The Jerusalem Experiment

I arrived in Israel four months ago with certain pictures drawn in my mind–perceptions of how things ought to be, and what the phrase “holy land” means.

Most of these presuppositions have turned out false, and instead I’ve been cast into a crucible of sorts where my faith has been deconstructed, refined and renewed. There are physical landscapes I’ve visited which speak to these changes, but perhaps none more so than the ancient Moabite city of Kir-hareseth:

Kir-hareseth served as the Moabite capital during the reign on Jehoram in the north and Jehoshaphat in the south. We read in 2 Kings 3 that Mesha served as king over Moab, but since the reign of Jeroham’s father (the illustrious Ahab) Mesha served Israel and was forced to pay an annual tribute of 100,000 lambs and the wool 0f 100,000 rams. It’s likely that Mesha did not, himself, pay the tribute, but rather taxed the Moabite people heavily in order to pay the tribute.

One cannot help but feel sympathy for the Moabite leader who likely found himself stuck: pay the tribute and risk the rebellion of his own people or rescind the wool and lambs and risk wrath of Israel.

2 Kings 3:5 tells us which path Mesha took,

But when Ahab died, the king of Moab rebelled against the king of Israel.

Jehoram garnered the support of the Judean king Jehoshaphat, and the two marched south, around the southern tip of the Dead Sea. The text reminds us of the climate or that route (as a general rule, rainfall in Israel decreases as one moves south and east),

So the king of Israel went with the king of Judah and the king of Edom. And when they had made a circuitous march of seven days, there was no water for the army or for the animals that followed them… (2 Kings 3:9).

The Dead Sea is surround by extreme nothingness, an arid wasteland (Pop quiz: how many fish live in the Dead Sea? Right, none…thus the name). Oases like En Gedi and Jericho are anomalies scattered like diamonds in a massive coal mine.  Languishing in the desert and suffering from dehydration, the Israelite army realized that the imposing 3,000 foot ascent of the Dana Wadi’s sharp cliffs still stood between them and the rouge Mesha. The prophet Elisha (who for some reason had chose to travel from Israel to the middle of nowhere) is quickly summoned to the side of his king, Jehoram and asked to provide something of a miracle. Jehoram probably thought, “If Elisha’s predecessor, Elijah, could provide rain for my father, Ahab, then certainly he could do the same for me.” As usual, the prophet says something that could get him killed,

As the LORD of hosts lives, before whom I stand, were it not that I have regard for Jehoshaphat the king of Judah, I would neither look at you nor see you (2 Kings 3:14).

No sooner, water rolls down the Wadi, without rain or wind. Clearly this is the hand God. Clearly God is fighting on the side of Judah and Israel (and the Edomites, who joined forces with Jehoram and Jehoshaphat) side, Mesha would soon be back in the pocket of Israel (along with his substantial tribute). The prophet even promises,

[The LORD] will…give the Moabites into your hand, and you shall attach every fortified city and every choice city, and shall fell every good tree and stop up all springs of water and ruin every good piece of land with stones (3:18-19).

Charging up the cliffs of the wadi, the Israelites struck hard against Moab (just like the prophet promised),

And they went forward, striking the Moabites as they went. And they overthrew cities, and on every good piece of land every man threw a stone until it was covered. They stopped every spring of water and felled all the good trees till only its stones were left in Kir-haresth, and the slingers surrounded and attacked it (3:24-25).

Crusader castle in Kir-hareseth (Karak)

Most biblical stories end here. Israel wins, the kingdom grows…next chapter. However, in this section of the narrative, something strange happens,

When the king of Moab (Mesha) saw that the battle was going against him, he took with him 700 swordsmen to break through, opposite the king of Edom, but they could not. they he took his oldest son who was to reign in his place and offered him for a burnt offering on the wall. And there came a great wrath against Israel. And they withdrew from him and returned to their own land (3:26-27).

No explanation is given to what this “great wrath” was. Some suggest that the horrendous nature of the king’s actions left the Israelites utterly disgusted, to the point that they would forsake the battle and return home. Others say the king’s child sacrifice elicited such a fury from his troops that they were able to regain ground and force the Israelite contingent into retreat. Either way, Mesha’s decision to kill his own son turned the tide of the battle and caused the “good guys” to fall back. Did God do this? Certainly He allowed it! Which is interesting, given how clearly He expresses His feelings about child sacrifice in other parts of the Bible, for example,

You shall not give any of the children to offer them to Molech (a Canaanite god), and so profane the name of your God (Leviticus 18:21)

Hundreds of years later, it would be Judah’s embrace of this despicable practice that would move the hand of God to carry the Babylonians into Jerusalem (Jeremiah 32:35).

The Israelite withdrawl from Moab leaves lingering questions. Mesha kept his kingdom (though it had been ravaged by the Jehoram and Jehoshaphat), held onto his tribute, and even extended his borders north onto the Medaba Plateau (a more fertile and centrally located stretch of land).

The guy who offers his son to the fire (apparently) wins? He’s given a bigger kingdom?

2,000 years later, as dark cloud of Medieval Christendom swept through the Middle East, leaving corpses of Jews and Muslim scattered atop the sand, a fortress was built in Kir-hareseth by Crusaders looking to force Arab Muslims back into the Saudi deserts.

a chache of canonballs found at Kir-hareseth

2,000 years later, questions arise for Kir-hareseth: “Why would God allow something like the Crusades to happen? How could Christians participate in such brutality? What does it look like to prove to the watching world that ours is not a theology of pointless violence, but of love, grace and truth?

I have no idea why Mesha’s victory only became secure after he sacrificed his son to a pagan God (really, to a demon). I can’t figure out why God would bring the fiery rain upon Sodom and Gomorrah while sparing the Moabites.

During my time in Israel a realization of my ignorance has taken center stage. God is bigger than the boxes we try to squeeze Him into…and my arms are tired from trying. I don’t know why God does the things He does. Questions have turned my brain into an aviary where ponderings perch and and take flight with no semblance of order.

I don’t know much. But I do know that God is good. I realize how simplistic this sounds, but these past few months have torn down presupposition, speculation, and made me feel like a kindergartner with a massive red crayon trying to draw God. I grab my piece of paper and draw a stick figure with a huge heart…good enough.

Moses was found by the living God amidst the crooked crags of Egypt’s Sinai.

David and Jesus encountered the burning heart of the Father in the desolate landscape just East of Jerusalem–the Judean Wilderness.

Paul tells us in his letter to the church in Galatia,

…when he who had set me apart before I was born, and who called me by his grace, was pleased to reveal his Son to me, in order that I might preach him among the Gentiles, I did not immediately consult with anyone, nor did I go up to Jerusalem to those who were apostles before me, but I went away into Arabia, and returned again to Damascus (Galatians 1:15-17).

From Damascus, Paul would have likely traveled South along a common route stretching from Syria to what is now southern Jordan. Quite possibly, one of Paul’s final stops before reaching the wasteland of Arabia was Petra: a sandstone wonderland where the finger of God carved perfect paths across sand-whipped desert floors. Petra: the place where Indiana Jones became the penitent man, correctly spelled the name of God (in Latin), bravely leaped from the Lion’s Head, and identified Jesus’ Last Supper cup.

And while “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade” is an awesome movie, my experience at Petra taught me a very different lesson than the supremely evident, “Don’t mess with Harrison Ford, especially when he’s got a whip in his right hand.”

Wilderness.

For some reason, God has a habit of dragging his world-shakers into the suffocating sands that dot the landscape surrounding the Promised Land. Before we are able to receive what God has for us, we must learn how dependent we are on Him. It’s easy to seek the things that flow so graciously from His hands; however, we need to learn a yearning for His face, the simple and devastating reality of His countenance reaching into our cloudy eyes.

We hiked for hours under the April Jordanian sun, which may mean nothing to you, so feel free to insert your particular town, and instead of April, add July. Uphill. Camels and donkeys passed us on the path, carrying awkward looking and significantly more wealthy (thus they were able to afford a camel ride to the top) tourists from the far corners of the globe.

Eventually we reached a bit of a shady spot. I stopped, opened my Bible, and eventually found my way to Psalm 19,

In them he has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom leaving its chamber; and, like a strongman, runs its course with joy. It’s rising is from the end of the heavens, and its circuit to the end of them, and there is nothing hidden from its heat (vv. 4b-6).

I looked up from my weather worn Bible, scanned the rocky horizon frantically looking for some semblance of life (apart from the sun scorched tourists bobbing like corks upon haggard camels). Nothing. The Psalmist seems to liken the heat of the sun to the relentless nature of God’s presence among His people–if the sun covers the face of the earth, how much more does God (who made the sun to burn) cover His creation.

It’s hot. My neck is quickly running the summer spectrum of skin colors–stopping on cherry red. God is near. The sun tells me so.

Deserts are lonely places. They represent humanity’s limitations. While we’re able to tame certain landscapes–diverting water and leveling ground–in places like Petra we can do nothing more than throw our hands in the air. But God is still at home. God isn’t tied to rainfall amounts or soil types. He is. And He welcomes people like Moses, David, Jesus and Paul, as well as you and I, into barren places so that we might know that God alone is our sustenance.

To the people of Israel, God made this profoundly clear,

And you shall remember the whole way that the Lord your God has led you these forty years in the wilderness, that he might humble you, testing you to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep his commandments or not. And he humbled you and let you hunger and fed you with manna, which you did not know, nor did your fathers know, that he might make you know that man does not live by bread alone, but man lives by every word that comes from the mouth of the Lord (Deut. 8:2-4).

When the rocks cry out, “desolation”, we are reminded that He is our portion. Why does God lead his world-shakers into wilderness? Because something happens when we allow the One who clothed the first humans to strip every semblance of comfort from our frail frames, and re-clothe us with garments of grace. Grace: getting all that we don’t deserve; receiving with open hands all the affection of the One who causes our hearts to bloom in broken places.

This winter I wrestled with God. As the wild evening winds tore at the facade of my monastic guest room atop the Mount of Olives, I stretched my hands out across the cold tile floor and listened–rain pounding against dusty windows, the buzz of my tiny space heater…and sobs like a drowning man’s angry lungs scrambling for life.

Looking back on these past four months I realize that God has quite assuredly set me up. In my mind I had assumed that I was in control: booking tickets, enrolling in classes, raising support, and packing up my townhome.

I was wrong.

I was Jacob: a deceiver having stolen that which does not belong to me (in my case, a deep-seated sense of self-sufficiency).

The heart is deceitful [Jacob] above all things,
and desperately sick;
who can understand it? (Jeremiah 17:9)

God cast me out from Paddan-Aram, from the land I’d grown accustomed to. Like Jacob, I drove my heart hard toward Gilead, putting a multitude of miles between myself and any semblance of familiarity.

I gave God space, space to meet me. Like Jacob, I sent my people, possessions, familiarities on ahead until nothing but me, my Maker, and Jerusalem’s cold winter rains remained.

En route to Beersheba, Jacob stopped at a place that was called Mahanaim “two camps”.

The same night he arose and took his two wives, his two female servants, and his eleven children, and crossed the ford of the Jabbok. He took them and sent them across the stream, and everything else that he had. And Jacob was left alone (Gen. 32:22-24a).

All alone, under the devastating night that swallows up the foothills of the Transjordan mountains like death in war, Jacob welcomed wandering beasts, shivering cold, and violent raiders. Why?

While Jacob’s motivations for sending his family and possessions on ahead of him were certainly ignoble (as perhaps mine were), God was using Jacob’s cowardice as a means of driving two worlds together. Jacob had become a wealthy, semi-nomadic sheep breeder; however, his success was built upon the sandy foundation of him living out his namesake: Jacob: “deceiver”. Under the hushed moonlight reflecting off the Jabbok River’s rolling back, Jacob realized his need for a reckoning. Before he met his brother Esau, before returning home to reclaim his inheritance, Jacob needed to shed the cloak of his heritage. He needed a new name.

And a man wrestled with him until the breaking of the day. When the man saw that he did not prevail against Jacob, he touched his hip socket, and Jacob’s hip was put out of joint as he wrestled with him. Then he said, ‘Let me go, for the day has broken.’ But Jacob said, ‘I will not let you go unless you bless me.” And he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, ‘Jacob.’ Then he said, ‘Your name shall no longer be called Jacob, but Israel, for you have striven with God and with men, and have prevailed’ (Gen. 32:24-28).

The identity of the man Jacob strives with remains covered under a cloak of mystery. The Hebrew name the man gives himself is eloheim, which can refer to either a singularity or plurality (“god” or “gods”). We have no idea what the name Israel really means. This passage suggests that it is derivative of the Hebrew verb sarah which means “perseverance” or “persistence”. Whatever the case, a fundamental change takes place.

I believe that all of life is a grand invitation. We are welcomed into the courts of contention, beckoned by the Creator to wrestle with Him so that we might receive a new name. Why consider throwing down with the King of Kings? Because, if we’re honest, each of us have a sense that who we are is not who we’re meant to be. We live and breathe broken names: “deceiver”, “addict”, “failure”; and when we are finally willing to say, “enough” God leads us to the riverside, provides spaces like the top of the Mount of Olives, and wrestles with us.

Jacob “persisted” through the angry hours of the night, peering into the darkest parts of his heart. He earned his new name. As the breaking dawn began to light up the river like an oil lamp, I imagine Jacob, Israel, seeing a different man as staring back at him through the Jabbok’s rushing waters.

Healed and wounded: Israel greets morning with a limp. Jacob’s fight illuminates the paradox of the spiritual life. We are simultaneously broken and mended.

The narrative closes with one of the most poetic images in the Bible,

So Jacob called the name of the place Penuel, saying, ‘For I have seen God face to face, and yet my life has been delivered.’ The sun rose upon him as he passed Penuel, limping because of his hip (32:31-32).

Old westerns depict the hero wandering with something like a swagger into the sunset. Jacob got it backwards. Sunrise is likened to the face of God, and as the awe-full beauty of Him rose upon Israel, the new man stumbled out of the canyon with a limp: broken and reborn.

I cried for two straight months. My evening rhythm began with the curtain falling early on those winter afternoons. As the last thread of light tore and fell away below the horizon, I’d think about dinner, cook a modest meal, write about the day’s adventures, and by 7:30pm, retire to Penuel, where tears would always fall. When I couldn’t cry any longer, I would sleep. Each morning I woke with a limp.

Jacob’s legacy, the place called Israel, is sending me home with two profound gifts: a new name and a permanent limp. My narrative, Lord willing, will conclude with a familiar refrain:

So Bryan called this land Israel, saying, ‘God has led me here to teach me how to wrestle. I have welcomed God, and He has both wounded and healed me.’ The sun rose as he boarded his plane, limping because of his hip, weeping because of his God.

Spring carries with it certain connotations. I won’t go into details; however, a quick survey of 2 Samuel 11 and 12 should clarify what I’m getting at. During Old Testament times, spring was also the time when kings went to war (2 Sam. 11:1). Why? Because between late March and September it never rains in Israel. Never. My Nebraska-worthy farmer’s tan is proof of this meteorological reality.

While rain is a blessing for ripening crops, it made ancient war impossible. Following God’s fire-dropping rebuke of Baal in 1 Kings 18, Elijah announces to a humbled Ahab, “Behold, a little cloud like a man’s hand is rising from the sea…Prepare your chariot and go down [from Mount Carmel] lest the rain stop you.” (v. 44-45). Rain made chariot warfare dangerous and threatened to wipe out entire platoons of soldiers who dared winter excursions along wadi bottoms. Thus, war happened after the rains had ceased, but before temperatures rose into the triple digits. Thus,

In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle, David sent Joab, and his servants with him, and all Israel. And they ravaged the Ammonites and besieged Rabbah. But David remained at Jerusalem (2 Samuel 11:1).

Most of us know the rest of the story.

The City of David (the likely spot of David's palace) looking down into the Silwan neighborhood

From his palace perch, David spots Bathsheba bathing on her roof…

Eventually word is sent to David’s commander, Joab, who (in light of David’s mysterious absence) is leading the siege at Rabbah, “Set Uriah [Bathsheba's husband] in the forefront of the hardest fighting, and then draw back from him, that he may be struck down, and die” (2 Sam. 11:15).

David’s grave series of sins take center stage during the next chapter and a half of the biblical narrative. But the battle in Rammah (modern day Amman, Jordan) wages on.

Now Joab fought against Rabbah of the Ammonites and took the royal city. And Joab sent messengers to David and said, ‘I have fought against Rabbah; moreover, I have taken the city of waters. Now then, gather the rest of the people together and encamp against the city and take it, lest I take the city and it be called by my name. (2 Sam. 12:26-28).

Modern Day Amman, Jordan (from the city's ancient acropolis)

David’s lack of character is juxtaposed by Joab’s humility. Fighting on the far edges of the Israelite kingdom, enduring oppressive heat and near starvation (in an ancient siege situation, the besiegers were almost always at a disadvantage), Joab likely loathed the king’s absence. When victory could finally be tasted and Rabbah was on the verge annihilation, Joab could have easily stirred his beleaguered troops into a fury of restistance against the king who, instead joining them in battle, chose to spend his spring in the comfort of his posh palace messing around with another man’s wife.

Instead Joab warns David, “Now then gather the rest of the people together and encamp against eh city and take it, lest I take the city and it be called by my name.” (2 Sam. 11:28).

There’s a mayor who orders a massive building project to begin. Workers are contracted, sweat is poured like concrete to fill foundations, a structure’s skeleton is framed, and months skip by. When the building is on the verge of completion the foreman calls the mayor, “Sir, your project is completed. Everything is ready. All you need to do is cut the scarlet ribbon that blocks the public from the building’s entrance.”

Does the mayor deserve the glory? His florescent white smite ought to be pasted over media publications by a carpenter’s cracked hands.

Joab gave David the opportunity to claim what wasn’t his. His summer was already stained by similar situations (the first of which costing a righteous man [Uriah] his life).

a mosque that sits atop a Byzantine church in Amman

Our lives often echo Joab’s. We strain and toil for things that ought to cause heads to turn and hands to clap in our direction. When others receive the glory and we are left with little more than a byline, a crossroads greets us. Here, John’s commentary on the glory-obsessed relgious authorities of Jesus’ time is meant to pierce our hearts,

Nevertheless, many even of the authorities believed in him, but for fear of the Pharisees they did not confess it, so that they would not be put out of the synagogue; for they loved the glory that comes from man more than the glory that comes from God (John 12:42-43).

The question is not whether we want our lives to be great. A longing for greatness is woven in to the fabric of every soul. We mistake the nature of the weaver, are deaf to the ancient echos of his loom. The final assessment of our lives will come not from the multitudes, but from the Maker. Wrapped ’round by sin, David failed to grasp this truth, saddled his donkey and set out to claim the glory he didn’t deserve. Joab perhaps smiled on the inside, knowing that in the end all that really matters is whether the fleeting moments of our lives and the clumsy toiling of our hands are approved God.

Over the past three days, I had the opportunity to hike with two great friends along the Jesus Trail (which stretches from Nazareth to Capernaum). We took a bit of an abbreviated route (which took us into Tiberius instead of Capernaum), and made a few stops along the way to write poetry. On day two, as we sat atop the Horns of Hittim my friend Ryan gave us a topic for a poem: “What does Jesus mean to you?” We each took about 45 minutes and spilled out hearts upon our journals. Here’s what I came up with:

The view looking northwest (towards the Sea of Galilee) from the Horns of Hittim

Him

Who oiled and lit a million lamps
and together called them sun.
Who plumbed a line across the sky
On which our days shall run
Who breathes the breath that grants us life
And receives it when we’re done.
His foggy words rise from Galilee
“I and the Father are one.”

His fissured hands worked crooked stone
His chisel chipped our hearts
He shed his robe and bent his knee
A wounded love’s rampart
His mangled frame was spool and thread
Mending lives we’ve torn apart
The fiery eyes of Nazareth
My God, how great Thou art!

Paul tells us to “speak the truth in love,” but what happens when we live in a culture fascinated by a hyper-romanticized notion of love while possessing ambivalence towards truth?

Despite the almost 3,000 year and 6,000 mile gap separating us from the Israel of King Ahab, his method of leadership hums the anthem of what is perhaps postmodernity’s most alluring anthem, “Tell me what I want to hear, don’t tell me what’s true.”

Ramoth-gilead was on the eastern frontier of Israelite’s territory, a fortress town from which the northern kingdom could both launch raids into Aram-Damacus (to the north) and control the trade route that ran from Damascus to the Arabian peninsula. Ramoth-gilead also functioned as one of the only topographically accessible regions for chariots traveling from Israel into Transjordan.

A family of Jordanian Bedouin at Ramoth-gilead

Naturally, Ahab wanted control of the frontier fortress, and so the offensively minded king called his counterpart Jehoshaphat (the Judean king) into battle with him. Jehoshaphat proved himself rather passive in the venture; however, he did manage to suggest, “Inquire first for the word of the LORD” (1 Kings 22:5). Being the kind of man Ahab was, he summed a multitude of love-talking prophets, and asked them,

Shall I go to battle against Ramoth-gilead, or shall I refrain?’ And they said, ‘Go up, for the Lord will give it into the hand of the king (22:6).

Jehoshaphat, seeing the absurdity in Ahab’s antics asks,

Is there not here another prophet of the LORD of whom we may inquire?’ And the king of Israel said to Jehoshaphat, ‘There is yet one man by whom we may inquire of the LORD, Micaiah the son of Imlah, [insert whining tone here] but I hate him, for he never prophesies anything good concerning me, but evil (22:7-8).

My dad taught me how to hit a baseball, how to skate, play cribbage, scramble eggs and accept criticism. My mom taught me how to express kindness, authenticity and affection.

But my parents fell short. In a fallen world, all parents sin against their children. I love my parents. I think they did a great job raising me (I mean, obviously!), but they aren’t perfect. It takes more than a two adults to thrust an awkward, buck-toothed little boy into manhood.

As our bus rolled through the Arab villages that dot the chalky landscape of northern Jordan, I commented on how large the homes appeared. The abject poverty we were told to expect in Jordan seemed to conflict with the size of homes…until I realized: the Middle Eastern family structure is different than what we’ve come to understand as normative in the west. These homes that appeared so spacious from the confines of a coach bus likely provide to up to twenty family members: parents, children, uncles, aunts, grandparents—barely room to breathe.

Children are raised under the assumption that it takes a community to weave a young heart into the fabric of a functional community. The arthritic hands of frail grandmothers slowly wrap tiny minds around ancient truths while calloused fingers of weathering uncles show clumsy feet how to dance. For the people of Jordan (and most Middle Easterners) the communal input of generations is the norm. For us, it is generally something that must be sought after. Christianity is too often understood as an individual pursuit, a solo journey into the heart of God. This is not biblical Christianity.

Mentorship is a buzz word within the context of Christendom; however, I’ve learned it is an empty notion unless we’re willing to entrust others with authority over the broken places of our lives, which looks something like, “Hey there, I just want you to know that I admire they way you practice [insert an area of your brokenness here] in your life, and I would be honored if you would pray about leading me in this area.”

There’s a reason why the writer of 1 Kings feels the need to insert a commentary of Ahab’s life just prior to the flaccid king’s diatribe in chapter 22,

There was none who sold himself to do what was evil in the sight of the LORD like Ahab, whom Jezebel his wife incited. He acted very abominably in going after idols, as the Amorites had done, whom the LORD cast out before the people of Israel (11:25-26).

Ahab raced after idols that bent to his whim and caved into his frailties. Without establishing wise counsel around him, Ahab went the way of all men who unfettered by the bonds of love—because potent love is willing to say, “no.”

Ramoth-gilead: looking toward Damascus

Walking through life without giving others permission to speak wisdom into our places of ignorance is like telling a parachute to stay shut during a 10,000 foot decent, like trying to chase the sunrise on roller skates.

Ahab sank into the mud at Ramoth-gilead, his body pieced by Syrian arrows, his kingdom fractured, and his legacy breathing back a compelling reminder of our need to be the kind people who invite those around us to “speak the truth in love.”

The only true currency in this bankrupt world… is what you share with someone else when you’re uncool. (Almost Famous)

High school was a confusing time for me. One of the most interesting anomalies which marked the transition from Junior High to Senior High was “the nod”. Prior to ninth grade, the act of passing a friend or acquaintance in the hallway meant a smile, high five, brief vocal acknowledgment, or (when time permitted) an actual conversation.

In high school, the parallel rise of male testosterone and insecurity gave rise to the nod. No hand-slapping, cute smiles or unnecessary exchange of pleasantries were allowed. When dudes locked eyes across thinly carpeted hallways carrying a sea of people between purple lockers (yes, our school had purple lockers), the only acceptable response was a quick lift of the chin, a non-verbal assertion,

“Dude, I’m cool. Are you cool? Of course you’re cool, ’cause I’m nodding at you. Either that or I’m nodding simply to indicate that I’m willing to acknowledge your presence, but unwilling to stoop so low as to engage in any sort of verbal exchange. Thus, the nod.”

I realize I’m over-analyzing the intricacies of teenage communicative patterns, but I believe the spirit of the nod points to something that transcends those nebulous teenage years.

Let’s face it, we’re all uncool. Some of us have yet to come to grips with this earth-shattering reality, we’ve yet to shun the nod and grieve the loss of our illusions.

But now the righteousness of God has been manifested apart from the law, although the Law and the Prophets bear witness to it–the righteousness of God through faith in Jesus Christ for all who believe. For there is no distinction: for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, and are justified by his grace as a gift, through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus (Romans 3:21-24).

Translation: You (and I) are extraordinarily and eternally uncool.

The question is not whether we’re cool, but rather, what we do with this revelation of our equally vanilla identities.

Some choose to build a fortress and persist in their embrace of the nod.

Following Jacob’s deceptive manuever in “obtaining” his brother Esau’s birthright, the young man is warned by his mother to leave the family home in Beersheba amidst Esau’s expressed intentions to seek revenge. Jacob heads north to Haran, while Esau, wounded and with no inheritance marries an Ishmalite and eventually travels along the international highway which stretches from Beersheba to the sharp rise of sandstone on the opposite side of the Jordan River,

So Esau settled in the gill country of Seir. (Esau is Edom) (Genesis 36:8).

Long before Moses led the Israelites across the Jordan River, Esau established a Kingdom in a faraway land called Edom.

We visited Bozrah (Edom’s capital city), a breathtaking fortress city which jettisons out into the Rift Valley, silently looming over would-be invaders. Edom’s geography necessitates that inhabitants excel in shepherding (there isn’t enough rain to sustain much agriculture). This reality coupled with harsh elements (sandstorms in the summer and whipping winter winds and snow in the winter) gave the Edomites a reputation of being rugged, stone-faced people.

We don’t know much about Edom. Did they ever bleed? Was the awesome fortress ledge of Bozrah ever overtaken by ambitious Arabs from the east or neighboring Moabites from the north? We have no idea. Their story in only partially told by surrounding nations.

Wandering past the poverty-stricken modern Jordanian village while kicking 3,000 year old pottery shards (which outnumber the rocks atop the soil in Bozrah), it was clear that at some point, Bozrah fell. The fortress crumbled. And while we have no idea how it happened, Obadiah predicted that it would,

Behold, I will make you small among the nations; you shall be utterly despised. The pride of your heart has deceived you, you who live in the clefts of the rock, in your lofty dwelling, who say in your heart, ‘Who will bring me down to the ground?’ Though you soar aloft like the eagle, though your nest is set among the stars, from there I will bring you down, declares the LORD (Obadiah v. 2-4).

I had a tough time letting go of the nod. When I was a junior in college I chose to live with a guy named Nate. Nate was honest. He had a spine and from what I could tell had relinquished any hopes of being cool long before me. We argued a lot. Nate was Catholic. When we played video games, my team would always represent Protestants and his would fly the Vatican flag. Reformation matches. Throw downs for control of Christendom.

One day I turned to Nate and asked (probably following a nod in his direction), “Dude, why can’t we just be friends?” He was quick to respond,”Because you don’t want to be friends with me.” I was appalled. Nate continued, “You never risk anything with me, share anything vulnerable. If you really wanted to be my friend, you’d tell me why I sometimes walk into the room and you’re crying.”

He was right. I had built Bozrah in my heart; hiding behind a superficial nod and locking myself in a tower surrounded by an arid wasteland.

I was unwilling to admit, definitively, that I was uncool. Little did I know, the LORD was about to lay waste to my heart, kill my pride, and send me tumbling down the precipice of my fortress home.

Nothing is covered up that will not be revealed, or hidden that will not be known (Luke 12:2).

Being authentic people is risky because the prospects of being real play on all our fears of being rejected. However…when we forsake the nod and turn our eyes away from the lying mirror we’ll find our un-coolness embraced without reservation by the One who sees through our facades, reflecting back who we really are: His portion and prized possession. In turn, we’ll more confidently turn toward one another, trusting that the arms that hold our frail hearts have been fashioned to the torsos of those who sit across our dinner tables, pews and offices.

It is only amid a definitive renouncing of the nod and desperate clinging to the cross that we can come to be known as truly His, and truly a gift to one another.

The cross is God’s truth about us, and therefore it is the only power which can make us truthful. When we know the cross we are no longer afraid of the truth. (Dietrich Bonhoeffer)

The view looking west from atop Mount Nebo

Sometimes the last gasp of breath and a borning cry bleed into one: The dying night collides with the full light of day just as God pulls up the curtain on sunrise; poets craft songs that send nations into a wild-eyed embracing of their destiny.

Then Moses went up from the plains of Moab to Mount Nebo, to the top of Pishah, which is opposite Jericho. And the LORD showed him all the land, Gilead as far as Dan, all Naphtali, the land of Ephraim and Manasseh, all the land of Judah as far as the western sea, the Negev, and the Plain, that is, the Valley of Jericho the city of palm trees, as far as Zoar. And the LORD said to him ‘This is the land of which I swore to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, ‘I will give it to your offspring.’ I have let you see it with your eyes, but you shall not go over there.’ So Moses the servant of the LORD died there in the Land of Moab, according to the word of the Lord…” (Deuteronomy 34:1-5).

Over the course our four day adventure, our Jordanian coach bus had developed a distinct odor, the kind of scent only a middle school physical education teacher could truly appreciate. Our bus driver, Abu Fadi, remained unflappable as he spun the wheel that sent our bus fishtailing up the switchbacks of western Moab to Mount Nebo.

Deuteronomy tells us that from here God directed Moses’ gaze to a 360-degree panorama of the Promised Land: Gilead (central Jordan), Dan (extreme northern Israel), Naphtali (the Galilee region), Ephraim and Manasseh (the heartland of central Israel), Judah (Jerusalem and Bethlehem), the Western Sea (the Mediterranean), the Negev (extreme southern Israel), Jericho (just below Mount Nebo), and Zoar (extreme southern Jordan).

Here’s the problem: Even on a haze-less day (of which Dr. Wright has encountered two over the course of his 60+ visits to Mount Nebo) one can barely make out the church spires atop the Mount of Olives. The shores of the Mediterranean Sea lie another thirty-five miles to the west.

Which begs the question, “Did this really happen?” A gut-level response to the question might go one of two directions, either, “No, it didn’t. Deuteronomy 34 was a much later addition to the text which was sewn into the Pentateuch (first five books of the Bible) in order to bolster Israel’s later claim on regions they were unable to subdue following Joshua’s crossing of the Jordan River,” or “Of course it did. God created the perfect atmospheric conditions, and changed the topography of the land between Nebo and the Mediterranean, allowing for a momentary glimpse across the entirety of Israel.” Both opinions are certainly plausible, however, I’d like to suggest a third option.

There’s a cemetery behind our school that cradles the bodies of fallen British soldiers from the time of England’s control of Israel (1917-1948). Scattered between the graves that mark captains, privates, and majors rest certain non-military personal. One grave site in particular stands out, “Horatio Spafford”

If you have never heard of Mr. Spafford, you should definitely watch this.

Following the family’s arrival in Jerusalem, Spafford’s daughter Anna served as a Christian missionary to the Arab/Bedouin communities surrounding Israel. With a fervor to spread the Gospel, she spent a significant amount of time across the Jordan as the guest of nomadic shepherds. One night, As daylight began to fade and a week-long stretch of rain finally came to an end, Anna found herself atop Ajlun (a Rift Valley lookout city in Upper Gilead, just north of Mount Nebo) gazing back toward Israel. The mist was gone, the air was remarkably clear, and overwhelmed with the immensity of God’s beauty, Anna noted that she could make out the bend of the Mediteranean against the far horizon.
View Deuteronomy 34 in a larger map

The book of Numbers speaks briefly of Moses’ battle against Og the king of Bashan prior to Israel’s entry into the Promised Land. This mighty king occupied the area surrounding Ajlun. The chapter ends with a brief description of the battle’s outcome, “So they defeated him and his sons and all his people, until he had no survivor left. And they possessed his land” (v. 35).  No one knows for sure whether Moses actually visited this site; however, it appears likely the prophet’s forty-year expectation of God carrying the people into Israel would have fueled a curiosity that might have carried him to the top of Ajlun for a sneak peak, giving Moses, perhaps, the same view Anna Spafford enjoyed 3,600 years later.

If this is the case, while Moses’ premonition atop Mount Nebo may not have afforded him (at that time) the opportunity to behold places like the Mediterranean or the city of Dan (though Mount Hermon [which Dan sits at the base of] would be visible from Ajlun), his dying eyes would have been able to draw on these places while atop Nebo, recalling their distant beauty to mind. Atop Mount Nebo, Moses likely stared into the fog, just as I did. Here God reiterated His promise to the people Moses faithfully led for forty years.

But promise is foggy. Paul said it well, “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known” (1 Cor. 13:12). I have no idea what waits for me on the other side of this adventure. It’s foggy. God has promised His presence as I (as we) descend into a treacherous landscape–the highest temperature in all of Asia was recorded in Beth-Shan (just North of Jericho), 129 degrees–but we have no idea what is waiting for us on the other side…or even if we’ll make it. Moses never set foot in the Promised Land. He toiled for the sake of God’s people though prayer and preaching, enduring mutinies and famines, doubt and despiar. I wonder whether there were times when Moses’ resolve to carry on through the “great and terrible wilderness” was fueled solely by his expectation that he would one day own a little plot of land far removed from the cruel taskmasters of Egypt.

With his final breath, Moses stared into the billows of haze stacked like translucent cotton balls above the Jordan River–marring the view of “the land of milk and honey”. He had no idea what fate his beloved kinsmen would meet as they charged into Jericho.

the view down from Mount Nebo

Our futures are hazy; the legacies we are to leave remain shrouded in clouds. Our eyes squint to see beyond the veil and as we do so, the only thing we can make out is a sudden flash: the light of the world like a lighthouse on the Mediterranean coast pointed in the opposite direction. Whatever the case, whether we die on this mountain top or reeeive the strength necessary to descend Nebo and fight our way forward, He beckons us.

Jeroboam's temple at Dan

The past few days have shoved into my mouth a heavy dose of writer’s block. In an effort to spit back up what the Devil has been pushing inside, I joined a couple of new friends at the local Irish pub (yes, in Jerusalem). We sat down amidst the smokey leather, faded incandescent light and wood-grain motif that only an authentic Irish pub (in Jerusalem) can produce.

My friend Ryan pulled a book out from under his coat, “101 Great Poems.” We took turns reading. John Eldridge would have been so proud.

For some reason I got to thinking about Jeroboam. I suppose Biblical characters or more easily pulled out of thin air when one walks the same rocky sod their ancient feet scrambled across.

Jeroboam was the first king of Israel (after the nation split). Since most of the Old Testament was written from the perspective of Judah (south), this pioneering king is often demonized as a sort of standard against which the northern kings were  judged by southern prophets. Generally, northern kings were either evil or exceptionally evil.

1 Kings 11 tells us that amidst Solomon’s disobedience (for some reason the guy thought God would be cool with him marrying 1,000 women) God promises that the Kingdom would not remain united. Jeroboam steps into the spotlight as Solomon’s servant (serving as taskmaster over a large contingent of slaves). One day, Jeroboam meets a prophet while wandering down an unnamed road. The prophet, rather dramatically, proclaims that Jeroboam will eventually serve as king over the yet-to-secede northern kingdom. Solomon finds out, and (understandably) the news isn’t counted as a warm fuzzy by the declining king.

Jeroboam is forced to flee to Egypt, where we can imagine it would have been rather difficult to hold onto faith in the LORD amidst the pull of the Egyptian pantheon.

We have no idea how long Jeroboam lived in Egypt, but upon learning of Solomon’s death, he returns in haste to Shechem (the city that would soon become one of two capital cities in the northern kingdom [the other being Penuel]). After a monumental parting of ways with Solomon’s son, Rehoboam, Jeroboam is confirmed as king and quickly gets down to business building his Egyptian-esque legacy,

“And Jerboam said in his heart, ‘Now the kingdom will turn back to the house of David. If this people go up to offer sacrifices in the temple of the LORD at Jerusalem, then the heart of this people will turn again to their lord, to Rehoboam king of Judah, and they will kill me and return to Rehoboam king of Judah. So the king took counsel and made two calves of gold. And he said to the people, ‘You have gone up to Jerusalem long enough. Behold your gods, O Israel, who brought you up out of the land of Egypt.’ And he set one in Bethel, and the other he put in Dan” (1 Kings 12:26-29).

The Spring of Dan (below Mount Hermon)

Obviously, Jeroboam’s idol building antics were as much politically as they were religiously motivated. He wanted to ensure that the entirety of his subjects’ lives were centered on the North. With the establishment twin temples at Dan and Bethel (the northern and southern most points of the northern kingdom), Jeroboam could eliminate any legitimate reason why Israelites would need cross into Judah.

As I walked the wooded paths of Dan, I found myself pondering the many ways we fashion idols in our minds, deities that conform to our every whim and make life exceeding comfortable. Our little gods protect us from whatever it might look like to retire from the bow and trust the vast mystery of God to captain our hearts–a mystery that peers out from under the veil in order to ground Himself atop a cross driven into the rocky hill at Golgatha, chisel love into our hearts, before rising again into mystery.

We may not worship golden calves at hilltop shrines, but we each harbor little gods in our hearts. The narrative of Scripture is (among other things) a living, breathing commentary on the human condition. We are all Jeroboam. We create gods out of fear, out of a scrambling to maintain control; but these gods cannot save us.

So, in the spirit of Irish pub poetry readings, and amid a solemn confession that there are golden calves living and breathing beneath my skin…I offer you a poem.

“Dan to Bethel”

In Dan, beneath Mount Hermon’s sneer
My dying heart coughed up a god
Whose burnished curves breathed empty speech
Of swelling peace and ebbing fear

I forced a smile like baker’s dough
Pressed and drug across the grain
In hope that what I’d praised would rise
And touch the crystal river’s flow.

In Bethel, my eyes pulled curtains down
A sleeping child amid the storm.
Whose signing chest and hissing breath
Hung velvet between which cities drowned

As dawn’s ascent pulled back the tide
Her weeping gaze considered how
My silent gods, their gold and bronze
Cast me no closer to the riverside.