Mt. Sinai of My Dream

(MissMinna, Jan 2010)

The fact that this mountain was tagged as optional destination point in our travel brochure and not even included by other travel agencies in their itinerary posed some imaginings to an inquisitive mind (a wrong turn can lead to a disaster so why compromise?). ANA SUAN’s job calibrated her not just a travel agent but a tour person for all seasons when it comes to shepherding all types of travelers. She has herded a thousand tourists already and still managed to look remarkably unruffled. Her moment’s silence about the issue did not mean she was not pondering. In fact, the image of an edgy mountain precipice ghastly crossed her mind. Before long, almost everybody was agog about the trip; several days before, some of us were already keen in joining. “I could die after I have set foot there”, said one emotional pilgrim.

Our troop presumptuously declared that for those who were silent, it was a yes. The spirit lorded over that the flesh could only conform. This was on Day 11 of our HOLY LAND pilgrimage last May 18 to 31 of this year. That night at 10 p.m. we were all dispatched at the drop-off point for a 7-km walk to the base of the mountain for the climb. We shall have come back from the peak by 3 a.m., the morning after, otherwise we would get roasted by the morning heat of the dessert sun.

First off, we all have to scale a rugged mountain with corrugated and irregular steps of rock formation and man-made stone ladder. Supposed one of us ahead up there tripped and uprooted a boulder. I could only shudder at the horrible human avalanche carting along everything domino-effect on its path including all 26 of us pilgrims stumbling down like Jack and Jill. Our fate could have been scattered like our bodies, if not intact probably shipped in boxes back to the Philippines. Anyway, we climbed up on foot, on all our four limbs, with rolling tears and sweat in the middle of the pit black night like blind leading another blind clasping each other unmindful of slips and short crash landings that each of us suffered.

But we made it. We could never ever barter the experience with anything else in the world. The worse can take its toll; not even the possible international headline about some stupid tourists who wasted away their lives in EGYPT. Nothing could deter us from that something, firmed by an overpowering stimulus. After all, the most ethereal sensation and spiritual uplift of having arrived at the very apex where MOSES was handed down with the TEN COMMANDMENTS enveloped us all! It was not a movie set of EXODUS that we were into. It was for real. We were at the actual setting of the OLD TESTAMENT in 1250 B.C. way before JESUS CHRIST came to earth! Was this the spot the GOD THE FATHER chose? We were stepping on it, OH MY GOD (goosebumps)! In utter awe and disbelief, we were mumbling something long before we realized it was a prayer. It was still dark and gloomy not in a surreal way, not frighteningly eerie either. It was like you cannot cry but had tears in your eyes. We were not touring the splendored Roman basilicas, we were on a stony highland, so hauntingly desolate yet very hallowed you could feel it in your bones (and highly preserved by the modern authorities from desecration, thank God).

Epochs ago, MOSES did it the hard way – no pathway, no ravine to cling on, his footwear (not the expensive and protective sport gear we now wear) smudged with blood by the 40-day and 40-night tortuous and agonizing ascent. Truly, this was the place where we could exclaime OMG! most appropriately, not the way it is wildly expressed in social media and almost always in irreverent instances.

ROLLY ACUÑA laid prostate at the sacred rubbles throwing away that most excruciating pain his family has been enduring and the score they have to settle against the world. Others just melted down on their knees and buttocks while basking on the grace of something spiritual. We wondered how Fr. LEONARDO DUBLAN was able to bodily hold JUN DINO of GenSan City without coaching him every step to make, without tossing and hurdling him forward and up while tightly balancing himself. Mr. Dino is half blind. Our parish songbird/GKK head servant EDITH ASIS wished (and so did we) he would be better off staying behind in his comfy hotel room and spared her priest-boss the utter discomfort. Now he avows that he owes Fr. Bong one of the greatest favors and joys in his life. Now we understood why Fr. Bong looked after him: he has to witness how the Lamb of God cradled one of His sheep; no other time is so opportune in his earthly sacerdotal mission than this one. More so for the rest of us and to dear Mr. Dino; the blind BARTIMAEUS suddenly came alive in our spiritual sight and hearts. We forgot we were NOT supposed to be pampered tourists out to savor the worldly travel pleasures; we were pilgrims — not in a physical journey but traversing part of our supposed route towards God, the one replete with thorns and sufferings.

A little displeasure in our trip became irrelevant and nothing compared to the trek and agonizing turns JESUS, his beloved mother and his disciples encountered along the way. We have to come to realize the meaning of glorious sufferings as consonance to death and resurrection. While others have to contend to reading and resort to vicarious imagination, blessed are those whose faith has sunk in, traveling this far was a dream come true.

Each of us has to reach our own JERUSALEM and not expect our stamped passports to guarantee a bedful of roses. This is no picnic, this is the “JOURNEY WITH THE LORD“ as bannered in our travel guide turned prayer book. The same brochure uniquely became our daily missal each time we celebrated EUCHARIST without fail everyday on various consecrated and miracle sites, worshiping not on a replica but in the spot where they really happened.

The disciplinarian Fr. BONG was not just our chaplain, he was pastoral and servantly. It also happened that we were gifted with not-just-ordinary local tour guides. For our JORDAN leg we had OMAR CARBOBORANI who was bible-conversant.

The likeable MAKHOUL MAKOUL treated our ISRAEL sojourn with issues of JERUSALEM (its controversial past and present, hotbed of ancient wars and destructions, venerable hub of miracles, with sorrowful and bloody GOLGOTHA, with the hometown that was NAZARETH) and who instead of being a parrot put an added-value to his task of transforming our endless Arab desert border crossing into a veritable Bible study on wheels. Makhoul took over MARGARETTE who interspersed her historical monologue with joyful songs.

The solicitous YOSEFF MOUSA took care of our EGYPT side and saw to it that the marks of the PHARAOHS, the GREAT PYRAMIDS, the bondage of the ISRAELITES, the PASSOVER were ingrained in our minds. They not only leafed us through the pages of the Holy Scriptures but literally pointed their fingers smack to our faces the SEA OF GALILEE, the tomb of KING DAVID, the solemn garden of GETHSEMANE, the RIVER JORDAN, the view of CAPERNAUM where the nearby Multiplication of Bread and the 7 BEATITUDES got immortalized, the CANAAN horizon, the SYCAMOR tree in JERICHO, the ruins of SODOM and GOMORRAH, etc.

We were so lucky we saw, we felt and we touched the earthly grounds chosen by the God of ABRAHAM, ISAAC and JACOB to breed the Church of His begotten son. Where the saints and angels did not fear to tread, we set our feet there: we crawled at the cave at the MOUNT OF TEMPTATION where Jesus stayed as he battled brawn and brain the devil.

We got drenched by Fr. Bong in the river YARDENIT where we renewed our holy baptism. We realized too late that the DEAD SEA is 33% salt only after ELEONOR EGUIA and I took a dive duck-style and emerged almost blind. We chuckled at our ladies becoming teary-eyed when the couples among us (the ARCIAGA, the ACUÑA, the DINO, the GUEVARRA, the BALCHAND) exchanged vows anew; no fairy tale nuptial with magical trimmings could match this one re-enacted in CANA, the site of the first miracle in a wedding reception.

We touched the humble table where Jesus served food at the CHURCH OF THE PRIMACY OF PETER (the stark contrast between the poverty of Christ and the extravagance in most of us with silver platters and winter coats made LAURA ELMIDO cry because of pity and embarrassment), armed with The Stations of the Cross printed in our travel brochure we tried hard not to be waylaid by the disharmony and commercialism that has become the present day Jerusalem while we traced the bloody route of the VIA DOLOROSA path that bear witness to the agony and death of our Saviour.

We smelled the austere antiquity and the monastic religiosity of the GREEK ORTHODOX and then we noted that the profuse shedding of tears knew no bounds regardless of nationalities among thousands of Catholics and Christians that day at the CHURCH OF THE HOLY SEPULCHER (the burial ground and resurrection of Jesus after his crucifixion) and so on and so forth.

Oh Bethlehem, my Bethlehem, so very close to my heart, so tender and serene as the loving face of our mother VIRGIN MARY, so soft as my pillow as l laid down to sleep on my first night in the land where Jesus was delivered and died.

Behind the grandeur of the classic and modern glorification of faith and religion via glossy photoshopped print images, resplendent icons and magnificent masterpieces of all times lies the truth – the poorest of the poor and utterly destitute and humble origin of the eternal kingship wrapped in rags and cradled in a lowly manger surrounded not by royal well-wishers but by favored innocent shepherds and their flock scented by the beastly odor and radiant rays from the angels singing Gloria in Excelsis. Such little town of nativity spawned a melody of peace, love and white Christmas.

The prospect of being in Mt. Sinai was just overwhelming for us that we became oblivious of the perils. Certainly, the organizers must have felt some cold feet. Was it sheer adventure or the body aligning with the spirit? Never was there a collective prayer so intense for us to be saved and be led to safety when we were already at it.

Midway, our calvary was more pronounced as we echoed to each other to appeal to the LORD to make us resist the temptation of turning back. From the front to the rear of our vertical procession the echo of our voices and shouts has to ripple to account for each other’s safety. We depended so much on the flashlight flicker. We could hardly see how each of us fared but I had a feeling PERPS BALCHAND has had one stumble too many; he must have gathered a lot of courage to counter the age factor (there were 19 senior citizens of the total 36 pilgrims and no “weakling” in our batch, or something to that effect).

Sporty NIÑA BRAVO and BIONG TAMAYO never escaped enormous puffing like the rest of us, appearing as if they have been into extreme sport. Eleven (11)-year old TJ FRANCIS DINO whom I self-appointed to be my ward had to level up with the adult challenge not to mention the delicate stake his grandpa took. I doubted how his tender body would take the severity of the climb: the poor kid had several mishaps, thrusting both of us to fall, me first cushioning him fortunately on a plane and not on the stairway.

Still nursing a heart by-pass operation, it was a wonder how businessman POPOY GUEVARRA of Aldevinco, Davao strode, skipped and jumped once we picture to you the terrain. Mt. SINAI proper is 7,497 feet high. From the base, you walk uphill until you reach the steep stairs. Take note: no two steps are equal in height so that all of us in various predicaments have to negotiate the 700-plus steps according to one’s capacity. Ordinarily, it takes four (4) hours to reach the top and roughly three (3) hours to go down (there were short-cut routes if you want to risk suicide).

This was what Mr. Guevarra, another PWD or person with disability had to go through and outsmarting several hale and hearty in the group. GEMMA, his wife has been a walking testimony on how their Faith has made them deal steadfastly with health and financial disaster coming in lump-sum. Such prelude of sufferings and triumphs glorified their pilgrimage even more and defined what it exactly was. The couple, together with their two sons, FRANCIS and LOUIE presented themselves as offering to the LORD. Hallelujah!

We did not hurry back to our bus waiting 7-km from the mountain base. It was a break of dawn when we glided our way back, gazing down at the approaching groups of pilgrims initiating their own sacrificial climb. Their lighted gadgets made them look like luminous human centipedes trailing each other’s tails in uniform curvature. The beautiful sight heightened the kinship we felt for those we met on the way irrespective of races. Having the courage and confidence to get over here and come out safely was already a miracle; a lot more lay hidden and treasured in our hearts when we get home. From here it would now be easier to discover them day after day; it is just a matter on how we define them. From where we have been, we assumed the privilege of having brought the renewal/recollection/retreat experience into another level. Our journey would not end here; the real pilgrimage is in our hearts, the one we should embark on in our lifetime, the one which makes us frightened and free.

As we walked back to our pick-up point, we were engulfed by serenity, the kind that was not cheaply joyful and euphoric. Before we took off, there was another holy shrine situated just a few steps from our bus – the St. CATHERINE MONASTERY which enclosed the site of the BURNING BUSH. I heard myself praying “it is very difficult to renew myself 24/7 with You, my LORD, but please, HOLY SPIRIT, help me.”

“AMEN”, so seconded by LAURA ELMIDO. (Vic Baldevia)