29th September 2013
There is a vast, dark church in the Old City, built mostly by crusaders, it’s stone the same bleached blonde as the rocks, the dust, everything. You round a corner, and there is lies, tucked away from the world, hulking in it’s ancient way, and still a sacred place for pilgrims. The inside is a haven from the heat of the desert sun, and through the darkness, worshipper’s candles illuminate the walls, resplendant in medieval artwork.
Here, six different sects of the Christian faith have come, and each must share the uneasy peace, united perhaps by being surrounded by non-faithful.
Once, several hundred years ago, someone used a ladder, propping it up against a window. And there it remains. There is a law amongst these monks that no property of the this church may be moved without the consent of all six flavours of monks, and since mankind, and especially theologians, have never been able to agree on anything, there the ladder must stay.
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