And Then That Happened, (Part 2: A Shocking Experience!)

It was July 4, the 831th anniversary of the Battle of Hattin.  That was the decisive battle in the hills above the Sea of Galilee between the Crusaders and Saladin.  It was a scorching day, and the Crusaders were cut off from their water supplies.  Saladin ran relays of water up from the Sea.  The Crusader army was destroyed.  Jerusalem fell shortly thereafter, with their castles across the Jordan along the King's Highway including Kerak, Shobek and forts in Petra not far behind.  My July 4 in Petra, I had full canteens and used them, but in 115 degree heat it still was not enough.

After leaving the Treasury, within a hundred meters or so I ran into a couple of camels on the trail.  I stepped off the road to let them by, and on the rocky side I twisted my ankle.  "Oh, that'll hurt in the

Just step off the trail and let them pass

morning!" I said.  Little did I know the damage I'd suffered: six months later, it would be diagnosed properly as a torn Achilles tendon.  Another hundred meters or so, I came to the turnoff to the High Place of Sacrifice.  My ankle hurt, but not too badly.  "If I don't go up there, I'll regret it," I said to myself.  I knew that the next day's plan did not have time for that side trail; it was now or never.  So I started up the stairs.

After climbing a couple hundred feet, watching the valley fall away below me, my ankle hurt worse. I reflected that the newer British built stairs lower down were taller than the more ancient ones.  I was glad when I came to a dozen meters of flat before the next staircase, as it let my foot relax.  But on the climbs, it hurt.  Maybe I should quit? "But if I don't do it, I'll regret it. Besides, I've climbed a fair ways, I don't want to lose the effort."

I ran into an Englishman who was descending.  He assured me that he was only 15 minutes from the top, it ought only take me 20 minutes or so.  (It took more like 45.) My ankle hurt badly, but was functional; it would bear my weight as I stepped up.  So on I went.  Near the top, the trail opened out towards a saddle below the summit, and there was a tiny shelter with a couple of Bedouin girls in the shade.  "It's not far!" they encouraged me.  The trail petered out into a duck route across open sandstone slabs, and then I was atop the summit.

Altar on the summit of the High Place of Sacrifice

You can see for 20 miles in every direction. There is a platform maybe 35' x 20'. On the west side, is an altar, with three steps up to it. There's also some sort of sideboard with steps up it. The altar is about 3' x 6', concave in the top, with a drainhole. The sideboard has a bowl structure, also with a drainhole. Sacrifice was a messy, bloody business.  I'd read all my life about "the Israelites are sacrificing to Baal on the High Places," etc. But to see one, carved out of the bedrock, was astounding. This was probably dedicated to Dushara, the head of the Nabatean pantheon.  It was truly fascinating, and I'm actually about two-thirds glad that I made the climb

But the pain was fierce!  Compare the grimace in my selfie here with the smile from an hour and a half earlier! One of the Bedouin girls came up and talked to me.  She suggested that I go down the back

Atop the High Place. Aaron's tomb on mtn in far distance

way, "Fewer steps," than the way I'd come.  Or I could go across the bluffs to the west and pick up a road to the main entrance, that's how they had to take a woman earlier by truck who had broken her leg. I assured her that I didn't need that.  She was a bit upset that I didn't look at her crafts for sale, but I knew time was of the essence if I was going to get down and out in time.  So started limping down the back stairs.

What she hadn't told me was that there were literally NO other people on that trail. Or that it was on the sunward side of the mountain in the afternoon.  Or that the sand was white and reflected the sun.  Or that there was no shade.  And no breeze.  A genuine furnace.  115 in the shade and no shade.

Once I got to the valley floor, the sand was a bit easier on the pain than the steps.  And there were some neat monuments.  But I hurt too bad to divert the 15' off the trail to go look inside.  I kept pressing down the valley.

There were some goats around.  I could hear a nanny bawling for her kid she couldn't find.  I would know that sound anywhere.  She was running along a ridge across from me. Then I spotted the kid, dead, in a gully below her.  It was very sad.  A ways further on, I came across one of the famous blue Petra lizards alongside the trail.  Also dead.  "That's not a good omen!"

I knew I was hiking too slowly.  I'd stop and drink and then push onward before having to rest again.  I was regretting going down this way, realizing that it would put me at the far end of the city from the entrance.  I decided that when I got to the Basin (Qasr al-Bint), that I would swallow my pride and rent a donkey to take me back to the gate.  Or maybe even splurge for a cart ride!

I came to a major trail junction.  There were two routes to the Basin -- one that followed down the bottom of the wadi and curved around the end of the hill, and another that angled up to a small saddle and then dropped down. The latter was shorter, and so decided to take that path.  The trail had become rocky again and hurt.

At the top of the saddle was a small shade tent.  An old Bedouin woman was sitting at a rickety card table; I staggered over and fell into a metal chair. Shade!  And a place to sit!   I pulled out my canteen and started drinking thirstily.  In broken English, she assured me that the Basin was right down the hill, "Ten minutes."  I thought, "OK, maybe 20, but it'll be OK.  I'll find a donkey....."  I looked over and saw a simple bed in the corner, and wondered if it would be too intrusive if I went and lay down.  I am so tired!

She pulled out a small blue rag, and produced a small coin.  I told her that I wasn't interested, but took and looked at it anyway.  A Roman denarius, likely fake.  I handed it back, and she gave me another.  Another denarius, it was better quality, actually rather pretty, though still likely counterfeit.

I thanked her and handed it back, when POW!  My implanted cardiac defibrillator (ICD) fired.  I jerked back, she leapt up frightened -- our fingers had almost been touching as I handed the coin to her and it fired. "It's OK, it's OK, I cried, out... I have a defibrillator..." I spoke fast and fearful.  POW!  Another shock.  I kept talking, trying to explain, pulling down the collar of my shirt and showed her the scar from the implant.  POW!  Another shock.  POW!  Yet again.  I'm pouring water over my head,  and down my chest -- heat is one of the precipitating factors for these events, and I'm trying to cool myself off.

She is on the her phone.  "I'll call the doctor!" I tell her, "OK".  After just one shock, I might have been able to walk to the Basin after resting a bit  Two is iffy, my legs become jelly, and it was four or five which usually leaves me curled up on the floor in the fetal position.  I've had a few shocks on many occasions, once as many as a dozen.  I'd stayed in the chair, pouring water down my head and chest which is evaporating on contact.  She's on the phone -- to the rangers, to the police, to all her sisters, call after call.  Of course, she's speaking Arabic, though I do at one point hear her say "ICD" so I realize she's at least quoting me or maybe even understands the situation.

People ask me what an ICD shock feels like.  I've always said that it's like getting kicked in the chest by a mule.  Not that I've ever experienced that!  But it is a very physical punch, with a bit of electric fence jolt. I recoil from the shock as if sucker punched, flailing my arms back.  It is so deep in the body that it isn't quite pain, though it is uncomfortable.  And a few shocks do start hurting, as all the chest muscles start complaining about being cramped and released in a few milliseconds.   I'll feel a dull ache afterwards in my chest, like the residual after a bad coughing fit.  If I'm standing up, a shock will take my knees out and I'll fall.  I've learned that if I think I'm about to get shocked, to kneel down on the floor so I don't have so far to go.  Sometimes I can feel the precipitating arrhythmia, kneel and steel myself for a shock, though most often the first shock will take me by surprise.  And it is always accompanied by a mixture of panic and fear.  Which isn't great, because the last thing I need at that moment is an adrenaline dump -- adrenaline is one of the chief causes for the whole thing.  You know, like hiking down a mountain in 115 degree heat with a screaming hurting ankle.

After about 20 minute, an ambulance arrives.  The zaps have stopped, but I'm pretty much in shock.  I explain what happened to the attendants, and agree to go to the hospital with them.  A vehicle trumps a potential donkey!  I'm shaky as they help me walk to the vehicle, but refuse the stretcher and sit in the back seat.  As we drive down to the basin and then up the service road, I roll down the window and look out.  I realize that this may be all I see of Petra -- and pull out my camera and start taking pictures.  I'm bummed since I'm thinking that all the really good stuff is out the other window, but I can see lots of cliff carvings and ruins anyway.  I look up towards the Byzantine church excavation that I wanted to visit the next day and try to see as much as I can as we drive nearby.  Then I hear the driver on the radio; evidently they had asked how the patient was and he was rather disgustedly saying "He's taking pictures out the window."  I sheepishly put my phone away.

From my VIP Tour of Petra

Usually after an incident like this, I'm evaluated and released from the hospital pretty quickly.  I've even been chided for going to the ER at all, for the idea of a defibrillator is that it does its thing and everything is then OK.  So I'm worried about how long this will take; I'm going to miss my rendezvous near the main gate, so how will I get to the Bedouin camp?  My luggage was supposed to be there, with my medicines; what if I'm at the hospital long enough I need those?  We went through Wadi Musa, the town by Petra, and then out of town. Suddenly fresh fear grips me.  Where are we going?  Are we going to the next larger town, some 20 miles away?  But it turns out that the hospital was on a hilltop a couple miles out of town.

This hospital looks like what we had in the US in the 1930's.  It is spartan.  I am taken to an examination room, they run an EKG which looks basically OK, and decide that I was just dehydrated.  So they give me an IV bag of fluids.  What takes far longer is the police report.  I'm questioned by an officer about my nationality and visa, when I'd come to Jordan, where I'd been, and where I was staying. I was unclear about the name of my tour agency and the camp, and, flustered, had to look it up in my emails.  They ask me exactly where I'd hiked, where the incident occurred, just what happened.  This questioning happened a couple of times. 

During this questioning, I committed a severe cultural-religious faux pas.  I was telling about when I'd handed the coin back to the woman that when my unit fired "I had scared her to d**th."  Everyone in the room stiffened in consternation, and the policeman told me angrily, "Don't say that! You can't say that!  You must fear God!" and I quickly realized that I'd accidentally as much as cast a curse on the poor woman.  I apologized profusely.  I felt terrible, but had meant no harm, and tried to bless her help to me instead. It was an awkward moment that passed.  Finally, after a long time, the officer dictated the report line by line in Arabic to a junior who wrote it all down longhand.

They must have contacted the camp, because a driver arrived.  I paid my bill -- around $50 US -- and as I left, I asked if they could give me an ace bandage for my sprained ankle, which had been completely ignored.  They grabbed a couple bandages and tossed them in a bag, "Your care package," the nurse smiled. We hurried away, the driver being certain to charge me for the extra distance from the hospital.

I got to the Bedouin camp near Little Petra just in time for dinner.  The manager was very kind and helpful, he put me in a tent near the central men's washrooms and showers, and gave me a cane to help me walk.  I sat at dinner with an Irishman and a gay American couple and relished speaking American for the first time in a week.  After dinner, they ran the generators and hot water for a while so everyone could shower.  Then we sat on cushions around the fire, drinking hot tea, enjoying the lights the camp had put on the nearby rock outcrops, and watching the stars come out.  Clearly, I was not doing the back-way hike into Petra the next day, so they agreed to set me up with a driver who would take me to Shobek castle and Little Petra which would be more my speed.  Some Tylenol and an ice pack, and it seemed like the episode had wound down.  A good night's sleep, and I'd be fine.

Little did I know that the worst was yet to come.  More than once.

Relaxing around the campfire. "Seven Wonders" was not a rustic Bedouin camp.  Delightful glamping.

And Then That Happened, Part 1 (Intro.)

In one of my first posts on this blog, about The Journey, I observed that modern pilgrims do not face the same challenges getting to and from their destination.  In prior ages, the journey was as much about the pilgrimage as being there, and often more stressful.  Bandits by land, storms at sea, dangerous rulers, crowded inns and surly monks all were challenges.  Some pilgrims died en route or coming home.

I almost died coming home. 

Not at all intentionally, mind you. But I definitely used up a couple more of my proverbial 9 lives (I'm up to about 12!).  That sounds flip to say, but dealing with that reality has been very hard, physically, emotionally and spiritually.

Following the conclusion of my time at Tantur, I took off on my own to explore Jordan.  I took the train to Haifa, and the next day to the Sheik Hussein border crossing near Bet She'an.  There I was met by my driver from Amani Tours  http://www.amanitours.com, with whom I'd assembled a custom tour of religious and cultural sites.  My drivers were wonderful, and through the crisis I'll detail below, they and the staff went far above and beyond the call of duty.  Over a short week, I visited Umm Qais, Pella, Jerash, Amman, Qasr al-Abd, Madaba, Mt. Nebo, Umm ar-Rasas, Heshbon, al-Lahun, Machaerus, Kerak Castle, Dana Preserve, Wadi Mujib's slot canyon hike and falls, Shobek

Jerash, Decapolis Roman City extraordinaire

Castle, and of course, Petra.  I had different drivers for the northern and southern legs of the trip; both spoke fine English, were affable, flexible, and put up with my hundreds of questions.  Some places were well trod, others way off the beaten track so we were the only ones there.  Just looking at that list and reviewing some of the pictures makes me realize how what happened at the end eclipsed so much of my memories.

It was hot.  This was the first week of July.  Over 100 degrees F every day.  More than a few times, I was very grateful to get in the air conditioned car after climbing down from the likes of Pella or the (unimpressive) ruins of Herod's mountaintop palace at Machaerus, completely drenched with sweat.

Machaerus.  You walk from here to the top. Not worth it.

My drivers thought I was a bit crazy.  Cooler but exhausting was the walk, swim and climb in Wadi Mujib's slot canyon.  I am not sure when I was more muscularly spent than after that, I would not have made it without the help of the guide/river-otter who assisted me.

The next morning after the Wadi Mujib hike, I had a "nature hike" with a Bedouin around the upper valley at the Dana Preserve, during which I'd slipped and fallen several times on loose rock.  My driver stopped in Wadi Musa (the town by Petra) where I got a lunch shwarma to go and some more water bottles. He dropped me off at the location I would be picked up at 16:00 hrs and taken to a Bedouin camp near Little Petra for the night.  After going through the small but well done museum near the entrance gate, and taking a picture of the Indiana Jones Gift Shop, I started down the road into the ancient city.  Downhill going in, I met a fairly steady stream of tourists coming out.  Most were on foot, but a lot had hired donkeys or bicycle-wheeled chariots for the return trip. 

Did I mention that it was hot?  I later learned that it was 46 C (115 F), the hottest day all summer.  There were a a variety of impressive monuments as you approached the siq (slot canyon that is the main entrance to the city).  When I got into the siq, I stayed to the shady side of the canyon it was a furnace with no breeze.  The aqueduct system in the canyon were interesting but dry.  But nothing prepares one for the view when all of a sudden you turn a corner, and there is the famous Treasury.  This is the building used in Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail as the main temple, though it is in fact a tomb.  In the plaza is a tourist chaos of people hawking trinkets, camel rides, and people from all over the world getting their picture taken.  I got a nice Japanese lady to shoot my picture before leaving the carnival to head on into the city.  Check out the people on the camels right near the base of the structure, it gives you an idea of the sheer size of the monument.

The last smile for a while, at the Treasury

My plan, which I had figured out well in a advance, was this:  Not far past the Treasury, I would turn off south on the trail to the High Place of Sacrifice. The High Place was a Nabatean sacrificial platform and altar on a mountaintop some 500' above the main city, accessed by a million stairs (more or less).  From there, I would descend the back way down Wadi Farasa, past a number of lesser known monuments, and then in a couple miles rejoin the main valley at the restaurant complex at Qasr al-Bint.  I'd then hurry up the main street, back to the Treasury, out the Siq and meet my driver by 16:00 to go to my camp near Little Petra.  I woudn't spend a lot of time looking at things through the city center, because I would visit them the next day.  The plan for the morrow was to get a jeep ride from Little Petra to roads end, and then take the rugged way-point "back-way" route to the Monastery, a large monument atop its own mountain, descend from there to the Qasr al-Bint, and then have a good portion of the day to explore the city. I'd then meet my driver near the main gate, who would take me 3 hours up the King's Highway to a hotel in Madaba, from which I'd go the 20 minutes to the airport the next morning to catch my flight to London en route home.

This was not to be.

Map of Petra.  My first fateful route is the trail looping down from the center and then going left.

Go to Part 2: A Shocking Experience

Returning to the Holy Land

At the Dome of the Rock

I'm going back!

In just a couple of weeks, Ivan and I are departing for "In the Footsteps of Jesus" pilgrimage led by Jeff and Janet Wright.  The main tour is 10 days long, we will go a few days ahead of the tour to get over our jet lag and see the sights of Tel Aviv.  At the end of the main tour, Ivan heads home, and I'll go with a few of the others on an add-on to Petra, and then hang out and explore Jerusalem some more for a couple days.  The tour hits the major Christian and historical sites around Jerusalem and Galilee.  A good portion of our time will be meeting with civil society groups working towards justice and peace between Israelis and Palestinians.  We'll meet a variety of groups, both Jewish and Arab; if all works out we will even get to meet with a member of the Knesset when we visit there!  (I don't know who.)

Our leader Jeff Wright was for many years the minister of Heart of the Rockies Disciples of Christ church here in Fort Collins.  While I have never known him well, I have been aware of his ministry for a long time.  Heart of the Rockies was a church plant at about the same time I planted MCC Family in Christ, so I watched their work from afar.  He and his wife Janet, who is a social worker skilled in EMDR, have been leading these tours for quite a number of years in collaboration with DOC/UCC Global Ministries.  (Our two denominations have a joint mission board.)  I've known several people who have gone with them, and they have uniformly testified to the transformative effect the experience had on their lives.  I had seriously considered their program when I went to the Holy Land in 2017, but opted for the month-long, more academically inclined, program at Tantur instead.

Why go back?  Especially, in light of how my last trip ended?  (For the three of my readers who don't know about that, look at the next blog post I'll write, "And That Happened" in which I revisit the crisis that befell me in Petra and a week hospitalized in a cardiac ward in Amman.  I was surprised when I reopened this blog that I had not written about that.  But it was pretty traumatic and has taken a lot of hard work to heal.)

The first reason is to visit places I missed on my prior trip.  Even a month with tours most days was not enough time to see all I wanted.  Just around Jerusalem, I never made it to sites as important as the Cenacle (site of the Last Supper, part of a larger complex on Mt Zion) or the Russian Orthodox Church of Mary Magdalene.  There were a bunch of archaeological sites I missed, such as the Burnt House (ruins from the Roman sack of the city in 70 CE), the western wall tunnels, "Zedekiah's stables," or most of the archaeological digs in the City of David.  I missed the Museum on the Seam, David's Tomb, and the Tombs of the Prophets.  Likewise, the King David Hotel, First Station, or Great Synagogue.  Now, I realize that many of these aren't on the itinera, but there are free part days or the option of skipping things I've seen to go to things I haven't.  (And it'll take another trip -- or three! -- to see things elsewhere in the country I'd like to explore:  Megiddo, Akko, Safed, the Ramon Crater area, Lachish, Ein Gedi, Jenin, Bet She'an.....)

The "Immovable Ladder" at Holy Sepulchre

Some places that I saw before deserve a second (or fourth) look.  The first visit is big impressions, this time I'll look for details.  The first visit was finding a good picture, this time I'll probably forgo some pictures to absorb the spirit.  So, a place like the Syriac St. Mark's, I only saw a part -- I was in the courtyard, but the church itself was closed.  Or some of the Stations of the Cross that I blew past need closer attention.  Or some of the antique shops that I wandered through, but did not seriously explore, thinking I'd come back later (and didn't).  And I look forward to revisiting in particular the Basilica of the Annunciation in Nazareth, the Tomb of the Patriarchs in Hebron, and the Church of the Holy Sepulchre -- each of these places had deep spiritual significance for me on my last trip. 

Which brings out one of the biggest reasons to go back:  There, in the places and people and stories that are root to my faith, I met God in unique and rather ineffable ways.  I've had a few deeply numinous experiences over the course of my life, which serve as benchmarks for my relationship with God.  On that pilgrimage, I had three major ones, including probably the most profound of my life, crying my insides out behind a pillar in Holy Sepulchre.  Why there?  I don't know.  I'd long been dubious about Marcus Borg's discussion of "thin places" because of my beliefs about divine omnipresence.  These experiences challenge that.  Why then?  Not sure -- I had tried to be receptive, open, to get out of the way when the Spirit was breaking loose.  But not necessarily more than in other times and places.  Why go back?  I know full well that lightening does not strike twice in the same place.  That the very nature of spiritual experience is that it is rooted in grace, a gift, unpredictable and programmable.  I'm aware of the danger of seeking the gift rather than the Giver.  And those experiences were weird enough (in the Rudolf Otto and MacBeth "weird sisters" usage of the word), even uncomfortable, that I have no illusions that I'm looking for sweetness and light, but am more likely to find "a dread and deep darkness" (Gen. 15:12).  But for some reason, my spirit harkens to that refiners fire.  "It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God."  Yes, it's dangerous. That's the point.

At River Jordan, remembering my baptism

Going back is following God's call, a call that at many levels makes no sense.  This call is more specific than my moth-like spirit circling the flame of God's presence.  It's a call that wraps up so many diverse threads of who I am and what I have done through my life.  It encompasses my intellectual fascination with history, Bible and theology.  It directly confronts my lifelong (but getting better) dichotomy between head knowledge and heart faith, also the split between body and spirit, sexuality and spirituality.  And it brings back to the fore my primordal call to reach and serve God's lost sheep in the LGBTQ community.  So I want to do what I failed to do there last time, to find, meet, hear the stories of, and perhaps minister to queer people of faith, Jewish, Christian, and Muslim.  I realize now that this will become a separate blog post, so be patient and look for that.

That was one aspect of unfinished business that I want to address.  There are a few others, related to my hospital stay in Amman, debts of gratitude I plan to repay during the morning there. 

Finally, I am totally excited that Ivan will be going with me this time.  He has had a conflicted relationship with my adventuresome travel.  (I didn't help matters much by saying things like, "There's riot police everywhere [in Istanbul], so I'm going to go the other direction, talk to you later," and "Oh, wow, I don't feel good... I'm calling an ambulance, talk to you later," -- and then not being heard from for 8 hours.) We travel well together, I plan exciting adventures and he makes sure we don't get mugged in some back alley on our way back to the hotel.  I'm really looking forward to him seeing the places and stories that have meant so much to me these last couple of years.  We have never been on a group tour together, so this will be a new experience in that respect.  It is also exciting that a couple from Plymouth, Gary and Anna, are going.  (Anna and Ivan are real close. They're going on the Petra extension too, and Gary has promised to Ivan that he'll "chaperone" me to keep me out of trouble.)

So pray for me, pray for us.  Pray that all the logistics goes smoothly, especially in and out of the airport.  Pray that our group of 16 pilgrims gels into a spiritual community.  Pray that I'm able to connect with gay communities there.  Pray that everyone stays healthy, especially me.  And most of all, pray that we meet God in and through this pilgrimage in the way God knows we need the most.