on this fortress is on the western slope). In any case, this site, originally called Khirtbet es-Salam, has been identified as Josephus's Gamla and is now known almost exclusively by that name.

Pictured left is Gamla, which sits between two hills where two wadis come together, and the valley strangely rises up into a peak. Gamla means 'the camel's hump,' and from the shape you can see why. The eastern slope, on the left, is the primary site of the ruins. You can see the defensive wall running down on the west-east axis of the eastern slope, which was the only one that didn't provide a natural defense. It was this wall that the Roman legions breached to enter the city.

It's ruins are extraordinarily impressive, and the topography is straight out of Lord of the Rings. Without going into too much detail, the central feature is the synagogue: it is quite possibly the earliest excavated synagogue in existence, having been destroyed in A.D. 66 and therefore having been built well before the destruction of the temple. This, together with the slightly later synagogue at Masada, tell us that synagogues had some sort of function in the first century while the temple was still standing. They seem to have arisen first as a community meeting spot (sun aggoge merely meaning 'place of gathering' in Greek), but because of the centrality of religion to social life must have had a religious significance very early on. They may have developed as early as the Babylonian exile, where the Jewish people were scattered and without a central temple complex, but the first century provides the first examples that we physically possess.

The landscape around Gamla was filled with wildlife. On Facebook you can see pictures of lizards, vultures, and flowers that people come to this spot to see. The vultures are of particular interest, as this is one of the few places in Israel where they nest in such numbers. In one picture I managed to catch six of them in flight all at once, though you may not be able to see them all in the shot. Gamla also has one of the Golan's many magnificent waterfalls. It's tiny, but if you magnify the picture of the western wadi I have here you should be able to see it right in the center.

Tonight, I move from the Aviv Hotel into the home of Paul and Mary to escape the rains that are supposed to come this week. Pray for them and for their ministry, as you have prayed for Alex and his family in Nazareth. There's no doubt the hand of Providence is upon me; there are simply too many blessings to count.

The Rabbinic Tombs of Tiberias

"Lets name him after your father." "What? Tiberius? No! That's a terrible name!" Sorry, inside joke between and other extreme Trekkies. Fill in the next line in the comments if you can.

I'm now spending over a week in the Jewish holy city of Tiberias, first here at the Aviv Hotel, soon with the Hewerdine's, a Catholic couple I met at Mass who have been gracious enough to take me in for the rainy weekend.

What makes Tiberias one of the four holy cities of Judaism? To begin with, it was the center of Jewish learning in the centuries after the destruction of the temple, where 'Tiberian vocalization' was codified and the Jerusalem Talmud came into being. But most people today would know it by the illustrious rabbis that are buried here.

The other day I made my way to the tombs of a few of them, and I'll do my best to explain their significance.

The central tomb of the city is the tomb of Moses Maimonides, the great medieval Jewish philosopher. He stands out as one of the great defenders of reason against blind faith within his own and all monotheistic religious traditions. His insights were picked up by medieval Islamic philosophers and, in Christendom, by St. Thomas Aquinas.

Unfortunately, the structure that adorns his tomb is one of the strangest and most uninspiring structures I've ever seen (see above), and I couldn't get a picture in the actual tomb complex. Worse still, the tomb has been heavily commercialized, so that now it contains boggle-head Ramban (a nickname for Maimonides among the Jewish faithful) for sale and blaring Israeli pop music.

Another major figure buried in this tomb complex, who is of personal interest to me, is the Rabbi Yoanan ben Zakai. It's not too strong to say that Ben Zakai is the link between the Pharisees and Rabbinic Judaism of today. Seeing his grave was extraordinary.

During the Second Temple period, Judaism was split into a dozen sects: Pharisees, Sadducees, Essenes, the Qumranites, zealots, Sicarii, Christians, Samaritans, etc. Many claimed to be the precise group of faithful Hebrews who had returned from exile, whom the Messiah would come to save (Christians, Qumranites, Samaritans); others were split along the lines of legal debates (Pharisees, Sadducees, and again Qumranites). And some were split into further subgroups.

The Pharisees were one such group, split into the liberal School of Hillel and the conservative School of Shammai. The Pharisees of the New Testament are likely Shammaites, who were in the majority at the time. What happened to all these groups?

Quite simply, the Romans wiped most of them out, except the Christians and the Hillelite Pharisees; it was this latter group, saved by Yoanan ben Zakai, who became the early rabbi of Rabbinic Judaism.

When the temple was destroyed in A.D. 70, Jews had to ask the question: How do we live in a world without the temple? The temple was everything; it was the center of their world, of the physical and spiritual universe, the point at which God and man met.

Yoanan ben Zakai was the one who said: To be Jews in a world without the temple, we mark ourselves out as Jews by obeying the law. We show that we are distinctive by keeping Shabbat; by being circumcised; by staying kosher. And by obeying the law, we will be a people that is a temple unto itself. We will remain in covenant with Yahweh by being the place where the law of Yahweh is kept.

And I'm quite convinced that without this revolutionary (i.e., liberal Hillelite) reconception of Jewishness, Judaism would have been absorbed into Christianity, which had its own answers of how to live in a world without the temple. That is the massive place that Yoanan ben Zakai holds in Judaism.

I then found a bus that led near to the tomb of Rabbi Akiva, and eventually found my way there. This tomb was far more peaceful. Akiva is buried in a cave surrounded by the shrine complex. A cenotaph, or tomb-like grave-marker like the ones at the Sanctuary of the Patriarchs in Hebron, is present as an object of focus for the venerating pious.

The Rabbi Akiva lived in the next generation, when Jews were still fighting to restore the kingdom of Israel and, hopefully, rebuild the temple. Akiva had lived his life as a scholar and philosopher. He thought long and hard about the philosophy of Judaism, something rarely done within the tradition. Aggada, or the story (theology) of Judaism, has always taken back seat to halakha, the jurisprudence of the law. Akiva thought long and hard about both.

When Bar Koziba led a revolt against Roman rule in A.D. 132, Akiva supported him. The rabbi considered him to be the long-awaited Messiah, and thus gave him the name by which we know the rebel in history, Bar Kokhba, 'Son of the Star.'

In supporting this rebellion, he incurred the wrath of Rome. He was captured by the Romans and taken to Caesarea, where he was skinned alive. His dying words were "Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One!" (Deuteronomy 6:4). Put differently, "Only God is Lord, and Caesar is not!"

As Lyndsay put it: "My last words would have been "AAARRRGGGHHHHHHHAAAAAAANOOOOOO!!!!!!"

Nazareth Village

Earlier today I said goodbye to Alex, Sharon, David, and Mia. Alex was good enough to drop me off in Afula, where I caught a direct bus to Tiberias. I'm now staying at the Aviv Hotel.

Yesterday in Nazareth, however, I got the opportunity to do one of those things I'd come to the Holy Land to do: Nazareth Village.

Nazareth Village is an open-air living history museum, where volunteers have recreated the life of a first century Jewish village. Some of the buildings are reconstructions; others, however, are actual on-site archaeological finds. All of the items used by the volunteers are built on site from olive wood, and olive groves are actually harvested using two thousand year old techniques.

The tour takes you through the village, beginning with the animals. We got treated to donkeys and sheep, neither of which were particularly interested in us (the donkey, in particular, was hard at work). The trail led up to the reconstructed watchtower, and then to the wine press. This was an actual ancient wine press (perhaps not first century, but still ancient). We were also shown a village cistern, a far cry from the mammoth cisterns at Masada, Herodion, or Megiddo.

From there we were taken up the hill to the village proper, which perched above the terraced hills leading down into the grazing land. We got to see ancient Judean carpentry and weaving shops in action. Here at Nazareth Village, the carpentry shop is actually responsible for building and repairing the roofs, furniture, and agricultural tools of the museum. The tour guide was also good enough to explain why the ball of purple string they had on hand would not have been present in a first century village; acquiring purple dye was a labor intensive process involving diving in the sea, and was therefore expensive and reserved for the aristocracy.

Last, we were taken to a reconstruction of a first century synagogue. The Nazareth Village synagogue was built on the basis of the two earliest synagogues excavated, those at Gamla and Masada. It is a simple structure, and does not reflect the theological need to replace the temple destroyed in A.D. 70. An early first century synagogue would have been as much as place of community assembly as a house of religious worship. The term synagogue originally comes from the Greek syn agoge, simply meaning 'meeting place.'

Unfortunately the internet isn't being cooperative and doesn't want to upload my photos. In any case, they're all there on Facebook under the Galilee album.

Anyways, that's all for now. Tomorrow is Shabbat, so I have no idea what I can find to do, but hopefully I can at least find an ATM to restock.

Trusting Providence in Nazareth

So here I am in Nazareth, in Alex's home with his wife Sharon and their two children, David (5) and Mia (2). I couldn't have found a better place if I'd looked. Alex is a Ph.D. student at the University of Edinburgh studying Christian-Muslim relations, and is working on that by teaching seminary classes here in Nazareth. Sharon majored in mathematics and is busy raising the kids. She's also a great cook.
I've been a bit sick the past few days with a horribly sore throat and all the attendant congestion that comes with that (pray for that, too, by the way). So I spent most of today resting (read: sleeping).

However, this evening, Alex gave me the opportunity to present a lecture on the development of Herodian and Roman rule in Israel/Palestine. I've studied that subject fairly extensively, but it was great to actually get that foretaste of what I could do in the future at the head of a classroom. The students were Sudanese refugees, and all delightful people. Alex thoroughly enjoyed my talk, and has asked me to give it three more times tomorrow for classes in the Theology of Mission, Intro to New Testament, and Early Christian Doctrine.

Can you imagine a better place for me? I sure am glad I'm not out sleeping somewhere in the woods, though that will come in time. For now, I'm thanking God for his many blessings.

The Best Laid Plans

Among the many other paradoxes of pilgrimage is that in order to find your way, you have to first be lost. Well, I suppose I really am on pilgrimage, then...

So I got to Atlit and found the trail around the town of Ein Hod, on the southwestern slopes of Mount Carmel. I camped out for the night, which turned out just fine. Unfortunately, the following morning, I came to a point where the trail went straight off a cliff. Apparently water runoff from the record rainfall here has eroded the path as it traced the edge of the overlook.

After several attempts to relocate the trail, I decided to head back. Not knowing anyone or having any place to stay in Nazareth, I hopped a train for Jerusalem. So here I am, back at St. George's.

However, quite providentially, I met a man named Alex, an American from Texas who studies Muslim-Christian relations and teaches courses in Nazareth. He's offered me a place to stay over this next week. So, that's where I'll be tomorrow night, Sunday, through Friday morning. How amazing is that?

How Does a Lutheran Go On Pilgrimage?

Many of my friends and family have asked me: Why are you going on pilgrimage? They ask this as though I had an answer.

The truth is, a substantial part of going on pilgrimage means discovering why exactly I have felt called to go. I suspect this post is something of my own way of asking the question, rather than an answer. I also suspect that I won’t be able to give any sufficient answer until well after I have arrived safely back at home, I perhaps even several years down the road.

Lets wrestle with the title first. Why does, or how can, a Lutheran go on pilgrimage? At St. George’s I was in the world of Anglicanism, which has a fine tradition of all those Catholic institutions—pilgrimage, monasticism, etc.—that Lutherans do not possess (I would say ‘lacks’). There was some attempt to come to grips with what exactly pilgrimage is, but no attempt to justify it in our minds. Lutherans, on the other hand, have inherited Martin Luther’s own rejection of pilgrimage (and monasticism, and relics) that goes back to our shared theology of justification by grace alone through faith alone. Such works cannot bring us closer to God.

Of course, I asked this question of our quirky English course assistant, Ben- “Why do we go on pilgrimage?- to receive the brilliantly sarcastic answer- “We go in search of relics!” Funny as it is, it cuts right to the heart of the matter: how does one go on pilgrimage to get closer to God when nothing one does can bring us closer to God?

There are two or three possible answers I’d like to seize upon. Lutherans have always made a strong distinction between Law and Gospel. The Law tells us what we ought to do; the Gospel tells us what Christ has done. The Law condemns, the Gospel proclaims the good news.

In particular, Lutherans (with Calvinists, though in a different order) have distinguished three purposes that the Law, acting naturally through the voice of conscience, fulfills in God’s plan:

First, the Law binds the conscience of human beings, to the end that we live rightly in civil society.

Second, the Law condemns us, making us aware of our own sin, and thus driving us into the loving, caring arms of the Gospel.

Third, for those on whom the second purpose of the law has done its work (namely, Christians), the Law instructs us how to live out our faith in Jesus as Lord, doing right by the God of our salvation.

I say there are two or three possible answers because the first and second ones are really the Second and Third Purposes of the Law. I have rarely been more aware of my own sense of alienation than in the Holy Sepulcher, the church of the tomb of Christ. Pilgrims have walked that road for years, far holier than me. They have trod that road in piety, saying ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner’ with each breath and each step (yes, literally). And the Holy Sepulcher itself- a rather dark and uninspiring building, filled with tour groups with guides holding up neon green umbrellas or light sabers in order to direct the flow of Japanese and American and Russian and Italian pilgrims crowding around taking flash photos in the middle of the Latin High Mass. How deep therein is the sense of removal from the resurrection of Jesus Christ that happened five feet away!

Yet rather than despairing, the personal and spatial sense of alienation there can be an object lesson in the Second Purpose of the Law, which thus drives us into the arms of Christ. What better lesson than going to the Holy Sepulcher and feeling nothing in how little works can achieve! All my months (or years) of planning and the steps I have taken, while they have achieve much in human terms, have achieved precisely zero in bringing me closer to God.

And yet, and yet!, the only response is to recall that it is not us that have gone on pilgrimage to God. Rather, it is Yahweh who has gone on pilgrimage to Zion, coming to earth through the flesh of the Blessed Virgin Mary to be clothed in the flesh of the Lord Jesus Christ, and who walked the first Via Dolorosa for us all. The Lutheran and Christian sense of pilgrimage is rooted first and foremost in the pilgrimage that God has taken on our behalf. Our feeble attempts to walk that path are critical lessons in how entirely Christ has accomplished his purposes in Bethlehem, Nazareth, the Galilee, Calvary, and in the Empty Tomb. And only through that empty tomb, where Christ’s body is absent, can the absence in our hearts be filled with his presence.

I may note, here, that this explains how St. Paul comes to the conclusion that we should not sin that grace may abound (Romans 6). For while it is true that grace overflows to cover sin, it is equally true that grace comes into greater focus when we work to live in holiness. A habitual sinner is not so aware of his or her sin as is one who strives daily to blot it out. But in striving to blot it out daily, and in failing to do so, one comes to appreciate so much more the abounding nature of grace.

As for the Third Purpose of the Law, there is no doubt that clinging to the Gospel in faith by grace produces the swelling of loving works. Lutherans (and Calvinists) have always held firm to the belief that the faith which alone justifies is not merely intellectual assent to some truth. Intellectual assent is a critical component, but the Protestant definition of faith includes something more than this. It includes fiducia—trust, faithfulness, fidelity. The true knowledge of the Gospel must always and necessarily produce good works. These works earn us nothing, but they are the natural outpouring of right belief (‘right belief,’ by the way, is the original Greek meaning of ‘orthodoxy’).

Thus, when the Second Purpose of the Law does its work, the Third Purpose of the Law is there to instruct us in how we should precisely express our loyalty, or fidelity, or faithfulness to God in Christ. Here my pilgrimage has shown me that while my works accomplish nothing, my pilgrimage is a crucible in which I may practice right living through denial of the flesh. It is also a time of prayer. Through abstinence and prayer, I can practice living rightly and draw strength from the One who lived rightly, in order that later, when real temptations arrive, I might be ready to face them (cf. Luke ).

Of course, this final note borders on the philosophy of Catholic and Orthodox monasticism, which Luther rejected. If I may, I’d point out that Luther had a particularly poor experience with monasticism, given the emphasis upon personal piety. In the Orthodox East this is certainly true, where the monks do not have the same emphasis on works of service to the community, travelers, etc. as in the west, where St. Benedict of Nursa’s monastic rule prevailed. St. Benedict had a strong belief that monastic communities should serve those around them. The monks of German in Luther’s day were still helping wayfarers and such, but they did so in order to make themselves better people; this was a perversion of Benedict’s original vision for monasticism.

In keeping with St. Benedict’s original vision for monasteries (which translates readily into the life of pilgrimage), I would note that I am going to be attending seminary and, whether I end up as a professor of theology and biblical studies or as a parish priest, there is much spiritual formation yet to be accomplished. So think of my times of abstention, asceticism, and prayer as preparations for my time of work and service, just as monks spending the hours praying and reading the scriptures in order to better serve God, his people, and the world.

The third reason to go on pilgrimage is to discover whether God may use the pilgrim way as a means of grace. Lutheran theology has concentrated its life of worship and spirituality on the sacraments as means of grace. That is, baptism is not merely a declaration of something we believe, or an outward sign of an inward faith, or a mark that denotes those who belong to the earthly church. No, it actually does something. It is a means of grace by which God imparts salvation to the recipient, whether they are an adult or an infant. It actually and truly transforms us from the damned into the saved. And the Eucharist: it is not merely a memorial meal that commemorates what Christ has done some time in the distant past. It actually and truly is the physical body and blood of Christ, the same body broken along the Via Dolorosa and the same blood shed on Calvary. This body really does bind us together in the body of Christ, and this blood really does impart the continued forgiveness of sins.

So can pilgrimage be a means of grace? I think it can. Moving from the commercial America Israel Tourism tour to the devotional path of St. George’s Palestine of Jesus, I have been ushered from the realm of the tourist and into the world of pilgrimage. This, to me, goes right to the heart of the Christian faith, and permit me a few more lines to explain how.

In philosophy, whether political or theological, there is a strong distinction between individuals and persons. We can speak of an individual dog- Sadie, for example- but can we speak of canine persons? No, because personhood is something that goes beyond mammalian instinct or even primate sentience and intelligence. Personhood is the very image of God. Yes, that is my answer to that long question of what the image of God is: it is personhood.

It is personhood because of the Christian belief in the Trinity. The Trinity is not three manifestations of one God (a heresy called modalism). Nor is it three individuals of one divine species. Nor, importantly, is it even three individuals of one God. It is three persons, three persons in one God. Three persons in such a deep relationship with one another that they are one being. As the great theologian Robert Jenson has rephrased it in order to allow us to comprehend the formula ‘one God in three persons,’ there are ‘three identities within one entity.’

Why can we speak this way? Because individuals can only make contracts. In the past three hundred years of political thought, we have tended to speak of autonomous individuals who have certain rights and privileges and duties, but who are essentially out there, floating alone in a sea of other isolated individuals. And these individuals can make contracts, whether the social contract of Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau that creates the state and respects all persons as individuals, or an economic contract.

However, persons can be in covenant. Individuals in contracts can say ‘this is yours, and that is mine.’ But persons in covenant can say ‘I am yours, and you are mine.’ The Trinity is a covenant from all eternity. The new covenant, through baptism and the Eucharist, unites us through the Holy Spirit to Christ and through him to the Father. The marriage covenant is not an exchange of goods but an exchange of persons (and the only legitimate way to exchange persons). Western civilization has treated us as individuals; Christ implores us to treat one another as persons.

What does this have to do with pilgrimage?

With St. George’s we had a most profound experience on the north shore of the Sea of Galilee. We stayed for the night at the Pilgerhaus in Tabgha, where it is said Jesus worked the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and fish. Through the morning we also went to Capernaum, his ‘base camp’ through the early months of his ministry and to the Mount of Beatitudes, where a beautiful church (funded entirely by Benito Mussolini, oddly enough, but built by the eminent Antonio Barluzzi) commemorates the site of the Sermon on the Mount. It was a morning of profound prayer and silence. We took half an hour at each place in the quiet, and then went on a boat ride where we read script, and prayed, and enjoyed the silence at the middle of the lake.

But after all that, we went to an outdoor chapel near the Church of the Primacy of St. Peter (does it get any more Catholic?). There we celebrated the Eucharist under the direction of Father Andrew. After the Mass, we processed down in silence to the water’s edge, where we removed our shoes and stepped in the water. There we renewed our baptismal vows, affirming the grace that God imparted to us as infants or as adult converts.

There, ankle-deep in the Sea of Galilee, surrounded by people I have come to care for so deeply and whom I will love forever, I realized that I had been transformed from a tourist into a pilgrim.

That is, the individual Western tourist had been turned into the pilgrim person, walking the road that God had walked on his return to Zion.

Can pilgrimage be a means of grace? Oh yes.

So perhaps that was a bit of an answer. But there are so many more questions I have. Why does my pilgrimage go on from Jerusalem to Constantinople and Rome? Why four and a half months, and not a week or a year? How will I return to the United States after months abroad, a very different person? Will this fill me, or leave me longing for more?

On the Trail

Unbelievably, I actually found wireless internet at a gas station where I'm picking up directions. I've gotten to and through Atlit, and trying to find the trail. Shouldn't be a problem.

In the meantime, enjoy the lengthy reflection I wrote on the train.

Now I'm Really Really Off...

...I hope. It's off to the bus station in about five minutes, and catching an 11:40 train to Atlit. I've had to readjust my schedule slightly, but no bother.

Staying another night was a great decision. I got to skype with Maria for a good while, and for all those concerned about my safety, I was finally able to download an Israel National Trail map that links up with Google Earth. I now know exactly where I'm going.

Thank God...

Or Not!

So, my day became chaotic when it turned out that the Israeli post office runs with all the efficiency of an American DMV/MVA. So I decided to stay another night in my room at the college. I'll be leaving tomorrow, instead. Hopefully, this will actually give me the chance to add a few final updates to the blog and my photo albums.

Still, though, pray!

Off to the Wild Blue Yonder

Well, St. George's Palestine of Jesus course has ended, and I'm out to catch the train. My destination is Atlit, just south of Haifa, where I'm trying to link up with the Israel National Trail. Thus begins a good month of hiking through Galilee: Mount Carmel, Nazareth, Mount Tabor, Tiberias, Capernaum, Safed, Dan, and Banias, among so much else.

Feelings abounding, but no time to type them all.

Pray I'll be in safe and in touch.

"There's Nothing to See in Nazareth"

The St. George's pilgrimage course made it to Nazareth on Monday, and as the picture attests, the Church of the Annunciation is indeed something to see. The church was built upon the foundations of an earlier church and has been erected so as to allowed pilgrims and archaeologists to view the ruins underneath. It is also the largest church in the Middle East, designed by the seemingly omnipresent Italian architect Antonio Barluzzi. We were afforded a half hour of silence in the church, a communal silence to which we have grown accustomed over this week.

We also visited Mary's Well and Mary's Spring, outside and inside, respectively, the Eastern Orthodox Church of St. Gabriel. The Catholic Church of the Annunciation rests on the the traditional site of Mary's dwelling, were it is said in church tradition that she was at work weaving when the angel appeared to her; the Orthodox Church (pictured below) sits on the site of the local spring, where it is said she was at work drawing water from the well. Either way, these traditions preserve the image of a woman hard at work, a peasant girl among peasants, doing her duty to her family, community, and her God. It is this woman to whom we say 'Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus Christ.'

Clearly, our time in Nazareth would have been better spent taking pretty pictures atop Mount Precipice.

Herodion

This past Sunday I went to the Herodion fortress and palace outside Bethlehem with Kate. I'd wanted to do this earlier, but it worked out just as well since I was able to split the cost of the cab ride with Kate.

Herodion is a large mound out at the edge of the Judean wilderness built under orders of Herod the Great, and it is his only creation to bear his name. Atop the artificial mountain is a fortress complex that protected the southern approach to Jerusalem. More importantly, however, it was captured by rebels during the Great Revolt (AD 66-73) and Bar Kokhba revolt (AD 132-135) and used as a stronghold. The latter changed its architecture significantly by turning the Herodian-era dining room into a synagogue and installing a mikvah, or ritual bath. The Bar Kokhba rebels also dug tunnels connecting the water cisterns in order to use them as places of final refuge.

The lower complex, on the plain the base of the fortress mound, was a grand palace for Herod and his guests. In the center was a colonnaded pool with a central structure that served as a hot bath or fountain. There is also a more formal bathhouse which was later made into a Byzantine church for desert religious. We got to climb all over this lower palace complex because the lower section isnt maintained very well, being at the edge of Palestinian territory. We also met up with some children playing around it.

See Facebook for photos.