The Garden of Gethsemane

I dread the classes even though I know that I shouldn't. I know that I am here in Jerusalem and I should love the intellectual stimulation, the perspectives of both my Jewish and my Palestinian teachers, plus the comfortable feeling of being taught the gospel by people of my own faith. But I hate sitting still. I hate knowing that I am sitting inside when I could be out there. I want to see the city, to feel the energy of the people and their life and their ways.

Instead, I have to read multiple twenty page articles by tomorrow. Two of the girls convince me to go out to the city with them. The three of us are so alike. Calm, the misfits in high school, and a little reserved when first meeting a stranger. We join a group of ten kids going out of the center and cut through a street at the bottom of the hill that leads up to the Mt. of Olives. We are only allowed to do this when there are at least ten people with us, so I have never seen this street. A teenage boy rides his bike and cuts us off, offering a pomegranate from the tree on the side of the road. Young girls and boys wave to us as we pass, the dust around our feet powdering our shoes. 

This is more what I imagined Jerusalem to be like. The trees sprinkled across oven browned hills. A Jewish graveyard scattered over the curve of the hillside, the expanse of it as broad as the faith of the people here. It is a hard home for someone to have their final resting place, the limestone graves white and rectangular, rocks in place of flowers, cement instead of grass.

We top the hill. Across the street and to the left is the garden of Gethsemane. It is strange that a place so sacred can be in the middle of so much tension. It feels different here, as though the light between the olive trees is cleaner, as if the Spirit fills the open air, the ground, the walkways between the shrubbery. 

The Church of All Nations cradles the garden, it's walls in the shape of an "L" as though protecting it. I walk through the doors and the lilt of latin curves into the ceiling and around my sweating body. A nun with glasses and olive-black skin plays the organ and a congregation sings a prayer to God, their voices mixing with the priest.

The walls are purple and laced with gold. I walk between the Corinthian pillars and the plum colored stained glass windows tinted a soft red violet depending on the light. As we rest on the wooden benches, it is without a doubt the most beautiful church I have ever seen. Not gaudy and just for show, and not plain. It complements the garden. I feel open here, like you could spread out my being and I could be a part of the wrought iron tree designed door, the tile mosaic beneath my feet, or the sun drop roses peeking over the fence.

The steps leading up to the church are protected by a gate, and just beyond its borders are cars flying past in levels, the streets layered like a yogurt parfait. We leave the garden, and I am struck by the image of a car parked right outside its walls that is covered in blankets and necklaces and cheap little trinkets for sale. It is so opposite of the garden, this car that is draped with worldliness, and I think of Christ's anger in the temple with the money changers, even though I know the people here are just trying to make a living.

I go to the old city with Emily and Vicki. We wander around without a map. Vicki is on the hunt for shampoo, and I am surprised that one of the shop owners is a woman. She is the first one I've seen here, here hair wrapped up in a scarf and her floor length coat in a military style that is conservative, though it is feminine looking and she wears it well. 

I stop at a shop to admire some books, and the store owner pulls me inside claiming his nativity set is over a hundred and fifty years old. He pulls out carpets and rugs and tells me that nothing is expensive, but I didn't bring my money with me, so we keep wandering the streets. My camera dangles from my wrist and I swing it as I walk. Suddenly I feel a hand close to mine, and I turn my head and see a man's arm still outstretched, his attempt at pick pocketing failed. We laugh about it as we walk around and go back to the center, though I hold my belongings close in front of me from then on.

I've volunteered to be an usher for the cultural concert tonight. I love seeing the people come into the center. Most of them are elderly, the women's hair fine and wiry, the men gruff and offering a nod to my welcome. I take their tickets and slip inside for the concert with a few other students.

Two guitarists are in the center of the stage. A son and a father, I think, though the father's playing is far superior. His fingers dance across the strings and uses the guitar in ways I have never seen, as though the instrument were an extension of him and he knows it like he knows his own heart. They play Spanish melodies, the music speaking to the father so much that at times he shakes his head with such energy that his nearly shoulder length, curly gray hair is a blur. I love his glasses, the way his tanned and leathery Armenian skin bags slightly beneath his eyes, the way he tells jokes in Hebrew that makes me laugh even though I don't know the language.

A flamenco dancer comes on stage. Her violet gown is embroidered in gold, her hair a rich Spanish brown and adorned by a tall comb. She is proud of her body, of the control she has over her hips and arms. Even the very curve of her fingers is self assured, and I am mesmerized by her feet and the dress fanning out behind her like a fan. The crowd claps in unison after the concert, a Hebrew encore, and I am boosted by the conservative joy in the crowd.

I stay up late to finish my homework, but I wouldn't trade it for the world. The garden, the church, the flamenco dancing at night with a background of Spanish guitar and the Dome of the Rock. So I read while the world sleeps and realize that though I am far away from my home, I haven't changed so very much at all. I am still the last one up, reading away the hours, and that feels like home. And I love having that with me.