Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land (22 page)

At least I've settled on which Scripture to use. For the last day or so I've been thinking about Jacob wrestling with the angel. It's rather an odd text, mainly because it's not clear why the angel has come to Jacob, or why the two of them are fighting, but the crux of the text seems to be Jacob saying, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” For me, this pilgrimage has been an extended time of divine wrestling. I want to receive a blessing, but it isn't so easy. I'm forced to face sides of myself I would rather ignore: my prejudices, my blind spots, my tendency toward self-righteousness. I almost feel like the pilgrimage itself
is an angel wrestling me into another way of being, but I haven't reaped the blessing yet.

The funny thing is that last night when I asked JoAnne which passage she'd chosen, she mentioned this same one. It seemed an odd coincidence. The Bible is a thick book, and we chose the same few verses — which haven't been mentioned during the ten days of pilgrimage. I'd like to ask her more about why she chose this Scripture. What has she wrestled with?

As we walk across the Old City to visit our last few sites, Charlie is taking his turn carrying the four-foot cross. I glance at him, curious how this day has been for him. His face is serene.

I ask, “This was your first time doing the Stations of the Cross, right? So what did you think of it?”

“Powerful. The Evil One is everywhere.” He clasps the cross to his chest. “What about you? Wasn't it your first time too?”

“It was. I'm still wrestling with some things.”

“Satan will do that to you,” Charlie says.

“Satan, or an angel,” I answer. “But how about you? What are you wrestling with?”

“You mean today or any day?”

“I mean this whole pilgrimage. What have you wrestled with?”

Charlie ponders the question. “Nothing.” He shakes his head. “Really, I can't say I've wrestled with anything. This trip has just confirmed what I already believed.”

I guess there are many kinds of pilgrims.

We arrive in the Jewish Quarter. The Upper Room is the place where Jesus celebrated Passover with his disciples shortly before one of the disciples, Judas, betrayed him to the religious authorities, an action that led directly to Jesus' death. Before we enter the room, Stephen gives details, but I only half-listen. I just want to picture Jesus here with his disciples.

The room is large, with high arches creating a two-story-high ceiling. The room is full of pilgrims, but empty of furniture, altars,
hanging lamps, and the other accoutrements of shrines. How refreshing. As I try to imagine Jesus at a table with his disciples, the members of another large pilgrim group — Americans — begin to sing praise music, complete with guitar accompaniment. It feels like they're using up all the air in the spacious room. I can hardly breathe, much less feel the breath of the Spirit.

We wait politely for the song to finish, then walk a short way to David's Tomb. David was a pivotal figure in Hebrew Scripture, the great shepherd-king of Israel and Judah. But, because the authenticity of the tomb is contested, this tomb is a minor site. It's owned, or at least controlled, by a yeshiva, a school to teach Jewish boys Torah and Talmud. Perhaps the rules are laid down by the yeshiva; whatever the case, women aren't allowed into the main area of the tomb. Men may enter — and it doesn't matter whether they're Jewish or not, mind you, just that they're male. There's a little way station we women may visit, a place to peek at what the men are doing. This is explained as a matter of course. It reminds me of the Western Wall, where women stand on chairs to peer over the divider and see their boys bar-mitzvahed.

The rules aren't unexpected, and I don't even care about David's tomb! But I do care that I'm not allowed to enter it because of my gender. The prohibitions call to mind all the misogynist messages that have been declaimed to me by religious men in authority, words that surge into my memory — and into my body. I spout off to the video camera, even though I'm tired and not particularly eloquent. The blank lens reflects my anger back to me even as it records my words. I hesitate, not because I've expressed my complaint, but because this snippet might find its way into the documentary. I'll look like an overly emotional woman, which just feeds the misogyny. To stop myself, I leave.

Outside the entrance to David's tomb, Kyle is leaning on the four-foot cross. “Patriarchy is alive and well here,” I tell him.

“And that surprises you?” he answers, laughing.

“Ha-ha. That's easy for you to say. You're a tall white-haired man. I bet you're the kind of priest who wears a collar to mow the lawn.”

Kyle laughs again, and we start walking toward the next site with the group. Kyle is carrying the cross. “Believe me,” he says, “you really didn't miss much at that tomb. You've seen one tomb, you've seen 'em all, right? And I thought you were about full up with candles and shrines, anyway.”

“I am,” I say. “I'm almost full up with meaningful moments. Maybe I'm just ready to go home and see my family.”

Our group has reached the day's final stop, the Dormition of Mary. “This is an Orthodox site,” Stephen explains. “ ‘Dormition' means ‘sleep' and refers to the tradition that the Virgin Mary didn't die, but fell asleep and was taken up into heaven.” He swoops his arms upward with his palms facing up.

“I know I'm tired,” I say to Kyle, “but I've never even heard of this doctrine about Mary.”

He laughs. “Spoken like a Protestant. I guess there's some that venerates the Virgin, and some that doesn't. Me — I can go either way.”

“Spoken like an Anglican,” I say. “Both sides against the middle. Or are you hedging your bets? Maybe you just don't like to admit when a doctrine is preposterous.”

“A doctrine — ‘preposterous'? ” he asks. “You mean like the Resurrection?”

I look at his pseudo-serious face and burst out laughing. “I get your point. Three days dead in a tomb.”

“It's what belief
is
,” he tells me. “Preposterous.”

Inside the Dormition shrine, two circular staircases lead to a crypt. We descend to an underground room that's as quiet as, well, a tomb. In the center is a life-sized effigy of Mary in repose, her hands crossed on her chest. She is lying atop a coffin of some kind, as if in perpetual sleep.

It's been a long day of great gravity. So many thoughts are stirred up, incomplete. I've had to clamp down my impulses many times. Feeling a bit feisty now, I whisper to Kyle, “She looks like Sleeping Beauty.”

“Definitely,” he whispers back, a smile dancing across his face. “Part Vatican. Part Disney.”

The urge to laugh in a holy place is absolutely devilish. I try to swallow my snickering, but the sound ricochets around the marble walls. A guard thumps down the stairs, scowling. I cover my mouth and bolt back up the staircase Kyle and I have just descended. As I burst into the open air, a guard reprimands me in a stern voice. “Down, not Up!”

From the other side of the shrine, Kyle joins me, having come placidly up the proper staircase. “Going the wrong way, pilgrim?” he asks.

Our large group begins the long walk back toward Saint George's campus. The distance is more than a mile, so we begin to straggle out, though there are still two people carrying the large crosses at the front and back ends of our file. JoAnne and I walk in silence companionably. Suddenly there's a gush and spray as something explodes at our feet. Before I can register what it is, there's a second hit. My pants are now drenched from the knees down. JoAnne and I glance at each other in disbelief, then look up. There's a second-story window open to the air, but barred. On the other side is a group of about five girls, giggling. They're wearing school uniforms and look like eighth-graders. Another water balloon comes sailing down and hits the wall opposite us.

“Hey, girls!” JoAnne calls up. “What are you doing?”

One of the girls yells, “It's disgusting!”

“What is?”

“The cross,” yells the vocal girl. “I want to vomit it up!”

I step backward, literally taken aback. The preacher in me wants to chastise them. The teacher in me wants to engage them. The mother in me wants to ignore their bad behavior. But the believer in me simply feels hurt, as if I have been struck square in the chest with those ridiculous water balloons.

JoAnne resumes walking. “It's what they've been taught,” she says. “That's all it is.”

I catch up to her and agree. “They probably do it every day. Lunch-time entertainment.”

“Right. Buy Doritos from the vending machine. Then throw water bombs at the Christian pilgrims.” She laughs.

I try to laugh but still feel rattled. “Well, if this had to happen, I'm glad it happened on the Via Dolorosa.”

“Right,” says JoAnne. “Humiliation for the sake of a cross.”

After lunch, we have the afternoon off. Tomorrow is our last day; we fly out of Tel Aviv late tomorrow night. This is our last opportunity to spend time in Jerusalem. Nobody else is interested in walking back in to the city, so I decide to go alone. Perhaps I'm a spiritual glutton, but I don't want to waste these last few hours.

Since I'm done seeing pilgrim sights, I unwrap the scarf I've been wearing around my waist as a handy head covering. Even these few extra layers of silk made me sweat. While I'm at it, I decide to take off my long pants and put on the shorts I brought for the Dead Sea day. I feel better as I cool down. If I'm off the pilgrim clock, maybe I can go back to being an American woman and admit I own a pair of legs. My shorts feel blessedly cool. A little sneaky, but cool. I grab my journal and head to the Damascus Gate.

The Muslim Quarter feels much friendlier than it used to, now that it's familiar. I tromp over streets of paving stone, noticing details about the people bustling around me. I stop to examine the colorful wares of street-sellers. The tables displaying women's underwear no longer shock me. The fragrant heaps of spices are enticing, and I purchase some saffron as a gift for my husband. The aroma from the falafel stand is tantalizing. That means my stomach is feeling better! I decide to be daring and buy some fresh dates. I love to eat them dried, so why not try these? The plump orange orbs are the most perfect fruit I have ever put in my mouth. When I bite down, the meat of the date feels substantial but then gives way to the perfect combination of softness and chewiness — all exploding with sugar.

My senses are so consumed with taking in Jerusalem that my mind becomes unleashed. My thoughts flow and come together in new ways. I feel strangely at home. I remember how, as I embarked on this pilgrimage, I worried about the violence I might encounter — not the threat of bodily harm, but the threat of what new ideas might do to my belief system. A few water balloons turned out to be the worst of the physical violence! Perhaps the most difficult part is facing the fact that those girls and I have much in common. What's so different about what they're being taught and what I was taught? In my Reformed upbringing, we were taught to be polite, but that's only a surface issue. We too were children of the covenant, set apart. We felt superior. It's ugly to say it straight out like that, but it's true. We didn't mix with “the world.” And isn't it this sense of rightness — righteousness, purity — that feeds violence? Don't we believe that God loves the righteous more?