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

larger group of thirty or so. We will fill a tour bus. The words “tour bus” don’t sound particularly pilgrimish; we pilgrims frown at each other but don’t say anything.
    The van driver has long, dark hair and is casually dressed in jeans and an open plaid shirt. He looks proud and handsome. I suddenly realize — why did I never realize this before? — thatI cannot tell a Palestinian from a Jew. Can anyone from the Western Hemisphere tell the difference?
    Brian and the cameramen wrestle the luggage and camera gear into the rear of the van. We greet the click of the hatch with applause. Then the ten of us wedge into the three bench seats, with Brian riding shotgun. Maybe “shotgun” isn’t the best word. Before we leave the airport, we’re stopped by armed men who examine our driver’s paperwork. We’re allowed to proceed, but a few minutes later are stopped again, and then again. An almost-biblical three times. Vehicles whiz by. The uniformed men aren’t interested in us passengers — only the driver. I study his profile. There’s a hint of unrest in his chin, which lifts slightly. He never speaks.
    We are on our way. Warm, dry air blows through the windows. We pass scrubby hills dressed in shades of beige touched with green. The light is low. It feels as if day is breaking after a sleepless night, but really the day we lost is ending. Eventually we come to the outskirts of Jerusalem, which look like any suburb: residences, office buildings, shops. Lots of cement and little grass. When we pull through a gate and into Saint George’s College, a woman emerges out of the dusk to greet us. She introduces herself — a clipped “s” betraying an Australian accent — and reads off our room assignments. JoAnne and I will room together.
    We claim our suitcases from the back of the van and tow them across a courtyard, which is suddenly, shockingly, full of people. They all look rested, clean, and crisp. They could even be on their way to church — and it turns out they are. They’re Episcopalians on their way to vespers. This is the group we’re joining for our pilgrimage, mainly senior citizens wearing no-wrinkle fabrics. They smile sympathetically as we straggle by.
    The room JoAnne and I will share has a name, Tabgha, but I’m too tired to be curious. The dorm-style room is spartan but spotless, with tiled floors and tidy twin beds. I want only to take a shower and crawl into bed. I sleep for almost eleven hours.

    Breakfast is served in the basement dining room: pita bread, hard-boiled eggs, slices of a mild white cheese, plain yogurt, whole fruit. The coffee is instant Nescafé, which I sip for the sake of the caffeine.
    Our documentary group joins the thirty Episcopalians, and all forty of us gather for introductions in the college’s one conference room. The air tingles. We’re really here, in Jerusalem! Even after so much travel, it doesn’t seem possible.
    Stephen Need, the dean of the college, leads off. He is a compact man with scholarly round glasses and a crisp British accent. He asks each of us to answer this question in front of the group: Why are you here?
    The majority of people are from Canada, and nearly everyone is Anglican. Some people are well-read in Middle East politics, while others are interested in archaeology. Some are biblical scholars and talk at length, while others say little besides their name. I estimate that half the group is over sixty. There are subgroups from a couple of churches.
    â€œI want to walk where Jesus walked,” says Krisha, who recently converted from Hinduism. She is one of the few younger pilgrims, probably in her late twenties. Her sincerity is charming. “I want to see Jesus,” she says, “so what better place than the Sea of Galilee? I believe I’ll see him there.”
    In the Reformed tradition we keep a respectful distance from the Savior, and