Pilgrimage (19 page)

God’s command to preach to a Gentile nation shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Jonah. Israel’s calling as the Chosen People of God was to be a blessing to the non-Jewish world. The floor plan of God’s Temple included a huge courtyard
where Gentiles could come and worship. The Old Testament prophets and psalmists had promised that all nations would one day worship Israel’s God. But Jonah wanted to be the one who decided which nations would be included in those promises and which ones wouldn’t—and he definitely excluded the Assyrians! Joppa was the place where the prophet refused God’s call.

The New Testament also mentions the port of Joppa. In Acts 10 we find the apostle Peter staying here with Simon the tanner, “whose house is by the sea” (v. 6). He probably enjoyed the same sunny view and gentle breezes that I’m enjoying. Peter had a powerful ministry here by the sea, teaching his fellow Jews about Jesus. He even raised a devout woman named Dorcas from the dead. But Peter, like Jonah, preached the Gospel only to Jews like himself. He was in a nice, comfortable, successful groove. Kind of like my own groove back home—or was it a rut?—before all the seismic changes began.

Peter’s life got up-ended—like Jonah’s and like mine did. In a vision, God told Peter to step out of his comfortable routine and kill and eat unclean animals. While Peter was still trying to comprehend the vision, messengers arrived from a Gentile centurion named Cornelius. The men begged Peter to come and preach the Gospel in the city of Caesarea—a Roman city with all of the cultural icons of Imperial Rome, such as an amphitheater, a hippodrome, and temples to pagan gods. Good Jewish men like Peter didn’t visit Caesarea, and they certainly didn’t eat non-kosher food in a Gentile home with uncircumcised centurions. But God’s call had been very clear, the vision repeated three times in case Peter might be tempted to dismiss it as hunger pains: “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean” (Acts 10:15).

Cornelius was not only a Gentile but also a Roman. He was Peter’s enemy, just as the Assyrians were Jonah’s enemies. The Romans were ruthless pagans, too. I’m sure Peter hadn’t forgotten how Roman soldiers had tortured and scourged and crucified Jesus while a Roman centurion stood by and watched. It’s to Peter’s credit that he didn’t hop on the first freighter out of Joppa. But I don’t think the irony of his situation would have been lost on him; God had called him to preach to his pagan enemies while visiting Joppa. I can almost see him smiling at God’s timing. After all, Cornelius’ messengers could have found Peter in one of the other towns he had visited. But no, they had come to him in Joppa. A further irony is that Peter’s father was named Jonah. No one used last names, so Peter’s official name was Peter the son of Jonah.

Peter obeyed God and went with these messengers to a Gentile household in a Roman city. As he preached, the pagans became believers. At last, God’s Chosen People were fulfilling the promise made to Abraham that through them the whole world would be blessed.

Jesus had told the Jews who were seeking a miraculous sign that only “the sign of Jonah” would be given. “For as Jonah was three days and three nights in the belly of a huge fish, so the Son of Man will be three days and three nights in the heart of the earth” (Matthew 12:40). Jesus fulfilled this sign through His resurrection after three days in the tomb. But I think “the sign of Jonah” also might have been a reminder to the Jews—and to us—that God’s mercy and loving-kindness at Calvary extend to all mankind, even our enemies.

Once Jonah returned to land and finally followed through on God’s call, the Assyrians repented and came to faith,
everyone from the king to the common man. The Jews of Jonah’s day never would have believed it could happen. They didn’t really want it to happen. Enemies belonged in the darkest corner of hell. And the Jews of Peter’s day never would have believed that the enemy nation of Rome with its belief in a multitude of pagan gods would ever accept Christ and turn to the God of Israel. But they did. Peter eventually became the leader of the church in Rome. And Rome later became the headquarters of the Christian church.

Until my life began to change in unwanted ways, I was very comfortable living in my quiet, homogenous community in the peaceful Midwest. I liked my old, familiar ministries, writing Christian books, speaking at Christian churches and retreats and conferences. Like Jonah and Peter, I worked among people just like myself.

But two years ago, a huge mosque was built in my town, less than a mile from my house. I can see its golden dome from my bedroom window. With a local place to worship, Muslims are now moving here in large numbers. Muslim families purchased all three houses that recently sold on my street. They are now my neighbors. I haven’t heard a direct call from God to minister to them other than the normal neighborliness—when the Muslim woman across the street couldn’t get her car started last winter, my husband went over with jumper cables and helped her. But what if I did hear a more specific call? As I look out at the sea here in Joppa, I wonder how I would respond. Would I go immediately like Peter did, or sail the other way like Jonah? Would I remember that it wasn’t Jonah’s and Peter’s preaching skills that brought repentance and faith to unbelievers, but the work of the Holy Spirit?

I take a photograph of the Mediterranean Sea to hang over my desk back home, reminding me that Joppa is a place of decision, a place where God demonstrates His great love for all mankind. I shouldn’t be surprised if I find myself there. Nor should I be surprised if He asks me to put aside my fear and prejudice and look at people—even those I might consider enemies—and see them the way He does.

I smile at God’s sense of humor—and my own naiveté for believing that I really have a choice. Jonah’s escape was temporary. God has very creative ways of steering us back to His planned destination and purpose. Hopefully it won’t take three nights in a whale’s belly to convince me that I’m headed in the wrong direction. I may be uncomfortable with one-on-one evangelism or a change in my usual routine, but I’m also a very poor swimmer. I prefer to do my whale watching from a distance.

The Aqueduct at Caesarea

We have traveled some thirty miles up the coast from Joppa to a beautiful stretch of beach on the Mediterranean Sea. The water beneath cloudless skies is a deep indigo blue, the waves tipped with silver. I have shucked my shoes and peeled off my socks to walk in the warm sand. But the beach isn’t the main attraction here. Between me and the gently lapping surf are the remains of a two-thousand-year-old Roman aqueduct. The trestle marches along the shore in a long, precise line like a regiment of Roman soldiers. The sandy stones from which it is built are the same color as the beach—as if something this monumental could be camouflaged. We pose for pictures beneath one of the sturdy arches that support
the water channel high above our heads. Two young people ignore the warning signs and scale the two-story structure to stand on top, waving.

Like the tourists all around me, I “ooh” and “ahh” over the aqueduct, snapping multiple photographs. It’s so old! So graceful! A marvel of engineering! I’m not surprised to learn that the man who constructed it is none other than King Herod. He needed this aqueduct to bring fresh drinking water from a spring on top of Mount Carmel to his port city of Caesarea—a distance of twelve miles. The aqueduct is no longer completely intact, but the remaining structure impresses all of us.

When we finish admiring this wonder, we clean the sand off our feet and climb back into the bus for the short ride to Caesarea, where we quickly discover that the aqueduct is just one of many engineering feats. King Herod wanted a thoroughly Roman city on Israel’s coast, a world-class administrative center to serve as his capital with all of the comforts of Rome. He wanted easy access to the Mediterranean for shipping and travel, but his chosen site not only lacked adequate drinking water, it lacked a natural port. Neither obstacle stopped him. Along with the twelve-mile-long aqueduct, he also built a harbor. His engineers constructed huge underwater supports for a breakwater using hydraulic concrete, and then adorned the entrance to the man-made port with enormous statues. Remnants of the breakwater are still visible in the clear water offshore, shimmering beneath the surface like a mirage. Herod’s arrogance reminds me of the men of ancient Babel who said, “Let us build ourselves a city, with a tower that reaches to the heavens, so that we may make a name for ourselves” (Genesis 11:4).

Aqueduct

I could spend hours walking through the ruins of Caesarea, which was once the second-greatest city in the nation after Jerusalem. This thoroughly Roman showplace includes a 20,000-seat hippodrome for race fans, temples to everyone’s favorite Roman gods, opulent bathhouses for relaxation, and a 4,000-seat amphitheater overlooking the Mediterranean Sea. I explore Herod’s royal palace, perched near the shore, and dip my fingers in the remnants of his swimming pool, an authentic “infinity pool” that allowed swimmers to enjoy the view of the sea and the harbor. Chunks of white marble litter the ground where I walk, Carrera marble imported from Italy to adorn the buildings. And when I stand on the remains of the military garrison where the apostle Paul was likely imprisoned, I can’t help wondering if he heard the sigh of the waves and the cries of sea birds from his cell or maybe the roar of the crowd from the hippodrome, the pounding of horses and chariot wheels.

But Herod’s once-prosperous city disappeared from history, lying buried and forgotten beneath the Mediterranean sand for centuries before being excavated in modern times. When archaeologists analyzed the destruction patterns, they discovered that Caesarea was destroyed by an earthquake and
the enormous tsunami that followed. I think of the Scripture verse, “Unless the Lord builds the house, its builders labor in vain. Unless the Lord watches over the city, the watchmen stand guard in vain” (Psalm 127:1).

King Herod’s mind-set was a lot like our modern American one: If you can dream it, you can build it. Need a port in the middle of a barren coastline? No problem—just create one. Need a water supply for your new city? Simply build an aqueduct. Our Jewish guide tells us that his ancestors didn’t need aqueducts because they were wise enough to build their cities near a water source. In the same way, he says, we need to build our lives around God’s Word, staying close to it, safeguarding it, remembering that the true Source of life is God. The one who delights in God’s Word will be “like a tree planted by streams of water. . . . Whatever he does prospers” (Psalm 1:3).

There is nothing wrong with dreaming big dreams or working hard to fulfill them as long as they are God’s dreams for me and not creations of my selfish imagination. I have a habit of rushing ahead and making plans, then asking God to bless them—much like choosing a building site for a city only to discover that there is no water supply. This past year, I’ve grumbled at some of the hard places where God has put me—places that made me feel banished to a rocky outcropping on Mount Carmel, far from the pleasant shoreline and glittery city. I’ve tried to escape from such hard situations and searched for an easier, less painful place to settle—only to find myself dry and thirsty. But perhaps God, in His mercy and love, has put me in this barren place for reasons that only He can see. I may prefer a sandy beach or the excitement of Caesarea, but Mount Carmel has springs of fresh water—and it remained safe from the tidal wave that destroyed the city.

I think of Jesus’ parable of the house on the rock, so familiar to us that we sometimes gloss over it, reducing it to a children’s story, a Sunday school ditty. But I see how profound Christ’s words are as I gaze around at the ruins of Caesarea. “Everyone who hears these words of mine and puts them into practice,” Jesus said, “is like a wise man who built his house on the rock” (Matthew 7:24). If I’m living in obedience to the Word of God, then all of the floods and storms of life, like the ones I’ve been experiencing lately, will be unable to shake me. But if I’ve based my plans on something other than God’s Word then I’m no better than King Herod or the foolish man who built his house on sand: “The rain came down, the streams rose, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell with a great crash” (Matthew 7:27). When the storms blow and my own plans fall into ruins, I can look at the crumbling aqueduct, the remains of Caesarea, and understand why.

Mount Carmel, with its freshwater springs, is the place where Elijah confronted the false gods that the people of Israel were worshiping. “How long will you waver between two opinions?” Elijah asked them. “If the Lord is God, follow him; but if Baal is God, follow him” (1 Kings 18:21). So where do I want to live? In a place of pleasure and ease, serving the gods of our culture in order to avoid suffering? Or am I willing to live in a seemingly barren place as long as it’s close to the Source of life?

The City of Shechem

Traveling north toward Galilee, we skirt the long ridge of mountains that run like a spine down the center of Israel.
These aren’t imposing peaks like the Rockies or Alps, but a rumpled green carpet of hills, scrunched and scuffed and strewn with rocks. At night, we can spot the towns and villages by the chartreuse lights that shine from the tops of Muslim minarets.