Walking inside the walls of the Jerusalem you are greeted with an overwhelming sense of history. Jerusalem, the capital of ancient Israel, stand as one of the most important cities in the entire world; however, its importance comes not from man but by God. It is “the city the LORD had chosen…in which to put his Name.” (1 Kings 14:21). It is clear upon entering this great city that it occupies a primary place in God’s work on earth today. Six different groups claim it as a holy site and all of them seek to ultimately control both its politics and its geography. For example, The Dome on the Rock, a Muslim holy site, sits on the Temple Mount where Solomon’s Temple once stood. The very wall that supports the Muslim’s holy ground is venerated by the Jews as daily its priests and rabbis come to pray at what has become known as the Wailing (Western) Wall.
However, regardless of the internal struggles of the religious groups there is still a sensation that I felt while walking through the city. The Via Dolorosa, while albeit is covered in commercial trade, remains a moving spiritual experience. The narrow streets and rugged terrain transports you to an ancient time, a dark time when the Lord struggled to bear his cross on streets such as these. At the same time, this is the city where the early church was born. The Holy Spirit descended on the disciples here (Acts 2), Peter and the other apostles preached at the Temple (Acts 3), Stephen was martyred here in Jerusalem
(Acts 7), The first church council convened in this city (Acts 15) and Paul walked these streets (Acts 21; 23). All of these thoughts linger in my mind as I walk through the ancient walled capital of Christianity. As I make my way to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the traditional place of Christ’s crucifixion, I am greeted by the reminder that dark heart of man will always seek to replace the true worship of God. In other words, the heart of man will venerate the wrong thing in an attempt to come close to God.
This was immediately pictured for me as I walked in the church doors. The Church of the Holy Sepulcher is a Catholic Church that was built over both the site of the cross and tomb of Christ. Embedded in the floor of the church is said to contain the actual stone slab where the body of Jesus was prepared for burial. The faithful line up to kneel, kiss and rub the stone. The sad reality is that the stone is marble. Marble was not indigenes to the area during the time of Christ. Also, the church has had to replace the stone on at least three occasions because it was worn away from daily rubbing by thousands of people. I desperately wanted to remind those seeking to draw close to Christ, those kneeling around a false stone, that he is not here – he is risen!
That reality returns again and again to my mind as I walk from holy site to holy site, each with a church or shrine built over and around it. As badly as the human heart seeks to know God it will equally seek its on method to achieving that knowledge. Jerome Murphy-O’Connor captures my feelings. He writes,
“One expects the central shrine of Christendom to stand out in majestic isolation, but anonymous buildings cling to it like barnacles. One looks for luminous light, but it is dark and cramped. One hopes for peace, but the ear is assailed by a cacophony of warring chants. One desires holiness, only to encounter a jealous possessiveness: the six groups of occupants – Latin Catholics, Greek Orthodox, Armenians, Syrians, Copts, Ethiopians – watch one another suspiciously for any infringement of rights. The frailty of humanity is nowhere more apparent than here; it epitomizes the human condition. The empty who come to be filled will leave desolate; those who permit the church to question them may begin to understand why hundred of thousands thought it worthwhile to risk death or slavery in order to pray here.” (The Holy Land, new ed., pg. 49)
For those on the trip and others who will hear the stories… let’s just say I’ve had a series of spills and fumbles. I have scars to serve as reminders of where I have been…from falling while descending the tall, magnificent Masada, to cutting my foot on the heavy salts of the Dead Sea and finally clumsily stumbling down the Southern Steps. I would have attached pictures of my battle scars, but trust me in saying…. You wouldn’t want to see them.
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