Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land (7 page)

The Muslim Quarter feels like poverty.

We walk without direction, and the heat rises as we go. The camera follows us, sneaks up on us, zooms ahead to catch us
from the front. I am hot, and the strap of my bag, heavy with two water bottles, tugs on my sweating shoulder.

We wander until we stumble across the Monastery of the Flagellation. The name makes me wince, even though we can see a lovely garden with blooming plants. We go through a gate into a courtyard. A plaque says that this is the first stop on the Via Dolorosa. A man approaches us, saying hello in different languages in rapid sequence. He is young and fit, with short, dark hair, dressed in a close-fitting T-shirt and jeans, a thick chain swinging from his back pocket. His English sounds British, which may explain the punk look.

“My name is Michael,” he says. “I can be your guide for the day.”

“Is your name really Michael?” Brian asks.

“I say ‘Michael' to the tourists.” He lights a cigarette. “I'm Tercier.”

“Where are you from, Tercier?” asks Jessica. She has the most engaging way of addressing people, that genteel Southern quality.

“I was born in Bethlehem to Muslim parents.” He drops the sentence like a stone in water and turns his head away as if he doesn't care how it ripples. I wonder how many times a day he says this to Christian pilgrims.

“You were raised Muslim?” Jessica asks. “What do you believe now?”

I wonder if Jessica always goes straight to the religious point, or if this is the effect of last night's lecture. Maybe it's just the air in this Holy Land.

Tercier spits out his reply: “I am an atheist! I believe in nothing!” The group takes a collective step backward at his intensity. “How can I believe in God when I live here? Religion is good for nothing but hatred.” He drags deeply on his cigarette. His expression changes, softens. “Tell me. Do you believe in Jesus?”

“Yes,” Jessica says, and the rest of us nod and murmur.

“Then why hasn't he come back?” Tercier shifts back on his boot heel, raises an eyebrow.

“It isn't time,” Jessica says evenly. “He'll come when it's time.”

Tercier is not impressed. “Here is a joke told me by my
grandmother: ‘Why hasn't Jesus come back?' ” He pauses and stabs the air with his cigarette. “ ‘He has. He's in the West Bank and can't get a permit.' ” He laughs mirthlessly at this punch line.

Before we walk away, Jessica thanks Tercier for his time. Shane mutters under his breath. I myself cannot condemn the man's atheism. It's more logical than belief, especially in this place that has been decimated by belief. Belief has a shadow side. That shadow grows out-sized in some places. For the first time, it occurs to me that my belief in God is perhaps an indulgence, something I'm free to allow myself because of my sheltered circumstances. I want to go back to Tercier and ask him something, even though I don't know what. I finish off my first water bottle as I try to frame the question. I'm still thirsty.

We continue on, stopping at a tiny shop so Shane can buy some groceries. He doesn't like the food served at the college and wants to buy peanut butter and crackers. From the conversation I realize that he has eaten almost nothing since we got here.

The shop is crammed with merchandise. Bins hold packaged groceries or small toys. Buckets contain loose herbs. Carved wooden statues line one wall, and cheap necklaces hang from a display. A rack of colorful fabric catches my eye. On one side hang bras and panties, on the other side headscarves. Do Muslim women come in to purchase undergarments, then choose a matching
hijab
? The male shopkeeper, dressed in a linen robe and red-checked headscarf, notices me eyeing the underwear. He pulls down a fuchsia bra and thrusts it at me, leering. I pretend that I don't understand his intention.

Fortunately, Shane has found the peanut butter and is asking about crackers. The shopkeeper speaks good English. When he finds out that we're all Christian ministers, he tells us he is Muslim. He says, “We all worship the same God. We are all brothers and sisters.” He speaks about the floods in the United States, referring to the big hurricane, Katrina, which must have affected some of his distant family members. He doesn't use the word “refugee,” yet conveys that notion. He has sympathy, yes. “Flood is God's judgment,” he says with great conviction.

“What do you mean by that?” Brian asks. John moves in closer, video camera on shoulder. The shopkeeper notices the camera and says nothing more.

When we leave, I wonder what the shopkeeper will say in Arabic to his friends after the camera is gone. Whether Christian or Muslim, a theology of divine retribution is unacceptable to me. I dig out my second water bottle and drink most of it.

We continue walking aimlessly. The streets have become crowded and the cooking odors intense. Every so often a boy passes, swinging a sort of pendulum plank suspended from three chains. The plank holds small cups of Turkish coffee and a bowl of sugar cubes. The coffee looks black and scalding; I feel like snatching a cup each time one passes. From time to time Brian and John stop and consult their map. We are looking for a certain place, it seems, although I hardly pay attention. I just follow when they move on.

It's well past noon before we stop for lunch. We have wandered through a maze of streets to arrive at an Austrian hospice, a place of hospitality. “The food is good here,” John assures us. At this point I would eat anything. I would drink anything.

We go up stone steps into a multistory building. There's a sign pointing to a café, but we turn toward a chapel first. It is small and beautiful, with richly colored paintings all around and ornamentation on every inch. What hidden beauty! I can only kneel at the prayer rail and feast my eyes. I bypass the painted crowds of saints with their halos and go straight to the Latin words that arc over their heads. Syllable by syllable, I parse:
All people everywhere praise God. All people in heaven everywhere praise.

To my own astonishment, I start weeping. I'm grateful that John turns off the camera, and when he does, I weep harder. I'm tired and thirsty and feeling both the pain and the beauty of this place. The faces of the atheist Tercier and the Muslim shopkeeper are clearer before me than these beautifully painted saints. How crazy this place is, how perverted by religion! Yet we are commanded: All people everywhere praise God.

I do. I praise God. But how can all people everywhere praise God when we cannot agree on who God is? What if one person's notion of God is so offensive that it keeps another person from believing? What we are clearly commanded to do seems impossible. Impossible. In my mind I have come to the end of what is possible. And I have been in Jerusalem only a few hours. Some pilgrim I am.

When I finish crying, I'm alone. I find a restroom. It has luxurious cool-water taps, and I wash my face, which is blotchy from heat and tears. To think I put on makeup this morning and worried about looking good for the camera. I find my way to the café, where the group has ordered lunch. I pull out a chair and listen to Shane and Jessica discuss doctrine. I try to understand what their differences are and why they matter, but can't. The waiter brings the first course: a little plate of hummus, a basket of pita, a small bowl of diced cucumbers and tomatoes. I scoop up hummus and listen to Jessica and Shane with one ear.

John turns on the camera to catch the conversation, so I move to stay out of the picture frame. Shouts drift in from the street. The smell of hot oil mixes with the pungency of saffron. At the next table a group of tourists sits down with mugs of beer. I lick my lips and look away from their sweating glasses. I can't suggest drinking beer in the middle of the day, can I? What would Jessica and Shane think? Although, really, it's past two o'clock. I'd love to take the edge off. There is too much passion in this place.

We don't last long after lunch. To leave the Old City, we must pass again through the Damascus Gate. Foot traffic has increased greatly. What was a lazy passageway this morning is now like the D.C. Beltway with more people coming in than going out. Worse, there are no lanes, no vehicles, no rules. Just bodies. The throng squeezes like two opposing ropes running both ways through a pulley. I see John hold the camera high over his head, pointed down at the mass of people. I want to see that footage because I can hardly believe what we are about to do.

I deliberately wedge myself between two people heading out. It works. I get carried away, literally — my feet inches off the
ground. A person going in the opposite direction gets wedged against my other side, pushing against my pull. Picture it. The full length of my body is pressed against three strangers, each speaking a language I can't comprehend and going a different direction. Is this an ecstasy of oneness with the universe, or a terrifying intrusion into my personal space?

On the other side of the gate I feel like a collie who needs to shake her coat. We regroup and make sure we still have our bags.
Poor crackers,
I think, seeing Shane's smashed backpack. We walk back to Saint George's College, up Salahadeen Street, which pulses with vehicles.

We pass flocks of girls who appear to be in school uniform on this Saturday: navy V-neck jumpers with dropped waists and pleated skirts, worn over pink shirts and long pants, closed shoes. Each head is covered with a white or pink headscarf. So many clothes in such heat! The girls hold hands or link arms, three or four abreast. They speak to each other with lowered heads and giggles. Groups of young men stand around, watching them pass.

A woman in Western dress brushes past me, her cell phone ringing. Among other words, I hear “Mama” in an inflection that is irritated, affectionate, and pleading, all at the same time. I can't decipher what language she's speaking, but I know I've overheard the universal conversation between mother and daughter. My own two daughters seem far away, and I miss them with a physical pain in my chest. For the remainder of the walk I pray fervently for their well-being, and for my husband. I am not only a pilgrim; I am a mother and a wife.

In the late afternoon, all the small groups return to the lecture hall to report on their adventures. The stories range widely. After dinner the whole group has a vespers service. Ashley leads, exuding energy in an unexpected way. The group is middle-aged to elderly, and it's the end of a long day; yet Ashley leads with zest and elicits responses: God is great! All the time!

Later, as we're getting ready for bed, JoAnne comments that the service seemed charismatic and asks if that's typical of Presbyterians.

“What do you mean, ‘charismatic'?” To me that word implies gifts of the Spirit and speaking in tongues.

JoAnne thinks for a moment. “It demanded something I was unwilling to give.”

I think of how often that has happened already on this pilgrimage.

Saint George's Cathedral, Jerusalem

CHAPTER 6

Compelled

As a captive to the Spirit, I am on my way to Jerusalem, not knowing what will happen to me there.

A
CTS 20:22

O
N
S
UNDAY MORNING
our documentary group attends worship at Saint George's Cathedral, which is located beside our dorm. The congregation of some thirty-five souls is spread over the large space. They are mainly older women, and are very welcoming. The cathedral isn't terribly grand, as cathedrals go. But it is made of stone, with arched pillars separating the side aisles, and hung all around with colorful banners.

The sermon, “Dimensions of Love,” is on Ephesians 3:16-21, the passage that says we are rooted and grounded in love. The bulletin is in English, but when the minister preaches, he does so in Arabic. I put my journal away, since I can't take notes. After ten minutes or so, I sit up straight at the sound of English. He has begun again, preaching in English this time. I pull out my journal, thinking how hospitable it is for him to do this for us.

The preacher talks of rooting and grounding in terms of four dimensions — height, depth, breadth, and width. These are the dimensions of eternity and also the dimensions of the cross. This makes the sign of the cross the sign of perfection and eternity. I roll that around in my head, trying to hear it as God's word to me today, instead of potential sermon material.

The priest tells a story about a desert monk who was persecuted for making the sign of the cross. When asked to speak at the table before a meal, he cleverly made the sign of the cross by gesturing to various dishes as he praised them. So in his own way, without directly speaking the words of prayer, he blessed the food. The priest ties this story to the incarnation of Jesus Christ. Perhaps there is something of a translation barrier, but I feel like I'm groping around the edges of a new understanding about God's love, which could be enfleshed, literally, in the dishes on the table. Can Christ's presence be covert?