pilgrimage

Lower Galilee was predominantly Jewish at the time of Jesus. It was punctuated with small farming villages—Nazareth, Cana, Nain and others. First-century Nazareth was situated on a rocky hillside. A house was likely built over and in front of a cave, with the cave serving as a back room or even a stable. A visitor today can visit the traditional sites of both the house of Joseph and the house of Mary.

Jews were not native to Galilee, but many had settled there about a hundred years earlier. The main exceptions to these peasant villages were Sepphoris and Tiberias—modestly sized with more affluent residents.

Nazareth is not even mentioned in the Old Testament—not once. Today it is a relatively modern, sprawling city. But back in the day, it was an impoverished, scarcely populated, insignificant place—hardly worth mention.

You get the picture. When someone was asked, “Where are you from?” The likely response was “I’m from Sepphoris.” After all, that was close enough and one didn’t have to explain further—it was a Roman city of particular note. Some figure that Joseph may have worked there and Jesus, as a boy, could have made the trek many times—only a 4-mile walk! An early tradition associates Mary and her family with the city.

I’ve caught myself doing much the same. The short answer is, “I’m from Nashville.” It doesn’t need further explanation. It carries at least the weight of recognition. Cross Plains, on the other hand, requires much more talk! Nobody knew about Nazareth either. So it’s not surprising to read John’s account of Nathanael’s pointed inquiry of Philip:

Now Philip found Nathanael, and said to him, “We have found him of whom Moses in the law and also the prophets wrote, Jesus of Nazareth, the son of Joseph.” Nathanael said to him, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Philip said to him, “Come and see.”

It was common knowledge in Jewish circles that the Messiah would come not from any kind of Nazareth. It would be more like Jerusalem. He’d live in a house not a cave for goodness sakes! But before we are too quick to criticize, let’s admit that we all place a high premium on pedigree. We don’t elect too many presidents these days without Ivy-league educations, do we?

Most people, whatever their Nazareth is, don’t claim it. All of us at some level know what it is liked to be overlooked or looked down upon. If not from others, we do it to ourselves. Have you considered what your “Nazareth” might be?

How might we live in Nazareth? This ordinary place from which Jesus came may very well be emblematic of where you and I find ourselves today. What are the run of the mill things in our world that we don’t attend to or expect to see God in? Does the daily, non-descript routine of our lives prevent us from seeing God?

On the first day of our pilgrimage in Israel I remember feeling especially “alive” to the potential of subsequent days. I was truly excited to be on such holy soil. I could hardly wait to get started as we began our ascent to the Cliffs of Arbel. I had rested well the night before. After a long intercontinental flight the strange, smallish bed had served me well.

The cliffs overlook the Sea of Galilee. From this high vantage point one can see the cities of Magdala, Tabgha, ancient Capernaum, north to where the Jordan River empties into the Sea. You are looking across the Valley of the Doves—through which Jesus would have traveled from his hometown of Nazareth to Capernaum, where he would make his home and from which he would conduct much of his Galilean ministry.

So there I stood with other fellow pilgrims surveying this scenic, though simple spot—aware that we were looking at the very place where Jesus walked. I say “simple,” because I was struck by the ordinariness, the smallish location for such a grand narrative—the epic story of Jesus and the kingdom of God. There I stood looking down upon the very ground where Jesus fully lived—a life of love and purpose.

At times I find myself searching for such a vantage point concerning my own life—playing the “what if” game—what if Cindy and I hadn’t stayed in Cross Plains? What if I had followed the model of so many Baptist pastors—serve a few years in one church and then on to the next and the next? What if I had left this small, middle-Tennessee town for places other and bigger, so to speak? I guess it’s human nature, isn’t it, to wonder. What if things had been different…? I’m sure I’m not the only one to do such.

Don’t get me wrong—life lived here has been rewarding. Good for family, good for church, good for me! Looking back brings a great deal of satisfaction along with some regret. I’m sure that’s true for you as well. There is much in life for which to be thankful and much from which, hopefully, we have learned. One thing is certain—there’s no going back, no rewind button! What’s done is done, what’s passed is passed. Life moves forward. There’s no going back.

That’s where any spiritual pilgrimage truly begins. On the Cliffs of Arbel I prayed to be fully awake, especially alive in the days ahead. I continue to pray that prayer, maybe even more so now. That in years ahead I’ll live this one life of mine fully alive, especially so.

One named Jesus, in a single and simple life, in an ordinary, out of the way place, did just that. He lived a life of love and purpose.

I stood on the bank of the Jordan River, a spot commercialized to celebrate the place of Jesus’ baptism. Compared to other sacred sites I visited, it ranks way down the list as memorable. But it was meaningful to me, and has been increasingly so since my return home.

While there, I imagined myself present, even among the baptismal candidates that day, when John immersed Jesus. I listened intently to hear the voice from heaven, “You are my beloved Son, whom I love, with you I am well pleased.” (Lk 3:22) I couldn’t hear it—of course, it was crowded and noisy. But I tried, and I didn’t hear it.

I was baptized as a young boy, age 7, at the Hickory Hills Baptist Church in Memphis, TN. Even though that’s been a long time ago now, I distinctly remember not hearing any such voice or statement of affirmation. That statement is, as Henri Nouwen repeated more than once, “You are the Beloved of God!” In truth, I have been struggling to hear “that voice” throughout my life—how about you?

In this core expression, at this decisive moment in his life, Jesus heard the affirmation of his Father, “You are my beloved on whom my favor rests.” In such, Jesus is reminded of who he really, really is.

I guess that is what I struggle to remember down deep within me—that my ultimate worth and identity comes from God. Don’t get me wrong, I am familiar with the Bible’s message of God’s love for me. I’ve read it, preached it, and recited it many times. But the ultimate spiritual temptation is to doubt it about ourselves and put our trust in the wrong answers to the question, “Who am I?”

“I am what I do.” When I am good enough, do enough good things, feel good about me and mine—that seems like a good answer. But when I mess up, fail, or start getting depressed I don’t do so well. Not to mention, as I get older and can’t do as I once did in a number of areas (golf, to name one!), I revert to saying, “Well, you should have seen me when…. Or, look, I did something good! Look at me!”

Or we might answer, “I am what others are saying about me today.” That’s all well and good too as long as people are speaking positively about you. There’s great power in what others say, isn’t there? Words carry tremendous clout, especially the negative. How sad we become when others don’t speak so fondly. Personal attacks cut deep into the heart. It’s a hard lesson—but one worth learning—what others say about you, good or ill, should not determine who you are.

It’s also easy to say—“I am what I have.” We get plenty of encouragement here from the culture in which we live. I am an American, from a fine family, with a good education, and have excellent health. I have…(you fill in the blank). But what happens when we lose it or you never had it to begin with—our job, our spouse or child, our health or house? What then? Do I just sink into oblivion?

I know better than to define myself by deciding “I am what I do” or “I am what others are saying” or “I am what I have.” When I do, I am doomed to an up and down, back and forth, kind of life. When things are good, I’m excited. When things are bad, I slip into the darkness.

Here’s the answer worth listening for—it comes from the One above. “You (your name) are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.” It isn’t easy to hear that voice in a world such as ours. But it is there, if we will only listen. That soft, gentle voice comes in so many ways—parents, family, friends, teachers, church, and even strangers who have crossed our path.

Listen for that Voice—from above, from within, and about. It is the voice of the Father who loves you.

One morning in Israel fellow pilgrims and I left Tiberias for places north in the upper regions of Galilee. Our focus for the day was the area in the New Testament gospels known as the villages of Caesarea Phillipi. You might remember it as the setting for Jesus’ infamous question to Simon Peter: “Who do you say that I am?”

Our bus parked in a secluded gravel area. We trekked on foot in single file winding our way down to a beautiful stream from one of three springs that originates the Jordan River, which flows north to south through Israel. From the foot of Mt. Hermon to the Dead Sea this ribbon of life still shapes the course of history. Banias is the Arabic name (Greek name, Paneas) for this tranquil spot. A spectacular waterfall is the highlight. There was a rather isolated temple nearby built by Herod the Great at the base of a cave, but when Herod Philip chose Paneas as his administrative capital, a moderate-size city emerged along the stream.

After a bit of a walk we found refreshment in the hospitality of a local family. We enjoyed flat bread and hyssop, fruit juice and chocolate. After boarding the bus to head to the ruins of the Greek temple, you would never guess what happened. My youngest son, Barrett, who was touring the Middle East with a group of seminarians (totally unrelated to my trip), bounded up onto the bus. “Dad!” he exclaimed. I have never been more surprised or elated. We embraced, laughed and posed for pictures. To think in such a remote place, on the other side of the globe our paths should cross. It was, at least from my perspective, a “God-thing,” as we like to say.

That was the geographical and personal context for the day. The biblical context had us wrestling with the question posed to every would-be follower of His. “Who is Jesus? Who do you say that He is?” That is the question still, is it not?

Most often I prefer to answer doctrinally—with the head you might say. It is a matter of what we believe. Peter answers, “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” Good answer. Such response appeals to my desire for something concrete on which to stand. I believe.

But this day the question would take on new meaning for me. Standing amidst the ruins of a temple erected to the Greek gods—where Jesus framed the question—I could not escape its weight. Who is this Jesus, really? In the midst of the gods that vie for my allegiance—my own family notwithstanding.

Like I said, I know the right answer. Peter, among other witnesses in scripture, gives us more than enough. But that’s not the question is it, at least not one simply of the head. Who do you say I am? It’s not nearly so concrete as some fill-in-the-blank response. It’s a question of relationship, a matter of the heart I suspect. After all, we come to Jesus by faith (not reason) or by following (not always knowing). It is really a matter of heart, of relationship. He is family.

I’ve been back in Cross Plains now for a couple of weeks. It took me six or seven days to get my “body clock” adjusted to Central Time. The jet lag wasn’t that big of a problem; it’s just that I kept waking up at 4:00 am. That’s passed now. Cindy is rather glad, though we are both early risers. She would be quick to add that she enjoyed me wanting to go to bed earlier. I like staying up late and getting up early—always have.

What’s been more difficult is adjusting to the rhythm of life—pastoral work, sermon prep, church administration—plus the household and marital responsibilities. It takes a fair amount of dexterity balancing the full range of responsibilities, doesn’t it?

The most refreshing thing about the pilgrimage to Israel was stepping away from the routine. It really was as advertised—a spiritual retreat. We followed a consistent, daily schedule designed to foster spiritual reflection. It was very rewarding. Not only did we make daily excursions to sacred sites, but we spent approximately 2 hours each day in biblical study and discussion and 2 hours in absolute silence. I grew to love the rhythm.

Now that I am back, I am having trouble re-creating those practices that I so enjoyed. I miss them; in fact, I crave them. Obviously I’ll not be able to duplicate the experience—like watching the sunrise over the Sea of Galilee or kneeling in the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, not to mention the pita and hummus! Even carving out two hours of silence here is much harder than I expected. On my flight back, I promised myself that I would do at least that—2 hours of silence, three times a week. It seemed reasonable enough. I’m having trouble though.

Come to think of it, I have trouble “coming back” to a fair number of things. Do you? Have you ever said to yourself, “I just don’t have it in me”? Have you ever faced a loss so great, a hurdle so high, that you just bellowed, “It’s too much. I can’t do it. I just don’t have it in me”?

Of course you have and so have I. Sometimes we spend years raising a family only to have it shattered in a single moment. Some of you have devoted decades to caring for your body only to have it apparently crumble in an instant. Others pour a lifetime into building a character or a career only to watch it collapse.

There have been times in my life where I have worked so hard to build something or institute a new approach or plan, only to have someone or something come along and stall it or trash it all. Most times, it is my own shortcoming. There have been times when I’ve had to say, “I’m not as bright or as good or as strong as I thought. It’s all coming apart. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t want to face it. I just don’t have it in me.”

I don’t know what obstacles you face in your life or will in days to come. Maybe it is in your marriage or with one of your kids. Perhaps it is your health or career. It could be in your place of work or your own character.

Here’s what I know—God is calling us to “come back”—one step at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time. It’s not all done in one day as they say. Rome wasn’t. Neither I suspect will I.

So I am not going to give up. I’m going to keep at it. I choose to keep coming back.

It will take me more than a few days, perhaps weeks, to consider the time spent in what we refer to as the “Holy Land.” It will take at least that to go through all my photographs! You know how it is with digital cameras—you click before you think! Then later, you go back to edit. I have over 1600 shots! I guess you better start praying now for my poor family, not to mention my church folk!

The pilgrimage was all I hoped it would be—educational, exciting, and, to my surprise—more “sacred” than I expected. Of course, a spiritual pilgrimage should be that, but, as I have learned over the years, you can plan for the sacred, but you can’t orchestrate it. Believe me, I know, I plan “worship services” for a living—get paid to do it in fact—and I have left many a Sunday disappointed that not much more than the ordinary had transpired!

The trip to Israel had all the trappings of any other excursion—plane itinerary, hotel accommodations, new cuisine, strange beds and flat pillows, etc…. There were also people to get to know—20 pastors and two professors from across the country whom I had met briefly about a month ago at a two-day orientation. The “introvert” within me was more than a bit anxious.

We arrived and settled in at the Scots Hotel in Tiberias—a Roman town in Jesus’ day. Nice! 5-star! Here would be our base for the first week. Not a bad way to start—with a striking view of the Sea of Galilee. The second week would find us in the city of Jerusalem. I won’t bore you with each day’s excursion, but suffice it to say that for fourteen days we touched, smelled, saw, listened, and tasted “the holy.” In the Celtic tradition, these sacred sites or moments are often referred to as “thin places.”

Mindie Burgoyne (writingthevision.com) defines a “thin place” as a site where the veil between this world and the other world is thin; the other world is more than near. It is where connection to the sacred seems effortless, and signs of it are almost palpable. Simply put, it is where one feels the mysterious power and presence of God. Standing on the Mount of Beatitudes, walking among the ruins of the ancient town of Capernaum, stooping in the grotto where Jesus was born, boating on the Sea of Galilee, praying at the Western Wall, or touching the rock we know as Golgotha—I experienced the divine. I was “near the cross” so to speak.

Such experiences of “place” call you, draw you, transport you into God’s presence. That’s what I’ll remember most about my pilgrimage to Israel.

But now I’m home in Cross Plains. And, guess what—no tour buses here. But this I know. For many here, Mt. Carmel is a little Jerusalem. Your church is too. It’s the place we celebrate the birth, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus. It is where we announce the “good news.” It is where we witness the Spirit’s activity in the world. When I stand in the pulpit, the baptismal pool and behind the Lord’s Table, there is a sense of awe.

“Thin places” are not a matter of geography. They are about being alert—using all our senses, especially those of the spirit. All through our lives we walk through sacred places. Sometimes we notice the thinness, the holiness. Other times we don’t. But this I do know, God is always present—even in services of worship that appear to be nothing more than ordinary.

Lord, give us the good “sense” to recognize you.