Sunday afternoon, after worshiping in a Syriac church near the Damascus Gate, I decided to wander in the Old City. Being my first time there, I purposefully did not set a goal other than to walk up and down the street, seeing whatever I might find. A true tourist walk.
First, I went thru a narrow bazaar, stalls piled high with fruits and vegetables, housewares and clothes. I turned off into residential areas occasionally, but there was not too much to see behind high walls and closed doors. I kept finding myself back on a commercial street. There discovered myself to be on the Via Dolorosa, the way tradition tells us Jesus carried his cross from Pilate's fortress to Golgotha (then outside the city walls, tho now well within them). I was passed by groups of brightly dressed African pilgrims singing as they went. I looked inside a few churches along the way -- the Church of the Flaggelation was particularly striking -- but not being in a particularly pious mood, soon turned off onto a side street.
Seeing what looked like an open park ahead, I went towards it, only to be stopped by two very large Israeli policeman. "You a Muslim?" They asked. "No," I said. "You can't go in." I gazed past them, into the other courts of the Al-Aqsa Mosque, on the ancient high place of the city, on the platform built by Herod for the JewishTemple. "What are you looking for?" one asked in a challenging tone. "Just looking," I replied, as I peered around him. As I turned away, I heard him mutter to his fellows, "Tourists!"
After some more wandering and a lunch stop at a street side cafe near the Austrian Hospice, I was again on the Via Dolorasa. I decided to follow it to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the traditional site of both Jesus' crucifixion and his resurrection.
Coming into the square, it scarcely looks like a church. You can't see the domes, the main clue are the hoarders of pilgrims. Some alone, some families, many organized groups and all from the ends of the earth. I walked in the door, and the first thing you see is the Stone of Anointing, a low slab where Jesus' body was prepared for burial. Kneeling at the slab, pilgrims drew handkerchiefs along the stone, making a sacred souvenir, laid down their heads, and wept.
I wasn't into it. I shot some discrete photos, and then went right into a chapel with exposed bedrock: the dry hill of the skull, Golgotha. Plexiglass protected the stone from chipping pilgrims. Again people were praying intently. This was where their Lord died!
Not being willing to be drawn into it, I wen down a hall and staircase to the Armenian section of the church. You see, the management of the church is divided by decree of the Ottoman Sultan in the 1840's, the "Status Quo" agreement, into areas for the Greeks, Latins, Armenians, Copts and Ethiopians. Each sect has their own areas, and woe betide the careless monk who strays into another's zone! There was an excellent Byzantine mosaic floor, and very large and impressive paintings -- maybe of the rescue of the Real Cross from the Persians (628 AD) with the mountains of Ararat in the background. Another chapel with a small altar filled with candles; I found myself chuckling at seeing a fire extinguisher tucked discretely against the wall.
Coming back into the aisles alongside the nave, which you can't see from there because of construction scaffolding, I went around to the Edicule, the small shrine built over the very tomb of Jesus. I'll write more about its recent refurbishment and archaeology another time. A long line waited to get in, and not feeling very pious, decided against going in. Why take time and space from another who is ready for it? I'll come another day, when I feel ..... What?
I was seeing the place as a tourist, not as a pilgrim. I could marvel at the size, recognize the different periods of architecture, gaze respectfully upon the icons. I could be alternately challenged and repulsed by the florid displays of devotion all around me. Maybe, as a rather an-iconic Protestant, there was too much imagery. More likely, as an intellectal introvert, all the praying, weeping, singing, kissing of icons was too much. I was jockeying with the other tourists for the best camera angle, and not feeling that was my best self. I didn't feel bad, just detached, a vaguely interested observer watching Christians run around in a Petri dish.
"Just Looking." I think that is, for me, the first move of really "being here." Maybe I have to be the "tourist" first. Looking, listening, tasting, smelling. But not yet ready to let loose my spirit, to bare my soul, to make myself vulnerable to the untamed Spirit of the place. That, and any transformation it may bring, will have to wait. On this particular pilgrimage, I have the unbelievable gift of time. I will go again to the church tomorrow on a guided tour. Maybe I will have the eyes of a scholar, a historian, an observer of religious arts. I think I will probably visit it yet a third time, God willing, with the heart of a pilgrim.
June 7, 2017
Tantur, Jerusalem
PS: Does anybody know how to insert a picture into a Blogger blog like this? I can copy pix to the clipboard, but when I past them in they're huge and I can't figure out how to resize them. And all that shows on preview is a little box, not the pix at all. So need some Help...!
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