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Authors: Ruth Everhart
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called away.
âThis is exactly why we donât do creeds,â Charlie says. âTheyâre nothing but trouble.â
For once I can understand Charlieâs perspective, even though Iâm a word person and the Reformed tradition is full of creeds. Words can be a tool or a weapon, even when theyâre ancient. Theyâre never really dead. A few words have the power to enliven or to enrage, the power to build a bridge or to fortify a wall.
Back in our simple dorm room, JoAnne shuts the window so that the Muslim midnight call to prayer wonât wake us up, as it did the previous night. Thereâs a minaret just outside. Even though the room is a little too warm with the window closed, I agree. Tonight I want to sleep more than I want to pray.
The Dome of the Rock, Old Jerusalem
CHAPTER 7
Sin-cere
Lord, my heart is not proud.
P SALM 131:1 (NIV)
O N THE BUS waiting to go to the Wailing Wall, I realize that yesterday was September 11, the anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. At home in Washington, D.C., that date would have been significant; here it slipped past me. I feel disconnected from my normal life. Maybe my transformation into a pilgrim has been too successful.
Itâs perplexing, because in other ways I feel like a pilgrim failure. I have good intentions. I want to open myself like a pilgrim. I pray to become whatever God wills. But I get in my own way. Instead of confronting the Holy, I confront myself. I have so many limits, from physical to intellectual. Being in the sun exhausts me. I need caffeine. I need a nap. I need time alone. Iâm unable to think past certain thoughts. Maybe thatâs always been the case, only now Iâm aware of the logjam. I can feel the pilgrimage pulling me to jump over this pile-up to somewhere new. But to where? Itâs threatening to think something new. Iâve known Jesus every day of my life, to my great comfort. Do I dare change that?
Sitting on the bus, I want to sigh and sigh and sigh â as if to expel these tumbling thoughts and so rid myself of discomfort.Yet I know Iâll breathe in something else, something threatening, or wonderful, or both at the same time. Whatâs more, I canât avoid it: I must take in a next breath. Can I trust the Spirit to be in that breath, too?
In last nightâs sermon, Nael talked about looking for the face of Christ in each person. I take his words seriously because he lives as a Palestinian Christian in a city literally divided by religion. If he can discover Christ in the faces of Muslims and Jews and atheists, maybe I can, too. Even as Iâm pondering this, another interpretation occurs to me, a kind of flip side. Perhaps my face can reflect Christ. Perhaps mine can be the face of Christ.
Iâm getting a sense â almost a physical sense â of inner divinity unlike anything Iâve ever felt before. In what way can I house Christ? Iâve experienced, in lovemaking, a sense of bodily holiness, but this is different. Itâs not relational, itâs more integral to my own self, my own body-occupying self. Simply writing these thoughts in my journal feels threatening. My Calvinist background has taught me Iâm unworthy. The phrase âinner divinityâ seems heretical. But I let it stand.
Religion is bound up with bodies. Thatâs not a new concept to me, but Iâm seeing new implications. Arenât bodies how religion becomes violent? Violence may begin as an emotion, but itâs expressed through bodies. Not only through breath and words, but blows! And isnât love the same â beginning in emotion, expressed through bodies. Yes, both sides of spiritual passion â violence and love â are bound up in our very human flesh. Is this a fuller meaning of incarnation than what Iâve yet grasped?
I feel a new appreciation gestating in me. Iâm experiencing, rather than simply
âThis is exactly why we donât do creeds,â Charlie says. âTheyâre nothing but trouble.â
For once I can understand Charlieâs perspective, even though Iâm a word person and the Reformed tradition is full of creeds. Words can be a tool or a weapon, even when theyâre ancient. Theyâre never really dead. A few words have the power to enliven or to enrage, the power to build a bridge or to fortify a wall.
Back in our simple dorm room, JoAnne shuts the window so that the Muslim midnight call to prayer wonât wake us up, as it did the previous night. Thereâs a minaret just outside. Even though the room is a little too warm with the window closed, I agree. Tonight I want to sleep more than I want to pray.
The Dome of the Rock, Old Jerusalem
CHAPTER 7
Sin-cere
Lord, my heart is not proud.
P SALM 131:1 (NIV)
O N THE BUS waiting to go to the Wailing Wall, I realize that yesterday was September 11, the anniversary of the terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. At home in Washington, D.C., that date would have been significant; here it slipped past me. I feel disconnected from my normal life. Maybe my transformation into a pilgrim has been too successful.
Itâs perplexing, because in other ways I feel like a pilgrim failure. I have good intentions. I want to open myself like a pilgrim. I pray to become whatever God wills. But I get in my own way. Instead of confronting the Holy, I confront myself. I have so many limits, from physical to intellectual. Being in the sun exhausts me. I need caffeine. I need a nap. I need time alone. Iâm unable to think past certain thoughts. Maybe thatâs always been the case, only now Iâm aware of the logjam. I can feel the pilgrimage pulling me to jump over this pile-up to somewhere new. But to where? Itâs threatening to think something new. Iâve known Jesus every day of my life, to my great comfort. Do I dare change that?
Sitting on the bus, I want to sigh and sigh and sigh â as if to expel these tumbling thoughts and so rid myself of discomfort.Yet I know Iâll breathe in something else, something threatening, or wonderful, or both at the same time. Whatâs more, I canât avoid it: I must take in a next breath. Can I trust the Spirit to be in that breath, too?
In last nightâs sermon, Nael talked about looking for the face of Christ in each person. I take his words seriously because he lives as a Palestinian Christian in a city literally divided by religion. If he can discover Christ in the faces of Muslims and Jews and atheists, maybe I can, too. Even as Iâm pondering this, another interpretation occurs to me, a kind of flip side. Perhaps my face can reflect Christ. Perhaps mine can be the face of Christ.
Iâm getting a sense â almost a physical sense â of inner divinity unlike anything Iâve ever felt before. In what way can I house Christ? Iâve experienced, in lovemaking, a sense of bodily holiness, but this is different. Itâs not relational, itâs more integral to my own self, my own body-occupying self. Simply writing these thoughts in my journal feels threatening. My Calvinist background has taught me Iâm unworthy. The phrase âinner divinityâ seems heretical. But I let it stand.
Religion is bound up with bodies. Thatâs not a new concept to me, but Iâm seeing new implications. Arenât bodies how religion becomes violent? Violence may begin as an emotion, but itâs expressed through bodies. Not only through breath and words, but blows! And isnât love the same â beginning in emotion, expressed through bodies. Yes, both sides of spiritual passion â violence and love â are bound up in our very human flesh. Is this a fuller meaning of incarnation than what Iâve yet grasped?
I feel a new appreciation gestating in me. Iâm experiencing, rather than simply
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