The Wall

Refiner's Fire - Quote #2

From page 39 of Refiner's Fire by Mark Helprin:

"As total and terrible as times may have been for most, she was spared, as some are always spared, and in a remote district near the White Sea they lived subject to God and nature, unbending to revolution or any other creation of man - not because they were strong (for they were frail) but because they stood in the eye of the hurricane, correspondent with mildness and awe. Though they had been mainly sad and unsuccessful, not heroic in any way, not great lords or particularly wise, not so strong, not so beloved, from their obscurity they were moved by the beauty of the world, often touched and often electrified by natural storms and colors, and they formed in their way a silent aristocracy - neither empowered nor bold nor ever known. They were to be born and to die in a long unrecognized line only rarely favored by fortune. In this way they suffered and were not distinguished, but they had one special power. They understood the light."

Yad Vashem

We went to the Holocaust Museum in Jerusalem on Monday. Emotionally it was a very tough experience. I cried multiple times which for me is highly unusual. The two things that wrenched me the most were the pictures of the kids and the displays of family photos that had been found among the belongings of the dead, often in their pockets. Seeing so much life and happiness in these photos was like seeing everything that they missed out on and ultimately lost forever. I think that they could make an entire museum with just those photos and it would be enough to capture the horror. There was one photograph in particular; of a wedding party taken several years before the war and the caption read, "Of the 56 people in this photograph, 48 were killed in the concentration camps."

I've always been interested in the role of joy during times of great pain and so it was the items that were related to joy, or some form of redemption that I copied to share below:

Before we went in to the museum, I took a walk through the Garden of the Righteous which is dedicated to Gentiles who rescued Jews. Each tree is named for an individual hero and walking under the shadow of these trees looking at the nameplates I felt as if I were in a hall of giants, and with this great cloud of witnesses to the goodness that can be found in the human heart sheltering me, I cried, hot tears running down my cheeks, and they were heavy and buoyant all at once.

The following is the suicide note of a young woman who took her life before the Nazi's could. The joy in it struck me because at this point she would have already experienced much pain and suffering in one of the ghettos that the Jews were forced into before they were shipped off to the concentration camps.

Beloved Stefanie, Forgive me, remember me with love. There was no choice. My life was beautiful to the end because of your love and the friendship of those who surrounded me in loving care... I hope to die at peace with the world and in the hope of grace and love. Be strong. Maybe someday justice and humanity will live anew. Signed, Anna Trauman

I went back there, in the shadow of the chimneys, in the breaks between the pain, there was something resembling happiness... For me, the happiness there will always be the most memorable experience, perhaps. - Imre Kertesz

To the One Who Restored My Belief in Humanity by Yehuda Baron

As we were leaving the museum and walking back towards the bus, one of the teenage girls starting doing ballet moves, pliés and leaps upon a curb of stone and it was just such a wonderful moment of beauty and a reminder that life marches on. That light shines in the darkness and that the darkness cannot overcome it.

Day Two

Sunday morning, after a lovely breakfast at the hotel, we went and worshiped with a group of Palestinian believers at their church in the Old City. It was so much fun to watch the kids running in and out just like they do back home. Then it was off for a stroll through the Jewish Quarter and a visit to the Wailing Wall. There was really something special about being there and offering up a prayer with my hands and forehead pressed up against the stone. It was the most powerful and moving experience I had at any of the holy sites. In the photo above, you can see the discoloration in the stone from all the years of people touching it.

Later, on a tour of an archeological site just around the corner, we came upon a group of about 120 Charismatic Germans of Russian origin singing praise and worship songs with gusto in Russian. What?! I want to know the back story on that one. They were really getting into it, even the men which is somewhat atypical.

The purpose of this trip is to introduce us to peacemakers on both sides of the conflict. Here is a brief summary of the people we met with in the first two days:

Saturday night we met with Rami Fellamon, a Palestinian believer who lives in Jerusalem (there are about 117,000 Arab Christians in Israel) and he talked to us about his life. Rami is a professor at Bethlehem Bible College and works for Jerusalem Evangelistic Outreach, a group that does relief work and evangelism in Israel and Palestine. The spirit of this man was incredible, it was apparent that he had a heart full of grace and love.

Sunday afternoon, we met with a group of Palestinian and Jewish women called Joint Ventures for Peace who are collaborating in teams of two to create products they can sell. For example, one of the Palestinian women makes olive oil soap and one of the Israeli women fires clay, so they designed a soap dish together and sell the Palestinian's soap in the Israeli's soap dish. The women were all a lot of fun and clearly had genuine affection for each other.

Sunday night we met with two men from The Parent's Circle which is a group of bereaved family members from both sides who have lost loved ones in the conflict. We met Ben, an Israeli who lost his daughter in a suicide bombing at a bus stop and Mazzan, a Palestinian whose unarmed father was shot by an Israeli soldier while driving home from a friend's house during the second intifada. They sat side by side, patting each other on the back, complimenting one another, and laughing at the other's jokes. It was an emotional and blunt conversation at times light and hopeful and at other times very matter of fact tinged with a weary sadness.

My roommate Nick and I wrapped up day two on the hotel roof overlooking the city. I love taking it all in from a high point, you get a little tiny sample of God's view and for a moment, the sounds of humanity carried up to you on the wind, a glimpse of his heart.

An Excerpt From Refiner's Fire

I brought a Mark Helprin book with me on the trip and wanted to share a bit of it. This passage takes place as the captain of a boat full of refugees is standing on the bow of his ship staring down into the Mediterranean:

As he looked down into the bow waves he saw the faithful and miraculous shape of dolphins, speaking to one another in chirps and whistles. They had great strength and endurance, and yet they were beautiful and not hard. By observing this he settled a conflict within himself, determining to be as strong as necessary and yet not to be hard. One of them veered outward and in so doing made it possible to catch Paul Levy's eye, and both seemed to smile without smiling. From that day forward he knew how to knit together strength and love. (pg. 30)

Day One

Bethlehem. My heart is heavy tonight as it is actually Day Three and we have seen many terrible things today, but I am going to do these in order, so back in time we go to a happier day.

Grace Hotel, Old City Jerusalem. The first thing that really reaches out and grabs you in this ancient city of stone are the sounds. First there are the church bells, then the Muslim call to prayer, add to that the sound of footsteps click clacking down stone corridors as Orthodox Jews hurriedly rush off to Temple, mix in the chirping of birds, the low murmur of the marketplace, and finally the pièce de résistance; the sound of pilgrim's from all over the world breaking into song (both spontaneous and planned) in their own languages as they walk down the narrow streets or sit in one of the many chapels celebrating events in Jesus' life. There is music e-v-e-r-y-w-h-e-r-e and it is wonderful! The highlight of the entire day was walking into the chapel at the Pool of Bethesda and there was a group of elderly black women from New York up at the altar singing like the angels in Latin with outstretched arms and faces pointed skyward. It was beautiful. Shortly after they finished, a pigeon tucked away in the massive ceiling somewhere signalled his approval with a hearty cooing that echoed and re-echoed in the perfect acoustics of the massive stone building.

The lowlight of the day was visiting the Church of the Holy Sepulchre which is actually a series of competing and very divided churches parked under one roof on the site where Jesus was crucified. One minute, you are walking through a crowded market and then you turn the corner and across a small plaza there it sits - one of the most depressing places on earth. I felt a bit like Larry Mullen Jr. in Rattle and Hum as he reflected on visiting Elvis' grave at Graceland, (Irish accent please) ''I really wish he hadn't been [crucified] there, I wish it would have been somewhere I couldn't have gone.''

There was so much bowing and kneeling, the kissing of objects, lighting of candles, rituals and recitations, etc... by so many people in so many different religious outfits that it all just became too much. I can't judge any pilgrim or even any act that I saw; and taken one by one they would have all been quite moving, but I think it was seeing all of them together, competing and jostling for space and knowing all the arguing and separation that occurs and has occurred in history over rituals and traditions that pushed me over the edge. I felt absolutely nothing emotionally in that place except sadness. Galatians 5:6 kept running through my head over and over:

For in Christ Jesus neither circumcision nor uncircumcision has any value. The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love.

I was so disturbed by my lack of emotion during the initial visit that I decided to give it one more try and went back to the church later in the afternoon right before closing. It was mostly deserted as I watched from a distance as a young mother from Africa knelt and kissed the slab of rock that Jesus was supposedly laid upon in the tomb. Her young son was kneeling beside her but kept acting up and she repeatedly had to stop to correct him, Finally she had had enough and got up to go. She motioned for the boy to get up and join her. Much to her horror and my delight, he got up and ran across the slab nearly knocking his head on one of the low hanging lamps. She hurriedly ran back to the slab and began reverently brushing with her hand every place her son's feet had touched the stone. Her devotion and his exuberance were both so real and beautiful, I knew that this was a scene I was meant to see. (I imagine this next line being spoken by my British roommate, Nick, so you must read it with a cheery British accent) Ahhh... a bit of redemption in the end, it's quite nice really, isn't it?

Lemon

I realized the other day that everytime I have a lemon in my hand, something good is about to happen. Probably will involve ice tea, but not always. I love the sight of lemons, BAM! how bout some yellow to brighten up your day! I love the feel of lemons, firm and solid in the hand, always a perfect fit in my palm. I love the smell of lemons, pressing the skin up against my nose and breathing deep, the tangy smell when the Hot One is shaving peel, or the deep earth sweet smell when cutting into one, like you are standing over the draft of a mineshaft that goes way down into the Good Times Mine. I love the way that too much lemon is a bad thing, but just the right amount makes so many things perfect. I love the feel of squeezing a wedge of lemon into my tea, and then the way that whatever I eat next tastes like lemon cause I got it all over my fingers. I love the spent wedge, held up by ice, bleeding seeds all over the bottom of my glass. I once bet my dad $20 bucks he couldn't eat a lemon. I guess he likes lemons more than me.

Simple Pleasures: Reading

To sit alone in the lamplight with a book spread out before you, and hold intimate converse with men of unseen generations--such is a pleasure beyond compare.--Kenko Yoshida

The Artists' Gathering by Viggo Johansen

Happiness is a Choice

One night when I was no more than ten, after a very grumpy day, my mother told me a story as she was tucking me in that went something like this: There were two boys in prison where they were forced to perform all kinds of difficult chores. One day they were brought to the stables and shown one stall that was filled with manure all the way to the ceiling and told to empty it. One boy gleefully grabbed his shovel, jumped right in and began shoveling with all the energy he had. The other boy scowled and began making fun of the shoveling boy, "Whatsa matter with you? Do you like horse crap, you gonna eat it, or what?" The other boy stopped shoveling long enough to exclaim, "Look at all this manure! There's gotta be one heck of a horse in their somewhere, and I am gonna find him!" My mom went on to say, "you need to be like that first little boy and find the good in everything." I remember lying there in bed that night, amused by the absurdity of the boy's optimism but resolving to be just like him. And as Robert Frost said, "that has made all the difference."

From time to time in life we can get off track in one way or another, slowly drifting from things we know to be true, without realizing how off course we are getting. We need a good friend, a piece of scripture, or the Spirit's nudging to get us moving in the right direction again. Over the last two years, I have slowly but steadily gotten more and more depressed about the current state of the world. I had forgotten to choose joy, and it was debilitating. But then a friendly voice on the radio, pointed me back to truth with his Happiness Hour. Dennis Prager with his insistence that happiness is a moral obligation we owe to those around us, and his constant reminders that happiness in no way is reliant on our circumstances has helped me get back on course. So thank you mom for setting me down the path of happiness and thank you Dennis for reminding me the way back to that path.

Two Great Sentences, One First-Tier Painting

"Though most settlements of the pale were arranged along the road like the branches of a tree, not Koidanyev, because of its relation to the river. From the main highway a spur led directly to its heart. You entered upon this road and left on it. The road was bisected by the river, against which the citizens of Koidanyev had retaliated by bisecting the river with a bridge."

- From Jacob Bayer and the Telephone, a short story by Mark Helprin


I am rereading The Pacific this week and I had to stop when I came across this sentence so that I could run around the house and read it to everyone. I know it is basically a fancy way of saying there is a bridge across the river, but it cracks me up. The word "retaliated", the assigning of a motive, is what seals the deal. It is simple, absurd, and it works. Reading Helprin is like eating an incredible piece of chocolate, you just savor it and slowly run it back and forth in your mind over and over. Wonderful!

"The most difficult of the dinner parties I ruin are usually around Christmas, and always those of the younger members of the firm, who, no matter how well they have done, have yet to find their place because they have yet to fall from grace and restore themselves. They know I have built and rebuilt, that, quite apart from my military history, I have, in corporate terms come back from the dead. That very thing, though I did not ask for it, is what they fear the most to get and fear the most in me.
It is why, while I sit still and merely smile, they hold forth in a volume of words that would blow up a tire. You would think that because they talk as enthusiastically as talking dogs, they would win. While they say everything, I say nothing. I am shown the second-tier paintings, and harried children who can play Mendelssohn, and from the corner of my eye I can see the ineluctable Range Rovers, the Viking stoves, and the flower boxes perfectly tended by silent Peruvians with broken hearts."

-From Reconstruction, a short story by Mark Helprin

I remember my dad telling me a story about a preacher who quoted C.S. Lewis in every sermon and eventually, the elders of the church told him to quit quoting Lewis in every sermon or he would be fired. The next Sunday he couldn't help himself, heavily quoted Mr. Lewis, and that was the last sermon he ever gave at that particular church. I feel kind of like that preacher tonight. I just can't help myself, but at least I am not alone; the silent Peruvians bear mute witness to Helprin's genius.

Note: this is my one hundredth post. It took me a little longer to get here than I had hoped, but here's to one hundred more. Thanks for reading.

The Beach at Palavas, Gustave Courbet, 1854

And My Oscar Goes To...

Best Movie of 2009: Bright Star



If Hollywood wants to both make a lot of money and the world a better place I desperately suggest adapting the following books:
1. The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky
2. A Soldier of the Great War by Mark Helprin
3. Memoir From Antproof Case by Mark Helprin
4. Freddy and Frederika by Mark Helprin
5. Any of the short stories by Mark Helprin found in The Pacific
6. A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson

When Perfection Comes

"But where there are prophcies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away...and now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love."

- From Saint Paul's first letter to the Church in Corinth, Greece.

Today

This morning it was very windy, cold and rainy up in North Texas. I work outside most of the time and this morning I forgot my underarmour turtleneck so I was a bit chilly and miserable until I noticed that the grass looked a lot like lichen and the clanging of the conveyor belt running rock up out of the quarry sounded a lot like the slap of the block against the mast on a boat rocking in the waves. This of course could only mean one thing - I was Torgie, a Norwegian miner working in the granite mines on the windswept North Sea coast. And if I was indeed Torgie, a Norwegian miner on the windswept North Sea coast then that could mean one thing, and one thing only - a ferry ride across the fjord at the end of my shift would drop me off a few short blocks from my IKEA furnished flat where I would put on a turtleneck and wool cap before eating a bowl of chowder and a plate of lingonberries! Yesssss!