April 22, 2003

Easter / Walk to Emmaus

[Bethlehem, West Bank] It's been a busy weekend. I think Easter Holy Week must be the most hectic time of the year for religious leaders in Jerusalem. There are so many events commemorating Jesus death and resurrection. You've got something going on every day. I didn't go to much of it. (But I still have the opportunity to go to a lot more, since Easter isn't over yet. Orthodox Christians celebrate it this Sunday.)

Easter sunrise

Easter morning

I opted for Easter in Bethlehem this year. Bishop Munib Younan asked "Who will roll the stone away?" and Phoebe was baptized at the Christmas Lutheran Church. Very nice service. Later I had lunch with the Salsa family, and we had a quick band practice since Usama was in town. I'm getting kicked out of the band. They don't have a need for a poor guitarist who only knows three chords. Darn.

Sandra and Bishop Younan give Phoebe's cousin a little religious instruction

And yesterday I made one of the worst decisions of my adult life. I've made some poor decisions before, but this one has got to rank near the top.

My crazy German friend JZ invited me to join him and a group of superhuman wonderbar uber-hikers in their annual trek to Emmaus. (My Jewish carpenter boss Jesus Christ walked with a few disciples on the way to Emmaus after he was resurrected. He taught them and interpreted scripture. And so it is now a pilgrimage site.) I've done the spiritual retreat which the United Methodists call "The Walk to Emmaus," -- other groups call it Tres Dias or whatever -- so I was anxious to actually do the walk. There are several possible locations for Emmaus, but this particular hike was to the most distant site -- about 23 miles (37 km) from Jerusalem.

I thought the walk would be a good opportunity for reflection. Perhaps a revelation of some sort. A new and refreshing scripture interpretation. But usually when I expect some sort of spectacular divine intervention, it doesn't happen. This particular experience was more like torture.

I've always considered myself to be in fairly decent shape. Always enjoyed sports. Grew up on the farm with all the haymaking that goes with it. Even finished a few short distance triathlons (in last place) some years ago. So a moderately-paced walk should be no problem, right? I figured I could walk 100 miles if I walked slow enough. Granted, I am not currently involved in any exercise program. I am not lifting weights or running or biking or swimming. However, I do usually walk to the taxi waiting outside my front door.

A medium-rain fell as our fresh group started from Jerusalem at 7am. Ages ranged from about 12 to 70+. I cleverly paced myself by staying near the back of the group, taking my time as those in front went out too fast and surged ahead. I watched as an impeccably-groomed Poindexter-type scrambled over rocks and slippery slopes in his dress shoes and slacks. I think he might have been wearing a tie. I chuckled to myself that this guy was in for a long day. But Mr. Poindexter seemed to be getting along well in his non-athletic attire, so I tried to use him to gauge my progress.

I struggled. By the end of the tenth mile I had blisters. We stopped for lunch. I was hoping that we would call it a day then and there. I was pretty soaked. My feet were begging for attention. I wanted to take my shoes off, but I was afraid of being incredibly embarrassed at my blood-soaked socks. Poindexter stood during lunch chatting amicably with those around him. He looked refreshed by the experience. I wondered if he was mentally in a different place.

I decided to try to focus on God and ignore the pain. Recite a few scriptures. Pray a bit. I'm pretty sure that I was thinking about God for a full 30 seconds before I started feeling the pain in my feet and legs. Then I started praying a lot more. I prayed that God would get me through this miserable experience.

Everyone else looked fine. There was a bounce to their step. Through the valleys, over the hills, they continued to walk. I found myself at the rear of the group, but not because I was pacing myself. Since Poindexter (and his shined, black slip-on loafers) was long gone, I set a new goal for myself -- I would attempt to keep visual contact with the next-to-last hiker so that I knew where the path went and would not be lost in the Israeli rock piles.

I was beginning to doubt that Jesus walked to this particular Emmaus site. If he did, I think he and his disciples were in pretty darn good shape. Was it common for folks in those days to walk 20 miles? The Bible does mention that Jesus explained all of the difficult scriptures to his disciples. If this was the walk, then he certainly had the time.

Ten hours -- and 23 miles -- after we left Jerusalem, I dragged myself to a bench at Emmaus. At that point, I believe my body was in the worst condition it has ever been in. I was walking like a 90-year old man. Well, not any of the 90-year old men on this hike, but like normal 90-year old men -- the ones who are slumped over and walking with bent knees and pained expressions.

A kindly, bespectacled nun smiled and suggested that I walk up the hill to the monastery room where grapefruit juice was offered. I'm afraid of what I said -- it has been repressed from my memory -- but she didn't ask again, and I didn't move. Literally. I didn't move. An evening service was held at the archaeological site of the old church, but I didn't move. The Patriarch arrived in his chauffer-driven limousine with important little flags on the corners, but I didn't move or salute or cross myself or anything. Without moving my head, I glanced at the others in the service. They were standing and praying and singing and offering praises. Poindexter was processing round and round the church. I was slumped in a sort of fetal position.

JZ came up to me after the service and congratulated me on finishing. "What a great day! You did it! You just walked 23 miles! There is rejoicing in Heaven!" He helped me to a nearby taxi and invited me on the next hike -- Jerusalem to Jericho. This hike is about the same distance, but requires some rappelling, rope-climbing, and swimming through natural pools. Yeah, I think it sounds great -- but if I'm not there, please start without me.

We walked through war-destroyed Lifta

We walked under highways

We walked past Roman road-markers

Some of us walked wearing garbage bags.

We finished the 23-mile walk with a service in the ruins of a church at Emmaus.
It seemed like we stood more than usual.