Holy Water

While a few friends and I were searching for a religious site in the wilderness of the Jordan valley, we had--entirely by accident--stumbled across a tour group.

About thirty feet to the left was a stone block where local legend holds that Jesus was baptized, but no one was looking at it. Of more interest to these fifteen plump Americans--armed against the sun with safari hats, zip-off jeans, and visible smears of sunblock--were the garrulous mutterings of a pretentious guide. As he attempted to reduce a religious event into the none-too-epic history of a stone block, I watched tourists occasionally look at the site--but only through their camera lens. No one, it seemed, really wanted to look and wonder at the spot where the Holy Spirit was said to have descended from heaven.

"Now, we will see the Jordan river!" The guide proclaimed to a murmur of assent. "Would you believe that, Kathy? The Jordan River!" said a woman whose sunglasses and gargantuan hat protected her from the overcast sky. The group began to walk away.

Glad to finally be able to enjoy a religious site without someone dictating what I was supposed to be feeling or experiencing, I walked down a small hill to get a better view of the place.

Jesus was baptized in the Jordan River, but there was no river in sight. Over the past two thousand years the river had shrunk--in size if not in importance. That's why tourists had the added bonus of seeing both the Baptism Site AND the river that had once been adjoined to it.

All that was left of Jesus' Baptism site was a pool of dirty water, framed by the holy block and the ruins of an ancient church. If a small sign hadn't suggested otherwise, it would seem the last place on earth that had once heard the voice of God. I walked down still further and stopped at the top of a small creek that fed the small pool with water. The other side of the creek was a lot lower, and making the jump seemed both difficult and verboten.

I heard a crack to my left as my friend Jason took a leap off our clod of earth and landed--somewhat awkwardly--on the other side.

"What are you doing?" called the distant guide, "That's an archeological site!" Although I didn't much care for the guide's style, I did feel somewhat bad for him. Apparently Jason did too, as he began pacing on the lower side of the creek trying to find a way back. There wasn't one.

"Come with us!" The guide yelled. "We're not in your group!" called a frustrated Jason, who was frantically trying to a find a way back. "Yes you are!" lied the possessive guide. After an awkward minute though, Jason had called the guide's bluff. Faced between waiting for Jason to find his way back or face the rage of photo-hungry tourists, the guide had no option. They began to walk to the ruins of the church adjacent to the pool.

As I watched at a comfortable distance from both the disheveled tour-group and my wandering friend, I learned that Jason had no intention of coming back. Quite out of the blue, a pair of local Bedouins had appeared on the site and were guiding Jason to the holy pool itself. I watched as they offered him a bottle to collect holy water.

Feeling rather jealous, I tried to concentrate on the site while ignoring my friend's religious experience and the droning words of the guide ("Now John was Jesus' cousin by his mother Mary..."). I thought about how this was supposed to be the most historically certain event in the New Testament, and wondered why John--who "was not worthy to tie the latches on his [Jesus'] feet"--had gotten to baptize him. I was interrupted from my reveries when one of the Bedouins waved at me. He pointed to the guide, motioned to wait, and then moved his hand forward. The message was clear: When the guide leaves, come down to the pool.

Giving Jason a dirty look, the guide led his flock down a path and out of site. "Ruh," one of the Bedouins said to me. Come.

I gingerly stepped over the small fence and went down into the pool. Not knowing exactly what to do, I sat at the side of the pool for a moment, awkwardly looking at the Bedouin for advice. He began to put his hands in the water and motioned for me to do the same. The water was refreshingly cool, and I watched as the Bedouin performed what were unmistakably Muslim cleansing rituals in Christian holy water. It didn't bother me. I followed his lead and after a time the Bedouin asked me if I had a bottle. I drew an empty Aquafina bottle from my pocket (which I had prepared just in case) and dipped it into the pool.

Jason was now standing some way off from the pool, closing his bottle and walking down the path and out of sight.

The other Bedouin walked up behind me and pointed to the stone block. "Isa kaana huun," he said. Jesus was here. Then he added, "May be peace be upon our prophet."

He lent me his hand, and helped me up from the pool.