I Don't Know Why
She was crying. I don’t know why.
I was on my way home after a morning in the Old City of Jerusalem. It was around noon and I was munching on a piece of ka’ak, a sweet bread covered with sesame seeds (“ka’ak” in Arabic) and shaped in a large ring. I had just taken a group of Lutheran Bishops, pastors and spouses to the pools of Bethesda (House of Mercy/Grace), the place where Jesus healed the man who had been lying there, between the porticoes, for 38 years (John 5). As I talked with them about this wonderful place, a place of healing and hope, some tears welled up in me. I was telling them how I came to this place on the day that I found out my father was sick unto death. I said that I didn’t come there to pray for his healing. I knew that Dad wasn’t going to get better; that he was going to die. Rather, I came to this place because Bethesda represents for me, and for all of us, I think, a place to be reminded that, in Jesus, we have a champion, someone who will do for us what no other can.
So I cried a little. And of course, I know why, and so do you.
Then on the way home, in the middle of a bite of ka’ak, I saw this woman crying. I don’t know why.
She was wearing the hijab, so I knew she was Muslim. She was in her mid-fifties, maybe younger, I’m not exactly sure. She was softly crying and I didn’t know why. I turned around and drew up alongside of her. I don’t know why. I didn’t look at her. She didn’t look at me either, but that little act of companionship broke the dam and she began to weep. I don’t know why. We walked together like this for half a block or so, past a handful of shops and a falafel stand. When we reached the corner at the end of our street, she stopped. I stopped with her. She fought to get control, and finally, after a minute or two, she did. I simply stood next to her, looking straight ahead, not wanting to draw any more attention to her then I already had. She took a deep breath and let out a long sign.
In Arabic, I said, “Sorry.”
From the corner of my eye I saw her nod her head, once, twice and then once more. “Thank you,” she responded. Then she walked on, and I walked home.
I walked into the silence of our apartment, and I wept. And I know why. I miss my Dad. I miss family, friends and country too. And I see the broken hearts of the people here, and mostly you just hold in the pain of this seeing, but then, unexpectedly, the dam bursts. And you don’t know why.
Except, of course, today I know why.
On that East Jerusalem street, two broken hearts found some small comfort in companionship, albeit a subtle and silent little connection, nothing much of anything really. And yet something, no matter how small, is not nothing.
In a very small way, Sally and I walk alongside the people here, and they by us as well. While it is true that we will probably always be outsiders here, people who will never fully belong or be fully accepted, it is also true that we are here when we could be not here. And this doesn’t escape notice, and most of the people here appreciate this little gift we give, this gift of presence.
The woman was crying. I don’t know why. And I don’t have to know why, because I know what it feels like to cry. And so do you. People are people no matter about race, religion or nationality. We all cry. And we all know why. We know about loss, because even if we are numbered among the world’s winners, we’ve known loss. Right?
And we all need a champion. And no, I’m not going to end this with Jesus, although I could and then we’d all feel better. Jesus was not walking on my street today. I was. And that woman was. I don’t know why. But I do know what I’m called upon to do when I encounter someone with a broken heart. I am to walk alongside for a little while. I am to share the burden in whatever small way I can. I don’t have to say much, because I really don’t have much to say about someone else’s pain. Except, of course - “Sorry.”
Jesus wasn’t walking on my street today. But in the name of Jesus, I was. And sometimes, I don’t know why. But today, I do.
