Almighty craic in the Holy Land

The last time I visited the Holy Land was with Pope John Paul II in the year 2000. Excuse me. Pope saint John Paul II. Visiting there with "ordinary Catholics" shouldn't compare, but I felt I should do it. Sometimes it's not easy being me.

Soon, however, it was clear this second trip there would be good. It started so well. We arrived in Tiberias on the shores of Lake Galilee as the Ireland-England rugby international was getting underway. The wonderful staff at Marian Pilgrimages located a pub and we knew, we just knew Ireland would win.

It was hardly coincidence after all that, of all the towns in all the world, we should arrive in Tiberias on that day and at that time, where Ireland rugby international Jamie Heaslip was born in 1983. His father was serving with the Irish Defence Forces across Lake Galilee on the Golan Heights.

So, Jamie Heaslip wasn’t playing on the day. So? By then, in the Holy Land for a few hours, we weren’t about to let facts get in the way of a good story.

We were already used to the “it is believed that” or “it is reputed to be” qualifications surrounding specifics of where Jesus had actually been there. These didn’t matter as no one doubted he had walked this land and this lake beside us in Tiberias.

We went one better, though. We danced on it. Albeit in a boat flying Irish, Israeli, and US flags.

There were about 35 of us on the trip, mostly pilgrimage group leaders from Boston, New York, and Ireland. That Sunday was our third day together. We had arrived in Istanbul the previous Thursday with Turkish Airlines and by that day of the glorious victory it was clear the group was separated by a common religion (to paraphrase George Bernard Shaw).

The Irish, while devout, were irrepressibly prone to humour, celebration and some irreverence, while the Americans believed in the importance of being very earnest indeed. Though nice people all. Among them were two young, newly-minted priests who understood the letter of everything while sometimes missing the spirit.

Their demeanour contrasted sharply with a sole Irish counterpart who, from the beginning, smelled of his less than lamb-like Irish sheep, and generally of cigarette smoke.

Then there was the small media cohort. So much chaff among wheat, whose patron saint ought to be Thomas. This was recognised by one of the young American priests who, in a homily at the Basilica of the Annunciation in Nazareth that morning, referred to them as “… those who have lost their way.”

It provoked hilarity in the main among those (un)concerned, who might have proclaimed: “Blessed are the chaff, for one day you may be among them”.

That morning the group had travelled from Istanbul to Tel Aviv and was taken by bus to Nazareth, a beautiful hilly and very Muslim town with white sparkling sandstone everywhere. There, those who wished to, could attend Mass and were shown what may have been the home of the Holy Family, and Joseph’s workshop, where Jesus worked the wood.

Then we went to Tiberias, where we were based at the central and comfortable Restal hotel for two nights. The morning after the great victory, we went to Cana, scene of the wedding feast where Jesus changed water into much praised wine. Clearly he had no act nor part in making the “Cana Wedding Wine” sampled there and which Carlsberg, probably, would have done better.Four couples renewed their wedding vows in that charming church, including two from Ireland.

The view from the top of Mount Tabor, scene of the Transfiguration, is a surprise. Such a green and pleasant land, with Nazareth on a hill in the distance. As impressive is the church there which, like so many in the Holy Land, was designed by architect priest Fr Antonio Barluzzi.

Peter’s fish, (I kid you not) at the St Peter’s Restaurant (I kid you not) on Lake Galilee, served head and all, was tasty. At Peter’s home town Capernaum we saw what may have been his house, under a spectacular space-craft-like church, as well as remnants of the village itself and the synagogue where Jesus preached.

It was there our indispensible guide Muttasam told us about the Jewish sect so averse to pleasure they avoid skin contact during sex by covering their bodies in sheets, with appropriate openings.

Muttasam is Israeli of Arab Christian background and has little time for politicians. “Like diapers, they need to be changed regularly,” he said. Or the media. “We have a nice country. See how safe it is. Stop watching CNN and Fox. It is a magic country. I’d like everyone to visit the Holy Land. Don’t watch Al Jazeera.” Suddenly remembering the presence of media on the bus, he gallantly excluded reporters present.

In truth, we saw few security personnel on the trip and experienced no tension. Muttasam, in his ongoing commentary, also showed us the place on a hill where Russian Jews, who have no issues with pork, reared pigs upstairs as other Jews object to pigs’ feet touching Israeli soil. We visited the Mount of the Beatitudes, and the site of the loaves and fishes miracle.

Most of the pilgrims were baptised at the River Jordan and many later floated in the Dead Sea, with its don’t drink, don’t dive, don’t, don’t, don’t signs. As with the surrounds of Lake Galilee, what was most surprising was the beauty of the area. You don’t expect it with all that salt.

We journeyed there through Jericho, the lowest point on earth at 400 metres below sea level, and through a green Judean desert which turns to sand in the summer.

At the Mount of Temptation, where Jesus spent 40 days and 40 nights resisting the devil, our two American priests gave in. They unleashed their inner child at the sight of a camel and had to get on board. A local suggested pilgrim Orla from Meath might be worth 3,000 camels. We resisted, having nowhere to put them.

It was onwards through Jerusalem, Jerusalem (yes, we sang it) to Bethlehem where we stayed at the spacious Manger Square Hotel, around the corner from the Church of the Nativity. At the site of the Nativity itself , many of our pilgrims became emotional, overwhelmed by memory and the significance of the place.

Mass was concelebrated in the chapel of St Jerome by the three priests and concluded with a rousing Adeste Fideles, Silent Night, and other Christmas carols.

The hotel was the base from which we visited stunning Jerusalem over the following days. There are few cities on earth to compare in terms of history, religion, or current affairs. With a population of just 700,000, it is small and so bright. More sandstone.

We visited the Mount of Olives, and where Jesus taught the apostles the Our Father, the Garden of Gethsemane, the spot where Peter denied Jesus three times, the dungeon where Jesus was held on Holy Thursday night.

There, too, we were at the birthplace of Mary, and of the Annunciation, where John the Baptist was born, the Shepherd’s Field where angels announced the birth of Jesus. We visited a lot of places.

Whatever one’s state of belief or unbelief, it is difficult not to be moved at these locations, accounts of which were among the earliest stories told to us in childhood.

In turns, we carried a cross on the Via Dolorosa, through that narrow way between huckster shops to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Nowhere else on earth does the crass and the sacred exist as closely side by side.

So the Stations of the Cross are interspersed with shops selling crowns of thorns, for instance. Real ones, reasonably priced. Of finest olive wood. Or you might prefer a giant rosary beads? Tiny ones too. Or a T-shirt proclaiming “I don’t need Google. I have a wife”.

The final five stations are within the Church itself, where Jesus was crucified, buried, and rose from the dead. It is the most sacred spot in Christendom.

Our pilgrims visited the tomb where Jesus was laid to rest, before attending Mass in a nearby chapel, concelebrated by the three priests again. The pilgrims also visited the spot there where Jesus was crucified.

No one did souvenir shopping on the Via Vulgarosa. Most of the Irish did so at the St Patrick’s Store, off Manger Square in Bethlehem. There Louis Michel flies the Irish tricolour and talks of his trips to Ireland. His son is named Patrick. His passion for things Irish began when he was a guide with the Irish Defence Forces in South Lebanon many years ago.

On our final visit to Jerusalem we went to the Wailing Wall where, as Jews do, we put our petitions into the crevices. Then it was to Tel Aviv and home.

The end of a trip such as no pope and/or saint would experience, where daytime was for exploration, some reverence and a total absence of suffocating piety. Night time was for craic, such as is inevitable where two or three Irish are gathered. Some Americans too.