at the tower of David, one of the oldest monuments of Jerusalem,
standing directly across the open space in front of our balcony. It
still looks the part it long played as a watch-tower and a place of
refuge and strong defense. The people call it the Citadel, and until the
coming of the British it served as a garrison for Turkish soldiers.
During our first days in Jerusalem we had walked about Mount Zion, had
read of the various controversies waged over exact locations, had gone
into the House of Caiaphas, the House of Annas, and had looked at the
upper room. They may or may not have been the exact spots made tragic or
sacred by that last week of the Great Life. It did not matter to us. The
stone courtyards, the little chapels, the marks of Crusaders’ crosses,
the burial stones made us conscious indeed of the triumphs and tragedies
of men and nations that had written themselves from that hilltop into
the history of Palestine and so into the making of the world. It was
very easy, standing in that upper room, bare now save for an ancient
picture, to imagine the long table, the couches, the reclining
disciples. One is almost overwhelmed as he realizes the effect of that
simple supper of bread and wine upon the characters of succeeding
generations of men. What breaks in the ranks of Christendom the varied
interpretations of its significance have made! To what heights of
spiritual power, to what depths of shame, sorrow and repentance has it
led those who, following His request, have celebrated it in remembrance
of Him. In wonderful cathedrals, in rude chapels, in the lonely spots of
earth, in the jungle, in the desert, on the islands of the sea, in the
hospitals, in prison, on the fields of war kneeling before improvised
altars within sight of the no man’s land which tomorrow would be their
graves, men have heard the words: “As oft as ye eat this bread and drink
this wine—”
How intensely He struggled, in those hours in the upper room, to make
them understand that He loved them, to lead them to a comprehension of
the meaning of service, to help them to accept the great commission His
death would leave them to fulfil.
[Illustration:
_Copyright, Underwood & Underwood_
Out there on the wind-swept hills, without priest or altar, we could
better understand the words of the Book.]
We could almost hear the voice of our Lord saying: “Behold the hour
cometh, yea is now come, that ye shall be scattered every man to his own
and shall leave me alone: yet—I am not alone because the Father is with
me.
“These things have I spoken unto you that in me ye might have peace. In
the world ye shall have tribulation, but be of good cheer. _I have
overcome the world._”
It was easy to see Peter standing by the fire in the place which they
showed to us and to hear the cowardly words, “I never knew him,” but
easier still, as though a beam of light had fallen upon a dark picture,
to hear Jesus saying, “Tell my disciples _and Peter_.... Peter, lovest
thou me?... Peter, feed my sheep.”
From the background of Mount Zion we went to the Garden, not to the
formal garden of Latin or Greek, with their chapels, their neat little
gardens, their oranges and their olive trees planted about with fragrant
flowers and green grass, though they are very beautiful, terraced there
upon the steep sloping hillside. We went instead to the Armenian Garden,
kept as nature made it, a wall with the vine leaning over it, a fallen
trunk covered with doll moss, and the olive trees, large and small, gray
green with twisted boughs ages old, grass as in a meadow, with lilies of
the field nodding here and there in sunny spaces, though it was still
winter. A soft mist hung about the hill and settled in low lines over
the Garden. In one of the trees, hugging a branch, was a tiny gray bird.
We could hear its song in the silence.
The friend who had come with us had been often in the Garden. He told us
of the beautiful service of the Relief Workers here on Easter morning,
of the night after Allenby entered Jerusalem when the workers filled
with joy over the manner of the victory came to this sacred spot to pray
in gratitude and for strength for the long wearying days of toil which
lay ahead. He told us of the Armenian girl, kneeling early one morning
in the damp grass, trying to repeat Gethsemane’s prayer. She was a
graduate of the American Woman’s College, was teaching in a girls’ high
school when deportation orders came, and from then until her rescue had
been an Arab’s slave in his dirty tent.
It was very still. The walls of the city shut out its sounds, and it was
too early for regular traffic along the road to Bethany. A British Tommy
climbed over the wall and sat upon a great rock under a gnarled old
tree, his hat in his hand. Pictures of the old masters painted on walls
of cathedrals, hanging in great galleries, hymns tender and sweet that
had thrilled the souls of thousands, poetry that had comforted man in
his deepest hours of need, shadowy forms of Crusaders who had dared the
perils of sea and land, hunger and thirst and the swords of the enemy,
the monk, the pilgrim, the student searching for truth:—all these passed
before us under the olive trees and went out into the mist.
Suddenly the day seemed to fade and that night of centuries ago came
stealing into the Garden. Kneeling there under the olive trees, we saw
Love make its supreme sacrifice and were not ashamed of the overwhelming
emotion that stirred our souls to greater depths than ever had been
touched before. We read the words softly—“if possible—if
possible—nevertheless thy will be done.” The rest of the picture was not
so hard to look upon for He had triumphed. He rose from His prayer a
_Conqueror_.
There was more than one grassy hollow near the sheltering wall where the
disciples might have slept in the open, as did many at the time of the
Passover. Regretful, He wakened them. The Roman soldiers with staves and
smoking torches were coming down over the hill. His doom was sealed.
What the law gave them no right to do, misunderstanding, cunning, and
craft had done. Judas kissed him. We read the rest of the story from a
little book that made it very plain.[1] Then we prayed, but not with
words—there were no words.
Footnote 1:
_By an Unknown Disciple_—Hodder and Stoughton.
On the little bridge that crosses over the Kedron to the Bethany road we
stood for a long time looking back, loathe to leave. We remembered the
white crosses of yesterday standing in long rows over there on the other
side of the mount. He was not alone in the Garden! With Him there had
gathered through the centuries an understanding multitude, young and
loving life as did He, who had met their own Gethsemanes and gone out
from them bravely to die.
Again we went through St. Stephen’s Gate and along the path where the
Roman guards had led their prisoner. We stopped at Pilate’s Hall. Like a
king indeed he met the false testimony of his accusers, the cynical
questions of Pilate, the jesting soldiers who had seen many a man
condemned to die but none who met the madness of a multitude that cried
“Crucify! Crucify!” with such dignity and calm. No wonder Rousseau cried
aloud as he studied the story, “Socrates died like a philosopher, but
Jesus died like a God!” With what ardent devotion have the great artists
of the past attempted to paint for us those scenes. So vivid were they
as we stood there in Jerusalem, looking up at the tower of Antonius
where Jesus suffered the scourging, that their reality pierced our
souls.
When the fickle crowd left the hall shouting curses as they had shouted
hosannas, they moved along the narrow street which still bears the name
Via Dolorosa.
Opposite the Pretorium is a convent. In it are orphans and stray waifs
picked up about Palestine. The ravages of war have added to the usual
number and the place is crowded. On this Sunday they were at service,
and the clean happy faces as they sang made us feel that it was because
of the Sorrowful Way over which He had walked that they were sheltered
and fed. Although intended for Jews, Turk and Armenian, Jew and Gentile
sat together in the Chapel of Love and Forgiveness. It is under this
convent, many feet below the level of the present street that one finds
bits of the old Roman pavement over which the multitude, curious, cruel,
mocking, followed Him to the place of crucifixion.
Each spot along the Via Dolorosa is marked—the place where the Master
took up His cross, the turn in the narrow street where in answer to the
tears and prayers of the women He said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, weep
not for me, but weep for yourself and your children,” the spot where,
staggering from weakness, He fell beneath His cross and Simon lifted it
and carried it to the hill of Death, dumbly sharing the Saviour’s pain.
At each place of suffering as we passed, we saw men and women praying
and making the sign of the cross. All men walked silently.
Via Dolorosa, since the coming of the British, is scrupulously clean.
The houses of stone with beautiful doorways and old carvings on the
doorposts make a solid unbroken wall on either side, and very early the
street is quite dark. Narrow and not even a mile in length, it stands
out in the memory above all the great highways of the world.
We did not follow the narrow streets to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre
where reverent worshipers were at that moment kneeling before the tomb,
or kissing the stone upon which are the marks of the three crosses. It
seemed incredible to us at first that this small church could cover both
the spot which was called Calvary and the tomb in the garden of Joseph
of Arimathea. Within the church are the chapels of the Greeks, the
Romans, the Armenians and the Copts. In each are beautiful shrines with
very precious lamps studded with jewels, lamps that burn in honor of
each of the four Christian groups. Once there were four great doors of
entrance to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, but so frequent were the
quarrels of those coming to worship that these doors were closed leaving
only one way of entrance. The key to this door is still held by a
Mohammedan according to the command of General Allenby, in memory of the
fact that the Caliph Omar spared and continually protected this Church.
Priceless jewels are hidden within it, the gifts of Pilgrims from every
land. Its treasury is the richest in the world. Jamil saw it when it was
shown to the former German Emperor for whom he interpreted, but could
never find it again, so devious were the ways that led to it. The
Kaiser’s gift, presented as with impressive ceremony he knelt to pray,
was of great value—in gold.
But it was not to this church of the Holy Sepulchre with its wonderful
shrines, its most sacred associations reaching back into the long past,
filled with memories of devout men and women, rich and great, poor and
lowly, young and strong, weak and old, who had reverently worshiped
before the rent in the rock, the place where the soldiers parted His
garments, the tomb in the solid stone down in the very bowels of the
earth, worn smooth as glass by the feet of pilgrims who, like Peter and
John, must stoop to enter it, and Golgotha, reached by winding steps cut
in the rock and leading up almost to the roof of the church—it was not
this place which we sought as we came from the garden of Gethsemane,
following Him along the Sorrowful Way. It was out on the hills beyond
the Damascus Gate to the spot called Gordon’s Calvary that we went, not
because we cared to enter into all the reasons why many believe it to be
the place of suffering, rather than the other, but because out there on
the wind-swept rocks under a darkening sky, with a garden in the little
valley and the tombs cut in solid rock, their “great stones” lying
near—out there with no priest and no altars it was easier to read the
words of the Book and try to understand them.
It was on this Mount of Calvary, looking down upon the city, that there
came to us an overwhelming sense of the sin of selfishness and greed. In
the ruins of Belgium we had felt it, in the tumult of war on the
battlefields of France we had seen what it could do, in the records of
the desperate struggles of the Peace Table we had caught glimpses of its
power, in China we saw its work, in Korea we looked upon its suffering
victims, and here on Calvary the weight of the world sorely wounded and
dismayed by sin, pressed hard upon us. It would not have been possible
to bear had we not read also of the stone rolled away and the great
triumphant Victory.
A deep conviction settled down upon us until it possessed every muscle
and fiber of body and mind, until it possessed our souls—the thing that
He preached and that only can save the world. His great command that man
love his God and serve his neighbor—this principle alone can rescue
humanity from the abyss of chaos into which blind greed, individual and
national, has plunged it. As the pilgrims knelt at the Holy Sepulchre,
we knelt there under the open skies on the hill that is called Calvary
to accept again His first great commandment, and the second that is like
unto it, in repentance and humility to pray for pardon for past failures
and strength for new endeavors.
That night at evening service in clear soprano voice a boy in the choir
sang:
There is a green hill far away
Without the city wall
Where the dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all.
Oh dearly, dearly has He loved
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood
And try His works to do.
There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin:
He only could unlock the gate
Of Heaven and let us in.
Oh dearly, dearly has He loved
And we must love Him too,
And trust in His redeeming blood
And try His works to do.
The echo of the last line followed us home. There is work to be
done—challenging, mighty world-building tasks—and for the doing of them
those who call themselves servants and followers of Him whose brave,
suffering footsteps we had traced from the Garden along the Sorrowful
Way to Calvary have waited too long.
I GO DOWN INTO EGYPT
_The strings of camels come in single file
Bearing their burdens o’er the desert sand;
Swiftly the boats go plying on the Nile
The needs of men to meet on every hand.
But still I wait
For the messenger of God who cometh late._
—_Author Unknown._
I GO DOWN INTO EGYPT
It was sitting on a housetop overlooking Jerusalem on the last day of
our visit to the Holy City that we heard in detail the story of the
official entry of the British forces. The woman who told us had spent
the years of the war as well as most of her life in Jerusalem though she
is an American. Her children were born there, she speaks many of its
languages, she knows its people and she loves it. She is one of the
women appointed by Lord Samuel, the High Commissioner, to serve on an
advisory council to assist the government in establishing policies for
the protection and betterment of women. She is the Christian
representative, the others being Mohammedan and Hebrew.
The story, as she told it, revealing all the fear and anxiety of those
hard years, the pressure of uncertainty, the daily, hourly struggle for
food with sufficient nourishment to keep the children and the old people
alive, made us feel again, as so many times before, the sharp stab of
the fact that it is not those who bear arms alone who go to war. Little
faces, whose right it is to be round and rosy, covered with smiles, must
be pale and wan, yes, must even forget how to smile, as millions of
little ones have forgotten since nineteen hundred and fourteen. Old
faces, whose right it is to bear the marks of peace and contentment
after the struggle of the years, must be left instead with marks of pain
and anguish as have millions of the aged since nineteen hundred and
fourteen. He is a cruel monster, War, and if man, after what he has seen
these past years, does not imprison him, starve him, and leave him to
die, then man deserves the bitterness of the fate that will be his.
[Illustration:
When we opened our eyes, the Nile lay almost at our feet.]
Threatened deportation, first by the German, then by the Turk, had been
again and again postponed for the little group known as the American
Colony but finally word came that in ten days all must go. The men of
military age, though neutral, had been ordered away a week before and
were expecting the arrival of a Turkish officer at any moment, to tell
them the time had come. Food was very scarce, there was no sugar, little
flour, and no fats. The woman who told us the story was herself doing
all-day and sometimes all-night duty as a nurse in the Red Crescent
Hospital which was our present hotel. Some of the letters she showed to
us proved what a consolation she must have been to the young British
soldiers, who lay with the Turks, prisoners, and sorely wounded. The
thundering of the guns had been drawing nearer but, despite rumors that
crept into the streets and the hospital wards that the Turks were slowly
losing ground, they themselves reported progress. Great airplanes droned
over the city, cannon roared in the hills. One afternoon there was
unusual commotion in the open space before the hotel and, standing by
the window, our friend saw the Germans making hurried preparations for
leaving. Signal wires, telephone wires, rugs, removable furniture, tons
of supplies, went out through the Jaffa Gate. The Turkish General
visited her—he must leave the wounded in her care. The German doctors
would go with the troops. He would leave two days’ provisions and
medicines, after that—
When he had gone, half afraid to believe it, she whispered the word to
the British patients. They were nearly mad with joy, and there was
little sleeping that night. “When? When?” they would whisper as she or
her helper passed them. She could only answer, “I do not know. We have
provisions for two days.” Very early in the morning, before it was fully
light, the Mayor of the city, one of the direct descendants of Mohamet,
sent her a message saying that he was about to surrender the city.
At half-past eight that morning the outposts saw the white flag
approaching. General Shea was the officer sent by General Allenby to
accept the surrender of the city. At half-past twelve Jerusalem had
passed into the hands of the British, guards were placed at all public
buildings, and instructions given to the Chief of Police. The joy of the
people—Jew, Christian, and Moslem—was shown in the crowds that filled
the street, the tears and embraces, the shrill cries in many tongues.
Even the Turkish sick and wounded in the hospital showed relief. For the
twenty-third time in its history Jerusalem had surrendered. But this
time there were no cries for mercy, no bitterness, no wailing, no
terrible fear of the conqueror.
Outside the walls the guns banged and hammered at the Turkish defences.
Much had to be done before Jerusalem was safe from attack, but although,
spurred on by advices from Germany, the Turks made an attempt to
recapture the City, it was a disastrous failure.
One of the young men joined us on the roof and contributed his share of
the description of the next thrilling days. It was on December 11th,
1917, that General Allenby, Commander-in-Chief, took formal possession
of the City. He would not enter through the break in the old wall made
when the former Kaiser with his great retinue entered as a Crusader.
Indeed orders have been given to have the break closed. Allenby would
carry no flag. On foot and accompanied by a Guard that altogether
numbered about one hundred fifty, he stood on Mount Zion on the steps of
the Citadel at the entrance to David’s Tower. He had been met outside
the narrow gate by the Guard representing all branches, faiths and races
that make up the British Army. Behind him, as he stood on the steps with
his staff, were the leading men of the City, ready to listen to the
reading of the Proclamation. There were no shouts of victory, no
trumpets, no evidence of the spirit of triumph over a foe. The
Proclamation was read in Arabic and English, in Hebrew and Greek, in
Russian, in French and Italian. As the people, standing respectfully in
the open spaces and upon the housetops, heard each in his own tongue
that all men might “pursue their lawful business without fear,” and the
promise that “every Holy Place, revered and held sacred by any faith,
will be defended and protected,” a look, first of incredulity, then of
confidence, passed over their faces. Many Mohammedans ran from the
square to repeat the words in homes from which some fearful ones had not
dared to come. Murmurs and gestures of approval were given on every
side. The windows of the Red Crescent Hospital were filled with faces of
those who, though very ill or badly wounded, could not miss this
significant moment of the Great War. All the promises made that day have
been sacredly kept, our friends told us.
In the old Turkish barrack square the Commander-in-Chief met the heads
of all the religious communities. The sheikhs in charge of the Mosque of
Omar, the representatives of the Priests and Patriarchs of the Latin,
Greek Orthodox, Armenian, and Coptic churches who had been deported by
the Turks, the heads of the Jewish communities, the Syrian Church, the
Greek Catholic, the Abyssinian and the Anglican Churches, all were
there. It was indeed a cosmopolitan company as to religious faiths. “The
bright color of the holiday dress which most of the people had put on, I
can see in detail at this moment,” said our friend. “Not one step in
that simple ceremony shall I ever forget. In two hours, leaving guards
over all holy places, with Mohammedan officers and soldiers from the
Indian regiments to guard the Mosque of Omar, the General walked back
through the Old Jaffa Gate as he had come, received the salute of his
troops, entered his car and went down to the fighting area.”
The relief workers took up the heavy burden of bringing food to the
people whose thin bodies and pale faces showed the effect of months of
starvation diet. All supplies must come up over roads muddy and torn by
heavy traffic, crowded with army food and equipment that must have
right-of-way. The task was one that taxed patience and energies to the
utmost. The health commission assumed the equally great task of clearing
the streets of unspeakable filth left in the wake of the Turkish rule,
our friends shouldered their burden of securing medical attention and
food for the sick, helpless and wounded men.
“Only gradually,” said our friend walking up and down on the roof, her
cheeks flushed by the memories of days so vividly recalled, “did we come
to realize that this Holy City was _free_. It was as though we had been
going about in heavy chains that, suddenly taken from us, had left us
too dazed to move. We unconsciously looked for old restrictions, old
threats, old taxes suddenly to be laid upon us. Despite the glory of its
past,” she added, leaning far over the parapet to look out upon it, “the
City in all its long history was never so truly the City of Zion as
now.”
When we went back to our hotel, standing at the windows from which the
wounded had looked, we felt that though other scenes of many cities in
many lands would fade with the years, the description of that day when a
victorious army under the leadership of a great General, a true soldier,
and a Christian gentleman had, beneath the shadow of the Tower,
proclaimed a message of possession more truly in accord with the word
and teaching of Jesus than any ever recorded in history, would never
leave us.
The sunset that night was more glorious than any we had seen. The hills
were on fire with it, the Gate was gold. Then the valleys darkened, the
streets were still, the crowd of Arab and Greek, Jew and Moslem, the
shepherds, the merchant with his camels, the shopmen and the traveler,
all sought shelter. It was night, and we looked for the last time out on
the hills to the place where the stars shone over Bethlehem. Never did
more reluctant pilgrims leave a Holy Place.