Monday, May 3, 2021            (today’s lectionary)
Feast of Saints Philip and James, Apostles
Footsteps on the mountain
Of course! We can make it to and through the Holy Land. Walk three to eight miles a day. Listen for the guide, keep up with the group, sleep like rocks at night, enjoy all the delicious food, and make friends. If St. Francis could do it, if St. Ignatius could do it, so can we?
Well, our knees and hips say no. Unequivocally. So we won’t go. We’ll watch travelogues instead. We’ll pray for the group at Grace while they’re gone, and read Kathie Lee Gifford’s book, The Rock The Road and the Rabbi. Sounds like a plan.
I am reminding you, brothers and sisters, of the Gospel I preached to you, which you indeed received and in which you also stand.
I do think, wistfully, of the northern desert in Israel, where Jesus walked, and of the appearances after his resurrection, of the air they all breathed then, and we would too, now.
He appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve. He appeared to more than 500 brothers and sisters at once. He appeared to James, then to all the Apostles.
But Paul’s testimony about himself is the one that touches my heart. As if it were my own testimony too.
Last of all, as to one born abnormally, he appeared to me.
Reading Francine Rivers’ book Unbroken about Bathsheba, I imagine being beside that eight year old girl in her grandfather’s arms, close by the campfire near Hebron, listening to David’s harp and David’s songs, waiting for God’s time to do battle, waiting for God’s time to become king. There is never any hurry, being with God, but always you must listen. David washed his hands and feet before he prayed, every day, as the sun rose.
The heavens declare the glory of God, and the firmament proclaims his handiwork. Day pours out the word to day, and night to night imparts knowledge. Through all the earth their voice resounds.
Usually Miles and I read a story before our nap. On Sunday we zoom-watched the Grace 360 Church’s introductory Holy Land trip meeting. There were pictures of Galilee, and Masada, and Jerusalem. The desert encroaches on it all. Two days without water, and the third day you die. So in Israel, having enough water is in the center of everyone’s mind, every day.
And then again I think of Jesus, walking without destination but with great purpose, into the heart of the Judean Desert, climbing Jabal al-Qarantal, remembering the siege and seven marches around Jericho, aching for the faithfulness of God’s people, the Israelites, God’s chosen ones, his own human ancestors.
In the 4th century, soon after Christianity became the Roman State Religion, monks began burrowing into the caves and caverns of the rockface, gradually creating a monastery there. In one war or another it was destroyed, and later rebuilt by Greek Orthodox monks. Today it watches over the plains of Jericho. A cable car has become an option to the hour’s climb. A restaurant at the entrance greets you, if you happen to be hungry.
Jesus had been fasting, of course. Somehow I think that’s what I’d want to be doing too, and the smell of morning pastries and afternoon falafel might give my fast just a little more juice. And if I close my eyes, smelling the food and turning aside, every bit of Jesus’ sweat still feels rich in the brim of my hat. In my moment there. In person or not. In body or out of body.
Have I been with you for so long a time and still you do not know me? How can you say, “Show us the Father?” Do you not see that I am in the Father and the Father is in me?
( 1 Corinthians 15, Psalm 19, John 14)
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