Oh little town…The Day I discovered Jerusalem and Bethlehem

If people ask me if I’m religious my answer is… “I believe in happiness and no harm to others” .

I can’t narrow it to a single religion or teaching. I am an undecided agnostic with beliefs stretching from Ishaya Meditation, Buddhism and humanism, through to the Christian beliefs I was taught by my parents. However last year, I visited Jerusalem. It’s history made me appreciate the passion of those who believe in the ancient religions even though I do not follow them myself.

This is the day I saw Jerusalem.

7 am the day before Christmas eve, bleary eyed and with bellies full of toast and excitement we left the ship in blazing sunshine on the Haifa coast and began our day trip to Jerusalem and Bethlehem. Armed guards gave way to a freeway passing beaches I would have assumed would look more at home in L.A. than in Israel. I intended to go on a trip to an interesting city on a poignant day…I expected to have a lovely time… I did not expect to experience a culture that would make me re-examine my own beliefs.

Beach front en-route from Haifa to Jerusalem

I began to see why there is so much fighting regarding the ‘Holy Land’. It is a living history, vibrant yet welcoming, repeating itself in a wheel of violence and piety but also full of people no different to you and I building their lives. Everywhere you see evidence of Man’s attempt to claim utopia. Although I personally believe utopia must be found in our own peace, I admit there is an energy to the place. Its dead almost outnumber its living but it is a city expectant of tomorrow – ‘tomorrow’ being the ‘end of days’. This belief is so tangible, so immediate, that the Muslim population has built a graveyard in the ‘eastern gate’ (where, according to the book of Revelation, Jesus will supposedly make his next appearance when he returns). Yes, there on the streets of Jerusalem, it is truly that simple and literal! This, in their eyes, will stop the prophesied return because in their teachings, it is said that a holy teacher cannot enter a cemetery as it is considered unclean. This tangible effort to affect such happenings is an example of how fundamentally truthfully this place regards its teachings.

They are the same teachings I heard as a child in little lever Methodist church in Bolton literally 1000s of miles from their origins. As I have got older I have rationalised these teachings as metaphorical stories based in fragmented history to teach me the lessons of life: To teach me humility, care of others, confidence in belief and tolerance.

Traveling in a coach up the steepening freeway towards Jerusalem on my journey from Haifa port, our tour guide began to quote the psalms of ascension Psalms (120 – 134). As the bus climbed she spoke in a south African accent heavy with an Israeli lilt, “When they spoke of lifting their eyes to the hills from whence comes their salvation… they were singing songs about walking up this steep road to the temple” I suddenly was struck by the notion that these psalms, these songs I had heard as a child were in fact as understandable as the spirituals sung in fields to raise spirits and keep faith during a long days toil. For years I had dismissed them as poetic attempts to convey spiritual teachings and structure prayers. However, they suddenly became accessible to me. They were about climbing a hill. To me they held no secret meaning, no hidden message. How wonderful.

This place has been a pilgrimage for 3 major religions for over 4000 years. That in itself is almost inconceivable… the fact that was now a pilgrim was even more so. These literal psalms made me begin to re address my own understanding of the religion I was raised with.

The freeway gave way to a mountain top, white with tombs, edged with vivid green palms, olive groves and gardens all framed by an impossibly blue sky. It struck me at once that this was a view I had seen a million times on Christmas cards… only this was real and more impressive. Determined to enjoy my Israeli adventure I rode a camel! Yes, spiritual awakenings aside, I’ve always wanted to ride a camel and here I was… just 5 dollars away from an uncomfortable terrifying wonderful 15 minutes on an angry flea ridden camel (which I swiftly named grouchy). With a sore bottom and a smile of my face I bade farewell to grouchy and we set off for the garden of Gethsemane.

Grouchy and I

Gethsemane was so small, so beautiful and so cared for. I noticed there were different groups of religious pilgrims all mesmerised by the importance of these 3000 year old trees that were themselves relics. Unlike the relics I saw on my trip to Rome, these relics were not under lock and key, no denomination had claimed them. They simply continued to grow amid the gazing eyes of tourists, priests and pilgrims. Beautiful.

We continued on to Bethlehem… into the West bank. As we approached the wall crowned with its own thorny barbed wire, Bethlehem glistened like a crystal white replica of a Christmas card behind graffiti propaganda and armed guards. This, I felt, was not a safe place to be. We were all told to put away our electrical goods and not make sudden movements as a young man in army issue camouflage boarded the coach with an AK47. What he was looking for I have no idea, but he silently nodded to the driver, disembarked and we were on our way again, all a little quieter than before.

Bethlehem… the fist view

Bethlehem was busy. We didn’t stay long. I wish I could say more but we rushed from here to there avoiding queues and therefore avoiding the relics that we had come to see. I liked Bethlehem it seemed like a tough little city, battling everyday troubles with the added yoke of being the birthplace of the world most famous man. As we left I chuckled at the amount of hotels in Bethlehem advertising vacancies so close to Christmas eve.

We passed the original steps to the great Jewish temple. We power walked through the lingering crowds celebrating the 4^th night of Hanukah to see the stations of the cross. In the cacophony of hymns, carols, tourist shouts for attention, Hanukah songs and bazaar salesmen trying to sell their wares, I saw a real world where a historical figure I have revered all my life took his last steps. For the first time I saw Jesus as a political prisoner rather than an image of suffering and redemption (which I have no doubt has its place). His life, what I know if it, seemed to suddenly to have more in common with the faces I saw painted on the wall separating the West Bank from Israel. The exception being that their slogans of peace and depictions of slain martyrs bear arms. Is Jesus Christ still the only figure to achieve such status and following through the utter abhorrence of conflict? How ironic that so many have conflicted in his name.

Slogans painted on the West Bank Wall

As I watched the lights of Jerusalem disappear in to the distance and our group of mismatched pilgrims made our way back through the darkening night to our ship, I reflected on my day. I feel the major result of my trip to the ‘holy land’ is the fact that I am driven to think this way and write about this. Regardless of faith, Israel is undoubtedly holy. The history is not just buried beneath its soil and aging amid the Christmas lights, the Hanukah candles and the Eid fireworks – it is living, breathing and growing as vibrantly today as it did 4000 years ago. What does the future hold for this beautiful place? …. I for one would keep my eyes on that eastern gate….