Day 7: The Wailing Wall

It was a weird day. The wailing wall was nothing like I expected it to be in terms of how it looked as you approached it. It’s basically the original foundation of the Temple built by Herod the Great. This same Temple was smashed in 70 A.D. by the Roman Army who sought to put down the Jewish revolt. Sadly, because it is the Sabbath, no photography was allowed in the Wailing wall area and I obeyed their directive out of respect. I had prepared a few scrolls to place in the Wall, one for my family (all of them), one for my parish, and one for the high school. I did one other for a few people I know that are opening themselves up to the idea of the priesthood, diaconate, religious life, and for one other that is struggling with a 3rd order vocation. The last one was for people in great need like my friends in Haiti, for my friend Stan who is in prison, and for the many people that I know that are looking for work and are having financial difficulties.

As you approach the Wall, you must have your head covered. As you walk closer to it, down a long ramp, you pass through hundreds of orthodox Jews who pray out loud and read from scrolls and books containing the Torah. As you get closer, you start to notice the small pieces of paper, thousands and thousands of them, all containing serious petitions from all those who worship the one God of Israel. My first job was to find places to smash my notes in with the rest and this took some time. Afterwards, I did what I saw the others doing and I laid my forehead on the wall and began to pray. As you’d suspect, I prayed for my family first, then in thanksgiving for this opportunity to pray here in this most sacred place where Simeon and Anna greeted Jesus as a baby at His presentation, where He taught the scriptures as a young man, where he drove out the vendors from selling, and where I found myself weeping all of a sudden. There was a massive, deep blue sky overhead with strong winds pushing white clouds by very fast. The air was cold with a strong wind which made my tears cold on my cheeks. I saw no reason to dry them as I began to understand the purpose of praying here. My prayers turned to those in need that I know and strangely to my ancestors and to my children’s grandkids and so on. When you are faced with a place that seem to know so much time, it seemed natural to pray for all of my family, living, dead, and those who are not among us yet. Spending time in Jerusalem, you begin to appreciate how temporary your situation is. It’s easier to see yourself as taking a few breaths and then laying down to sleep in the Lord all in the context of the passage of time. I think I will have gained patience and perspective to some degree on this pilgrimage, which will be good news to my wife and kids.

Fr. Charlie asked me to preach at Mass today. I spoke mainly about how important it is for us not to have traveled all this way and not continue that journey on the inside. Going to the holy land won’t make you holy any more than putting your car in the garage makes it a garage. So I’ve been trying to find moments to pray on the bus, in the morning, even while eating. Letting silence lead me to that place that the Church Fathers called the 8th day. It is good to pray on the Sabbath. It is good that no cars can operate in the Jewish Quarter right now. It is good to see all the shops closed. It’s a lesson that Walmart could learn from, and that Chik-fil-A already knows. Tonight is our last night in Jerusalem. The bells are ringing out 4:30 p.m. as I type this. The Sabbath will be over at sundown, so I plan to make my way through the narrow streets of the Old City one more time, to walk the Stations again, and settle into silent prayer, quit talking and listen to what God wants to teach me this night. Tomorrow we head to Jericho and into more new discoveries of very ancient truths of God. Shalom...