Omri was on the dock with numerous other taxis and 55 coaches when we docked this morning. He had been thinking about a more suitable route through the old city of Jerusalem since the normal route involves a climb from the Western Wall up to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which would have been difficult enough for g’pa, never minding having to deal with the pace of the throng of multiple thousands of other tourists. So, bucking the trend in a way that appealed to my contrariness about most things we swam against the tide, beginning with the Holy Sepulchre, going in reverse DOWN the Via Dolorosa, and ending up at the Western Wall.
But I jump ahead, because before entering through the Jaffa Gate into the old city, we spent time gazing at that famous view from the Mount of Olives, and walking around the fenced-off Garden of Gethsemane.
Standing on the Mount of Olives was, for me, a profoundly moving experience.
I wept a little there, although if you were to ask me why, exactly, I don’t believe I could tell you with any certainty. Maybe it was the knowledge that Jesus had wept over Jerusalem from this spot (or somewhere near it) too. Maybe it was because of the un-resolved issues that still beleaguer this holy city. Maybe it was the sense of being standing on holy ground.
Maybe it was simply being overwhelmed that the Scottish working-class girl who had spent so many years studying and teaching religion was actually there in the place that she had talked about with others. Probably it was a combination of all of these, and more that I’ve not yet processed enough to put into words.
Interestingly, the garden of Gethsemane, which had its church, and postcard sellers and crowds, (like the places I had not found inspiring in Galilee), provided me with another pensive moment. Whether or not this was the actual garden, with its ancient olive trees, flowers and herbs, there was a sense of calm here, and it was made all the sweeter by Omri reaching through the fence to pluck same lavender, and rosemary, and lemon sage leaves for me to inhale their scent, and the geraniums, and lantana blooming there connected me right back to my own garden in Rock Hill. Somehow that sensory linking of two very different cultures and historical settings seemed, and continues to seem precious, personal and powerful.
We entered the Old City through the Jaffa Gate, and made our way to the church of the Holy Sepulchre. The picture below is of Omri in the gate.
En route we stopped to buy a green stole for Jim. Look out for it during Ordinary time– you’ll recognize it by the Jerusalem crosses on it.
Being in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher was similar to being inside a set of Russian nesting dolls, so many were the churches that had been built on top of one another! Unlike the baptismal site yesterday, there is past evidence, dating back to when the Romans sacked the city and destroyed the Temple, to suggest that this may indeed have been the location of the garden tomb, although there is no trace of that garden. There were, of course, many, many pilgrims here, and many clerics “guarding” their part of the sanctuary. Pilgrims were regimented into a barricaded line to enter (“for one minute only”) the entombed-by-a little-Coptic-church tomb of Jesus.
It was an interesting place to be sure, but I did not feel the need to stand in that line because whether this was actually the tomb or not did not seem to matter, since He is risen. I did attempt to take a picture of the entrance, and waited patiently until there was no-one's face in the shot. However the priest in the foreground of the picture below, turned around just as the flash went off. He was not best pleased, angrily telling me that pictures of buildings was okay, but not of people. Trying to explain that that was exactly what I had been attempting to do seemed moot at that point.
We then began our reverse route through the Arab souk down the Via Dolorosa to the Western Wall. Being a bit of a contrarian, I was inwardly amused by going against the flow, as it were. Omri had planned a watering stop to give g’p a break on the way down, and we enjoyed coffee and baklava in the Holy Rock Café. While we are in there, our dinner table partners, the Carmichaels, waved in as they ascended Via Dolorosa. It’s a small world after all!
By the way, I resisted the temptation to buy a ceramic “Shalom Y’all plaque :)
When we reached the Western Wall, I really did feel that I was standing on holy ground, although I can’t quite explain why. I made my way to women’s section, while Jim and g’pa went to the men’s part. The names of my family – Simpson, Filpi, Robinson, Rogers, Wale, and my adoptive family, Hardee are now hidden in a crevice in the wall, written on the only paper I had in my purse- the reverse side of one of the entry tickets to the Parthenon, complete with its picture on the front. Somehow that had its symbolism: Greece comes to Jerusalem, philosophy bowing to faith perhaps? In any case, praying at the Western Wall was all I had imagined it would be, and I cried there too.
A mother and daughter, whose photograph I had taken, reciprocated. Thank you to that anonymous pair.
Originally we had planned to do the touristy Dead Sea float and mud application, but opted instead for an extended time, that included lunch Kibbutz-style at Qumran – the site where the monastic Essene community lived and worked in the time of Jesus, and where the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered in the modern era. I found this place to be another of those that grounded me in a past that I have come to regard as my “adopted heritage” of faith. Awesome experience!
On the way back to the ship we passed a number of Bedouin encampments, not in tents, but shanty-town like, with the requisite camels, flocks, herds and shoeless children around them. We also passed the remains of tanks and other military detritus, placed roadside as an intentional reminder of the not-too-distant days when the territory was more actively disputed.
Which brings me back to the Mount of Olives: Jesus weeping over the city, and the call to pray for the peace of Jerusalem. It seems to me that Jesus is still weeping over Jerusalem and many other cities and towns around the globe where there is no peace.
I also reflected on the kindness of Omri, our guide, and was reminded of the story of the Good Samaritan, in which Jesus reveals the answer to the question "Who is my neighbor?" to be, in the Good News Bible, "The one who was kind to him". By the way, this can never be adequately covered by the modern "Random Acts of Kindness" movement. My friends, our acts of kindness need to be intentional, not random.
