Stephen says that each Gospel writer used a particular lens for Jesus, a way of answering Jesus’ foundational question: Who do you say that I am? Stephen uses his sternest voice: “As we travel this Holy Week path, we must keep this question in the front of our minds. It is the essential question to the Palm Sunday story — and to every story this week. Who did the crowds think Jesus was? When we say ‘Messiah,’ what does that mean? A teacher to set them loose from religious law? A healer to cure their diseases? A liberator to free them from Roman rule?”
Someone reads aloud Mark’s version of the Palm Sunday story (Mark 11:1-10). It is brief and familiar. The jubilant crowd waves palm branches as Jesus rides into Jerusalem on a donkey. They shout, “Hosanna! Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord!” The simple story rings with innocent joy. Because of that, church leaders often delegate it to the children. Many times I have led little ones waving palm branches while the congregation sings “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.”
I say to Ashley, “Have you led palm processionals?”
“Oh, brother,” she answers. “How do you stop the kids from hitting each other with the branches?”
“I know it!”
“I guess it’s human nature to turn holy things into weapons,” she says. “But still.”
Stephen is saying something about the chapel. “There’s a fence around a stone that the Crusaders revered as the stone Jesus used to mount the donkey. Remember that riding a donkey is a sign of peace. Conquering war heroes rode horses.”
The architecture of the chapel is simple enough: a rectangle constructed of stone. What’s complicated are the interior frescoes, all life-sized. High on the front wall, Jesus rides a brown donkey while the people lay down colorful cloaks and green palm branches with contagious energy. On the other three walls, the figures waving palm branches are in less dramatic, sepia tones. I study individuals as though I’m people-watching in downtown D.C., noting this woman’s expression, that man’s head garb, this child’s uncovered toes, that baby in a bundle. In one place in the fresco there’s an opening that seems intentional, and I realize that this is where I can insert myself. I’m grateful to the artist. I want to slip into the adoring crowd. My pilgrim heart is full of devotion for this Jesus of Nazareth, the one I’ve been chasing for days. The one who’s been chasing me for years.
“Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna!”
We fill the pews to sing a few verses of “All Glory, Laud, and Honor.” I don’t have to worry about children fiddling with their palm branches inappropriately. Instead, with my eyes on Jesus, I can become one of the children — wrapped in a second innocence. I sit down to write a prayer:
Dear Lord, I come to you as a child. I dedicate myself to you, even though I know what lies ahead, as those children did not. I will be tested. But I adore you and never mean to stop. Amen.
When the hymn is done, people wander off to examine the frescoes. Charlie, Jessica, and another pilgrim begin to sing “The Lord’s Prayer,” and I join them. We loop our arms across each other’s shoulders, our heads together in a tight square. The acoustics are perfect; the sound rebounds just enough to gain depth. The words of the song — “Our Father” — are something we can each sing with complete abandon. Some other hymn, some other praise song, might reveal our theological differences, our various answers to Jesus’ question: Who do you say that I am? But for this moment, as our voices blend and ascend from within the walls of this sanctuary, our prayer is as unified and fragrant as incense.
The group gathers and walks up the long, sloping path of the Mount of Olives. There are two churches between this chapel at Bethphage and the Garden of Gethsemane, both rather recently built. The first is a small chapel called Dominus Flevit, and the second is the much larger Church of All Nations.
We gather outside Dominus Flevit (Latin for “the Lord wept”). Stephen has someone read Matthew 23:37: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!” Jesus spoke these emotional words while standing in this spot overlooking Jerusalem, knowing that his death was inevitable. The chapel was built here to honor those poignant words, words that drip with sorrow. Jesus knew that the powers that occupied Jerusalem did not welcome him, either the Roman political power represented by Herod or the Jewish religious power represented by the Sanhedrin.
“Some interpret these words of Jesus as judgment,” Stephen says. “You must decide that for yourself. What I can tell you for sure is that this chapel was built in the shape of a teardrop.”
Then Stephen talks about tears. He reminds us that Scripture explicitly says that Jesus wept before he raised Lazarus from the dead. There is no parallel verse in Scripture saying that Jesus laughed, although we assume he did. When he wept, Jesus broke the cultural taboo against weeping.
“What freedom this gives us — what permission to cry!” Stephen leans forward. “Tears are central to the human story. Everybody is born crying. This life is a ‘vale of tears,’ and when we die, others weep for us.”
I look at my feet as he talks. My own cheeks are once again wet with tears. You’d hardly think that could happen in the dry air of this Holy Land, but I’ve had wet cheeks every day of this pilgrimage. At first I thought my tears were evidence of my unworthiness, but now I’ve come to see them differently. They evidence my passion as I wrestle with the Spirit, attempting to let myself be broken open.
As the days of this pilgrimage pass, I’m identifying with Jacob, the grandson of Abraham who wrestled with an angel at a place called Peniel (Gen. 32:24-32). Jacob had had a falling-out with his brother Esau and was now on the cusp of reunion; he was terrified it wouldn’t go well. As Jacob spent the night alone, a stranger showed up at his camp, and the two men wrestled all night long. Not knowing who the stranger was, Jacob demanded a blessing from him. The man did so, but not before wrenching Jacob’s hip out of its socket. I suppose Jacob walked with a limp for a long time, a reminder of the tussle.
Stephen is saying more about tears — how they cleanse, how they bring redemption, how they make us whole. It is all so true, so evident in this setting where both glory and unrest rage. As the apostle Paul says, “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling” (Phil. 2:12).
“We’ll go inside now,” Stephen tells us. “You’ll see the window that frames a view of the Old City. Jesus cried over Jerusalem, and don’t we understand why! There is no peace here. Even now. This city needs a prophet for peace!” Stephen’s great passion for this place — and for peace — is obvious. “We can only look forward to the New Jerusalem,” he says, “where every tear will be wiped away.”
Our pilgrim group solemnly enters Dominus Flevit. Because it’s configured in the shape of a teardrop, the chapel has a tall, curved exterior and a small, circular interior. The only ornamentation is the panoramic window, which overlooks Jerusalem. The glinting gold of the Dome of the Rock caps the scene.
Was it just one week ago that we toured the Temple Mount and I pondered whether my heart was sin-cere? That question has aged; the answer has deepened in the intervening days. I’m seeing that my vocation as a religious leader has formed a kind of cover over my spiritual life. I have given my whole heart to ministry. But have I given my whole heart to God? They are different things.
Framing the panoramic window is a black iron grille that superimposes a communion chalice over Jerusalem, as if the city itself is being lifted up for blessing. How fitting. Jesus was willing to be lifted up in sacrifice as a blessing on all humanity, including the very people and place that would kill him. The image helps me connect ideas that have hung in the background of this pilgrimage: blessing and judgment. I’ve had such naïve notions of these things, thinking of them as opposites: Blessing is positive, and judgment — in the sense that it’s a euphemism for condemnation — is negative. If God bles
ses us, then we win the lottery, or at least live cancer-free, and end up in heaven. If God judges us, then we flounder to pay our rent, or contract a disease, and end up in eternal torment.
But Jesus’ tears over Jerusalem hold blessing and judgment together. He wants to bless, but instead must judge the corruption he sees. Both words, “blessing” and “judgment,” describe the dynamic between God and humans. Instead of being opposites, blessing and judgment are inside out from each other. Each is pushing us closer to truth, closer to God. The purpose of divine blessing is to lead the blessed one toward God’s presence, toward growth and peace. The purpose of divine judgment is to lead the judged one toward God’s presence, toward repentance and renewal.
Jesus is judging Jerusalem with his words, but not because he seeks its destruction; rather, he judges it to provide an opportunity for change. I can only imagine what grief he felt as he looked at Jerusalem. How his heart must have broken over this city. I am an alien here — let’s be honest — and yet this city and its lack of peace fill me with sorrow. Jesus spent three years of his life teaching these people, healing them, telling them about the kingdom. For what? He had to wonder.
As a religious leader, I know how crushing it is to cast a vision and wonder if it ever catches. I’ve poured my heart into my work only, at times, to fail — at least in my own mind. But I don’t mean to compare myself to Jesus. My vision for ministry, my hopes, my investment in results — these are all twisted around my personality. My tears easily become self-centered rather than holy.
But Jesus was radically different. Not only the manner of his death but his whole life was a sacrifice. Perhaps these days of pilgrimage, following Jesus from Bethlehem to Nazareth to Jerusalem, have given me new eyes. Did Jesus have to be born at all, laid beside a teenaged mother in a rock manger? Did he have to spend long days repeating his message about the kingdom, only to be misunderstood and ignored? Did he have to spend himself curing broken people? Did he have to be hungry and tired with no place to lay his head? Of course not. So why did he do it? Why did he suffer all the frailties of flesh, of emotion, of broken hopes?
The panorama of the ancient city gives weighted meaning to Jesus’ words. “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it!” These are reprimand, but aren’t they also lament? And a lament is like singing the blues. You don’t bother to sing them unless you believe something better is coming. A lament assumes that God is still present.
Timing is the problem, of course. We don’t know when lament will become joy. When Jesus was here, he didn’t know, either — not if we take his humanity seriously. When will the blues become a happy tune? Scripture gives us pieces of the vision: The world will be peaceful and just, and the lion will lie down with the lamb. All families will live in their own homes, underneath their own vines and fig trees, drawing water from their own wells (Micah 4:3-4; Isaiah 65:20-25). This will be the kingdom of God. This is what we’re waiting for. “Thy kingdom come,” we pray.
The kingdom will come in God’s time, which is not time at all, but eternity. The great eternity will be ushered in by the Blessed One, who comes in the name of the Lord. We will wave palm branches once again for Jesus, the Lord of time. Meanwhile, we are trapped in time, in a world creaking under divine judgment, a world aching for blessing. Yet blessing hovers at the edges because God is present.
As we sit in the Dominus Flevit chapel, someone begins to sing “Jesus, Remember Me.” It’s a Taize chant that repeats the words of the thief on the cross: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom” (Luke 23:42). The rest of us take up the melody, repeating the words until it’s time for us to get up and leave, to make way for other pilgrims.
We leave the chapel that is shaped like a tear and walk a short way to the Garden of Gethsemane, where Jesus prayed and wept again. The ground is dusty in this garden. Gnarled olive trees are roped off. It’s said that the roots of these ancient trees go back two thousand years, to the time of Jesus. Olive trees can live a long time, and these have been well-tended. We go as close as we can to look at the great knobby roots. We pass two enormous round stones, one lying flat and the other upright, propped against it. Both stones are as wide across as a person and as thick as a mattress.
Kyle comments, “The word ‘gethsemane’ is Hebrew for olive press.” I imagine the crushing weight of the stone, the friction of grinding until the olives give up their oil, their golden life-blood.
There is one more church to visit on this hill overlooking Jerusalem: the Church of All Nations (sometimes called the Church of the Rock of the Agony). It’s a large, modern church with windows of purple glass. Inside, the colored light tinges the air with sorrow. Up front is the rock where Jesus prayed on the night that he wrestled in prayer. “Father, if you are willing, remove this cup from me; yet, not my will but yours be done” (Luke 22:42). This is the spot where Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. I want to go up to the rock and kiss it. I feel a mother’s urge to kiss away pain, a lover’s urge to show passion, a pilgrim’s urge to express devotion.
But I can’t get closer to the rock because a Catholic group is celebrating the Eucharist. The priest is ornately robed in red vestments that drip with solemnity. The Catholic tradition knows how to commemorate Jesus as a man of sorrows, which I respect. There are times when we need a crucifix rather than an empty cross, when we feel alone in grief and need to remember that Jesus, too, was a body acquainted with sorrow. I think about my own lifetime of tears, not to dwell on them but to multiply them by every human who has ever lived. What a flood of tears! For the first time I realize how Jesus stood in that flood like a rock, how the river of tears broke around him.
Jesus was no stranger to pain. He showed us how to pray through pain, trusting in God during the most desperate moments. This is what prayer is for. Prayer is not for asking God for new toys, or fine weather, or a winning game. Prayer is for pouring out our heart and having our hope restored.
The people are singing the “Hosanna” now. I think of the questions I’ve wrestled with on this pilgrimage, questions I haven’t yet wrestled to the ground. Why must we travel through places of pain? Although I can’t say I have the answer, the question no longer seems pressing. I’m beginning to understand that pain is part of the human experience, part of the price we pay for being created in the image of God with the ability to choose, in a world where other people make choices, too.
The red-robed priest lifts up the host. This act no longer reminds me of the differences between Catholic and Protestant, but of Jesus’ willingness to pay even this price for us: before even the Crucifixion, he paid the price of incarnation, of entering a broken world where every choice will somehow lead to pain.
The Via Dolorosa, Old Jerusalem
CHAPTER 19
The Stations of the Cross
I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.
REVELATION 21:2
IT’S PITCH-BLACK WHEN the travel alarm goes off. I groan. “Here’s another reason Presbyterians don’t do the Stations of the Cross,” I say to JoAnne in the darkness. “It’s too dang early.”
“Wanna skip it?” she asks.
“Don’t tempt me!”
“Get thee behind me, Satan?” JoAnne replies. “Or is that what Charlie would say?”
We both laugh, which helps us get out of bed.
The fact is that no Holy Land pilgrimage would be complete without walking the Stations of the Cross along the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Sorrows. This is the route Jesus walked from his condemnation to his crucifixion. For thousands of years, believers have been retracing these steps and reading Scripture along the way, at various “stations.” Does it matter if it’s the exact route Jesus took or if every station is in the biblical account? This is a time-honored tradition. If I managed the rest of it — kneeling, lighting candles, praying at rocks — certainly I can manage to walk a pilgrim path
through the streets of Jerusalem.
All forty of us leave Saint George’s in the early morning stillness, walking two abreast in silence. We each carry a book with readings, litanies, and hymns. The pilgrim at the front of the procession carries a wooden cross, about four feet tall. Another pilgrim carries a second cross of similar size about halfway down the line. We were given the opportunity to sign up to carry one of the crosses, and we will take turns.
I overhear Jessica ask Brian in a hushed voice, “Should we wait for Shane? I don’t see him.”
“He’s not coming,” Brian answers.
“Is he sick?” Jessica’s voice is full of concern.
“He’s fine. He’d just rather do this by himself, later.”
“But he’s okay?”
“He just doesn’t like all this non-biblical stuff,” Brian says. “No problem.”
Station I: “Jesus Is Condemned to Death”
As we arrive at the first station in the courtyard at the Monastery of the Flagellation, a cock crows, breaking the silence that has hung over our group for the entire thirty-minute walk. Ten days ago, in this same courtyard full of beautiful blooming flowers, a few of us had met Tercier, the atheist who said it was impossible to believe in God in the Holy Land because religion is just an excuse for hatred. I remember his outrage as I stand in the same spot and listen to the reading from Mark 14, where Jesus is brought before the religious authorities. The high priest asks Jesus, “Are you the Messiah, the son of the Blessed One?” Jesus answers, “I am,” and is condemned for blasphemy. We offer prayers of confession for our own tendencies to judge. We also pray for all those involved in the legal process and those imprisoned.
Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land Page 14
