Sunday Morning in Jerusalem

One of the great delights of my time here is that I get to wander around, exploring places and stories. If I see or hear about something of interest, I have the freedom and the time to pursue it. Sometimes I'm attracted by something external like a sign, an open door, or a crowd. But more often than not, it is an internal question or prompting that I respond to. With little pressure to produce, I can attend to the slight whispers that nudge my soul.

Last Sunday morning, I took Iyad into Jerusalem. My American passport at the checkpoint meant that we could breeze through in 2 minutes instead of the 2 hours it might take him if he was on his own. For this brief jaunt into the Old City, I was rewarded with a scrumptious buffet breakfast at the Grand Court Hotel, the chance to meet many of Iyad's tour guide friends and drivers, and no agenda until church in Beit Jalla at 10:15 am.

With several hours at my disposal, I decided to go to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Early in the morning, the church is less crowded and often one can pray without having had to endure long lines and pushy pilgrims. As you might know, joint custody of the church is jealously guarded by the Eastern Orthodox, the Armenian Apostolic, the Roman Catholic Church as well as the Syriac, Coptic and Ethiopian Orthodox. Often, you can watch the precise changing of the liturgical guard as these faith traditions hand off worship at the tomb of Christ. As I expected, the Syriac Orthodox were holding their own mass, the Armenian monks were chanting, and Russian Orthodox men and women were thrusting their way into the tomb.

To avoid the religious raucous, I ducked into the empty Franciscan Chapel of the Apparition and found myself praying the stations of the cross, employing the most exquisite sculptures as my prayer prompts. It was Good Friday enfolded into 14 depictions of agony. It got me thinking much more about Christ's suffering and death, the deep grief of so many back home, and the challenges I see daily in the West Bank.

I made my way to the anointing stone where Christ's body was prepared for burial. I knelt and touched this sacred spot and was reminded of the concreteness of death and its rituals: a lifeless body lovingly washed and wrapped and laid in a tomb. In one form or another, this ritual is enacted thousands of times every day. Death brings grief. Grief brings healing. The mosaic icon behind this spot reminds us that even the angels wept for Christ when he died.

I left the church in a very somber mood. I ambled over to the Jewish Quarter hoping to find an open synagogue. I've been feeling confused and bitter towards the Israelis lately and thought I should get more in touch with the humanity of the Jews. With no synagogue available, I sat in the square and prayed and thought about their historic suffering. The Sunday before, I had been at the Holocaust Museum, Yad Yashem, which tells only one of many chapters of Jewish persecution. The stones of ancient Jerusalem depict other epochs. I walked by the 3500 year old wall of the Solomon's temple, saw the bombed out ruins of a synagogue from the 1948 war, then made my way to remaining vestiges of the Roman destruction of Herod's temple, the Wailing Wall.

I prayed for many at home who have lost loved ones, prayed for friends and family who have shared concerns with me, and prayed for peace for the people in this land that I am growing to love. I quietly wept, my head and hands against the wall.  

Baruch atah Adonai. Eloheinu melech ha'olam. Sh'hechayanu, v'kiyemanu,  v'higlanu lazman hazah. (Blessed are you, the Eternal One our God, Ruler of the Cosmos, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and enabled us to reach this moment.)

Ma'unatuna min 'indi r-rab.  Sani'i s-samawat wal-ard.  (Our help is from the Lord, Creator of Heaven and Earth!)

The birds that roost in the wall's clinging vines sang sweetly of life and resurrection. All morning I had been living in the depth of Good Friday and now it was time to remember Easter. I was eager to engage a liturgy of hope. Where would my wanderings take me now?

Making my way back to towards the car, I decided to walk down Christian Quarter Road. It was still too early for tourists and only a few shop keepers were beginning to set up for the day. One of them recognized me and invited me in for coffee. We sat and talked about his family, his politics, and his faith. I don't know why but I was surprised to learn he was Muslim - perhaps because he sells Christian memorabilia to pilgrims for a living.  

Then it was back to Beit Jalla for church. I got there early and had time to pray alone in the sanctuary. In fact, I got to pray a lot during worship since again it was completely in Arabic. This time, I didn't catch the scripture reading for the day so instead of meditating on the passage, I journaled.

Despite the clamorously competing narratives of the differing faith traditions, political views, and life experiences, I was aware of the unifying Spirit of the Holy One throughout the morning. Our common humanity, all of us uniquely created and loved into the image of God, encourages me to embrace hope. Our common suffering, all of us victims of circumstances and powers beyond our control, invites me to pray for healing. Our common sin, all of us perpetrators of injustice of one kind or another, reminds me to confess and receive grace.  

A wonderful, powerful, lesiurely morning. All before 11:30 am. On a Sunday.  

I'm clearly not in Berkeley anymore!