Holy Land Pilgrimage: Day 10

Wednesday, May 10, 2023

I began this day by discerning something I wouldn’t have expected on this pilgrimage: I’m going home earlier than I’d planned. The presenting circumstance was the Israeli attack on Islamic Jihad leaders (killing 10 women and children, apparently) in Gaza, which will bring retaliation on Israel. That got me wondering whether I want to hang around by myself a couple more days in which the situation could easily deteriorate. But that’s not really the reason I changed my ticket. Instead, I want to experience this pilgrimage as this pilgrimage, carrying that experience with me, rather than clouding it with whatever good or bad things might have happened in two days on my own. Plus, I miss Ann. It’s just time.

Our day began quite early, with breakfast at 6 a.m. and the bus departing at 6:45. There was a snafu with the hotel: Although the pilgrims knew we were dining at 6, the restaurant manager didn’t. Thankfully, he was able to open not too long after that, and we made it out on time.

Ritual washing station for those approaching
the Western Wall to pray.

Our destinations this morning were three of the holiest sites in the world. We began at the Western Wall, a portion of the retaining wall on the west side of Temple Mount. That side of the mount is thought to bear God’s holiness particularly, or at least evoke our participation in God’s holiness particularly, because the western end of the Temple was the site of the Holy of Holies, the part of the Temple housing the Ark of the Covenant and where God’s presence abided. Only the high priest could enter the Holy of Holies and only once a year, on Yom Kippur, the day of atonement for the people’s sins. Now, worshipers are welcome to stand at the place nearest the presence of God any day, even Christian pilgrims from the U.S. like us. It was deeply humbling to approach those stones. You know, there are places that religious experts name as holy, and then there are the places sanctified by the prayers of the ages, with so many feet having trod the stones that they’re buffed to gleaming brilliance in the sun. Recognizing I was completely unworthy to do so, I prayed at the Western Wall, too. There were no seraphim (giant flying cobras) like Isaiah saw in his Temple vision. But approaching that wall, you do feel the presence of the Lord who is unutterably greater than we can name.

The faithful coming to the Wall for early-morning prayers. 

Rather than giant flying cobras, the air above the Western Wall was filled with birds, swooping into the corner where the wall meets the buildings abutting it and then banking out, over and over again. I don’t know why they do that. They weren't looking for a place to land. Instead, they seemed to be the Spirit of God moving over the faithful below, the Breath that spoke creation into being and sustains it still.

Ritual washing station outside the Dome of
the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque.

That was the first of the morning’s holy places. From there we walked the short distance across a footbridge onto Temple Mount, to stand where the Temple once stood and where now the Muslims honor prophet Muhammad’s night journey from Mecca, riding a flying donkey to the farthest place of worship, identified in tradition as Jerusalem. From there he ascended into heaven to receive God’s instructions for daily prayerful practice before returning to the Temple Mount and flying back to Mecca before morning. The journey is marked by the Dome of the Rock, certainly the icon of Jerusalem today and probably since it was built in 692. The Dome marks the rock where Muslims believe God created Adam and where Abraham bound Isaac or Ishmael (depending on whether you’re Jewish or Muslim) for sacrifice. Also on Temple Mount is the al-Aqsa Mosque, the monumental worship space for pilgrims and the local faithful. The rules are different on Temple Mount than at the Western Wall. Non-Muslims may not pray there, nor may they enter the Dome or al-Aqsa. Religious officials are there to correct you if you seem to be praying, or if you show physical affection to another person. If those actions are offensive, I can’t begin to imagine how the followers of Islam feel when Israeli soldiers come on Temple Mount.

Pavement under the Church of Ecce Homo thought
 to have been taken from Pilate's headquarters.

From there, we walked to St. Anne’s Church, marking the traditional birthplace of the Virgin Mary, and the site of the Pool of Bethzatha or Bethesda, where Jesus healed the man paralyzed for 38 years. From there we walked to the Church of Ecce Homo (“Behold the Man”) marking Pilate interrogating Jesus and asking the crowds what to do with him. We celebrated Eucharist there, with Fr. Bill contrasting the imperial pretensions of the Emperor Hadrian, whose triumphal arches from the first century are part of the church wall, with the ultimate sovereignty of the one whom the Romans tried to erase from memory. Underneath the church is pavement of stone perhaps brought from the Antonia Fortress, where Pilate had his headquarters and where the interrogation took place. Within the echoing stone church, our “Were You There?” was just as powerful as the Africans’ “Hallelujah, What a Savior” yesterday.

The crush of humanity and the clash of cultures
in the Old City.

After Eucharist, we walked the stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa, taking the path tradition says Jesus walked to Calvary. At a few points, we were competing for space and audibility with other prayerful groups, which is the constant affliction of pilgrimage: You’re not the only ones who felt called to come. I wonder what it’s like for the residents of the Old City. The pilgrims are essential to the economy and provide all the customers for many of the shops; but if the crush of the faithful was annoying to us, imagine what it’s like trying to live there. Prayerfulness in walking the stations is something you have to practice intentionally as you dodge the motorcycles and golf carts, and as other pilgrims push past you.

Amid the crowd waiting to touch Calvary's stone. 

The challenging crowds along the Via Dolorosa become overwhelming at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the third deeply holy site we visited today. Six traditions of Christianity control it, and the history of that “relationship” is combative enough to demand a ridiculously specific truce agreement that stands from 1757. Entering through the famously contested side doors, where the movement of a centuries-old ladder is enough to restart a holy war, you see a mosaic that acts as a tourist map. To the right, it pictures Calvary, the place of crucifixion. In the middle is the stone of anointment, marking the preparation of Jesus’ body for burial. And to the left is the Edicule, the smaller building within the larger building that marks and encloses the tomb. After helpful comments from Ranya, our guide, we had an hour and a half to see the building. That was plenty of time … to stand in line to see one of the sites within the building. I chose the line leading to Calvary and the opportunity to put my hand on the stone into which the base of the cross was placed. It took an hour to get there, with pilgrims of all nations shoving to move an inch closer than the pilgrim nearby. Once again, I wondered what Jesus might be thinking. To my own children, I remember saying things like, “If you can’t get along, we’ll just leave and go home.” Thankfully, our Lord didn’t clear the building, but I did imagine him shaking his head. 

The prayers of the faithful.

Like a loving parent, he let us have the experience for which we came. It mattered to me to get down on my knees, and crawl under the shrine, and put my arm nine inches down the hole to feel the rock. The dirt and germs and God knows what else I pulled out on my fingertips were the holy matter of blessing from this day; and as if it were holy water, I crossed myself with it and went on my way.

The grumpy cleric posted at the back of the Edicule. 

With the 15 minutes I had left, I went to the Edicule – not to stand in the line but just to walk around it. Here, the holy fire springs forth each Easter Eve, as the light of Christ conquers the darkness of Good Friday. Around the entrance is a dizzying array of lamps and candles, and I got the photos I could get amid the crowd. I walked to the back, too, noticing the golden awning on the shine there. Most of the Edicule is administered by one denomination, but a different church has claim on the back of the tomb, where the head of Jesus would have rested. I took a photo of that side, too – but when I did, the cleric overseeing the back of the Edicule yelled at me, angry that I’d taken a photo. Now, every pilgrim in this building was taking pictures. But apparently, the rules call for no photography at the back of the Edicule. Who knew? Clearly, not me. I intended no disrespect, but I still felt badly for upsetting the keeper of the rules.

God's sunshine meets the incense of the ages. 

All these frustrations are predictable, experienced by 99 percent of the pilgrims who visit Holy Sepulcher. But even with the pushy crowds, and the grumpy cleric, and the incomprehensible geography of the church, I left with something good: the feeling that, after all, this is enough. Among the things I’ve set aside on this pilgrimage is the need to be provided with certificates of authenticity for the geographical icons of our faith. Personally, I didn’t find Holy Sepulcher very worshipful – in fact, our group’s own celebration of Eucharist brought God much closer. But the journeys, and the faith, and the prayers of literally countless pilgrims over the ages, including the hoards who joined us in descending on Holy Sepulcher today – all that is real, all by itself. My liturgics professor in seminary, Dr. William Seth Adams, liked to say that liturgical items (vestments, lecterns, patens, chalices, etc.) don’t need to be blessed before they’re used. Instead, they’re blessed by our use of them. Holy Sepulcher makes the same point writ large … and frustrating.

Back into the world after visiting Holy Sepulcher.

And so, just as our intentions to find blessing are enough, so I find that my time of blessing here is enough. I will very much enjoy coming back with other pilgrims, God willing. But for this pilgrimage, these 11 days will have done the Spirit’s work. From a worldly perspective, it seemed to make sense months ago to add value to this experience by tacking on a couple of days on my own. And from a worldly perspective, people watching the news over the past few days might conclude that it’s smart to get out while the getting is good. But the truth is that the reason I’m going home when the group’s pilgrimage concludes is because ... it's enough. Or, at least, it will be tomorrow.