I do know that over the course of two weeks in Egypt, I spent a lot of time unlacing and lacing up my hiking boots while Jenny could easily slip in and out of her sandals, when were went into chapels, mosques and churches. Holy was the ground we were standing on and it is a rather good practice to remove shoes. It has a way of quieting one into a more contemplative mood very quickly. There is something to feeling the ground under your feet. It slows you down on the inside.
But there were also many places that were equally ‘holy’ where we did not take off our shoes: the garbage village where thousands eke out a meagre living in the swarms of flies, early morning prayer with S., Tahir Square where hundreds died for a more just government, or being served an amazing traditional Egyptian meal in the home of A. and S.
But holy also is the land under my feet here back home. I’m thinking of yesterday morning’s post Easter worship service (more about this another time), or the birthing and death of animals on Swallowfield, the conversations over the fence with neighbors or the raining down of cherry blossoms.
The days are long past that any one piece of land can be called The Holy Land. “And they were calling to one another: “Holy, holy, holy is the Lord Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.” There are many times and places for unlacing the boots.