A Work Progressing

Okay, I have three things to ponder; living water, being hopelessly trapped and living the good life.

I am currently in the Judean Wilderness, it’s not sand dunes, it’s ankle twisting, barren brown desert rock. It’s an intimidating place, made bearable because I am in an air-conditioned bus. I know it is challenging because about every hour we get out and try to survive 105 degrees.

One of the first stops this morning was the En Gedi spring and waterfall. There is nothing but blasted earth for miles in every direct. The only visible water is the Dead Sea miles away.

From the parking lot we have been told that after a short hike towards the ridge, we will find a spring and a waterfall. Yeah right!

Two hundred yards up the trail there is nothing. There is a creek bed but it is dry as a bone. I’m becoming dry as a bone. I would have turned around but wet kids in bathing suits kept coming at me,

Six hundred yards, and I could hear water running. The sound of water running means “living water”, water that can purify, water that can be used for religious purposes.

I see nothing, but I hear it underground, I walk further and there is a hint of water in the creek bed. The sound is greater.

Suddenly there is a rush of water falling twenty feet. The pool is quite small and maybe six inches deep. I want to take off my sandals, but I fear the pebbles will make me unsteady. I wade in and I’m immediately refreshed.

Its like the desert didn’t exist. The cells of my body are bloated with the living water. I am no longer desiccated.

Water is life!

The next morning we head to Masada. It was built by King Herod as one of four hidey-holes. Not a palace to live in, but a fortified refuge to hide from the coming trouble. I suddenly have some additional PTSD. It reminds me very much of Site R in Pennsylvania, except this hidey-hole was attacked.

When Herod died the place was occupied by a detachment of Romans. They were attacked at night by Jewish Zealots. The Zealots won and dug in.

The Romans had bigger plans afoot so at first they did nothing. Then in 70 AD the war began, the Temple was destroyed and all Jews were dispersed. Some of the refugees came and joined the Zealots on Masada.

Three years after the war was over, the Romans became aware of 900+ Jews living in Masada and declaring themselves Independent Judea.

The Romans couldn’t stand that, so they sent fifteen thousand troops and five thousand slaves, to take the place back.

The Jews did not surrender. The Romans built an eight foot wall completely around the fortress on the mountain. They built huge catapults to lob great stones to the top of the mountain.

The Jews splashed in the water cisterns, telling the Romans that they had something that they didn’t. Water!

The Romans began catapulting live slaves against the walls of the fortress.

The Jews had two or three years of food and water, stored there by King Herod. They first thought they could outwait the Romans. Then the Romans started to built a great ramp up the mountain to the walls. It took several months.

The Jews knew what was in store for them, it was death or horrible slavery. They were surrounded, they could not surrender and they could not escape.

Since the pay of the soldiers was the plunder and selling of slaves, the night before the Romans broke through they destroyed all their valuables in fire, then the head of each family slit the throats all his members. Then ten men by lottery, slits all the throats of the men.

Then one man slit the throats of the nine men. By Jewish law they could not commit suicide, so only one man had to fall on his sword. The Romans broke through the next morning but there was no one there.

We walked around the ruins and pondered living and dying at Masada.

The next stop was a Bedouin village. Bedouins have been in the land long before they were converted to Islam. Some older traditions still hang on. The tribe is the family, the village is a mix of multiple families, the city is a mix with everyone. The speaker wanted to emphasize that Bedouins are a modern people with technology, medicine, and business concerns. But she also spoke of the “good life”, the simple life of living in the tribe, living in tents, and moving to better pastures. No electricity, no refrigeration, and no technology. The Good Life!

This is a place of conflict. Conflict in the past, and likely conflict in the future.

We were brought to an outpost that looks over the natural path for an invasion of Israel from Syria. It was used in 1948, 1967, and 1973. The last actual conflict occurred in 1974. Yet, the Golan Height title implies tension 24/7.

Golan Heights is a place of cherries, Druze bread, and a cool breeze.

The echoes of violence is still present. It brought forth a feeling that I haven’t really felt since the DMZ in Korea in 1973.

The tension of waiting for something to happen. How will I react, will my training overcome my fear?

Looking out towards the cease fire line lets you know exactly where it is. It’s called the Green Line because the Israelis farm the land right up to the fence of No Man’s Land. On the Syrian side there is nothing but mine fields, desert, and scrub brush.

It is a depressing sight.

The church in the air. I am in Capernaum, the famous village on the shore of the Galilee Sea. It is the town of Peter and his fishing home port.

There is a ruin of a Beit Knisset, or synagogue, and a collection of house ruins nearby. One is called the house of Peter. Interesting that we know this because the area had a continuity of families until Helena came visiting. The people had no difficulty in pointing out Peter’s mother in laws house, because it has always been so. An octogon church was built surrounding the foundation stones. It lasted several hundred years, then fell into a ruin.

A thousand years later Israel came into existence. They did not seize private property so the church kept their property. The ruin of Capernaum was being uncovered by the church and the government.

The church had a plan to build a large church with the house of Peter as the centerpiece. The Israeli government allows the possession of property but ancient ruins can’t be touched. They said no!

A compromise was to build a church over the house but suspended on pillars. The house remains underneath and untouched.

On the shore for several days. Ruins, boats and a kibbutz.

Largest body of fresh water below sea level. It’s the truth, but I’m not certain of the meaning. Clearly in scripture this was an important area. Even in a rough land this area was considered the Wild West, or the Wild North.

I ponder the way of the foot. It was a long time without water, but the sea was fresh, and the Jordan flowed in and out of it. The paths of humans did not stray far from it.

It’s curious about the echoes of the past in the dust of the trail. How many footsteps, sandals owned by who, traveling for what purpose.

So much fresh water, so much dry desert scrub.

Many people believe that something unique happened here. They believe that Joseph, the carpenter had his shop here, and raised his family. They believe that his wife Mary was visited by an angel and something wonderful was told to her.

Nazereth is a city of churches. It’s a very modern city today, most of the ancient ruins have been carted away or covered by construction. There are no ruins for tourists. There are churches!

The two major churches are both named after the Annunciation to Mary. They both claim to be the exact spot where God’s angel stopped to tell her about her future son. The older church (1700s) is Greek Orthodox. The newer church (1990s) is Ronan Catholic. They both claim to be correct, and play politics to gain more tourists.

Interesting that some scholars say that the title Nazarene may not mean someone from Nazareth, but someone that made an oath like Samson.

There is a truth, but it is one of those cases where the opinions of some makes up for the unknown facts.

Helena, the mother of Constantine, the Roman Emporer, took a tour of the Holy Land. She was a devout Christian and wanted to see the places she read about in scripture. This was several hundred years later. Once she arrived she simply asked the locals where did this happen, they said, “Here!”. She built a church.

Hey, it happened somewhere, does it matter that it may not be exact?

My readings of crusader history always mentioned Acre. I did not know that it was known before, and later, as Acco.

We are in Acco, on the shore of northern Israel. The area is beautiful, the sea is warm, enticing, there might even be a cool breeze periodically.

Acco was the last stand for the Latin Kingdoms that began with the crusades. Almost three hundred years of fighting, conquest, and defeat, ended here at Acco. It was an issue of math.

The knights were few, the Moslem armies were greater.

It could be said that the crusaders were never meant to be successful here. The land was vastly different from their home countries. That might be true, but many crusaders eventually were born here, generations never knew the Europe their fathers came from. This was their country now.

Pushed out of Acco they fled to Cyprus, pushed out of Cyprus they went to Rhodes. They fled Rhodes to go to Crete. They left Crete to finally end in Malta, where they stopped the advance.

We spent a few hours in the medieval fortress at Acco. It was dark and dank inside. The humidity from the sea was ever present. The vaulted ceiling could have been from any country in Europe. They brought their architecture with them.

This was the golden age of defensive walls, before gun powder. They did have catapults hurling great stone with force, but not the wall busting ability of artillery.

Sometimes I have felt the presence of history. The voices were long silent here. Too much wind, sand, and nearly a thousand years of neglect.

They have worked to bring it back, swept away the debris, but it has left the place clean of whispers, with little memory.

Still, I’m glad to have walked the halls.

We are on the famous Via Maris, the Way of the Sea. For thousands of years, people, traders, and armies, moved from Egypt to Lebanon, and Phoenicia to Damascus, keeping the Mediterranean on the left, or the right, depending on if you were going north or south.

Today much of it is paved over with tar or gravel. It remains a major highway for the Levant.

Herod needed a port city to ship the wine, olives, and other produce back to Rome and other cities. There was only straight beach front, but Herod sunk barges of rock covered with Italian pumice, and that made an early marine cement. In a few short years there was a functioning harbor. Herod named it after the Roman emperor, and when the Romans took over Israel it became the provincial captital, sitting right on top of the Via Maris.

Landed in Tel Aviv on Saturday early evening, I bet it took two hours to get off the plane, through passport, and through baggage. And then it was another hour to get to the hotel up north.

We are on are way to Caesarea and Mt. Carmel. This is close to Phoenician turf. Weather has been great, mid 80s. In Switzerland this week it was 95. Ha!

14 hours on the plane, a two hour nap in the hotel, and now I’m wide awake. I need the six hours of sleep before heading off on the tour tomorrow morning.

Gotta say this hotel room is amazing. Two bedrooms, two baths, huge living room and a good size deck on the 15th floor overlooking the beach. Go Ramada in Netanya.

The sun is rising now so maybe my internal clock is connected, because I’m awake when I could be sleeping. Stuff to see, stuff to do.

In less than a week—

actually, in four days—

we will climb into a tube,

breathe recycled air,

and rise into the atmosphere

as the Earth spins beneath us.

It will spin the Sierras under us.

It will darken over the high desert.

The Rockies will sharpen into a line of dark peaks.

The plains will stretch like a quiet sea.

The cities of the Midwest will signal with light.

And still we’ll keep going—past the coast that is East.

The Atlantic will spin beneath us,

its whitecaps catching the moonlight.

Then the sun will rise.

It will light the coast of Europe—French, or perhaps Spanish.

And by the time we reach Asia,

the sun will be near setting over the Mediterranean.

After fourteen hours, we descend in our tube

and land in Tel Aviv, Israel.

It’s a lot of spinning.

For ten days, we’ll be in motion again:

Buses.

Hotels.

Deserts.

Sacred places.

We’ll likely return changed—

tired, sunburned,

eyes that have stopped blinking.

I’m looking forward to it.

Every year at Passover, we end the Seder with a prayer:

“Next year in Jerusalem.”

Well—this is that year.

It will be a packed ten days.

And I’ll try to document it—

with images, with words.

That’s the plan, anyway.

I’m bringing enough technology to require a camel.

And if that fails, I’ve got a sketchbook and pencils.

(If I remember to pack them.)

Maybe this is an odd thing to do at 70—

on the backside of a heart attack.

Meh.

I’m going.

Something has gone wrong.

That’s okay.

Nothing works forever.

This isn’t a perfect world.

But we have gifts—skills, tools, experience.

We can fix things.

All it takes is the right perspective.

Approach the problem with an open mind.

Analyze the issue.

Look for the obvious.

Track the flow.

Watch for the break.

Then: repair the crack, replace the part, mend the tear, heal the wound.

Unless—

the problem is intermittent.

I fear the intermittent.

It’s unreliability at its worst.

The father of instability.

And for me—

the birth of despair.

I want a world where the car starts every time.

Until one day, it doesn’t.

Then I fix it.

And it starts again for another year or two.

Simple.

What I don’t want is a car that starts sometimes.

That runs for three days, then stalls in the intersection.

That makes me doubt it, every single time I turn the key.

You can’t plan with intermittent flaws.

You can’t build your day on maybe.

We say “God willing,” because we know the world can change in an instant.

But intermittent… that’s something else.

It teases stability.

It mimics function.

It tells you: “Everything’s fine now. Don’t worry.”

And then it vanishes—just long enough to make you lose trust.

And you can’t fix what isn’t visibly broken.

We had a microwave like that.

First, the turntable would spin when the door opened.

Strange, but manageable.

Then the microwave engine turned on—with the door open.

That’s dangerous.

Time to replace it.

But the next morning?

It worked.

Perfectly.

A resurrection.

The microwave, I imagined, remembered its years of loyal service and decided to redeem itself.

It worked for several days.

Then—sudden death.

Total failure.

Because even intermittent isn’t intermittent forever.

What’s true of machines is true of people, too.

People are reliable.

Until, sometimes, they’re not.

And when the flaw is intermittent, it’s harder.

Harder to see.

Harder to trust.

Harder to fix—from the inside or the outside.

But unlike appliances, the solution is not replacement.

We live through the intermittent.

We encourage.

We reach back to the stable past.

We try to extend the reliability, hour by hour.

We learn to adjust.

We learn to yield.

We learn—again and again—that intermittent means:

This too shall pass.