Pilgrimage (25 page)

Of course, keeping the Sabbath is very inconvenient in our modern culture. It makes no sense at all, economically or practically, to set aside our endless work for twenty-four hours. Our in-boxes would overflow with email, our phones would be jammed with voice messages and texts. We live as though it’s up to us to keep the wheels of the universe in motion, as if our work is more important than honoring God. “Sunday is my only day to shop or do laundry or clean the house,” I hear people say. And so we shove God into one hour a week—unless the kids have a soccer game, and then we’ll have to miss church altogether. Some churches have Saturday night services for our convenience, so we can shoehorn God into our busy weekend schedules. A day that’s completely devoted to God can be very impractical.

What I’m learning here is that devout Jews honor God by rearranging their weekly schedules around Shabbat, planning for it ahead of time as if preparing for an honored guest. The cupboards are full, the food is all cooked and ready to enjoy for the next twenty-four hours, the house and the children
have been scrubbed and cleaned and put in order. With everything ready, the people can offer this day and themselves to God—and to each other. And when the sun sets again at the close of Shabbat, they’ll be refreshed and replenished, ready for another week of work.

Christians seem to have an aversion to anything that smacks of legalism. Didn’t Christ say that the Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath? (Mark 2:27). But I can’t escape the simple fact that observing the Sabbath is also one of the Ten Commandments. We remember the Sabbath because God “rested on the seventh day. Therefore the Lord blessed the Sabbath day and made it holy”—different, set apart from all the other days (Exodus 20:11). And we rest because He delivered His people out of slavery to their work in Egypt. Whether it makes sense or not, whether it’s convenient or not, the Jewish people rest out of obedience, as a way to love God with all their heart and soul and mind and strength.

My daughter and I laugh as we remember her frustration growing up because I wouldn’t let her go to the mall on Sunday. I suppose it was a holdover from my own youth when stores were closed on Sunday. I wanted to have at least one way to honor the Sabbath and make it different—and so our family doesn’t shop on that day. We don’t clean the house or mow the lawn or do laundry. I turn off my computer and close the door to my office. Now my daughter finally understands why, and in one of those rare moments that parents only dream about, she thanks me for it.

Our dinner concludes with a sumptuous dessert. Shabbat is a day to “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8), not to count calories. As we sing one final song, my musician husband reminds us that
rest
is also a musical term.
Without rests, music would become tiresome, the performers and audience exhausted. Moments of rest give music its rhythm—and so it is with Sabbath rest. Taking time from our busy, frantic lives to rest and honor God helps us restore the healthy rhythm and balance that God modeled when He rested from His own work on the seventh day.

On the Sabbath we remember to rest
on
God, trusting Him for all of our practical needs such as our daily bread and for strength in our trials. The Sabbath helps us remember to rest
in
God, trusting Him for our salvation, knowing that none of the work we do will ever gain us entrance into heaven. And it helps us remember to rest
for
God, because when we organize our lives and our work around a special day to honor Him, He is glorified. Can you imagine what a witness we would be to a restless, exhausted world if Christians set apart the Sabbath as holy, making it different from our ordinary days?

The night has grown late. We push back our chairs, reluctant to leave this bountiful table, sad to see the evening come to an end. Our host blesses God, thanking Him for our dinner and for the warm fellowship we have shared. We wish each other “Shabbat Shalom”—Sabbath peace and rest. Then the evening meal ends, and the Sabbath day continues with Jesus’ invitation to us in Matthew 11:28: “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest” (T
HE
M
ESSAGE
).

Morning Praise

It’s Saturday morning, and the city of Jerusalem is still quiet. No public buses clog the streets; no rushing, honking cars
disturb the peace. Since Jews count their days from sunset to sunset, today is still the Sabbath, a day of rest and worship. From the balcony of our guesthouse in the Old City, I watch a steady stream of Orthodox men in their furry Sabbath hats going to the Kotel—the Wall—to pray.

Our tour guide has returned home to spend Shabbat with his family, but before leaving, he suggested a few sites that our group might want to visit on our own today. I set out with my husband and a few others to see the Tower of David nearby, but as I’m walking I can’t shake the feeling that there is something else I need to do instead. My mind can’t possibly absorb any more information, and what I really need is time to sit quietly and pray as I ponder all of the things I’ve already heard and seen. I turn around and walk back toward our room, alone.

As I slip through the gate and enter the courtyard to our guesthouse, I’m halted by the sound of voices and instruments lifted in glorious praise. It’s coming from Christ Church, which is on the grounds of the guesthouse where we’ve been staying. According to the sign out front, Christ Church is the oldest Protestant church in the Middle East. This morning a Messianic Hebrew congregation is worshiping there. I feel a huge nudge—
this
is where I’m supposed to be today. I’m drawn up the steps and through the church doors as if pulled by ropes. A friendly usher gives me a set of headphones to hear the English translation since the service is in Hebrew, then he leads me to an empty pew. I don’t need to use the headphones to join the singing because the Hebrew lyrics are translated into English on the screen up front and God understands every language.

For the next forty minutes, I’m engulfed in worship. I can’t stop my tears as I sing and praise God. Nearly all of the words
are from the Psalms, and they seem meant for me alone, balm for my heart after saying good-bye to my daughter last night. I thought my mother-heart would break as I held her tightly, wishing I didn’t have to let her go again so soon. Now, as my
hallelujahs
join the others filling the church, I discover that my grief has eased as I’ve taken my mind off myself for a few minutes and turned my thoughts to God. Yes, this is where He wanted me to be this morning.

St. Steven’s Church, Jerusalem

Much too soon the stirring praise service ends, and we take our seats. I put on the headphones and hear the minister announce that a baby girl is going to be baptized now. As the young couple steps forward with their tiny daughter, a fresh stab of pain knifes my heart. My arms feel empty all over again. I want to leave, but the pew has filled during the praise service, and I would have to tromp over everyone to escape. I’m trapped, forced to stay and listen.

“This isn’t an ordinary baptism,” the minister begins. He is beaming, as if unable to contain his joy. “I want everyone to know that this child is a miracle! An answer to prayer!” He explains how the young mother was unable to have children for seven long, painful years—and suddenly he is telling my story. I also struggled through seven endless years of waiting, unable to get pregnant. I remember my heartache and confusion as I wrestled to understand why God wasn’t answering my prayers. But then He did answer them, and like this couple, I was finally blessed with a child—my son Benjamin. Twenty-two months later, God gave me an additional blessing—my daughter, Maya.

At the time, a friend who shared my joy said, “These children are your very own ‘Samuels,’” referring to the man of God from Scripture whose barren mother, Hannah, had begged God for a child. Hannah’s words of joy and thanksgiving became my own when I dedicated both of my children to God. And now the minister was reading those very words as he prepared to baptize this little girl: “I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of him. So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord” (1 Samuel 1:27–28).

I am weeping so hard that the woman next to me hands me a tissue. She briefly squeezes my hand, and I smile to reassure
her that I’m okay. But I am overwhelmed by the goodness and love of God in bringing me here today and speaking to my heart in such a powerful way. I silently praise Him for reminding me that Benjamin may be far from home, but his studies will prepare him to serve God. And Maya’s studies here in Israel will prepare her for her work among the Jewish people. I recall her joy and excitement as we talked last night, how thrilled she was to finally be realizing her dream. I see how faithful God has been in the lives of my two “Samuels,” and I offer them up to Him once again to follow their callings.

I bow my head and ask God to forgive me for selfishly wanting anything for my children other than what He wants. And then, as I watch this beautiful baby girl being baptized, God’s peace floods through me. Like Hannah and this new mother, I prayed for a child, and the Lord graciously gave me what I asked for—in fact, He gave me more than I asked for. And now I give my children back to the Lord. For as long as they live, they belong to Him. And nobody can snatch them from His hand.

Evening Worship

After the sun sets, ending this day of Sabbath rest, the city of Jerusalem revs up again. We walk to the Kotel and find it bustling with people enjoying the beautiful evening with their families. Hundreds of earnest worshipers are praying at the Wall—Orthodox men in black hats and striped prayer shawls alongside young people in blue jeans and uniformed soldiers with guns. What draws them here tonight?

The Kotel is unlike any place of worship I have ever visited. There are a dozen scattered plastic chairs to sit on, but they
aren’t aligned in neat rows as in Christian churches. A song might erupt here or there, but nothing is planned. No one passes out church bulletins, no formal liturgy is scheduled. There are no pipe organs or PowerPoint screens or praise bands. In fact, there isn’t even a building in which to worship, only this open-air plaza and a remnant of the two-thousand-year-old retaining wall that once surrounded the Temple Mount. These worshipers have only the Scriptures, each other, and God, yet I’m very aware that worship is taking place here. There is a tangible sense of awe and a belief in what cannot be seen. By faith, these murmured prayers, whispered beneath prayer shawls or tucked into the wall’s overflowing cracks, are going somewhere. A compassionate and loving God is listening. He hears.

Worship at the Kotel is stripped of all the symbols and traditions that I’m accustomed to, and I find that my expectations of what a worship service should be are shattered, my motives for attending laid bare. No wonder my worship times back home have seemed as dry and stale as last year’s saltines. Here I see that the goal of gathering at a place of worship isn’t to digest a meal that satisfies all my personal tastes, leaving me contented and filled. Nor is worship a spiritual vitamin supplement that I can gulp down to energize me for a busy week. Meeting with God is more like an appointment at the vision center to get my glasses adjusted—and maybe finding out that I need a new prescription altogether. My daily quiet time isn’t an item to check off on a to-do list but an appointment with The Boss to get my priorities realigned and a new assignment to complete. I’m a soldier reporting to her Commanding Officer for updated battle plans. I need to be quiet and listen.

True worship means setting my gaze on God and the beauty of His holiness, not on myself and my needs as if God were a heavenly vending machine, dispensing answers to my prayers. It would be a terrible thing to attend weekly church services as if stuffing my requests between the stones of the Kotel, and then walking away without taking time to stand before God in silence and asking what He wants for me and from me. Worship should remind me of who God is and who I am, and what I am called to do and to be. The result of worship on my part is to say yes to the assignment I’ve been given and recommit to becoming the person God created me to be. My praise should flow not only because He answered a specific prayer but because every day His mercies are new. His grace alone could keep me praising until dawn.

Why come here, to a rugged remnant of an ancient retaining wall? I believe these men and women come to the Kotel because there is a sense of God’s presence here and also a feeling of solidarity. All types of Jews, from the Orthodox to those in army fatigues, worship here. They pray the same psalms, recite the same Scriptures, worship the same God. As individuals, they will leave this place and pursue different courses in life, but for a few precious moments of worship, they are together as God’s people, worshiping separately yet together.

And that’s another lesson I learn here. Worship is private, yet corporate. God sees us as individuals, yet also as part of His body, just as each Jew is an individual and yet a member of the family of Abraham. Even though no one organizes the worshipers at the Wall and says, “Let’s sing this hymn or pray this prayer,” these men and women are united in their worship, an exhibit for the world to see by their survival and their continued faith in the God of Abraham. I look
at them and praise God for His faithfulness to His Word: “I will surely gather them from all the lands where I banish them in my furious anger and great wrath; I will bring them back to this place and let them live in safety. They will be my people, and I will be their God. I will give them singleness of heart and action, so that they will always fear me for their own good and the good of their children after them” (Jeremiah 32:37–39). His faithfulness to them reassures me of His continued faithfulness to me.