The Journey into Jerusalem

It was just after dark when our group arrived from Tel Aviv, where we landed, to Jerusalem, a bit under an hour's bus drive away. Although we had begun our journey on Friday afternoon, it was already Saturday evening, as we had catapulted ten hours into the future by virtue of the spinning of the earth and a fourteen hour trip.

I could see nothing of the surroundings, but only of the highway that led to our first lodging, a Leonardo Hotel (there are several).

My initial impression as we drove in the darkness was that I could be in Los Angeles. Underpasses were of the same type of concrete, and the highway signs were green. But for the fact that the exits were labelled in Hebrew, Arabic, then English, it would not have seemed any different than a night drive at home.

The hotel, though, was bustling, and clearly with tourists from every place in the globe, along with locals.

Breakfast and dinner were included in our package. Once relieved of our luggage, the group met, for the first time, in the large buffet room. We were known henceforth as "Fr. Francis' Group". Fr. Francis Benedict from Saint Andrew's Abbey was our spiritual guide for the pilgrimage. All of us had some connection, tenuous to substantial, with the Abbey, located in the Mojave Desert in California, which sponsored the trip.

A few people already knew one another, but most of us were strangers. That would change quickly. By the second or third day, new friends had been made. We were all from middle age to new seniors of the 60 something range, and one, who was eighty. Everyone was eager. Father had been to the Holy Land before; many had not; a bit more than half of the travelers were married couples. The balance of us were single travelers, some married, whose spouses had not joined, and the rest of us never married. After a sumptuous buffet--every meal was sumptuous--of brightly colored Mediterranean food--we met briefly with our Dream Vacation planner, Mark Furlan, who had joined us for this tour, for brief instructions about our first full day,.  We would begin our Pilgrimage on the Feast of Christ the King. For me, it was also an occasion of solemn memory, the forty-fourth anniversary of my mother's death. Her remaining sister specifically asked that I light a candle in my mother's memory. I would have done so in any case, but my aunt had given me a mission I would not fail.  Except for one trip to Canada, to Montreal, nine months before I was born, my mother had never left the Bronx in her short lifetime. I think she would have been pleased to know that I was in this amazing historical, mystical place and remembered her there.

The wake up call would be early, six thirty, and breakfast at seven and on our bus, at eight. This "I am not a morning person" was going to have to adapt. I am pleased to say that I not only adapted, but usually had my phone alarm wake me a half hour earlier, at six, every day. I didn't want to chance missing anything, especially the bus! And so, there was I was ready for our bus, among many buses, the next morning.

This trip was not to be merely a vacation, but, a spiritual journey.  We were none of us, "holy rollers" talking only about God in every moment, but we all came with a prayerful purpose, some more overtly perhaps than I, but all of us needing to touch our faith in a way that could only be done in that place, in Israel. And so, this morning, as we would do each morning, there was a prayer on the bus to start us off.

There has always been a bit of a sense of the surreal when I have taken my few large trips to places where history is extensive, Italy, England and now, looming larger than both of those in my imagination, Israel. The idea of moving to another state had never occurred to m as a child.The idea of seeing the places where people lived thousands of years ago certainly did not. These were places I expected I would only read about, never see or touch or hear. And as I have probably written in other entries, the idea of doing something considered "exotic", across any ocean, was thought a bit, how shall I say it, unnecessary. I never really understood that, but it seemed an inexorable reality, even a mandate. Every place, other than where I was, was somehow too dangerous to traverse, as if one could be safe in one's own neighborhood more than anywhere else. My father had "traveled", involuntarily, during World War Two, to Italy, to North Africa. He considered that sufficient, though he was a man of several languages in his youth, a voracious reader and prolific writer such that his reluctance to see the world after the war, seemed incongruous. If he were alive (he'd be over 100 now) he would have discouraged this trip as too unsafe, what with the age old and extant conflicts. I might well have acceded to his warnings, given my independent anxieties, reluctance to fly nervousness about an historically unsettled locale.

But as our bus approached the Old City of Jerusalem (and remember that with the various conquerors and warring parties what we see isn't entirely what was there when Christ walked; there are literally layers of architecture and artifacts), I felt not exactly a chill, but a tingling of anticipation, of  finally connecting imagination to reality.


                                       

Above is "Herod's Gate", also known as the "Flower Gate" because of the flower adornment.

And this Old Jerusalem is no ghostly relic, for it is active inside. People live and work inside this ancient place.

As you probably already know, the Old City is split into different quarters, the Armenian, the Jewish, the Christian, and the Muslim. As you walk through the uneven cobblestone streets, it all seems a unity, but of course, the one reality about Israel from time immemorial, and the Middle East itself, is that there is an undercurrent of tension. But the residents make the best of it, and many get along, despite the historical divisions. I realize that it may well be that I was in the bosom of a tour, but I did not feel unsafe in the Old City, nor anywhere else. What did our dear guide Doron say? It was something along the lines that the biggest danger of the trip was eating too much. I am not naive. I know that there are real conflicts in this nation, and they are long standing, but, if I had not taken this trip, I would have missed a life enhancing experience.  

We walked the ancient streets (ancient being one level of peoples after another, the Jews, the Romans, the Byzantines, the, well, you name it, many peoples have passed through and claimed the country itself as their own), and did some of the Stations of the Via Dolorosa on our way to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.

 Someone's terrace. Pretty.

Of a sudden, as we walked, as businesses were bustling, and tourists and Pilgrims were gazing at stores and locales, a man walked toward us. He was alone, carrying a substantial sized Cross. His face was a study in, I wasn't sure what-- perhaps a resoluteness. This was Sunday. Perhaps this was his weekly ritual, to traverse the cobblestones that Christ did, when He was teaching, and when He was condemned, quite literally following in His footsteps. No one, even in our group, seemed to notice this man. We passed one another in silence.

A Man carries his cross

Walking through the City with Doron, our knowledgeable guide.

Ultimately, we came to the Church itself, surrounding the Traditional site of where Jesus Christ was crucified, buried and was Resurrected.  

The Entrance 

The Outside of Calvary.

The site is presently inside the Old City, but at the time of the Crucifixion, it was outside. The walls of the present city were built by Suleiman the Magnificent of the Ottoman Empire well after the events of Calvary.  As in all things related to the story of the salvation of the world, the situation within is complicated. The control of the holy site is shared among Catholics, the Greek Orthodox (the Coptics, Syrian and Ethiopian have use of the Church as well) and Armenian Orthodox. I have read and been told that the intensity of religious fervor has been known to lead to fistfights among the custodians. As we waited to visit the Tomb, and wended our way around the Edicule (which houses the Tomb), there was a small chapel filled with long taper candles and people lighting them. Clearly these were regulars and they were not particularly patient with us Pilgrims. We were shoved out of the way by a number of urgent visitors to that space, not much bigger than a medium sized closet. That was as intense, happily, for those of us standing in line for a chance to glimpse the Tomb. 

I suppose "glimpse" is the best word to describe seeing where (since at least the 2nd or 3rd century) it is reputed (and based on Tradition and Archeology I believe) that Christ died and was buried, and of course, rose. Although at the time we were at the site, it was less crowded than in the summer months, still it was crowded enough and those who handled the line were insistent on moving us along (I remember the first time I saw the Pieta at the World's Fair in 1965 in New York; the people mover did not give much time to appreciate one of the most famous statues of the world). I have come to seen, since my return, that the "glimpses" required consideration and meditation, and my sense of them has expanded. But at the time, it was quick, and overwhelming.

We came to Calvary. Oh, it surely cannot look, does not look as it did 2000 years ago. You had to, I had to imagine from the dimensions of the place, the physical signs, like the steep marble steps covering what was once a likely even more steep hill to Golgotha. I took a poor picture of those steps because there were so many people around me, so I offer this photo from the net, unencumbered by the multitude of people. I can tell you that when we climbed them, I could sense, just a little, the labor of a person being forced to walk up the stone filled mound with a Cross beam on His shoulder. 

And then up the stairs there was a room, filled with paintings of scenes from the Passion, and over to the left, a huge Crucifix over an altar, and under that altar a space, all above off white rocks. It took a while to comprehend that this was the space, the Place. I was a little distracted by everything else around me and the line ahead of me, each representing an individual who would go under the altar and acknowledge the Person, and the Place of sacrifice.

 A painting on the way.

In order to get to the actual space, you have to go under the altar upon which this Crucifix is affixed. I had come, not only to touch the space, but also to touch a few items to it, one at a request of a friend, and since I was there, a rosary I treasure and use, and some medals I wear of Saints I look to as models of the faith. I wouldn't take a picture at that space, not only because others were behind me, but because well, the events surrounding it were so momentous, it seemed disrespectful. It wasn't much time at all, and it is hard to be contemplative in so small a space. But I was there. I would, I know, consider the passing moment for the rest of my life. And so it was.

There were two other places of veneration; the first is the stone upon which it is said Our Lord was prepared for burial. There were many people surrounding it, and I did not want to intrude on them, and in any case, if memory serves, we were going to be having our first Mass in the Holy Land in one of the Chapels of the Church. I actually have had to go to the web to figure out which Chapel it was, there being several. It was, I have ascertained, the Chapel of the Crusaders. Here is the information provided by the Franciscan Custodians on their site.

Chapel of the Crusaders

Repaired following the archaeological excavations and the restoration of the Franciscan monastery, the Chapel of the Crusaders is an imposing Constantine structure covered by a segmental vault built during the restoration carried out by Modestus.
The chapel, formed by a large hall connected to a room reduced in size by a wall separating the properties of the Franciscans from those of the Greeks, formed part of the vast residential complex of the Constantinian Patriarch. It was connected to a courtyard through a series of doors.
The area, unknown until 1719, was initially used as a storeroom and, after its restoration, as a chapel for celebrating Holy Masses for groups of pilgrims.
A door at the rear of the hall leads to one of the numerous cisterns carved out of the rock and used for storing rainwater.

The smaller room that today is the site of the altar was formerly part of a larger space, where archaeological excavations have uncovered remains of equipment for pressing grapes and olives connected to tanks in which the squeezed products were collected and stored. The wine and oil produced were necessary both for the liturgy within the large Constantinian complex, and for the well-being of the clergy.

I can only tell you what I felt there. Safe. At peace. Astounded to be inside this Holy Place. As Mass proceeded, the birds in an adjacent alley space were chirping feverishly. The bells of the Church or a Church nearby tolled. I was in the front pew in gratitude as Fr. Benedict and Deacon Serj (his wife, Alice, was the reader that day) celebrated. 

Then, there was the Tomb. There was a line to enter the the burial space of Our Lord, which is contained within a structure, called an Edicule. First, here is a picture that I took.

I couldn't, naturally, get a 360 degree picture, so I have resorted to the Irish Times and their picture which gives a nice sense of the location. 




Photo from the "Irish Times"

Above the Edicule

Above the Edicule

We had to circle it in our wait, passing that tiny Coptic space with all the people lighting candles (which happens all over the Church). This is the area that was recently restored, and reopened in 2017, and had previously in fact been in danger of collapse.  So, using the picture from the Irish Times, we began on the left hand side of the Edicule, went around the back where that little Coptic candle section was, and then around to the front. 

Here is a link to National Geographic on the work that was done. 

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/photography/proof/2016/11/oded-balilty-qa/

We arrived at the entrance to find a very irritable man in charge. Only four people could bend and enter and the custodian of the location was not allowing much time for viewing, or praying. If I had any disappointment with the trip, this would be it, the reality of tourism in these Holy Spaces. But then again, even in a minute amount of time, there was something undeniable. Or Someone. I was fortunate as I was the first in of my foursome, which brought me against the stone of the back inside of the Edicule facing as I knelt (there was no room to do otherwise) the Tomb, the top layer of which I could touch. I am only considering now what I saw, and I am only feeling now, what I saw. No pictures were allowed, though I hear people take them surreptitiously. I am glad, again, I did not. This was a time to be humbled.  The next picture is also from the Irish Times before the surface slab was replaced on the one you can see here. Still, you can see the essence of the place as I experienced it. And because I was the first in, I was the last out and had more seconds to spend which were a treasure. 

And, I did get to light that candle in memory of my mother, third one from the left.  

And so, this was our first full day. I was exhausted after it, but full of wonder. I am exhausted after writing about it, and excerpting some photos. But I feel the wonder again.