Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land

by Ruth Everhart

  Eventually we board a second aircraft as huge as the first. This time we are seated in the fourth row from the back. Repeat the last six hours. Taxi. Take-off. Diesel fumes. Drinks. Dinner. Time like sand.

  Mount Scopus, Jerusalem

  CHAPTER 3

  Olive Trees and Sparrows

  Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.

  MATTHEW 6:26

  THE FIRST SHOCK when you walk into the Tel Aviv airport is its size and shine. “Arrival” and “Departure” signs flip over into multiple languages in a futuristic way. It looks and operates more like a movie set than any transportation terminal I’ve experienced. The second shock is the guns. Guards wearing berets carry long firearms or wear them strapped against their bodies. After twenty-five hours of travel, we’re all a little giddy, but the weaponry has a chilling effect.

  An eleven-passenger van and driver are waiting, sent by Saint George’s College, which is hosting our pilgrimage. Brian hasn’t told us much about Saint George’s except that it’s Anglican and is a host for Holy Land pilgrims based in Jerusalem. He’s assured us that we’ll be in good hands. Now he informs us that our small group will be joining another larger group of thirty or so. We will fill a tour bus. The words “tour bus” don’t sound particularly pilgrimish; we pilgrims frown at each other but don’t say anything.

  The van driver has long, dark hair and is casually dressed in jeans and an open plaid shirt. He looks proud and handsome. I suddenly realize — why did I never realize this before? — that I cannot tell a Palestinian from a Jew. Can anyone from the Western Hemisphere tell the difference?

  Brian and the cameramen wrestle the luggage and camera gear into the rear of the van. We greet the click of the hatch with applause. Then the ten of us wedge into the three bench seats, with Brian riding shotgun. Maybe “shotgun” isn’t the best word. Before we leave the airport, we’re stopped by armed men who examine our driver’s paperwork. We’re allowed to proceed, but a few minutes later are stopped again, and then again. An almost-biblical three times. Vehicles whiz by. The uniformed men aren’t interested in us passengers — only the driver. I study his profile. There’s a hint of unrest in his chin, which lifts slightly. He never speaks.

  We are on our way. Warm, dry air blows through the windows. We pass scrubby hills dressed in shades of beige touched with green. The light is low. It feels as if day is breaking after a sleepless night, but really the day we lost is ending. Eventually we come to the outskirts of Jerusalem, which look like any suburb: residences, office buildings, shops. Lots of cement and little grass. When we pull through a gate and into Saint George’s College, a woman emerges out of the dusk to greet us. She introduces herself — a clipped “s” betraying an Australian accent — and reads off our room assignments. JoAnne and I will room together.

  We claim our suitcases from the back of the van and tow them across a courtyard, which is suddenly, shockingly, full of people. They all look rested, clean, and crisp. They could even be on their way to church — and it turns out they are. They’re Episcopalians on their way to vespers. This is the group we’re joining for our pilgrimage, mainly senior citizens wearing no-wrinkle fabrics. They smile sympathetically as we straggle by.

  The room JoAnne and I will share has a name, Tabgha, but I’m too tired to be curious. The dorm-style room is spartan but spotless, with tiled floors and tidy twin beds. I want only to take a shower and crawl into bed. I sleep for almost eleven hours.

  Breakfast is served in the basement dining room: pita bread, hard-boiled eggs, slices of a mild white cheese, plain yogurt, whole fruit. The coffee is instant Nescafé, which I sip for the sake of the caffeine.

  Our documentary group joins the thirty Episcopalians, and all forty of us gather for introductions in the college’s one conference room. The air tingles. We’re really here, in Jerusalem! Even after so much travel, it doesn’t seem possible.

  Stephen Need, the dean of the college, leads off. He is a compact man with scholarly round glasses and a crisp British accent. He asks each of us to answer this question in front of the group: Why are you here?

  The majority of people are from Canada, and nearly everyone is Anglican. Some people are well-read in Middle East politics, while others are interested in archaeology. Some are biblical scholars and talk at length, while others say little besides their name. I estimate that half the group is over sixty. There are subgroups from a couple of churches.

  “I want to walk where Jesus walked,” says Krisha, who recently converted from Hinduism. She is one of the few younger pilgrims, probably in her late twenties. Her sincerity is charming. “I want to see Jesus,” she says, “so what better place than the Sea of Galilee? I believe I’ll see him there.”

  In the Reformed tradition we keep a respectful distance from the Savior, and I’ve always shied away from buddy-buddy talk about Jesus. Who are we, unworthy as we are, to assume we’re at the top of Jesus’ list? But Krisha’s language makes me smile. In my heart I agree that she is bound to see Jesus.

  “Pilgrimage is different from other kinds of travel,” says Stephen. He quotes: “A visitor passes through a place; the place passes through the pilgrim.”* He pauses to let that sink in. “A pilgrim is open to change. The words of pilgrimage are ‘May we go home by another way.’ ” He’s referring to the story of the Wise Men, who changed their route home after a dream revealed that King Herod was not kindly disposed toward the baby Jesus. I know the text well: it comes right after Christmas, on Epiphany, and celebrates the coming of light to the Gentiles. I’m startled to realize that, by the time I preach that text again, this pilgrimage — and whatever epiphanies it stirs — will be a memory.

  Now Stephen is saying that pilgrimage is slippery to define. What do we think it is? Jessica calls pilgrimage a spiritual discipline. JoAnne suggests it’s a form of spiritual direction. Stephen latches on to the difference between those things. A spiritual discipline is something one engages in, while spiritual direction is something one offers to another person. This might seem like quibbling, but I understand what he’s saying. It’s the difference between playing the game and cheering from the sidelines. As a minister, I’m accustomed to the role of guide; but a pilgrim must be the actual traveler. In other words, a pilgrim must be on foreign soil metaphorically, if not literally.

  Stephen says, “When we seek God, we must start with an open heart. That may sound sentimental. It’s anything but. If our heart is full of something, we must let that something go.”

  Someone else suggests that pilgrimage is a way of becoming rooted and grounded in faith. That phrase is from Ephesians, but in this context it plays with the physicality of the land. Stephen nods approvingly and quotes the church father Jerome, who called the Holy Land the fifth gospel. I think about land as a gospel, a bearer of God’s good news. Stephen says, “It’s a surprising land. Expectations get turned on their heads here. Jerusalem is the center of the world.” As he says this, he spreads his arms wide, and I’m reminded of the woman who cuts my hair, who made the same motion when I told her about my plans for this trip. She had her razor-sharp scissors in one hand as she made expansive circles: “The pictures from space show a cosmic energy swirling over Jerusalem. It’s the navel of every belief. It’s dangerous because God is dangerous.” I had kept a close eye on the blades of her scissors, circling near my head.

  When I come back to the present, Brian is explaining how the documentary group will fit into the larger group. He assures everyone that the cameras won’t get in the way, but at the same time cautions, “If you don’t want to be filmed, don’t hang out with the documentary group.”

  “What if I don’t know what I want?” asks Marty, an Episcopal priest from Houston who’s in her mid-forties, I’m guessing, which makes her one of the younger members of the larger group. She leans forward, forcing her words into the center of the room. “I know how I feel today, but I don’t know how I’ll
feel next week.”

  Brian replies, “Well, we can edit you out to some degree, but it’ll be a problem if you’re in every shot.”

  “Well, I know who this Marty is, right now,” she answers in her Texas drawl, “but if Stephen’s right, and this pilgrimage changes me, I don’t know who Marty might be when this is done.”

  I glance at Camera Michael to see if he’s filming this. Members of our group are shooting glances at each other as if to say, She’s a kook! But I think Marty is onto something. Maybe the rest of us don’t want to admit we’re going through a doorway, blind.

  “Well, maybe you want to hang back, then,” Brian says smoothly. “See how you feel as it goes.”

  Stephen makes a gesture to conclude the discussion. At last! I feel ready to charge into Jerusalem. I stand up, stretching my pilgrim legs. I just need a decent cup of coffee. Everyone else, however, continues to sit, and Stephen announces, glancing at me, “This first lecture is entitled ‘The Historical Jesus.’ ”

  I sit down reluctantly and open my notebook. I doodle a cup of coffee with wisps of steam rising from it.

  “Our question is: Who is Jesus Christ for us today? Choosing to focus on this question will be foundational to your pilgrimage experience.”

  I used to think about that question a lot — Who is Jesus? — but nearly twenty years of ministry have dulled the question’s incisive edge. I’m so busy doing Jesus’ work (as I imagine it to be) that I assume he and I understand each other. If I’m honest, I know I haven’t continued to digest new scholarship as I should do. I have stagnated at the level I preach, which fits into fifteen-minute increments and gives people comfort. Because, Lord knows, we all need comfort.

  What do I really believe? Seminary sparked questions I never really answered, and questions have a way of multiplying. Do I acclaim Jesus as a revolutionary, as the liberation theologians do? Do I differentiate between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith, as Marcus Borg does? Do I reject the historicity of the Virgin Birth, as John Shelby Spong does? I may have one answer for myself, and another for the pulpit. In seminary I thought I would continue this journey of exploration for a lifetime and bring people along with me, but instead I simply call Jesus “Lord” and let my people hear whatever they need to hear.

  Stephen is saying, “At Caesarea Philippi, Jesus asked his disciples, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ The place where that question was asked — Caesarea Philippi, where many gods were revered — mattered. Place always matters.” Stephen repeats those three words. “Place always matters.”

  “Why have we come to Jerusalem to answer the question of who Jesus is?” As if in response, music from the Jewish Quarter wafts in through the open window. It’s noon on Saturday. “Shabbat,” Stephen explains. The sound fills the room while I hold my breath. Jesus would have responded to that music if he were here, wouldn’t he? He was an observant Jew.

  Today’s music is almost as jarring as yesterday’s firearms, a reminder that I’m a foreigner here.

  The lecture continues for another half hour, and I’m grateful when we break for lunch. Who knew that being a pilgrim would require so much sitting and listening?

  Lunch is a simple meal of pita bread, hummus, yogurt, and various salads. Brian gathers our group to let us know the plan for filming. This evening we’ll each give our first on-camera interview about the day’s events. “We’ll film on the roof, and the night sky will be a perfect backdrop,” he says with relish.

  I’m already nervous about the camera, and now, stirred by the lecture, I’m full of faith questions. What can I possibly share in an interview? Before I can gather my thoughts or jot them down, it’s time to go back to the conference room.

  “A pilgrimage is about both past and present. We dig up the past to interpret the present.” Stephen lists nine major archaeological finds that we’ll see: ossuaries, the Pontius Pilate stone, the Old City, Capernaum, Qumran, Sepphoris. . . . Though I’m writing as fast as I can, I cannot catch them all. Without pausing, he lists more concepts to keep in mind on this quest for the historical Jesus. Jesus was a Jew, so root him in the Judaism of his day. Consider whether he thought of himself as a political figure. Was he a Zealot? Get a sense of his physical, natural world. Always ask yourself about his social world. Was Jesus a wisdom teacher?

  I feel cast adrift on a sea of questions and am ready to pick up a paddle. But will I dare to digest and preach whatever I learn on this pilgrimage?

  “A pilgrimage is like looking down a well,” Stephen says. “You look down history, and you find that you are confronted with yourself.”

  JoAnne mentions the myth of Narcissus — whose punishment from the gods was to fall in love with his own reflected image — and the group tosses that around. Stephen suggests that we are called to become so focused on Jesus that when we look at ourselves, we see his face reflected. This stops me. I know my face belongs to a redeemed sinner. I have never thought it might reflect Christ.

  We haven’t seen a single site and already I feel overloaded.

  We board a bus, filling every seat, and are asked to “buddy up.” My seatmate is Kyle, a tall Anglican priest from British Columbia. Kyle is probably about my age, although prematurely white-haired.

  “I’m just going to ask you,” I say, “because I should know this. What’s the difference between Anglican and Episcopalian?”

  “ ‘Episcopal’ is the name for the Anglican Church in the United States,” he answers.

  “That’s it? Well, that clears up a whole lot of confusion.”

  “We Anglicans aim to confuse,” Kyle says, “so we can un-confuse you later.” He tells me that he’s at the end of a three-month sabbatical; this pilgrimage is the final segment. I ask him about his travels, and what the highlight has been so far.

  “A week of silent retreat at a monastery in Belgium. Didn’t speak a word the whole week, and at supper every night a monk set a stein of beer in front of me — and a hunk of this delicious white cheese.”

  “So you’re saying religious experience comes down to menu?”

  He nods. “Beats words, anyway.”

  While the bus lurches along, Stephen gets on a microphone and supplies background facts, which I dutifully record. In the nineteenth century BCE, Jerusalem originated as the city of Salem, possibly named after a pre-biblical god of peace. Its other name, Zion, is from the Hebrew tsia, meaning “thirsty” or “dry.” This is a desert city built over a water source.

  At Mount Scopus, our first destination, it takes ten minutes for the group to disembark. Somehow I didn’t think a pilgrimage would involve quite so many people moving quite so slowly. Facing east, we look across to the West Bank of the Jordan River. Two types of architecture are noticeable, even from a distance. The utilitarian high-rises are Palestinian housing, while the picturesque red-tiled roofs belong to an Israeli settlement. I study this, grateful that someone has given me the eyes to comprehend what I’m seeing. In the distance is the Rift Valley, which stretches south to the Dead Sea, its lowest spot. Someone asks about deserts, and Stephen refers to three of them: the Judean desert, which surrounds Jerusalem; the Negev to the south; and beyond that, the Sinai. All three deserts are hilly, with different levels of vegetation and rainfall. The Judean desert has the most plant life. Looking at the scrubby growth, I see that a desert is more than a pile of sand. I haven’t paid enough attention to the different deserts and wilderness in Scripture, ignorantly picturing them all as wasteland.

  We turn west, facing Jerusalem, and then look to the south, at King David’s City. This is a small archaeological site outside Jerusalem’s southern wall, which once contained the original spring. “Notice the water,” Stephen says, with his weighted voice. I crane to look for the water, but all that’s visible is dust and stone. Someone asks about how the water is routed now, but I have reached saturation on talk about this Holy Land. I’m like a thirsty kid touring the Hoover Dam; I just want to find a fountain.

  I glance over my should
er and notice an olive tree right behind me. I casually back up, then slip underneath the tree’s branches. I can hear Stephen talking, saying things I should write down, facts that a preacher should know. But I’ve never seen an olive tree before. The branches are dense with leaves, the little olives tight and green. I imagine Jesus sitting beneath an olive tree exactly like this one. What did he think about when he looked at olives on a branch? I wish he were here right now. A pair of sparrows fly among the branches. The words of Jesus come to me: “Look at the birds of the air. They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.” I stay enveloped by the olive tree while Stephen continues to talk. Look at the birds of the air. They neither lecture nor listen nor take copious notes, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.

  Eventually I slip out of the tree’s embrace. Stephen is pointing out Jerusalem’s Golden Gate with its double arch, now sealed, and he gives its history. For the first time I notice a cemetery spread below us. It’s unlike any cemetery I know. There are rows and rows of stone boxes standing on the sand. Each stone box is littered with smaller stones. Everything is dirty beige. It looks like a good wind scrubbed the whole place down to rock, and then the dirty sand drifted in and coated everything again. Maybe everything in Jerusalem is dirt-colored like this, and it will seem perfectly normal in a day or two. I’ve heard that Jerusalem is the color of milk and honey, a thousand beautiful hues of gold. But the descriptive word that comes to my mind is much harsher: hardscrabble.

  I am personally acquainted with cemeteries, having lived next door to one in rural Illinois. I sometimes chased cattle who knew to hide behind headstones when the fence broke down. At one funeral where I officiated, an elder explained why all the graves face east: the better to greet Jesus when he returns. After that I liked to picture the scene described in 1 Corinthians 15: angels blasting on trumpets, bodies lifting from graves, pink-tinged clouds forming a throne for Jesus, the whole scene shot through with rays of light, anchored to earth by the rich green of grass. Could my imagination set that triumphant scene here just as well? No grass, no cows, no headstones, no flowers — just littered stone boxes. But Jesus is here, too, of course. Even in a Jewish cemetery. Perhaps especially in a Jewish cemetery. These graves face west, not east, I calculate, since they face the Holy City. They would be prime seats for the Second Coming.