The desert.
Dry. Empty. Hostile.
Or is it?
When
most people think of the Middle East, I think they picture sand dunes, camels
and turbans. And don’t get me wrong, those are there!
But
the desert struck me in a new way while I was on cross cultural. Through
Jordan, Palestine, Israel, Turkey, Greece and Italy, over four months and
countless cups of tea, here are some things that I took with me:
The desert.
Parched. Scorched. Vast.
So
much bigger than anything I feel. A chunk of perspective plopping into the
mumbo jumbo soup of inflated emotions that is a cross cultural
experience. Everything is heightened when you are out of your comfort zone, and
even more so when you stay outside it for four months.
As I
stared out the window of the bus on a particularly trying day, the blur of sand
and rocks staring back at me became a soothing thought: I am small. Infinitesimal,
in the grand scheme of the universe. And that means that my problems – my
discomfort, my questions, my wrestling – are all even tinier. Sigh. It’s good
to be small sometimes.
The desert.
Harsh. Immense. Challenging.
A
place which the Israelites called home for 40 years. They journeyed - growing,
learning, straying, returning. Not a stroll through sand dunes, as I had always
pictured, but struggling over rocks and brambles, heads bent against the fierce
wind, each ragged breath another silent wish for water.
A place to which Hagar was banished, alone, with her son.
Sent away for doing as she was told, evicted by jealousy. A place where she was
resigned to die, until the Lord’s angel saved her. Hagar, who’s very name means
migration.
A place where the Bible came alive before me, and I could
finally see with my own eyes what the words couldn’t convey.
The desert.
Uninhabited. Barren.
Desolate.
Free
of buildings, free of walls. Walls are plentiful in the Holy Land. You’d think
this would be the place where grace extends and we forget our differences in the
light of the Holy of Holies. Nope. We use religion to build walls: between the
Muslims, Christians, Armenians, and Jews. Between the Palestinians and
Israelis. Between men and women. There are walls everywhere.
But
the desert is free of walls. Here I am reminded of the grace of God, and how it
surrounds and carries us, regardless of, well, anything.
My
time abroad made me realize just how unique this grace is. I see it nowhere but
in my God. Everywhere I look, redemption, re-humanization and return are all
left behind in favor of rules and laws and condemnation. But all of those fall
so short, or rather, we fall short. But
grace is there to hold us, carry us.
I am
nothing without grace. And walls are nothing in the face of grace.
The desert.
Lonely. Uninhabited. Empty.
So unlike
the many holy sites we visited. The Church of the Nativity, the tombs of
Abraham and Sarah, the Western Wall, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the Garden
Tomb – we went to all of them. And they were all packed full of people, taking
pictures, kneeling, pushing against each other as they reached for the holy
square foot of bedrock that is said to have been touched by Jesus.
These
are the places that people ask about and are amazed that we visited, but they
are also the places I tended to connect with the least. No, the gold covered
buildings filled with candles and tourists were not where I felt the spirit. I
spent more time trying not to get separated from the group or trampled than I
did in reverence or prayer.
I
connected with God while playing Frisbee in the Sea of Galilee. I heard His
voice in the long conversations with fellow students as we hiked the coast of
Turkey. I learned to know my God sitting alone, watching the sun set across the
miles of empty sand.
The desert.
Hopeless. Dismal. Bleak.
How it can feel when you spend four months hearing story
after heartbreaking story of fellow people ripping each other apart.
But there is hope. We also heard stories of love, of trust,
of choosing to see humans before labels. Stories of relationship.
Because that’s what Jesus was about, in the end. He didn’t
sit down at the well and tell the Samaritan woman how to fix her life. He
asked. He listened. He learned to know her story. That is the gospel in action: relationship.
And against all odds, in spite of religion and nationality
and walls, people are pushing for something different than what is in front of
them. There are groups bringing together Palestinian and Israeli kids to play
Ultimate Frisbee. There are Israeli activists protesting the destruction of
Palestinian homes. There are college kids in Bethlehem, who look around and
think “there must be a better way”.
There are hands reaching across the wall, building
relationships, building hope.
The desert.
What
I longed for upon my return.
Well,
to be honest, I longed to be back in pretty much any one of the places we
visited, but the emptiness of the desert was quite enticing. Coming back is
hard.
Coming
back to isolation after spending literally every moment of the past four months
with some portion of a group of 26 college kids going through same experiences.
Coming back to people who have never been to the part of the world I have just been
submerged in. Coming back to opinions based on inflated news stories and good
intentions, but not on the kind of relationships that I have built with the
people living in these countries. Coming back to a home that feels much
less like home. Coming back to “How was your trip?!”
I’m
slowly learning to answer the questions that those around me don’t have the
words to ask. Learning how to hold on to an experience. Learning how to carry
stories.
The desert.
A
new place in my journey, the beginning of new questions and ideas, where I too
grew, learned, strayed and returned. While I spent just a fraction of time
there, its transformational powers have reached me just the same, and I still
feel a nudging to not shrink away, but step towards the uncomfortable places.
The desert.
This piece is a transcript of what I shared about cross-cultural during a recent service at my church.
