I shuffle along the white sandstone street in Jerusalem, trying desperately to focus on our tour guide’s words. To my left, a vendor loudly advertises his wares — dresses, rugs, jewelry, and wood carvings, the same items we have seen at every market stall from here to Caesarea. I adjust my ankle-length skirt for the umpteenth time, trying to find a way to allow a breeze to flow around my legs: a futile act in this desert land.
Ariél, our young and enthusiastic tour guide, pauses again and begins to pace back and forth animatedly as he explains to us about yet another station of the cross.
“What is he saying?” a sleep-deprived classmate whispers to me as we support ourselves against a cool stone wall.
In a moment we are off again, winding our way through the streets of Jerusalem’s Old City, making our way toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where we will encounter an even more overwhelming scene than I thought possible: hundreds of Christian pilgrims humming and buzzing about the church which is supposed to contain Christ’s tomb.
This is a typical day for tourists on the Via Dolorosa, the Way of Sorrows, where Jesus walked on his way to Golgotha outside of Jerusalem to be crucified. Millions of tourists walk this road each year, following in the steps of Jesus during his last day on earth.
Many Christians dream of visiting Israel at some point in their lives. For young Jewish people, a trip to the Holy Land is often seen as a rite of passage. Muslims also value the Holy Land, and view the Temple Mount in Old City Jerusalem as a holy site.
My reason for going to Israel was neither cultural birthright nor religious obligation. My university offers a variety of international trips each May to students of junior standing, and so I embarked on this holy pilgrimage in order to gain cultural credit. Prior to leaving, whenever acquaintances heard that I would be travelling to Israel in the near future, the response was nearly always the same: “Seeing the Holy Land will make the Bible come alive for you!”
This was logical to me; obviously seeing the physical land where the Bible took place would make Scripture more accessible for me. And to some extent, this was true. During our first days near the Mediterranean, we viewed ancient ruins at Caesarea, where the apostle Paul stood on trial before Herod. The ancient city is easily marked out for the tourist experience — here is where Herod’s palace stood, here is where Paul likely stood on trial, these are the latrines where the Romans relieved themselves before entering the hippodrome.
But as I wandered the streets of Nazareth and Tiberias, the ancient cities where Jesus walked and taught and ate, I couldn’t help the creeping feeling of disappointment that slowly worked its way into my mind. Somehow I was expecting that this land would be different than other modern countries and cities. I wasn’t expecting to see fully developed cities with honking cars and litter-strewn streets. I didn’t expect to see legging-clad women with their midriffs showing or men smoking cigarettes on the corner. This land was supposed to be the holy grail of Christian pilgrimages. It was supposed to be shiny and bright.
Walking along the Via Dolorosa, I was shocked by how unspiritual I felt. I’d had a picture in my mind of what it would feel like to walk in the steps of Jesus, but what I experienced was nowhere close to the ideal I’d had. It was a bit like trying to focus in church during worship when your mind keeps wandering to other things. I wanted to be in the moment, take in the significance, but all I could think about was how not spiritual this all felt. I was just one of the thousands of tourists who wandered the holy city that day, each with a camera in hand.
After being disappointed time and time again, I was beginning to wonder whether it had been foolish for me to think I would find Jesus in this land. I knew Jesus was alive and active, even in this country where there were far more people who viewed Christ as a heretic than as their personal saviour. I knew He was there, but I had a hard time finding Him.
How easily God can shatter our expectations.
It was our last night in Israel. We were preparing to cross the border into Jordan for the second portion of our trip. That night we stayed at what our trip leader called “the Disneyland of Bedouin camps.” After a day of swimming (or rather floating) in the Dead Sea, riding camels, and eating more food than I thought possible, we started a fire at our campsite and sat in a circle while one classmate led us in worship on a guitar.
When I opened my eyes after a few songs, I was surprised to see that our group had expanded. A Christian man and his daughter had been wandering the camp and heard us singing, and decided to join us. They asked if it would be alright if they went and grabbed some of their group members to join in as well. It wasn’t long before our circle had nearly doubled in size, and we sat side-by-side with Christian brothers and sisters we had never met before, worshipping the same great God.
A chill came over me as I made a startling realization that night: I had spent weeks trying to find Jesus in a church or a city or tomb, but He had been right in front of me all along. I didn’t find Jesus in things or sites. I found Him in His people as they huddled around a campfire in the Negev Desert, singing praise to His name.
Photo (Flickr CC) by israeltourism.
