We stand upon holy ground without even realizing where we are. We stand as sinners with the saints, removing our shoes. I have reminded myself that I stood above the place where Athanasius’ body was laid. It makes me wonder: how often am I on holy ground, not realizing where I stand? The chants of the priest and the people praying in a language I cannot understand several thousand miles from my home are unfamiliar, but not to the One to whom they pray. Centuries of theological arguments have begun here, and divisions have been created that only God can overcome. For me, this is very difficult. Here, I cannot approach the body of Christ. Though the church is Christ’s bride, the body remains broken. Broken and scattered amongst theologies, languages, and cultures, the broken body of Christ witnesses to the church’s brokenness. What is common - bread and wine - is holy, the Body of Christ. We receive here only a piece of what is to come. The church as a harbinger of God’s church and reign is corrupted, divided and scattered within and among herself. I long for the day when the chasm is closed between the church and the Church, between us and God, between the already and the not yet.