Fire, Wind, and Water

Bless the Lord, O my soul....
You ride on the wings of the wind,
you make the winds your messengers,
fire and flame your ministers....
You make springs gush forth in the valleys....
From your lofty abode you water the mountains....
When you send forth your spirit...you renew
the face of the ground.... —Psalm 104

The desert night is silent as we climb aboard our camels and begin the steep ascent of Mt. Sinai. We leave from just outside the thick walls of ancient St. Catherine's Monastery, home to the world's most complete collections of early Christian manuscripts and icons, and an imposing reminder that monasticism was born here in the Egyptian desert.

A half-moon shines high in the sky like a gem before us, and behind us the Big Dipper scoops into a mountain silhouette. The peaceful quiet is broken only by the gentle humming of my guide and the occasional bellow of a camel protesting its handler's prodding to hurry along.

The last third of the climb is on foot. Guided by moonlight, we alternately scramble and plod up seemingly endless rock steps, stopping often to catch our breath and take in the view of the rugged Sinai wilderness spread out under the stars. At the summit we settle into a cleft in an eastern rock face. Buffetted by a strong wind, we wait. And wait. And then a blaze of red appears above the mountains as the sun greets the day.

This mountain on which we sit is about fire and wind. It is here that Moses encountered the burning bush and received his call to lead his people to freedom. It is to this mountain that God descended in fire and smoke to give Moses the Ten Commandments. And in this same place Elijah, hiding in a cave, confronted wind, fire, and the "still small voice" of God.

Our own journey seems marked by wind and fire. Some may think that the jet stream carried us across the Atlantic to this place; but I believe it was a Pentecost wind. It seems no coincidence that we launched our Middle East sojourn on Pentecost Sunday.

When the day of Pentecost had come, they were all together in one place. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. And all of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability (Acts 2:1-4).

Fire. Evidence that the Spirit is still at work. Sign of light and warmth, symbol of guidance.

 At sunset in Palmyra's ruins, where an ancient tomb is a playground for gypsy children, a family gathers in their sheep and lights a fire. Centuries ago, caravan drivers were guided to this oasis by a fire at night and the glint of sunlight off Palmyra's gilded columns during the day. Our Syrian guide captures the sun on a piece of mirror and uses the reflection as a flashlight to point out carved mysteries on temple walls.

In a small church in Maaloula, candles cast dancing shadows on cold stone walls as a gray-haired priest in a blue robe prays the Lord's Prayer in Aramaic. Rain and hail pound the roof—a rare May storm in the desert—and lightning has knocked out the electricity. "We usually serve our guests water," the priest explains, "but because of the storm, we'll give you sweet wine." As he ushers us toward delicate glasses, he announces proudly that this is "the best aperitif in Syria." In one of the few villages left in the world that still speaks Jesus' tongue, a priest changes water to wine; and I am transported to a time when Christians prayed in secret in dark spaces such as this, singing by the fiery light of candles.

Fires for light and warmth and guidance. Fires of Destruction.

At a research center in Amman, Jordan, archaeologists painstakingly piece together bits of sixth century papyri, carbonized in a fire, looking for clues to a world 1,400 years old. Tomb fires. Temple fires. Crusader castles built over Muslim citadels built over Christian churches built over pagan temples. Christian nails melted down for Muslim bullets. Fire of Holocaust ovens, devouring six million Jewish lives. Israeli fires in a barren "no man's land," clearing a straight view to Jordan in the wake of a massacre of Israeli schoolchildren.

There is a bomb in Gilead; and a mine field in the Golan Heights; and a missile outside Tel Aviv. Fires of threat and conquest—in a part of the world where such destruction has gone on since the beginning of human time.

In Jerusalem's Notre Dame Center, Nora Karmi tells us about life as a Palestinian under occupation. We sit on the border between Arab East Jerusalem and Israeli West Jerusalem. Outside, the Jewish Jerusalem Day commemoration is beginning, a remembrance of Israel's victory in the 1967 Six-Day War. Says Nora, "It's a celebration of something that has created so much suffering." We hear explosions in the street. "They're fireworks," she says hastily. "Don't worry. We have learned to differentiate between fireworks and bombs." Fires of celebration and suffering in a land where one person's party is another person's pain.

Wind. Winds of War. Breezes of life.

 In Petra, Jordan, a desert wind offers a touch of relief from scorching sun as we wander among breathtaking temples and tombs carved in red sandstone. Gusts greet us on Mt. Pisgah, where we take in the Dead Sea-to-Jericho view that Moses saw as he reached toward the Promised Land. We make a reverse trek of that of the early Israelites, heading toward Egypt. At our first glimpse of the Red Sea at Aqaba, I'm reminded of the pillar of cloud by day and fire by night that ushered the Israelites to freedom.

As our feet touch Egypt, a breeze off the Red Sea sets to dancing the brightly colored dresses of young girls on the beach. They surround us and tie colorful bracelets made of thread around our wrists. They smile and say "Gift," then wait for our money. When they hear music coming from the radio of our bus, the whole group of them lines up to dance the macarena!

The children everywhere tug at the heart—gypsies begging for coins and "caramels"; young Bedouin boys selling postcards and trinkets; children of Damascus riding a donkey laden with fruit through the crowded open-air market and of Mt. Sinai trying to peddle rocks. I give a pack of Life Savers to a little girl living among the ruins of Palmyra, who hands one over to a member of our group for 25 Syrian pounds.

The breezes off the Sea of Galilee are the most refreshing, carrying us back 2,000 years to a time when Jesus walked this shore. As we ride the "Jesus Boat," I think mostly of Jesus coming to Peter after the resurrection, sharing a fish breakfast on the shore at daybreak, one of scripture's most poignant moments. A few clouds gather and form a beautiful sunbeam into the water. When the wind comes up and whitecaps appear, I understand how the disciples could become fearful out here.

We see all the traditional sites connected with the life of Jesus: the Shepherds' Field outside Bethlehem; the hillside where 5,000 followers are believed to have been fed; Capernaum and Calvary; birthplace and burial site. It's hard not to feel rushed, but half an hour at the Sermon on the Mount site gives me a moment to ponder anew this passage that has been so formative to my faith and my life commitments.

We climb a Roman aqueduct on the Mediterranean Sea; after visiting Qumran, bob for a moment in the Dead Sea; eat fish in Greece on the shore of the Ionian Sea; and share a breathtaking view in Delphi of the Corinthian Gulf. All this is a reminder that, in addition to fire and wind, this trip is all about water.

We thirst for it, fret about it, hoard and share it. In a very personal way, we come to understand why water is so crucial in the desert; why rivers and springs and cisterns determine Bedouin migratory patterns and settled population centers. We stand in awe of the effort it took to secure water through history, groping our way down huge water tunnels, dropping stones in cisterns to determine depth. We delight in an unexpected downpour in Delphi. Old imagery takes on new meaning: "As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God" (Psalm 42:1).

I'm fascinated with the exquisite mosaics that we discover all along the way, especially the 1.5 million-piece "Mona Lisa of Galilee" mosaic in 23 colors (including a depiction of a whimsical crocodile with rabbit ears) and the Madaba map, which highlights the importance of water in this part of the world, spanning the Jordan River to the Nile. Fish heading toward the Dead Sea turn around when they get a whiff of the salt.

Particularly meaningful for me is our stop at a ford of the Jabbok River. A few months before I left on this journey, I led a weekend retreat based on Genesis 32, Jacob's wrestling match with the angel. In rereading the story, I was moved that Jacob refused to release the angel that struck him in the hip until the angel blessed him. It seems that often that which wounds us also blesses us: The things that break our hearts are often connection points for our ministry.

At the pool of Bethesda, the paralytic is healed. On the Sea of Galilee, faith is restored. In the Jordan River, Jesus is baptized. We stop at the "traditional site" of the baptism, aware of the tragic irony that the actual site lies in the "no man's land" between enemy countries.

Water for life. For healing and renewal. Water for mourning.

An elderly Jewish woman stands beside me at the Wailing Wall, her head in constant motion, her prayers earnest, her tears unceasing. I cannot walk through this divided city without hearing echoes of Jesus' words on his entry into Jerusalem: "As he came near and saw the city, he wept over it, saying, 'If you, even you, had only recognized on this day the things that make for peace! But now they are hidden from your eyes'" (Luke 19:41-42).

Within my view at the Jewish Wailing Wall are the Muslim Dome of the Rock and the Christian Church of the Holy Sepulchre, all within a shadow's length of one another. While Christians form a procession in one part of the city to honor the Virgin Mary, Hasidic Jews in another march behind a Torah scroll held high to mark the end of Sabbath. I place both hands on the wall and pray for more courage in my peacemaking efforts.

Later, I reach out to touch the rock upon which Jesus is believed to have wept in the Garden of Gethsemane. "Then he withdrew from them about a stone's throw, knelt down, and prayed, 'Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done.'...In his anguish he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat became like great drops of blood falling down on the ground" (Luke 22:41-44).

It is here that I finally allow my own tears to fall, overcome by this most poignant plea from Jesus' lips; by his sacrifice; by the horror and hope of it all. Among the olive trees, I add my own water of mourning to this dry and divided land.

During this three-week sojourn, I think often of the story of Jesus and the woman at the well. Jesus crossed over into "enemy territory," Samaria, now part of the contested West Bank. He broke all acceptable Jewish mores to talk with a woman—and a notorious sinner at that. Foreigner, woman, outcast—she was the ultimate "other." But it was to this woman that Jesus revealed the truth of his identity and offered Living Water. He crossed all the constructed boundaries that worked to keep them apart and communed with her at a well. How ironic, given current tensions, that the Christ we serve was a Palestinian Jew.

Water of reconciliation. If only we all took seriously this model of sharing conversation and life. If only we all learned to listen.

And at this sound the crowd gathered and was bewildered, because each one heard them speaking in the native language of each. Amazed and astonished, they asked, "Are not all these who are speaking Galileans? And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?" —Acts 2:5-8

CALLS TO PRAYER from Muslim minarets. Echoes of "Amazing Grace" in St. Anne's Church. Ululations of candy-throwing mothers at their young sons' bar mitzvahs by the Wailing Wall. The varied noises of faith. Different languages, but understandable if we make the effort.

When I handed over my pack of Life Savers to the little girl in Palmyra, she said "Mercí." When I answered "You're welcome," she said "Thank you." I suspect she also knows "Gracias" and "Danke" and a few other words of gratitude. She has had to become multilingual for her survival.

My sojourn in the Middle East convinced me that we all need to become multilingual, at least in the sense that we listen to and respect all the voices. We need to hear the cries for justice—and the petitions and praises to God—in whatever language and posture they are offered.

An ancient psalm, a communal song that commentators believe may have been used in connection with journeys to Jerusalem, has taken on new meaning for me since I've seen Mt. Hermon. We viewed this snow-capped peak after traveling through the Golan Heights, past miles of barbed wire and signs reading "Danger: Mines." The melting snow from this highest mountain in Syro-Palestine was then—and remains today—critical in providing water to the entire region.

How very kind and pleasant it is
when kindred live together in unity!
It is like precious oil on the head,
running down upon the beard,
on the beard of Aaron,
running down over the collar of his robes.
It is like the dew of Hermon,
which falls on the mountains of Zion.
For there the Lord ordained his blessing,
life forevermore. —Psalm 133

Life forevermore—rather than strife forevermore, which some days seems the only possibility in this part of the world. The Palestinian liberation theology center with which Nora Karmi works is called Sabeel. The name means "fountain" or "spring of water." "Christ is our spring of water," she says.

Nora's parents' generation lived together, Jews and Muslims and Christians. "This is our hope," Nora says with passion, "that the barriers that have been built can be broken down, and human beings can live together again."

How very kind and pleasant it is when kindred live together in unity. I pray that the wind of the Spirit will uplift, the fire of the Spirit will impassion, and the water of the Spirit will sustain us all for the work of reconciliation and peace.

Joyce Hollyday, author of Then Shall Your Light Rise: Spiritual Formation and Social Witness, was a Sojourners contributing editor when this article appeared. In May and June of 1997, she traveled throughout Syria, Jordan, Egypt, Israel, Palestine, and Greece on a trip sponsored by H.G. Pattillo and the Pittulloch Foundation.