Bethany, House of Song

Ascent: The Valley of the Shadow of Death

Photo by Eddie & Carolina Stigson on Unsplash

        My village of Bethany hangs like a simple pearl earring on the mountain-head that bears the crown of Israel: Jerusalem. When ascending by the eastern road, admirers captivated with their bejeweled darling easily overlook us.

            Before dawn glimmers over the salt plains, the journey begins. Sandals firmly tied and bundles re-wrapped, Jericho beds are abandoned as travelers anticipate their homecoming with euphoria. The first dusty steps from the city of priests and palms are taken in haste.

            Approaching the foothills along the arid desert floor as the sun crests, there is nothing visible to indicate that you are going somewhere so sacred and adored that many have died for its very name’s sake.

            Even your shadows, quivering before you, stretched with longing, are eager to be there. You tread in them for an hour, heading toward the eastern face of the Judean mountain range.

            The naked hillside, as you fast approach, ought to encourage discretion. Though it blushes in the first bold gaze of the sun, the quickly warming strata of red clay winks with the granite dispersed through its ever-widening girdles. Here a soft curve, there a delicate turn of wind-polished capstone as you round the last bend, but the sudden opening of the valley entrance is less a coy invitation than a subtle challenge.

            You might pause here to take one last assessing view of the cutting-edged bluffs that rise hundreds of feet above you, inverted buttes that obscure everything but the next ten steps of twisted highway, or you may forge ahead, shoulders squared, staff firmly in hand, unprovoked by The Valley of the Shadow of Death.

Behind you, verdant Jericho gives a bewildered laugh at the thought of you attempting it. The hike will take you at least eight hours to make, if you are steady and only pause a little to catch your infatuated breath.

Such fidelity is always tested.

Once you are swallowed by the valley, you merge with the ancestral pulse of our people; your footsteps rise to its tempo. You are committed. If you turn right or left, or certainly if you stop mid-flow, fatality is certain. There is only one way out: reach the heart, the beloved, the apex.

Jerusalem.

            Most who wander the earth can read the stars, predict the rain, or leverage the wind, but all respect the sun in its course. Slowly, like an afterthought, the limestone canyons fill with a dull heat. It follows behind you, wafting up from the warm desert floor as the rising sun caresses your retreating back. Back and forth along the highway, the valley turns warm, then cool, then warm again. The cadence of this particular road demands a restrained and steady tempo if you are to reach your beloved without succumbing to the dangers of haste. Perspiration begins in earnest.

            There are no trees along this road for respite from the growing heat. If you are fortunate, you can walk in the shrinking edges of cliff-shadows as you round each curving bend, but they disappear quickly. Occasionally you will pass a cave opening, some wide enough for a small child to crawl into, some tall enough for several grown men, but they are not cool enough for respite now. You pass two without a glance.

You must enter the city gates before they close at sundown.

Up and up, the road lures you, providing alternating glimpses of the gray desert below as you turn, then undulating hills above and red road yet untraveled. At midday, the highway lifts you from its bowels and deposits you on a ridge. The vistas that open to flat butte tops and deeply exaggerated canyons are of little concern compared to the sultry sky that gathers you in its arms. Oppressive, thick with radiant heat, caressing your fevered brow. It would be foolish to remove your outer garments for relief. They are the only thing between you and the shimmering, deceptive air.

            The highway here is broad enough for five men abreast and sometimes more. You won’t be alone. None dare travel this road alone.

You may not see them before rounding the next bend, but you will hear the sounds of fellow travelers echoing from the canyon and caves or bouncing over the buttes. The sounds are deceptive. It could be one person or many. They may be ahead of you or behind. Trusting the wind for warnings is foolish. It’s possible to come around a bend and be surprised by people who, for any number of reasons, have kept silent.

            Red dust covers everything. It adds grit to sandals, dyes the hems of robes, and thickens the air behind large parties. Dung in the road is covered at once with it, dried promptly into hard red pebbles and insignificant lumps. Wrapping your scarf over your face keeps most of the dust from entering your mouth—open with exertion, if you are in a hurry, with song, if you are a pilgrim. Travelers from the eastern road are known immediately by the red eye mask they wear into the city.

            The all-day foot hike rounds the last uphill curve and brings you—at last!—onto the level road that guides you along the brow of the mountain to a singular view.

Thrusting up into the immediate horizon, like the fan of a peacock, are rows upon rows of date palms. Scattered among low, stone houses and growing thick along our eastern rim, they signal the first opportunity of rest and relief.

Bethany—the House of Dates, the House of Affliction, the House of Song—perches in a little hollow at the top of the highway. The hopeful welcome of these cool swathes of green rouses weary feet.

            Children finally realize that the journey has a conclusion. Animals scent the water ahead. Seasoned travelers stand taller in the knowledge that the gateway has been reached and look around to gather up their party and possessions.

            That last bend in the road, as it turns along the edge of our village, is blessedly flat, but Jerusalem can’t be seen until you follow it around. Depending on the length of your stride and the time you left Jericho, the sun is very likely setting in front of you, flinging itself against the great city from behind and, for a blinding moment, forces you to bow your head. The sun that pursued you all morning and wearied you all day has jumped ahead, and greets you in fierce triumph.

            Beams of sunshine streak directly into the sky, over and between the parapets of the Jerusalem walls in a crown of golden light. The gates fall black in the depth of sudden shadow. If there are clouds in the west, as there often are, brilliant colors of amethyst, opal, and ruby add to the splendor.

            And then it happens. The sun dips just low enough, and, gazing through your fingers, the view that greets you is spectacular. Everyone still walking along this last two-mile stretch into the city pauses in delight. They stare at the sovereign diadem and gasp in wonder and mutter prayers of worship.

            The City of Kings. The City of Peace. Israel’s capital and the heartbeat of my people: Yireh Shalom.

            You don’t notice that you are standing in front of my gate. That you are beneath the largest sycamore tree for miles in any direction. In your haste to exit the valley, you passed our tombs without a glance. Your sandals are caked in a coagulation of dust and sweat. Dry throats demand a drink of water. Aching feet and weary backs cry out for rest.

But those who have journeyed all day, with burdens seen and unseen, have eyes only for Jerusalem. The miles are forgotten. The fears abandoned. With cries of encouragement, travelers move on with renewed eagerness. And we may or may not ever see them again.

            Bethany is not anyone’s final destination.