Two kinds of security: a guard at Masada; and prayer at the Wailing Wall.

Text and photos by David F. Dawes

AS I write this, war is intensifying in the Gaza Strip, between the Islamist militants of Hamas and the Israel Defense Forces. Most of the following article was planned and written before the current hostilities broke out.

I am fully mindful of the fact that there are complex moral, social, political and spiritual factors in dire need of resolution in the Middle East. I do not feel qualified to speak on those issues, however. I can only offer a small account of a more peaceful time.

Adventures in security

The remains of a synagogue in Capernaum, where Christ ministered.

It felt like winning the lottery. I was one of five Canadian Christian journalists selected to tour Israel - all expenses paid!

The adventure began in late November, as I approached the El Al counter at Pearson International Airport in Toronto. The chaos of pre-boarding was perfectly normal -- with the exception of four polite young men in uniform, with shaved heads and automatic weapons.

Thus reminded of the new realities of air travel to certain countries, I was prepared for the questions I was asked about my reasons for visiting Israel. The interrogator was firm, but friendly enough. My colleagues and I were cleared for takeoff.

I don't remember much about the 12-hour flight, except for one brief encounter. I awoke, and stumbled toward the back of the plane. As I walked toward the washroom, I saw a man standing, eyes closed, lips quietly moving, wearing the full regalia of an orthodox Jew: prayer shawl; widebrim black hat; a dark blue ribbon wrapped around his arm, leading to the phylactery near his shoulder. I wasn't in Kansas anymore, Toto.

The ruins of Beit She'an, a city conquered by King David.

Security reared its inevitable head once again when we landed in Tel Aviv. One of our party was detained, for reasons unclear. We waited while our greeter made inquiries. Our friend was finally released after more than half an hour. It turned out that his surname was Muslim.

We would be spending November 26 - December 4 touring the country's most famous Bible-related sites, and several not so famous. The small size of our group, and the extraordinary knowledge of our guide, Rivka, ensured that the experience would be both personal and in-depth. Our driver, Niso, was dubbed 'Magic Man,' for the ease with which he got us through security checks.

The Donites

Camaraderie grew quickly between the pilgrims. Early on, we shared our mutual fears of Jerusalem Syndrome - a very real malady causing its victims to 'become' biblical characters. We had nightmarish visions of ourselves wearing bedsheets, wildly declaring 'Thus saith the Lord' as we recited lists of our duty-free purchases.

A shrine to Pan, at Banias.

Sadly, one of us, named Don, succumbed - becoming The Prophet Don. The rest of us became The Donites. We plotted our triumphal entry into Jerusalem -- followed by our benign dictatorship, to be operated from the Royal Suite atop the King David Hotel.

I soon became the Anti-Don, and initiated a schism. I invited my colleagues, including Don, to join the Davidites; I promised to part the Dead Sea, but was appalled to see them float across it without me.

Fortunately for the world, this particular religious war disintegrated in heresy and anathemas, twisted doctrines scattered and forgotten. The whole sorry tale was reportedly set down in print; alas, The Lost Book of Don remains, indeed, lost. But I digress . . .

Government mouthpieces?

A portion of the security fence blockading Palestinian territory.

At first, I wondered whether our status as pampered guests of the Israeli government might make our reports seem suspect in some eyes. Would we be seen as mouthpieces for an often controversial regime?

But my concerns were groundless. We were free to ask any questions we liked. I inquired about the circumstances surrounding the establishment of the State of Israel; the scattering of the Palestinians; and the motivations behind terrorism. I learned enough to realize that I needed to do a lot more research.

Most significantly, we were allowed into Palestinian-controlled Bethlehem, without chaperones. We were escorted through the fabled 'security fence,' and then left alone to explore the city freely.

My main objective was the Church of the Nativity, the site traditionally marking the birthplace of Jesus. As recounted elsewhere on this website, in 'Seeking a Star in Christ's Town', I was not disappointed.

Poverty and peace

The entrance to Cave 4, where most of the Dead Sea Scrolls were found at Qumran.

That particular obsession assuaged, we explored the surrounding neighbourhood. One street displayed a drab row of closed stores. A forlorn sign celebrated 'Bethlehem 2000' -- evidently the last year of prosperity for this particular street, one local told me.

Things weren't so doleful in a nearby market, however. The air, scented by all manner of electric odours, carried the sounds of elaborate sales pitches, Western and Middle Eastern music, haggling over prices, aggressive friendliness. The stalls carried everything from carved wood manger scenes and icons, to hookahs and Santas.

In a town square, we encountered the Peace Fountain, a stone globe set in a five-point star; and at the Bethlehem Peace Centre, we saw a splendid life-size Nativity scene. We also encountered two women who identified themselves as Christian peace activists.

Ibex feeding at the oasis of Ein Gedi.

They told us the security fence was causing economic hardship for many Palestinians; they also said a 14 year old boy was being detained unjustly by Israeli authorities. As we walked away, one of my colleagues bemoaned what he considered the naivete of the women. I said nothing, but agreed to disagree.

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Despite our difference of opinion, we could still pray together; and so we paused near Manger Square, asking God's blessing on the Palestinian people.

We took a cab back to the security fence. I had been told that it had cut terrorist activity by 85 percent. I was struck by the grafitti: while there were some defiant slogans, there were also pleas for peace -- and a painting calling for religions to work in harmony.

Remnants and relics

The main focus of our trip was, of course, the ancient sites -- a cavalcade of remnants, ruins and relics. Space permits only a brief travelogue of highlights:

At Masada, Herod's legendary fortress where some 900 Jews perished rather than surrender to Rome, many walls still stood -- the golden brown of the bricks matching the surrounding desert. The colour scheme was disrupted by patches of brightly coloured frescoes, still visible from Herod's time.

Pilgrims being baptized in the Jordan River.

Caesarea, another of Herod's little building projects, still displayed the miniscule remains of a hippodrome -- a chariot racetrack which would have been big enough to rival the one in Ben-Hur. More significantly, we saw a replica of an inscription found in the area: the only known non-biblical artifact mentioning Pontius Pilate.

In the Golan Heights, at the foot of Mount Hermon, I was startled to learn there were still remnants of pagan religion in the Holy Land. The site was Banias, a spring named after the Greek god Pan. Remnants of his temple were carelessly strewn about the area.

We visited the Church of the Primacy of Peter, at Tabgha. Inside it was a rock formation on display at the altar, with a sign reading 'Mensa Christi' -- meaning 'the table of Christ'. Tradition holds that, on this rock, the resurrected Jesus served the disciples breakfast.

Numerous people arranged to be buried in graves on the side of the Mount of Olives, believing the dead will rise when the Messiah returns.

We walked up through the ruins of the settlement of Megiddo, and looked down at a small portion of the vast Jezreel Valley -- long prophesied as the site of the Battle of Armageddon. A sudden downpour, insufferably symbolic, drove us back down the hill.

At the Wailing Wall, I was informed that gentiles must wear yarmulkes made of stiff paper, so I took one from a bin. I felt awkward, as it fell off my head several times -- but no one seemed to notice. At the wall, I saw small pieces of paper stuffed between the bricks -- countless prayers folded into history. I felt very unqualified to add one of my own.

Ways of sorrows

The Yad Vashem Holocaust Memorial was one of the most impressive and complex multi-media displays I'd ever seen. One could literally spend a week there, and still not take it all in.

Many believe this to be Golgotha, aka Calvary.

Several things stood out: footage of European Jewry prior to the catastrophe; Hitler's grotesque rants; the role of Christendom in perpetuating anti-Semitism; the burning of books; goose-stepping thugs; shrivelled bodies bulldozed into mass graves. We were invited to sign the guest book; all I could manage to write was "Never again."

The most extraordinary part was the Hall of Names, an unforgettable tribute to young victims of the Shoah. We passed through a room displaying large black and white photos of children. We were guided through pitch blackness -- and then into a chamber filled with countless mirrored pinpoints of light, as a voice spoke the children's names. No other representation of the Holocaust -- not even Schindler's List -- has had such a profound emotional impact on me.

The central act of suffering of our own faith was, of course, integral to our pilgrimage. We walked down the cobblestoned Via Dolorosa -- which, we were told, was actually built quite a few feet above the original 'Way of Sorrows.' Along the way, we saw a wooden cross leaning against a wall, and grafitti reading "We need peace."

At the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the official tomb of Christ -- guarded by a dozen giant candlesticks -- was so glutted by tourist mobs that we couldn't get in.

We also learned that Jesus evidently rose from the dead in at least one other locale.

The Garden Tomb seemed the likelier candidate - chiefly because, nearby, is a stark cliff whose rocks form a skull-like visage -- eerily invoking Golgotha, 'the place of the skull.'

Shielded from terror

The Garden Tomb, dating from the 1st century.

The threat of terrorism seemed quite remote to me during my stay. We had gone through military checkpoints in our travels; we saw a few off-duty soldiers, out of uniform, machine guns slung casually over their shoulders; and at one restaurant, we were greeted by a guy with gun on his hip.

We were also reminded of the hatred directed at Jews, as we heard of the horrific carnage in Mumbai.

But the general atmosphere in Israel - no doubt helped by the gorgeous weather and the wonderfully high-spirited Jews and Arabs we met - seemed to shield us, both spiritually and physically. One scene exemplified the lack of tension I experienced.

We had just toured Bethlehem, and were sitting near the security fence waiting for our driver. Nearby, lazing in the sun, were two guard dogs. One lifted his head briefly to look up at me - and then drifted back to sleep.

Prophecies and prayers

I will end with a few spiritual epiphanies.

The long drive toward Jerusalem took us past endless barren stretches of the Judean Desert's hills and cliffs. I gazed out the window transfixed, for more than an hour, as the haunted terrain passed, glowing brown in the sunlight. The sight stirred within me the knowledge that this was where the most important events in history had happened -- and were yet to take place.

At the Wailing Wall, I felt compelled to pray, but could think of nothing which adequately conveyed my feelings. Then, reminded that the wall represented something far beyond my own emotions, I could only whisper the shema: "Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is One."

In a replica of a 1st century synagogue in Nazareth, a comrade recited the Isaiah 61 passage read by Jesus in the same town. Another of us then spontaneously spoke Jesus' own words: "Today, in your hearing, this scripture is fulfilled."

The table of Christ, commemorating an appearance of the resurrected Jesus.

On my last day, I sat in a park, basking in the sun and breeze for two hours, pondering the whole grand experience. I determined to pray more ardently for the peace of the Holy Land.

Getting off the plane back in B.C., icy winds kicking me in the face, I felt like a prince thrust unceremoniously back through the wardrobe, cruelly exiled from Narnia.

Someday again in Jerusalem . . .

December 31/2008