Pilgrims venerate them, tourists admire them. They are thought to be over 2000 years old. These are the olive trees of Gethsemane. Behind their fences, they pass the tranquil, happy hours that their age merits. Protected in their enclosure, they see tens of thousands pilgrims pass by every year. Hands, arms reach out - despite the fences and screens - but they remain impassible to the acquisitive piety of the pilgrims who want a "little" piece of their branches.
The gate-crashing pilgrims tell themselves that one branch less out of such beautiful foliage will not even be noticed. But there are thousands of them who have the same bad idea and all the branches together would not be enough to satisfy their destructive piety and the trees themselves would not long survive. Have they lived through so much to end up victims of repeated assaults by unaware pilgrims? Untouchable, they are all the more venerable and better venerated.
But on this November morning, the trees rustle, shake and enjoy the assault on them. It’s a festive day. The old ones are showing off their vigor. They deliver up the fruit that has been weighing them down so heavily for the last several weeks. Under the marveling gaze of passers-by, every year they work silently to prepare harvest. Today, they join in the laughter and the discussions and give their olives in profusion.
Traditionally, it is after the first rainfall that olives are harvested in the Holy Land. In spite of the meager rainfall in Jerusalem (it hasn’t rained more than four or five times since September) members of the New Life Community of Nazareth (New life), got busy to celebrate this somewhat exceptional harvest. There are five of them, and they have the signal honor of gathering the harvest. So they shake, caress the branches to harvest the fruit. They climb these thousand-year-old trees whose trunks, gnarled with age, easily adapt to the game.
There are eight more, employees, Christians and Muslims, who work in their own section. "They gather the harvest as though it were nothing more than the olive industry. We do it in joy and prayer," explains Nabil, the community’s spokesman. "We asked the Franciscans if we could make this harvest because it is a sign of our incarnation and we who live in Nazareth live the spirituality of the incarnation. In Nazareth, Mary said "Fiat, your will be done". Here in this garden, Jesus said "Fiat, your will be done." These two fiats, these two acts of abandonment to the will of God, brought about our Salvation.
“Our spirituality is based on this phrase from St. John’s Gospel: "There is no greater love than this, to give one’s life for one’s friends". We come to incarnate in this Holy Place, and not only spiritually, the desire to give everything, down to the last drop, like the olive will give all of its oil.
New Life is a small community made up of Arab Christians of different denominations. Through the mystery of the Incarnation, they work and pray for unity in the Church. A unity without confusion, each one respected in the diversity of his rites and the celebrations that they enliven with their songs, which are always in the tradition of the church that welcomes them. They become everything to everyone because they are "at home" everywhere. It is they who animate the prayer of the weekly procession on Saturday nights in the Basilica in Nazareth, accompanied by the Brazilian community, Shalom. It is noon; Nabil, Denise, Nisriin, Samia, and Farhah take a break. In a circle beneath a tree they sing the Angelus prayer, a prayer that they are particularly fond of.
Passing pilgrims don’t believe their eyes and cameras are pressed into use. No, the Holy Land is not a museum; it is a place of life, a place that lives!
It will take five days to come to the last of the ten olive trees in the little garden. They are not the only ones owned by the Custody of the Holy Land on the side of the hill. A few days earlier, it was the members of the ecumenical Palestinian Theology of Liberation group (Sabeel) who harvested the trees on the other side of the street that welcomes groups of Protestants for open-air services, and there are also those near the Hermitage (Romittagio).
What is done with these olives? This is different for the very oldest trees and for those on the rest of the property. The latter are pressed, in part by the Cistercian Abby at Latrun and their oil will be used for the sanctuary lamps. The pits from the olives in the garden will be used by families in Beit Sahur to make rosaries, which will later be given by the Custos of the Holy Land to pilgrims of note. The pitting is done entirely by hand. The remaining flesh is used for the oil that is also given in tiny flasks: much sought-after treasures.
In the alleys that surround the olive garden, pilgrims try to cadge a branch, an olive, a leaf from the people they see working inside the sacred enclosure. But there are hundreds who will come, so all must be refused. The doorkeepers remain implacable, to the despair of the pilgrims, but those who come after will still have the joy of contemplating these trees, full of life. In the street, a young boy tries to make them happy, selling twigs dug up God knows where for a few coins.
MAB
The gate-crashing pilgrims tell themselves that one branch less out of such beautiful foliage will not even be noticed. But there are thousands of them who have the same bad idea and all the branches together would not be enough to satisfy their destructive piety and the trees themselves would not long survive. Have they lived through so much to end up victims of repeated assaults by unaware pilgrims? Untouchable, they are all the more venerable and better venerated.
But on this November morning, the trees rustle, shake and enjoy the assault on them. It’s a festive day. The old ones are showing off their vigor. They deliver up the fruit that has been weighing them down so heavily for the last several weeks. Under the marveling gaze of passers-by, every year they work silently to prepare harvest. Today, they join in the laughter and the discussions and give their olives in profusion.
Traditionally, it is after the first rainfall that olives are harvested in the Holy Land. In spite of the meager rainfall in Jerusalem (it hasn’t rained more than four or five times since September) members of the New Life Community of Nazareth (New life), got busy to celebrate this somewhat exceptional harvest. There are five of them, and they have the signal honor of gathering the harvest. So they shake, caress the branches to harvest the fruit. They climb these thousand-year-old trees whose trunks, gnarled with age, easily adapt to the game.
There are eight more, employees, Christians and Muslims, who work in their own section. "They gather the harvest as though it were nothing more than the olive industry. We do it in joy and prayer," explains Nabil, the community’s spokesman. "We asked the Franciscans if we could make this harvest because it is a sign of our incarnation and we who live in Nazareth live the spirituality of the incarnation. In Nazareth, Mary said "Fiat, your will be done". Here in this garden, Jesus said "Fiat, your will be done." These two fiats, these two acts of abandonment to the will of God, brought about our Salvation.
“Our spirituality is based on this phrase from St. John’s Gospel: "There is no greater love than this, to give one’s life for one’s friends". We come to incarnate in this Holy Place, and not only spiritually, the desire to give everything, down to the last drop, like the olive will give all of its oil.
New Life is a small community made up of Arab Christians of different denominations. Through the mystery of the Incarnation, they work and pray for unity in the Church. A unity without confusion, each one respected in the diversity of his rites and the celebrations that they enliven with their songs, which are always in the tradition of the church that welcomes them. They become everything to everyone because they are "at home" everywhere. It is they who animate the prayer of the weekly procession on Saturday nights in the Basilica in Nazareth, accompanied by the Brazilian community, Shalom. It is noon; Nabil, Denise, Nisriin, Samia, and Farhah take a break. In a circle beneath a tree they sing the Angelus prayer, a prayer that they are particularly fond of.
Passing pilgrims don’t believe their eyes and cameras are pressed into use. No, the Holy Land is not a museum; it is a place of life, a place that lives!
It will take five days to come to the last of the ten olive trees in the little garden. They are not the only ones owned by the Custody of the Holy Land on the side of the hill. A few days earlier, it was the members of the ecumenical Palestinian Theology of Liberation group (Sabeel) who harvested the trees on the other side of the street that welcomes groups of Protestants for open-air services, and there are also those near the Hermitage (Romittagio).
What is done with these olives? This is different for the very oldest trees and for those on the rest of the property. The latter are pressed, in part by the Cistercian Abby at Latrun and their oil will be used for the sanctuary lamps. The pits from the olives in the garden will be used by families in Beit Sahur to make rosaries, which will later be given by the Custos of the Holy Land to pilgrims of note. The pitting is done entirely by hand. The remaining flesh is used for the oil that is also given in tiny flasks: much sought-after treasures.
In the alleys that surround the olive garden, pilgrims try to cadge a branch, an olive, a leaf from the people they see working inside the sacred enclosure. But there are hundreds who will come, so all must be refused. The doorkeepers remain implacable, to the despair of the pilgrims, but those who come after will still have the joy of contemplating these trees, full of life. In the street, a young boy tries to make them happy, selling twigs dug up God knows where for a few coins.
MAB