David's Christmas Sermon

Sermon for the International English Church
Christmas Day 2007

We interrupt this regular programming for a newsbreak. This is an important announcement. So, may I have your attention, please? There has been a child born this past night. It was in the early morning hours of 25 December. Eyewitnesses say that this is no ordinary birth. In spite of the humble surroundings there is a sense that something momentous and special has occurred. We are at present trying to sort out the story.

We have reported on the significance of the Roman census for weeks. We have reported that this census has brought difficulty and hardship to many. The lack of rooms in key cities of origin has left many without provision, particularly in the far corners of the Roman Empire. Judea is one such place. Our sources have found that towns such as Bethlehem, Jericho, and even Jerusalem have not been able to provide the needed hotels and inns for those registering according to the decree of Caesar Augustus.

If reports are to be believed, the mother of the child born is named Miriam. Our sources, religious in nature, have used the phrase “born in the fullness of time.” We have been unable to find a satisfactory explanation for the use of this language since there seems nothing unusual and nothing majestic about a story of a mother birthing a child under harsh conditions. We have found that her presence in Bethlehem was due to the registering of her betrothed. The man’s name is Persian is Yousef. The couple had humbly settled for a warm place of bedding in a stable below the guest quarters of a local inn.

Rumors are already circulating about this couple and their child. Some have made extraordinary claims and some are hinting at scandal and indiscretion. Shepherds, note the unreliable source, from the nearby countryside had been quoted as saying that they had seen a vision of angels bidding them to visit the child in Bethlehem and the vision of angels proclaimed this child the long awaited messiah or anointed one. At the same time, word reached our palace reporter that three visitors from Kashan in Persia had appeared in court with a most unsettling story for Herod. The Magi, or Persian wise men who study the stars, had noted that a King was about to be born. They had followed the long foretold wisdom of the stars. A special congruence of stars directed them to the capital of the Jews in Jerusalem. They inquired where such a child was to be born. Herod consulted Jewish scholars called scribes and encouraged the Magi to pursue their inquiry in Bethlehem. It is uncertain what Herod will do next but it seems, according to reliable and undisclosed sources that a new King is most unsettling to Herod and threatening to his reign.

On the scene in Bethlehem there are rumors. These rumors mostly come from connections arriving from Galilee. The child has been named Isa bar Yousef in the Persian. Some have derisively spoken of the child as Isa bar Miriam. They question the propriety of this birth, suggesting that the family is perhaps covering his illegitimacy. This seems to compromise the idea of a royal birth in the line of David. Further reporting is needed to clarify this issue.

As further news unfolds we will take newsbreaks to follow this general report. Of course, our reporters on the scene will keep you posted. This is David Wolfe signing off from the news desk. Have a good day.

Well that was some report. It sure kept my attention. Did it yours? The story in the New Testament is even better. You can see that this is one of the most amazing stories of the ages. Each Christmas we put ourselves in the place of the holy couple, the wise men, the shepherds, and sometimes even the manger animals. All the characters who surround the story as it is filled out in our legends are given voice to express their amazement and awe. It is the greatest story ever told. As Christians who come from many lands, north and south of the equator, we love to share this miraculous story. Each year we are asked to live into the story. Even if it were not surrounded by tradition and the transformation of the world with its good news it would draw us. We reenact this story without much bidding for it is unthinkable to live a life of Christian faith without celebrating what God has done for us.

Each of us gathered here lives in a land that is not our native home. The customs of home countries are foreign to many whom we deal with daily. We are called upon to adjust to a very different religious and holiday calendar. Unless you live in a neighborhood that is predominately Christian, your neighbors are going about their daily lives without recognition of this most special day where we celebrate the birth of a child whom we call “Immanuel- God with us.” We who live in Iran can draw upon our special experience of being in a culture that is not our own. Perhaps, we can empathize with this child who comes among us as savior. Perhaps, we can reflect upon this special Incarnation- the humbling of the Son of God whom men and women experience as the second person of the Trinity.

In the 17th Chapter of John we find Jesus praying for his disciples before giving himself over to the authorities. He says something in verse five that indicates his awareness of the glory that he gave up to come to earth. A colleague of mine in Oregon in the United States noted this scripture and began to wonder if Jesus had a sense of this “sending.” (I am indebted to Dan Cammack for his post,"The Word Became Flesh," in Barclay Press for November 28, 2007 where he asks the questions that help structure this sermon.) During this Advent season I have taken his reflection seriously. I ask you to join me in appreciating the sacrifice of our Jesus who came among us, humbling himself for our sake. We worship a God that cares about the creation.

What does it mean that God became flesh and dwelt among us? How can I personalize the impact of the incarnation and make sense of this most blessed of seasons? Some questions help.

First, did Jesus miss his home while he was here on earth?

Second, can Bethlehem shine any light on our understanding of being born again?

Finally, what does Christ becoming a child teach us about humility?

These are only a few of the questions that enrich our lives as we seek to live more fully into the Kingdom of God.

Our family calls the US home. My three children are right now gathered with my son in law and his family in Miami, Florida. We are away from our home and we miss Mexican American food, going to Little Havana Restaurant on Biscayne Blvd for a meal, traveling to the mountains of Virginia to cut our own Christmas tree, and visiting my brother in his home in Kansas. We miss our church family in Virginia.

I wonder if Jesus missed his home when he came to earth. Did he ever remember what home was like? Jesus prayed as an adult, “And now glorify me in your presence with the glory I had with you before the world began.” Did Jesus remembered his native home? When I am tired or discouraged these rituals and customs from home beckon the loudest. The pizza with real tomatoes sauce with pepperonis on top, the turkey at Christmas with gravy and dressing all are missed when we think about our warm familiar traditions. The adventure of life even well lived in a foreign land are colored during these special holidays that Christians celebrate around the world. Did Jesus long for home during lonely moments?

When Jesus showed his love for us we often think of his crucifixion. Perhaps his birth, his incarnation also shows us his love for us through his sacrifice in coming to earth to dwell among us. He humbled himself so as to provide us with life abundantly; to bring us the good news that the angels proclaimed to the shepherds. Just as you and I miss our homeland I wonder if we have a special appreciation of how much Jesus gave to come among us as a stranger in a time and place that was full of strife and discord.

When a child comes into the world we hold our breath until we hear that first cry. Not only is crying one of the first signs of life, but a baby cries to communicate its distress and desires and when they get a little older it may be a shriek. I suspect Jesus cried when he came into the world.

I do not know anyone who remembers being a baby in arms but when we enter a new culture we often refer to the experience as one of culture shock. We may feel disoriented and at the mercy of colleagues and friends even to help us do the most mundane things. For those unsuspecting of this disorientation there also may be some crying.

Just think, when Jesus told Nicodemus he must be born again, he knew what he was talking about. He had experienced birth for himself and knew what it was like to live as a child who must depend on others. Do we know what Jesus had in mind when he spoke of being born again or born from above? I wonder if in our way of thinking we have room to consider being born again as culture shock. Two Duke University Professors in America wrote a book they entitled, “Resident Aliens.” We truly are “resident aliens” when we give our lives over to Christ and are born anew into Christ’s fellowshipping community. Now our homeland is the Kingdom of God.

Finally, I want to come back to the theme of humility. I have been studying Farsi since February with a break to travel in the US last summer, talking about Iran. The most humbling endeavor here in Iran is not finding my way in the culture but make a fool of myself in Farsi. For many in the US who seek to serve in missions, travel is to Latin America. Their first task often is to learn Spanish or Portuguese. Henry Noewen tells of spending a year among the Indian people of South America. He published a journal of his experience entitled, “Gracias” and reflects upon this spiritual pilgrimage. Having left his academic position at Yale University he hoped to find a new place of service. He did not count on the difficulty and loneliness of fumbling over a language in which he did not have great dexterity. It was particularly a foreign experience because he had made his living in Europe and America at major universities by his talent in expressing the human condition as only a theologian can. Others find language study so humbling that to learn how to count and name ones colors is impossible to deal with. Often a missionary faces the stark reality of beginning life over. Many a person cannot deal with the fumbling attempts to master a new language and rely on the good will of the people of the land.

Christ truly humbled himself and dwelt among us. He chose to come not in a chariot of fire or with a sword as a conquering hero. He did not choose to live in a palace but to identify with the common person.

The Kingdom of God is not primarily for the proud and self-sufficient. As the prophet Micah put it, “He has showed you what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Jesus modeled this for us and each year he asks us to be a part of this greatest story ever told.

I want to end with a story that a colleague, a fellow hospital chaplain, told recently. Let us call him Charles. Charles was carrying a pager in a major university hospital and took all the crisis calls for that day. His pager went off and Charles hurried to the floor where a family was huddled around the wheel chair of a very elderly man. Charles stopped at the nurse’s station and asked the particulars. He found out that the man’s wife had just died so he went to comfort. Charles compassion and training served the situation well for the family parted and let him enter into the life of this grieving elder.

The first thing the man said was, “I do not go to church.” There was a pause to see how this was accepted. It was a test and Charles passed the test. The old gentleman then began to tell his spiritual story. “I pray to God daily and often. But I have never learned the first name of God, have you?” The response was predictable, “No, I haven’t,” said Charles. The man in the wheel chair straightened himself and looked Charles straight in the eye. “So, I named him Sam. Yes, when I talk to God I address him as Mr. Sam God.” Charles was a little taken back. You do not learn the first name of God in seminary or in clinical training. Then it struck Charles, what a wonderful intimacy. A whole lifetime of friendship with his friend “Sam.” It would hold him well into the future. Charles reflected in a devotional piece for chaplains that he still remembers this elderly gentleman who taught him a lesson in intimacy. An intimacy with his friend, Mr. Sam God, no less.

We too are called in this season to travel to that stable in Bethlehem and to hold the hand of this child. (Remember to get permission from his mother since little Isa may be tired from too much attention from people like us). Could it be that we could look into his eyes and see into eternity? Could it be that we could carry his spirit with us more diligently in a world that pushes us to forget our walk in faith? Could it be that at the manger we can rest and celebrate the unfolding story of the birth of “Immanuel?”

I ask you to look upon the quiet and humble acts of the Holy Spirit at work in the world in that day and this day remember the special relationship we are called to with a living Christ. One who did not exploit his relationship with God but emptied himself to be born in human likeness.

Thank you God for this most wonderful revelation of your nature. May we this day live more deeply and humbly into the fellowship of Christ.

Amen.


David E. Wolfe
Tehran, Iran

Fourth Week of Advent: Agape Love AND Christmas in Tehran

The fourth week of Advent came and went in a hurry. Our MCC Area Representatives (for Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Palestine) came and spent most of a week here. With the Bylers we had fine conversations, a little site seeing and some excellent coffee drinking. "Yalda" came and went--- the shortest day of the year (21 Dec) which in Iran involves getting together with people you love and eating lots of watermelons. (We saw piles of rinds in the street the next morning, waiting for trash pick up). Gifts continued to find their way to our door—a wind up Santa who plays a drum as he walks, a beautiful paperweight globe of the Kaaba (this is also the month to make a hajj to Mecca), a burgundy table cloth from Esfahan, cards of blessings.

We decided to head up to Tehran on 24 December, to be ready for Christmas morning worship. Our friend, Mohsen drove us the ninety miles to Tehran. Half an hour south of the big city, he stopped for gas. Grinning and pointing, he directed our attention to a field nearby. Three random camels were grazing happily (no magi seemed to be attached to them).

The gospel reading for the week came from Matthew 1. A very young mom decides to trust God with it all; the incredibly decent Joseph accepts a mystery being birthed; a baby is born and immediately calls together a whole community of people. Even magi following a star wind up in Bethlehem , “overwhelmed with joy.”

David preached at the International Christian Fellowship (an English speaking church)on Christmas morning (see sermon which will be posted shortly). The church was full of S. Africans, Zimbabweans, Nigerians, Malaysians, Philipinos, Norwegians, Germans, French & two random Americans. We sang all the favorite carols with joy--- once in our various languages. The cat which belonged to the German Church parsonage family made several grand entrances. He was put out; he came back in. He was put out, he went and sat outside the large windows, directly behind where “his humans” were seated and yowled. He came in and discovered the table heaped with fellowship food. A toddler wept when the cat was put out yet again—protesting in loud meows as he was carried by the nearest available human.

Later we heard our kids’ voices on the phone—happy and healthy in Miami- and wished son Josh a happy 25th birthday. Now, back home in Qom, we are awaiting the Mennonite Learning Tour which plans to arrive in Tehran on 30 December.
But the great thing about Iran is that Christmas in coming around again-- on 6 January, when the Armenians- both orthodox and evangelical- celebrate the birth of Jesus. The nature of divine love is to create, include, trust and treasure. Once again we welcome the Christ child into our hearts.

Third Week in Advent : Joy (while waiting)

A highway shall be there, and it shall be called the Holy Way; the unclean shall not travel on it, but it shall be for God’s people; no traveler, not even fools shall go astray.... And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with singing; everlasting joy shall be upon their heads; they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away. (Isaiah 35: 8, 10 – NRSV)

Now we’re midway through the third week of this holy season of waiting, the week of joy. Joy, I read, is from the Old French “joie” which is from the Latin “gaudere” – to rejoice, i.e. to experience unalloyed happiness and well being. We are waiting, with positive anticipation, for that unalloyed, unsullied delight-full well being that God promises the human family through Jesus.

Actually the above verse (8) from Isaiah gives me great hope. When all of God’s people head toward the holy city, Jerusalem, so beloved by us of Abrahamic faiths, not even fools will get lost and go astray. I am taking this to heart in my own case especially. It is a comfort.

Waiting, hoping, anticipating joy at the initiative of God is a deep part of the heritage of Qom, this amazing city in which people have resided for 6000 years. Last Friday afternoon (the “Sabbath” here), David and I went touring with the “English majors” – three great guys majoring in English who are undergraduate students. They hired a taxi and driver with a fine knowledge of Qom’s history, and off we went.

Our first stop was the “Forty Daughters Mosque”. It is a lovely old place (14th century) of prayer, commemorating the murders of forty young women on their way to Mashad long ago. People were praying within the modest courtyard—mostly women in chadors, but also a line of men against one wall. Inside the shrine, forty little stools each bore a rose on top. It was full of praying women, their kids enjoying a quiet run around the perimeter. A handprint, in clay, of the grandson of Imam Hussein (the third Imam of the Shia, himself the grandson of the Prophet Mohammad) was embedded in a wall. I paused before a threshold, unsure whether to enter. “Go on in,” I was told, “you are welcome everywhere.”

Just then a man in his forties noticed David and came over toward him energetically.
They exchanged a few words—neither fluid in the others language. The man gave up on that, grabbed David and kissed him on both cheeks. (By now the English majors had arrived to translate). “It is so good that you have come,” the man (Ali) was saying, “you will be blessed now.” He rooted around in his coat pocked and removed a small piece of carpet with Arabic writing interwoven. “Here are the first four verses of the Qu’ran. It is for you.” More looking in pockets and then he came back toward me. “Here is special perfume for prayer… the fragrance that the Prophet gave his daughter, Fatima, on her wedding day. It is for you. I am so glad that you have come, so glad.” He bustled off to pray, still beaming and looking over his shoulder.

We piled back into the taxi and emerged near several cone shaped buildings with aqua roofs. “Tombs of the Garden of Gonbad-e-Sabz” said the sign—from the 13th (Christian) century. Across the road was a more modern cemetery, expansive acres of stones centered around a mosque. At one entrance a man was making popcorn over charcoal. The English majors bought a bag for us to munch on as we strolled in.

Grave stones were embedded in the ground under our feet, impossible not to walk on. People gathered around some of them, placing flowers in little vases, sitting and drinking tea, quietly praying. Every 36 years it is permissible to add a new level of graves upon the old level; gradually the cemetery grows higher and higher.

We heard trumpets coming, a procession with flowers, a platform carried upon which rested a young man’s shoes and clothing. “Do you hear that melody on the trumpets? It is very popular for funerals in Iran, first composes just after the terrible earthquake in Bam when tens of thousands lost their lives”. Candy and flower petals filled the air. When a young person dies, they are “given treats” as though it is also their wedding. A woman covered in a large chador said, “You can go closer if you’d like, have a good look. I have,” she continued, “a daughter who lives in Poland and another who lives in Austria.”

Adjoining this area was the Martyr’s Cemetary. More of the omnipresent faces of young men (so many under 20 years of age) who had died in the Iran-Iraq War of the 1980s. A large banner with the smiling faces of two young brothers. The faces of three young men killed two years ago on a pilgrim’s bus to Karbala, blown up along the way. The pictures of four young Saudi Shia who “stood up” to Wahabis in their homeland, and were killed. On and on and on the cemetery went, heart renderingly. “But,” said one of the English majors,” we are people of the resurrection. Death is not the end, and so we have the courage to go on, living and working and waiting.

We drove through the “Hidden City,” also called ‘Afghani-town.” It was a densely packed neighborhood of Afghan refugees. Some of the features of people here are almost Mongolian, people of the great steppes of Asia. Beautiful, sparkling material is sold for women’s dresses, unique Afghani foods and music. People gaped as we walked along speaking in English. “Can you understand Dari?” we asked one of the English majors. “Some of it,” he said. “It’s like Farsi was hundreds of years ago.”

Twilight was falling. We decided on one more stop: the Jam Karan Mosque. Situated on the southern perimeter of Qom, this enormous mosque is the site of a vivid dream one thousand years ago. The Mahdi (the 12th, Hidden Imam of the Shia) appeared to a shepherd in a dream, and requested that this mosque be built. A friend our age told us that when he was a child and came here to pray, Jam Karan was two small rooms. Now it is an enormous complex that can accommodate thousands of people. Tuesday evenings are especially packed with pilgrims.

It is here, many people feel, that the end of time will be ushered in. The Mahdi and Jesus will return together, perhaps on a Friday, call humanity to ultimate accountability and begin a reign of peace and justice on earth. I picked up a complementary chador and went in to the women’s side

Two dozen women were standing in a courtyard, writing. They had paper (8x10 inches) and with brows furrowed in concentration, were fully engaged in the process. Under a roof was a raised green metal box—perhaps two feet square – with a young woman in attendance. Each letter was carefully placed in the slot on top of the box—entering a well. From this well, the Mahdi will read each letter, consider each petition and act as intercessor for the faithful.

We walked around the magnificent mosque, domes shining green in the gathering darkness. A television crew from Tabriz stood with camera and microphone out front. “Looks like you’re going to be interviewed,” said one of the English majors. “Is that alright with you?” The camera rolled and we began, David and I answering in turn the gentle questions that came. “Where are you from?” “What do you most wish for?” “Does any of this connect with your own faith as Christians?” “What do Christians think about waiting?” “You know, you are very welcome to be here.”

We finished up and headed for our car. The call to evening prayer was sounding and people were hurrying through the gates, into the mosque. Qom continues to be a city of prayers and of pilgrims (8-10 million visit annually). First a Zoroastrian holy city, then a Christian holy city, and now sacred to Shia Islam, Qom was destroyed by both the Mongols and by Tamerlane. It is an indominable place.

Near our car a small form emerged from the darkness. A little Afghan girl (perhaps 8 years old) was selling fortunes. “Want to buy one?” she asked, “they are all very good.” We bought several (they were bits of lovely poetry from Hafez) and left her in the parking lot, waiting and hoping.

Second Week of Advent: Peace

The wolf shall live with the lamb, the leopard shall lie down with the kid, the calf and the lion and the fatling together and a little child shall lead them. (Isaiah 11: 6, NRSV)

The second Sunday of Advent started on Friday: this is the week of peace. We traveled back to Tehran to be part of the festivities—worship, a church wide luncheon and bazaar to benefit the Armenian poor. We brought home two fabulous cakes (one pound, one apricot ) that we have been sharing with Qom friends over tea in the evenings.

It was pouring rain in Tehran, causing amazing effects on traffic in this mega city which has twice the population of London. Our Farsi is still a little vague. As we piled into a taxi, David pointed to the battering rain drops on the windshield and said with feeling, “ice cream.” (Earlier I had been describing a recent layover at the Doha Airport. We had several hours to ourselves and I, in Qatar, put my feet in the Persian Gulf. Evidently what I said was “On the train I put my feet in carrot juice.”). From taxi to metro to bus took about 45 minutes. Back to Qom in the rain and periodic thick fog our bus went, with the headlights off, of course, to save them from burning out too quickly. Many drivers follow this principle after dark.

On Saturday evening the family of our Farsi teacher came to visit. Ali (age 7) had drawn a bright Christmas picture for us. A carefully ornamented Christmas tree with a star on top hosts seven wrapped and bowed presents underneath. Santa and three elves stand at attention, facing the artist. Fireworks are going off in the sky. A large “real star” glows from the top of the page. It is THE star that stood over the Christ child. Of course the magi, as most any Iranian will tell you, came from here in Persia to offer their gifts to the holy baby in Bethlehem.

Ali’s mom had a bouquet of flowers— 5 red roses, 4 Asiastic lilies, carnations and mums in a sea of fine ferns. “Christmas mubarak, Christmas murbarak.” Christmas blessings surround us as we eat good Armenian cake and chat. Teacher Mohammad decides that I should recite aloud the children’s story I am memorizing—a riveting account of the friendship of a pigeon and an ant. I launch forth and Ali looks at me, puzzled, wondering perhaps what language this might be. He takes the script and reads it perfectly. I try again and he alternates between gentle corrections and shaking his head sadly. He does some gymnastic routines to take my mind off my linguistic challenges.

Sunday morning found us in class at the Imam Khomeini Institute. We are studying Axiology—the study of values. Our teacher, a Dr. Talebei (as in “Taleban” – it means “student”) is a fine teacher who did his doctorate in the UK. We began with Hume and Adam Smith, compared moral actions with moral aims, identified inherent values from non-inherent value. Dr. T has been involved in Muslim-Catholic dialogue, is thoughtful and well read.

After class we walked downtown. Storefronts sport school pencils with Santa Claus on top. One toy store features a 12 inch plastic camel. On top sits a man in a uniform, playing a guitar. A 20 inch troll (I called them “wishniks” as a child) was decorated in a police uniform, complete with sunglasses. (I wanted it). Native American dolls stood in small beaded dresses. Taxis and buses roared by. A woman sat in the backseat of a taxi, her chador caught in the door, fluttering like a flag as she went by. One bus had only women on it. The next had only men. (I’ve never understood where these single sex buses originate and terminate). We got on one with both genders and went home for lunch

The little grocery three doors down from us has been closed off and on for a week. Turns out that the owner and his family have been on pilgrimage to Karbala and Najaf—Shiite holy cities in Iraq. He is glowing from the experience, a two day bus trip over and back to the holy shrines. His little boy, Mohammad Reza (3) is so glad to see us that he comes running, pulls his gum out of his mouth and offers it as a gift. It seems miraculous to me that they have all come and gone to Iraq by bus and survived.

I recently read that one third of the US Navy is now in the Persian Gulf. The Iranian newspapers daily report crises in surrounding Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq, and Turkey. The greatest current fear among Iranians is what our country might do to them. And yet we are loved and trusted and cared for. “Christmas mubarak; Christmas blessings,” they say. “We love your prophet, Jesus. You are welcome.”

First Week of Advent: Hope

“In the days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established at the highest of the mountains, and shall be raised above the hills; all the nations shall stream to it… He shall judge between the nations, and shall arbitrate for many peoples; they shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks, neither shall they learn war anymore.” Isaiah 2: 2 and 4 (NRSV)

A couple of weeks ago David and I were in Jordan for an MCC staff retreat near the Dead Sea. Afterward we had several days to travel and enjoy the area and struck out for Mt. Nebo (which the Greeks called Mt. Pisgah). The seasons were changing and this Wednesday morning was brisk and blustery. Our taxi driver had us at Mt. Nebo before the 9am tour buses rolled in. We, like Moses, stood looking out at the land west of the Jordan. Jericho was at our feet. The Dead Sea glimmered to the southwest—aqua near the shore line. The land of Moab was all around us. I thought about Moses, peering over into the land of promise and in an odd way identified with him. In our lives as Christians in Qom, there is so much that we see and will never enter.

But what struck me most was the old church, into which we went and prayed. It was inhabited by monks and all sorts of pilgrims from the 3rd to the 9th centuries. Beautiful Byzantine mosaics and baptismal fonts adorned the church. But what touched me most deeply were the prayers—centuries of them – that reached out and included us as we sat quietly. The communion of saints was present to us and with us, an unexpected benediction.

Next we drove down, down, down to the Jordan River, just north of the Dead Sea. Bedouins tents were evident in the rocky landscape (what DO their flocks eat?) and occasionally they and their sheep filled the roadway. Camels grazed. We passed through a checkpoint and kept going. Bethany beyond the Jordan is the town that archaeologists identify with the baptizing work of John. Two old churches and three old chapels are in the midst of excavations. Jordan is allowing many Christian communities to build churches and monasteries near by.

Our guide was a Bedouin man of about 30, with excellent English and a fine grasp of history. “My father,” he said, “didn’t have much money to help me with university. I am the 4th son of the 6th wife.” He cheerfully showed us springs and wadis and archeological remains. “Come on,” he said, “ let’s go down to the river where the Lord was baptized.” A new Greek Orthodox church, full of exquisite icons, sits on the hill just up from the Jordan River. We wandered down to the Jordan and put our hands in it…. cold and at this spot, not deep and not wide. Israel is only 20 feet away, on the other shore. “Now don’t” said our guide, “talk to any pilgrims on the other side of the Jordan. Don’t smile at them, wave to them or answer them if they want to chat.” We look up at the reeds growing on the other bank and the Israeli flag flying just above us. A guard with an automatic rifle was right behind our small group on the Jordan side.

Climbing back up the bank and toward the museum, our guide said, “Look a minute. Do you see those antennas up on the hill in the distance? A wall? The towers? That’s Jerusalem. Pilgrims used to come here on the Roman Esbous-Linas Road, from Jerusalem to Jericho to here on the Jordan, then up to Mt. Nebo. You’re looking at the holy city that we all love.”

I though of our staff retreat near the Dead Sea. At dinner, the hotel had live music each evening. Two middle aged couples got up and danced with such joy—people from a Christian village near Bethlehem. Pilgrims still come to Jordan from Palestine, but past check points not Roman milestones.

Now suddenly it is Advent, the season of arriving, the season of the coming. Tehran is bright with Christmas decorations—three shops near where we worship have beautiful cards, wrapping paper and small, artificial trees. (I bought at 18” tree and am inordinately pleased with it). A young Muslim woman asked David for advice. “I want to buy nice cards for my colleagues at the office, most of whom are Christians. What makes a good greeting card for Christmas? What should the blessing inside say? Do Christians have a favorite color at this time of year?”

This week of Advent waiting is often called “the week of hope”. How badly we need to claim the positive anticipation that the gospel makes possible, a gospel that proclaims good news for all people, on all sides of borders, in every circumstance of our lives.