Many people have asked me to write something about our recent trip to Israel. To be honest, there's so much I could say that I'm not sure where to start.
This visit went deeper than my last two, for all sorts of reasons. And, after every single experience, I tearfully pronounced it as my favorite. There were, however, some places that were particularly profound for me: swimming in the Galilee and touching the walls of the Bethlehem cave, fellowship with the Young Life Middle East team and exploring the 2,100-year-old pathways under the Temple Mount.
I'm sure I'll write about all those experiences eventually, after I've had more time to process it all.
But there's one singular moment I'll go ahead and share, because I haven't been able to shake it. I can still feel it – literally. Not just in my brain and in my heart but on my fingertips. It was the rock of Golgotha. I touched the very ground where my Messiah paid my ransom.
When we walked into the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I was overwhelmed. There were so many people. From all over the world. Not observing, but worshipping. Experiencing the place where Jesus actually died, and where scholars believe He was - briefly - buried.
People's faces were marked with joy and wonder and grief and adoration.
And we were surrounded by beauty. Most American churches are nothing like this. Many poo-poo such grand adornment. They criticize the extravagance. But when I gazed up at the expansive domes and the infinitesimally small mosaic tiles, all telling the story of my Savior, I was captivated by the love and devotion these craftsmen and artists had for God. How His sacrifice inspired them to create such breathtaking portraits of Jesus’ life and death.
Granted, sometimes the incense was a bit overpowering, especially for us westerners. But I chose to let it remind me of the High Priests ministering in the Holy of Holies. This was, after all, the place where the Great High Priest made the final, eternal sacrifice for the sins and brokenness of humanity.
In any event, the rugged expanse of rock - the area of the ancient quarry that the builders rejected because it has a fault in it - is there, covered in thick glass. Historians record that the Romans crucified their criminals on this very surface. And, if you are patient, you have the overwhelming opportunity to get down on your knees, kneel under an altar, put your hand through an opening in the glass, and -
I almost can't say it. It still takes my breath away. I touched the very ground where Yeshua bore my cross. Where His blood spilled for my atonement. Golgotha.
Every time I get to this point in writing or editing this post, I literally have to stop. My eyes well up. The emotion of that moment was too much for me. I was overtaken by an urge to rip through the glass and get to the ground. To lie facedown at the foot of where the Cross had been. Or at the very least, take up residence under the altar for awhile with my hand on the rock and pray. Or cry. Probably both.
But the people behind me wanted their private moment with Golgotha, too, and I had to stand up and join my family on the other side of the altar. I looked up at my husband and just shook my tearful head. He nodded. He knew. He'd been there before.
I wish everyone could touch that rock. To walk the streets of Jerusalem and stumble upon site after site after site recorded in the Gospels. To know - not just from words on a page or felt on a board - that Jesus is real.
Golgotha - and everything else, like the prison pit and Gethsemane’s garden - are real. They are real places, and you can go there today and breathe in the same air and walk on the same dirt that Jesus did. That the disciples did. King David and Father Abraham.
My palm touched the very rock where Jesus was pierced for me.
And it has rocked my world.
And it has rocked my world.
