Faith Works 3-31-18

Faith Works 3-31-18

Jeff Gill

 

Seeing and hearing, a story

___

 

She almost bolted out of the dark interior of the church into the bright sunlight of Jerusalem.

 

Inside, the crowds and the turmoil had been enough to throw her off, but the tour guide had taken them to the tomb first, then to the Golgotha chapel, which confused her. The guide did his best to help orient everyone in this ancient building, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, explaining how the original stone quarry had been reshaped and built over, across seventeen centuries, including the place of Jesus' crucifixion, and the location of his now empty tomb, but the lamps and candles and icons and incense . . . it was all too much for her.

 

Other tour groups crowded in on every side, a chorus of guides speaking at once, in different languages, and when she heard their guide tell everyone that they had free time to wait in line to enter the "Edicule," the chapel built around Christ's tomb at the heart of the church, but that it would be a two hour wait, she turned and went back out the main, ancient doors and into the courtyard.

 

This was not what she was hoping for, what she'd expected when she signed up for a tour of the Holy Land. There had been wonderful experiences so far, and she wasn't regretting being there for a minute, but this stop on their week long program had thrown her for a loop. She was thinking about Easters past back home, the flowers and morning light and stillness only broken by organ music and hymns, and this was . . . something different. Too different. She couldn't keep the cross, or Jesus, foremost in her thoughts.

 

They were to head back out the Jaffa Gate, and west to their hotel for lunch in two and a half hours. She could tell the tour guide had seen her look on tourist faces before, and he quickly agreed to let her leave, after a few questions confirmed for him she could make her way back on her own.

 

Even the courtyard, about the size of her backyard at home, was crowded. She worked her way through the entering pilgrims, heading back to the main point of entry to the church. A turn, a couple more blocks, and blessedly, the Old City opened up and there was even something resembling a small park in front of her. An open bench sat in the sun like an invitation.

 

Looking around, there were low ruined walls, a sign saying something about a "muristan," and the closest thing to green growing plants she'd seen in some time. The sound of the guides in the echoing hollow spaces of the church were gone, and there was a bit of wind blowing through the tiles and towers around.

 

Then she saw the cat. It was sitting on a stretch of wall off to one side of her, paws tucked together beneath, but one in the cat's mouth, then curling up behind an ear, pulling it forward and around, again and again.

 

The cat grooming itself suddenly took her to a different place. She was at home, but not at home. Her cat back in Ohio, cats anywhere, a cat in this place two thousand years ago, would have groomed themselves in just the same self-possessed, repetitive way. Past and present felt closer together, and she to that past represented by the city, the streets, and that busy bustling too crowded church. And then she heard the name of Jesus.

 

It was "Jesus," and "sepulcher," with German accents, in the midst of more she couldn't quite make out, but they had come out of the Lutheran church across the way, and were walking as a group without a tour guide, heading exactly away from the street which would take them to the ancient church, the traditional place of crucifixion and resurrection. And then they came to halt all together, just in front of her, pointing all the wrong way, an apparent leader of sorts squinting at a map.

 

She summoned up her courage, and her one year of high school German, and stood up. "Gehen kirche Sepulcher?"

"Ja?" replied the woman with the map.

 

With a muddle of "Ich spreche ein sehr bisschen Deutsch" and "rechts, zwei . . . blocks? Then rechts nochmal?" the light dawned, fingers pointed at the map, and the group turned in the correct direction with a flurry of "danke! Danke fraulein!" over their shoulders.

 

She sat back down, and smiled. She had pointed them in the right direction. Towards Jesus.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your trips to disorienting places where the familiar can still show up at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.