Water is scarce in Jordan. Considered one of the driest nations in the world, water is a valuable resource. Each part of Amman is rationed two days of free government water per week. These days in my apartment being Saturday and Sunday. The rest of the week, we rely on a small tank to supply us with water to cook, bathe, and clean with (The tap water being mildly unsafe to drink). I've heard it said that human beings are 70% water. This being the case, dealing without can be uncomfortable. The available water must be carefully spent and shared sparingly amongst the other housemates.
One of such mates is Rio, with whom I share a bedroom. Rio, like myself, is a philosophy major and currently attends Claremont Mckenna college. He is an accomplished chess player, among many other things, and knows a thing or two about suits as well. Most people don't care for Rio upon their first meeting; I didn't. However most people (myself included) who spend any amount of time with him quickly see beyond his biting wit and find him a clever and compassionate young man. Rio is a writer. He shaves with a straight razor. He is rarely without a fountain pen and notebook, and when he is, he will resort to writing on napkins, other books, and his own arms if need be.
(Rio looking messianic on the bridge into Wadi Munjib)
So last Saturday morning Rio and I arose, gathered the necessary supplies, and began a fast from food and water in order to remember the importance of the day. Our congregation was an odd half dozen: Rio and myself, Marwa; an American Muslim of Syrian decent with a penchant for sass, Mason: an ambitious and pensive American Christian who fancies himself a senator or a farmer, Song: a good friend of Vietnamese lineage whose religious identity I am ignorant of, and our driver Hussein: a young Jordanian Muslim who lives near us, calls me his little brother, and claims to look just like Jesus. We began our pilgrimage in our triumphant steed, Hussein's blue 1990 Chevrolet Caprice Classic, with a broken air conditioner, which more or less comfortably sat all six of us. After a brief hiccup involving a return to the apartment in order to retrieve our forgotten passports, which were necessary to clear the various checkpoints, we embarked on our solemn task.
(Hussein on the left asking for directions)
(Our faithful Rocinante)
But after an eternity we emerged, purified, at the very edge of everything. We reached the coast of the Dead Sea between Jordan and the promised land, the point of lowest elevation on the planet. In the heat of the day the water was producing this miraculous phenomenon. The sea and the sky blended together perfectly such that no horizon was discernible. The hazy sky at the bottom of the world slipped into pure dead water, and vise versa. Or rather, there was no sky and no water, but one divine undifferentiated whole. At the very bottom edge of the planet, all things were being pulled, inextricably, into this abyss. The air itself was flowing into the water, and we pitiful mortals were left sweating at the edge, our own stubborn rebellious individual wills preventing our bodies from falling in. From falling in and floating. Floating in that single, indivisible unity.
(Taken in the midst of a bright sunny day, not a cloud to be seen)
We met with a wall. Or rather a bridge, which is not that different from a wall when a man at one end says you're not allowed to cross. Wadi Munjib, the first stop on our pilgrimage, is an ancient river valley that flows into the sea. It is also one of six Jordanian nature reserves, which are open to the public between the hours of 8 and 4 for a nominal fee of 14 Jordanian Denar. We arrived at four thirty, sweaty and exhausted, the fight beaten out of us by the sun. The man behind the desk at the tourism center told us that we were too late and that we couldn't do the hike into the valley we had intended. However, brother Hussein managed to persuade the guard. We were permitted to tread to the end of the bridge, but no further. So we walked into the mouth of the valley to see clean, clear, fresh, running water. So with a healthy disregard for limits, we broke through to the shallow river. We took off our shoes. We skipped stones. We forgot the heat. We enjoyed that brief respite with a holy and playful abandon. But sooner or later we were discovered and had to return to the lonely and blazing caprice, to begin the final leg of our journey.
A fence. Topped with a stern barbed wire, surrounding a seemingly featureless desert expanse, like the sword surrounding the garden of Eden. It was a simple yet effective chainlink fence which denied us entry to Bethlehem, east of the Jordan river, the site of the baptism of Jesus of Nazareth, called the Christ. As dusk approached that hazy apprehension seemed to draw closer. A shadowy sense that our time was running out, with our work left undone. The sun was setting on us, and the shadows were growing long. The pilgrims were spent. Beaten by the sun on this, the hottest day in the hottest place, worn by the hike and a long days travel, wearied by the fast from food and water, we came to a fence. And in the center of that fence, a gate. And in the center of that gate, a guard. These were the things that separated us from one of the holiest sites on Earth.
Too late. The site was closed at six. We arrived at six forty five. No more tourists would be admitted. No more tickets would be sold. No more souls would be saved. We had passed through the trials and tribulations and arrived at the dusty gates, examined here at judgment day and were found wanting. We were told to leave. To return to the heat, the weeping, and the gnashing of teeth.
Heartbroken, we pleaded with Hussein. Being a native Jordanian, and a friend to us Americans, he could intercede on our behalf. But after a failed bribery attempt and a heartfelt Arabic plea, it seemed he was all out of miracles. We sat on the dirty curb alone in this desert and watched the guards. Rio told me that he had been abruptly and gravely convicted. Suddenly the only important thing in the world to him was this baptism. Yet, all was not lost. A call was made. Someone important somewhere was consulted. We would be granted this small boon, a quick tour of the baptism site, and the permission of the highest human authority to perform our humble baptism. How precious did that grace appear. Hussein even paid our way in.
We meandered through the hazy desert thicket, each of us like leaves on a stream slowly drifting along the rocky walkway that rolled throughout the brush surrounding the site. The dusty fog which hung over the dead sea now seemed to be dreamily descending upon us in this place. Rio, in his off white baptismal gown, put his arm silently around my shoulder, our considerable size difference making it awkward to reciprocate. But in the surreal dusk of the scene, and the gravity that held sway over the place, the gesture was brotherly. We seemed to blend together in silence, as did everything else amidst that sunset haze. 
We saw the baptism site, now slightly removed from the river itself after Israel redirected it's flow in order to siphon off most of the fresh drinking water and provide a system of waste disposal for God's chosen people. There was a small stone building, and a type of empty reservoir. Our weary guide recited facts concerning the site in well practiced but still awkward English. It was dry. We stayed by it briefly. Someone took a picture, and I felt very little about the place. From here we continued to a sort of porch overlooking the modern river, where our solemn task could be completed.
The river Jordan is ugly. An inglorious eight feet separated us from the infamous west bank of Palestine. Eight feet of nigh stagnant, sickly green water. Surrounded by reedy weeds and other flora. Perhaps at one time it's banks were wide, clean, and glorious. Perhaps one day it would be so again. Today this was not the case. But despite it's ungainly banks, there was some quiet dignity in it. Not messianic, but very much Christ like. Venerable, like a feeble old man. Rio described it as humble. There was honesty in the place.
We descended into the murky water, first myself, then Rio. A couple other fortunate tourists chatted in Arabic and took pictures. As we slowly sunk into the water my first impression was of the mud. Our bare feet plunged into about ten inch deep mud beneath the dirty but refreshing river. I struggled to keep my balance. Our bodies settled into that murky creek, sharing the same waters as the body of the Christ. We prayed together. I read some small words. They sunk into the river and the walls and the ears of the congregation. The sun was setting and pouring the remaining light of the day out upon us like perfume. I baptized him. The water washed over his face and he was completely submerged. All of the sin was dissolved into nothingness. Mere solute in the blood of Christ. The walls of Jericho came crashing down. No longer separated from that great divine whole.
He arose, a new creation. We embraced. I could do nothing but laugh. He was silent.
On the ride home we all sat quietly. I doubt I'll understand the importance of this event for decades to come, perhaps much longer. The heat had abated now that the sun had almost set completely. Suddenly, as we were driving home, Hussein declared with authority that we must all have tea. Immediately. There on the side of the road. So we pulled over and decided to break our fast then and there with the taking of communion. Someone pointed out that strangely, the streetlights had all alighted behind us, and yet all the ones before lay still in darkness. Rio and I, still damp, walked out a bit into the desert with Mason. We set the bread and wine on a rock. Cars were driving by. Mason and I listened to Rio before taking the Eucharist. He recited to us, "We are one bread. We are one body. We will love one another as Christ loves us."
