Rivers in the Desert

 I will open rivers on the bare heights,           
     and fountains in the midst of the valleys;    
I will make the wilderness a pool of water,         
    and the dry land springs of water.    

                        ---Isaiah 41:18

Near Mar Saba Monastery

Sitting at brunch on the Bosphorus River in Istanbul, it is difficult to believe that just a few days ago I was in the dry and barren wilderness of the Judean Mountains. Starved of moisture, it's crags and canyons are cracked and cut by scorching sand and wind. 








But today is all about the water. I love the ocean, the river, the sea. I grew up sailing on San Francisco Bay where my earliest memories involve the salty ocean spray on my face. The smell of that kelpy, briny stew are favorite childhood sensations. Not unlike the breaking waves on the California Coast, sitting on the banks of the Bosphorus facilitates a calming peace deep within.

On the way to the Wilderness

So why am I drawn over and over again to inhospitable landscape of the dessert, a place devoid of water, that essential elixir for life?

Of the 14 days I spent in Palestine, I spent parts of four days in the wilderness. All but one visit was a disappointment of sorts. Each trip to the hinterlands offered the possibility to sit, pray, and drink in the spiritual solitude I seem to be chasing and rarely find in my full and freewayed life. But every time I journeyed there, I ended up being welcomed by Bedouins. I guess this is what happens when you befriend folks in the wilderness. Their hospitality invites you to dine, share stories, and drink tea. And when you show up, as I often do with new friends, their kindness cannot be refused. 

Some of the Sunnyvale Group
with Bedouin friends

More Bedouin friends
with Suzanne Brooksbank

So what is it that I am longing for? Sitting beside the Bosphorus River, taking in the magnificent view while sipping a bit of turkish tea comes close to facilitating my need for quiet and reflection. But the vestiges of civilization remain. The pulsing music, the pods of boats, and the sounds of Turks in animated conversation doesn't ameliorate my desire for the deeper communion I had hoped for on this pilgrimage. 

The water beckons and stirs up what the heart holds dear. What I could not physically find in Palestine this round, I now seek in my memory. It is not the waves that call but the feelings of being swallowed up by the sounds of silence within boundless, desolate vistas.

I'm trying to explore what all this means.

Exploring where this will lead

Context

Knowing the context seems to be key in navigating this region of the world. It provides the clues for social interactions, the providence of prevailing political world views, and the framework for meaning making, particularly in the area of religion.

Air Kiss

In Palestine, the greeting among my Christian friends involves an embrace and kissing one another on the cheek. Same for the Bedouins I have met. However an observant Muslim man will never shake the hand of woman who is not part of his family. An ultra-orthodox Jewish man will never even establish eye contact with a woman who is not related to him.  

I am used to the muddled looks on people's faces when responding to their questions about my occupation. With few knowing the meaning of the word pastor or minister, I further confuse them by saying I am a woman priest. "Priest" means a religious leader here but with there is no context for a woman to hold that role.  

So here I am in largely secular city of Istanbul, enjoying dinner with my good friend, Jennifer Reimer who is a professor at a Turkish University. Long into our conversation, our waiter, Emir, interrupted us to ask where we were from and then proceeded to ask more details about our lives.  He totally understood Jenn's profession but could not even begin to wrap his head around mine.  

Priests outside Nativity Church

First, I had to start off with explaining the world Christian. In this Muslim society, he really didn't have any framework for Christian or church. Then it was on to the idea that I am a religious leader. He wondered why I was not veiled. I tried to explain that I was like the Imam of a local mosque but that only blew his mind even more. He went away and chewed on what I had told him for a few minutes before coming back and asking me if I was a virgin. I laughed and told him that I had two children. I think his mind exploded at that moment. We talked more about the nature of God and the differing rules as it relates to religious belief. "Your god OK with alcohol?!!  Mine says alcohol is bad!"  And on it went.

I don't think I have ever been in a situation where a rudimentary understanding of Christian or church is not shared.  It was startling and prodded some late-night musing on what it is like when your core identity and beliefs are completely outside the realm of comprehension by another person.  

I have spent much of my time in the Middle East trying to understand "the other" often taking the role of amateur anthropologist. I work hard to understand the context, customs, and culture of this place.  I ask questions, test my assumptions, and still miss the mark. But rarely have I been the object of such curiosity and miscomprehension.  

It reminds me that context goes both ways. 

Unexpected Grace

A few weeks ago, an email arrived in my inbox with news that was disappointing and, if I’m honest, hurtful. Our tour operator sent the news that the Catholic Church in Galilee was no longer allowing women pastors to celebrate the sacrament of communion on their sites.

This is not the first time this has happened and I doubt it will be the last. Many in our diverse Christian family won’t allow pastors from other faith traditions celebrate in their holy places. When you add the contentious theological layer of women’s ordination, the prohibition is neither new nor surprising. 

The Mural at Magdala 

What made this particularly painful is the fact that the requested site, Magdala, is dedicated to Mary Magdalene and features the names of key biblical women in the rotunda as you enter. The synagogue-like chapel boasts the dramatic image of the woman with the flow of blood reaching to touch the edge of Jesus’ tunic. What made this surprising is that I have celebrated communion at Magdala on my last three pilgrimages without any problem. The warm welcome I had previously received was now withdrawn.

As we drove up to Magdala, I was aware of a lingering bitterness that comes with unjust exclusion. To my surprise, my friend, Hermana, was there acting as our host. She is a mystic of sorts and her joy buoyed my soul. She encouraged me to write off the prohibition to the old priests that run this place. Even so, I continued to feel the bite of women’s marginalization as we walked the site.

Our next stop was the Local Baptist Church in Nazareth. What a delight to be with this vibrant congregation for Sunday worship. To my surprise, I was asked to spontaneously speak. In all my visits here, I have never been asked to speak in an Arab church. Women pastors are not a category many people understand or accept. You can’t imagine my delight, particularly in light of the earlier visit to Magdala. My heart softened as I knew this was a small sign of God’s validation to me.

Father Justinus

Fast forward to the next day when in Nablus, a conservative city in the northern part of the West Bank, we visited the well where Jesus met the Samaritan woman. This is one of my favorite churches in all of Palestine. Father Justinius, the presiding orthodox priest, built this church and painted all of the icons that adorn the walls. I’m always drawn into the peace of this place and enjoy the many, many icons that feature stories of women in the bible.

Knowing it was against all the rules, I pressed Iyad to ask the priest if we could celebrate there in one of the pocket gardens. My expectations were low but I thought it was worth a shot. When Father Justinius said yes, the caretaker, Jamal, insisted we ask again. He was quite sure that Iyad had misunderstood. And when the good father said yes again, Jamal responded, “A protestant? A woman? This has never happened!”

As I prepared the elements, I sensed an unexpected deep joy rising within. As we began our brief service, we contemplated our deeper thirst that only Christ’s living water can quench. As we shared Christ's sacramental gifts to us, I was overwhelmed by the sense of God's overflowing love for me. Only God could have moved the heart of Father Justinius to make such an unprecedented exception. God’s sweet and tender gift bestowed by this dear Abuna helped me drink deeply from the sweet and clear well of God’s unending grace.

Returning

Pilgrims have all arrived, a bit bleary-eyed of course. Hours of international travel take their toll. Tel Aviv is a wonderful place to overnight while bodies get acclimated to new times zones, the sounds of new languages, and the look and feel of new money. The beach-front promenade provides a welcoming invitation to move while the Mediterranean itself offers refreshing vitalization to body and soul.

This morning, we officially started the pilgrimage with a time for quiet reflection on the rooftop terrace of our hotel. For some the prayer practice of Lectio Divina is new and I walked the group through the concept of “listening with the ear of your heart,” an invitation that dates back to St. Benedict. I had brought small stone hearts for each pilgrim to carry as a reminder to perceive God’s work through a lens of the inner mystery and communion with God rather than the often narrow perspective of information gathering.

Our verse for the morning was Isaiah 30:15: “In returning and rest you shall be saved; in quietness and in trust shall be your strength.” Lectio invites the selection and lingering on a word or phrase punctuated with spirit-directed silences. As I listened for a word that called to me, the phrase “returning” became the clear focus.

At first, this seemed liked an obvious choice. Here I am in this holy land again, returning to my sacred second home of sorts. Aren’t these pilgrimages all about my need to return to my roots? The taproot of the ancient ways and wisdom are the undercurrent of this place. But I could also imagine that "returning" might be a form of revisiting the political, the invitation to explore the Israeli/Palestinian conflict with more depth. Or was this an invitation to  re-connect with Palestinian friends whose hospitality I find heart-warming and expansive? 

As the day unfolded, I became aware of other returnings and they really had nothing to do with me. Our group itinerary is set well in advance in negotiation with the tour operator and tour guide. Issa and Iyad are my primary conversation partners and I have learned to trust them for the rhythms of the day. Having led these trips for several years, there are places that I prefer to see in a particular order. And, to be honest, there are places that I could bypass altogether. One such place was Mt. Karmel where Elijah slaughtered the 450+ prophets of Bael. I had never been to the church at this site but for some reason, I had decided that I didn’t like it. Iyad suggested lunch on this mountain and so I reluctantly agreed to schedule a visit to this site.

As we arrived in the parking lot, my inner voice was grumbling loudly and I could feel resistance rising. As much as I tried, I was stubbornly fighting with my need to be in control. The church was under construction and we couldn’t go in. The voice inside got even more nasty.  

Then I heard another voice, one that didn’t belong to me. My cousin Doug was singing part of the Elijah oratorio. I was a bit startled and turned to see him responding to this place with wonder.

Up the steps we went and before us was the most beautiful view of the Jereel Valley. From the Galilee to the Sea – it took my breath away.  

As I read the biblical story account, there were tears on Doug’s face. He told me that the Elijah story was one that touched him deeply through the downturns many of us have navigated as pastor/disciples. His honest and transparent joy at being at this site reminded me of another kind of returning. 

Remembering God’s past faithfulness is the most important kind of returning.

I'm glad I'm back.