Crossing the ancient gates of Jerusalem at dawn marks the transition from the physical journey to the spiritual one. Following instinct over itineraries, random encounters in stone alleys lead directly to the epicenters of biblical history—and a quiet invitation that changes everything.
I spent some time standing alone in the predawn shadow of the hotel where the taxi had dropped me off. Because I couldn't see anyone moving around the area, I decided to walk along the road until I spotted another building with a security guard standing outside its door. I approached the man and explained my strange situation. He was very accommodating, fun to talk with, and kept me company in the dark.
When we both agreed the morning sky had grown bright enough, I left for the Old City of Jerusalem, retracing the road that Rami the taxi driver and I had taken earlier. I finally had a good, illuminated look at my surroundings and was absolutely amazed at its beauty, especially those massive walls standing so high against the sky. I had absolutely no idea what exactly was contained inside them, and I was thrilled to find out.
When I reached the grand entrance gate, I saw a woman covered in black from head to toe. She walked out of a seemingly narrow opening directly in front of me, while there was a wider road branching to my right leading toward a bigger, brighter square. To make sure I was in the right place, I asked her if this specific path was the actual entrance into the Old City.
She simply nodded in silence and continued walking past me.
Taking that as confirmation, I decided to enter the narrow opening the woman had just emerged from. But I had to pause abruptly when I saw what lay beyond: a steep, ancient staircase made entirely of uneven stones leading deep down into the city, flanked by an endless array of locked, iron shutters on both sides. I slowly walked down the steps, deeply uncertain of my footing, having no idea where this subterranean path would ultimately lead me.
The very first specific place I wanted to find was Mount Zion, a location I had read about intensely in the Bible. The security guard had told me earlier that it was somewhere "around there."
After walking down the stairs for a while, I noticed there was someone walking closely behind me. I turned my head back, and the moment I saw the man's face, I immediately thought he was a Filipino. Taking a chance, I greeted him in our language. To my delight, he responded in Tagalog, and we spoke comfortably from then on.
I told him I had literally just arrived in the country that very morning, while he explained that he had been living and working in Israel for years. When I asked him if he knew where Mount Zion was, he pointed the precise way from the bottom of the long staircase we were currently standing on.
But before we parted, he asked me if I wanted to join him first and visit the Catholic Church nearby, which was his current destination. Relieved to have found a sudden companion in this labyrinth, I gladly accepted his invitation.
We veered left into a smaller, tighter alleyway which eventually fed into a larger road sloping downward. The sheer volume of street cats roaming around the ancient stones and walking along the high fences was quite surprising to me. After traversing several winding turns, we arrived at the massive, ornate entrance of a historic church.
Immediately greeting us just inside the doorway was a massive, rectangular slab of polished stone. Several people were kneeling around it, weeping quietly and kissing its surface. My companion whispered to me that this was believed to be the exact Stone of Unction The Stone of Anointing in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, believed to be the slab where Christ's body was prepared for burial., where the body of Jesus was laid down and anointed after He was taken from the cross.
The stone smelled so incredibly sweet, rich with the scent of ancient oils, that even from a distance away I could not resist the overwhelming pull to get closer. Overcome by the atmosphere, I knelt and laid my hands on it, just like everybody else.
Afterward, we went up a narrow, worn staircase on the right side of the cavernous church. My companion guided me to a specific area where a slow-moving line of pilgrims had formed. They were queuing up to duck under an altar and put their hands into a carved hole, allowing them to physically touch the bedrock below—reportedly the exact spot where the cross of Jesus had been erected.
I joined the queue and waited patiently for my turn, desperately hoping I would feel something profound or out of the ordinary when my hands touched the rock.
While I was still standing in line, the Filipino man called my attention and told me he had to leave me there to continue his own day. I thanked him profoundly for guiding me, and he wished me well for my stay in the city before disappearing back into the crowd.
Eventually, I ducked under the altar and touched the stone deep within the hole. However, after withdrawing my hand, I felt absolutely nothing unusual. Disappointed but physically exhausted from the travel, I found a quiet corner away from the altar, sat down on the cold stone floor, and placed my few belongings securely beside me.
I simply watched the intense reactions of the other people weeping after touching the stone, and took the time to silently admire the magnificent architecture and the heavy, artistic beauty of the ancient sanctuary.
I took a quiet moment to close my eyes and pray. When I opened them again, I immediately noticed a man looking directly at me from the dense crowd standing in front of me. He had an incredibly kind, serene face, framed by slightly long, wavy black hair. As our eyes met, he smiled at me perfectly.
Struck by the sudden warmth, I smiled back at him. For a brief, powerful moment, sitting exhausted on the stone floor of the deepest church in the world, the resemblance was so striking that I thought it felt exactly like Jesus Himself had just smiled at me to welcome me.
Leaving the church, I successfully traced my way back through the labyrinthine alleys to the main stone staircase where I had first met the Filipino man. I went all the way down to the bottom and turned right, exactly as he had originally instructed me.
Many of the small shops with the iron shutters were now opening for the morning trade. It was not difficult to find merchants to ask for further directions. The sheer diversity of the crowds passing by was staggering. Not only did people have different skin colors, but their intense varieties of religious clothing and head coverings were completely foreign to me. The only familiar comfort was the incredibly inviting smell of fresh bread filling the air as I passed a narrow alley lined with traditional bake shops.
When I finally reached the high plateau they called Mount Zion, I saw an older woman sitting on a small wooden bench right outside the entrance of a concrete-fenced compound. She was quietly selling candles. She informed me there was no entrance fee and that I could walk freely through the gate. This complex, she explained, housed King David’s Tomb.
The stone pathway from the main gate led toward a building with an entrance to the tomb on its ground floor. I wandered around the compound, feeling quite nervous because, apart from the woman at the gate, nobody else seemed to be around yet.
But then, I heard a familiar, rhythmic sound: *scritch, scritch, scritch*. It was the sound of a hard broomstick hitting the stone ground.
I followed the noise and saw an old man dressed entirely in white, with long, flowing white hair and a beard, sweeping the fallen leaves under the shade trees nearby. Seeing him instantly put me at ease. Something about his calm, deliberate posture powerfully reminded me of Mitch back in Japan.
I kept observing him from a distance, trying to work up the courage to go and talk to him. However, when I finally moved toward the courtyard, he had vanished. I walked around the complex but couldn't find him, assuming he must have finished his chores and left early.
Disappointed, I exited the compound and headed back toward the main gate. But just as I neared the exit, I heard the distinctive sound of the broomstick again. The old man in white was now cleaning the pathway along the main road, patiently gathering up plastics and scattering garbage that had blown outside the gate.
There was a younger man standing there, talking animatedly with the old man while he swept, so I hesitated to approach him right away. I sat down on the bench next to the woman selling candles and quietly eavesdropped on their conversation. The young man was asking the old street sweeper complex theological questions about the Bible.
Hearing his profound answers, I instantly realized that the old man in the white robes was not merely a janitor; he was a deeply learned scholar, likely highly recognized in his biblical field. Overwhelmed by an intense desire to learn from him, I felt I could no longer politely wait until they finished talking.
Still sitting on the bench, I boldly interrupted their theological discussion: "Excuse me! Would you mind if I helped you clean?"
The old man stopped sweeping, turned, and looked at me gently. He warned me plainly that he did not have any money to pay me. I quickly insisted I didn't want any payment for the work, and blurted out that I had just arrived in Israel that very morning all the way from Japan.
I briefly summarized the bizarre sequence of events that brought me to the tomb. Intrigued, he nodded slowly and asked me to please wait on the bench until he finished sweeping the perimeter, so we could talk properly in his quarters over a hot cup of tea.
The 'quarters' he referred to turned out to be the PSALMS room, located on the right side of the main building just before entering the central courtyard. I learned his name was Ariyeha. He was not just a scholar; he was a Kohen A Jewish priest directly descended from Aaron, historically responsible for temple duties and blessings., a priest formally in charge of keeping King David’s Tomb clean and spiritually maintained.
The young man he had been speaking with was named Reuben, a dedicated member of a small Bible study group that convened every single morning in the Kohen’s room immediately after the sweeping was done.
Sitting with the hot tea, we discussed my miraculous journey following the morning star, and I asked them respectfully to simply call me Daniel. By the time we left the Psalms room, an incredible arrangement had already been finalized: I would arrive at the complex by six o’clock in the morning every single day (except Saturday) to personally help Kohen Ariyeha sweep the stones in and around King David’s Tomb.
Fortunately, Reuben knew of a specific hostel that he thought would be ideal for my extended stay. He explained that he had personally participated in an archaeological excavation directly beneath the building, where they had discovered a special stone historically given to a firstborn by a priest—a relic that was eventually turned over to a national museum.
The three of us walked closely together through the awakening city toward the inn Reuben recommended. Along the way, they acted as my guides, trying to teach me about the profound places we were passing. They unexpectedly brought me to an overlook above the Western Wall, where I watched hundreds of people standing shoulder to shoulder, seemingly dancing rhythmically in place. The Kohen gently explained they were praying.
They also pointed out the golden dome of the mosque standing on the holy mountain, trying to impart its vast historical importance to both the Jewish and Christian communities. But exhausted and utterly overwhelmed, I was simply too ignorant of the geopolitical reality to fully absorb everything I was hearing. I admitted to myself that I knew absolutely nothing about Israel and its complex history other than what sparse verses I had read so far in my new Bible.
Incidentally, the winding route we took to reach Reuben’s recommended hostel completely retraced the chaotic path I had stumbled down that morning to find Mount Zion. In fact, the hostel itself was located directly before the narrow entrance leading to those ancient stone stairs I had first descended.
Reuben pointed to a narrow wooden staircase and instructed me to go up to the second floor and ask the front desk if there was a vacancy. I climbed the wood alone and was greeted warmly by a man carrying a baby. He confirmed they had available bed space in a shared dormitory format. Seeing the accommodations were basic but safe, I went back down to the street, thanked Reuben and the Kohen deeply for their phenomenal kindness, and we parted ways for the day.
Back up in the designated room, I found four iron bunk beds crammed together. Three of the beds were currently available. I chose a lower bunk situated right by a small window. Looking out through the glass, I could watch the endless stream of pilgrims walking in and out of the massive gate directly below, while standing tall right across the horizon was the imposing structure of King David’s Tower.
I placed my heavy backpack on the thin mattress. The sudden reality of having a physical place to sleep finally crashed over me. I asked the man with the baby if it was alright if I simply rested before filling out the official registration paperwork, and he kindly waved me off, telling me to sleep.
I collapsed fully clothed onto the blanket. Before I even knew what was happening, I slipped into total unconsciousness, remaining completely unaware of the bustling ancient city around me until I woke up late in the evening.
The moment she crosses into the Old City, the narrative shifts from desperate travel to divine appointment. Following a stranger leads her directly to the physical anchor points of her faith (the Stone of Unction, Mount Zion). More importantly, volunteering to sweep leaves with an old man perfectly establishes the thematic core of her time in Israel: rejecting tourist status in favor of active, humble service under the guidance of a Kohen.