JERUSALEM
A DAY OF RETREAT
Omar had arranged a very full schedule for me for my
twelve days in the holy land. I was so busy that I hardly
experienced any jetlag.
But by the end of the first week, I decided that I needed
a day of quiet, walking alone through the Old City of
Jerusalem.
I had hoped to get into Jerusalem early enough in the
morning to visit the Harim al Sharif, the Noble
Sanctuary, the site of the Dome of the Rock, the Temple
Mount. However, I left Bethlehem late and managed to get
lost in the Old City. So when I arrived at the entrance,
it was about to be closed to non-Muslims.
So I proceeded to walk down the Kidron Valley and up the
Mount of Olives to the Church of the Pater Noster on the
summit. This is supposedly the site where Jesus often
went with his disciples, where he taught them the
Lord’s Prayer, and shared with them the discourses
in Matthew 24 –25.
The church has the Lord’s Prayer in more than 100
languages on plaques on the walls of the grounds. I
stopped and prayed in several languages. I made an effort
to read the prayer in Nahuatl, the language of many
Central Americans, as I remembered their suffering. I
finally stopped in the little chapel on the site and sang
the Lord’s Prayer in Latin.
“Your will be done” echoed in my heart.
On the Way of
the Cross
in the Old City of Jerusalem
THE VIA
DOLOROSA
I
proceeded down the Mount of Olives to visit and pray
again in the Church of the Agony and in the Tomb of the
Virgin.
After a short payer in both places, I hurried to the
Western Wall since the access to the Dome of the Rock
would be open for an hour. I walked around and marveled
at the beauty of the mosque with its exterior mosaic
walls. The mosque is only open to Muslims.
I left the area by the exit near the Lions Gate and
proceeded to walk the stations of the cross.
As I walked I saw some children in the Muslim Quarter
playing; other children were just getting out of school,
carrying their book bags on their back.
At one point I came across twenty or so Israeli soldiers,
young men and women, filing out of a house and filling
the street. They looked like new recruits, yet each one
carried a rifle.
As I stopped and prayed at the stations, vendors invited
me in to their stores and men offered to guide me to the
holy sites. I turned down their offers – wanting
the silence.
On the route of the first stations the streets are not
very narrow and are open to the sky. But as I approached
the seventh station the streets narrowed. Shops with
everything from backlava to clothing to souvenirs crowded
the street.
Praying at the little chapel of the fifth station, Simon
helps Jesus carry the cross, I thought of my call to help
carry the cross of the suffering people of the world.
But it was in the street, by the eighth station that I
felt the weight of the cross – the pain and
suffering of so many people. At the eighth station Jesus
met the women of Jerusalem who are weeping. Jesus told
them to weep, not for him but for themselves and for
their children. I was again near tears, having witnessed
not only the sufferings of Jesus but of the people of
this blessed land.
As I approached the church of the Holy Sepulcher I
realized that Christ went to his death not on a special
day – but in the midst of a city that was bustling
with people. And it is here that the crucified Jesus
suffers still.
HE IS
RISEN: HE IS NOT HERE
I ended the stations by entering the church of the Holy
Sepulcher, mounting steps to Calvary, praying there, and
kissing the spot of the crucifixion under the altar. I
descended the steps and went to the tomb.
When I entered the Holy Sepulcher itself there were two
people there already praying. A Catholic nun was praying
silently and soon left. An old woman, in black, was
praying with all her being. She crossed herself numerous
times as she bowed, prostrated herself, and kissed the
floor – all the time praying quietly, with deep
devotion.
I prayed in silence, recognizing the importance of this
holy place, grateful to be there. But one phrase of
scripture echoed through me: “He is risen; he is
not here.”
He is not here! The risen Christ doesn’t want me to
stay. He sends me forth. I have a mission.
* * *
* * * *
THROUGH THE
VALLEY OF FIRE
Not every day was full of intense visits to holy places
or sights of injustice. One day Omar and I went to
Jericho and the Dead Sea.
We visited a sight of beautiful mosaics in Jericho and
then went and floated in the Dead Sea.
But the journey back was one of the most memorable and
moving. Our taxi driver let us off in East Jerusalem in a
street jammed with taxis and small busses. We found a
small bus which let us off in another neighborhood
– Abu Dis.
There we stood for a while, waiting for a shared taxi or
bus for the trip to Bethlehem. Many working men was
arriving and departing, or standing around looking for a
bus or taxi home. Down the street to the west loomed the
Separation Wall. At one point Omar took off and we ran
toward a bus and jumped on. It was full of people,
reminding me of busses in El Salvador.
We passed by the Al Quds University where students jumped
on the bus. As we stopped waiting for them to board, I
caught a glimpse of the wall, going on for miles in the
valley below.
The sun was setting and we had to go through a
checkpoint, but the bus wasn't stopped. Then we went over
these winding back roads, up and down the sides of the
Judean countryside. I imagine the roads were as narrow as
the mountain roads in Guatemala.
But despite the poverty and the crowdedness and the
danger, I felt more at home there than in the busses in
Israel. Here were the poor, the working people, whom God
loves so much.