The idea of going to the Holy Land never occurred to me until about three years ago. Frankly, I wasn't interested. Until I was 39, I didn't have a faith in anything connected to Jerusalem, Bethlehem, or Nazareth. But God works in mysterious ways and six years ago, I gave my life back to him. And then after a few more years of poking around his Book, I started to get curious.
In preparation for our trip, I read the Book of Acts in the Bible. It is basically an early history of the spread of Christianity after Jesus's death. I also read (or reread) some of the Gospels which give varying but similar accounts of Jesus's life on Earth. This is pretty typical when I travel. I am less likely to dig into travel guide books and more likely to read books that take place where I am heading. For instance, the first time I ever read Anne of Green Gables was when we booked a cruise that included Prince Edward Island. Years earlier, I read The Crucible on the plane as I was heading to Boston for a business trip. I knew I had a free day and planned to spend it in Salem learning about the witch trials. Ok, maybe not the best parallel to a trip to the Holy Land? Or maybe it is.
So I approached our Holy Land trip as something of an academic project, without really any agenda or expectation other than to see some of the places mentioned in the Bible. So when I started crying at our first Biblical stop in Patmos, Greece, I was utterly unprepared. And when the tears flowed again at the Mount of Beatitudes and again at the Wailing Wall, it was clear this was not simply a vacation or a trip for educational enrichment. This was something big, in a spiritual way, with a much greater purpose.
As I have had time to reflect, I have realized that my three bouts of tears on our trip each taught me something different about God and my faith in him.
In Patmos, in the cave where the Apostle John heard from God and wrote the Book of Revelation, I completely and undeniably felt the presence of God. That small cave was fully filled with power and strength and immenseness and weightiness and a dozen other adjectives that don't exist in our language. It was overwhelming and would have dropped me to my knees in awe and humility had I not been self-conscious. Instead I sat down on a bench, never wanting to leave yet at the same time wanting to flee from the tangible yet unfamiliar and indescribable emotions. So I learned (and confirmed) that God is real, present, and can be felt with one's entire being. Heavy stuff.
A few days later, at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem, I touched, felt, and understood the power of prayer. As I walked towards the wall, emotions and tears started to swell. When I touched the wall, they exploded. It was simply a wall of rock and yet when I touched it, I felt the power and passion and faith of the countless prayers left there. I mean, my body got sort of tingly and my heart raced and tears streamed down my face, simply from touching the rock. I don't believe there is anything particularly holy about that wall and those rocks, other than it is a place where millions of people have gathered and prayed with hope and intensity to the god of their choice. I truly think if people had been flocking for centuries to the Voodoo Donut store in Portland and prayed at its brick wall, I would have felt that same surge of power when touching its red bricks. To me, the point of the Wailing Wall is that it is a receptacle of faith. And the power from that was tangible.
The next day our first stop was the Mount of Beatitudes. It is the hill where Jesus delivered his "Blessed are..." Sermon on the Mount. The tears that happened there surprised me the most. What I learned there was that God is Jesus.
To most Christians, that probably gets a big "DUH!" but to me it was life changing. I came to God through the Holy Spirit. For years, back into my early 20s, I had conversations with what I called "My Little Voice" or my "Spirit Guide." I didn't really know what it was; I just knew that it would occasionally give me very strong, concise guidance. And it was never wrong.
In my late thirties, as I began to explore God and Christianity, I slowly realized and eventually accepted that my "Spirit Guide" was actually the Holy Spirit. So I have long understood (as much as a limited human can) the Holy Spirit. And I was pretty comfortable with who God is and why his part of the Trinity is important. But Jesus? I just didn't get him.
To me, Jesus was a guy who was, not is. He was a pretty remarkable man who walked the earth 2000ish years ago and then died...sort of. I accepted that Jesus was God as human and because I have experienced and believe enough supernatural stuff, I could even buy into the resurrection thing. But I still didn't feel very connected to Jesus. Which can be very disconcerting when so many...so very many...songs in church talk about worshiping and revering him. To me, Jesus and his importance in my life was confounding. Until the Mount of Beatitudes.
As I stood in that grove of olive trees, overlooking the Sea of Galilee, and listened as someone read the first part of Jesus's Sermon on the Mount, I felt a connection to Jesus for the very first time. Somehow hearing his words in the place he spoke them made all the difference. As I walked to the small church below the grove, I was dizzy and crying and then my little voice...the Holy Spirit...gave me those three profound words: "God is Jesus." That's it. That's all I apparently needed to know. And I have been holding onto them ever since. It is still a new concept to me, and a new feeling, so I still have to go back to that moment to remind myself. But I think it was a very fertile seed that was sown in my mind and heart that day.
One more thing I learned on our trip...as if that all wasn't enough...was what overwhelming gratitude really feels like. At both the Mount of Beatitudes and the Wailing Wall, I attempted to pray and instead was at an utter loss for words. Particularly at the Wailing Wall, I wanted to put my best prayer out there, so well crafted, so eloquent, so complete. With my piece of paper in hand, I mumbled something along the lines of, "I give these prayers to You. They are my heart." And then after a moment of more tears, all I could say over and over in my head was "THANK YOU!!" Yes, in my head I was screaming it. I felt a sense of gratitude I had never felt before. I wasn't just thankful to God that I was there at that spot on Earth or that my back pain was manageable or that I was on an amazing vacation or that I love my husband with my soul or that my life is blessed. I was thankful and grateful for My Life. My Life with God. The life I decided on July 4, 2007 to give back to him and to live in service of him and what he stands for. So over and over and over I silently yelled, "THANK YOU!!" because that is all that really seemed to matter. He knew the rest.
I have concluded that Muslims have something brilliant with their requirement that every believer make a pilgrimage to Mecca in their lifetime. While I used to think that was somewhat oppressive, I now understand the power of being in sacred places and experiencing them with your own eyes, body, and spirit. Visiting Jerusalem and the Sea of Galilee and Patmos changed my life. My faith is rounder, fuller, has more context and depth. Sort of like a slot machine, wheels just clicked into place for the jackpot payout of understanding. I still have a LOT of growth and maturing and learning to do in my faith, but going to the places where it all began was like a huge dose of Miracle-Gro. I profoundly thank God for the opportunity and desire to go to where He once walked our earth. It was the true definition of awesome.
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