Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land (23 page)

Perhaps the act of tracing my finger over the nameless Crusader crosses helped me work out this religious impulse toward high-mindedness, this passion for righteousness. But why lay that passion at the feet of the Crusaders a thousand years ago? This passion isn't dead. Look at my own Calvinism. Our Pilgrim and Puritan forebears believed that they were a chosen people decreed to establish a shining city on a hill, and that belief shut out other beliefs, not from malice but from the desire for purity. If you've got something shining and pure that belongs to God, you need to safeguard it.

No wonder I was worried about coming to this Holy Land. It was an absolutely reasonable fear. Religious zeal leads to a passion for purity which leads to violence in some organic way. And that fact should terrify people of faith.

But how can I think I'm above this messy combination? Even on this pilgrimage I've been irritated with my fellow pilgrims for not believing exactly as I do, even though we share the same faith. Don't I sometimes act as if I'm right? Even irreproachable? The truth is, there is in my core a certain intransigence, a belief that my flavor of Christianity is the best flavor.

I take a seat at an outdoor café table and order a Turkish coffee.
A boy brings the handleless cup and saucer on a round silver tray. As I sip, I write down the word “passion,” a word that can mean such different things: religious zeal, sexual desire, enthusiasm, love, violence. Jesus' suffering and death. This morning's walk along the Via Dolorosa is still echoing in my soul. I trace a cross beside the word “passion.” Certainly all of these meanings come from the same root. In this Holy Land they have a motley co-existence. Why should we be surprised when one passion ignites another? For good and for bad, we can't get away from these connections. The passions are all stitched together, and the seams simply show here in a more pronounced way than they do back home. And I can't pretend that somehow my religious motivations are above the fray, or purer than anyone else's.

In the face of all this, to believe in the possibility of redemption is truly a statement of faith.

The coffee is bitter, overpowering even the sweetness of the dates that lingers on my tongue.

Why did I come on this pilgrimage? I need to be able to tell the camera tonight. I write it down:
I came on this pilgrimage because I wanted to move deeper into my calling. But I'm seeing that my vocational call — ministry — has in some ways eclipsed the more personal call to discipleship.

On the one hand, I've been following Jesus my whole life. I couldn't
NOT
follow Jesus. Sometimes it's even been irritating because a nagging question has surfaced: Where is my free will? Could I even have chosen a different path? But now I'm seeing deeper layers. Perhaps the call is to live as a disciple, as a forgiven person, and to offer the same to others.

When I began this pilgrimage, I didn't know I needed to find forgiveness! I thought I already had it. This pilgrimage has turned up surprises. It's like finding out that your house has a rotting basement when you've been happily living in the upstairs, sitting by a sunny window. I'll leave the declaration that I am the chief of sinners to the apostle Paul. But the difficult truth is that I do sin — daily: I don't view the world with the eyes of Christ; I don't look everywhere for the face of Christ; I don't
show the world the face of Christ; I don't live what I pray: Thy Kingdom come.

I can't articulate everything I've learned. But I do know that when I return home, I must not cease to be a pilgrim. I need to figure out how to take up the roles I've temporarily set aside — wife and mother and minister — without dropping this new role as pilgrim.

My coffee cup is empty. My pilgrim cup overflows with whirling thoughts, both bitter and sweet. It's time to head back to Saint George's. Maybe along the way I'll find clarity. Maybe back in my room I'll write some profound sentences to use in the interview. Maybe I'll even have time for a nap.

I pay the bill and head toward Saint George's. I'm footsore by the time I spy the familiar gate. Beneath the tree limbs are the chairs where Khalil and I sat and talked just ten days ago. Waiting for the light to change, I notice two young boys — seven or eight years old — who are horsing around on the street corner. One of them has a wooden bat, which he swings, low. Suddenly he notices me and abruptly stops moving. He stares at my legs. I become uncomfortably aware that my knees show. He points, yelling in a high pitch to the other. They begin shouting at me, angrily. The one with the bat comes at me, raising the weapon over his head with both hands. He is moving in slow motion. My feet freeze. I'm mesmerized by watching what he intends to do. Would he really harm me? Deliberately, he holds the bat high, then brings it down. I pull away in time, and the bat makes a wide swoop over my right shoulder. I can hardly believe what's happened.

Meanwhile, the other boy has found a large stick. My heart is racing. When the boy with the bat raises his weapon again, I find my feet and sprint across the street without looking for traffic. Vehicles honk and swerve. In a moment I'm within the protection of Saint George's gates. I don't stop running until I'm in the refuge of my dorm room and can collapse on the bed.

Why had it not occurred to me that I am an outrage? There are two sides to every notion of religious purity, and my exposed knees are the proof that I am on the wrong side. I am the infidel.

Oh angel, is that my hip that's been knocked out of joint?

Emmaus

CHAPTER 21

Open

Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.

L
UKE 24:31

W
E ENDED YESTERDAY'S
Stations of the Cross with the Resurrection story, so today we're headed to Emmaus, to see the site of one of the best-loved post-Resurrection stories. (Find the whole story in Luke 24:13-35.)

The Emmaus story takes place that first Easter evening while the word is still spreading that Jesus' tomb is empty. No one knows what this means. Two of Jesus' followers — Cleopas and a friend — are walking from Jerusalem to their home in Emmaus. They are in turmoil, their high hopes for this Jesus destroyed. As they walk along, Jesus joins them, but hides himself from their recognition. The two men take him for a stranger who somehow doesn't know what's been going on in Jerusalem. They tell him about the recent events, and why they feel so despondent.

The incognito Jesus says to the two men, “How foolish you are and slow of wit!” Then, still without revealing himself, he interprets the Hebrew Scripture, explaining why this Jesus needed to suffer before he could enter into glory. When they reach their destination, the two friends press the stranger to stay the night with them, and he agrees. During supper, the hidden Jesus picks up the bread and breaks it, and in a miraculous moment, the two
friends realize who he is. Scripture says it simply: “Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.” Immediately, he vanishes. Cleopas and his friend say to each other, Why didn't we know? Weren't our hearts burning within us while he interpreted the scriptures?

It's a beautiful story, one of my favorites. The whole time that the men felt so dispirited, the risen Christ had been walking alongside them. Astounding. I'm eager to get to the site to soak in the story. I want to have my own eyes opened, want to feel my own heart burn.

But first there's a final lecture, entitled “Where Is the Site of Emmaus?”

“There are many possible answers to that question,” Stephen says. “Holy places move.”

The text gives the distance from Jerusalem to Emmaus in stadia, which is an ancient unit of measurement. Different manuscripts list different distances: some say 60 stadia; others say 160. On top of that, it's not known which direction Cleopas and his friend were walking in. Finally, it's not known whether the figure was calculated for one-way or round-trip. In the end, there are four possible locations for Emmaus. As Stephen lists and explains these four possibilities, I avoid looking at Shane. I don't want to see his pained expression during all these calculations. Eventually Stephen says, “After all the evidence is weighed, the most widely recognized site is not the one that's most visited, for a variety of reasons, mainly convenience. The most visited site is called Abu Ghosh. And that's where we're headed today.”

To sum up: We have spent an hour hearing which site is most authentic and have decided not to go there! It seems an appropriate end to a Holy Land pilgrimage. Authenticity is in the eye, and heart, of the pilgrim, not in geography.

Abu Ghosh is a stone church built in the Crusader period. It's a large structure, but nothing fancy — just great chunks of stone
reaching high to a few small windows. We pilgrims enter and wander around, admiring the way the shafts of light penetrate the dungeon-like interior. The walls contain vestiges of colorful frescoes. There's an enormous altar, which our leaders set up for communion. We sit down on wooden pews, and the worship service begins.

Stephen asks us to reflect on this question: Where have we encountered Jesus during the ten days of this pilgrimage? If we'd like to, we may share our thoughts with the others. Pilgrims mention various moments: lighting a candle at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem; being deep underground at the tombs in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; floating in the Dead Sea after the cable-car fiasco at Masada; touring the Deheshieh refugee camp.

Krisha speaks up, very distressed. She had come on this pilgrimage expressly because she wanted to walk along the shore of the Sea of Galilee and see Jesus there. Well, we had been in the Galilee for three nights, and she didn't see Jesus! She cries as she speaks. My heart goes out to her, but I'm surprised. I remember the night of swimming in the Sea of Galilee. Wasn't Jesus there in our laughter? Our unity?

One of the things I cherish about the Reformed tradition is the conviction that we do not control the Spirit of God. The Spirit will appear when the Spirit chooses to appear; all we can do is keep our eyes open. To me, this is what the Emmaus story is all about. I love this peek-a-boo quality of Jesus, as if he's saying, “Now you see me — now you don't!”

JoAnne says, “To me this pilgrimage has been like opening a children's pop-up book. It's taken all the biblical stories I love, and thought I knew, and made them three-dimensional. I see so much more.”

She's right. There's something so hands-on about pilgrimage, so unavoidably tactile. It reminds me of dress-shopping with my daughters. You can look at pictures of dresses all you want, but what you must do is actually try them on. You must see whether the shape flatters you, how the fabric drapes on your body, if the
colors work against your skin tone. But if you go shopping and know exactly what the dress should look like — the color, the cut, the fabric — you're likely to come home empty-handed. Your mind must be open. Sometimes people say you need to let the dress find you.

Pilgrimage takes a similar kind of openness. Experiencing Jesus is not something we order up but something we allow to happen. We create the space, the heart-space, and the Spirit chooses when and how to appear. We recognize it when it happens.

Stephen begins to preach. First he speaks about the absence and presence of Jesus in the post-Resurrection stories generally: he calls it a “theology of the enigmatic Christ.” I suppose that sounds better than “peek-a-boo Jesus.” The recurring theme is that Jesus appears and disappears. The people who see Jesus tell others, and those who didn't see must decide whether or not to believe those who did. Jesus seems most apt to appear when the faithful are together in conversation, or in prayer, or in breaking bread. We can do these things, but we cannot command his appearance. Meanwhile, Jesus is forever moving forward, inviting us to follow.

After all — and as Stephen says this, I see how fundamental this is, but slippery to grasp — isn't the very absence of Jesus, in a sense, beckoning us forward? When Jesus appears and disappears, doesn't he encourage us to keep moving toward him? It's like stepping toward a light switch in a dark but familiar room. You know the light is there, so you keep moving forward even though you can't quite see. In a sense, there is no such thing as Jesus' disappearance; there is only our continual movement into a new kind of divine presence.

I think about my pocket-sized Jesus, the one I felt I'd outgrown when this pilgrimage began. I'm glad to let that go, but it's not easy to follow this larger, enigmatic Jesus. I see how tempting it is to nail him down, so to speak, to trap him in our theology.

Stephen reminds us what Cleopas and his friend said to each other: “Were not our hearts burning within us while he was talking to us on the road?” He tells us that a pilgrim pays attention to
what makes the heart burn. A pilgrim tends the flame. How will we do that when this pilgrimage is ended? He closes by saying that we'll spend ten minutes in silent meditation. He sits down, and a great silence engulfs the group.