We return down the side aisle. Hovering outside our pews, the family members embrace each other in the Paz de Cristo. I hug the kneeler-thumping woman, then slide into the pew. The old man in front of me sits down laboriously. I squeeze his plaid shoulders from behind. A girl beside him carefully nests a pink vinyl purse in her lap and smiles up at me.
I take my journal from the side pocket of my suitcase and write a prayer:
I seek with all my heart to be open to the leading of the Spirit on this pilgrimage. May my heart and soul bear fruit. May I be good soil for the work of the Spirit. May my life change direction, if need be. May I be willing to bend like a willow in the wind of the Spirit. Change me. Bend me. Break me, if need be. Uproot me. I am yours. Amen.
St. Bart’s Episcopal Church, New York City
CHAPTER 2
Time like Sand
By faith Abraham obeyed when he was called to set out for a place that he was to receive as an inheritance; and he set out, not knowing where he was going.
HEBREWS 11:8
WHEN I ANNOUNCED to my congregation in suburban Washington, D.C., that I’d been selected to be in a documentary called “Pilgrimage Project,” people were excited for me, but also concerned. Was this some sort of TV reality show? Would I get voted off the island, so to speak, kicked out of the Holy Land? It was a reasonable thing to wonder. I couldn’t tell them much about the project, not for any sworn-to-secrecy reasons, but because I didn’t know much. The filmmaker, Brian Ide, struck me as a person of integrity, and I was drawn to the documentary’s twin goals: to lift up the value of pilgrimage, which he described as “faith-based travel,” and to follow an intentionally ecumenical group of Christian clergy from different denominations.
Besides those worthy goals, the project appealed to my adventurous side, a side that had been dormant for far too long. Oh, it’s an adventure to get married, to get through seminary, to give birth to two daughters, to pastor a church, to raise a family. It’s just not the kind of adventure that makes a person update her passport or imagine the smell of olive trees in Palestine.
One member of my congregation asked, apparently in all seriousness, whether I would bring a gun. Another asked, “Isn’t it terrifying to think you could lose your life?” I assured everyone that I’d be safe. I didn’t say but I did wonder: Is it more dangerous to be a tourist in Israel than to live within striking distance of our nation’s capital? Yet the truth was — and still is — that part of me was terrified to take this trip because I could lose my life. Not because of bombs or bullets, but because of questions.
There are spiritual questions that I’ve never gotten around to answering. Not as I grew up in the womb of the conservative Reformed tradition, where everything about faith was warm and safe and reassuring. Not as I studied religion in college, where every question was neatly pegged with an appropriate doctrinal answer. Not as I attended seminary, where the sheer volume of reading material made faith questions easy to ignore. Not as I preached hundreds of times in decades of ministry, where the Sundays marched along relentlessly, each one needing a fifteen-minute sermon void filled.
That backlog of unanswered questions might crowd in on me during this pilgrimage, and what if I can’t find the answers to them? What if I misplace my faith? What if I lose it? That is my deepest fear. A preacher without faith is what? The punch line is, of course: Unemployed! But not even that bad joke expresses how I feel. My faith is more than my livelihood. My faith is my life. To lose my faith would be to lose my life.
Let me name a theological problem I’ve danced around for years, one that starts with the name of the place I’m going to: Holy Land. Why not call it what it is — Land of Holy War? There have been religious wars on this land for millennia, from the ancient stories of the conquest of Canaan, to the Crusades with their forcible conversions, to the warring Israelis and Palestinians today.
Why all the bloodshed? Perhaps the reason is simple. Perhaps it’s the other side of the same lesson we teach in Sunday school: God chose a people and gave them a land. That sounds so good if you align yourself with the chosen people. But doesn’t this mean that there were others God didn’t choose, that there were others who didn’t get a land? That makes my brain grind to a standstill. How can this be true if we call God our Father? I’m not just fussing over gender language here — that’s a separate issue. My problem is with this parent language. What parent hands one child a prime toy and ignores the others? Here, have a land! Make it the choice cut, the Chosen Land! What happens to the other children? Wouldn’t the Lord of the universe know that choosing one child over another creates sibling rivalry? Parenting 101. No wonder the fighting began. Yes, from the beginning, God created the conditions that forced a breach between brothers: Cain and Abel. Ishmael and Isaac. Esau and Jacob. Joseph and his brothers. If we take these stories at face value, a question seems obvious. Wasn’t there a better way to create civilization than pitting family members against each other?
Framed like that, the question terrifies me. I’ve been taught not to question God, or the words of God in Scripture. I can’t imagine the consequences of doing so. My childhood’s safe Christianity is worlds away from the Holy Land, a distance you can’t measure in miles or time zones. Maybe that’s why I’m going on this pilgrimage. It’s time to grow up. If I’m going to lose my faith, maybe it’s time I just lost it. I picture my parents’ faces and feel the prick of tears. They wouldn’t understand. But who would? My congregation assumes I have faith figured out. They have no idea what’s at stake.
We pilgrims are meeting at Saint Bart’s Episcopal Church and are supposed to find the filmmaker before we talk to each other. Brian wants to film our initial meeting. The stone steps of the church are broad, forming a plaza that, on this humid day, is spotted with people smoking, or sweating, or speaking intensely into the air — seemingly crazy-person monologues until they turn out to be Bluetooth conversations.
I drag my feet across each broad step, heart pounding, and sneak glances at the faces around me. Is he a fellow pilgrim? Am I traveling to Israel with her? I must find Brian. If the picture on his Web site is accurate, he’s under thirty and handsome in a soulful way. I know he has a fire in his belly. Of course, I’ve never actually met him. It’s possible he posted someone else’s photo. This entire documentary could be an elaborate scam. He could be a sociopath, lurking . . .
There he is, standing near the columns in front of the church. He’s tall and gangly and good-looking. He spots me — I also sent him my picture — and we hurry toward each other, making gestures of recognition, then embrace. My face touches his shirt, and I know that this is real. I’m going to Israel with this stranger. I back away from his shoulder to ask a question but he holds up a finger that signals Stop.
“Can we redo that?” His voice is so pleasant that it takes me a moment to understand. He tilts his head, and I notice two cameramen on the steps below us. “They were both loading film and missed it,” Brian says.
The men shoulder large video cameras and point them at us. Reflexively, I look away.
“Just go back there,” Brian says, retracing my route with a finger in the air, “then hug me right here — spontaneously, like you just did.”
In the plaza people are sweating and smoking and talking into the air like crazy people. But none of them are going to Israel with strangers.
“Ruth?” Brian says.
“You want me to go down the steps. Turn around. Come back up. Hug you. Spontaneously.”
He smiles. “Right.”
I should have expected this. A documentary. It’ll be like a wedding, where nothing counts unless it’s captured on film. The cameramen wait, their faces hidden by equipment. Well, then. I’m cooperative — at least I want them to think I’m cooperative. This time I don’t eye the faces around me as I cross the plaza. Instead, I feel their eyes on me. I’m not sure whether I should saunter or hurry eagerly. When I reach Brian, I don’t know what, exactly, to do. I slide my arms
awkwardly around his waist and squeeze briefly.
“That was great.” Brian looks across the plaza, where he must have spotted another pilgrim. He says, “I’ve got to go, but don’t follow.” A young, dark-haired woman is coming to meet him.
I park myself on the top step of the plaza and get out my journal, hoping that writing will calm me. The two daughters I’m leaving behind are on my mind. The older one is just beginning her first year of college; the other is a sophomore in high school. I write another prayer:
Dear Lord, watch over my family. Assuage their loneliness. Don’t let them feel abandoned. Let this be a positive thing, a time to draw together as father and daughters, an example that personal goals are a worthy pursuit. May this filmmaking venture be a positive thing, to your glory. May my role in it be beneficial. May it positively affect someone spiritually someday. I’ll never know who or when or how, but I will trust the power of the Spirit to use our best efforts. Please make me open and articulate — and a conduit of your grace. May my failings themselves be the key to opening someone’s heart to you. Please protect me from harm for the sake of my daughters. Please keep them from harm while I’m apart from them. Please, please make this a positive thing. Confirm for me that this was the right decision. I feel the need for that confidence. Amen.
My eyes rise from my journal — and I’m looking into a video camera. So, according to this new camera-based theology, does this mean that my prayer counts? A few feet away I notice the second camera. Both cameras pivot to focus on a thirty-something man perched farther down the steps. His hair is strawberry blond, and even from a distance I can tell he’s perfectly groomed. Two large, wheeled suitcases stand beside him. He glances at the cameras, then at me, and then we both avert our eyes.
Where to escape? The church appears to be open. I notice a sign for a vesper service about to begin and hurry into the sanctuary, where five people are seated. I pick up a bulletin and slide into a pew. Someone produces bulletins for a service with five people attending? They must have astounding secretarial support. The priest begins. He zips along like he’s got a taxi waiting. The bulletin helps me find the place in the worship book. Even so, I must gallop to catch up. There’s a sung refrain printed in the liturgy, which the priest muscles through without accompaniment. I admire his guts. After the benediction he doesn’t even come down from the chancel — just disappears out a side door. Class dismissed. What would that be like, to not shake hands with your people? Seminary taught me that those ten minutes were the most important minutes of my week.
I return to the plaza just in time to see a taxi pull up to the curb. This time Brian runs out to greet the arrival, a middle-aged man, and they cling to each other and laugh. The other pilgrims and I watch the ritual filming of the rolling luggage. This has become something like a wedding rehearsal that’s gone on too long.
With the newest arrival in tow, Brian comes up the steps, gathering the rest of us like so many ducklings. There are six of us, and four are women.
“Don’t talk yet,” Brian warns. “Just follow me.” He leads us through a heavy metal door and up several cement stairs. The room we enter is like every other Sunday school room I’ve ever seen, with laminate-top tables and orange molded chairs. What’s different is the Last Supper-style arrangement: two tables pushed together, end to end, with chairs along the far side and at each end.
“OK,” Brian announces. “We’re waiting for one more, but he’s been delayed, so we’ll get started. We’ll stop and eat when he arrives.”
I choose the seat at the end farthest from Brian, and as the cameramen hang a boom microphone over the other end, I feel a gush of relief.
“Tell us your name,” Brian says, “and a little about your church.”
The youngest woman seems unfazed by the cameras, which astounds me. Her name is Jessica, and she’s on the staff of a nondenominational church in Washington, D.C. She speaks with such passion that her slightly frizzy hair seems almost electric. I wonder how many years it’s been since I conveyed that kind of energy about ministry. I smooth my hair.
Next is another young woman, and she turns out to be a Presbyterian clergywoman like me. Her name is Ashley, and she speaks with the vivacity of a candidate for student body president. She’s married, with one small child. Even before she pulls out the photo, she has my vote for pilgrimage sweetheart.
Someone comes in with pizza boxes, and behind him is the elusive last pilgrim, an African-American man. We pause filming while we help ourselves to slices of New York pizza on cheap paper plates. It’s not the meal I’d envisioned, yet it does relax the atmosphere. When we resume introductions, we begin with the middle-aged man whom Brian greeted so warmly.
“My name is Michael Ide,” he says.
It’s an unusual last name, the same as Brian’s, and I think, Wow, what are the chances?
He continues, “I’m a Lutheran pastor from Kansas, married, and have three grown sons — ”
Brian interrupts: “Which one is your favorite?”
Everyone laughs, and I laugh especially hard, the way you do when you’re the last one to get the joke.
We move through the next two introductions. JoAnne is an Episcopalian priest from California who appears to be about my age and is quite down-to-earth. She’s followed by the late-arriving black man, who says, “My name is Shane, but I go by ActsNine on stage.” I wonder what that means, but he’s in a hurry to make something else clear. “I’ve never been to seminary,” he says, cutting his eyes at each of us. “I was converted in prison, and now I do prison ministry.” The cameras pan for our reaction. We all wait attentively. I watch Shane’s handsome, guarded face and wonder if we’ll become close.
The strawberry-blond man introduces himself with a Southern drawl as Charlie. He’s attending a Baptist seminary and talks enthusiastically about the large church in South Carolina where he’s an intern. The camera then turns to me. Going last hasn’t settled my nerves after all. I tell them my name and where I’m from. I explain about my church, that it’s tiny and that I’m the solo pastor, half-time. I say the church is healthy — and wonder what that will mean to them.
Last, Brian introduces the two cameramen. They attend the same Episcopal church in Los Angeles that Brian does. I have to focus hard to remember even their names: Michael and John. That makes two Michaels in our group of ten, so one, in my mind, becomes “Camera Michael.”
The next morning’s itinerary says we’ll fly to Tel Aviv by way of London, after some sort of blessing service. Standing in Holy Trinity Lutheran Church, Brian explains that he’d like each of us to lead a brief worship service sometime during the trip, as a way of sharing our faith traditions. He wants us to discuss our differences so we can overcome them. He’s all about the ecumenical angle.
“My dad will lead this first service,” Brian informs us. “There’s an order for prayer, and he’s going to pick a Psalm.”
Charlie the Baptist asks, “Are we gonna really pray, or use this cheat-book?” He pulls a Book of Divine Worship from a pew rack and brandishes it.
Michael cracks up. He and Charlie were roommates last night and apparently hit it off.
The cameramen need to set up, so I wander away. I’d like to pretend the cameras don’t exist. The church is all dark, polished wood and smells like citrus. I climb the stairs to the balcony and see that there’s a beautiful organ console with extensive pipes. I immediately think about the organ in my own church, and the repairs it needs, repairs we can’t afford. But these are not pilgrim thoughts.
The cameras are ready. “Stand in a semicircle behind the altar,” Brian instructs. “Can you look comfortable?”
I want to tell him that I’m doing my best. But there’s a camera right there, and, besides that, Presbyterians don’t do altars. Have you heard of the Reformation?
Black cord necklaces are laid on the altar, each with a medallion — apparently the image of some saint. After we read Psalm 121 aloud responsively, we’re supposed
to put the necklaces on each other, though nobody says what they signify.
I wait as Jessica fumbles with the clasp around my neck. The medallion rides on the pulse of my throat, like a talisman. It’s my turn to put the necklace on Ashley, and she whispers, “Is this a lucky charm?”
I feel a rush of affection for my Presbyterian sister as I whisper back, “I’m not sure what it is.”
JoAnne overhears us. “It’s a Saint Christopher. Patron saint of travelers.”
After the service we squeeze into a van to ride to Kennedy Airport. Our plane is a huge jet, and we walk further and further back. Our seats are in the second row from the rear wall. We smell diesel and grimace at each other. Maybe that’s why the woman in front of me has apparently doused herself with perfume. But we are served free drinks, which I didn’t know was standard on transatlantic flights. Outside I quietly order a gin and tonic; inside I praise the Lord.
We are flying east, toward the morning light. Time speeds up as the clock turns back. I imagine I can feel time crumble under us hour by hour as the clock reverses, as if we are barefoot on a beach watching the sand under our toes dissolve with each succeeding wave. But the sand isn’t gone, and neither is our day. It’s displaced. We will regain it at the end of this pilgrimage. I can’t help but wonder: What will change between this day, which we are losing, and that day, which we will gain?
We land at Heathrow Airport in London amid chaos. We disembark and wait in a line so endless we can’t be sure where it goes. We are pilgrims becoming disoriented to our old world in order to cross a threshold into a new world. In this moment we are in some kind of liminal space between the two. Whatever stratum we might be entering I cannot say. But I can feel my old life slipping away.
Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land Page 2
