Glory Ho

Due to some botch in planning, and despite enough churches to lift entire town at least a few kilometers closer to heaven, there was no Catholic mass in English on Easter Sunday in Jerusalem.

So we went to sunrise service at the Garden Tomb, the spot where Protestants believe Jesus is buried.

I’d slept just a few hours the night before. Female dorm life had become an oddly comfortable slumber party in the past week but sleeping wasn’t one of the benefits. The wild-eyed Norwegian girls, Eda and Maria, were on the rooftop with wine until four. Natalie, a tough English chic with feathers and patent leather to spare, fell into bed slightly before. Ingor the, retired Dane who loved America and had once been married to a Coloradoan, had slipped in near midnight after five hours of prayer. Katya, the mysterious Moldovan, who lived at the hostel in exchange for her maid service and got free food from the Jewish soup kitchen every day, had been gone for hours. Finally, South African Andrea whose tall frame and layers of wrap-around skirts flowed with peace and love no matter her mood, had been asleep for hours. A wiry and easily frightened black cat which favored the end of my bed skittered in and out of the five-foot windows. I could hear the drunk howls of Purim, today’s Jewish, Halloween-like holiday which celebrates the deliverance Persian Empire Jews from Haman’s plot, by the heroine Esther.

But at 5:45, we slipped across the stones and between the nuns, early marketeers, Hasidic Jews and closed iron doors of an empty souk. The line was long, the crowd was loud and I was nervous.

Over the past week, I had spat out Jerusalem’s koolaid again and again. I was parched for a drink of spirituality. But I was determined to keep my expectations low today. I knew that even the chance for reflective meditation would be low. Not with this crowd. Not with these cameras. Not in this town. Easter Sunday in Jerusalem would make a good story. Period. This is seriously what went through my mind on what has turned out to be one of the most important days of my life.

Michael, on the other hand, was near giddy. His lavender and khaki linen, tanned skin and smile relieved me. Going to church without stained glass to color our view of the sky was a novelty and I guess he knew. Yes, he just knew.

The Garden Tomb was just that, a bountiful garden of stone benches, bright peonies, private space and historic significance. This is a little closer to where God lives, I thought, as we stepped inside. Without mosaics, steeples or frescoes to clutter the view. Without pouty priests and scolding devoutees to kill the buzz. Without politics and power laying claim to their share of the Old City’s square footage..

I’d been to a variety of services over the years. I knew there would be no Eucharist. I knew there would be more song and prayer, less Liturgy. But I was still unprepared for the celebration that followed.

The clapping. The singing. The rejoicing. The literal hallelujah and the claim of happy day. The kind faces of the crowd. The various orators voices, unrehearsed and happy, were like my mother’s voice on the end of the line. Faceless, but undoubtedly smiling. The live earth—bougainvilleas and birds—shared their oxygen like picnickers passing out watermelon slices in a park.

I was happy instantly.

In fact, my initial reaction was laughter. This was not church! This was too happy. Too uninhibited. Too much fun. Too fulfilling. Too spiritually accessible. I felt nourished. I actually cried.

I said: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Michael responded: “You mean what’s right with you.”

It took me a few days to reconcile the paradox. The Protestants were singing about a divine Jesus, a Jerusalem Jesus, one I don’t believe in. They were celebrating his rising from the dead and his “wash(ing) their sins away”. Ideas which I don’t hold dear. So why was I suddenly comfortable? Because within their transmission was energy, kindness, acceptance and optimism. Ideas that guy Jesus and I  hold dear.

Check out Michael’s video for the live story. . .