ribbons of silver where the sun glistened upon it. I should have said it
had no motion but for the tiny little ripples that broke on the pebbly
beach made frosty with salt deposit. A thousand feet and more below the
Mediterranean it lay there. Sitting beside it we were lower than any
submarine has ever been. The city of Jerusalem is two thousand five
hundred feet above the level of the sea so our descent had been over
thirty-five hundred feet since morning. It was very warm. Though the
great body of water lay there now so still, Jamil told us that when the
Turks were using it to transport supplies, fierce storms swept over it,
thunder roared in the hills and over the plains, and giant waves dashed
upon the smooth shore. We looked across the fourteen miles of sea to the
plateau in the hills of Moab and knew that there was no living thing in
it nor on its whole great stretch of fifty miles! Hungrily it swallows
up the rivers and the tiny streams, the Jordan alone pouring millions of
gallons into it every day, but never, never does it send out even a tiny
streamlet. It grants no answer to the plea of the thirsty land that
seems to reach down into it hopefully. We put our hands into the water
four times as heavy as the Atlantic and they were covered with an oily
salty deposit that would not come off until we had scrubbed with hot
water. Suddenly we heard a sound—the bleating of a sheep. It was so
welcome in that dead silence! Beyond the bend in the shoreline was a
tiny house with children and the sheep!
We walked slowly along over the smooth gaily colored little pebbles to
the spot, half a mile beyond, where the car was waiting. But we turned
to look back again and again. The great silent sea held for us the awful
fascination of _death_.
There was a road of a sort across the plain to the Jordan. When the
river is in flood this plain is covered inches deep with ooze, rank
vegetable growths spring up, the brown bushes are green, clouds of
mosquitoes, scorpions, vipers and all manner of crawling things make
their home here for a season; but now there were only long cracks that
crossed and recrossed in the dried mud. Twice our wheels spun round in
pockets of soft gray clay, but small thick boards, a spade and dry sand
helped us out. A turn and we could see the river!
To one who has never studied the geography of Palestine or to whom books
of travel are strangers, that first sight of the Jordan must bring far
greater disappointment than to one in a way prepared for the dark, muddy
stream whose swift current hurries on ceaselessly, gathering silt as it
goes. Within its normal banks it is such a narrow stream! We stopped for
a moment in the house where sweet Turkish coffee and oranges were served
us and where the boats used by fishermen and by tourists who like to row
across to touch the land of Moab lay moored to a tiny wharf. The banks
were steep here and soft willows bent over them. We sat down in the
little boat that swung lazily at its moorings. It seemed the strangest
and the most wonderful of rivers, this little muddy stream! Over it the
great hosts of Israel passed; along its banks John, coming out of the
desert, preached the kingdom of heaven to the multitude; and here came
even Jesus Himself to be baptized in the waters His presence made
sacred. We dipped our bottles carefully into the stream and filled them
with water as all pilgrims do. We listened to the stories of the feast
days when pilgrims come down to the river to worship there; we read the
story of Naaman and understood why the proud leper of the king’s court,
even at the command of the stern prophet, hesitated to bathe in its
waters. We lived in another day. Proud armies marched over the plain
toward Jericho and we could almost hear Joshua’s ringing commands. We
were brought back to our own day suddenly by the sound of a voice, a
very American voice, singing in the distance, “Roll, Jordan, Roll.” We
looked at each other in amazement. After a moment’s silence the voice
rang out again, nearer now:
“Some day I’m going to murder the bugler!
Some day you’re going to find him dead!
I’ll amputate his reveille
And stamp upon it heavily,
And spend the rest of my life in bed.”
We climbed out of the boat and up the bank. A man in the early thirties
stood there with a sapling, root and all, in his hand. He was an
American working with the British under a commission for reforestation.
He was most enthusiastic over his work and painted for us a wonderful
picture of the hills, now bare and desolate, and the banks of the river,
with the low scrubby growth, transformed some future day into valuable
fruit and olive orchards, irrigated pastures, great stretches of light
timberland. Jamil shook his head. “There is much talk these days about
the changes that are coming to this land, but we shall see—we shall see
and _then_ we shall believe,” he said. Our friend went into the little
house for food and rest and we stood in silence watching the stream
which artists for centuries have painted, the river which has always
stood for separation, under whose spell poets have written their sad
hymns—watched it rushing on pouring more and more water into the Sea
that is _Dead_.
The dunes, yellow and gray, between which we rode on to Jericho were
round as though a giant hand had played with them, smoothed them over,
and left them there. Twice we passed low stone houses with cisterns of
water cut in deep rock hidden below the surface, and there were oranges
and green things in the garden in the midst of the desert. It was cooler
and the air was soft and balmy. The walls of Jericho—City of
Palms—though now there are none, had indeed fallen, but there was no
fear upon the faces of the people. The once mighty city is now but an
ordinary village of lower class Arabs, with a supply station, a few
shops, and the hotel where British officers live. Traces of recent
battle over the very ground where the men of Joshua had routed the
ancient enemy were all about us. The story of the taking of Jericho from
the Turks by British troops when the river at its flood had to be
bridged by boats and the temperature ran to 120° and more, is as
thrilling, as fascinating, and as triumphant as that of Joshua himself.
Passing through the center of the town, we came to the orange groves.
The air was fragrant with the perfume of thousands of jonquils growing
wild along the edges of the irrigated section. The children offered two
huge bunches for sale and we rejoiced in them. Our driver took twenty
bunches for a friend to sell in Jerusalem. He tucked them away neatly in
the folded top of the car. We bought delicious oranges and our machine
became a chariot of delight. We went out to Elijah’s Spring, whose
waters, made sweet and wholesome by the prophet, were responsible for
the luxuriant flowers and delicious fruit, past the home of Rahab who
had saved the spies in Joshua’s day, stopping for a moment at the spot
where the sycamore tree had sheltered the rich publican Zacchæus when he
determined to see Jesus. It was easy to imagine the consternation that
filled the city when it became known that Jesus had commanded him to
come down because He would be a guest in his house that day—the house of
a _publican_. It was on this road, too, that Bartimæus met Jesus and,
despite the demand of the multitude that he be quiet, continued to cry
aloud until the Healer saw him, opened his eyes and set his soul on fire
with gratitude. How close the multitude must have pressed in those
narrow streets, as driven by curiosity and longing for help, they
followed Him! How often the body and soul of the Master must have cried
out for the shelter of the mountain, the stillness of that waiting
desert where in the night God could come very near with a new message
and new strength for the coming day! It was at times like these, when
half carelessly they pointed out to us the spots where on common days
Jesus passed by, changing forever the lives that He touched, that we
loved Him.
The sun was creeping on toward the horizon. We must turn back toward
Jerusalem. Every foot of the road the driver assured us he knew. He
would leave us in the Inn with the guide if we wished and send for us
early in the morning, but he would get back to Jerusalem. So would we
and he was content. He got all possible speed out of the car. It must
climb back over those thirty-five hundred feet we had come down such a
short time since.
We stopped a moment to peer at the lonely monastery where monks still
live on the Mount of Temptation and pray daily for all who are tempted.
The road which had been so lonely in the morning was stirring with life.
Groups of Arabs on horses and little swift-footed donkeys moved aside to
let us pass. Twice at a signal from a man riding ahead on horseback we
stopped to let a great caravan pass us. The leading camels wore gorgeous
trappings and tinkling bells. Once a camel without cargo, following in
dignified fashion behind two others, stood perfectly still, trembled,
then turned and ran ahead of us. We were amazed to see how swiftly he
ran. In vain the rider of the other camel shouted and called. Had it not
been for a friendly companion, who, coming down the hill, drove his own
camel straight across the path, spoke soothingly to the great beast
while a man on a donkey grasped his chain, he might have led us a chase
all the way to Jerusalem. They did not attempt to take their prisoner
past us in the road but turned off into a deep defile. When we looked
back from the hilltop they were again on the road moving on toward
Jericho. But most of the camels bearing their burdens merely sniffed and
passed us by in scorn.
It grew very cold as we reached the heights and the discarded robes and
coats were welcome. We could see shepherds and sheep seeking places of
shelter. Sometimes we caught glimpses of herds of goats reluctantly
following or plunging ahead silhouetted against a soft violet sky. The
sun set calmly and we missed the blazing glory. Suddenly it was night.
We were glad to be well past the scene of our morning’s mishap and
nearing Jerusalem. When we stopped at the door of the hotel, Jamil gave
a sigh of relief. “We have had a wonderful day,” we said. “We have had a
day of miracles,” was his answer in a solemn, devout tone. Both he and
the driver were most happy a moment later when they received their extra
fee.
Dinner was over for most of the guests, but we were given a warm corner
and more food than it would be possible to eat in many meals. We found
that the entire hotel had joined in Jamil’s sigh of relief when we
returned. There was a snapping wood fire in the little stove and hot
water bottles that made the great curtained beds seem more inviting. The
maid wished us “sleep without dreaming.”
But for a long time, lying there in the darkness, I dreamed with my eyes
wide open. Dreamed of the forty years wandering in the wilderness while
one generation passed and a new one was born. Dreamed of the kings and
the prophets, of David hunted like a wild thing through the desolate
hills and caves, of captives marching across the sands to Babylon.
Dreamed of the Man who, with weary feet, in the heat and the dust
_walked_ about the Jordan Valley, through Jericho, walked up the long,
long hills even to Jerusalem with men and women following, always
_seeking_, only a few sharing. Dreamed of the demand that He made upon
all who did have the courage to share—that they love God—and the
challenge that they love their fellow men as He loved them, ... dreamed
of the day when the challenge would be answered and the other man’s
welfare would become each man’s passion.
I GO TO BETHANY
_I tell you when I looked upon these fields,
And stony valleys,—through the purple veil
Of twilight, or what time the Orient sun
Made shining jewels of the barren rocks,—
Something within me trembled; for I said:
This picture once was mirrored in His eyes;
This sky, that lake, those hills, this loveliness,
To Him familiar were; this is the way
To Bethany._
—_Richard Watson Gilder._
I GO TO BETHANY
One afternoon when we were driving about the busy semi-modern streets
that lie outside the walls of Jerusalem we suggested to Jamil, our
guide, that some afternoon we walk to Bethany. He answered briefly that
it was too far and turned to call our attention to the well-equipped
postoffice, the modern looking shops, the Italian hospital, the
well-built hospices of the French, Italians and Russians which before
the war were thronged at the feasts with devout pilgrims. There was an
atmosphere of western life about the outer city. Signs over some of the
shops looked amazingly like New York’s East Side. Books, pictures and
maps, school supplies, men and boys’ clothing of every sort, girls and
women on the streets dressed in European fashion, together with Cairo
papers in French and English, helped us to see the trend of the new,
growing city without the walls. The streets were wide and well kept. The
church of St. George was an artistic, beautiful reminder of the reason
why the word of the capture of the Holy City had been received with
solemn joy in every English household. We passed the dignified Damascus
Gate and the Sheep Gate before which camels knelt grunting and little
groups of sheep huddled close each around its shepherd; lorries passed
us on the road, then a motor taking General Storrs to confer with the
High Commissioner on important business. We stopped to visit the British
High School for girls, doing its work against great odds in a former
German orphanage poorly equipped for school work. The girls of twelve
nationalities with most excellent _ésprit de corps_ were studying there;
the principal, a real educator, formerly head of the girls’ school at
Beirut had wise, far-seeing plans for the future of the school and,
through it, for the welfare of the city. As I listened to them I wished
that my purse were well filled that I might make some of them possible
now in the day of crisis when the whole future of Palestine is in the
making. Surely there are new paths through old Palestine.
When we again entered the city through the Jaffa Gate it seemed
centuries older than when we had left it, so great was the contrast
between the air, sunshine, and breathing spaces outside the walls and
the narrow, dark, and crowded little cobble-stoned alleys, shared by man
and beast, where no full ray of sun ever shines. Only the flat roofs of
the houses save the people within the city from life in a semi-dungeon.
It was this plunge back into the city of age-old days and deeds that
made us long the more to walk leisurely to Bethany and so, on Saturday
night, we told Jamil we should not need him until Monday morning at
nine.
We left the city just after noon on Sunday by St. Stephen’s Gate,
stopping reverently for a few moments close by the steep hillside to
think of the brave words of the young martyr as he looked into the hard
faces of his accusers and his wonderful address, recalling to them each
step of their history and the reason for each great defeat. We
remembered the daring words: “Which of the prophets have not your
fathers persecuted? and they have slain them which showed before of the
coming of the Just One; of whom you have been now the betrayers and
murderers: who have received the law by the disposition of angels, and
have not kept it.” In fierce anger they ground their teeth and hissed
their reproaches at him. But he did not even see them. Suddenly, looking
up to heaven, they heard him saying, “Behold, I see the heavens opened
and the Son of Man on the right hand of God.” It was enough. Seizing
him, they rushed him through the narrow street and cast him out of the
city. They laid their garments at the feet of a keen young man named
Saul, who watched with approval as they hurled down upon their helpless,
suffering victim the jagged stones of the hillside. But above the noise
of their mutterings of revenge the young man Saul heard the words of
prayer: “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” And again, “Lord, lay not their
sin to their charge.” And Stephen died—but Saul never forgot.
From St. Stephen’s Gate the smooth, broad road makes a steep descent
down to the valley of the brook Kedron, then it climbs again around the
shoulder of Olivet, where we stopped to look back at the city with the
dome of the mosque of Omar glistening in the sun. The air was clear and
the hills, with the light, shifting clouds above them, changed color
every moment. Jamil had told us that the hills about Jerusalem bore
always “a luxuriant crop of stones” and his words seemed true indeed, a
crop made even more abundant by the heavy shell-fire of the months past.
Still, in little square patches between the ridges, men were plowing.
One plowman had a thin, patient ox and a donkey together under what
seemed a heavy yoke. Here and there thick vines leaned against sunny
walls as in the days when Jesus used them for the text of His great
sermon “I—the vine: ye—the branches. Without me, ye can do nothing.”
It was when we walked out a little from the main road to Bethany to look
over into a deep valley that we saw a carpenter at work in his sunny
yard, making yokes for the oxen. He worked deftly with his clumsy tools
at his primitive bench. The court-yard was swept clean, save for the
corner where the shavings fell. There were green things growing in a
garden. After a moment a woman appeared in the doorway. She looked
curiously at us but answered our smile. “Ing-leesh?” she queried. We
shook our heads. “American,” we said very distinctly. The man at the
bench turned quickly. A shower of words in the Hebrew tongue and a
motion to wait answered us. The woman hurried into the house and was
back in a moment with a photograph in her hand—a man, a woman, two
children. The photograph was taken in _New York_! She pointed proudly to
the word. As we were about to leave, being limited to conversation by
means of nods, smiles and gestures only, a boy came from the rear of the
house. He had great, dark, dreamy eyes, his head was a mass of thick
curls, in his hands he had two irregular blocks of wood which he gave to
his father. He smiled at us shyly, but turned to look again with frank
interest and curiosity when his mother repeated the word American.
It was hard to tear ourselves away from this picture of the carpenter
with his little son and the mother at the door, but there was no excuse
for lingering. We could only hope that this young son of a carpenter
might sometime know the story of that other Son, of whose early days in
the village of Nazareth he served so forcibly to remind us.
[Illustration:
It was here that He came to talk with one who seemed to understand—and
there were so few.]
It is not a long walk to Bethany, a little over four miles they told us,
and we soon saw the low gray stone houses with their roofs of mud not
far ahead. As we approached the village, a veritable host of children
rushed to meet us, calling, with a score of accents, words supposed to
be English. At first we covered our ears then motioned to one child to
speak. We learned that they were offering their services as guides. The
moment we appeared to understand, the babel began again. “Mary and
Martha,” they called. “Simon-Lazarus, I will show.” When we spoke they
listened, but only for a moment. “You cannot all be our guides,” I said.
“If you all follow we will go back to Jerusalem and no one will have
_back-sheesh_—not one. We shall not look at the house of Mary and
Martha.” The tallest among them, a lad of fourteen, he told me
afterward, evidently repeated our words and he emphasized them with a
flourish of a stout cane which he carried. He showed us a soiled card
with a name written upon it which he said was his. We chose him and one
other guide, a little girl of six who had pointed to herself proudly,
saying, “I know—I know, Mary—Martha—Lazarus.” At a word from a villager
passing on his donkey the children scattered and it was a great relief.
Our young guide knew the method perfectly. Driving the dogs out of the
way with his cane, he led us up a steep path to the house of a man who
was a dwarf, badly crippled. He was to take us to the tomb of Lazarus
which he did, when we had paid the piastres he asked. He insisted upon
telling us the story before we went down the long winding stone steps
worn smooth by the passing of men’s feet for centuries. He told it in
very graphic fashion. We had only the dripping candles to light our way.
Following him, we could hear his call at each turn, “Have care! Have
care!” We decided not to make the entire descent of sixty steps but
contented ourselves with looking down from the fortieth step into the
black pit below. The air and sunshine were most welcome when we climbed
back and, giving more piastres for the shepherds’ slings the old dwarf
took from his pocket, we left him happy. We stood for a few moments at
the entrance to the tomb, thinking of all that spot had meant in the
centuries since it was recorded that, in warm human sympathy with the
suffering sisters, “Jesus wept.”
We stood a long time on the wall of the ruins that covered the spot
where the home of the three friends of Jesus had stood. It looked out
over the valley on one side and toward Jerusalem on the other. Our
guides, big and little, sat down on the stones and were silent. Nowhere
in our journeys through Palestine did we trouble our souls over the
arguments of men as to exact spots and identical places. If not to the
place of this ruined wall, then to some spot near by Jesus came. Came to
receive rest for His body and comfort for His soul. Came to forget for
the moment Jerusalem with its noise and confusion, its need and its
hate. Came to talk with one who seemed to understand and sympathize—and
there were so few. What it would mean to us today if we could know the
many things about which Jesus talked that have never been recorded for
us! We remembered that it was from Bethany over the hills through which
we had come that Jesus made his way to Jerusalem on the day when He
found the colt and rode triumphantly through the streets to the temple,
amidst the shouted hosannas and waving palms that filled the Pharisees
with jealous anger. It was here that he may have spent the nights of
that last crowded week until the night of the Supper when he sought the
Garden. One could feel, standing there looking toward Jerusalem,
something of the agonizing sorrow that swept over that household when
they learned of the trial that was a mockery of justice and the
condemnation of their beloved friend to death on a cross.
When we were ready to leave, the young guide asked if we would like to
go into one of the houses and see the upper room where a guest may
sleep. We hesitated to walk in this fashion into a home but he explained
that we were sure of a welcome and a little _back-sheesh_ would pay.
The upper room was a dean and quiet spot. There were small woven rugs, a
cot with handmade covers spread over it. A bed roll stood in the corner.
There was a heavy metal basin for washing and two lamps, ages old,
filled with oil. The window was open toward the road that leads to
Jericho. It was a place where one might rest his soul. “Many guests came
to this room before the war,” said the boy, “the family is large. Some
live far away in Damascus. They come for the feasts. But not since the
war—there is not money and some have died.” The _back-sheesh_ was
accepted gratefully with many words of thanks by the two women below—one
very young with a baby in her arms.
Our next stop was at the spot where once had stood the home of Simon the
leper where a woman did the Great Teacher high honor as she broke her
very precious box of alabaster and, in an abandonment of love and
gratitude, poured the fragrant perfume over His head. We could hear the
petulant voices of those who complained because the ointment had not
been sold for a good price and the money given to the poor. But Jesus
understood.