Food Feature: Jesus slept here
Walking a mile in the shoes of the Savior along Jerusalem’s Via Dolorosa
Jesus was a hippy.
As much as conservative types hate to admit it, he was. If he were alive today he’d be eating tofu, wearing Birkenstocks and voting Democrat.
I wore Birkenstocks on my visit to Jerusalem, the Holy City to Christians, Jews and Muslims, and I think my experience was genuinely improved by my wearing them. As they say, to truly understand a man you have to walk a mile in his shoes. I walked the Via Dolorosa, the path Jesus took to his crucifixion, in Birkenstocks. I could feel each knob and dip in the stone pathway through my thin sandals.
Each year hundreds of thousands of tourists from around the world make a pilgrimage to the Via Dolorosa (Latin for “the path of suffering”). The path is marked by the 14 Stations of the Cross, physical reminders of events that happened in the Bible — from Jesus’ condemnation by Pontius Pilate, to his mournful cry to his father on the mount.
Churches seem to be the favored way to mark the spots where these events took place. From the Monastery of the Flagellation to the Church of the Redeemer, men who came before us thought the best way to commemorate Jesus Christ was not to preserve the area as it was out of respect for the event that happened there, but to build a church. Many of the churches were built with funds supplied by Emperor Constantine, who spread Christianity throughout the Roman Empire.
One of the churches on the path has a handprint on its exterior wall, worn into the stone by centuries of pilgrims who have put their hand to the rock. The spot marks the fifth station, the place where the weight of the cross became too much for Christ to bear. It is here where Simon the Cyrenian, a spectator from Libya, was forced by Roman soldiers to help Jesus carry the cross the rest of the way to Golgotha — the skull-shaped rock where the cross was eventually raised.
Legend has it that the handprint marks the spot where Jesus leaned against the wall for support as the weight of the cross was shifted. As I ran my hand among the smooth contours of the handprint, I thought of the millions of people who had done the same thing over the centuries — from ancient shepherds in sandals (like mine!) to Midwestern housewives with horn-rimmed glasses. All walks of life have stood here, and the rock has rubbed off, just a little bit each time, on the hands of those who have touched it.
It was only after I walked the Via Dolorosa that I learned that there was no way Jesus could have actually laid his hand on that stone since the city has been built and destroyed several times since the time of his crucifixion. I also learned that the Stations of the Cross weren’t recognized as physical places until the 1600s when they were established to attract European tourists. At one point there were even two different routes, each representing competing schools of thought in the Holy Roman Church.
Hucksterism and shameless promotion are nothing new. Opportunities to cash in are almost as plentiful as the dueling “Jesus slept here” places in the city. Canvas-roofed booths line the route, much as they have for centuries, with men in robes and women in veils selling everything from plastic guns that spark to flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark.
The last five Stations of the Cross, including the site of the crucifixion, are located within the labyrinthine Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Divided into sections, the subterranean church rambles among rock-hewn cliffs, dips and crags. Centuries-old altars and churches belonging to competing sects can be found in odd corners of the rambling, maze-like structure.
Some of the artwork in the church is absolutely jaw-dropping. Among the most impressive is the restored Dome of the Anastasis, which stands above the Aedicula, (the overdone marble-encased rock tomb — one of many places believed to be Christ’s burial place). The re-furbished dome was revealed on Jan. 2, 1997, after 30 years of fund-raising and re-modeling, and the results are amazing. The design of the structure defies chronological characterization. There is no way to tell if it was designed 500 years ago or five. It’s hip and its energy is overwhelmingly positive. Long arms of gold reach forward like petals of a flower that explode like solar flares. Stars float among its arms and the reflected light fills the room with a soothing, warm glow.
Perhaps the most offensive spot is the Altar of the Crucifixion, the actual spot where the crucifixion is said to have taken place. Rather than leave the rock outcropping bare to the natural elements a large (and can I say “tacky” without being struck down?) altar has been built, covered with somebody’s idea of good taste — marble, gold and statues (bad marble, gold and statues at that). When I saw it I thought, “Oh my God. This looks just like Graceland.”
The great thing about Jerusalem is that there are so many places claiming to be the real burial place of the Savior that you can pick the one that suits you best. I chose the Garden Tomb — a more tranquil and secluded spot. There were no marble walls or gold statues here, just a non-descript cave in a side of a cliff. A modest, bathtub-sized slab was carved into the cave, big enough to hold the body of a humble man.
It was, I thought as I later sat in the garden rubbing my tired feet, quite unlike the magnificent and moneyed Aedicula in the cold and imposing Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This garden was quiet — the perfect burial place for a carpenter, a hippy ... the Savior of Mankind.