Who Am I?

I've been giving some thought, lately, to our perceptions of ourselves--and how different they can be from how others perceive us.

You see, one member of my high school class began to find, through Facebook and other social networking sites, other members of the class--people I knew long ago, most of whom I haven't thought of in years.

In fact, I was one of those "lost" members that lurk in every alumni association. I had walked out after graduation, determined to get out of town, to do something different, to be someone else--someone that wasn't the despised, insecure high school dweeb. And I thought that was original, when really, it's the story of almost every teenager, everywhere. So I didn't think about high school, or about the people there, for many years. Until a couple of things happened--first, I got an alumni newsletter addressed to Chris Larsen, someone from some other class, some other year. (I suspect that the search abilities of the internet at that time were not quite at the level they are now) However, in an act of kindness--I mean, perhaps the unknown Chris Larsen really needed the information in that newsletter--I returned it with an explanation, and of course, then I entered the data banks of the "found". Secondly, I had entered into my lengthy debate with God over who I was, and what I was supposed to be doing with my life. Ministry was definitely not part of the way I perceived myself. This necessitated a review of who I was, where I had come from, where I was going. I checked the web for Classmates, found a few people I had known, contacted a couple, engaged one night in a glass-well, really more of a bottle of wine--and made a fool of myself trying to reconcile the life that I lived, the person I had become, with where I had been. To anyone reading this who received one of those emails, I sincerely, sincerely, sincerely apologize.

Obviously, God won the argument, and, against all my own perceptions of myself and my gifts, I became the Reverend Shelby Larsen. Then came Facebook, and contact with so many people from my teenage years.

What I discovered was that they had memories of high school, and of me, and of events where our lives crossed that were certainly different from my own memories and interpretations. Where I saw a weakling, one friend saw a "gentle personality". (Incidentally, everyone I've related that to has the same reaction--did they know you? because no one who knows me now would use the word gentle) And yet, I was very sensitive. I've heard that all my life--Shelby, you're too sensitive. And this particular friend saw that part of me. Others recalled "confidence". I remember having absolutely none. One even said "intimidating". Me? I felt like I was the most picked upon person in the class.

And I wonder how many people have similar experiences? How many feel unconfident, picked upon, ignored, dismissed? If popular culture is any guide, it's not an uncommon condition among teens.Despite my self centeredness, I was undoubtedly not the only one in my class who had that view of self.

So am I sorry that I may have misread some of my high school years? Do I feel I lost opportunities?

No, and no, and no. In the first place, I'm fairly sure that I was not sensitive, confident, or intimidating all the time. I know that there was a lot of dweeb, or geek, or dork, or just plain stupidness in my behavior. And secondly, I have come to accept what seems at time to be a platitude: that we are the sum of all of our experiences. I have not come to where I am easily, or lightly. And I still have many failings in my dealings with others, and with myself. But I'm not as hard on myself, because, frankly, we're all in the same boat. So who am I? Not who I thought I was, and probably not who I think I am, and not who I eventually will be. Just who God made me.

Monday, June 29

I just got back from vacation on Saturday night, and so when I showed up for church on Sunday, I was somewhat out of the loop. We were trying a new concept in our first, contemporary service--a Twitter service. The idea is that it will become inter-active--that people can tweet in their thoughts as the service goes along, and  thus join in as we worship and praise God.  It worked. sort of. Kind of. Well, somewhat.  We had technical difficulties. It had become a complex task to get wireless into the Sanctuary . . .and I'm glad, from the description , that I wasn't here for most of that work. Then, because my husband, The Gadget Guy, was the designated techie to use his presentation computer for the live feed, and The Gadget Guy and I had been on vacation, creating a lack of, shall we say, practice, with the equipment, the live feed stopped about half way through. Some people--including some of the staff--are challenged by new methods of communications, and so there was some fumbling with PDAs throughout.  So perhaps I should say that it didn't work at all.  But it seems to me that though some of the congregation were dismissive of the Twitter aspect, and some were frustrated by our very basic multi-media attempts, many were looking at this experience with open minds. We were trying something new; we were communicating; we were focused on bringing God's word into our lives and into the technological equipment that demands so much attention from so many of us these days.  I don't know how often we'll have a Twitter service; I just hope that our first is not our last.

Galilee. The Sea

it is just plain beautiful. Not as large as one might think, but nestled in the hills, with the Jordan coming in one end, and going out through another.
No wonder Jesus hung out here. It's gorgeous. And now, its clearly a resort area. A place where people come to relax, to get away, to swim, to eat, to fish.
Understandable.
So, in Israel, land of many cultural contradictions, we go to a kibbutz. There we will embark on a boat trip to Tiberias. Down to the dock--and there, anchored, are replicas of first century boats. They are dubbed "the Jesus boats". OK. The first one is almost full, but we don't try to board it,, because its just going on a tourist view trip around the lake. We will wait for the next boat--the boat to Tiberius. We get on that one--so far, the only passengers. We wait. And wait. Evidentally the kibbutz boat system does not operate on a time schedule, but on capacity. The tour boat fills. We remain, a lonely three travelers to Tiberias. I am succumbing to the power of the water, and dozing on the bow of the boat, when the tour boat leaves the dock, loudly blasting "The Star Spangled Banner". I sit up, and watch the boat sail out into Galilee, hoisting the American Flag, and broadcasting the national anthem.
I soon find out that this is not an exhibition of solidarity with our country, because a large bus shows up with other travelers to Tiberias. This is a British group, and we soon set sail to the tune of "God Save the Queen" and the Union Jack--followed, for three of their members by the Irish flag and anthem.a Then, two people from the Isle of Man performed their patriotic duty. Curious, I walked up front to find, beneath the captain's wheel, a large segmented bin with the flags of every possible nation, and a rack of CD's with presumably enough national anthems to serve the Olympics.
In the middle of the lake (sea is really an exaggeration!) the Vicar accompanying the tour group asks for the motor to stop, and for us to silently contemplate as he has two people read appropriate scripture. In the middle of the reading, a loud vroooom, vrooom, comes and a launch approaches, ready to aid us--or find out why we've stopped. One is never sure in this age of uber-security.
Its much like life--take a few moments for prayer or contemplation, and people want to know "what's wrong?"
It seems to have broken the mood for the Brits, too. They discuss the snow on Mount Hebron, a couple get on the prow to re-enact the "Titanic--King of the World" pose, and they start to laugh and argue over the flags--whose is bigger.
We disembark, and walk past the resort amenities to check in at the hotel. Its too cold--but if i were here later, would I try water skiing, or banana boating?
Riding a banana on the Sea of Galilee. A strange concept. One I can't quite get past in my mind.
And then I think--The sea was probably used for a great many things--food, drink, washing--and children playing. Even adults might have enjoyed a cooling splash .
Maybe banana boats aren't so strange, after all.

Nazareth

We head out to Nazareth, which is located high in the hills. Its a large, crowded city. I ask--they estimate a population of about 60,000. Traffic--difficult, no impossible. There's one road in, one road out. At the Church of the Annunciation, we see the "family home". It's plausible, a grotto of sorts, where the carpenter shop appears to be a cave. You view it through a hole in the floor of the current, modern church. The Church of the Annunciation is indeed modern, but built over the ruins of a Crusader church, which was built over a Byzantine church. Our guide tells me that there are images of Mary sent to this, the current church, from all over the world. Without a hint of irony, he tells us we can find "Miss America" on the second floor. We do. She's quite modern, quite metallic, quite shiny. She's not at all shy.
We venture on, navigating the single road. Cars dodge around each other, cut each other off, double park, park in the center strip, stop . . .whatever. But there's no choice of route. This is the way to Nazareth. Crowded, threatened, inconvenienced, frustrated. Nothing to be done about it, because-- this is the way to Nazareth. There is the city, set in the ancient site, and a new Israeli city above Nazareth--I think of it as Nazareth Heights, but I think it may really be "Upper Nazareth". Development covers so much of the hills--why would I have ever thought that Nazareth, or any other place in Israel, for that matter, would be exempt from it? Later in the day, we visit Cana. The Roman Catholic church there, Franciscan, has an Italianate exterior, and what I think of as a typical Roman Catholic interior. The dome, interestingly, in view of the high proportion of Arab/Palestinian residents, has blood red Crusader crosses in its stained glass. It too is built on Byzantine ruins--but only the foundation of the fourth century building remains. In the basement (crypt? Lower level?) there is a large crude hollowed out stone said to date from Jesus' time. I think that means it might be like the storage jars for the wine at the wedding.
There's a more modern side chapel, which has on one wall a photographic tryptich of wine jars. It reminds me that we are always trying to "update" our message, to make our images "friendly and relateable" or to use a "trendy" communication device (like a blog)--and yet underneath me is the Byzantine ruins, the earlier foundation stones, etc. etc.

The Holy Land, Continued

Well, since I am now posting notes about my trip to the Holy Land a full year AFTER the trip (possibly a new mark in procrastination, even for me), I've decided to stop trying to record my day to day impressions--heck, I could hardly remember them a month later, let alone a year later--and just go for the highlights that I find in the notes I kept at the time.

Masada: An extremely cool site. The photo of me on this blog was taken on top of Masada. One can climb to the top, or take the tram. I did not even consider the climb! One of the things that I liked most
about the site was the way that archeologists, and reconstruction experts, worked together and drew large black lines at the point where the walls were excavated, and the portions that had been reconstructed. From the top, the outline of the Roman encampments is clearly visible. There are some historic sites that one visits that are difficult to imagine; others that are quite clear; Yes, you say, this can and did happen here. I can see it, I can feel it. Masada is one of those places.

Ein Gadi: An oasis, with a waterfall. Quite lovely. Kassim, the guide, tells me that this is the site of the cave where David, in hiding, was able to creep up behind Saul, and cut off a piece of his clothing,proving that he had the ability to kill him, but refrained from doing so. Maybe, I think. We've climbed back into the hills, past a series of small waterfalls, until we reach a much larger one, flowing in front of a sort of a cave--though it seems to me to be more of a large hollowed out space behind the waterfall. Can't see how David could have hidden from, or snuck up on, anyone. Admittedly, I didn't venture behind the waterfall, and so there could be a better hiding place that I'm just not seeing . . .but it doesn't really matter. Chuck takes a lot of photos, but I just sit and put my feet in the water. Its peaceful--except for the parties of tourists.I wish they weren't here-- but, really, why should I be the only person touring these lovely spots?

Qumrun: Desert. Museum. A few ruins. The Romans did a pretty good job destroying this area post-Masada. Good exhibition. Good gift shop,

Jericho: Jericho is one of my most vivid memories of this trip. I never realized it, but Jericho is, essentially, a very large oasis. You come through the dry land, alongside the Dead Sea. We take a turnoff, and see green,a large hotel, and palm trees, lots of palm trees, ahead. Beautiful. But Jericho is in Palestinian territory. To get there, you need to clear an Israeli security checkpoint. The line of traffic is long--but when we finally inch up to the checkpoint the magic word, "tourists" and the even better American passports, get us waved on rapidly.
Jericho is much much much less prosperous than the Israeli areas we have been travelling through. The buildings are unkempt. People and dogs wander the streets. The traffic lights do not work.

We go to Tell Jericho, the site of the original city. Kassim says that it has not been heavily excavated, though one shaft dug to bedrock showed 22 layers of civilization dating back to the Bronze Age. I believe it. This greenland, surrounded by the brown, lying between mountains and the Jordan River--a logical place for human habitation, no matter what era. Later, in Jordan, on the opposite side of the river, I stand on Mount Nebo, where Moses theoretically stood, looking across at Jericho, and I see, I see, how it could indeed have been the Promised Land, the land of milk and honey, the square of green, with water, and palm trees distinct against the brown of the surrounding desert. Jericho. I will always remember it.

And then--the "tile factory" . A place where all my suspicions regarding tourist souvenirs appears to be confirmed. As well as producing some beautiful mosaic tile pieces--and we dutifully buy some--the factory is making leather, and wood, and plates, and other items I've seen in the gift shops everywhere. Souvenir central at last!
I buy stuff to take home for everyone.

Another day, another site; Bethlehem. Getting there, from Jerusalem, should be easy, but it isn't. Bethlehem, like Jericho, is in Palestinian hands. Because it is, in our terms, quite close to Jerusalem, Israeli security is difficult. We pass through in the car, with relative ease, the "tourist" and "American passports" being the key. Kassim, who is Palestinian, Christian, and a resident of Bethlehem, must get out, and walk though a buiding where additional security checks are made. We wait for him on the other side. This is one of the places where Israel has erected its security wall. It is very intimidating. Its path is not straight--for example, it veers to incorporate the site of Rachel's Tomb on the Israeli side. The weather is bad--sleeting and raining--manger Square is deserted, and the Church of the Nativity has few visitors. St. Catherine's. and the adjacent Church of the Nativity, are churches with "custody" issues, as well as layers of church history. The Byzantine, the Crusader, the 18th century restorations, all are layered here. I try to feel something at the place of the Nativity, but it isn't easy. I try to pray, and there is more "connection" than I've had at other sites. Perhaps it is more closely aligned with what, in my mind's eye, it should be. You can imagine Christ born in one spot, laid in a manger in another . . .Chuck finds it more touching than I do.


But for sheer excessive kitsch, the Field of the Angels--with "Gloria" in writing everywhere. One cave looked as if it were set for an angelic tea party--table, chair--I'm not sure why. Perhaps the cave could have been used to shelter the sheep, I certainly can't discount it. But oh, the "Glorias" that surround it. My notes say that "somehow, a neon arrow would seem tame" in this environment.

As we leave, to return to Israeli territory, and Jerusalem, I am moved to say that whatever the security issues are, whatever the political issues, the right and the wrong of both sides, it seems that this is a place that has always been, and perhaps will always be, steeped in conflict. On the human level, though, I think that power is always a difficult issue for those who have it. Sometimes it seems that all of us use our power, whether expressed in the official status of the Israeli soldiers, the AK 47s that you see on men accompanying school groups, and even the status of our "American passports" ---we use it because we can, because others can't, and all too often without thought, or without empathy.

This is not an easy place to be. Not now, not 2000 years ago.

so this is where it happened? Day 3

Snow in Jerusalem.

When I wrote the letter I always include with my Christmas cards, I was sure this happened in the second day of our arrival. Looking at my notes, though, I find realize that it was, in fact, the third day. This probably has no real significance, except that either my jet lag was worse than I thought, or that the snow made a huge impression on me. In either event, it's clear that events are filtered through both mind and memory, so what I write here is subject to the vagaries of memory, the influence of emotions, and a relatively reliable but not guaranteed practice of note taking. Hey, its a blog, not a dissertation!

And so now, remembered and reconstructed, Day Three.

In the night, the snow fell. By five a.m., there's probably 2" of snow covering Jerusalem. My husband, Chuck, in full Photographer mode, thinks that there will be a great location on the Mount of Olives, looking back towards the city.

We ask the hotel doorman to get us a cab. The doorman clearly believes that we are insane, but calls the cab.
The cab driver clearly agrees with the doorman, but agrees to take us. We start off; the snow worsens; the driver's cell phone rings; it is his wife, asking why he is out, when he is coming home; he translates for us. What I
suspect he is not translating is "why are you out with those crazy tourists". He tells her not to worry, and go back to bed. She does not take his advice. I know, because she calls again. And again. And again. His decision to stay out in the snow with crazy tourists becomes more understandable. When we reach a lookout spot on the Mount of Olives, the Photographer sets up his equipment but the snow and wind increase. Visibility is dreadful. The photographic expedition is a failure. We return to a very welcome hotel breakfast.

After breakfast, we meet Kassim, our guide, and Eli, the driver, and venture out, though snow and sleet continue unabated. First, we go to the Church of St. Anne, which is located by the pool at Bethesda. This is not on our original plan, but I really wanted to see the pool. The church is a lovely old stone crusader church, probably the best preserved crusader church in Jerusalem. There is a small Asian tour group inside, singing. Its about 15 or 20 people, but the sound like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. What a lovely moment of worship. What a lovely church.

Our next stop is at the purported "Upper Chamber", which is, for reasons I never determined in my entire visit, located on top of the Tomb of David, which is also conveniently located directly next to the Church of St. Peter Gallicanta, which may be where the cock crowed, but also is built over the "dungeon" where Christ was imprisoned. It's certainly convenient for single stop tourism, but . . .(there's that pesky "reason" part of my mind again) And, as if to confirm my thoughts there are multitudes of tour buses crowded into the parking lot. They jostle each other, blocking one way, threading through another, looking for places to park, each with a little sign in front identifying their group. The Tarrytown Synagogue squeezes in next to the Sacramento Bible Church, while the Ethiopian Pilgrimage continues to circle. Brother John's (location not divulged) Pilgrimage tries to edge into the fray, but is met with resistance from a bus merely labelled "Atlanta". All of the "sites", one on top of each other, are like children shouting for attention. In fact, it seems to me that most of the "sites" we have seen, at this location or elsewhere in the city, could be equated with children, all saying "Look at me, Father", or "Love me best, Father", "Pay attention to me, make me more successful," each of them polishing, if not outright embellishing their legends, making themselves, more and more ornate . . .which is why, perhaps, I loved that little, out of the way, not on the tour route, plain stone crusader Church of St. Anne.

Chuck remarks that wherever ANYTHING happened, or may have happened, or might have happened, there's a church, or a Jewish site, or a mosque. Pretty much true. How to find the faith, the sanctity, the spirit in all of this? Why can't I feel that yes, this is Holy Ground?

We walk the "Holy Steps", dating from the 1st century, connecting the City of David with the Kidron Valley. . .which would make it the route to and from this Upper Room to Gethsemane. If the locations were correct, if the route was right, this could be, could be, a place where indeed Jesus walked during that dark night. The steps were covered in slush. There was freezing rain falling. And out of all those buses, all those people, we were the only ones on the steps. There were no other footprints in the snow.

At the lower entrance to the Upper Room, the sign said "never closed". But there was snow in Jerusalem. When we got up the steps to the Upper Room, the door was locked. There was no one there. Closed.

Getting Back on Line Redux

So, in June 2008, I wrote about how I intended to be much more diligent in keeping up this blog. The problem is, that like many writers, I really avoid writing. I will get up, walk around, eat, check the internet, eat, check my emails, tidy up the room, eat, reorganize my files, eat, talk on the phone, eat . . .all of which results in extra pounds, constantly re-arranged desks and environments, and very little writing.
And now its January, and I made it my New Year's resolution to keep up the blog. And, like most decisions made at the first of the year, its a resolution that's coated all over with "good intentions". (note: the date is the 15th, already. not a good start)
Yep, good intentions I've got. What I wonder about is good material. I've never been sure that my life or thoughts are of interest to anyone else. In fact, I think of my life as everyday boring. Nothing to write home about, let alone, writing to the world at large. Most of the time I'm quite sure that everyone is leading more interesting lives than I am, and that nothing I think/do is worth commenting on . . .
But now--now--now--I've found FACEBOOK.
As a church, we have put up a Facebook page; that meant I needed to create a Facebook page; that led to the discovery of how Facebook works; which led to a quick tutorial by my daughter, and a just "check it out, Mom";--and that is quickly, I think, becoming an addiction. On Facebook, I can read which people I know are getting ready for dinner, which people I know are going shopping, which people I know are planning to take in a movie.
This has led to two things: One, an epiphany--my life is pretty much like everyone else's--we're all, in most ways on most days "everyday boring". And Two: Its the accumulation of those things--the places we go to, the people we talk to, the friends--old and new--that pop up on Facebook, that make up the totality of our society, and that have molded our individual souls. It's an almost forgotten name from high school, my daughter's friends in their fourth grade picture, a glimpse of my nephew "tagged" from someone else's album, these are the things that not only define my my life now as it is, but also have created the person I am.
And maybe there's a third thing--I can pick and choose from the many many things I read on Facebook, and on the web--and you--whoever the you is out there--can choose to read my musings, or not. If you find me boring, just move along to the next blogger --there's no end to the number of things that may be of more interest to you.
So perhaps I don't need to be famous, or powerful, or influential to write this blog. Perhaps I don't have to wait for something especially unusual, or humorous to happen to me before I make an entry (especially since those things don't happen all that often).
So, once again, the road of good intentions lies before me. And I'm going to try to make a few entries to finish up my Holy Land observations--hey, they're a year late, but perhaps reflection makes them better.
Look for me tomorrow. Or next week. Or next June.