Thursday, July 12, 2012

Finding God in the holyland


Jerusalem-  Disneyland for the religious!  I’m sure those men in larges hats would consider that comment sacrilege, but humor is the only coping mechanism I seem to have left. Journal entry, April 8, 2011

It’s 8:45 on a Sunday morning.  I’m holding my son’s hand firmly against my flowered-skirt as I make my way through the quiet alleyways of Jerusalem’s old city.   The emptiness disorientates me.  I’m used to bodies pressing me up against the cheap tourist wares that lean like lopsided turrets into my path.  This morning I am accompanied only by the sound of my heels clicking against the granite cobblestones and the soles of my son’s sneakers squeaking rapidly to keep up with me.

I’m lost and I’m late.  Nothing annoys me more.  Especially on a day when I have set out to find the answer to a very pressing question, “Who is God?”

I see a sign perched high on a corner building that reads, “Holy Sepulcher” with an arrow pointing to the left.  Under my breath I mutter, “Ok, if I can make it there, I can make it anywhere.”   I mean this in the physical sense.  I already know that the strange edifice, where men dressed in robes of varied styles, fighting over lighting a candle, feels oddly void of God.  I would not succeed in finding my answer there.

My son is panting, “What did you say, Mom?” 

If I admit to him that I’m lost, endless questions will ensue.  “Nothing!  Just stay with me.  I don’t want to be late.”

The spring air is still cool, but I am beginning to sweat.  I come around a narrow, 90 degree corner and stop suddenly in my tracks.  In front of me is a black metal-gated entrance with a white oval sign on top that reads, “The Mosque of Omar.”  I consciously take a breath and a slow smile spreads across my face.  My son’s feet are still moving past me, but he stumbles as his hand trails behind, still pressed into my skirt.  He looks at my face, “What Mom?  Are you lost?”

“No, honey, look, the sign!  What does it say?”

I gaze at his eyes as he first reads the English lettering and then the Arabic script.  

He swings his face around, his black olive eyes sparkling, “Coooool.  My own mosque, the mosque of Omar!”  He does this funny 8 year old dance with his hips and arms moving in opposite directions.

He stops moving for a second.  He’s confused.  He tries to remain polite as he asks, “Wait a minute.  Is this the church you’re taking me to?”  

I laugh, “No, silly, it’s a mosque!  I’d let you go in and pray, even though we’re late, but its closed.  Let’s get a quick picture of you in front of it!” I snap the picture, grab his hand and rush him on in our winding journey.
I don’t think many come to Jerusalem to find their faith.  I guess all those religious pilgrims are much more confident than I am in their beliefs and they come simply seeking confirmation of them.  I wonder if they find it here.

Jerusalem, the city of peace also known as Al Quds, the Holy place, has already taught me all I needed to know about religion. I learned that religion is something that people use as a divisive force to grab lands and build walls and make frightening threats.  I learned that religion is simply a belief system that people use to justify inhumane acts against others.  I learned that religion is a set of rituals that people became dependent on so that they never have to look into their own hearts to find forgiveness.   I learned that religion is a required box on the Israeli visa application form and, for it to be approved, I had to lie and write “Christian” next to my son’s name.  Israeli authorities do not allow a mother and her child to be of different religious affiliations.  

We pass into the courtyard of the Holy Sepulcher where a group of Philippine women in white hats hold identical prayer books in their hands.  I don’t stop, and rush to the exit passage opposite from where we’ve entered.    We stumble into the square of my chosen destination.  Churches of varied colors, sizes and contours crowd the square.  Confusion returns. 

I am searching for the church which holds the English Congregation of the Lutheran Church.  Friends of all religious persuasions recommended this church to me when I’d tell them, “I’ve decided not to worry about my spiritual life until after the age of 40.  Then, maybe I’ll go and find a religious community.”   I knew I’d have a lot to be grateful for when I made it past 40.   And, based on my own Catholic upbringing, I had too many questions which lead to a general skepticism of anybody who clung fiercely to a religion.   

I set out for the most formidable structure in the square with a towering, dark wood door.  I smell incense and hear Russian.  I chuckle.   This daybreak expedition is truly beginning to resemble a religious pilgrimage.  I proceed to the church on the opposite corner with an equally large door, this one colored a golden oak.  The sign says it is the Lutheran congregation, but I hear Arabic.  A man hidden in the shadows of the door appears, and points a thumb in the direction of a glass door.  I trust that he knows what I am searching for.

Friends reassured me that this Lutheran church in the old city feed would feed my spiritual need to understand the world and my place it.   An added bonus is that it was so welcoming and accepting of all backgrounds that it would allow me to introduce my son to Christianity; not to convert him, but ironically to help him understand why I found my own religious roots just as confusing as Islam and Judaism.

Through the glass door, we enter an inner courtyard filled with palm trees.  My son’s hand now sweating in mine, I lead him towards the sound of a piano into a small, simple chapel with high, stained-glass windows.  The eastern sun is pouring through, casting a spectrum of blues and reds onto the white linen covering the stone altar.  As we take our seat on a wooden bench mid-way from the altar, a cascade of church bells rises up from the outside. I am a few months shy of my 40th birthday that morning.  

I participate in the initial rituals of the service with slight hesitation.  Some of the rituals seem so different than Catholic ones.  I take my seat for the sermon, knowing that this is the moment of the service where I might expect my question to be answered.

The American Pastor of the English Lutheran congregation, Pastor Fred, delivers simple but enthralling sermons.   He mixes the street scenes of biblical and modern Jerusalem to help his audience understand the timelessness of human experience, often interspersing it with historical facts that help convey the larger context in which the bible’s authors lived. 

Sitting in my seat, I am instantly engaged, imagining the apostles on the Mount of Olives hillside outside the door.   I’m still skeptical, however, if I’ve found what I’m searching for.   And then, quite suddenly near the end of the sermon, standing tall near the baptismal font in front of the altar, Pastor Fred delivers the answer to my question.  

“Our life is filled with experiences that turn our beliefs on their heads and that make us search.  And we become confused.  Who is God?  The simple answer, God is the one who allows us to be confused, who says, ‘It’s ok not to understand me,’  who says, ‘You don’t have to understand me  to believe’ who says, ‘look in your heart and there you will find my voice.’”  

My jaw gapes opens. My question has been answered as if on cue.  I glance upward, smirking.  I mumble, “Thanks.”  My son squeezes my hand and I look down at him. I give him a kiss on the crown of his head and mumble another “Thanks.”  

No comments: