Shalom. Salam. Peace.

I attended St. Andrews Presbyterian Church Sunday morning. St. Andrew's was founded in 1927 as a Scottish Protestant religious presence in Jerusalem. It served the sizeable Scottish population -- mostly soldiers, civil administrators, and members of the Palestine Police -- until the end of the British Mandate and the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. With Israeli domination of Jerusalem after the Six Day War in 1967, St. Andrew's focused its ministry on welcoming and encouraging Christian pilgrims in the Holy Land. In more recent years it has added to this mission outreach to Palestinian citizens.

Reaching deep into the well of discretion and tact, let me say only that the service stirred little in me. There were several bus loads of pilgrims in attendance. Each was named, stood, and applauded, gifts were presented and applauded. We sang a hymn from their new hymnbook that the minister liked so much he had us sing it a second time:

Grace is when God gives us what we don't deserve.
Grace is when God gives us what we don't deserve.
He does it because he loves us.
He does it because he loves us.
Grace is when God gives us what we don't deserve.

Second verse much like the first . . .

Mercy is when God doesn't give us what we deserve . . .

I checked the credits, surprised that my mother wasn't the author . . . (sorry, Mom!)

Clearly in Scotland God is still a Father and we are all men.

It took a latté and a double espresso in the German Colony after the service to calm my frayed nerves.


In the evening I went into the old city for an ecumenical lenten service at the German Church of the Redeemer. It was beautiful. A simple liturgy by candle light with Taizé music, simply, quietly sung repetitive choruses interspersed with readings of scripture and silence. The birds, invigorated by spring, cavorted in the cloister, their song filling the vaulted stone ceiling of the chapel.

At one point during silence the Muslim call to prayer echoed across the top of the city. The liturgist and organist both held the silence and let the call hang in the air. Later as we quietly sang the Agnus Dei, the cadence and rhythm of our singing seemed to melt into the cadence and rhythm of the Muslim prayers as if one prayer.

Shalom. Salam. Peace.