In Jerusalem

I've been reading Karen Armstrong's Jerusalem, dizzied by the three thousand plus years of Jew fighting Jew, Jew fighting Christian, Christian against Christian and then Muslim, different peoples, all lacking respect for one another, all coating their hands in blood. Now and again arises a teacher, arises the incarnation of God and the example of light and yet none listen.

Tonight, at the end of the long weekend, I purify the altars and light candles getting ready to pray. I open the Common Prayer Book and the first reading is from Wisdom. How like the Anglican Church to have a reading notin the King James Bible. Almost as soon as I thought I had left the Catholic Church for good, I was at Mass one day, at the Anglican Church and we prayed to the Blessed Virgin for the Bishop of Rome. Incidents like that remind me you never leave anything and this life cannot be lived in bitterness. It is hard to be a true Christian because it is hard to be true.
I, so recently returned to Rome, am having one of those moments again as I have to search for one of my Catholic Bibles in order to get today's reading from Wisdom. I am on my knees, coated in dust, overturning the entire room, finding nothing. I know I thought I had washed my hands of Catholicism, but God, how could I have tossed away a Bible! I can find my Koran, I can even find the Cathchism of the Catholic Church. But I am over a half hour looking for this Bible.
When all else fails, still yourself and pray. But I cannot still myself. Still I pray anyway and under the bed, past a shoebox and a bundle of twigs (don't ask) covered in dust is the old Catholic Bible, the one Allison gave me all those years ago. How do I feel about it? About this Church I was born into? About the English one I entered into? And about this whole Christianity business? How the hell do I feel about it?

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, coated in blood.

On the CD player the Franciscans of Jerusalem (who sound very Greek) are singing before the Holy Sepulchre. In God's name we have done so much violence and brought about so much foolishness. And still, beauty, incredible, terrible beauty remains. When the light glistens on the chalice, when the monks sing the long, doleful note that thrills the soul, when one hand touches another in church, and the phrase "I'm sorry," is not longer necessary... there is that terrible, glorious splendor.

And blowing the dust off of this old Bible I know that the story of Jerusalem is my story.