Pilgrimage (24 page)

Prayer is our greatest weapon in this battle for the hearts and minds of our loved ones, yet I have allowed my own prayer life to become stale and routine. I need to renew it for the sake of those I love, those whom God loves. And while I’m on my knees, I will pray for renewed faith and zeal as I search for ways to tell a lost generation that God loves them. And I will also ask God to forgive me for not vigorously chasing after my captured loved ones sooner, invading enemy territory with His help, and bringing God’s children home to Him.

Mount Hermon

I’ve seen it in the distance from Galilee. On a clear day, Mount Hermon dominates the northeastern horizon, a majestic, snowy-haired king cloaked in purple. Our tour bus has climbed the mountain on a road with steep, winding switchbacks, and we’re now gazing down on Galilee from above. This is about as far north as we can go and still be in Israel. From this vantage point, I see the nations of Lebanon and Syria in the distance.

The United States has an abundance of mountain ridges like this one, but the Mount Hermon range is conspicuous as the only snowcapped one in Israel. The sight of Hermon is so majestic, the view from the top so awe-inspiring, that I can’t help wonder why God didn’t build His Temple here. Mount Hermon could have inspired worshipers the way soaring medieval cathedrals in Europe were designed to do. Instead, God chose Mount Zion—which isn’t even the tallest peak in
Jerusalem—as the mountain of the Lord. Then I remember the long, steep climb our bus just made to get here, and I realize that we would have used Hermon’s height as an excuse. Who can climb more than nine thousand feet above sea level to worship? God chose to make His place of worship accessible.

Learning to worship was one of the reasons God brought Israel out of Egypt. “Let my people go,” He told Pharaoh, “so that they may worship me” (Exodus 7:16). Yet when the people finally reached Mount Sinai and the mountain began to quake and heave, spewing fire and smoke, the people were terrified (Exodus 19:16–19). Moses climbed Sinai alone to receive the Torah, bringing God’s words down to them. “Now what I am commanding you today is not too difficult for you or beyond your reach,” he assured them. “It is not up in heaven, so that you have to ask, ‘Who will ascend into heaven to get it and proclaim it to us so we may obey it?’ . . . No, the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart” (Deuteronomy 30:11–12, 14).

The writer of the book of Hebrews recalls Israel’s experiences at Mount Sinai and assures you and me that “You have not come to a mountain that can be touched and that is burning with fire . . . But you have come to Mount Zion, to the heavenly Jerusalem . . . to Jesus the mediator of a new covenant” (Hebrews 12:18, 22, 24). Our Christian walk isn’t an impossible one. It doesn’t require superhuman effort or intelligence, only trust. Christ left His throne in heaven to bring the kingdom down to us. He gave us the Holy Spirit to convict us of sin and teach us how to live righteous lives. What more do we need? This passage in Hebrews concludes with these words: “Therefore . . . let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe” (Hebrews 12:28).

Has the effortless accessibility that we have to our Father’s throne made us complacent? Is that why I take it for granted, instead of seeing it for the amazing privilege that it is? Shouldn’t I be as breathless with awe as I stand before God in worship or in prayer as if I had climbed a nine-thousand-foot mountain?

Our guide pulls my attention back as he tells us about Jesus’ transfiguration. He’s convinced that Jesus led Peter, James, and John at least partway up Mount Hermon and not to Mount Tabor, where the Church of the Transfiguration now stands. The Gospels don’t name the mountain, saying only that Jesus took these three men up a high mountain by themselves. What happened next was life-changing: “There he was transfigured before them. His face shone like the sun, and his clothes became as white as the light. Just then there appeared before them Moses and Elijah, talking with Jesus” (Matthew 17:2–3).

In his excitement, Peter offered to build three booths as a shrine, but while he was still babbling, “a bright cloud enveloped them” and God’s voice spoke from the cloud. The reaction of all three disciples was to fall facedown on the ground in terror. We sometimes sing silly praise songs about wanting to see God and to touch Him, but the truth is, if He did respond to such a naïve request, we would pass out from fright. During Israel’s experience at Mount Sinai, “The sight was so terrifying that Moses said, ‘I am trembling with fear’” (Hebrews 12:21). I don’t ever want to forget that God is holy—and that I’m not. At the very least, when I come before Him in worship, I should leave all of my petty, self-centered thoughts and attitudes at the foot of the mountain and “Enter his gates with thanksgiving and his courts with praise” (Psalm 100:4).

For all three disciples, this mountaintop experience, conversing with Jesus and two of history’s greatest men, was probably one of the most memorable of their lives. Up here where the air is thin and pure, the view unending, Peter could catch a far-reaching glimpse of God’s plan for the tiny mortals far below. The roles that Moses the lawgiver, Elijah the prophet, and Jesus the Messiah each played must have seemed as clear as the air they breathed. No wonder Peter offered to build booths and live here.

We sometimes have a similar mountaintop experience at a spiritual retreat or a Christian conference, where we see the glory of God—and we long to linger there. Everything in our lives seems to fall into place as God speaks clearly to us, giving us a glimpse of His eternal perspective. We have the faith to move mountains and we say, like the Israelites at Mount Sinai, “We will do everything the Lord has said” (Exodus 19:8).

I believe that this vision of Christ in all His glory helped sustain the three disciples through all they endured in the years that followed Christ’s ascension. They knew that they would see this Jesus again—in all His glory—at the end of time. We can also treasure the glimpses of His glory that He gives us, those daily miracles when our prayers for a sick friend are answered with healing; when our pleas for a torn relationship lead to reconciliation; when a loved one we’ve prayed for over the years finally surrenders to Christ. These glimpses help us hang on to the promise of a future when God will wipe away all tears and make all things new; a future in which Jesus has promised that “the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father” (Matthew 13:43).

As glorious as the experience of Christ’s transfiguration was, He and His disciples couldn’t stay on the mountaintop. Jesus had to travel the road to Calvary. Peter, James, and John had to go into all the world and make disciples. They all had work to do down below—and so do I. My pilgrimage to Israel is nearly over. I have traveled from one end of the nation to the other, from the barren wilderness in the south to Israel’s highest peak in the north. I have seen my life and my work from a new perspective, and Christ has become real to me in ways I’ve never before experienced. But now it’s time to take one last look at the panoramic view of the Promised Land from Mount Hermon’s height. It’s time to descend to ground level and prepare for the tasks that He has set before me. I go with a twinge of regret to be leaving a place of such beauty and the sense of God’s presence. But I’m not leaving behind the nearness of God. He is accessible wherever I go, through prayer: “And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age” (Matthew 28:20). What do I have to fear?

I will utter hidden things, things from of old—what we have heard and known, what our fathers have told us. We will not hide them from [our] children; we will tell the next generation the praiseworthy deeds of the Lord, his power, and the wonders he has done.

Psalm 78:2–4

A N
EW
P
RAYER
FOR
THE
J
OURNEY

Our holy God and Father,

Your glory shines in the beauty of Your creation, in mountains and forests and rushing streams. They are Your gifts to us to enjoy, a reflection of Your beauty and love, and I praise You for them. I confess that I have watched loved ones wander away from You and have not loved them enough to arm myself through prayer and chase after them. Give me renewed faith and zeal and the Holy Spirit’s guidance as I set out to reclaim them for You. Thank You for reaching down from the heavens to rescue me so that I could be lifted up to the heavenly places with You. And now, Lord, I’m beginning to see the work You have for me to do next. Strengthen me with Your power and Your love to get it done.

Amen

11
Sabbath Rest

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.

Matthew 11:28

I
t’s Friday afternoon, and the Sabbath is coming. We have returned to the guesthouse in Jerusalem, and I’m watching the flurry of activity that precedes this day of rest. The Hebrew word for Sabbath—
Shabbat
—means to stop. And when the sun sets today at 4:47 p.m., all work will cease whether it’s finished or not. The public buses will all return to the station and cease running. In homes and apartments all over Jerusalem, people will turn off their televisions and computers and cell phones, they’ll stop checking their email and text messages. Right now the chefs in our guesthouse kitchen are racing to finish our special Shabbat meal, knowing that the stoves and ovens must be turned off before sunset, whether the food is cooked or not. I’ve been assured that our meal will be done.

The Jewish people have been celebrating Shabbat for centuries, in cities and villages, in ghettos and gulags and concentration camps. They know how to keep the Sabbath. As I celebrate it with them here in Israel, I’m learning to see it the way they do: as a gift from God. He gives us permission to stop working, whether we’re finished or not—and of course we’re never finished. We can lay down our saws and spatulas and cell phones, turn off our cars and computers and calculators, and rest. Just as our bosses and CEOs give us a yearly vacation, letting us leave work and not worry about returning tomorrow to punch a time clock or empty our in-box, God gives us a vacation from our labor every week on the Sabbath. Since He designed us and formed us, He knows that after six days our bodies and minds need to rest in order to function well—just as regular, scheduled oil changes keep our cars running at peak performance.

As sunset nears, everyone in our tour group puts on their nicest clothes. People dressed up this way for church on Sunday when I was a girl. My sisters and I even had special shoes that we wore only on that day, black patent leather ones that we polished with Vaseline on Saturday night until they gleamed. Dressing up for Shabbat is a way to set this day apart as a special, sacred time, different from all other days.

We make our way across the courtyard to the dining hall, and I’m struck by how quiet it is outside. There’s no traffic in the streets, no jangling phones or beeping text messages, no music or televisions blaring from open windows. The peace is glorious, a foretaste of heaven’s peace. A lot of people I know are going to feel restless and uncomfortable in heaven because they haven’t practiced resting here on earth. I imagine them unable to relax in paradise as they search for a computer to
access their social media, their fingers itching for a cell phone so they can send a text message. I don’t want to be one of them.

Inside the dining room the tables have been set with white tablecloths and napkins, the best china and flatware, and decorated with flowers and candles. “Remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy,” God commanded.
Holy
means “set apart,” “dedicated to the service of God.” These special dinner preparations help separate God’s day from ordinary days. On ordinary days we eat take-out food on the run or meals reheated in the microwave. We shop for groceries and do laundry and mow the lawn. On ordinary days we multitask in a continual frenzy of activity before falling into bed, exhausted. But on the Sabbath, we don’t have to do any of those things. This isn’t legalism; it’s a gift from God. It’s freedom. “Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and that the Lord your God brought you out of there. . . . Therefore the Lord your God has commanded you to observe the Sabbath day” (Deuteronomy 5:15). Who wants to be enslaved again, browbeaten by taskmasters? For one day out of seven, God frees us from the tyranny of work.

Our daughter, Maya, has joined us for Shabbat, and we sit down together to eat a long, leisurely meal. She gushes with excitement as she tells us about her studies here in Jerusalem, and her joy is contagious. I can see the deep love that she has for the Jewish people, for their faith and their traditions, and I know it is God-given. After our host recites the blessing over the traditional Challah bread, Maya explains that Jewish women always bake two loaves on Shabbat. They do it to remember the manna they ate in the wilderness and how, unlike on ordinary days, God provided enough manna on the eve of the Sabbath to last for two days. The people
could rest, even in the wilderness, knowing that for one full day no one had to labor to gather their daily bread, knowing that God had provided for their needs.

Our meal proceeds with prayers of thanksgiving, with laughter and an occasional song. Freed from the rush of our busy lives, we take time to really taste the food and wine, to enjoy and savor the many flavors. And also to enjoy each other. The Sabbath is a day for inviting friends and guests to share your meal, to talk face-to-face, to laugh and sing and thank God for life and for friendship. This is what we were created for. “It is not good for the man to be alone,” God told us, even in the paradise of Eden (Genesis 2:18).