In the curling incense smoke of his accent
the guide says never mind all the other sites
(and there is competition from many sites, in many accents),
this is Jesus’ real Tomb, the actual one, the holiest place in Jerusalem.
But of course how can we know? It was 2000 years ago,
and this isn’t very holy, encrusted with lamps and sconces
that are trying too hard, and enough silver and gold
to be nothing like where they would lay him,
bejeweled with cheapness, with tourists, our tittering selfies,
our marketplace of beliefs and smug attempts at wonder.
Hardly a holy place, I’d say. A curiosity for tourists.
Through the clatter and clutter of us all comes a woman
in a brown sweater carrying two shopping bags,
up the aisle to the railing. She kneels and prays.
Despite all our chatter, she prays. She is no saint;
she’s just one in a long line of people who come here
to pray, who have been coming here for centuries, to pray.
Suddenly I want to take off my shoes.
This is indeed holy ground.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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