Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land

by Ruth Everhart

  Station II: “Jesus Carries the Cross”

  The second stop is another chapel in the same courtyard. JoAnne does the reading from Mark 15, where the people shout, “Crucify him!” As she reads, a calico cat wanders through our group, mewling hungrily. We offer prayers for those who victimize others, or who are victimized, and acknowledge our own tendency to be indifferent to suffering.

  Station III: “Jesus Falls for the First Time”

  By now the narrow streets are getting noisy. Metal gates squeal as they are unlocked and lifted by shopkeepers. The reading is from Psalm 69:1-2, which is about the deep waters coming up around the neck. This station is extra-biblical because Scripture has no account of Jesus falling. I feel curious about where these traditions come from and what they mean to people. I don’t doubt that ancient pilgrims traveling this Via Dolorosa experienced drama and poignancy that we, technology-soaked as we are, fail to appreciate. We offer prayers for those who are weak, or in pain, or experiencing failure.

  Station IV: “Jesus Meets His Mother”

  This station is also extra-biblical because there is no account of Jesus interacting with Mary at this point. Yet something similar must have happened. The reading is Lamentations 1:12: “See if there is any sorrow like my sorrow.” We read a litany using the words of Simeon about a sword piercing Mary’s heart. I suddenly realize that my Protestant distance from Mary has protected me from entering the pain she felt as a mother. Even now I am resistant to bridging that distance. I don’t want to approach the reality that sometimes a child dies before the parent — the thought is too distressing. An incoherent prayer wraps around my heart: Lord, my daughters!

  As the group reads a printed prayer together, a young boy, maybe seven years old, walks by, sobbing. He sounds absolutely lost and brushes past us, oblivious in his need. Our prayer is for mothers, fathers, children, and those who are lost. At this point Kyle is carrying the cross, and as we pray, a woman wearing a hijab walks up and spits on his shoe. He jumps, and so do I. But then I see our group through her eyes — so many foreigners parading around with enormous crosses — and wonder that we haven’t been spit on before now.

  Station V: “Simon of Cyrene Helps to Carry Jesus’ Cross”

  The foot traffic is picking up considerably. The next reading is just one verse, Mark 15:21, about Simon of Cyrene. We read a litany that adds a little flesh to those bare bones. Our prayer is for foreigners and those pressed into service. As we pray, a Coptic priest comes by. His hat, of black felt wool, is a solemn circle atop a face nearly obscured by a bushy gray beard. He wears long black robes which swing as he strides. He’s obviously in a hurry, but stops to make the sign of the cross over the cross we’re carrying. I feel a stranger’s curiosity about him and his gesture, but also a surprising solidarity with this believer in an odd hat.

  Station VI: “Veronica Wipes Jesus’ Face”

  There is no room to stand because all the shops are opening, so we shuffle about as Michael does the reading, which is from Isaiah 53:4: “Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases.” I’m relieved that I wasn’t assigned a reading at one of the extra-biblical stations. This station about Veronica feels especially problematic because I can think only about the creation of a cloth, a relic, rather than an actual historic moment. Yet the prayers we offer are for those who have the eyes to see the image of God in others, and this prayer moves me: it is something I struggle to do.

  Station VII: “Jesus Falls for the Second Time”

  We pass people who are arguing loudly in the street. They are accustomed to seeing groups of pilgrims and pay us no mind. Someone reads Psalm 38:10-11, about strength failing, and I can hardly hear because so many schoolchildren in uniforms and backpacks are streaming by. We offer prayers for mercy, but they are drowned out by the roar of a diesel engine. A tractor-type vehicle is pulling a green cart. Between the tractor and the cart, a man balances on the wobbly hitch while smoking a cigarette — as if this were an easy thing to do. He and I look each other in the eye, and I would laugh if it weren’t such a solemn journey, this Via Dolorosa.

  Station VIII: “Jesus Rebukes the Daughters of Jerusalem”

  The reading is Luke 23:28, where Jesus says, “Do not weep for me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.” I can barely focus on the reading and the prayers because a group of pilgrims comes up behind us, then passes through the middle of us. As they pass, someone snaps a flash picture of me because I’m standing beside the plaque marking the station. I blink, and just then two beefy men pass, each one stopping to cross himself before the plaque. The prayers we offer emphasize penitence, and I contemplate what penitence means here and now: what I am sorry for, what the beefy men might be remorseful about, what decisions and indecisions all of us humans regret. Our group moves on, passing a place where a swastika is deeply etched in the stone of the wall. I’ve heard that the swastika, the broken cross, is an ancient symbol for peace which the Nazis appropriated. If that’s true, it seems a perfect symbol for this penitential spot on the Via Dolorosa.

  Station IX: “Jesus Falls for the Third Time”

  We come out onto the roof of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Below us is the bedrock of Golgotha, below that the Stone of Anointing, below that the tomb of Jesus. Above us the sky is bright blue with an almost-full moon still visible. The reading is from Psalm 88, which says that the psalmist’s life is at the brink of the grave. The prayers are for those who despair — and those who minister to those who despair. I remember again that the main job of ministers is to be “purveyors of hope,” or else we have nothing to offer, nothing at all.

  Station X: “Jesus Is Stripped of His Garments”

  This station is very close to the previous one. It is 7:30 now, and the bells of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre begin to ring. We can’t ignore them because they are very close to us. Each stroke is a triplet, and the ringing lasts a full two minutes. When it’s done, the reading resumes, from John 19:24, about the dividing of Jesus’ garments. As we pray, the organ from inside the church begins to play. I’m not sure exactly where the organ is, but our feet seem to reverberate with its sound, which accompanies our prayers for those who are stripped of their dignity.

  Station XI: “Jesus Is Nailed to the Cross”

  We hear a brief reading (Luke 23:40-43) about the thief on the cross. We use a litany that repeats the phrase “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom,” which I found so moving just yesterday. But why does the name of this station not mention the thief on the cross? His interactions with Jesus are a vital part of the scriptural story, so why are they given such short shrift? It becomes challenging to concentrate on what’s happening because a man comes through a door and begins to fill buckets with water from a hose. The sound of the running water continues throughout our prayers, and he shuts it off just as we finish reading. Then he picks up the two heavy buckets and grunts as he carries them back through the doorway.

  Station XII: “Jesus Dies on the Cross”

  It’s my turn to read, so I hand my water bottle to Kyle to free my hands. I read from John 19, where Jesus says, “I thirst.” Out of the corner of my eye I notice Kyle screw the top off my water bottle and take a long drink. I swallow a smile. Kyle is always serious when I’m hungry or tired, and playful when I’m serious. Our prayer is for those who are dying, and for those who minister to the dying. The prayer ends as they all have ended: “Save us and help us, we humbly beseech you, O Lord.”

  Station XIII: “Jesus Is Given to His Mother”

  We go into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and pass through a small chapel that is full of icons of Mary. An elderly dark-skinned man in long, black Ethiopian robes leans on a cane and watches us go by. We pass through another chapel and into a different courtyard, then go back inside another section of the church. We are at the bedrock of Golgotha. We pause for a moment, then continue on to the chapel beneath that one, where the bedrock has been split. As we gather tightl
y in that small space, the organ begins to play — very loudly and triumphantly. The reading is from John 19: Joseph of Arimathea takes the body of Jesus. Our prayer includes, “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death.” I have heard that prayer used in movies, but have never uttered it myself. Until now.

  Station XIV: “Jesus Is Laid in the Tomb”

  Marty does the reading from Matthew 27 about putting Jesus’ body in the tomb which has been hewn from rock. We pray together: “We see you condemned, we see you stripped, we see you nailed, we see you crucified, we see you buried. Lord Jesus Christ, we come to the empty tomb. And we see our own sin, we see our own tomb, we see our own death, we see our own vacuum.” As we read these words, the organ music begins to play again, and I sense that the Spirit of God is filling the church. For the briefest of moments, I glimpse the future reality of my own death, a void into which peace descends. As soon as I think the word “peace,” the feeling flees. Perhaps my own mortality is not something I am ready to make peace with, except in the most glancing of ways.

  Station XV: “Christ Is Risen. Alleluia!”

  For the final station, we move to the top of the passage that leads down to the Armenian chapel. This is where Crusader crosses line the walls, testimony to the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who have been here before us. It suddenly strikes me that the cross-carvers were probably men. Weren’t most of the Crusaders men? Yet I belong here too. I am as full of folly as any Crusader, as full of hope as any pilgrim. Charlie does the reading from John 20, where Mary Magdalene encounters Jesus outside the tomb and thinks he is the gardener. How I love the fact that Jesus appeared to a woman first, and what’s more, to a woman blinded by grief. Of course she had trouble opening her tear-filled eyes. Don’t we all? Yet her momentary blindness opens the story to me, a woman who has also been blinded by grief at times, a woman who wants desperately to see the risen Jesus.

  Our litany and prayer are victorious: “Do not dwell on your wounds, for he has risen to heal you! Alleluia!”

  The stations are done.

  As the Alleluia fades away, I turn the last page of our booklet, unready to be finished. After the ups and downs of this Via Dolorosa, the finale feels anti-climactic. I had imagined a more majestic setting for the resurrection story, perhaps a prominence overlooking the city, or rugged rock cliffs outlining the brow of a hill. Instead, we are in the bowels of a church. I feel like we’ve been assembling a jigsaw puzzle and have discovered we’re missing the final pieces, right in the center. Perhaps this is why it’s called the Via Dolorosa, rather than the Via Resurrection. This way of sorrows is the one we recognize. We can enter the resurrection only by faith — not by sight or experience.

  I feel a certain relief as we leave the stone enclosure of the church and emerge into the hot, dusty air. Merchants bustle around their just-opened shops; tourists converse in a cacophony of languages; men stride past in religious garb. I imagine Jesus on the streets of Jerusalem two millennia ago. He is a rabbi, a healer, a prophet. He is a beaten man carrying a cross. He is the resurrected Lord. I blink in the blinding sun. I believe that Jesus is the Savior of the world. In the bustle of this Jerusalem street, perhaps that means more than I’d realized.

  The Muslim Quarter, Old Jerusalem

  CHAPTER 20

  Infidel!

  I will not let you go unless you bless me.

  GENESIS 32:26

  AFTER WE FINISH the Stations of the Cross, the whole group heads across the Old City toward the Jewish Quarter, where a few sacred sites are clustered together: the Upper Room, David’s Tomb, and the Dormition of Mary.

  As we walk, I think about what I’ll say at my final interview, which will be filmed tonight. Brian has asked us to choose a central Scripture passage to sum up this pilgrimage. It’s more than daunting. I want to say something worthy, even profound. Something that fits in a sound bite but doesn’t sound like a sound bite.

  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 e
ven 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.”