Day 5
Today started out scary for me. First, we got wake up calls at 4:30am (as if that wasn’t scary enough) so that we could celebrate Mass together at the Church of the Holy Seplachure. Thing of it was, I was to preach the homily. So picture walking in the pre-dawn hours through the Old City of Jerusalem to a huge stone church. Upon entry, we walked up a flight of very steep stairs to the site of Mount Cavalry where there is a Roman Catholic altar set just a few feet to the right of the massive stones on which Christ’s blood was poured out. There is no singing of any kind allowed at this particular altar, ever. Seriously, I was way out of my element and used to the more comfortable confines of our temporary parish chapel at Saint Albert the Great or the familiar Holy Trinity Chapel at KCHS. I don’t remember much of what I offered in the message but I remember talking about the scripture from Paul when he says, “to those that are given more, more is expected.” To be standing on the very site of Christ’s death was an incredible gift, similar, I think, to Thomas wanting to stick his hand in the Lord’s side. I have always accepted easily His death on a cross both historically, theologically, sacaramentally, and soteriologically. Now I have this added gift of seeing the actual place, walking the ground, being surrounded 24/7 by devoted pilgrims who all speak the same language of our common faith in Jesus Christ. So I can see things, even part of the oldest walls of Jerusalem that Jesus would have also seen. I have visited now the caves where the Holy Family came to its fullness in the birth of Jesus, in incarnate Word of God. it’s heavy stuff they’re serving up over here in the Middle East.
After we celebrated Mass, the sun slowly rose and drew light across the blue sky as we walked the traditional stations of the cross. As you walk from station to station, you have to dodge people, small narrow, diesel tractors hauling trailers filled with all manner of goods, and garbage everywhere. Some of the stations are clearly marked, as with Veronica’s wiping Jesus’ face, and where he fell the second time, others are marked only by a round steel emblem affixed to the stone walls under which we walk. We all took turns carrying His cross through these narrow steps, climbing always towards the Church of the Holy Seplachure. You should try to come here someday; the things that happen in your heart are surprising, cause great joy, and sudden sadness at times. While we were in the middle of the stations this morning, one woman began to sob, trying to conceal her grief. it was as if a wave came over all of us in that holy place... Many wiped tears away from our faces and even Fr. Charlie’s voice faltered a few times.
Once we completed the stations, we walked back to our accommodations and shared breakfast with a room full of pushy Germans who thought waiting in line was optional. I try to take these cultural differences in stride as I’ve traveled pretty extensively and know what to expect.
I took a nap after breakfast and awoke to catch our bus that took us to the Pools of Bethseda, where Jesus healed the paralytic in John 5:1-15. You sort of stand there, leaning over a steel railing and gaze down upon the ancient ruins of a Byzantine Church, a temple to a pagan God, and then you see this sign in the ground that spells out the site on which he cured a man who had suffered for 38 years. It slowly dawns on you that the scriptures are opening as a massive door, through which you’ve seen light through a crack for your whole life, sitting in the pews. The door swings open more fully as this realization comes to you in waves. You want to pray, you want to cry, you want to sing, you want to kiss the ground on which you stand... And then it’[s time to move with the group to the next spectacular thing, the Church of St. Anne where the Virgin Mary was born. It’s tough to hold it all together when you stand most of each day in front of a huge machine gun firing grace at you from all angles. I am physically weary from walking and climbing hundreds of steps as we move about, but what causes me the greatest fatigue is the work my mind and soul are doing. My horizon is shifting and changing always as I confront one scene after another. Now we descend into under the floor to visit the cave in which mary was born. I pray a quick Hail Mary, shoot a few photos and we move on to the Chapel of the Flaggelation where Jesus was whipped, tied to a pole. A few minutes later, we find ourselves descending again under ground to the actual site of the jail in which he stayed the night before he was crucified. The floor of this jail is covered with huge stones onto which horizontal grooves had been cut by Roman road crews (giving horses beter traction when wet) and mark the site called Gabbatha, where Pilot received Jesus, washed his hands of Him, and finally handed Him over to death. Like I said, it’s all heavy stuff to try to digest.
In the afternoon, we were all cut loose to do what we wanted. I went back, took a nap, and awoke in time for the good light that comes each afternoon and went out and shot for myself. I rarely do this even though I get immense satisfaction from it. I need to shoot for me more and not just for cash... I miss my family something fierce and wish I could talk to them on the phone a couple times a day. When it’s time to go home, I’ll be ready but I feel like I’m taking so much in each day here in Jerusalem.
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