Category: Pop Culture

How to Be a Villain

The Beard Goes Home is an ongoing chronicle of my trip to Israel, Cairo and Rome from November 3-18. If you want more information on a picture, hover your mouse over it for a pop-up caption. If you want to see a bigger version of the picture, click on it.

After we visited Armageddon, Thomas and I made our way to the Mediterranean coast of Israel, to the ruins of Caesarea Maritima. It’s a beautiful ruined harbor built by Herod the Great just before Jesus was born (10-8 BCE).

After the last of the Hasmonean kings died out, Rome conquered Israel and made Herod the Great king of Israel. Since Herod wasn’t technically Jewish, the Jews were not thrilled with this decision, and Herod spent his entire reign walking a fine line between sucking up to Rome and keeping the Jews happy enough that they wouldn’t revolt. Because the only thing Rome liked less than an unconquered territory was a territory they’d already conquered that was unruly.

For all Herod’s faults, he was an incredible builder (remember – he was the one who first turned Masada into a luxurious, nearly impenetrable fortress). His dream was to create a harbor in Israel that would rival Alexandria. He came to the shores of the Mediterranean and literally created a city out of nothing. The city was a marvel of the Mediterranean – everyone who saw it agreed that Herod had accomplished his goal.

The coast had no natural harbor, no natural water breaks, so Herod utilized cutting edge technologies to create an artificial harbor. He built giant wooden boxes and floated them out onto the water. Once they were in place, they were filled with volcanic ash that, upon contact with water, hardened into a salt-water-resistant concrete. The breakwaters gradually dissolved and after a few hundred years (and a couple of earthquakes), the harbor sank. Today, you can still see the remnants beneath the waves.

Because Caesar Augustus had made him king of Israel, Herod named the city Caesarea (Herod’s son, Philip, built his own Caesarea north of the Sea of Galilee; to differentiate between them, Herod’s became known as ‘Caesarea on the Sea’ or Caesarea Maritima, while Philip’s became Caesarea Philippi). Facing the harbor, on the highest point in the city, Herod built a temple to Roma and Augustus, his patron. As you can imagine, this infuriated the Jews, so to appease them, Herod massively renovated the Second Temple, transforming it into the largest temple complex in the ancient world for nearly 100 years (Rome destroyed it in the First Jewish War in 70 CE). After Rome was Christianized under Constantine, the Temple was leveled and a large octagonal church built in its place.

In addition to the temple and harbor, Herod also built a Circus and Theater to entertain the citizens of Caesarea. The Circus held chariot races, and possibly gladiatorial events by the end of the first century CE. Each of the buildings could hold 10,000 persons and both looked out onto the Mediterranean. Herod also built himself a massive, luxurious palace (of course), complete with a sweet-water pool for public bathing.

As the Christian movement began to spread, Caesarea played a major role. The apostle Philip moved here (Acts 8:40), and the first Gentile convert to Christianity, Cornelius was stationed here (Acts 10). Paul used the port at Caesarea frequently in his travels.

After Herod Antipas died and Rome took over direct control of Israel, the Roman governors stayed here. When Paul is brought before Festus (Acts 25), he is brought to Herod’s Palace in Caesarea. You can walk into the ruins of this room today when you visit.

In the 600s, Caesarea fell to Muslim invaders, who leveled the 4th century church building and constructed a mosque over it. But in the 1000s, Crusaders reconquered the city and tore down the Muslim buildings, constructing a new church building and massive wall around the city. In the 1200s, a huge Muslim army besieged the city and took it.

Maybe because he was sick of all the drama, that general leveled Caesarea and abandoned it. The city lay that way until it was rediscovered at the turn of the 20th century. It’s still being excavated, but it’s now also a popular vacation spot. You can fish, snorkel, swim or lay on the beach. It’s not quite the bustling harbor town Herod imagined, but it’s got a little something for everyone.

I can’t help but see Caesarea Maritima as a fascinating chapter in Israel’s history. Before Herod’s renovations, the Second Temple was a pathetic echo of the temple Solomon had built. But thanks to Herod, it became the envy of everyone who saw it. But Herod had no interest in God (remember – he’s the one who tried to kill baby Jesus!). He renovated the Temple to prop up his own political power. He knew he had to keep the Jews – well, not happy exactly, but at least not miserable enough to revolt. And so while he labored on his true passion – a monument to his own greatness – he also transformed God’s Temple into the envy of the ancient world.

Of course, then Jesus said, “Tear this Temple down, and I’ll raise it again in three days.” And while all that’s left of Herod the Great is a bunch of ruined, excavated palaces, the baby he tried to kill has had a gorgeous, enormous house of worship built over every spot his followers even think he might have done something. Which is a nice commentary on what happens to the guys who trust the kingdoms they build instead of the kingdom of God, right?

The End of the World, A Few Years Early

On our way back to Jerusalem, Thomas and I decided to stop off at Mt. Megiddo. We left Tiberius and drove southwest, passing just a few miles south of Nazareth and through the Valley of Jezreel. Jezreel was the site of quite a few bloody battles, and most of them did not turn out well for Israel. By the 7th century BCE, the place had already acquired a pretty awful reputation (God told Hosea to name one of his sons Jezreel; this would be sort of like naming a child today Auschwitz). It was sometimes known as the Valley of Slaughter.

Mt. Megiddo is at one end of the Jezreel Valley, and it was inhabited steadily from about 3,000 BCE until the 4th century BCE or so. The Canaanites first lived there, and today you can see an ancient Canaanite worship space – archaeologists have identified 17 layers of Canaanite temples. The Canaanites’ chief god was Ba’al the storm god; Israel often turned away from God to worship Ba’al and his goddess wife, Asherah.

After Israel conquered the Canaanites, Mt. Megiddo was fought over by pretty much everyone. It’s been ruled over by Egyptians, Israelites and Assyrians. In fact, the Egyptians killed King Josiah – one of the most faithful of Israel’s kings – at Megiddo.

Another of Israel’s kings, Ahab, turned Mt. Megiddo into one of his three major centers of government. Much like Herod did to Masada, Ahab transformed Mt. Megiddo into a luxurious palace complex complete with stables for hundreds of horses. He even dug a tunnel through the mountain (which is really more hill-like) to the spring at the foot of Megiddo, so that during a siege the city still had access to water. Ahab was one of Israel’s most politically successful kings, but the Scriptures judge him as a failure because he openly embraced Ba’al worship thanks to his wife, Jezebel. Mt. Megiddo’s long history of Ba’al worship might be part of what drew Ahab there in the first place.

After the Assyrians conquered Israel (including Mt. Megiddo), they fell to the Persians and Mt. Megiddo lay an abandoned ruin at the edge of the Valley of Slaughter. It had a long history of idol worship and warfare, and was a place of shame and sin in the Hebrew culture.

The Hebrew word for ‘mountain’ is har. But the New Testament was written in Greek, which doesn’t have an ‘h’ sound, so Har Megiddo became Armegiddo. Here’s what John saw in the Revelation he received:

I saw three foul spirits like frogs coming from the mouth of the dragon, from the mouth of the beast and from the mouth of the false prophet. These are demonic spirits, performing signs, who go abroad to the kings of the whole world, to assemble them for battle on the great day of God the Almighty. And they assembled them at the place that in Hebrew is called Armageddon. – Revelation 16:13-16

That’s right, everyone. I made it to the end of the world. I just showed up a little bit early (Which was fine with me). With everything that Mt. Megiddo represented to a person shaped by the Old Testament, is it any wonder that John chose this place as the site where the Unholy Trinity would gather their forces to wage war on the Kingdom of God?

Armageddon Eschatology Idolatry Israel Mt. Megiddo

The Press Conference

This series of posts is my attempt to demonstrate that the language of the Revelation was actually symbolic code that was very intelligible to a first-century Jewish Christian living in the Roman Empire. I’m re-writing the Revelation to communicate the same message, but to a twenty-first century American Christian audience, using symbols we understand. This particular section parallels Revelation chapter 8. If you want to catch up, here’s a PDF of the entire series so far: The Revelation to JR – 1-8.

When the Lamb signed the seventh line on the Order, there was utter silence in heaven for about half an hour. Then I saw the seven angels who comprise God’s cabinet, and they were given seven news cameras.

Another angel with a golden coffee cup came and stood at the podium. He was given gallons of coffee to place along with the prayers of all the saints on the golden podium that stands in front of the desk. The aroma of the coffee, along with the saints’ prayers, rose up to God from the angel’s hand. Then the angel took the coffee cup and filled it with boiling coffee from the podium and threw it down onto the earth, and when he did, I saw lightning flash, heard thunder crash and saw a massive earthquake.Continue reading

Enculturation Eschatology Revelation Worship

Remember the Masada!

After saying Mass in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher on the morning of Thursday, November 11, Thomas and I picked up our rental car and left Jerusalem. After getting turned around only once, we headed East and South, towards the Dead Sea and Masada. The transformation of the countryside was immediately evident as we quickly entered the Judean Desert. Any trace of greenery vanished and we were left with large, brown hills sloping endlessly away in all directions.

We turned and headed south at the tip of the Dead Sea, and it wasn’t long before the Sea fell away before us on our left while the caves of Qumran – where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered – loomed high on our right.

In almost no time at all, we reached Masada, a mesa rising out of the Judean Desert surrounded by nothing and looking out over what was once known as the Devil’s Sea. It feels like the loneliest place on the whole planet.

History of Masada

Masada was originally the site of one of Herod the Great’s palaces, built as a sort of ‘last resort’ in case things got really bad for him. It’s grotesquely inaccessible, but Herod managed to deck the whole top of the mesa out with nothing but the best, including two palaces, a full swimming pool (in addition to public and private baths), three small ‘guest palaces’ and of course two full fortresses. He also devised an ingenious system for delivering water up to Masada, so that the whole complex could be endlessly self-sufficient.

After Herod’s death, Masada was basically abandoned for 70 years. During that time, Rome increased their hold on Israel until in 66 CE, rebellion broke out. This First Jewish War (66-73 CE) brought the complete destruction of Jerusalem and the Second Temple (70 CE) and was a major turning point in the history of both Judaism and Christianity.

Battles were fought all over Israel (including on Mt. Megiddo, which we’ll see on Saturday), but the Jewish Rebels’ last stand was here at Masada. The rebels climbed the mesa and dug in as the might of Flavius’ Roman army spread around them. The siege lasted three months, during which time the Romans constructed a ramp that allowed them to break down the walls of Masada. On April In a fierce battle, the Romans breached the walls of Masada near the end of the day; because it was so late, and because victory was now assured, the Romans broke for the night, intent on finishing off the Jews the following day.

That night, the Jewish rebels made a terrible decision: rather than face certain defeat and enslavement, they would kill themselves and their families. They set fire to the store rooms and killed themselves. When the Romans came onto the mesa the next morning, they were greeted only by corpses. In the wake of the mass suicide, Masada was abandoned for nearly 2,000 years.

The Masada Shall Never Fall Again

Until the mid-1800s, we knew about Masada only through Josephus (a Jewish writer from just after Jesus’ time). But archaeologists located Masada and began to excavate it, and it quickly became a pilgrimage site for Jews from around the world (remember that this was about 100 years before the state of Israel would exist).

Today Masada has entered into the popular Jewish cultural imagination. They speak of a ‘Masada-complex’, which is basically a ‘you’ll-have-to-kill-me-first’ mentality. Some divisions of the Jewish Defense League are sworn in on Masada, with the phrase, “The Masada shall never fall again” included in their oath.

What struck me most about the Masada was how little connection I have to it. It doesn’t play an important role in my history, and as a non-Israeli, I relate to the story of the Jews there less even than I do to the story of the Alamo (because I’m not Texan, either). The introductory film presentation and all the literature (maps and signage) make it very clear, however, that Masada is a vital piece of the Israeli identity.

The story that’s told is one of Jews who would rather die free than live as slaves. And as rhetoric goes, it’s great stuff. But that’s not really the whole story. The Jews weren’t just any Jewish rebels. They were Sicarii – a radical splinter group who had broken off from the Zealots (who were already pretty radical) because they weren’t radical enough. The Jews at Masada were not typical first century Jews. They were a fringe movement, lead by a charismatic (but probably slightly unstable, as leaders of these movements tend to be) guy who, when the chips were down chose the easy way out. I couldn’t help but think of Jonestown (where, granted, the CIA threat was much more imaginary than the Roman Empire).

Remembering Masada Well

I think what disturbs me about Masada is that what happened there was not the result of normal, everyday persons put into extraordinary circumstances. The Sicarii were fringe revolutionaries. But because of the way we are now reimagining their stories, their response to a cause that seems overwhelming and insurmountable has become laudable. What’s working into the Israeli psyche (and that of any visitor to Masada) is that the most courageous response to overwhelming violence is a stubborn refusal to compromise and bitter acquiescence and passivity.

This cannot be true. We must never give up pursuing peace. Masada ought to be a reminder of the dangers of following zealots. A lesson that meeting overwhelming force with force only ends badly. That if we want something better than death, we’d better get more creative. Masada ought to be a tragedy, not an inspiration.*

*Of course, I’m the comfortable American who says this not having been a part of a people without a land for 2,000 years. In that way, it’s impossible for me to know fully what Masada means to the Jewish people. But I do not believe that remembering a glorified, sterilized Masada is helpful or redemptive.

Israel LOVE Masada Pacifism Violence

The Holiest Place in the World

The site of Calvary and the Empty Tomb, where Jesus was crucified, buried and raised from the dead. The site of the Resurrection!

Church Israel Unity Worship

Peace is Coming

The Beard Goes Home is an ongoing chronicle of my trip to Jerusalem, Cairo and Rome from November 3-18. If you want more information on a picture, hover your mouse over it for a pop-up caption! If you want to see a bigger version of a picture, just click on it!

On Tuesday, November 16 we got a real treat – Father Gregory, a Dominican who shares my love of Zombie fiction, took us to the Notre Dame Pilgrim House where we joined a group on the roof for a look around the city. From the top of Notre Dame, we could see:

1. The Dome of the Rock, where Abraham took Isaac to be sacrificed
2. The hills of Moab, one of Israel’s constant enemies during the Judges
3. The hills of Ramah, where Israel demanded a king
4. The outskirts of Bethlehem, where David and Jesus were both born
5. The Mount of Olives, Upper Room and Church of the Holy Sepulcher (which houses both Golgotha and the Tomb).

It was pretty incredible to see all those pieces of Salvation History from that one location, and amazing to think that it all happened within just a few miles of land.

After our tour, we made our way by taxi to Bethlehem, which isn’t very far, except that – since Bethlehem is a Palestinian territory, we had to cross through an Israeli checkpoint. We got to Manger Square with only a little hassle (our cab driver tried to take us to a store because if we bought something he got commission). I was surprised at how plain the Church of the Nativity appears from the outside. It’s huge, but not very ornate.

The Church dates clear back as far as we have records. St. Jerome (the one who wrote the Vulgate) came here in the 4th century and made this church his home and office (which, if you’re taking notes, means he wrote the Vulgate here). The current church building has been built over the old site, and the original 4th century mosaic floors have been preserved under trap-doors they open during visiting hours. The network of caves that originally provided the ‘back room’ of the 1st century Bethlehem homes are now under the building, along with Jerome’s office (now a chapel) and tomb, both also in caves. After wandering through the cavernous chapel, we headed downstairs (accidentally cutting in front of about 1,000 or so pilgrims because we used the exit stairs. That’s what they get for poor signage).

As I’d come to expect in Jerusalem, the original cave has been transformed into a shrine. Pilgrims come down the stairs in a line and kneel under an altar, kissing the star that surrounds a hole through which you can touch the actual cave floor. Just behind the kneeling pilgrims is a second altar that marks where the manger sat, where Jesus was laid after he was born on the hard cave floor.

It’s hard to describe what it meant to stand in the place where Jesus was born. This was the spot where the impossible happened. Where God became a person. Two things that couldn’t be joined – the divine and the human – became one, without compromising, without cheating either the godhood or the humanity of Jesus. It’s what we call the Incarnation – the ‘enfleshment’ of Jesus. Even while we – the whole human race – were enemies with God, God became one of us. God crossed the uncrossable boundary not to make war on us, but to bring us peace. That’s what we celebrate at Advent (coming up in just a couple of weeks!): Jesus coming into our mess and saving us, rescuing us. That’s Good News.

It’s the great mystery of the Church, that which makes our faith possible.

These are the thoughts that filled my mind and heart as we set out to return to Jerusalem. We stopped in an excellent olive wood souvenir store owned by some Arab Christians on our way out, and they gave us instructions on how to get back into Jerusalem. We took a taxi to the checkpoint and then had to walk through. Being Western (read: white with American passports), we were waved through at ever point, while Arabs were detained at every point.

Once on the other side, we asked several people which bus would take us to the Old City and kept getting different answers. Was it Bus 74 or Bus 21? We finally got on 21 and as we passed several girls wearing headscarves, everything clicked into place. There are two different bus systems in Jerusalem (though I think it’s unofficial) – the Arab and Jewish buses. This confirmed for me everything I’d been feeling since our failed trip to Bethany.

I have found it easy to feel sorry for the Palestinians in Israel; they’re essentially living in an Apartheid system. And when I see the huge walls the Israelis have built to keep the Palestinians locked away and controlled, I can’t help but wonder how they forgot so quickly about the Warsaw ghettos. But the truth is, if the situations were reversed, and the Arabs had power, they wouldn’t treat the Jews any better. As one of the priests here said,

The Jews and the Arabs are both right, the Jews and Arabs are both wrong, and they both have blood on their hands.

It seems like everything in Jerusalem is divided. The Old City is broken into clearly discernable quarters. The buses. The checkpoints and walls. And so I wondered as Thomas and I journeyed back from The House of Bread (that’s what Bethlehem means in Hebrew) to the City of Peace (Jerusalem) where the Bread of Life was broken to purchase peace for the world.

I really do believe that Peace is coming into the world. I really do believe that we can get along despite all our differences. That if we would learn to live together we would find a beauty we can’t even imagine yet.

I believe that the walls in Israel can be torn down and used to build homes and that Jews and Arabs and Americans can all learn not just to tolerate but love each other. Because if God can become human, then anything’s possible.

As we were walking back into Jerusalem, we saw some shepherds in the hills, tending their sheep. They reminded me of a story I heard once…

There were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to humanity on whom his favor rests.”

When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.” So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them.

— Luke 2:8-18

May the Peace of Christ that passes all understanding rule in your hearts and in our world.

Christmas Incarnation Israel Jerusalem

No Man is an Island, But a Church Is

A chronicle of my trip to Jerusalem, Cairo and Rome from November 3-18. If you want more information on a picture, hover your mouse over it for a pop-up caption. If you want to see a bigger version of the picture, click on it.

I wrote a couple of days ago about the bout of xenophobia I’d experienced when I first got to Cairo, about how disconcerting it was first for the experience itself, but then doubly for the shame I felt that someone so… enlightened… as myself would have such a visceral reaction to a strange culture. (And for the record, I now feel a third layer of shame in confessing how I see myself to you, but I want to be honest here. Thank you in advance for your grace and forgiveness at my arrogance.)

Our last day in Cairo is Monday, November 8 (which is when I’m writing, though you won’t have the chance to read this until at least the end of the week). Because the last five days have been so hectic and crazy, and because Cairo is such a stressful place to be out and about, all three of us have decided to stay in the Institute today to relax and enjoy the peaceful surroundings.

I have to reiterate how much I’m enjoying Dominican hospitality. The fathers here are hilarious and kind – last night they prayed over supper in English and we discussed everything from politics (American and French) to climate change to international travel, all in the midst of much laughter. Saturday night, we got to participate in their week-ending ritual: watching an American blockbuster. This week’s selection: The Expendables. As Jean – a Dominican nearly my own age who knows French, German, English, Japanese and Arabic – explained, “After a long week, you just want to turn your brain off and watch something.”

This morning, I slept in as well as possible given the Cairo traffic and then grabbed one of the books I’m currently reading – Untamed Hospitality: Welcoming God and Other Strangers – and headed to the garden, taking a Pepsi in a glass bottle with me.

The Switchfoot in my headphones was only occasionally interrupted by horns or sledgehammers from the nearby construction site. I relaxed under the trees, feeling the breeze and the sun, reading or watching the feral cats run all over the grounds, and I felt profoundly at peace.

After three days of craziness in Cairo, I was struck by the totally different feeling of the Institute. I’m sure it has much to do with the fact that the Institute is run by Westerners, but I the more I reflect, the more I’m sure this is a microcosm of the Church as a whole.

We are to be an island in the midst of the world – a place of safety and refreshment. A place of hospitality where everyone feels welcomed into the mysterious inner life of the Holy Trinity. The Dominican brothers are family to each other, and I am challenged and encouraged by their example. I want to imitate them. I want this kind of a community, one that is intimately bound together in their worship of God. One that is different in almost every way imaginable from the culture around it, yet is still profoundly engaged in that culture.

A note to leave you with: the Dominican who founded this Institute was considered the foremost expert on the Koran in Egypt. Muslim scholars who disagreed would seek him out to settle their debates. Think on this.

As worship experiences go, my day in the garden was a good one. I only wish I’d been able to share it with you.

Cairo Discomfort Israel Spiritual Disciplines

Older than Dirt

Saturday, November 6 was our day to take on the Great Pyramids of Giza. The Great Pyramids are one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World (and the only wonders still standing). They were built 4500 years ago by three Pharaohs in succession. Each pyramid is made up of some 2.5 million identical blocks that weigh thousands of tons each. They are burial plots (and the largest of over 70 similar structures all over Egypt). They’re destroyed in nearly every disaster movie. They’re shrouded in mystery and UFOlogists have all sorts of theories about extra-terrestrial involvement in their construction.

I knew all of this – like you probably do – because these are some of the most famous landmarks (monuments, tourist attractions, wonders) in the entire world. So I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect when we arrived at the Giza Plateau above Cairo and Cheops’ Pyramid emerged out of the clouds (smog?).

These things are HUGE.

I know that probably sounds trite or redundant, but I was taken aback by the physical presence of these things. Until I stood at their base and looked up, I couldn’t grasp how monstrous they truly are. I had always thought you could run up the stones, but each block is over five feet tall. Experienced climbers have died trying to scale them (Mark Antony actually did it, and it’s illegal nowadays).

Thomas and I paid the extra to enter the Great Pyramid and clime into the burial chamber. The experience was spooky – and we had the benefit of built-in stairs and lights; I can’t imagine doing it with maybe a rope and torch. The burial chamber itself was relatively (to the entire structure) small – still big enough to accommodate 20-30 tourists easily.

We then walked around the Pyramids, exploring the ruins of the administrative complex, the smaller tombs of the Pharaohs’ wives and mothers and the pits from which they’d excavated the royal boats with which the Pharaohs had been buried, making our way down towards the Sphinx.

And these things are so ancient. These were built over 500 years before Abraham was born. We are closer to Jesus than Jesus was to these pyramids. They’re OLD. And HUGE. It’s easy to feel that there must be something otherworldly about them.

The most shocking aspect of the Giza Plateau was the selling. We couldn’t walk more than a few steps without someone grabbing us and trying to force money out of our hands. One man came up and grabbed my camera out of my hand, then tried to get me up on his camel (once you’re up, you have to pay to get down). I refused, but he still dressed me like an Egyptian (with a headdress and scarf) and took my pictures. Then he tried to get money from me; I grabbed my camera and resolutely refused, and marched off (managing to give him his gear back and reacquire my hat). This pattern persisted – acknowledge that these guys exist in any way (even eye contact!) and you’d better run. Apparently the government has cracked down pretty substantially on this practice – Mark Twain wrote that it ruined his trip to Egypt.

(In fact, these were not the cleverest of the scams – quite a few men wore very official looking outfits and would stand on the way to a pyramid or sphinx and demand you go buy a ticket, then try to direct you to a co-schemer who would gladly take money you don’t actually have to pay. If you simply walk past them, they start shouting at someone else.)

Surprisingly, the con-artists thinned out down by the Sphinx and we were able to enjoy a (relatively) unadulterated view of this crazy statue. I didn’t realize that the Sphinx has a full body; I’d always assumed it was just a bust. But in fact it has hind paws, a tail and a butt, or sphincter as Anthony Mako wanted me to point out.

After Giza, we enjoyed a trip down the Nile in a felucca, which was peaceful and relaxing (a nice chance from the insanity at Giza!)

Sunday we headed out to the Egyptian Museum, which was built around 1908. King Tut’s tomb – whose riches now take up about 1/4 of all the museum’s space wasn’t discovered until the 1920s, so you can imagine how crowded it is. It’s also very old school – not laid out well, not well-lit (apparently, they’re getting a whole new museum ‘one day’ so they’re just waiting for that to fix everything).

I loved seeing all the artifacts in here – wood, paper, flesh (you know, on the mummies), all of it 3,000-4,500 years old. To see the remains of such an old and totally foreign civilization, to know that they’ve been gone from the Earth longer than I can even imagine was hard to get my brain around.

To see their chariots, and know that – as silly as they look now – that technological breakthrough made Egypt an unquestioned military power for hundreds of years. To see the statutes and monuments and models and on and on and on.

Ancient Egyptian religion also fascinates me – the gods with animal heads. As a kid, I always thought it was so bizarre (and shout-out to Stargate, loved their reinterpretation of the whole thing). But looking through the museum, I could see so many similarities to the ancient Israelites’ religion. King Tut’s tomb even contained an Ark of Anubis that is clearly similar in structure (we don’t know exactly what it was for) to the Ark of the Covenant (even though Tut was a Pharaoh of the Middle Kingdom, which means he ruled long after the Exodus).

The Giza Plateau and Egyptian Museum only confirmed how far I am from home, how strange and alien the world of the Ancient Egyptians would have been to me. And yet the ancient Hebrews would’ve had much more in common with Egypt. Abraham, Jacob, Gideon, certainly Moses and even Jesus would’ve felt much more comfortable in Egypt than in my home.

This was a great reminder that I am the stranger to the Bible. I can’t assume I know what it means from a cursory reading, or that ‘what it says’ is necessarily what it means.

Because it was written by some people that I would’ve found very strange indeed.

Egypt Israel Other

Cairo & Xenophobia

We arrived in Cairo late on the evening on Thursday (November 4). Getting through Customs and entering the city took quite a bit longer than I had expected (plus it cost $15 just to get into Egypt!), but we finally hailed a cab at about 11:30 pm local time, and headed to the French Institute of Oriental Studies (apparently, ever Dominican institution founded in the Middle East is French).

Our cab driver was the second-most aggressive driver in Egypt, which puts him high in the rankings world-wide (I say second-most aggressive because another driver nearly killed us and didn’t bat an eye). I’ve been on the road in three Central American countries and they don’t hold a candle to the streets of Cairo. Most streets don’t have any markings on them at all, which means that there are as many lanes as any individual driver chooses. Even where the streets are marked, drivers treat the marks as kind suggestions at best (which can be frightening given that the marked streets tend to be bigger, more-used thoroughfares). That lovely road that looks to be a 6-lane highway? In practice, I’d bet on closer to 10-12, depending on the nanosecond you choose to count.

Maybe it’s just because we arrived on what is essentially Friday night in the Muslim world (Friday is the Muslim Holy Day), but Cairo even at midnight was alive and bursting with energy. From my window, I can hear horns bleating all hours of the day and night. The biggest difference I’ve noticed is how dirty Cairo is. The filth is party due to the fact that, as Father Kevin put it, we’re on the edge of a sandbox as big as the United States. Everything is covered in a thin layer of sand. But beyond the sand, the city is just polluted. You can smell it all the time, see it on every street.

We were greeted at the Institute by a Dominican brother who welcomed us with bread and cheese, then quickly settled into our rooms and headed out the next morning to the al-Hussein Oriental Bazaar, one of the largest bazaars in the world (a bazaar is a lot like a market). All the prices here are negotiable, which always takes me a while to get into when I travel. Merchants yell at us as we pass, offering (and more often demanding that we purchase) every sort of good imaginable. The merchants are shockingly pushy – if you’re not very firm, you’ll get pulled into their shop and they’ll practically take money out of your wallet. They’re incredible salespersons (in fact, according to the Lonely Planet guidebook, the merchants who work this bazaar are better than anyone else in the world) and negotiating with them is frustrating at first, but can be quite fun. I managed not to get ripped off too badly by the end of the day.

Even more than in Jerusalem, I noticed a strong xenophobic reaction in myself. Egypt is thoroughly non-Western. Egyptians don’t seem to have any great love for America (though they’re not especially hateful either). In the less modern areas of the city, everyone seems to be selling something, and their friendliness so often degraded into a sales pitch that I quickly grew wary of anyone who complimented by beard (“You look like Egyptian man!” while stroking a fake beard) or my tattoos (“Shalom! Where you from?” upon seeing my Star of David, or more frequently simply, “Hey, Mr. Tattoo! Nice tattoos!”).

Beyond that, this was my first time in a truly Muslim culture. I grew up (and still live) in the Midwest, where we have a church building on every corner. Where (as a rule) our culture’s greatest, most grandiose architecture was built to the glory of the Holy Trinity. Where even as church attendance plummets, the effects Christianity has had on our culture are inescapable.

Not so in Cairo. Though Egypt was once Christian for several hundred years, you’d never know it today. Egypt was one of the first countries to convert to Islam, and so has been Muslim for about 6 times as long as America has been a nation. The culture is thoroughly Muslim. Nearly every woman wears a headscarf (if not a full burka). Many men wear the traditional long Muslim robe. There’s narry a BLT to be found (and I’m pleased to report that the KFC Double-Down sandwich is not served in Cairo’s KFCs). In our cab rides all over the city, we’ve seen one dilapidated building bearing a cross.

I’ve felt very out of place here. And much to my shame, I’ve felt afraid, suspicious when I’ve been out in the City proper. I say that’s to my shame because no one here has treated me as anything worse than an ignorant American tourist (which is to say, the shop owners try to cheat me out of money). And that’s the exception rather than the rule. Most people have been very kind and helpful. Very friendly.

Once I overcame my initial shock at being in such a different place, I began to notice similarities. In the shop windows of women’s boutiques, mannequins sporting designer headscarves stand next to others displaying fashions that would draw attention at any American night club. At the Pyramids and the Egyptian Museum (more on these visits tomorrow!), Muslim school children ignore their teachers and laugh with their friends as they run from point to point. As we were heading to get some lunch, a young Muslim woman came up beside me and started examining my tattoos. She laughed and smiled at me, flashed me a thumbs-up and then pantomimed lifting weights before heading off in a different direction, waving and calling out a goodbye as she went.

My time in Cairo has helped me to see that, despite the (very) foreign exterior, beneath all the strange customs and incomprehensible Arabic, the Egyptians are shockingly familiar. Beneath the sand and dirt, Cairo’s smog isn’t all that different from LA’s. The mosques aren’t gathering terrorists. These people are just like you and me. They’re just as ethnocentric and patriotic. Just as passionate (or indifferent) about their beliefs. They love and fear and want and need just like us. Of course, recognizing our common humanity doesn’t solve any problems, but it at least gives us a good place to start talking.

As soon as I learn Arabic…

Cairo Israel Other

11-15: Why Batman is the Best

11. Batman really is the best literary character.

I know I’m going to get crucified for this, but it’s true. Batman is all about what it means to be human. He lives in a world that is broken at a fundamental level, and he himself is a victim of that world – he watched his parents murdered in front of him. And in a world where evil seems overwhelming, in a world full of beings with supernatural powers, the Batman is only human. He has no special abilities. He has only his will (and a giant pile of money). As silly as it sounds, I think the Batman speaks to that deep part of us that rages against injustice, that refuses to believe the world is just a random joke. That part of us that knows something’s broken and wants to fix it. That part of us that believes we can do more than everyone else thinks we can. That part of us that knows there’s more to being human than what most people settle for.

12. Violence doesn’t solve anything.

The thing about Batman is that he’s fictional. There’s a reason superheroes don’t really exist: they can’t. The world really is broken, but it was broken by people. We broke (and continue to break) the world by trying to impose our own kind of order on it. Something like 7 billion wills all trying to get the world to march to the beat of our own drums and we wonder that chaos seems to be the order of the day? And somehow we’ve gotten it in our heads that the answer is to try harder than everyone else. That if we are louder or stronger or more powerful than everyone else, our way will reign supreme. But that’s not true. Violence only begets more violence. Violence can be effective in the short term, but it doesn’t fix the fundamental problem, the break at the core of who we are. It only makes it worse.

13. The worst kinds of violence aren’t physical.

In fact, physical violence might be the preferable. Its effects are more immediate, more visible, but they fade more quickly as well. The more insidious kinds of violence are those that leave scars on our souls – emotional abuse, degrading another person’s spirit. Crushing other cultures not by the sword but the commercial. Teaching someone that difference is dangerous, that conformity is humanity. Making someone else feel less human because s/he doesn’t fit into your idea of a perfect world. That’s much worse.

14. Power is dangerous.

And that’s scary, because as soon as you have influence over another person, it’s possible (even likely) that you’re going to hurt him or her. None of us is perfect; we all try to remake the world in our own images. And that means we’re always at risk – always toeing the line between really engaging another person and colonizing him, remaking her to fit into our world.

15. The best place to be is uncomfortable.

Safe is easy. And easy is dangerous, because easy is comfortable. When we’re comfortable, we get complacent and we quit paying attention. We stop asking hard questions. We start to think we’re the king of our castles. Being in an uncomfortable space reminds us that we’re not in control. That the world is stranger than we like to remember. That other people really aren’t the way we want them to be. The uncomfortable spaces are a very good place to meet God.

As I write this, I’m sitting on the balcony of a Dominican Institute in Cairo listening to the Muslim call to prayer echo across the city. I’m pretty far outside my comfort zone.

Who’s your favorite character? Where have you been the victim of violence? What about the perpetrator? And how comfortable are you where you are?

Batman Birthday Leadership Pacifism Story Violence