FAITH THAT MOVES MOUNTAINS

By Johanna McGeary

She dances with the single-minded intensity of the divine. On her head she balances a solid granite boulder, symbol of her mortal burdens. Round and round in syncopated steps, her open palms fluttering up and down in tireless supplication, she strives toward ecstasy. On and on she circles to the soft crooning of "Mariam, Mariam, Mariam," bending and rising in private communion; the heavy stone never wavers. Suddenly she halts and smiles with such sweetness that the Virgin must surely have answered her prayer.

This is the faith that moves mountains. At Christmastime in Axum, ancient home of the Queen of Sheba, reputed sanctuary of the Ark of the Covenant and heart of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, such devotion is commonplace. Nothing has ever succeeded in crushing the simple rituals of piety that have been practiced here since the 4th century--not the communist ideology that ruled Ethiopia for much of the past two decades, not the cynicism of the modern age, not the latest plagues of civil war, famine, poverty and AIDS.

Once a year or once in a lifetime, on the Feast of the Virgin by the Julian calendar (Nov. 29 this year), pilgrims flock by the tens of thousands to the Cathedral of St. Mary of Zion, the holiest of holy churches in their faith. The continual chants of "Mariam, Mariam, Mariam" bear witness to the high esteem, higher even than that accorded Jesus, in which Ethiopia's Christians hold the Mother of the Saviour. One woman says this is the day Mary was miraculously transported to Axum. Another says no, this is the day Mary stopped here on her flight into Egypt (a long detour, indeed). It doesn't really matter; the pilgrims believe she is here now.

Few Westerners know this kind of faith--idiosyncratic individual devotion at its most physical. There are no glittering ceremonies or grand processions, no public professions, no dramatic visions, only 10,000 acts of private veneration, prayer, supplication. What the stranger sees is the collective reverence of the like-minded in direct contact with the spiritual, and the awesome testament of comfort received, etched on their faces.

Ethiopian Orthodoxy is a curious amalgam of Judaic and Christian practices, African and European rituals. It is manifestly a man's religion: only males may enter the inner sanctuary where it is claimed Moses' Ark is hidden. No one knows anyone who has actually seen it, but the pilgrims are certain it is there. "They don't have to let people see it for us to believe it," says a gnarled elder. "That's the mystery." Women, he adds, are excluded because "God made the rules for mankind and women broke them."

Still, women come to Axum to speak directly to Mary. They dance to beg for help. They approach the gateway to the inner shrine to genuflect and kiss its stones. They stand in lines along the outer walls offering silent prayers. "If we have a problem--lack of rain, poor harvests, infertility, illness--we need to go to her and she will listen," says a young supplicant, "more than Jesus or God. If we are here, by our presence, she knows it even though we can't be in the church."

That conviction is what sustains the pilgrims as they toil up the barren, vertiginous slopes from the Great Rift Valley to the high, dusty plain where Axum lies. Many began their journey on the Julian New Year, back in September; even if one can afford to fly or drive, it is unseemly not to walk. The destination is not only holy to the church but sacred to the nation. From the son of Sheba 3,000 years ago descended an unbroken line of Ethiopian Emperors down to the people's revolution in 1974. Today Axum is the capital of Tigrai province, which fought for years to gain independence but instead won control of the entire country six years ago. When the devout finally arrive back home, their neighbors will wash their feet and drink the bath water to share in the blessing.

As Saturday lengthens into evening, the cathedral compound fills with the billowing white gabi, or shawls, that envelop men and women alike, serving as turban, blanket, veil. At their own rhythm, people go about the business of worship. Men read from leatherbound lives of the saints; women ululate softly as they lean on tall prayer rests. Everyone will keep the vigil through the night. As darkness falls, shrouded bundles occupy every empty space on the hard, stony ground, huddling around the dim golden flicker of tiny candles.

Before the Sunday sun lights the horizon, a handful of chosen men will enter the holiest sanctuary to hear Mass from priests hidden behind a wall of vivid icons. The rest are content just to be among people who believe as they believe. Soon, they say, the Patriarch will appear with the Ark to pronounce his blessing. Calmly, serenely, the pilgrims wait. By noon, the Patriarch has come and gone in a brisk flourish of gilded robes. There is no Ark, and the blessing is delivered swiftly amid a crush of baton-swinging soldiers and security guards. But the pilgrims do not mind, says a kneeling man. "Here, even just waiting is holy."