Back in January when I visited the Holy Land, the Dominican guiding us on our journey suddenly turned to me and said, “Do you think the pilgrims would like a surprise?”
“Sure,” I said, thinking maybe we were going for ice cream. Ice cream is always a good surprise.
About a half hour later, the bus took a turn down a dirt road, off the paved highways and away from the familiar. Father Pawel told us that we were on the road that went from Jerusalem to Jericho, and reminded us what had happened on this road two millennia before. As Jesus had told the story, this path was not one to be traveled alone, lest a band of thugs leave you lying on the road, dying in the sun.
The bus stopped and we were invited to take a walk. There were some Bedouins selling their wares on the side of the road and Fr. Pawel joked, “Special deal, just for you,” as we headed up the hill. After a few hundred feet, we crested the hill and gasped.
We were in the Judean Desert. Nothing for miles around us but hillsides of sand and rocks. But before us, as if in a movie, was a monastery cut into the vast ravine that lie just ahead. To fall into the space between where we stood and this magnificent edifice would kill you so we stood in silence on our side of the valley taking it all it.
There was no noise. No airplanes or passing cars. No clicks of the cameras or tweets being sent. Nothing.
Then Fr. Pawel pointed out an aqueduct, built by the Romans and still carrying water today. It was cut into the hillside and brings water from the springs to Jerusalem. Once he mentioned the water, you could not un-hear it. The silence was now broken by the deafening sound of running water as it poured down the path it had followed for centuries, past one loan tree, the only sign of life in this barren land.
We spent about thirty minutes in prayer just taking it all in.
I think it might be the last time I experienced such quiet.
As we boarded the bus and headed back to the main road, I kept thinking about wonder and awe. Nobody seems amazed by anything anymore. We seem to have lost our sense of astonishment. Perhaps that is why the experience of the eclipse last summer was so memorable for my children; it was awesome in the truest sense of the word.
This week, find something remarkable. Be awed by something, not because you cannot believe how idiotic or mundane it is, but because it reminds you of the presence of a God who never lets go.
Let the waters of wonder and awe wash over you this week and stand still.
Stand. Still.
(Then, you should have some ice cream. Being amazed can make you hungry.)
