When we celebrate Easter, the liturgies leading up to it are remembrances of events that inspire very contradictory feelings. Holy Thursday is the last supper, a festive event that suddenly ends in a spirit of fear and anxiety. Then there is the great sadness of Good Friday—even though we can hardly forget that tomorrow night, we’ll celebrate Easter. Then there is the long wait in the Easter vigil as we hear the Old Testament readings until the lights are turned on and the Gloria is sung again, and we celebrate the Risen Christ. One must prepare for these three days that are full of contradictions. This year, I did so by visiting the empty tomb in the church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.
It was my first time in the Holy Land. I was supposed to be part of a pilgrimage group, but the war meant that it was cancelled. Instead of being in a group of pilgrims with a tour guide, I stayed for ten days with the Franciscans in the Saint Saviour Monastery in the Old City and walked its streets alone. Because of the near absence of tourists, there were mostly locals in the streets. When I wore my habit, nobody minded me, and people would only talk to me when I stopped and looked for directions. When I wore secular clothing, everybody wanted to show me their shop and sell me something. Either way, I saw Jews, Muslims, and Christians going about their daily lives as usual. But there was tension in the air. Ramadan had just begun, and Friday prayers on the Temple Mount might transform into riots. Israeli soldiers in military fatigues with assault rifles hanging from their shoulders were a common sight. They were at checkpoints, such as at the entry points to the Temple Mount. When they saw me, they turned me away, as the Temple Mount during Ramadan was off limits for anybody who was not a Muslim or in any way suspect of making trouble. Armed soldiers were a common sight throughout Jerusalem, as many of them were on trains or busses and either on leave or on the way to their deployment. I made a few outings, such as joining the Franciscans of the Saint Savior Monastery for a pilgrimage to the Tomb of Lazarus on the other side of the West Bank barrier.
I learned nothing about what ought to be done to establish peace in the Holy Land so that different peoples and different religions live together as God wants them to live, but I learned other things. I learned that the tomb is indeed empty, and finding God does not require me to go to any particular place outside of my own heart. Even though I was in the places were Jesus walked, he had walked them at a time so long ago that they were no longer the same. I felt the suffering of Jesus not when I prayed at the Rock of Calvary but when I thought of the suffering of civilians 100 km away in Rafah, or on the other side of the world in Port-au-Prince, or of shop keepers I passed by in the Old City who feared bankruptcy for lack of tourists. The Risen Christ was not to be found in the tomb, which was empty indeed, but with the happiness of children playing in the streets and men and women going about their lives in full awareness of their dignity as children of God.
A highlight of my visit was something entirely uncharacteristic for a pilgrim, and it was a visit to a friend at the Weizmann Institute of Science in Rehovot. We have known each other since we both arrived in the summer of 1990 as postdoctoral fellows in the research group of Jim Rothman, then at Princeton University. We had loosely kept in touch, even after I became a Franciscan. Now we ate hummus together in his favorite restaurant in Ramla, close to where he had grown up. He explained to me that it was one of the few towns that were both Muslim and Jewish, with no side clearly in charge, and somewhat dilapidated on account of not belonging clearly to either side. As he walked me around, he showed me ruins of 8th century buildings that ought to be maintained for their historical value but now were littered with garbage. Nevertheless, it was a lively city and clearly a place he loved.
This summed up the way I felt the whole time. There was so much evidence for things not being the way they ought to be. There was so much reason to be angry on account of abuse, occupation, oppression, and any violation of the rights of men imaginable. I had also been in Yad Vashem in remembrance of the pinnacle of such evil. But seeing life in the Old City and then having lunch with my old friend in Ramla inspired me with hope. Life and the joy it inspires were evident, and while death and the desolation it inspires could not be ignored, I know life to be victorious over death. And for this, I give thanks for having been told the message of Easter.
