Too Small to be Noticed

Jerusalem had shut its gates to worshipers. Soldiers lined the entrances. But a few streets away, a small room began to sing "We Exalt You"

There are times when God seems content to keep His witness in the world no larger than a flame.

We drove toward the Old City just before sunset, entering near Jaffa Gate. There were soldiers there in numbers I had never seen before, standing in groups along the entrance, watching each car as it approached. No worshipers were being allowed in. When we pulled up, they looked at us, looked inside the car, and waived us through.

Inside the walls, metal shutters covered the shop fronts, their metal panels running down the alleys like a long row of closed eyes.

I took one of the girls for a walk so we could talk. We moved through the alleys saying ordinary things, and without thinking much about it I found my eyes checking now and then on the shelter places cut into the walls, noting their nearness.

Then it began to rain.

Ahead of us, through the dimness, I saw a familiar face. He waved us over. We stepped inside, and he pressed two small cups of Arabic coffee into our hands, the warmth of them cutting through the chill of the rain, and asked how we were holding up.

Somewhere in the conversation he mentioned that Cyprus was no longer being considered as a major exit point right now.

The conversation moved on, but my mind stayed on Cyprus. Plans here have a way of surviving only until the next conversation.

When we stepped back outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle, but the quiet was still there. We made our way to where the others were waiting.

Inside, the tables were already laid for Passover, plates of matza and cups of grape juice at each place, olive branches running down the center.

Around the tables, our students had gathered. They had dressed in their best clothes for the meal, and there was a joy among them that felt almost defiant against the heaviness outside the walls. Matt whispered something to me, and we stood there for a moment like proud parents watching them.

The meal began. Matza ball soup passed from hand to hand. Bitter herbs. The old story opened again. Cloud by day, pillar of fire by night.

Then in the middle of the exodus. A phone interrupted with an alert
Then another.

Then another.

Soon alerts sounded off throughout the room. We all looked at each other and couldnt help but feel the amusement of hearing it like a dramatic chorus to the story.

Then the worship began.

“We exalt You…”

As I looked around the room at the students, the few who remained in Jerusalem, my thoughts wandered outside our gate. I thought about the centuries that have passed through these streets and the countless Passover meals that have been celebrated here.

That is when the verse came to mind.

“That David my servant may always have a lamp before me in Jerusalem, the city where I have chosen to put my name.” 1 Kings 11:36

And it came to me then that maybe this is how the lamp remains in Jerusalem even in times when the gates are shut. Too small to be noticed.

By this morning I woke to the quiet fact that our Cyprus plan had disappeared overnight.

Matt and I sat down outside before he left for the city and started adding up what remained. Jordan. Egypt. Another route. Another expense. He read the total out loud.

Almost ten thousand dollars.

I called the U.S. Embassy. They said they were not providing any assistance out of Israel.

A friend of mine spoke directly to the U.S. Ambassador about it. There was nothing he could do either.

For a while there was only the sound of us working the numbers.

Then a cloud moved over and the chill pulled at my sleeve. Matt looked up. “Better get inside before the rain starts.”

And somewhere in me was the alley from the night of the passover, the first drops of rain coming down, and that hand waving us in.

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We would be grateful for your prayers as we work out a way to bring everyone home safely. If you would like to help make that possible, we would be deeply grateful.