Historical Proof

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 21^st 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.