Symbolic gesture

This little essay is the result of a 20 minute writing about a picture of Jerusalem. I wrote it at the Writing Retreat a week ago in Rockport. The leader put out a dozen pictures out on a table and we chose one to write about. A picture similar to the one here spoke to me, reminded me of an experience I had about 13 years ago last month. When I started writing, I had thought the experience took place in Jerusalem when I was there with the Youth Ensemble. Half-way through, I realized that it took place in Cairo. By then, I was already deep into the thought...so I kept on. Truth is, it could have happened in Jerusalem as well as Cairo, so I think it still works. I had to laugh at myself, though. At this age, my once oh-so-sharp memory is playing tricks on me...

What is that noise? I roll over and look at my watch. 5 a.m. Still a couple of hours before I need to get up. I close my eyes and begin to drift back to sleep when I hear the noise again. What is it? It's long, loud, agaonized. I push up out of the fog of sleep and stagger to the window which was open in hopes of letting a passing breeze in to relieve the sultry air that fills my small hotel room.

There it is again. I rub the sleep from my eyes and let my gaze sweep the rooftopos of the houses that surround my hotel. Nothing. I wait for the noise to come again so I can locate its origin. At last, there it is. My eyes are pulled, like a magnet, to a rooftop where I see two men and a cow. I see, now, what the noise is: the cow is bellowing, its throat slit--a demand of some ancient festival ritual--the death cry of a beast innocent of all but a symbolic act, repeated over and over for centuries.

I watch. Sickened, but mesmerized. And as I watch, I replay in my mind the previous day's adventure, wandering the streets of Jerusalem (with Alex and Donny), walking where JEsus walked, wondering if it felt modern to Him the way it felt primitive to me. Wondering what it must have felt like to be God trapped in human form, seeing pain and suffering all around, able only occasionally, and then at last, to take the weight of the world on His shoulders.

That cow, those men, alone in the pre-dawn calm, come slowly back into focus from past to present as the life-blood flows from the helpless throat. Makes me long for a day when there is no need for symbolic gestures and figurative language. Makes me long for a day when there is no need for anything but face-to-face conversation with my Saviour...

There! It is done. Quiet again. The men, done with their ritual, have disappeared. All that is left are spatters of blood and a memory. I go back to bed, but not to sleep. That cry still rings in my ears.