An Appetite for Adventure

Disclaimer: This is a long one.

Bright and shiny and on a bus to Jerusalem. Since Shirley just did all the tourist trips with another visiting friend, I opted to go with a tour company to see the center of the Christian and Jewish worlds. We began the day at the Mount of Olives, greeted by a stunning panorama of the hilly city, the capital of Israel. In the distance rose the golden dome on the site of the Second Temple and the gray cupolas of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, built atop the supposed site of Jesus’s crucifixion, burial and resurrection.

A huge Jewish cemetery rolls down the slopes of the Mount and into the valley. According to the Torah, the dead will be resurrected from here when the Messiah comes. The Garden of Gethsemane abuts the cemetery. Here, Jesus suffered in anguish as he learned his fate, that he must die for the suns of the world. Gazing out over all this holy history, I began to get a little choked up. Despite 13 years of Catholic schooling (or perhaps because of it), I am agnostic. Religion plays a very small if nonexistent role in my life. However, the spirituality and importance of standing in the epicenter of so many faiths and so much history was exhilarating, moving and a bit overwhelming. I experienced this same feeling throughout my day in Jerusalem.

After a quick encounter with a camel, we headed into the City of David, pulling over for David’s tomb. The structure was built during the Crusades, like much of Jerusalem, then repurposed as a mosque when the Ottomans took the city. This story repeats everywhere in Jerusalem, as the city fell to various rules. David’s tomb — probably not originally on this site — is a simple room with a velvet cover draping the monument. The ultra-Orthodox contingent that has increasingly influenced the city recently succeeded in segregating the viewing area by sex. Above David’s tomb, we entered the room of the Last Supper. Again, this room is more of a commemorative spot, as it, too, was built by the crusaders. Since Islam reveres both David and Jesus as prophets, this site remained intact during their room and Arabic stained glass windows throw a soft blue light into the simple stone room.

Next up was the Old City, home to many of Jerusalem’s most sacred sites. We wandered through the Gate of Zion and into the cobblestone streets hemmed in by golden stone walls. We came upon ruins of the Carpo, the main street in Roman Jerusalem, then the remainders of the old city way. Jerusalem is a “tel” (yep, like Tel Aviv), meaning an artificial hill. The various invaders razed the city and rebuilt on top of the ashes and rubble, leaving a modern city a layer cake of conquerers and history. When the Romans invaded the city, they seized much of the gold and silver the city had accumulated, which they then used to rebuild Rome after Nero’s sacking. My trip came mindblowingly full circle when the guide revealed that the treasure stolen from Jerusalem paid for Rome’s most famous monuments, such as the Coliseum, one of the first things I saw on this trip.

Three quarters comprise the Old City, the Muslim, the Christian and the Jewish. It’s amazing to see these three rather contentious faiths share the same streets as they move in and out of their designated areas. However, this same sharing of space is what has lead to many of the problems that have plagued the city over its lifetime. Hustling through the bazaars with no time to stop, we arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher.

The site on which this church is built is the entire Christian world’s raison d’être. As such, many differing denominations must uncomfortably come together in an unprecedented sharing arrangement where by they each occupy their own space within the hallowed halls. The building itself is rather unassuming, the current version stemming from the Crusade period. It was first established by Helena, mother of Constantine. On a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, she claimed to have found the true cross on this site, and asked Constantine to commission a church (which he did; can’t turn down Mom!). The church actually lies outside the old walls of Jerusalem, as executions were not allowed within city limits.

Upon entering visitors encounter a sacred scene of pilgrims kneeling over a long pink marble stone, rubbing their hands, small papers and pre-made kits of holy water, sand, salt and earth on the stone. This stone is said to be the place where Jesus’s body was laid after he was taken down from the cross. I ascended a few stairs and found myself in Golgotha (also known as Calgary), the supposed site of Jesus’ crucifixion. The word “Golgotha” means skull, referring to the shape of the rock near the crucifixion location. The Catholics have a chapel on the spot where Jesus was nailed to the cross and the Greek Orthodox Church holds court over the spot of the actual crucifixion. There was that momentous feeling again. An Orthodox priest shuffled in, gesturing disapprovingly to women who were showing their knees or shoulders. One woman was even chided for the amount of cleavage she revealed. People crawled into the small space below the Orthodox altar to kiss the icon painting of Jesus on the spot where he gave his life for humankind’s sins.

Crossing to the other end of the church, the guide showed us some small caves, some of the evidence used to decide this as the probable place of Jesus’s interment. The site was a former quarry, and the caves were a result of mining in the area. In the next room, in the middle of a great hall rose a smaller structure, like a modular chapel. This marked the site of Jesus’s burial and resurrection. Coptics (Christians from Egypt) and Orthodox shared this chapel space. Midway between where Jesus died and where he rose lies the center of the Christian world.

Next up, we visited the Catholic’s corner, administered by the Franciscans, were I learned more about Catholic symbolism in 5 minutes than I can recall from all my years of schooling. We descended into the only part of the church left from the 3rd and 4th centuries when it was first built, which is now an Armenian chapel. Armenian chapels are easy to spot because pointed peaks can be found everywhere, representing the mountain in Armenian where Noah’s ark landed after the floods.

The final spot we saw in the church was the crack in Golgotha from which Jesus’s blood dripped down onto the bones of Adam, washing the world of its sins. Before leaving, as a tribute to my more observant relatives, I too kneeled before the stone slab, saying a prayer for them, for my friend’s mother that recently passed away and for all my family no longer living, then rubbed a small note over it for my great aunt, Coci.

We spent the next half hour at a tour “recommended” gift shop obviously in bed with the tour company. I knew it was bad news when I was about to purchase a gold cross for a family member only to be told the price was marked in dollars not shekels. Talk about rip off. Again, we maneuvered through the bazaar and down part of the Via Dolorosa, marked by the stations of the cross. This is the path Jesus walked, dragging his cross all the way to his death.

We came to a security checkpoint and I realized we were at the Western Wall. The wall marks the retaining wall for the hill on which King Solomon’s Temple stood, Actually, it was the second temple as the first was destroyed. Because Jews consider the site ultra sacred and one should not trod upon it and no one knows for sure the actual boundaries of the temple, this retainer wall marks the closest one can get to God’s house. A more practical consideration is that the actual hill lies in Muslim territory and is not open to non-Muslims.

Orthodox Jews swayed in prayer and everyone stood with bowed heads. Once again, the praying area was divided by sex. I approached the wall and contemplated the importance of this holy site. I stepped up to the wall, reached out, and said my own prayer. Small strips of paper poked out of the cracks, prayers scrawled and left to hopefully be answered. Visitors are not supposed to turn away from the wall until a reasonable distance away, and in observance, I slowly stepped backwards and rejoined our group.

Lunch sucked, but I knew it would since it was a tour. I have never understood why tours can’t just make arrangements with decent, local establishments. The first restaurant was closed, so we ate at our final stop, Yad Vashem. With nothing edible and lunch soon closing, some smiling and begging led to a big, freshly fried plate of fries, the only thing I ate all day. And, of course, a Fanta.

When I first read we’d be visiting Yad Vashem, I was a bit disappointed. I definitely understand the massive connection between Israel and the Holocaust, but I have been to many Holocaust museums and memorials and assumed this was like any other. Boy, was I wrong. The museum was incredibly informative and very moving. Thoughtful and somber memorials to the victims dot a tranquil park filled with trees dedicated to the murdered. Particularly heart-wrenching and amazingly beautiful was the Children’s Memorial. Five candles flicker in a room lined with hundreds of mirrors, repeating the dancing flames like infinite stars, recalling the 1.6 million children killed by the Nazis. I fought back tears as I tiptoed through the darkened room, listening to the names and ages of the victims read over a quiet, mournful song. I have never witnessed a more appropriate memorial.

Emotionally and physically drained, we went back to Tel Aviv. Shirley and I went to a cafe to use the internet and have some food and turned in early.

[08.06.24] Jerusalem