I've spent the last 5 days in the midst of travel and confusion, from our farewell dinner with the Mubarek's to a night spent in Tel Aviv, watching the Vikings-Packers game until 6 am when the wearied bartenders finally got to go home and be free of 6 weeks of repressed American belligerence. Then traveling back to Jerusalem on no sleep, unless you count the accidental 2 hours Alex and I got on the beach, only to be rudely awoken by a strange, crouching man, inquiring in Hebrew about our bottle of vodka. Then straight to Tiberias, where I biked the Sea of Galilee, surviving not because of my exceptional organization skills, but despite my lack thereof.
With all the travel and excitement, I haven't showered in 5 days. I'm ashamed of the stench my body exudes right now. My feet could kill small animals, and probably has. But despite my physical wretchedness, what seemed perfunctory to any trip to Israel, has finally struck resonance in me - I'm walking in the footsteps of Christ. One would think this would occur almost immediately, after placing my hand in the spot of the crucifixion, or saying mass in his tomb, or walking along the stations of the cross. But despite the indundating amount of religious history that overwhelmed me, I felt just that - overwhelmed. Perhaps it was due to how divergent the modern layout of Jerusalem is to the layout in the time of Christ, obstructing a sense of how Christ saw it. Perhaps it was that I came completely unprepared for a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Whatever the reason, biking the sea of Galilee gave me that childlike fascination that I expected when I arrived in Jerusalem. Christ really was here.
However, all this revelation (ba-dum-ch!) may never have occured had it not been for the generosity of the local people and some dumb luck coupled with an increasing know-how of how to sneak into sites for free. I left yesterday morning, planning on seeing the birthplace of Mary Magdalene, the Mount of Beatitudes, where Christ gave his famous sermon on the mount, the place where he multiplied the loaves and fishes, where he conferred on Peter the keys to the Church and his home town for much of his life - Capernaum.
However, the organization gremlin struck me again, and I began my ride without any water or food in my belly. I figured I would stop at the first town to eat and drink, because I could not carry anything with me. By the time I reached the first town, I was already feeling dizzy and thought I might not make it. At this point, I decided that it was time to eat and replenish my salt reserves. I opened my wallet and was greeted by 40 shekel cents, roughly equivalent to one dime in monetary terms, and roughly equivalent to no food in actual terms. Fortunately, my bike uphill reaped precious rewards, as I found the one place in all of Galilee that accepted credit card. Score one for the disorganized! A bag of chips and liter of water later, and I was rejuvenated and ready to start my ride again.
Unfortunately, I was unaware of the absurd amount of hills in the region. For some reason the "Mount" of Beatitudes didn't cause me any concern. Well, biking up the mount in high heat to arrive before closing time is less than fun. So is arriving at the gate and realizing that you don't have the money to pay the entrance fee. Things always seem to work out though, because I silently sneaked by the gatekeeper as he washed his plants. And my reward was an astounding view.
Also, I asked the woman at the concession stand if I could buy anything with 40 shekel cents, to which she responded with a crippling laugh and said she accepted American money. I tried to get her to accept either Syrian or Jordanian money, but to no avail. Finally, she took pity on me and my odorous and beleaguered self and gave me a bottle of water. Following my trend of luck, I continued my win streak on my Palestine bracelet, which I expected only to receive scowls and slammed doors, but in fact won me sandwich from ya boy Omar, who said, "I saw your bracelet and knew you must be one of the good Americans." Omar, as you probably guessed, is Palestinian, and hasn't seen his family in Bethlehem since the wall was erected, because he has the Israeli blue passport.
My trek continued to the Church of the Multiplication, which is built around a stone that has been historically recorded as venerated since 28 AD. For those of you keeping track that would be before Christ's death, and would have to be soon after the occurence of the miracle. It's the closest thing I've seen to historical evidence of the occurence of a miracle, because 28 AD is before even the first Gospel was written, so there were no fervent Christians reading the story in the Bible and retroactively assigning a spot to the story. Over 5000 people witnessed the event, according to the Scriptures, and if this were the case, news would have spread fast, and it wouldbe hard pressed to believe that the spot was either forgotten, or created as a well-executed and subversive plot to obtain followers for this man who had not yet even began the Christian Church. Not that it's proof of its occurence. Not at all. But it is at least evidence.
My last two stops were the place where Christ called Peter rock, and conferred upon him the primacy as pope, which is beatifully situated along the shores of Galilee, and Christ's hometown of Capernaum, which is mentioned in the Bible as where Christ made his home.
Who knows the historical accuracy of these exact places, but one thing is certain is that Christ did walk these shores, and whether he was the Son of God, a madman or simply an eloquent speaker that followers formed a religion around under no compulsion of his own, he was here. And that note finally struck resonance in me.Here are some bonus pics of our dinner with the Mubarek's, courtesy of Manal, since my camera is still broken.
This is too good. Now if only I had a picture of Alex with a moustache...
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