dawn

5:35 a.m. Jerusalem. Winter. At the third time of prompting I got out of bed and pulled on my shoes. From the hotel I made my way through the souk, its stalls all shuttered, and turned left toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Inside I wandered alone. There was a marble slab set into the floor in front of me. Dark cavernous space to the left. On the right a small group stood talking. Around the inner circuit of the building I walked and came back to them. I had a question. The priest motioned me to wait, then I told him I didn't know what I was looking at. Well, you'll want to go up for sure. Up those stairs I climbed to two altars, with a space underneath one. Golgotha. Down again and across into a small inner chapel. Empty. I didn't go all the way inside but I looked around. There were maybe a dozen people in the whole place. That afternoon my group went together. It was packed. In a long line we waited, let through six at a time. Some people tried to rush ahead but the Slavic assistant - deacon? - motioned them back. Inside again at the end all the way in. I knelt on this marble slab covering the tomb of Jesus and rested my forehead on the cool smooth stone. It was dark. After an indeterminate period I heard an intake of breath - my own - opened my eyes, stood up, walked, crouched, slowly as newly awake, out to the larger space. "Father," the deacon motioned, and smiled, guiding me. And the next group of pilgrims went in.

January 12, 2020. For The Christian Century, Buechner Writing Project.