Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land Read Online Free Page A

exist. The church is all dark, polished wood and smells like citrus. I climb the stairs to the balcony and see that there’s a beautiful organ console with extensive pipes. I immediately think about the organ in my own church, and the repairs it needs, repairs we can’t afford. But these are not pilgrim thoughts.
    The cameras are ready. “Stand in a semicircle behind the altar,” Brian instructs. “Can you look comfortable?”
    I want to tell him that I’m doing my best. But there’s a camera right there, and, besides that, Presbyterians don’t do altars. Have you heard of the Reformation?
    Black cord necklaces are laid on the altar, each with a medallion — apparently the image of some saint. After we read Psalm 121 aloud responsively, we’re supposed to put the necklaces on each other, though nobody says what they signify.
    I wait as Jessica fumbles with the clasp around my neck. The medallion rides on the pulse of my throat, like a talisman. It’s my turn to put the necklace on Ashley, and she whispers, “Is this a lucky charm?”
    I feel a rush of affection for my Presbyterian sister as I whisper back, “I’m not sure what it is.”
    JoAnne overhears us. “It’s a Saint Christopher. Patron saint of travelers.”
    After the service we squeeze into a van to ride to Kennedy Airport. Our plane is a huge jet, and we walk further and further back. Our seats are in the second row from the rear wall. We smell diesel and grimace at each other. Maybe that’s why the woman in front of me has apparently doused herself with perfume. But we are served free drinks, which I didn’t know was standard on transatlantic flights. Outside I quietly order a gin and tonic; inside I praise the Lord.
    We are flying east, toward the morning light. Time speeds up as the clock turns back. I imagine I can feel time crumble under us hour by hour as the clock reverses, as if we are barefoot on a beach watching the sand under our toes dissolve with each succeeding wave. But the sand isn’t gone, and neither is our day. It’s displaced. We will regain it at the end of this pilgrimage. I can’t help but wonder: What will change between this day, which we are losing, and that day, which we will gain?
    We land at Heathrow Airport in London amid chaos. We disembark and wait in a line so endless we can’t be sure where it goes. We are pilgrims becoming disoriented to our old world in order to cross a threshold into a new world. In this moment we are in some kind of liminal space between the two. Whatever stratum we might be entering I cannot say. But I can feel my old life slipping away.
    Eventually we board a second aircraft as huge as the first.This time we are seated in the fourth row from the back. Repeat the last six hours. Taxi. Take-off. Diesel fumes. Drinks. Dinner. Time like sand.

Mount Scopus, Jerusalem
    CHAPTER 3
    Olive Trees and Sparrows
    Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
    M ATTHEW 6:26
    T HE FIRST SHOCK when you walk into the Tel Aviv airport is its size and shine. “Arrival” and “Departure” signs flip over into multiple languages in a futuristic way. It looks and operates more like a movie set than any transportation terminal I’ve experienced. The second shock is the guns. Guards wearing berets carry long firearms or wear them strapped against their bodies. After twenty-five hours of travel, we’re all a little giddy, but the weaponry has a chilling effect.
    An eleven-passenger van and driver are waiting, sent by Saint George’s College, which is hosting our pilgrimage. Brian hasn’t told us much about Saint George’s except that it’s Anglican and is a host for Holy Land pilgrims based in Jerusalem. He’s assured us that we’ll be in good hands. Now he informs us that our small group will be joining another