Recently some friends and I visited a historical site. I was
giddy the entire drive there and virtually bolted from the car toward the
entrance to purchase my ticket. It’s important that I’m first because it
doesn’t stay that way for long. Within minutes of entering the Roman
amphitheater, I was already drifting behind, pausing to try out the stone
seats, sit in the leftovers of a swimming pool, trace the remnants of a mosaic
floor, and stroke each column as if it were a soft, fluffy pet. (Actually, I
probably prefer ancient columns to soft, fluffy pets.) As we clambered back
into the car, my friend asked me what it was about historical “stuff” that got
me so excited.
That was an excellent question. I think it’s about learning,
perhaps some about imagination and understanding. Mostly, however, it’s about
connecting. It’s no secret I’m a history nerd extraordinaire and wish with all
my might Bill and Ted’s time-traveling phone booth were real, for then I would
be able to see my heroes. We’d hear each other talk, breathe the same
air, and experience the same things. I’d be able to hook my arm in theirs and
walk down the boulevard and truly understand their lives because I would have
lived them. In some ways, I still hold on to that hope for my future (not the
time machine bit, just the being with my heroes).
I rediscovered a short impressionist piece I wrote a couple
of years ago after returning from the Middle East. It’s rough (as is everything
I write), but maybe it will make my feelings a bit clearer:
Time and Space
The slab of marble
winks up at me: Tomb of St. John. My friend next to me snickers, registering
her disbelief, and to acquiesce, I nod my head. My historian
brain understands this CAN’T be John’s tomb. But I feel so close; I’m grasping
for a connection that is just outside of my reach. I’ve crossed the obstacle of
space; why should the barrier of time still keep me from touching him?
I want to rip open the
tomb and find John’s remains, perhaps clutching a pen and the original
manuscript of Revelation as proof. What I wouldn’t give to find that love note
from Jacob to Rachel that she preserved so well in a jar buried in the ground,
perhaps directly under the well in Shechem. I want to unearth the tablets from
a 2,000-year old Roman census in Bethlehem and find the names of Joseph and Mary
listed under the House of David. And who wouldn’t want to see the rock I
discover on a forlorn hill near Nazareth with the rudimentary carvings of two
childhood friends: Eli and Yeshua, a little cross drawn across the top of the h
just so we can know it’s the right guy.
It’s more than just
having evidence for Biblical events. I want to touch it, to hold it in my own
hands and be, even if just for a minute, linked to someone from the past
through that inanimate object. The thrill I get just by being in the same
place, staring at the same scenery, is so deeply moving that an outsider might
mistake me for a star-struck, saint-loving, relic-collecting Bible character
stalker. But time has continued its relentless march, and the Lord saw fit to
place me in the 21st century. So, I praise Him for the layers of
dirt that separate me from too many ruins, which would draw my gaze downward
instead of forcing it up.
One day, I will be
able to grasp John – the living John – and firmly shake his pen-stained hand;
when Jacob and Rachel kiss me on the cheek; when the House of David, from the
man himself down to Joseph and Mary, greet me and welcome me home; when Jesus
grasps my face between his hands and I see my name carved on the palm of his
hands; when all the stars, saints, and relics in the world unite around the
throne of God to praise him for the story he has written: then I’ll touch my
proof.
