Under my window in Jerusalem’s Christian Quarter, the men of the neighbourhood are gathering outside the cafés to sip their morning coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, scan the newspapers and talk about what’s going on. There’s much to discuss lately, but not a great deal to be done. Their shops are closed in the nearby souk.
It’s usually bustling: young men push their carts through its narrow alleyways at dizzying speeds, old women from the villages bring mint leaves to sell to passers-by, the smell of spices wafts through the air and bewildered tourists try to navigate their way through the labyrinthine bazaar. Sadly, not these days.
Jerusalem’s lack of pilgrims and tourists meant I was able to steal some precious time alone in the Holy Sepulchre early this morning. It hasn’t been since the pandemic that I was able to spend as much time as I wanted alone in Christ’s empty tomb, and I’ll never get over how much of a privilege it is.
After thumbing my way through a list of people asking to be remembered here, I did a round of the basilica and nodded to the odd monk or friar who popped out from a side chapel. Jerusalem is small enough (and its Christian population even smaller) that we all seem to recognise one another.
James
After paying a visit to the Catholic chapel on Calvary, I stopped to greet a man who is a familiar sight around Jerusalem. Barefoot, staff in hand, wrapped in white robes and a woollen blanket, James has spent years walking in the footsteps of Christ with the simplest of clothes, no possessions and a mission to share the Gospel.
Originally from Michigan, the soft-spoken pilgrim depends on the generosity of others to live his remarkable – though often misunderstood – way of life.
We talked about the situation in the Holy Land, and about our hopes that the upcoming season of Lent might be a time to bring some peace to this troubled place.
Lent
Yes, Lent is about to begin, and I’ll be fascinated to see once again how the Christians of the other churches prepare for Easter. Some of my Orthodox friends won’t be eating any meat or dairy products for the entire period. “Forty days of hummus and bread” said one of them with a frown as we sat near Jaffa Gate recently. Another asked whether Valentine’s Day falling on Ash Wednesday meant he should keep his table booked in a restaurant across town.
Doubting his date would be happy with a simple salad, I advised him not to mix love with ashes and to change his reservation. This land – and Jerusalem in particular – makes you fall in love, it breaks your heart, and you’re never the same again. You can’t just walk away from it, because it inhabits you.
It’s the sort of place that you can love and hate at the same time: the place and its people grow on you, but the insidiousness of the injustice here grinds you down. One never quite knows what might come next in the Holy Land. Only last week I was on a bus over in the Israeli side of Jerusalem when I noticed an ultra-Orthodox Jew looking at me from under his black, wide-brimmed hat.
Our eyes met a few times, and I grew a little nervous because there have been some cases of haredi aggression against Christians here lately. Eventually he leaned forward and said: “which denomination are you, Father?” I was stunned that he should talk to me, because haredim rarely engage with those outside their own community and usually only speak Hebrew or Yiddish. I spluttered a reply, and he began talking about the prophets in the Bible.
Those sitting around looked as surprised as I was, and our conversation went on long enough that we both missed our respective stops. It was a rare and privileged encounter, and I came away promising to swot more on the Hebrew Bible.
Rare encounter
So, we never know what’s around the corner in the holy city. Some things never seem to change, whilst other things come out of the blue and sometimes do so dramatically. Whatever happens, the locals beneath my window will probably still gather for a morning coffee and assessment of current affairs.
With Lent about to begin maybe they’ll be coming a little less often, if only for a while.
Justin Robinson OSB is a monk of Glenstal Abbey in County Limerick currently residing in Jerusalem.
