The sun rose unobtrusively that still morning, like a child sneaking
quietly into a place they don’t belong. Silently, his warmth spread
over the dust-colored sky and lit the grey deserts the splendorous
color of gold. My eyes, though heavy with sleep, tried desperately to
soak in every passing landmark, every name of every city. The sighing
of the bus lulled us, tempting me to catch a few more moments of rest
before the full day ahead. Despite my over-zealous love of sleep, this
dawning day was not one of which I was willing to miss a single second.
Today, we were going to Jerusalem.
Ahead of me, Jodi, Marissa, Patch, and Caroline shared bagels that we bought at our bus change in Beersheba. Beside me, Dan kindly offered me one of his earphones, and we listened to songs about the Risen Savior as we plunged farther and farther into the morning, purposing to see the exact geographic location where He died.
Needless to say, I expected it to be a day I would remember, for the rest of my life.
I expected to see things that would give me pictures of the Bible in a brand new way, that would change my faith, that would give me a fresh perspective on everything. As Dan and I listened to song after song, a beautiful chorus echoed the words, “Jesus is alive.” I viewed the misty morning with misty eyes as we pulled into the city limits, an inexpressible joy filling my chest and spilling over into every part of my body. Rolling into the city where Jesus died, I thanked God that death couldn’t hold Him, and that now and forevermore, JESUS IS ALIVE!
Once we arrived, Caroline led us across Jerusalem on foot. Despite almost getting hit by a few buses, plus Patch and Dan wowing the Jewish masses with their impressive skills in Extreme Walking, the sport of which they are co-founders, the walk went as normal walks should. It ceased to be normal when we rounded a corner and saw the Mount of Olives splayed against the fresh blueness of the early A.M. sky, the unmistakable glow of gold filling the air as The Dome of the Rock seemed to cast a look of warranted disdain over all other buildings surrounding it.
All day long I would struggle with the reality of being here. Ever since I was aware of God, ever since I understood the significance of having my name written in the front page of my little blue Bible where Jesus sat serenly beneath a tree holding little children, I learned about what happened here. Jesus rode these streets on a humble donkey while the children cried “Hosanna!”, waving palm branches and the people welcomed Him as the chosen one. In a week’s time, according to the capricious nature of humanity and the fickle way of man, the same exalters became mockers, filled with a desire to see their self-proclaimed ‘king’ nailed to a tree, bleeding rivers of blood until He gasped the trecherous breath that would fill His body with life no longer.
And still, here, in this town whose streets my sandals now scrape, every unattainable glimpse of celestial power would invade earth and every cry of the universe groaning in expectation would collide. Every beggar’s cry for liberation and the wail of every widow who ever cried out for justice would converge. Here, every hatred, every malicious intent, every speck of godlessness, every smashed dream, every ravaged soul, every sin that had ever writhed in violence and raped the plan of God would be confronted, and here, in this city whose breath now fills me, every one would be eternally, irrevocably defeated for all of Heaven, Hell and earth to see. Here, in this place whose walls now see my tears, borne of the deepest emotions I could never possibly name, every detail of the universe aligned and Heaven rescued earth.
In some ways, Jerusalem seemed like a mythical land, an Atlantis, a place people never actually got to see. Despite all the reasons why my life shouldn’t be chosen as one of the few to walk these streets, I could barely find words of thanks. This would be the theme of my day: Silence of the mouth, wordlessness of the soul, and stirring of the Spirit in the most overwhelmingly powerful way I have ever experienced.
The first speechlessness would be experienced at Gethsemane. As I sat, facing the rows of ancient Olive Trees, the same ones that stand as living witnesses of what happened here so long ago, I found myself at a loss for words. I felt totally quieted and calmed amidst the throngs of people. I watched silently as people, from all nations, entered the garden. I saw the bug-eyed ackowledgements of German, Korean, Japanese, American, British, and Spanish peoples as they walked through. Many seemed to be at a loss of words, many seemed to be too busy taking pictures to actually be where they were, many seemed too busy with their conversations to notice where they were. Affluence and prestige were exhibited in the flashes of cameras far too expensive for most of the world to afford, blackberries were pulled out and facebook statuses changed to alert every person in their life of the place they were standing. I watched it all, wordlessly.
However, as I was processing everything, a new thing happened. A group of pilgrims from Nigeria entered the garden, and when they did, I couldn’t help but take notice. Just as I was wondering if any of the other toursists actually saw the garden between their cell phones, their cameras, and their conversations, I wondered if the Nigerians actually saw it, but for a totally different reason.
I noticed that, as they walked, they did so with broken sandals. I noticed that although they were obviously wearing their best in anticipation of the holiness they would find, their clothing was worn and weathered. I noticed that all they had between the twenty members of their group was a single dated camera, shared by every person in the rare instance that someone stopped worshipping long enough to take their picture upon the rock where Jesus prayed. They had come a very long way, overcome many perils of travel, and had very little, but in the place where Jesus gave His will, where tourists gave cell phone snapshots to their friends via twitter, these people gave Jesus their widow’s mite, and I’ll never forget the beauty of it as long as I live.
