11/28/12 – A winding path

The first part of our day would be comprised of sites along Jesus’ Palm Sunday path, but first the group made a stop at Pater Noster Church which celebrates the Our Father prayer.  On its walls are over 200 translations of the prayer in languages from around the world.  It was on this site that Jesus us said to have taught his disciples the only prayer he ever taught.  Predictably, his lesson took place in a grotto which is roped off from foot traffic.  Seriously, why did so many things take place in caves?  Its like there was an epidemic of agoraphobia back then.

The translations on the walls seemed a little hokey to me until dad spotted one in his native Furlan dialect of Italian.  Furlan is spoken by very few people and that they had included it was impressive; dad seemed honoured.

We started down the Palm Sunday path – a steep, narrow and winding stone road with walls on both sides.  The mirrors of passing cars presented a threat to us, but none actually made contact.  Our first stop on the path was Dominus Flavit church which is said to be located on the spot where Jesus wept for the city of Jerusalem because he could see its future destruction.  It’s a small church with architecture inspired by the shape of a teardrop with tear vases featured in the architecture.  People used vases to collect their tears?  Who knew?

Next, we paid a short visit to one of the many Jewish cemeteries along the path and paused to look over the old city from across the valley.

Our final destination along the path was the Garden of Gethsemane and the accompanying Church of all Nations which is also known as the Basilica of the Agony.  Why agony?  Because this is one of the four sites where it is said that Jesus came to pray the night before his arrest and where he was betrayed.  The agony of this betrayal caused him to sweat drops of blood; what has been interpreted in modern times as the effects of a complete nervous breakdown.

We celebrated a private mass in the Basilica of the Agony while other tourists looked on and took photos of the church’s main feature, the Rock of the Agony.  As the priest made his way around to offer the Eucharist I assumed the “bless me” position as instructed by my father: arms crossed over my chest pointing upwards.  Yet again, the priest wasn’t familiar with what had been described to me as a universal gesture and I was forced to whisper “no” to him as he tried to force the host into my mouth.

After mass was over, I was approached by Teresa from our group who told me she had seen what had happened and not to feel embarrassed… “Sometimes my son also declines to take the host when he is not feeling pure of heart.”  If she only knew.

As we turned to leave I noticed a young woman whose attire wasn’t entirely modest.  In fact, it left very little to the imagination on account of its skin tight nature and her … ahem … proportions.  Never one to chastise a woman for her beauty, I still believe she went to far as she climbed the steps of the church, stuck out her backside and did her best impression of a pinup pose complete with pouty lips and a hand through her hair.  Even so, the skies did not cloud over and lightning did not strike; all was well in the world.