Fried Camel: Cities of Kings

The diminutive, white-haired man entered the chamber to murmurs and gasps. There was one bodyguard in front of him and another behind. Cameras flashed in a cacophony of flutters, snaps, and clicks.

The entourage moved quickly to the front of the sanctuary to take their place amongst the various Anglican and Greek Orthodox clergymen assembled. The bespectacled, white-haired man took a seat on the left-hand side of the burly bishop seated in the center of the dais.

Wearing the facial expression of a rattlesnake, an expression that suggested he was permanently pissed off, Mahmoud Abbas, President of the Palestinian Authority, was a reminder to the gathered that in the Middle East religion and politics have been forged together through blood and fire.

There was no separation. There was no escape.

From the back of one of the many chapels in the Church of the Nativity, my view became obfuscated. I didn't fight it. There was only one reason to come to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve and Mahmoud Abbas was about as far from that reason as I could imagine.

But a thought began to work its way into my mind. It snaked through the deep recesses and wound its way to the forefront. And then it seemed to whisper, softly and certainly and reassuringly "...that every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord."

Welcome, Mr. President, I thought with a smile.

The silence was replaced by the greeting from Canon Robert Edmunds. All the formalities were addressed, albeit briefly, and soon we were turning to our pamphlets to sing the first of many songs, "Once in Royal David's City."

***

The sun was falling faster than the last time I had been in Jerusalem. It had been almost exactly four months--far too long. Ryan, Dustin, and Tyler moved toward the Old City as traffic zipped past us. It was the warmest Christmas Eve I had ever experienced.

The Jaffa Gate leading into the Christian and Armenian Quarters was off to our left. The Zion Gate into the Jewish Quarter was down to our right. An IDF armored carrier rolled past us as we crossed the road toward the Zion Gate.

A stream of IDF officers and other command personnel moved past us. A civilian stood in front of them, occasionally turning to address them.

"There go the generals getting their tour," Tyler said indifferently.

As we approached the Zion Gate, one of the eight entrances into the Old City, an entrance still pock-marked with bullet holes from the 1967 Six Day's War, the familiar feeling returned. It was as if we were near the very heart beat of humanity. And the closer one got, the closer one was to both life and death.

This was Jerusalem.

***

Inside the Church of the Nativity, we listened to a reading from Isaiah 9: 6-7. Ryan stood to my left. Beyond Ryan were German Stefan, Benjamin, Liz, and Dustin. Tyler was out of sight, around a bend in the sanctuary leaning up against a wall by himself. An older man and his family, of a nationality I could not discern, were crowded in front of me. Stefan, Elana, and Dominique stood behind me.

The sanctuary was small. Almost too small. Ancient portraits and paintings, hundreds of years old, hung throughout. Dating back to the Byzantine era and beyond, it was like being in a swirling vortex of history. Above Dustin were four paintings, one of which commemorated Constantine. On the wall behind us were three golden crosses. The one in the middle, which contained a depiction of a crucified Jesus, was larger than its two escorts.

The singing began again.

The first Noel the angel did say...

***

"You sure we're supposed to be going this way?" someone asked. It was either Ryan or Tyler.

Pressing ourselves against the stone walls, we kept close as we walked in to oncoming traffic within the Old City.

"An ignominious way to die don't you think, fellas?" I pontificated aloud.

We were heading back to our left after entering the Zion Gate. Left took us toward the Armenian Quarter. Ryan, Dustin, and myself had never been outside the Jewish Quarter and were completely in the dark as to where we were going. I wasn't certain about Tyler's past expeditions. I knew that he was the most well-traveled out of all of us and possessed a natural military mind for things such as direction, movement, and efficiency with how he spent his time.

We entered into a narrow street. The wall to our left was easily twenty-five feet high. On top, coils of barbed wire, like vines, seemed to grow out of the very rock itself. We passed an Armenian seminary and I started noticing an increase in the number of crosses.

We had no game plan save to rendezvous with our bus at St. George's Cathedral at 7:00 p.m. for the journey in to Bethlehem. Passing by store and shop owners clearly looking to take advantage of Christian tourists, we eventually took a right down into the winding back alleys.

The echo of "My friends, have a look in my shop," was reminiscent of the dark days of Dahab. I momentarily shuddered and renewed my vow never to return to Egypt without an armored escort.

Our wandering took us through long, narrow shop-laden streets and past hovels of hidden houses and dormitories. Both sides of the streets contained stores designed to sell wares to tourists, travelers, and wanderers. But the Armenian Quarter soon gave way to the Christian Quarter.

And our aimlessness followed suit as it gave way to finding a place to eat.

***

The second reading came from Isaiah 7:10-15. It was exhilarating and bittersweet all at once. This was the first Christmas not spent at home.

Having received a Christmas package from Mom and Dad earlier in the week, I was jolted then by the realization that it had not felt like Christmas.

There were no decorations or lights or Christmas activities in Tel Aviv. Everything was going on as usual. Even the weather was like autumn back home. And upon opening the box in the kitchen, I was shocked at the sight of my old stocking. It was as if I had been transported back to another time and existence; as if everything prior to the arrival in Israel had been a dream state that the stocking helped me remember.

In the sanctuary, I glanced across the way. As the second reading came to a close, I saw a girl sitting near the window sill with tears streaming down her face.

***

The top of Papa Andrea's restaurant was breathtaking. Located in the heart of the Christian Quarter and directly across from the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the rooftop view provided a panoramic view of all of Jerusalem.

The sun dimmed and the skies grew gray as night approached. We ordered some food (falafel and hummus bowls) and then went to stand by the railing overlooking the great epicenter. The bells on the Church of the Holy Sepulcher rang out as we listened.

The throng reverberated throughout the city, a celebratory and seemingly defiant pronouncement of the King's birth. In the distance, as the chimes from the bell rang out in perfect synchronization, the green lights of the Arab Quarter's minarets flashed to life, as if awakened from a deep slumber by the Christians.

The Golden Dome over Al-Aqsa was soon splashed in verdant light as the minaret to its right lit up. In the distance, far away on the hills of East Jerusalem, another minaret flashed green.

As the sun started to set and the Church bells began to fade, a third mosque's minaret flashed green. A fourth atop another hill. A fifth. A sixth. A seventh.

And then there was silence. I had remembered a story someone had told me about the lights of the mosques reflecting their allegiance: green for Hamas and white for Fatah. I was unsure of the veracity of the statement. Green was also the color of Mohammed. That seemed a more likely explanation.

The silence hung in the air for just a few minutes. We chatted idly and ate sporadically. I changed out of my sandals and donned closed shoes and a jacket as the cool mountainous air took charge of our comfort.

And then the call to prayer blasted across the great city in a hauntingly beautiful and chilling counter cry to the bells of the Christian Quarter. Tyler raised his eyebrows and chuckled to himself as he pulled out his camera to record the scene. Dustin did the same.

Ryan stood against the railing, looking as if he was absorbing everything down into his very core. When Dustin's camera finally landed on me, as the cries from the mosque and the calls to Allah grew to their crescendo, I could think of only one thing to say.

"Hey Dustin. Merry Christmas."

***

In the Church of the Nativity, we finished singing "See Amid The Winter Snow," a carol I wasn't familiar with, and prepared for the next reading from Isaiah.

But that was not to be.

The Reverend Suheil Dawani (Ret.), Anglican Bishop of Jerusalem, stood up and took his turn to address the audience. He opened up with comments about peace and praised Mahmoud Abbas for his role in the "peace process."

My jaw tightened.

Something was going very wrong, very quickly. As Suheil Dawani continued with his speech, phrases such as "justice for the oppressed" and "determination in the face of one's oppressors" were casually bandied about. There was praise for the Anglican Church's role in standing with the "Palestinian people." There was self-aggrandizing praise heaped upon the church for its worldly endeavors. The praise for The King had ceased.

The Church of the Nativity had suddenly been hijacked. Christmas Eve had been hijacked.

The speech continued on. People started to look at me: Benjamin, Ryan, Dustin, Liz, Stefan, Dominique, others I did not know. I could feel their stares. Occasionally, I would see their looks, some sympathizing with me and others giving me placating smiles. I could feel my anger swelling.

As the speech continued on, lavishing praise upon a man who had risen to power based upon his hatred and prejudices, I could not help but feel as if I had been used; that my faith had been used in order to make me an unwilling pawn in the great charade taking place before me, in the very place where the Great Gift of God had been given.

I could feel the undercurrent of anti-Semitism. There was no mention of hope and peace for the "other side" (i.e. Israelis), there was implicit blame and the all-too subtle suggestion, inconspicuous and sinister, that Christians and Muslims were struggling together against oppression...Jewish oppression.

It was not stated. But it was disguised.

It was as if Satan had taken over the evening's ceremony, his voice taunting and mocking. As if he was saying "See what I can do? Even here. Even now. Does this make you angry, Drew?"

I turned inward, willing myself to calm down. My fists were balled up and I hadn't even realized it, jaw locked in what probably would have been an identical impression of my old man during the few scary occasions he would become angry.

The old nemesis was rearing its head in the very birthplace of Jesus: anger. Pure and raw and untamed. It was like lightning had struck and sparked an inferno. The war within was battling for control. I could not let the anger win, but I could not let this continue without doing something.

As Suheil Dawani continued on with his deceptive words, I finally said out loud to those within earshot.

"Can we get back to worshiping Jesus?!"

***

The Kotel. The Wailing Wall.

As we approached, memories of the first time I had visited flooded forth. The Wall carries with it immense importance to Judaism. It derived its name from the historic behavior of Jews throughout the 2,000 year Diaspora when they would come to the Wall and weep in front of it because of the Second Temple's destruction in 70 A.D. by the Roman Empire.

The Wall is all that remains of the Temple. And in a way it is a metaphor for the Jewish people. The old Temple may have been ravaged and destroyed, but part of it still stands defiantly to this day. The Jews, despite thousands of years of persecution and suffering, also still remain.

As we approached, Tyler pulled four kippahs out of his backpack.

"You can wear these instead of the little paper ones they hand out," he said. Tyler was the only one of the four of us that was Jewish. He was coming with us to Bethlehem on Christmas Eve. We were going with him to the Western Wall. This is as things should be.

The area around the Kotel was well lit. Hundreds of Orthodox Jews in their black hats, pants, jackets, and white shirts recited prayers in front of the Wall. Their devotion was just as impressive as it had been the first time I had seen it.

An Orthodox man approached us and asked us where we were from.

"Florida," Tyler answered in his matter of fact tone.

"Welcome home!" the Orthodox man responded enthusiastically. "And you?"

"Alabama," I answered.

"Ah. Birmingham?" he asked.

I chuckled to myself. Most of the Jews in Alabama were indeed from Birmingham, including a sizable group in the Mountain Brook area.

"No. Auburn."

"Ah, never heard of it. Will you be here for Shabat tomorrow?"

"No, just for the night," Tyler answered for us.

During this exchange, Ryan had slipped away to the Wall. I followed. As I stood there, it occurred to me that this was truly an amazing moment. It was Christmas Eve and here I was in the very heart of the Old City of Jerusalem standing amongst the Chosen people of God before going to Bethlehem to the site of the King's birth. Most people would never get a chance to do this in their lives. Most people would never be able to experience this.

So I stood in front of the Wall. And I prayed for the Jewish people, for Israel, and for God to keep His hand steady as the swirling storm clouds gather all around.

***

The firestorm raged within. Suheil Dawani brought his speech to a close. And then Mahmoud Abbas and his entourage exited without so much as a word. But the damage had already been done. I couldn't beat the anger. I couldn't find the joy that had been there before the service had been usurped. And some of those around me were well aware that I was now a veritable boiler plate.

And as others read passages from Isaiah 11, Luke 1, and Matthew 1, I found myself consumed with the depravity of what had transpired. I could focus on nothing else.

And then came Silent Night.

I don't know how it happened. I just know that it did happen. Ryan reached out and put his arm around my shoulder and started singing. And the still, small voice inside managed to sift its way past the emotional minefield and fix itself front and center. I could almost hear it telling me that "The battle had already been won."

I could relinquish the outrage.

I let the anger begin to subside and threw my arm around Ryan's shoulder with a nod, content that there would be no victory for the Enemy tonight. Tomorrow. Ever.

***

It was 6:00 p.m. We had exactly one hour to find our way to St. George's Cathedral. Dom had met Ryan, Dustin, Tyler, and myself outside the security gate leading down to the Kotel. He had taken a later bus from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Typical Dominator behavior--ever the lone wolf.

Having spent a lot of time in the Arab Quarter, Dom wanted to show us around. And the map he had in his possession suggested that we would need to go through the Damascus Gate to reach St. George's anyway. Thus we followed.

The thing about Jerusalem is that there are no dividing lines within the Old City. There is freedom of movement between each Quarter. You know you've gone from the Jewish Quarter to the Arab Quarter when the Hebrew graffiti on the walls gives way to Arabic graffiti. Simple enough.

A small Arab boy, no older than two, played outside the door going into his home as we worked our way through the narrow side roads.

"Walidu," I said as we passed.

The boy recoiled with a shocked expression on his face. I laughed and smiled at him.

"Walidun," Dustin corrected. "Case ending, man."

"Whatever. Hakim's not here to yell at me," I said as we continued onward.

The little boy ran around the corner and made a face at Dustin, along with growling noises.

We dodged foot traffic as best as we could. Shops began to shut down for the night. Dom weaved in and out, avoiding a tractor (yes, an actual tractor) rumbling down the narrow enclosed street. A man stood on the back of the lumbering behemoth and plucked wares down from the guide wires crisscrossing above our heads.

As we rounded a corner and made our way up an incline toward the Damascus Gate, a pair of IDF soldiers stood off to the side next to a fruit vendor.

"Just two of 'em on duty," Tyler said offhandedly. "Their job has to suck."

"I expected to see more of them over here to be honest."

"Nah, dude. They don't need the manpower over here anymore. That's what the cameras are for," he answered tersely.

The mezzanine outside the gate was starting to empty. As we made our way toward the main road in the modern part of Jerusalem, Dustin spotted his fellow rotary ambassador eating falafel with one of her friends. Sasha, a dual U.S.-Russian citizen, was on the same scholarship as Dustin and was studying up in Haifa at Haifa University. She had come to Tel Aviv several times to hang out with us and indulge in her favorite hobby of salsa dancing. She is a semi-professional salsa dancer.

We stopped to talk for a few minutes. Sasha and her friend were also planning on going to Bethlehem, but were coming later. I looked at my watch and realized we had thirty minutes to find the church and get on a bus.

The trek to St. George's was guided by Dom's map. We had to find Nablus Road and we had to do it fast. Time had gotten away from us while we were in Jerusalem and the possibility existed that we would miss the bus to Bethlehem.

With just ten minutes to go and little idea where we were going, I spotted two pedestrians and approached them.

"Hey guys," I started. "Do you know where..."

One of the men, an older man with a rough disposition interrupted. In a thick accent he responded.

"We are not from here," he said with a chuckle. I thought he sounded Russian, but couldn't be certain.

"Do you speak English?" I asked bluntly.

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea where St. George's Cathedral is?"

"Yes!" his companion answered. "We passed it coming from this direction." He pointed east.

"Well, do you know where the Damascus Gate is?" the rough looking man asked.

"Yes!" we all responded in unison. "It's back up this road."

There was a pause and then laughter. Neither of us knew where we were going, but we did know where each other should be going.

"What are the odds of that?" Ryan blurted with bemusement.

I shook my head. We picked up the pace.

By the time we reached the church, the first bus was full and the second was nearly full. A third and final bus was coming, but it was going to be late. Dustin's phone rang and the rest of our crew, who had also left Tel Aviv later than anticipated, had been dropped off by a taxi near the church, but couldn't find the area where the buses were taking people.

Dustin charged off to find them while we checked in with Canon Bill's wife.

A few minutes later, Liz, Stefan, Elana, German Stefan, and Benjamin came running up the side of the Cathedral.

"Merry Christmas!" Benjamin said with a wide grin.

***

We exited the sanctuary through the Door of Humility. Every person had to bend over or kneel to enter or exit. The service had ended on a high note with readings in Greek from John 1: 1-14 and Arabic from Luke 1: 26-49. And the Anglican bishop, Canon Bill, led everyone in singing Joy to the World and O Come, All Ye Faithful.

Standing outside the sanctuary in an outdoor promenade, we took some photos and discussed what we wanted to do.

The buses that had dropped us off were preparing to depart. If we wanted to leave Bethlehem we had to leave right then and there.

The decision to stay was an easy one. Manger Square was bustling with activity. And the consensus was we might never be back in Bethlehem on a Christmas Eve. A few of us decided to go down into the Grotto where it is thought that Mary gave birth to Jesus.

German Stefan was already there when Dustin, Ryan, Liz, Tyler, and myself arrived. There were about twenty or so people there aside from us. There was complete silence. Even the noise of the revelers outside in Manger Square was completely deafened within the confines of the Grotto.

Ancient Byzantine ornaments and crafts adorned the walls and ceilings. An area that looked like a fireplace had been engraved with a silver star. Candles burned in the back. This marked the spot of Jesus' birth.

We took our place at the back of the Grotto. A young man sat down directly to my left. He was American and no older than twenty. His Bible was turned to Luke.

And as he was reading from it, he began to uncontrollably sob.

Liz would ask me outside if I was moved like this young man since we were in such a special place. It was a good question. I answered in the only way that I knew how, an answer that I suspected was lost to both the din of the Manger Square celebrations and to the introversion of my own thinking that night.

"God is not found in one particular place," I answered.

Jesus was born in Bethlehem. And because of that, Bethlehem would forever be the birthplace of the King. But that's not where Jesus lives. Christianity is not a building or a body or a tradition. These are attributes of a religion.

Christianity is not a religion. It is a relationship.

The afternoon sun over Jerusalem on Christmas Eve.

Ryan, Dustin, and Tyler on approach to the walls of the Old City.

Papa Andrea's Restaurant in the Christian Quarter.

The Church of the Holy Sepulcher from atop Papa Andrea's. Check out the satellite dish on the roof.

The Al-Aqsa Mosque at dusk. Can you spot the three green lights of the minarets?

Masters of the domain.

From Left to Right: Dustin, Me, Tyler, and Ryan.

Dustin snapped this picture of me at the Kotel.

Palestinian Security Forces in their trucks. These guys did a very good job of looking intimidating. I felt like they did their job well. And they took their duty extremely seriously.