A Pilgrim's Process

Last week, M and I got back from a week’s pilgrimage in the Holy Land, starting in Be’er Sheva, moving through Bethlehem, Jerusalem, the wilderness and, via a dip in the Dead Sea, on to Galilee, Nazareth and Capernaum. It was wonderful, challenging, exhausting, exhilarating, hope-filled, sobering, humbling, uplifting, energetic and gentle.  It will take me a very long time to process all that I saw, heard and experienced along with our fellow pilgrims – nearly all of them ordinands from my college.

However, with 10 days or so having passed since we got back, I’m starting to feel like I can put some shape to my overall impressions of what God was doing in me over there.  It all feels important and like I will never be quite the same as a result of this journey so this blog seemed like a good place to share a few of those first thoughts*…..

On our second full day, two moments of clarity hit me in the crowded, busy, ornate Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, built over the site of both Jesus’s crucifixion and resurrection. Much like the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem which we visited the day before, it is a riot of gold, mosaics, incense and murals. This is not something I find particularly conducive to worship for lots of reasons. However, I know many find this kind of setting a real blessing and I reminded myself that, when building something to mark where your Lord and Saviour defeated death, you are more than likely to give of your absolute best to the glory of God. Half measures don’t seem appropriate in this context.

 

So I gathered myself and set about preparing to be in the spot where it is almost certain Jesus died. Whilst I queued to enter the chapel that is built on the rock at Golgotha, I started to sing “When I survey the wondrous cross” to myself. As I got to the last verse, the words shouted at me: “Were the whole realm of nature mine, that were an offering far too small. Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all.” As I looked at the rich setting, built to glorify God, I realised that it was insufficient. Not because it wasn’t extraordinary but because nothing humans could make would ever be sufficient to capture what Jesus did for us when he died and rose again. In that moment, it almost felt like a futile gesture to even try.

Then the second moment of clarity came as it was my turn to crawl under the altar and put my hand down to touch the rock where the cross is believed to have stood. I don’t know what I’d expected to feel in that moment – grief, guilt, relief, gratitude? There was some of that in there but overwhelmingly I felt a sense of Jesus saying that I shouldn’t worry – the cross isn't there any more and  he isn’t there anymore and that’s the point.

As I’ve gone over and over that moment since then, I keep coming back to the Mary Frye poem, Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep. It’s very often used in funerals (in fact, I went to a friend’s funeral today and her daughter read it out there – confirmation, if I needed it, that it was important to hold the words in my heart). However, I feel like Jesus is using it to remind me to not dwell in the physical places, however significant they might be, because they couldn't hold him then and won't hold him now. Instead I think he was asking me to look at where he is now. What he’s doing in and around us.

So if he was clear that he wasn't held by the obvious places, where did I find Jesus on this pilgrimage?

I found him in the glorious acoustics of St Anne's church in Jerusalem, where we sang and it felt like the angels were echoing our songs of praise. 

I found him in the wind that suddenly blew across my face as I prayed at the Western Wall. Ruach – the Breath of God – reassuring me that in that turbulent, febrile city, full of differences and argument, God the Comforter is present and active.

I found him in the gentle rain on olive trees in the Garden of Gethsemane, driving other groups to shelter elsewhere and leaving me quiet and able to contemplate more clearly than ever before the reality of Jesus’s choice the night before he died – would he turn right and escape back up the hill to Bethany where his friends and safety were or would he turn left and carry on to Jerusalem where he knew what would come?  This experience was made more vivid by the church of All Nations, to the side of the Garden, whose mosaics represent the night sky that Jesus prayed under in the Garden, but with glinting golds and silvers cutting through the darkness.

 

I found Jesus in the warmth of the sun on the desert wilderness and the unexpected sight of a stream running in the middle of the arid landscape as I prayed – pointing me back to Jeremiah 17: 7&8 – verses that have been so important to me as I have trodden this path of discernment and training: "Blessed are those who trust in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit."

 

I found him in the excited shouts of joy which punctuated the liturgy of our Eucharist on the banks of the River Jordan, as Christians were baptised so close to where Jesus had been.

I found Jesus in the extraordinary sunrises we witnessed from our hotel rooms every morning while we were in Tiberias, on the shore of the Sea of Galilee.

 

And I found him in the waters of the lake, lapping on to the beach where he met the disciples with breakfast after his resurrection, only a short way from where we shared our final Eucharist of the pilgrimage.   

The same waters which became still and mirror-like as we took a boat across them. For this non-sailor, this glassy calm was like a beautiful present from God, my wonderful, loving Father, who knows what I can and can’t handle and who wanted me to enjoy that amazing experience on our last full day. 

These were just a few of the places he spoke to me in words, in scripture, in nature. None were overtly grand but all were significant. And all will sustain me as I carry on with my life’s pilgrimage now, back at home. And all will help prepare me for the new pilgrimage that is fast approaching with my ordination in June.

I will not stand at the grave and weep. These words, for me, are now all about rejoicing. So I commend them to you in your place, wherever you are walking today’s particular pilgrimage and I suggest you listen to Tom Read’s setting, which is significantly more joyful than many others that I have sung and which catches the mood I feel when I reflect at the moment.

Do not stand at my grave and weep;

I am not there. I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight. 

I am the soft stars that shine at night. 

Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

*Be prepared for second, third and fourth thoughts and lots more Holy Land-related material over time – I’m pretty sure this is going to be a gift that keeps on giving…..