You should read my blog about my first visit to Holy Sepulcher before reading this one. But don't go looking for a blog post about the second visit, when we visited Holy Sepulcher with a guide. It was much like my first, though with scholar eyes rather than tourist, and we hurried through with scant time for reflection. So I will jump to my third visit.
But before I get there, let me tell a couple other stories first. For one does not come to a pilgrimage site in isolation, but one brings everything their heart has gathered along the way. And this third visit only happened because of what went before.
Those of you who know me know that my basic temperament is intellectal, that I approach the world and my Christian faith through my mind. I'm gifted with the abilities to draw connections between ideas and events, and will cheerfully tell you all about the Battle of Yarmuk. (Fought in 636 AD on the high plains southeast of Damascus, it was the final defeat of the Romans (Byzantines) by the Arabs, signaling the end of 7 centuries of Roman rule and 3 centuries of Christian hegemony in the Holy Land, and the beginnings of Muslim rule that lasted to the First World War.). But I have little grasp of the mystical, emotional aspects of faithing. Charismatics have haunted the edge of my life and ministry, sometimes causing me significant grief. I do better with contemplative spirituality, but it is definitely my inferior functio, so takes more work. But our inferior function is our growing edge, and so I have sought in recent years to give it more attention. However it is still largely uncharted territory -- I can't figure it out!
On this pilgrimage, there has been plenty of fodder for my mind, and that is easy and fun (Yarmuk!). I have also worked to provide space and time for the intuitive, emotional, noumenal, part of faith. The first flash of this came in Nazareth, at the Basilica of the Annunciation. We had toured a number of site that day, and came there late. Unlike some of the florid Byzantine churches we visited, this was simple, modern, enormous, and airy. I really liked it. We went in, and made I made my way to the lower crypt, where the angel reputedly appeared to Mary. I looked through the grate into the grotto with a simple altar on which was the Latin for "The Word became flesh." I felt a shock, a jolt, a thrill physically through my body. It was here, this spot, this place that Christ was incarnate! My body resonated with the power of that insight. Body, flesh, skin and bone and blood, sexuality, like my skin and bone and blood and sexuality, God became. The wall between my head and heart had a definite crack that ran right through my body.
Sometime later, we visited Hebron, a city painfully divided between Jew and Palestinian. We went into the Jewish side of the Tomb of the Patriarchs, and there looked through grates to the cenotaphs of Abraham, Sarah and their family. The actual tombs are in unvisited caves far below, but this structure is basically unchanged since Herod fancied it up in the first century. It is one of the oldest religious buildings in the world whose use has stood unchanged. We had looked at the monuments and as the guide talked, I walked back to Abraham's to take another look. As I peered in, all of a sudden I said aloud, "Pray for me, Father Abraham." What on earth did I just say? I was taken aback at myself; where did that come from? I have no history or context of veneration of saints. I hadn't been feeling particularly pious as we made or way through the silent streets of the militarized buffer zone, and then the hectic souk. Yet it was as clear and simple and spontaneous and unmediated a request as could be. I knew right away that the plea was genuine, bursting up from my heart fully formed, passing my lips before my mind could critique or censor it. Somehow I had tapped into the millions of voices who had said that prayer before me, and was carried aloft on that wave. Prayers for what for me? I am not facing it a burning crisis, deep pain, or even spiritual ennui. I hope Father Abraham has vision into my soul to know what he should pray, because I don't know. No, I haven't figured it out.
It was a day or two later when I returned to the Holy Sepulcher. I had visited a couple very nice churches earlier that day, particularly St Peter in Gallicantu, built on the site of the High Priest Caiphas' house and site of Peter's denials. The crypts where Jesus and later the apostles were imprisoned was very striking. You descend from the bright upper church down into the quiet lower church, and then deep into the dungeons and crypts below. It is a descent from head to heart to body and earth. I stopped to listen to the choir at St James, then went into the Christian Quarter .I did some sovenier shopping there and then made my way into Holy Sepulcher.
The church was crowded, with many Muslims who had just gotten out of Friday prayers. I tried first to go up into the Greek chapel of Golgotha, but it was closed for a service. Same thing when I went towards the stairs down to the Armenian section. So I went back around to the main rotunda, where the Edicule is. The Edicule is a large rectangular structure built over the slap of the tomb where Jesus laid. It had fallen into serious disrepair, and since the early 19th century had beeen strapped together with iron bands. The Status Quo agreement had prevented repairs, to prevent any of the sects sharing the church from taking credit. Only a year ago an agreement was reached, and extensive repairs, cleaning, and excavation were accomplished, reopening in March. So I'm lucky to see the refurbished product.
I had intended to work my way to the Edicule by way of the other chapels. But I noticed that the line was quite short and jumped into the line, even if I didn't feel quite ready. The interior is tiny, so only about 4 people at a time are let in by the monk attending the door. I was almost to the door, when suddenly the line was stopped. The pipe organ filled the place with music, echoing through the vast rotunda. A corps of Franciscan monks came to the door, with singing and candles, and had a prayer service. After about 10 minutes, they processed away into a side chapel where they continued with a Mass. So, with about three other people, I was let in for my 30 seconds at the holiest place in Christendom.
The room is tiny, with the slab filling most of the space and standing alongside. Icons and candles are around, and the woman next to me lights a candle. I lay my hand on the slab. The Latin inscription above the slab reads, "He is not here, he is risen!" I felt something crack inside me, my spirit burst open, and tears started to well up in my eyes. It was here, right here, that my Lord and Christ rose from the dead! I felt deep churning in my gut, and leaned down and kissed he slab. Still fighting tears, I had the clarity to snap a quick picture before the monk announced, "It's time" and ushered us out.
I meandered stricken across the rotunda, tears breaking free. I found a column and went behind it, leaned into it, and cried. And cried. And cried. Deep sobs, racking my body from the very depths. For minutes on end. Yes, I was the weird guy crying his eyes out behind a pillar. I'd pull myself together for a moment, and then it would start again. Finally, I composed myself, and went and sat with a group of Sisters of Charity to watch the last of the Mass.
Whence these tears? I didn't feel necessarily sad, or joy, or anything else I could identify. I wasn't overcome with guilt for my sins, I wasn't mourning the loss of a love, job or dream. I certainly wasn't winging up to highest heaven. It was more primal than that, gutsy and earthy. They were coming from the most profound depths of soul and, yes, body. That bodily, incarnated and now resurrected Christ, was working me at my core. I still don't know what happened or what it means. A friend said to just let it be and let it rest. And don't try to figure it out.
But this I have more than figured out: Christ is risen, Christ is risen indeed!
And it is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the Living God.
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