So, one night, when Brooks and I were in Jerusalem, we were traipsing through the Old City, we popped into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, one of the holiest sites in Christendom.
That place huge and usually jam-packed with people. One of the features inside is Christ’s now empty tomb. And yes, you can go inside. It’s big enough for one, but they cram three pilgrims in at a time, and you have a very short window to say a prayer and clear out.
It was, to say the least, frustrating. I so wanted to pause in that place and soak in the emptiness. Instead, I’d just barely felt my knees touch the stone floor when someone tapped my shoulder and told me to move along. It was nice, but the crush of people made me miss what I had hoped to find that evening.
A few days later, I was telling a local our story and mentioned how I’d left feeling more disappointed than rejuvenated. She gave us a tip: if you sneak into the sacristy off to the side, you can convince one of the monks to let you spend the night inside after they close and lock the Sepulchre doors; they let a dozen folks do this every night, but you have to sign up first. So, off we went to find us some monks. The monk in the sacristy told us that, instead of taking our names and making reservations, they’d just have us line up at the outer gates, and they’d take the first folks from there.
Clearly something got lost in translation. We arrived just before sundown and took our spots right at the front of the line. There were two Russian women ahead of us, one middle-aged, the other considerably more upper-aged. They both had that typical babushka look: warm, long coat, scarf wrapped around the head, heavy scowl.
We nodded to each other, and Brooks said some butchered version of “Good evening” in Russian well enough to get a smirk outta one of them. We mostly kept to ourselves, but occasionally one of them and one of us would make eye-contact, and there’d be a knowing pilgrim’s nod. We were here for the same reason: because something of God was burning inside us, and we needed to come back to stoke that fire.
Pretty soon, another pilgrim joined us, this one a French monk who’d walked all the way from his monastery in Brittany. In brown robes and flimsy sandals, he told us his story, which involved getting mugged once and beaten twice along the way. But he’d kept on walking, because he, too, carried this fire and needed a place to feed it.
Feeling secure in our spots we began to relax. But then we heard it: a low rumble echoing off the cobblestones from a distant corner, the pitter patter of dozens of pilgrims’ feet. At the far end of the street, a crowd rounded the corner, an entire pack of wizened old babushkas. No, a brushfire of babushkas! The brushfire rushed the gate as though fanned by the wind, and suddenly our secure position among the first twelve felt a little less certain.
Scores, perhaps a several hundred by now, pressed toward the gate, and all of us quiet, respectful pilgrims from before found ourselves crammed up against walls, and gates, and bodies. Just as the push shortened our breath, the peephole in the huge oaken door squeaked open, then slammed shut. A key turned in a tired lock, and the gate screeched open. Before Brooks and I knew what was going on, the babushkas behind us took off. We looked at each other, wincing as their ancient elbows caught our ribs, and ran with the crowd, all of us rushing to reach the doors.
As we reached the doors, though, Brooks looked at me as babushkas kept pouring in around us and said: “It’s Looks like it's open for everyone.” So much for the peaceful night.
The Holy Sepulchre is sacred for lots of different Christianities, so divine services begin Saturday night and go and go and go, a well-oiled and well-timed rotation of Catholics here and Russian Orthodox there, then Armenians, followed by Greek Orthodox, a kaleidoscope of worship. Everyone around us rushed from one point of interest to another, so we hopped in the stream of the slowest movers, a small trickle headed into a side chapel. There, we listened as Roman Catholic monks chanted in Latin.
After about half-an-hour of soul-calming music and a good sit-down, they started moving, processing, even, and everyone around us stood up. So we stood up. And we followed.. . To Golgotha, the spot where Christ was crucified, now surrounded by the walls of the Holy Sepulchre, and we stood as those same monks prayed the words of the Eucharist.
I knew what they were doing, though I couldn’t understand the words. It was like Pentecost, even down to the din of prayers echoing around us in other languages from other parts of the building. We were surrounded by prayers.
The Catholics started distributing Communion, and we took our leave. Just beyond the end of the stairs, we saw the babushka posse with delicate head scarves and sharpened elbows, and thought, oh, what the heck? and we dove into the crowd.
Turns out, we stumbled our way into a full-on Russian Orthodox mass. We stood at the center of the Holy Sepulchre, the center of Christianity, and swayed as those scowling women softened their eyes and their elbows to the sound of their own chanting. I don’t have a clue what they sang, but it reached into my chest and fanned that little flame that I thought I wouldn't find. As the energy swelled, though, it became too much for me. I had to take a break. Maybe it was all that body heat, maybe it was God’s fire. Whatever it was, it was overwhelming, and I had to get away. And we went to the edge of the crowd and found a stone bench.
When I finally looked up, near us, sitting on another bench just like ours, were the pleasant babushkas we'd met at the front gate from earlier in the night. Again, we smiled, nodded, and looked away. The chanting Orthodox throng started moving forward, and the two of them stood and walked forward with them. Communion time again. Now as strict as the Catholics can be, the Orthodox are even more so, so Brooks and I stayed put.
Turns out, all those babushkas weren’t just there for themselves. Many of them brought gallon-sized ziplock bags, and when they got to the altar rail, they’d receive for themselves, then hold out the open bag for the priest to fill with hosts consecrated from that holiest of sites, and they’d take that sacred bag back home to share with folks that couldn’t make the trip. They made that amazing journey and shared the most precious gift they could imagine: the Body of Christ.
Brooks and I sat and watched, struck dumb as that generous miracle unfolded. Finally, our familiar babushkas returned to their bench, each cradling a ziploc bag to her chest. One of them looked at us and smiled again. She gently nudged her friend, and they came over to us, reached in their bags, and gave both of us one of their treasured hosts. That fire inside me leapt, and my head flushed as tears forced their way out. The treasure they’d held became the treasure they shared.
We learned later on that at Easter, the Orthodox light the New Fire right in that place we stood, right at that cramped tomb at the center of Christendom. And that fire spreads from leaping flames at the tomb to candles held gingerly to hearts. And there is a priest who has one job that day. He lights an unassuming lantern with that new fire, and he carries it, carries it all the way back to a church in Moscow.
And there, he shares that flame with other churches, priests, and other pilgrims, and they carry it on to their own churches. And to those churches, more pilgrims come and more priests with more lanterns. And they all carry that flame on, sharing that soul fire from the heart of the world to the furthest reaches. And that flame wraps around the world, one pilgrim’s exchange at a time.
Now, I gotta admit, this reading from Paul made me nervous. He’s got all these amazing ways to live up to that fire inside you telling you to do what’s good in the world, and then he goes and spoils it at the end: “For it is written…‘give your enemies food and give them water, for by doing this, you heap burning coals on their heads.’”
It seems so counterintuitive. It sounds like he's saying treat your enemies well, because you know they’ll get theirs! It just doesn’t fit. But, you see, this saying is from Proverbs, and it has a completely different meaning.
“Heaping coals on someone’s head” could be a sort of “killing ‘em with kindness” thing. But it's really much more generous. Heaping coals on a head is kind of like stoking a fire in a soul, stirring up those coals so that a fire that’s gone out will flame back up. It’s breathing oxygen in to us, breathing life back into what was dead. Maybe it’s about waking that part of folks back up. Taking that dying fire inside and showing it how to roar again. Fanning those flames so the brushfire rushes out of our lives.
And that’s a miracle. Now it’s not our job to be that miracle. That’s God’s job.
But it is our job to give that fire away! Wrap the world in flame! Spread that soulfire of God!
That’s our job. Fan those flames. Maybe even heap some coals on. And go out into the world, this wonderful sacred world, and spread that fire of God.