Part of the beauty of the church is that she is able to offer her story to to all peoples of the world in their respective languages. The sacred text of the church is, through the hard work of translators, taken to every corner of the world. It is made accessible to all people from the primitive tribes in the bush to the progressive tribes in the high rises. One is not required to learn a specific language in order to take their place among those who belong to the Savior.
I live in a city of sacred language. The Arabic contained in the Quran is different from the everyday spoken Arabic of the Muslim population. The Hebrew contained in the Tanakh (Hebrew Bible/OT) is different from the everyday spoken Hebrew of the Jewish/Israeli population. Some Jews do not even speak modern Hebrew as a show of reverence for the sacred language of the text. Up until Vatican II (1962), the Roman Catholic Church held their liturgies in Latin. It was early church in the East (the Orthodox Church) that made the first efforts to offer her stories and liturgies to the peoples of the world in their own languages. Protestants have continued in this tradition.
Today, I began translating the parable of the talents from the Koine Greek in which it was written to modern English. It is nearly impossible to put into good English the artful storytelling of the gospel writer. The parable reads like a motion picture, but only in the Greek. It was clearly meant to be heard. Reading it this way—the way it was written, the way the author intended—is already having a profound effect on my view of the church’s sacred text. It is alive and animated. I can feel the tension in the story, and I find myself, although already familiar with it, waiting to find out what happens.
Alright folks, I’m taking a risk with this one and am offering it for a limited time only. This is a video of our July 1, 2009 adventure. My favorite parts are the national anthem and when Karin is talking about which bourbons she likes as the band plays a solemn song. Again, for the public, for a limited time. Enjoy!
Readers have probably noticed a bit of a break from The Dailys later in the week. There are good reasons, I promise you. I will tell you of one: Wednesday July 1, 2009.
It was about a week ago that I got an email from a good friend of mine, one Ms. Carolyn Snell:
I have some friends in a band called Stephen Kellogg & The Sixers. They are super fun in concert & playing at the US Embassy on Wednesday around 630 or 7. Would you like to go? If so, please fill out the attached form asap (I’ve gotta turn it back into them soon) with whomever else you want to go with and turn it back into me!
If not, no biggie too…. just let me know.
xo
C.Snell
Right, so, they are “playing at the US Embassy”. What does this mean? Well, I didn’t really know, but I sent my name and the names of four friends to be put on the guest list. As the time drew near for the show, I began to wonder what exactly Carolyn had gotten us into. There were articles on JPost about an Independence Day party at the US Ambassador’s residence in Hertzliya Pituah. The articles were informing the public that some of the Israeli heads of state were calling for a boycott of the event, but that PM Benyamin Netanyahu would be attending. “Surely this is not where we are going.” Being the day of the concert and that we needed to leave Jerusalem soon, I decided to quickly follow the email trail from Carolyn and see if there was anyone who could tell me where I was going (The Embassy in Tel Aviv or to rub elbows with diplomats [read: professional liars] 
. Luckily, I got in touch with a guy who is with Armed Forces Entertainment. He gave me the exact address to the ambassador’s residence and also asked me which guest list I was on. A little bit of back and forth on who I was and how I got on a guest list to begin with was followed by a phone call from the band’s manager. Apparently there were parts on the guest list that needed to be filled in with passport numbers and dates of birth. So, I filled out the spreadsheet correctly and sent them to Mr. Armed Forces Entertainment’s Blackberry. BUT, he didn’t get that email, so I got another phone call from the band’s manager on our way to Hertzliya Pituah. I called in a favor to The Vern and he resent the email from my computer. Another phone call confirmed that they had received our information and that it would be taken down to security.
We arrived in Hertzliya Pituah, talked to a policeman about where to park, and then got on this shuttle bus:
Apparently, this shuttle bus was going to take us to the future! We couldn’t wait! We rode the shuttle bus to the future with about six other people who were far more dressed up than we were, but how were we supposed to know what future people were wearing? It took us to a street at the bottom of a small hill. We proceeded to walk up this hill where eventually we saw three consecutive security stations spread out along the street. Going up to the first one we put on our “we’re with the band” faces and told them as much. However, we were NOT on their list. So, they sent us to the next security station, where we were also NOT on the list. At the second security station we were placed in a bit of a holding pattern for about 15-20 minutes where we told our story to about 3-4 different folks. Eventually, we were told by an Israeli woman, “I will go find ‘Mr. Armed Forces Entertainment’, and if he can identify you, I will let you in, but if not you will go home.” Unfortunately, he didn’t know what I looked like, so being identified visually was not going to happen. We were then sent down to the third security stations to see if we were on their list. Apparently, this was the security station that the Americans were at, and although they couldn’t find us on their list, they started doing everything they could to get us in (under dressed and all). They gave us souvenir fans to cool ourselves down with and a program so that we could, as the lady said, “at least read something while you are waiting.” We were then told that something was going to happen and if we could wait on the sidewalk for 5 minutes they would then begin helping us. That “something” that was to happen was Benyamin Netanyahu’s motorcade driving by. One lady got on the phone with the State Department soon after to try to get us to check out with them:
“I think I’m going to just let them in. Do you see any problem with that? I really don’t have a problem with it. I think I’m just going to let them in. [to us] What are your names? [gives our names to the State Department]. Yeah, I’m just going to let them in.”
R.M [some sort of military man]: “Come with me. I’ll take you in.” We walked back to the second security station. [to the lady that told us we would be identified or we would go home] “They are okay. Let them in.”
And we were in! Our first stop, the Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers swag table for a “free” CD [thanks all you US taxpayers]. As we moved past the swag table, we saw that this was simply a backyard party with a bunch of American companies represented [i.e. Dominos Pizza, McDonald's, Miller, Jack Daniels, Post, Avis, Ben and Jerry's, etc]. Our second stop after the swag table was Dominos for some American style pizza (the had REAL pepperoni), then we walked by the Miller refrigerator and were promptly, without being asked, given Genuine Drafts. Pizza and beer. In the future, apparently it is the simple things that matter. It was absolutely wonderful.
After the singing of both national anthems by Shiri Maymon, we enjoyed some speeches from the US Ambassador and PM Netanyahu. I chose a spot next to whom I believed to be a diplomat from India and his wife. This is the best shot I could get:
After the speeches it was time to go searching for another beverage before Stephen Kellogg and the Sixers came on stage. The music started and the guys played with gusto as three American students living in Jerusalem rocked out with them. The diplomats were busy being diplomatty, but not us. This was the reason we were here. Well, I shouldn’t say it was just us. The Jelly Belly was there. “It” and I shared a high five a few minutes before the giant bean almost bit it sliding down a short but steep hill:
They opened the set with a song called “Sweet Sophia” off of their current album Glass-Jaw Boxer. This was followed by a cover of Old Crow Medicine Show’s “Wagon Wheel“, a personal favorite of mine. It was so great to hear live music that is of a persuasion that I really enjoy. I’ve had the opportunity while living here in Jerusalem to hear a good bit of live music (nothing compared to living in Nashville, though). It has mostly been Classical music, which is all fine and good, but a little too educated for me. I enjoy it and appreciate it for sure, but I miss what I will call “real people” music. Songs that come from experiences and tell stories…and that have words 
I am a bit of a lyric junkie. We caught up with Stephen, the lead singer, and Kit the keys and bass man afterward. They were expecting us, as Carolyn told them we were coming. They were exactly the kind of people you want behind the music: kind and generous of spirit. We talked about the great divide between politics and the “real people” as evidenced by the fact that none of the diplomats were paying attention to the songs that were hand-picked for them and the event. US tax dollars spent on people who don’t care a lick. That’s Caesar I suppose.
We left satisfied and pretty amazed at what had just taken place. As we arrived at the shuttle back to the past, I called up Carolyn to say a big thank you. I didn’t know she was in the Bahamas. Apparently her boss (who sings real people music) is doing a gig there for the 4th of July. Who knew? Thanks for movin’ me uptown for a evening C.Snell.
***1360 words more than makes up for 3 days without 300 word dailys
a.lenore
I rode the bus to the gym today. It’s quite a silly thing to do, really. The YMCA is not that far away, although it is all uphill. Everything is uphill here. My mom said that it is so, so it must be true. On occasion I ride the bus to the gym. When I do this, it is usually in order to save time, which never happens. Today, I rode the bus so as not to get all sweaty before the appointed time. Riding the bus seems to be a silent activity for most people here in Jerusalem. Everyone is quiet and no one looks happy. I usually have my headphones on and have gone away to whatever world the “shuffle songs” function takes me. My Workout Buddy (the small iPod) is mostly full of songs conducive to long stints on the elliptical machine. These songs often make me smile or laugh or tap my feet or bob my head. And, I do all of these things on the bus in the midst of the quiet, unhappy bus people. Often I wish they could hear what I hear at the level of quality that I’m hearing it. I am convinced that it would redeem their bus ride, maybe even their day. I want them to be happy. I want them to smile at me and not scowl. Jerusalem is a hard town to live in. As a foreigner I have many frustrations about how difficult and inefficient almost every task is. As citizens, the unhappy, bus people probably have frustrations about how difficult it is to simply exist. Everyone is fighting, trying to not be taken advantage of. Meanwhile, everyone is trying to take advantage of everyone else. Even if Israel had no enemies, I think its citizens would still fight each other.
Everyday I ride to language class with three other single, American women and George, a 6 foot and many inches tall Sudanese man in his mid-thirties. I met George last summer, when a group of us began picking him up on our way out to the kibbutz where we have class for four hours everyday. Picking him up was always my favorite part of the ride. To be honest, I usually sat in the back of an eight passenger, manual transmission van that had no air conditioning, so pretty much anything could win the award for “best part of the ride”. George is quiet. African quiet. His demeanor is hushed, but his presence is voluminous. I do not know the details of his story, but I do know that he fled Sudan three years ago, after his wife and at least one son had died as a result of the violence in that land. He is not much older than I am, yet his life has been drastically different. I have never wanted for anything. I have never lived in fear. I have never had as much joy as George does. I might be crazy, but I envy him. There is a small pond of goldfish on the kibbutz. I like to go there during breaks and spit in it and watch the fish try to eat it. A trick I learned from my dad. Last week during one of our breaks, George went to the pond with me, and I showed him how to do it. We laughed and laughed at their huge mouths gaping open, ready to devour nothing. He taught me the word for lily pad in his native language and laughed at me when I couldn’t say it right. “It is hard for you. It’s okay.”
Two days of sweet relief have come to me here in Jerusalem. As the sun has remained at least partially hidden behind God’s merciful clouds, I have basked, blue-jean clad, in the temperate atmosphere of my bedroom. My friends have, in honest jest, dubbed it my sanctuary. One of them, the boy, even asks for permission to cross the threshold. Permission is usually granted, unless my door is shut. Today the weather has been cool enough that the door has remained shut for most of the day, as it is now. I’ve been in this space listening to dialogues in Koine Greek and, as is my custom, Matthew Perryman Jones. I also made a successful attempt at limiting myself to reading only a few articles on Michael Jackson. In lands which have four seasons, summer is my least favorite. In lands that have two season, summer is my least favorite. The heat tends to have a paralyzing effect on me and I turn into a slug. Yes, I turn into a 5 foot 3 inch, slow-moving, human-shaped piece of goo with no desire to do anything. It is very, VERY attractive. For two days now the window to the past (i.e. early May) has been opened, and I have enjoyed the brief respite and the first full night’s sleep I’ve had in weeks. It is certainly not my intent to sound like a crotchety old woman before my time (which I hope is never), but the weather affects my mood more than any other thing. Summer makes me moody, and I don’t like me when I’m moody. I always want my mood to be partly cloudy, 67 degrees Fahrenheit and wearing a hoodie. But, alas, the Kingdom of God has not yet come in its fullness.
I thought I would start working on posting something daily in an attempt to get 300 words down each day. I have one more week of language class (Koine Greek), and then serious work commences on my thesis. This means lots of reading, lots of writing, lots of processing and lots of breaks in which to watch friends episodes. Sometimes writing well is something that comes naturally. Other times (i.e. most of the time) its laborious. Yet, like a great many things, it is a craft that can be honed, and I am sensing a pull to do the hard work of becoming better than my current talent level. There is a point at which simply living on talent ends. It can only take one so far. If one writes well and with ease at 19 years of age, but continues to write at that same level at 28 years of age, then that talent is wasted. That person may indeed still be a decent writer, which I am, but they will not be excellent. I want to be excellent, and it takes more than talent to do so.
Speaking of talents, that is precisely the topic of my thesis research. Well, not talents as in abilities, but rather a first century monetary unit. The Parable of the Talents can be found in the book of Matthew in chapter 25. The 300 words of The Dailys may or not have anything at all to do with that topic in particular, but I am certain that many probably will. I do not want to divulge here exactly which part of the parable I am going to scrutinize, but I am willing to type a synopsis up and send an email out to anyone who wants to know.
A couple of questions for curiosity’s sake before I go back to burying myself in Greek:
1) What has been your experience with the parable of the talents?
2) When you read the parable, what questions come to mind?
το τελος,
α.λενορε
Father Stephen is an Orthodox priest in Knoxville, Tennessee. I enjoy reading him from time to time. Here are a couple of related posts as of late.
2) More on the “Justice” of God
Enjoy…or think…or get mad…whatever.
Today, it has been 20 years since I came up from the water for the first time.
I have come up from the water many times since.
I will go down into the water again on Friday.
I will come up from the water again on Sunday.
Tomorrow begins another 20 years.
I believe in God, the Father almighty,
creator of heaven and earth.I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord.
He was conceived by the power of the Holy Spirit
and born of the Virgin Mary.He suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died, and was buried.He descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again.
He ascended into heaven,
and is seated at the right hand of the Father.
He will come again to judge the living and the dead.I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and the life everlasting.Amen.
