Christmas in Jerusalem

I strolled down Yafo Street toward the Old City, stopping by a local Shwarma stand for lunch. I sat alone as people around me chatted in Hebrew and watched as the last of the snow melted into the drain. I could pick up a word or two. Another bus bombing had taken place in Tel Aviv, and people were a little on-edge; some carried their government-issued gas masks. When I reached the Old City and passed through Damascus Gate, I discovered that it was completely closed. The streets were vacant and open, but every shop door was secured. The doors were made of steel, so it felt like walking the corridors of a prison rather than a glorious, historical monument. The atmosphere felt the same. Even the Christian shops were closed. I was a little perplexed, so I asked someone passing by about it.

“The IDF retaliated with a military raid in Jenin, so all the Muslims protested by closing all their shops.”

“But even the Christian...”

“This is common. Whenever the IDF has some military raid, the shops close up – even the Christian ones, for fear of persecution from the Muslim community. Well, I gotta run...”

“What sense does that make?” I thought to myself. “They're only hurting their own business. The only people who visit the Old City's Arab shops are tourists and a few locals. The Jews have their Kotel and their quarter, the Christians have their quarter, the Armenians have their quarter, and the Muslims have theirs. Rarely do they even pass through 'enemy territory'. Of course, war isn't that sensible either.”

Some of Jerusalem just seemed a little religious to me – lifeless and stale. While it was fascinating living in the historical Holy Land, I was more interested in the here-and-now. I had such a juxtaposition of emotions, surrounded by people who were poor in spirit – emotionally torn-apart by war. After living there, everything began to take on a different feel. People wore the face of tragedy and depression; religion felt like a dark cloud encompassing Jerusalem. “At least we're still alive,” I thought to myself, “or at least most of us.” My Korean classmate had “accidentally” slept in a month prior when the bus that he took to school was blown up by a suicide bomber. Others were not so fortunate.

I thought back to just a couple days previous when it had snowed – timely enough for us to experience the white blanket that covered the city that only happens once a year, if that. Everything had closed down for the day and a lively spirit lifted the grueling atmosphere. Children threw snow balls, while their parents retaliated. Even the Hasidim (the ultra-orthodox Jews) were caught up in the merriment.

Now an un-white Christmas was almost upon us. Of course, most of the population in Jerusalem were Jews and didn't recognize the holiday, so for them, everything was going to be “business as usual”. But shops in the Old City would soon open again, and anyone wanting to profit from the Christian tourists would step outside their religion to cater to them.

I thought about family – literally half a world away. Maybe I would call them. Or they would call me. This was the first time I had been away from them. I had been away from them before, but usually we were with family for Christmas and other holidays. My classmates had become kind of like family – sharing food, looking out for each other, encouraging each other. Even the lines between churches and Christian organizations became nearly invisible within the City, given the harsh conditions. People banded together as one, helping where it was needed. But most of these were visiting friends in Tel Aviv for the holiday, while I wondered what my own fate would bring.

On my way back to the dorm I looked up to notice three cheery faces in front of me – obviously Americans.

“Hi,” I managed.

“We're headed to the Old City; where are you going?” the girl asked. I felt the cloud of oppression begin to dissipate.

“I'm headed to my dorm; I live at the college on HaNevi'im.” One of the young men wore stylish clothes with the hair on the side of his face carved into a star and two large-gauged holes in his ears. In fact, they all seemed to be trendy with a strange glow about them. “Do I know you?” I asked.

“I don't know, but I thought you looked a little familiar.”

“Brian.” I said.

“Chris.”

“Megan.”

“Andrew. We're from San Francisco.”

“The Promised Land!” I blurted out, referring to a church fellowship there.

“Yeah!?” he answered, a little dumbfounded, but beginning to remember.

“I was on Ellis Street with YWAM and visited the church a few times.” I shared how I loved the pastor there, and we exchanged mutual friends, reveling in the serendipitous encounter.

“You should hang out with us,” two of them offered together. I jumped at it. We joked and laughed along the way, freestyle walking part of the time: jumping off of benches or ancient outcroppings. We stopped by a fast food joint along Yafo Street so they could get something to eat.

“Hey, do you want to hear my testimony,” Andrew asked.

“Sure,” I answered, feeling much better. I sat up as he began rapping his story to us – saved out of drugs, a gang, and a gay lifestyle.

“That's sweet man; I've never heard anything like that before. Amazing!”

“Thanks. So what are you doing for Christmas?” he probed.

“Uh...” I tried to respond, thankful that someone was asking.

“We could come hang out with you!” they offered.
“Yeah sure, let's have Christmas together!” Megan resounded.

“K.” I answered, not sure how it was all going to turn out. “So do you want to still visit the Old City?”

“We're staying there,” Chris said. “so, yeah!” We passed through Jaffa Gate and passed David's Citadel. Wandering the old streets, we stumbled upon some trash laying outside of a shop.

“They throw their trash outside the shop and the garbage collectors come pick it up at night,” I explained. “Except, I've never seen that before.”

“Is that...?” Megan asked.

“I wonder where they got it, and why it's just laying outside the shop with the trash? I've never seen that kind growing in Israel.” Chris retorted.

“After living in Jerusalem for four months, not much surprises me anymore in this city, but I know what I'm going to do.” I grabbed the evergreen tree and began dragging it toward Jaffa Gate. “Stop by any time tomorrow; I'll be around.”

I drug the tree up Yafo, very aware of all the stares I was receiving, but nonetheless determined. I reached the dorm and unlocked the gate. I found a cinder block, propped up our find by my room, and hung some mandarin peels on it. The next day, my new found “family” came over and helped me. Together we cut out ornaments and hung strings of popcorn on the tree, topping it off with a colored paper star. We sat eating a feast of rice and eggs; sided with pita, hummus, and vegetables; and hot tea or wine. I was never before as grateful to be together with people who loved so openly, and thought that God had placed that Christmas tree right there just for us. I wondered too whether these new friends that I was entertaining were really from San Francisco.

Biography:

Brian grew up in Northwestern Montana in a rural town and spent a few years in college at a small Bible college in Iowa, and a semester at a college in Pennsylvania, ultimately finishing a B.S. Degree in Jerusalem, Israel. He has traveled a great deal, working with various Christian organizations in pursuit of sharing Jesus with those who need love, and has spent time in Israel, the Middle East, Africa, Europe, and Asia. He loves many different kinds of art/media; enjoys artistic painting, playing and writing music, hunting, and fishing. Mostly he love spending lots of time with my wife, Melissa, and watching his daughter Elisabeth master the art of walking. He believes his credentials lie merely in what has been freely given to me, for which he can take no personal credit, and what merit his work has, speaks for itself.