Cradle to the grave - A good cup of coffee

First full day in the Holy Land and it was amazing. My travel group and I visited the Church of the Nativity in Palestinian controlled 

Bethlehem today. This is supposed to be the exact location where Jesus Christ was born. When the doors to the site opened we entered a room full of decoration and ornament that would give most protestants, maybe even most Western Christians, some discomfort if not even an extreme headache. In the midst of much pushing and shoving I entered the grotto which marks the location believed to the the birth site of Jesus. I knelt over the star in the floor just like many others. I snapped a picture, closed my eyes briefly and exited the grotto after one last stop to the supposed site where Mary laid Jesus in the manger. Visiting these sites was not the potent life changing event I had anticipated. As I left the grotto I joined the Catholic mass taking place next door, where tourists and Palestinian Christians were celebrating Epiphany 

For most of the Christians here today is Christmas eve. Most Christian tradition here is based on the Eastern Church’s calendar. Bethlehem is full of Christmas trees, lights, and even Santa Clause. In fact I saw one girl dressed as a rather crude Santa Clause as a parade of drummers and bagpipers exited the mass with the Muslim call for prayer echoing alongside their Christmas parade

I didn’t make it through the mass, however. I felt as if I was at the end of the story instead of the beginning. I felt like Mary Magdalene at the tomb, He wasn’t there. Something in my gut kept telling me He wasn’t there. In the midst of the overly decorated landmarks and worship space, the familiar liturgy (although in another language), He wasn’t there. I didn’t stay any longer, as the sermon began I left, alone 

Now for me this is a significant thing. The streets of Bethlehem, being a Palestinian controlled area, is incredibly similar to Iraq. Aside from the Christmas decorations everything recognizable to me screamed danger. Narrow streets, high stone walls, flimsy metal doors on street vendor’s stores, and of course, arabic speaking middler easterners lining the streets and shops. As I wandered down the street towards the Milk grotto (another religious site where it is said a drop of the Virgin Mary’s breast milk turned the stone white) I was welcomed in english and invited to buy numerous items time and again. Not a big deal, all they wanted was my money. Regardless there was something healing about walking down those streets without a rifle, without fear, surrounded by arabic words and Palestinian faces 

We continued our tour, went shopping, ate a bedouin lunch, spoke with a jewish settler, and then returned to the hotel for dinner. Upon my return to my room I discussed going for a walk with a fellow student with whom I am sharing a room. He had just returned from a walk and warned me he had been rather uncomfortable walking alone. He also warned it was getting quite dark. Now, I’m no daredevil but I couldn’t leave well enough alone. I felt like a child that had just learned to doggy paddle and I just had to jump off the diving board! I grabbed my coat and wandered out into the dark alone

The street lights were dim and the side roads were just as dark and ominous as the hostile streets of Iraq in 2005. Middle Eastern music blared loudly from speeding cars as I passed palestinian police leaning against light posts with kalashnikov rifles in hand. Rubble and barbed wire was scattered here and there from years of bombing and fighting in this town known for the incarnation. It was scary. I walked down to a traffic circle near the  bottom of the hill from our hotel. The traffic circle looked identical to the one I had patrolled around during our invasion of the city of Hit, Iraq. I turned around at the traffic circle and rushed back across the street to keep from being struck by speeding cars on dark streets. Just as I reached the sidewalk across the street I made eye contact with a Palestinian man scowling in my direction. As my eyes met his I nodded in his direction. He gave a crooked smile and said marhaba (arabic for hello, which I remembered from Iraq) as he opened his car door 

Something about his warm… ish hello was comforting. Something about being ignored by the palestinian police and the young men who were out buying food and socializing was comforting. Something about not having a rifle was comforting. Something about enjoying a culture I had grown accustomed to fearing was comforting. I needed to take it one step further. As I walked past a coffee shop I screeched to a halt. I love coffee, on a good day even more than beer. There was an older man with two MAM’s (military aged males as we called them in the Marine Corps) drinking coffee in the bistro with two MAM’s working the counter of the bistro. The Robot from Lost in Space was waving his little arms like crazy in my head as I reached for the handle of the door. I was greeted with “marhaba” again as I walked through the door. I replied with the same greeting and proceeded to ask for a cup of coffee in english. He smiled at me and advised me that they had American coffee. I thanked him but asked him instead for coffee as he would drink it. After assuring him I did not want an american cup of coffee he smiled and asked me to be seated. I sat facing the door. Nine years of Police work and a brutal tour in Iraq wouldn’t allow me to turn my back to that door. He made me a cup of coffee in a small clear glass cup, much like the one’s we drank tea from when offered tea by Iraqi’s years ago. As I accepted the warm glass I offered my thanks in arabic and he sat in a corner facing the soccer match on the television 

As I sipped on the hot glass I peered at the screen out of the corner of my eye. After a few minutes he called over to me and invited me to sit beside him; “Come my friend, sit with me, watch the game” he called. I picked up my cup and sat next to him as he told me how his team was the best as if I knew which team was which. I finished my cup of coffee, it was strong. It was as strong as military coffee, the only difference was it didn’t taste horrible. It was so strong there was a thick layer of silt on the bottom of the glass when I finished. He smiled and asked if it was good and in honest reply I assured him it was indeed good. When he rang me up I knew he overcharged but I offered him a tip instead of an argument. Little did he know it was the best three bucks I had ever spent. As I offered my payment and tip to my new palestinian neighbor asking him to keep the change he replied with a shocked look upon receiving an extra dollar. As I began to exit the bistro he asked me if I would like to stay to watch more of the game. I thanked him
again in arabic and told him I needed to be on my way 

I made a b-line for the two Christian Churches on the other side of the hotel, one of which was on the far end of a deep and dark alley. It was the kind of alley that made me cautious in my own country. I visited both, the last of which had a large nativity set at it’s entrance. I stood looking in on the manger scene and I realized He wasn’t there either. I left Him sitting in that glass of coffee I shared with my new palestinian neighbor. I left Him at that table with a lot of fear and hate. I seek Him out in the hopes I can one day share a cup of coffee with the insurgents I hunted along the Euphrates and the ones who hunted me as I wandered down dark alleys much
less friendly than these 

I’ve been in the Holy Land for a day and I have loved what I have experienced, including these many sacred sites. However, reconciliation doesn’t come out of dirt, buildings, and relics. Reconciliation comes from Christ and Christ resides in us, in our action, our love, and on a good day, a cup of coffee

Salām-

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