June 13, 2010 THE UNFINISHED IMAGE
The town of Capernaum in the Holy Land was the headquarters of Jesus during his public ministry. In the last ten years I have visited it twice on pilgrimage. Many of the biblical sites of Jesus’ life are still vibrant and pulsing cities. Nazareth, Tiberias, Jericho are all centers of commerce. Capernaum is a city in ruins. That’s partly what makes it so attractive to pilgrims. A second century synagogue stands in ruins. Massive millstones line a display area of the city and give understanding to the words of Jesus when he threatens those who scandalize children. The only representation of the Ark of the Covenant from antiquity is found engraved on a stone tablet found in Capernaum. But the most striking feature of the old ruined city is the very home of Peter, prince of the Apostles. Archeologists have many reasons to believe the home is authentically that of Peter. The roof is no longer in place, but the floor plan is very clear. Above the house stands a Franciscan church — on stilts. The sanctuary floor of the church is of glass so a pilgrim can look directly down into the floor plan of Peter’s house. Here Jesus ate and slept. From here he preached. Across the street he cured the paralytic lowered through the tiles of a roof. Here in this house Jesus raised Peter’s mother-in-law from sickness.
With me on pilgrimage was my great priest friend, Jim. We had been in college seminary together. We had vacationed together every year since ordination. Together we sat around campfires, canoed and kayaked rivers, explored London, fished for walleye, shared novels, gossiped about the Church, concelebrated Mass. He had seen me through disappointments; I had seen him through illness.
He had been standing at my side looking through the glass to Peter’s house below. Now he was gone. Where was he? There, outside again, roaming the beach area between the church and the northern tip of the Sea of Galilee. Later when I caught up with him he said, “Bob, he was here. He saw this land, this sea, this sky, the surrounding hills. Not like in Jerusalem where layers of land cover over the streets he walked. Jesus was here.” Jim was filled with awe. Now, that’s not too strange until you know that Jim, my friend, was a cynical, sarcastic red-haired Irishman from Chicago. Well, in his youth he was red haired! Now what hair he had, like mine, was grey. “Given over to spiritual awe was not characteristic of Jim,” I thought to myself. Then, I thought further. “Of course he is. For all his cynicism, Jim is full of awe of mountains, of rivers, of an impressionist artist, of an old woman with common sense, of a man with a sense of humor. It’s what enables him to be so awestruck now at the intimacy of Jesus.”
I felt like the paralytic who in this same town was lowered by his healthy friends into the healing presence of Jesus.