Gloria in Community?

From the Chapel at Shepherd's Field

Here in Israel/Palestine, my pilgrimage with my three pastors friends is proving to be a challenge to my spirituality. It's not that I don't enjoy them or that we have not already traveled to deep spiritual places in the over 10+ years we have been together. I do love each one deeply and we certainly have traversed quite a bit of sickness, sorrow, and joy in our covenant community. 

It seems the problem for me is that I have gotten used to solitude here in Bethlehem. While I have new found friends and family here, I still spend much of my time alone - thinking, reflecting, and exploring. Even when I'm with people, I am fairly alone with my thoughts. The language barrier means that communication takes on other forms. I communicate in the universal language of play with the kids. In church, it is our mutual love for God that unites us. Out in the community, I am learning to give as well as receive the warm embrace of Palestinian hospitality. As Richard Rohr suggests, this is the mystical experience of going deeper, living not on the surface but discovering and dwelling in the depths - wordless depths. 

So perhaps the problem is not suddenly being surrounded by people I love but the many, many, many words that I now need to process and am expected to contribute. It's as if the words are forcing me back into my head and away from that deeper sensitivity of soul-to-soul communion. I'm returning to a form of communication that, while efficient, is not as rich.

So it was with new appreciation of wordless awe that I was drawn to the shepherds' story. In Luke 2, it says that the shepherds were surrounded by the glory of God. Long before angel choirs and even angel messengers sang and spoke, the shepherds experienced the profound wonder of God - together. The glory of God lit up the atmosphere, penetrated their souls, and they trembled in the presence of God.

Perhaps that is what I'm longing for with my beloved sisters in Christ - shared awe. An experience where words are not needed but a moment where we would know that we have experienced the glory of God - together.

  

Hidden

view from the cave at Kursi

A few days ago, Wendy and I go up early to explore Kursi, the traditional location where Jesus healed the Garesene Demoniac(s) recorded in Mark 8 and in chapters 5 of Luke and Matthew. Unlike many of the holy sites in Galilee, this one is part of the National Park system in Israel. What you find there are the ruins of the 5th century Byzantine church and chapel built over the cave where it is believed that the man/men lived. There are no shrines, no monks, no one selling religious trinkets. In fact, there is nothing particularly religious on the site other than the ruins. Interestingly, the Israelis misname it as the location of the miracle of the swine. Fortunately for us, there was only a handful of people at the site which afforded us the luxury of wandering, lingering, and reflecting in a bit more solitude. Sitting on the chapel wall, looking out across the placid lake, we read the story from the three gospels.

The night before, we had dinner with Iyad who was leading a tour group in Galilee. It had been another day of storms on the lake and he mentioned that these squalls rarely touched the northern-most part of the lake. This got Wendy and me speculating about the biblical understanding of the water as the underworld realm of chaos and evil. With this in mind, it made sense why the Jews inhabited only the small narrow northern portion of the lake. The fishermen may not have had experience in these kinds of storms because they would have avoided venturing too far out into the perceived home of demon-infused wind and waves.

the Byzantine ruins at Kursi

Given this possibility, the story of the troubled, demon-possessed man from the Garasene region made more sense. He lived in the non-Jewsih/pagan area. The many demons that possessed him kept him close to their true home, the chaos-filled sea and realm of evil. He suffered deeply at the whim and will of these demons. Although nothing physical could bind him, he was not free. Although he was known by everyone in the region, he belonged to no one. And even though he was visible to all - his rages and nakedness made sure of that - he was still hidden. His true personhood and potential were not perceived by anyone. Jesus was the only one who saw him and got him. Even from a distance, Jesus envisions him as he was meant to be. Despite the protest of the demons that bind him, Jesus insists on restoring him to his right mind, his true self. And after he is healed, Jesus sends him back to his community to bear witness to his healing where he can live transparently and genuinely as the person God created him to be.

Ginnosar Sculpture

What are the demons that keep us, like this man, hidden in plain sight? Most of us by our dress and demeanor, our attitudes and actions  telegraph a projection of who we hope to be. We are fearful that if we didn't hide, we'd be exposed as a failure or a fraud or both.

The irony, of course, is that this fear keeps us tethered and tied to the very things we are trying to avoid. We all want to be known and loved and what we fear is being rejected. Our investment in remaining hidden facilitates a self-fulfilling enslavement that prevents us from being intimately loved and loving freely.

Perhaps that is why, later that day, I felt drawn to the outdoor sculpture at Ginnosar. The piece has no connection to the boat rides offered there or to the "Jesus boat" that is housed in its walls. The half-hidden face reminded me of my own demons that keep me in the shadows. Instead of dwelling in the field of God's delight, I tend to remain proximate to the tombs of fear and protectionism. But I wonder, can one really hide from God? Would you want to?

Jesus tells the demons to "go" and they find their way back to the place of destruction. Evil always returns to evil, even if it is in a different form. Can I let my shadow self be banished once and for all? I'm not sure it is so easy. It seems so familiar and entrenched. I'm not sure I recognize the difference between who I'm created to be and the shadow that is so habitually attached. The demons demand, "What do you want with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, don't torture me!" Can it be that was not just the voice of the demons but my concern as well?

Storms over Galilee

Having arrived in Galilee late last night when it was too dark to take in the shape and spirit of this place, the first light awakened not only our bodies but our vision for where we are and what we are doing here. Sunrise over Galilee is a glorious encounter with emerging light over water and mountains. 

Of course, I’m the most rested and my time-clock is not as out of whack as the others. Reseting biorhythms is one of the many challenges Pilgrims face here in Israel. Pacing shifts. We move slower, linger more. Prayer becomes our modus operandi, scripture our guidebook. Perception is recalibrated towards God's heart and work.  

And, to be honest, another challenge seems to be for my fellow pilgrims to get used to my driving like a Palestinian!

We walked out to the Cliffs of Arbel, the mountain peak that overlooks the small region of Jesus’ seaside ministry in Galilee. We each took time alone to reflect on what we are leaving behind and what longings and desires are emerging as we begin this pilgrimage. Standing at this crossroads, our desire is to see how the ancient path of Christ provide guidance and clarity for our current journeys.

As I sat taking in the ancient sites where Jesus feed the 5,000, healed the multitudes, taught on the mountain, and called and enlightened his disciples, a storm swirled around the lake. It was a bit odd to watch. I was sitting on a rock enjoying 80 degree weather with the sun beating down on me. Where I was, the air was still enough to hear a songbird's trill. Below me, a tempest was raging: thunder, lightening, and wind violently shifting, moving quickly from one corner of the lake to the next. The caged lion could not free itself! Suddenly, the rain would swirl towards our end of lake and the wind would blow up the side of the cliff. Then, as emphatically as it demanded our attention, the storm would move on leaving a quiet, calm trail in its wake.   

Throughout the day, no matter where we were, the storm kept returning to find us. A few raindrops at lunch in Tiberias, a torrential downpour while driving through the Gallean hills, a brilliant rainbow over the lake reminding us of God’s promise, and a crimson-stained cloud-pocked sunset after viewing icons at the Orthodox monastery in Capernaum.

Observing this whirlwind lent new understanding to the stories of the violent storms mentioned in the New Testament. Such storms are common in this region and would have been familiar to Jesus and his fisherman disciples. Given the quick shifts in wind and wave, it makes more sense when Jesus admonishes them not to let fear dominate.

Why is it that even when I, like them, know the lay of the land and comprehend the cycles of seeming catastrophe that I still become bound up by fear? I recognize myself in their cry, "God, don't you care? Have you left us to fend for ourselves?"  

Jeannie mused that when Jesus calmed the storm, the true miracle might not have been Jesus' prowess as a cosmic weatherman. Although that was certainly no small feat, the stunner may have been Jesus' invitation to the disciples to trust him in the circumstances in which they found themselves. Storms come and go. They ebb and flow. Unsettling, unexpected, and uncontrollable as they may be, we noted that here on the Galilean Sea, the winds always shift and relief comes. Even thundering turbulence brings its own beauty and power. Do you have eyes to see it?!

At the heart of all of this remains Jesus underlying question to me, to us. "Do you trust me?” I hear this echoed in Jesus' command to Peter, when after a hard night of fishing, he tells him to leave everything and follow. It is same invitation given to Peter after the resurrection, when, on that same shore, Jesus confronts Peter's return to his old profession and challenges him again to fulfill God's call.  

Follow me, Jesus demands of Peter and demands of me, demands of all of us who call him Lord. Do not be afraid when the wind kicks up and blows us over. There was no greater storm than dying on that cross. We can trust Jesus to pick us up and dry us off.  Storms abate and suffering eases. Sometimes the circumstance change and sometimes the transformation is within. Hope renews and trust deepens. Whatever the case, Jesus is at the center of it all.

On Our Way. . .

Stand at the crossroads 
and look; 

   ask for the ancient paths, 

ask where the good way is, and walk in it, 

   and you will find rest 
for your souls.

Jeremiah 6:16

Yesterday, my pastor covenant group finally arrived in Israel. After more than 48 hours of travel, countless delays, re-routed trips, overnight in New York, the weary women arrived at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv a bit beaten up but ready for the next steps in the journey.

Gail, Jeannie, Wendy and me!

We immediately went to the Caesarea Aqueduct to put tired feet in the Mediterranean and let the ocean breeze renew seared souls. I brought a simple lunch of pita bread fresh from the ovens in Bethlehem, labneh and hummus, and a simple salad of cucumber and tomatoes, the kind of meal common here in the Middle East.  

And so our pilgrimage together begins. After months of planning, praying, and now traveling, we all are together in the Chosen Land. God planted this idea in our heart – a longing to enter into soulful travel, to journey together on a transformative trip that would invite us from mindless meandering to intentionally mindful encounters with the holy.

Many assume that pilgrimage is serious business and I guess it is. Attending to God’s presence invites shifts in perception, surrender and submission, an organizing principle beyond the self. But the "how" comes in embracing the unexpected, allowing surprise and serendipity to playfully lead. 

And so we laugh, we pray, we eat, we rest. We walk, we run, we sit, we sleep. We attend, we wait, we question, we confess. And we allow God to resurrect what has died and renew what’s alive. We watch for signs of grace in us, in others, in the places we find ourselves on the journey.

As St. Benedict reminds us, we listen with the ear of our hearts.