Chasing the Divine in the Holy Land by Ruth Everhart Read Free Book Online Page A

Sarah’s lack of faith in God’s promise that she’d have children as numerous as the stars. Sarah, who was beyond childbearing age, with the years clicking along, helped God out by sending her handmaiden, Hagar, to get pregnant by Abraham. That child was Ishmael. A few years later Sarah gave birth to Isaac. In a fit of jealousy, Sarah banished Hagar and Ishmael to the desert, and they survived only because God intervened. * From Ishmael came the Muslims; from Isaac came the Jews.
    It strikes me now that it’s unfair, in this pivotal story, to fault Sarah for trying to help Yahweh make good on a most unlikely promise. You could even call Sarah’s actions a form of creative faithfulness. Besides, if God created humans, didn’t God know that Sarah would do what she did? In fact, didn’t God set her up to do exactly that? Making that far-fetched promise and then making her wait so long for its fulfillment? Was God toying with her?
    God chose Abraham to covenant with, but the blessing of that reached further, to “all the families of the earth” (Genesis 12:2-3). This text must mean something more than what I’ve been taught. What if I took it at face value? One was chosen, but for the sake of all. Why have Christians felt entitled to claim this promise of chosenness, anyway? Maybe we’re already riding in on the “all the families” phrase. Maybe that phrase can include Muslims, the other children of Abraham.
    I inhale the scent of the yellow rice on my plate. This sweet, slightly metallic scent of saffron must be the smell of religion, of history, of Scripture. I’m breathing them in together. I’ve been in this Holy Land for less than twenty-four hours, and already my thinking is under revision. Not that I have any clarity. There are too many impressions in my mind, too much jumble. I can’t follow any single thought to where it leads. Instead, I feel like I’m running into walls, which are probably the limits of words, or my upbringing, or my belief system. Perhaps even the limits of my mind.
    I pick up my dessert, a ripe plum, and sink my teeth right down to the stone.

    At my interview I do what seems safest. I share facts. For instance, I’ve always thought of Jerusalem as a shining city on a hill, and that isn’t accurate. Maybe John Winthrop’s figure of speech, so famously echoed by Ronald Reagan, distorted my imagination. Jerusalem is actually built in the confluence of three valleys and is more properly a city nestled between hills. I talk about that in the interview and probably don’t sound very eloquent. I didn’t write it out because I was worried I would somehow bash Reagan and that would end up in the documentary. Don’t documentarians edit films to include the most embarrassing bits? I also talk about the tsia /Zion connection because the subject of water feels safe. I don’t mention the sparrows because I’m afraid I’ll sound, well, flighty.
    Afterward, JoAnne and I rehash our interviews. She didn’t know what to say, and she found the camera terrifying. This soothes me greatly, especially since she seems so self-assured.
    â€œOh, and I found out what ‘Tabgha’ means,” she says. “It’s the name of the place where Jesus multiplied the loaves and fishes.”
    I lie down for a moment and, as soon as I shut my eyes, bread multiplies in front of me — Wonder Bread–like slices with golden crusts and billowy white insides. Before I can marvel enough at this miracle, JoAnne is shaking me awake. Time for an evening lecture: “The Israeli/Palestinian Conflict.”
    I detour to the basement dining room and stir up a cup of Nescafé using double the suggested amount of crystals, and I chug it. Then I run up the two flights of stairs to the conference room to get my blood pumping. It works. I open my notebook, ready to record the chronology of religious hatred.

The Muslim