Good morning from Raleigh, N.C.!

…For some reason, that sentence doesn’t have the same spark as, say, “Salaam from the Holy Land!” –but bear with me for just one post.

I’m happy to make three announcements: First, my pictures are now available for perusing and/or download at my MobileMe Gallery. They’re split into two separate albums, and you’ll have the choice to download them as a batch (but as a warning, it takes up a whomping amount of harddrive space) or to download them individually by clicking the down-arrow button while viewing a single picture.

Second, I’ve uploaded a number of videos on Vimeo of everything from wading through the Jordan River while singing Alison Krauss to serenading Iyad on the bus to St. George’s. Keep on the lookout for more videos in the next few weeks!

Third, the book is finished! It incorporates every blog post, blog comment, and Tweet as well as more than 50 pictures from our travels. In the back are updated Pilgrim bios as well as the “official” group shot in front of St. George’s Cathedral. Profits aid St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church of Zababdeh, Jenin (Palestine), which–through its extraordinary vestry and parish as well as the Penman Clinic–provides medical care and spiritual community regardless of salary, ethnicity, or faith.

As always, thank you so much for your thoughts, prayers, and support throughout this life-changing experience. They served as constant reminders of our friends, family, and neighbors back at home, which meant more to us than you could possibly know.

First and foremost, I’d like to make an assertion that my varied spellings of cities and regions in the Holy Land aren’t a product of typos. I’m a bit too OCPD for that. I therefore have no idea how best to refer to Palestine’s only all-Christian community: Along the way we saw signs for Tayibe, al-Tayba, Taybeh, and Tayyibat, all of which I religiously scrawled on my little travel-worn notepad. The Arabic-English phonetic translations make Google Maps a nightmare, but I’d bet local geography spelling bees are a blast.

It was apparent only seconds after our arrival that the 1,200 residents of Tayibe/al-Tayba/Taybeh/Tayyibat are Christian: Crosses and Virgin Marys top every house, gate, and archway and adorn the sides of every wall, fence, and stoop.

On the crest of a hill above the city, Byzantine ruins form what remains of the Church of St. George (also known as “El Khader” in the village). Its doorways, crypts, stairwells, and terraces have transformed it into a maze of broken pottery and crumbling stone, all erected by the Emperor Constantine and his mother Helena in the early 300s CE. It sounds like, and at first glance appears to be, a serene place–and then you hear the buzzing flies.

Hanging from a chain in the center archway is a swinging hook only feet away from a raised wooden chopping block. The walls around them are speckled with dark red handprints, and the white stones are colored a muddy pink from what one Pilgrim remarked didn’t look like food coloring. The Israeli and Palestinian deserts see only two inches of rainfall a year, so I think it’s safe to say that the puddles of red directly beneath the archway weren’t rainwater.

I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but I’ve read all four “Twilight” books (and am resolutely a Team Edward girl). Stephanie Meyer referred over and over again to the tricks the wind can play on odors: The moment it blows in a certain direction, vampires can pick up a human scent from miles around. I never really understood that concept until I was standing two feet from the area where countless lambs and goats have been sacrificed over the centuries. At first I could easily convince myself that I was looking at a poorly-done paint job, but every time a gust of wind came through the archway I found myself gagging at the stench.

The idea that Christianity is still interspersed with sacrifices as a gift of thanks to God was unsettling–and Father John agreed that he would sooner convert to Boca burgers and Tofurkey if he were the one standing by the chopping block. It’s a comfort to know that the meat is donated to the poor in the area as a means of food and nourishment…but I don’t see why a good hosing-down between offerings would be such a bad thing.

Before heading back to Jerusalem we stopped at the only brewery in the Middle East, which is based in Taybeh (the city’s name means “delicious”, after all). Not only is it family-owned and operated, but Taybeh Brewing Co. uses all-natural and preservative-free methods to produce every variety of their brews. Unlike Budweiser, Michelob, and a majority of manufacturers, they don’t use rice, sugar, or maize to speed up the fermenting process, and even though their warehouse produces in one year what major producers can spit out in a day, Palestine is proud of all that they’ve accomplished regardless of Israeli occupation. Even so, the poor economy and the need to operate under siege for the past decade has significantly reduced the size of their staff.

It was on the way back that we found out that Iyad will be accompanying us to the airport tonight. It goes without saying that, for him, getting anywhere near Ben Gurion Airport isn’t exactly a walk in the park: He’s a tour guide, he’s a Palestinian, he crosses physical borders on a daily basis. It’s unquestionable that our Pilgrimage would have been nearly impossible without his constant companionship, leadership, and aid from every latitude–and altitude–of the Holy Land.

And now our shekels are spent, our bags our packed, and our SD cards are full. We’ve already had to hand over our keys to St. George’s to make room for waves of new guests and families, which doesn’t ease our desolation at all: For these past two weeks, our rooms have become our homes, or at least our apartments–and now we’re just hotel guests waiting around for our plane to arrive.

Looking around now, I see so many mixed emotions that I can’t even begin to label without mind-reading abilities. There’s sadness at our journey’s end, excitement for the next leg of our travels, contentment at all that we’ve seen and learned, exhaustion from our lack of sleep, satisfaction in ourselves and what we’ve put forth…and, above all, an overwhelming sense of unity, friendship, and faith.

In the next few weeks we’ll be asked by countless friends, family, and neighbors about this Pilgrimage: What did you do? What was it like? How did you change? But  it’s not that simple, and I wouldn’t be surprised if a few of us responded with one-sentence–if not one-word–answers. During breakfast, Galen remarked that he just won’t be able to describe this experience: He can show pictures and videos and blog posts, but “no one else is ever going to get it.”

A shame (out of the many) of our human natures is the need for physical proof. We’re unwilling to believe anything we can’t see or feel for ourselves, which makes mental and spiritual growth quite a difficult–if not impossible–feat. I knew that we would be transformed as a result of this Pilgrimage to the Holy Land and, looking back over all that we’ve learned and experienced, I’ll smugly announce that I was right…just not in the way I originally anticipated.

When we emerge from the Charlotte baggage claim early tomorrow morning, there will be a few obvious differences in our appearance: This Pilgrimage has given us bruises, blisters, cuts, scrapes, freckles, and sunburn. We have shadows under our eyes and dirt under our fingernails. And the 42 Pilgrims wandering through the airport with exhausted expressions and dragging feet will be in search of nothing but a meal without pita bread and a pillow for the ride home.

But those physical transformations are temporary and will fade with time, rest, and a few bottles of aloe vera. The true alterations are the ones that cannot be proven by sight or by word: Our mentality, our spirituality, and our understanding of the world have altered beyond recognition, and yet we lack any physical evidence or proof of that fact.

We have all grown in ways that only faith and friendship can precipitate, and it is because of our newfound self-identification as Pilgrims and followers in Christ’s footsteps that these unseen transformations will never truly fade.

A good question has come up in several recent e-mails: When are these Pilgrims landing on Plymouth Rock?

Our U.S. Air flight (#1075) is scheduled to land at 10:20 a.m. at the Charlotte airport on Sunday. Tonight’s chance of rain in Philly is 0%, and Charlotte’s ranges from 20% tonight to 0% tomorrow morning. I don’t see us having any delays (or at least due to weather), but keep in touch with our Tweets in the hours leading up to our arrival just in case! I’ll update diligently if anything is going wrong. I’ll probably update diligently if nothing is going wrong, too.

I should probably note here that I woke up 43 minutes ago, realized that today is our last day, and have been moping incessantly ever since. Our itinerary is still quite full, though: We depart for Taybeh in less than two hours and will have the chance to explore Palestine’s only 100% Christian community as well as a church that still performs sacrifices (yeah, I twitched after hearing that lovely bit of news).

So this isn’t “goodbye” quite yet–there will be another post later in the day!

All of your comments, prayers, and well-wishes have made me teary-eyed. For those of you who are coming to the airport tomorrow, I would love to meet you in person! And to those of you who are not, thank you for your support and enthusiasm throughout this incredible journey. My thanks go out to Kanuga, Province IV, and the N.C. Diocese as well for coming up with this idea and, above all, for asking me to serve in this way.

Lord Carey, Lady Carey, and Alastair left for the airport this morning at 4:30 (ouch). I’m about to grab a coffee from the dining room, and the fact that my favorite coffee buddies will be gone is yet another cause for incessant moping.

As always, it means so much to me to read your comments and enthusiasm every time I find a Wi-Fi spot. But along with the messages and hugs I’ve delivered between Pilgrims and their families, friends, and neighbors, I’ve also seen a pretty common trend: These written records of all that we’ve seen, learned, and experienced don’t seem to be a temporary replacement for the loved ones currently halfway across the world. Many of you, as well as about half of the Pilgrims here with me, have expressed interest in figuring out the easiest way to print out these blog entries as a way of immortalizing our Pilgrimage for years to come.

In a three-word answer, it’s a pain. WordPress doesn’t have a simple Control-P option that will magically print out the posts in chronological order, let alone the pictures embedded in each entry.

I would, however, be more than happy to arrange and publish a book of these entries, including pictures and Tweets, to function as a bound diary that will preserve our memories and recollections forever. The entire process would take about a month before it would be available for online purchase in paperback or eBook format, and the moment that happens I will let everyone know through another blog post. Profits will be given to St. Matthew’s Episcopal Church in Zababdeh, which is where we met the Palestinian youth and were so warmly welcomed into their parish family. Because their church clinic is only funded by ANERA and other sources of generosity, every penny would be a blessing as a way to aid villagers of all salaries and backgrounds in a land torn by poverty and strife.

This morning was proof that our leaders were true to their word: While half of us prayed our way through the 14 Stations of the Cross in Jerusalem’s empty streets, the other half got to sleep in for the first time since our arrival. I was one of the sleepers, and I’ll tell you firsthand that it was absolutely glorious.

Because forecasts predicted that today’s weather would be the worst they’ve seen in weeks, we decided to go for a last Old City expedition before the temperatures peaked around noon. Several Pilgrims took a trip to a women’s handicraft co-op in northern Jerusalem while the rest explored, haggled, and spent every last shekel in their pockets. By now we’ve become comfortable with the insanity and fast pace of the four Quarters, so it was with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia that we said goodbye to the twisting streets and crumbling storefronts, fruit stands and choking spices, loud shouts and joyful laughter.

By the time we left for Emmaus-Nicopolis, today’s heat advisory had almost reached its end. We had Eucharist in the ruins of a fifth century Byzantine church, with its outdoor baptismal font and heavy influences from Crusaders as well as Egyptian mosaics (the church, like Sepphori(s), is located just off the Via Maris). It was to Emmaus that Cleopas and his companion were traveling when they met Jesus on the road just after his Resurrection, and it was only after walking and dining with him that they realized who he was.

As we traveled from the Abu Ghosh region to Jericho, I couldn’t help but wonder how many times each of us has done the same thing. How often have we seen someone as just another face in the crowd before truly taking the time to get to know them, only to find that they embody Christ’s love in an unforgettable and irreplaceable way?

Those same thoughts were still flitting around in my head when we arrived at Iyad’s house. Although many West Bank homes have been built in phases and various additions (Palestinians aren’t granted loans, after all), the Qumri vacation home is entirely different: Its gates are lined with blooming flowers, its driveway is decorated with brick designs, and its backyard features a tiered stone fountain. Several of us helped Iyad, Rami, and Mohammad prepare cheeseburgers, fries, and beans, and we all sat around the TV in the air-conditioned living room to watch the Oscar-winning “West Bank Story” musical. A month ago, we would’ve found it completely ludicrous–but with all that we’ve learned about life in Israel and the West Bank, we were absolutely guffawing.

Although our picnic was meant to be a “farewell” occasion, I don’t think the truth of that single word hit us until it came time for written evaluations and reflections. We’d already started to say our goodbyes and had long since packed our bags and straightened our rooms, but it’s another thing entirely when you’re asked to sit down with a pen and paper and write about your thoughts and experiences.

A physical “goodbye” is much easier than a mental or spiritual one. The Palestinian youth we’ve met during our time here have Facebooks, and the church parishes have websites. In this tech-savvy day and age, distance is no longer effective as a barrier between friends when we have telephones, e-mail, Internet, and unlimited text plans.

But Israel and Palestine don’t fall into that electronic jurisdiction. We can’t be sure of the next time we’ll be able to explore the streets of Jerusalem or walk–quite literally–in Christ’s footsteps from birth to Resurrection and everywhere in between.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my time here, it’s that my impression of the Holy Land was quite wrong.

I’ve heard friends and family tell me about “thin places” on this earth. Among the many, Iona and Jerusalem are considered two key destinations: As Roy Donkin states, they are places “where the dividing line between the Holy and the ordinary is very thin.” God’s love is all-knowing, Jesus’ presence is all-encompassing, and the Spirit’s warmth is all-consuming.

I was relieved to find out during our Compline service that I was not the only person under this false pretense of the Holy Land. From the second we stepped off the plane two weeks ago, we’ve been walking radars for any hint of God’s companionship as we’ve traveled, seen, learned, and experienced.

But instead of feeling His presence in the shrines, ruins, and objects so key to our Pilgrimage route, we’ve seen him face-to-face in the smiles of children, the beauty of nature, and the harmony between neighbors. We’ve experienced love and friendship in the people we’ve met and the friends we’ve made, and we’ve seen Christ in ways that Bibles and prayers cannot illustrate through words, hymns, or scripture.

And it is through each and every aspect of this Pilgrimage that we have grown closer to God in ways that we never foresaw–not because God exists more strongly in this land, but because we’ve taught ourselves how to seek and find his existence on our own.

I’ll readily admit that I’m an iPod girl and therefore consider radios to be a form of rocket science. I can twist the little knobs and dials on my Subaru stereo for as long as I want, but it makes no sense to me.

I do, however, think I’m right in saying that there are certain ranges for each radio station: Some reach farther than others, and once you pass that invisible border you find yourself listening to white noise instead of George Michael.

God does not work that way. I’m not saying He’s an iPod kind of guy (although that would be one heck of an Apple commercial), but I feel a comforting reassurance that when we’re halfway across the Atlantic in 24 hours, we won’t be met with a sudden surge of white noise and empty reception.

This Pilgrimage has taught each and every one of us how to tune in to God in ways that we never dreamed of. We’ve seen poverty, separation, and degradation just as frequently as happiness, unity, and generosity, and yet it’s even through the unpleasant aspects of this divided land that we have witnessed Him in some way, shape, or form.

It is, therefore, a comfort to know that we won’t be leaving Jerusalem behind in its entirety. We have found something far more valuable than souvenirs or Armenian ceramics, and–even better–this “something” doesn’t have to be wrapped in ten layers of clothing to ensure its safety on the ride home. God’s presence, once found, doesn’t have to be bound in bubble-wrap or used before its expiration date. It’s not rimmed with white noise, bounded by 3G networks, or priced with Data Roaming charges. As Pilgrims, we’ve searched for and discovered just what we set out to find–and as Christians, we won’t ever let it go.

If you’re a news person (as in, you follow the news channels and newspapers meticulously), you might have seen yesterday’s travel advisory for Israel. The U.S. Department of State specifically warns against the Gaza Strip and any areas of West Bank demonstrations, none of which are included on our agenda.

We’re safe, but please keep us in your prayers.

A more concerning point is the heat warning issued between noon and 5 p.m., which no doubt will affect us directly. Somewhere in my sleep-deprived head I have a Mini-Father John that keeps chirping, “Water! Hats! Water! Where is your hat?!?”

When I think of Holy Week, all sorts of things come to mind. I think of plastic eggs, Easter baskets, Hallmark cards, and pastel M&Ms. I think of palm fronds, clean feet, bare altars, and veiled crosses. I think of every time I have to bite my tongue to stop myself from crying “Alleluia!” at the end of each service.

And I most definitely do not think of bananas.

But if you do, you might have witnessed or taken part in a Greek Orthodox procession on the day before Palm Sunday, when crowds of Christians walk together in celebration of Jesus…and, yes, Chiquitas.

Unlike the Anglican Church, the Orthodox faith recognizes the importance of Lazarus’s resurrection in Jesus’ own fate–enough to christen the Saturday before Holy Week “Lazarus Saturday” as a foretaste of Christ’s assertion that he is the resurrection and the life, which is symbolized by peeling away the bindings (or the banana peels) that separate the dead from the living.

The Church of Bethphage (pronounced BETH-fuh-jee, meaning “house of figs”) is on the eastern slope of the Mount of Olives directly between Jerusalem and Bethany. Although Bethany has been renamed by Arab Palestinian Muslims as al-Eizariya, if you read out the name you can still hear a hint of “Lazarus” in recognition of his hometown. It is in this church that the Palm Sunday walk begins, from a courtyard bursting with palm trees and a chapel painted with “HOSANNA IN EXCELSIS” and frescoes of Jesus’ ride into Jerusalem.

Although Christians from the West Bank are no longer allowed to come to this Israeli church to celebrate the procession, thousands of people participate in the annual trek (I’ll add that it’s straight uphill) to the Church of Pater Noster (“Our Father”), downhill to Dominus Flevit (“Our Lord Wept”), and through the Garden of Gethsemane to the Church of All Nations. This area is dominated almost entirely by Muslim families, who often provide thirsty Christians with bottles of water as they pass or even join in the procession regardless of their faith.

This idea had painted an almost Disney-like image in my head before Lord Carey added that when he processed alongside the Patriarch years ago, the road was lined with army tanks and Israeli forces who kept their machine guns pointed into the crowds as a source of intimidation.

Yeah…Disney-like image ruined.

We sang “All Glory, Laud, and Honor” inside the chapel before continuing in silence through the Palm Sunday walk, occasionally pausing to read Scripture together and then continuing on our way.

While Bethphage recognizes Lazarus’s role in the importance of Holy Week, the Church of Pater Noster is centered around an exposed slab of rock from which tradition hints that Jesus ascended. Because the Ascension is a keystone that makes Christianity universal, the church has erected tile paintings of the Lord’s Prayer in 62 different languages–and that includes dying tongues like Tsalagi, Maori, and Nahuatl just as frequently as German, Chinese, and Braille.

It was interesting to note that out of every towering mosaic both inside and outside the church, only one was damaged. The Syriac Lord’s Prayer, written in a language spoken only in Syrian villages, had been almost completely destroyed and was held together with strips of duct tape. Although the Lord’s Prayer unites us, it’s in times like these that the divisions stemming from languages and ethnicities are most evident.

Indeed, visible from the Palm Sunday walk was The Wall separating Israel from the West Bank, which felt more like an ominously imposing presence than a towering concrete wall. As we passed by, one graffitied message leaped out at me: “FRIENDS CANNOT BE DIVIDED”. If that were true, how many thousands of people would be allowed to join in the same path that we were walking instead of remaining imprisoned in their occupied settlements? How many families would still be whole, and how many faiths would recognize each other as fellow children of a common God?

I’ve never been to San Francisco, but I’ve heard plenty of stories about the word-renowned and painfully steep Lombard Street. I can’t imagine that the trek to the Garden of Gethsemane was any less treacherous: Several of us slipped and slid on the pavement, which has been worn smooth by hundreds of thousands of Pilgrim feet over the decades, and it didn’t help that it also functioned as a throughway. Drivers were adamant to pass through in cars only inches narrower than the lane itself, regardless of the hobbling and toppling Americans who were clinging to the stone walls on either side.

The Garden of Gethsemane technically covers an entire side of the Mount of Olives, but a pretty sizable portion is now taken up by stores, residences, and a Jewish cemetery that has been used for almost two millennia in recognition of Zechariah 14:4 (“On that day his feet will stand on the Mount of Olives, east of Jerusalem, and the Mount of Olives will be split in two from east to west”).

For fans of “The Lion King”, think of Scar’s specification of the Shadowland domain–but in this case, it’s olive trees and not shadows that define the Garden’s borders. One entire wall overlooks the Kidron Valley and, on the opposite slope, the Old City’s Golden Gate and Dome of the Rock. Close to Ir David to the left of the Old City walls are the recognized locations of the Last Supper as well as Jesus’ imprisonment while awaiting trial.

Inside the Garden’s walls is Dominus Flevit, maintained by Franciscan monks in commemoration of when Jesus cried for Jerusalem–and it’s for that reason that the shape of the church is an inverted teardrop. We spent some time sitting in the pews of the chapel and looking through the arched sanctuary windows. A single piece of cloth hanging over the pulpit’s face read “SHALOM, SALAAM, PEACE” beneath a soaring dove, and as we gazed out at the Old City I couldn’t help but take note of the close proximity of each chapel, mosque, temple, basilica, synagogue, and cathedral. Each and every steeple and tower was a reminder of the simultaneous unity and division we’d already seen that morning.

Our last stop, after hobbling and toppling a bit more down the side of the Mount, was the Church of All Nations. Olive trees aren’t too big a deal over here–they’re about as common as pines or oaks in North Carolina, but maintain some form of immortal youth that is usually given away by height and trunk thickness in other species. But even though the thin, spindly olive trees inside the church’s fenced garden look no different from those that dot the hills near West Bank settlements, horticulturists have dated them back to the first or second century CE.

The church itself was built with the help of, quite literally, “all nations”. Its interior is purple in remembrance of the Passion, and the facade mosaic above its front columns is visible from the Old City walls, depicting Jesus as the mediator between God and mankind.

After a quick lunch at St. George’s, we split into two groups: Half went into the Old City for some hardcore shopping, while the other half gathered and walked in silence through Herod’s Gate and directly to Madrasa al-Omariya. It’s here that Pilate is believed to have condemned Jesus to his fate, consequently beginning Christ’s path through Jerusalem and ultimately to his fate.

The Via Dolorosa, or the Way of Sorrows, recognizes 14 (in place of our own 12) Stations of the Cross between the condemnation and the burial. At each location, we paused to pray according to the significance of that particular Station before setting our large wooden cross over the shoulder of another Pilgrim and continuing on.

It was remarkable how untouchable we were in our procession. Even as a semi-large group, it’s not uncommon to be followed, stopped, and hassled by locals, beggars, and shopkeepers that prey on tourists. Passing comments and shouted remarks are a frequent occurrence, and we’ve already learned to keep our gaze fixed ahead while making our way through the tight streets and alleys.

But the moment that one of us hoisted the cross over his or her shoulder and paced ahead of the group, it was like the rest of the city faded away. People skirted around us, openly gawking at times but never interrupting. At that point, we were no longer tourists but Pilgrims–no longer outsiders but followers of the Christ who once walked beneath our very footsteps.

Our route ended in the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea, where Lord Carey gave us his blessing before sending us out to praise the Risen Lord (spiritually, not literally–we were trapped inside the tomb’s entrance with about a dozen tourists crammed in behind us). And I’ll note that I’ve had “All Glory, Laud, and Honor” stuck in my head for the past 12 hours, thank you very much.

As for the shopping group, their turn for the Stations of the Cross is tomorrow at a heinous hour of the morning while we sleep in and leave for the Old City at our leisure. It’s unquestionable that they’ll experience an entirely different Via Dolorosa than the one we saw this afternoon: At 5:45 a.m., the only moving figures in the streets are stray cats and dust clouds. It’s only by the time they finish at around 8 a.m. that the city will start to fill up with tourists, pilgrims, locals, and–consequently–noise and mayhem.

But the more I reflect on this, the more I’m torn between two different perspectives. Jesus’ path to his crucifixion was loud, busy, and clamorous. People shouted, women sobbed, and soldiers lined the streets. Even The Wall that was so easily visible from the Church of Bethphage would not have been unexpected during Roman occupation and imperial rule, although I doubt they were fans of barbed wire and graffiti.

Too often we expect all things holy and meaningful to be peaceful, tranquil, and serene. Father Bob warned us before our departure from Kanuga (which, by the way, seems about ten years ago) that a majority of our destinations would not be silent places for meditation and thought. Just the idea that hundreds of Pilgrims trace Jesus’ route through the Old City streets on a daily basis is mind-blowing, but simultaneously comforting: If each and every one of us can find Jesus in the insanity, the unpleasant, and the distractions of everyday life, I think that–in itself–is a blessing.

One thing you miss out on when living in the city is the chance to watch the sun rise.

It’s just never been that big of a deal to me–besides these past two years at Chapel Hill, I’ve lived in Raleigh all my life and have never regretted the blocked horizon to the east. The sun is the sun: When it’s rising, I need to get out of bed and get some coffee in my system. When it’s setting, I need to stop what I’m doing and get some more coffee in my system. It’s a very “routine” kind of thing, the sun.

But when you wake up out of a light doze after an hour-long bus ride to find yourself parked on the shoulder of a highway in the middle of the Negev Desert at precisely 6:05 a.m., the thought of “watching the sun rise” takes on an entirely new meaning. We clustered at the edge of a cliff overlooking the western shores of the Dead Sea and watched the sky turn from grey to a deep blue, a shocking magenta, and finally a burst of goldenrod as the sun rose over the Jordanian mountains in the distance. In that single minute-long span, our early departure was instantly pardoned.

I mentioned yesterday that the the Sea of Galilee is full of aquatic life because it both gives and receives fresh water from Banias and the Jordan River. The current is always flowing, and the water stays clear.

The Dead Sea was given its name because, quite simply, the water dies right there. It flows in, finds no outlet, and simply evaporates…which leaves behind accumulating levels of salt. As the deepest place on earth, its shores clock in at around 1,400 feet below sea level while its highest depth reaches an extra 1,300 feet beyond that. It stretches 12 miles across and roughly 40 miles long, so at that moment we might as well have been looking down as the sun rose over an entire ocean instead of the lake where David hid from Saul, John the Baptist was beheaded, and Herod the Great was raised.

Although Herod the Great was known for a wide number of (sometimes frivolous) constructions and settlements, the fortress of Masada has always been classified as a masterpiece. He used this stronghold as a fort in case the Jews rebelled against him, which justifies the 38 watchtowers interspersed among signs of his obvious wealth (I’ll get to that later–but for now, imagine a Mitchell’s Spa and Massage Envy in the back of Fort Lauderdale).

After the first Jewish revolt in 66 CE, which ended with the temple’s destruction exactly (to the day, actually) 1,940 years ago to leave nothing behind but the current Western Wall, a group of almost 1,000 rebels moved into Masada to protect themselves against the Romans.

By that time, Herod’s fortress really wasn’t too impressive: The bathhouse and sauna were starting to fall downhill, and the 1.7-mile trek straight uphill wasn’t exactly a cause for envy. Even so, the Romans weren’t about to let the Jewish rebels succeed in escaping their control and jurisdiction. 7,000 soldiers marched to the hills surrounding Masada and camped out for a year while they constructed battering rams and mobile wooden walls to aid in their planned invasion. When they finally were able to breach the fort’s defenses in 73 CE, the leaders and citizens decided that they preferred suicide to enslavement by the Romans. According to the general and historian Josephus Flavius, even the Roman soldiers were subdued after finding all but seven rebels slaughtered by the swords of their husbands, brothers, fathers, or sons. The exception was a huddle of two women and five children hiding at the bottom of a cistern.

A lot of words and expressions could describe our hike from the highway to Masada, and while a good proportion of that vocabulary wouldn’t be too favorable, we will all readily admit that we wouldn’t have missed it for the world…or, at least, for an hour and a half in the air-conditioned bus with easy bathroom and ice cream access. By the time we reached the top, we’d climbed 1,450 feet in elevation and were already confronting 105-degree weather at only 9 a.m.

We were hot, sweaty, and out of breath, but every time someone glanced over the crumbling walls at the desert spread out beneath us I immediately saw a triumphant grin spread across his or her face. At the very least, it’s a bragging right: How many people can say they’ve braved almost two miles’ worth of steep inclines and rugged stone steps? The experience taught us to pace ourselves, to always look toward the goal, to meet the unsteady path directly ahead with a challenging gaze, and to never listen to Iyad when he comes up with hiking ideas. (We couldn’t believe our eyes when massive groups of Orthodox Jews passed us on the way down when we had just started up, which would’ve been at around 6:45 in the morning. We asked Iyad whether the cable car had opened early, but he just shrugged and said, “They probably took the short way.” Ah, of course–there’s a short way. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many withering stares directed at a single person before.)

But what was waiting for us at the top was much, much more than just a pile of rubble and rocks. If Herod were alive today, I’d hire him to design my own bathhouse and sauna without question–the man had good taste. Several mosaic floors are still intact, as are the colorfully painted walls in his caldarium (a steam room, like a sauna), tepidarium (a midway room), and frigidarium (a room that’s much colder because of its depth in the ground).

If you’ve heard the name Masada but can’t easily place it, you might be remembering Universal Studios’s 1981 rendition that was actually filmed on that very spot. The crew even left behind a catapult prop on the western side of the fortress, so there’s this gigantic wooden contraption just chilling down there with rubble from the Roman encampments.

We took the cable cars down from the summit back into the valley and made a quick stop by Masada’s gift shop, which would be more correctly termed The Masada Tourist Deathtrap. I’ve never seen a two-story air-conditioned building filled with so many overpriced gifts, trinkets, snacks, and coffee-esque beverages.

But at least the bathrooms (the “W.Cs”) were free there. When we arrived at Ein Gedi just off the shore of the Dead Sea, we found that the resort owners had established a two-shekel admission fee for each trip to the bathroom to change, shower, rinse off, etc. I don’t think even Disney World could be so cruel to its tourists.

If we thought Masada was hot, it was nothing to the temperature at the Dead Sea. By the time we left at 10:15 a.m., it had already climbed to 57 degrees Celsius (135 degrees Fahrenheit) and the sun felt like thousands of microscopic needles pricking into every inch of exposed skin.

When originally built in the 1980s, the resort was just off the Dead Sea’s shores, which today are hundreds of feet downhill. The sea, like Israel’s rivers and lakes, is shrinking every year and transforming from the tropical leopard- and lion-inhabited grasslands seen in Genesis (this is, after all, the once fertile land of Lot and the pillars of salt).

The water was crystal clear enough to see the round, rust-red pebbles along the shore, interspersed with flatter and brittle white rocks that, when handled too roughly, would break. It didn’t take a taste-test to prove that these were entire chunks of pure salt, which should give you an idea of just how salty the water was. With a 33.7% salinity index, it’s nine times saltier than any of the world’s oceans…and yes, several of us got it in our eyes and immediately tried to rub it out with our salty hands.

And the water….I wish I could easily describe it. I heard a few descriptions of “greasy” and “oily”, but I think the closest comparison would involve the consistency and temperature of bathwater mixed with the thick and smooth texture of lotion.

The salinity makes it impossible to sink, but it also makes it impossible to ignore any cuts, scratches, or even bug bites that you might not have known you had beforehand. Hiking for two days straight in Chacos, Sperrys, Crocs, or–in my case–$5 Wal-Mart sandals doesn’t really do wonders on the feet, which meant a number of us were wincing for hours after we’d gotten out of the water.

From there we headed to Qumran only a short distance away. In 1947 a traveling Bedouin went in search of a missing goat and instead found one of dozens of caves in the hills near the Dead Sea’s shores. When he threw a rock into the cave to listen for any sounds from his goat, he instead heard a vase shatter to reveal what we now call the Dead Sea Scrolls. It’s not surprising that after 2,000 years the papyrus and animal skin had disintegrated into roughly 16,000 pieces, which have been painstakingly fit together to form the entire Book of Isaiah as well as almost 500 others.

Scholars guess that the scribes who wrote the scrolls hid them away just before the outbreak of the Jewish Revolt in 67 CE but never returned to collect them again. It was such a bizarre notion to be traveling back to Jerusalem along the Dead Sea’s shores and looking up toward every passing cave, wondering over and over again what else might be hiding up there that affirms our faith’s past.

The afternoon was, if possible, even more exhausting than the hike to Masada: We haggled. We bargained. We shopped.

For four hours we explored the Old City’s shops and marketplaces in search of the best prices and souvenirs for family and friends. In celebration of our youth and consequent unwillingness to collapse from lack of sleep, St. George’s treated us to pizza and Father John threw an ice cream party in the moonlit courtyard after Compline.

It hasn’t escaped my attention that it’s Wednesday, which only leaves three more days until our departure. No, I haven’t forgotten…but while looking around at all of us as we ate, talked, and laughed together, I don’t think the friendships we’ve made, the lessons we’ve learned, and the leg muscles we’ve toned will ever truly go away.

As a quick introductory note, I’m so sorry if the mention of land mines and bomb shelters gave anyone a fright yesterday. There was apparently a bit of unrest because of it, but I assure you that we’re in impeccably safe hands. Iyad and Father John have been working to protect our health and safety at every step of the way, and it’s for that very reason that we’re no longer heading for Ramallah later in the week to explore the city, meet the youth, and learn to dance the “dabkeh”…all in our own best interest. In short, things aren’t going too hot up there at the moment unless you’re referring to the temperature.

Today’s schedule was a bit more scattered than it has been in the past due to that very same reason: It. Was. Hot. And the sun was unbearable. And the humidity was intense. After careful consideration, Iyad and Father John were able to rearrange our itinerary so that the most physically exhausting activities took place before the sun had completely cleared the horizon. Part of it was out of sympathy for the already travel-worn Pilgrims, and I suspect that the other part of it was in response to our expressions after hearing the word “hike” again.

Keep in mind, though, that we were up and about before dawn this morning. It was almost cool as we hobbled around the courtyard with our bags and luggage. Note that I say “hobbled” because our legs felt like Jell-O after yesterday’s hike up the Syrian version of Mt. Everest–and note that when I say “almost cool”, I’m referring to 92-degree weather.

The Sea of Galilee’s shores and surrounding land are as fertile as the tropics. For the first time, we were seeing green grass and tall trees on either side, dotted with fields of avocados, bananas, apples, cherries, grapes, and mangos. It was still early when we arrived at the Mount of Beatitudes (also known as Mt. Eremos, which literally means “solitude”) and began our meditative walk down a twisting path to the Sea of Galilee.

It was in a mountainside cave that Jesus is claimed to have spoken the Sermon on the Mount and its eight Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-10). On that note, I think we’re so used to the idea of Hollywood-esque speeches that the idea of calling out to thousands of listeners doesn’t really strike us as, well, impossible.

I mentioned a few days ago that the city of Zippori/Sepphori(s), which was heavily influenced by the Romans in Jesus’ time, also features an amphitheater. It’s apparent that Jesus was familiar with theatrical productions: The word “hypocrite”, which he uses numerous times in the Gospel of Matthew when trash-talking the Pharisees, referred to masked actors and their true selves that were hidden underneath. Before his use of the word, it had no other meaning.

If you follow that train of thought, it’s really not that surprising that he figured out a way to carry the echoing style of amphitheaters with him while “on the road”. Iyad asked Alastair to stand in the mouth of the mountainside cave while we went as far downhill as we could to put about 100 yards and a four-lane road between us. Even though he read the Beatitudes at a conversational volume, his voice was amplified so drastically that it sounded as though he were right beside us…except, of course, when a car or truck passed by. But as far as we know, Jesus didn’t have to worry about that problem.

From there we headed to Tabgha, also known as Heptapegon (“Seven Springs”, a few of which have dried up since Jesus’ time), where the feeding of the 5,000 most likely took place. An altar in the Church of the Multiplication stands directly over the rock believed to have held the five loaves and two fishes, and even though the original construction took place in the early 300s CE, the site’s close proximity to the Via Maris has made it a popular site for Pilgrims. After only a bit more than a week, it’s become clear that the closer the area to Pilgrimage routes, the more likely it is to have been altered at some point in time.

In this case, the church was enlarged in 480 CE, destroyed in 614 by Persian invaders, and excavated for the first time in 1932. Despite its earlier destruction, its floor mosaics were largely intact and even include one that depicts two fish and a basket of four loaves. It’s thought to indicate that we, as God’s children, are the fifth loaf.

The sun was starting to approach broiler intensity by the time we got to Capernaum, which was still relatively early in the morning. The entire site looks more like a garden than anything else, and would do fairly well if the Franciscan monks who own and maintain the area were to stick an SPCA building somewhere near the gift shop. I haven’t seen so many roaming cats before in my life–and despite their skeletal bodies, a Ghanaian monk swore that they eat more than he does.

The name “Capernaum” is a relatively popular one in the Bible for many reasons. For one, the ruins of one homestead were identified as Peter’s home after archaeologists discovered  the early fish, shell, and anchor symbols of Christianity inside. This was also Matthew’s hometown, and it’s likely that he was one of the many tax collectors positioned along the nearby road leading to Mesopotamia to gather money from passing travelers. It was here that Mary moved after Joseph’s death, and arguably here that Jesus healed the paralytic who was lowered through the synagogue’s roof to avoid the crowds.

I add the word “arguably” because there’s some debate about this. The entire city’s ruins are constructed of basalt stone because of the huge number of tectons (carpenters of Joseph’s status) who used the same stone to make olive presses and flour mills. If you were to make either of the two using limestone, the bits of lime you’d find in your food most definitely wouldn’t be from the lemon family.

The synagogue, which was excavated in 1913, is an exception to this. Although its base is made of basalt and dates back to Jesus’ time, its walls and wasp-infested pillars are made of limestone. Some historians (and Father John) believe that Pilgrims who came in the centuries after Jesus’ death must have asked over and over again for the closest synagogue…so what the heck? They built one. Now everyone’s happy except the archaeologists who are expected to make sense of the whole thing.

“The Sea of Galilee” should also ring some bells where Peter is concerned, not to mention John, James, and Andrew. One of my favorite scenes of Franco Zeffirelli’s “Jesus of Nazareth” is the first (and very humorous) interaction between Jesus and Peter on the Sea’s coast, which is immediately followed by scenes that supposedly took place in Capernaum including the healing of the paralytic and Peter’s confrontation with Matthew.

In the past 2,000 years, not much has changed as far as the fishing industry is concerned: The continuous flow of fresh water from Caesarea Philippi through the Sea and into the Jordan River keeps the environment fresh enough for a variety of fish species. We even got the chance to see the most popular, called Saint Peter’s fish (a.k.a. tilapia) up close…on a plate at lunchtime.

We took a boat from the shore and sang as we sailed, pausing for a while in the middle of the Sea to look around at the mountains, valleys, and deserts all around us. To say that it was heartstoppingly beautiful would be an understatement; to say that it was heartstoppingly hot would not be.

We had Eucharist in a shady grove near the Church of the Primacy of Peter, known in the 800s CE as the Church of the Charcoal after Jesus’ breakfast feast following his Resurrection. Not too unlike the Church of the Multiplication, this sanctuary is centered on a rock that sits just before the altar with the sign “Mensa Christi”, which is believed to be the rock on which he and his disciples ate.

I’m well aware that fried eggs weren’t on the typical menu in Jesus’ time, but the idea of eating off of rocks reminded me that Father John has visited this area when it was so hot that, just to test it out, they cracked an egg on a rock and watched it fry in the sun. There may have been a rocket attempt yesterday morning, but the main headlines on Israeli news is the heat wave sweeping through the Middle and Near East. A good proportion of our group was either suffering from dehydration-induced migraines or dehydration-induced fatigue by the time we got to the YMCA in Tiberias, which meant that Iyad and Father John were repeating “Drink water! Drink water!” so often that they sounded like a broken record. I may be a chronic coffee-drinker, but trust me–that doesn’t say a thing about my anatomical liquid capacity. For me to say that a few of us, including me, downed more than 16 glasses of water yesterday alone should be worthy of a prize…and that still wasn’t enough to ward off the heat’s effects.

But even though 110 people fainted yesterday in the area, all of us managed to stay on our feet in the 114-degree weather…until, of course, we were offered cushioned chairs under the YMCA’s covered veranda directly overlooking the Sea. It was heaven: There were the traditional pitas, sauces, toppings, and spices, but there were also fries, tilapia, chicken, beef, and lamb kabobs, followed by grapes, apples, and Turkish coffee.

Not too many people stayed for that final course. The moment we scarfed down our meat, we were practically sprinting for the shores in our bathing suits and Chacos. The water was amazingly cool and so clear that we could see the schools of fish swimming around us. It was more like a resort area than anything else. As Martin said, “No wonder Jesus hung out here so much.”

The ride back to Jerusalem was long but thankfully air-conditioned–and the moment we arrived at the front gate of St. George’s was like coming home after a long holiday weekend. Our old rooms were waiting for us, a traditional dinner was laid out in the dining room, and the cathedral’s doors were opened wide in welcome.

I will, however, end this on a less-than-happy note. As much as we’ve moaned and groaned about waking up at 5:30 (at the latest) these past several days, we’ll be getting up at 4:00 tomorrow morning to head out for–yes, I’m audibly moaning and groaning–an intense hike in Masada, whose temperatures are expected to reach the 120s tomorrow.

Dear Herod Antipas, mi amigo:

Your fortress had better be awesome and in the shade.

Love from,

The Pilgrims

Just as a quick note: Yes, the news has reached Nazareth concerning today’s Lebanese-Jordanian missile rocket. I’m thankful beyond words to say that everyone is safe, but a few (extra) prayers would be much, much appreciated. And as it relates, we actually passed through Metulla this afternoon on our way back from Lebanon/Syria. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, the city has been a lobbing target for countless Lebanese Katyusha rockets in recent years. Even though it’s been peaceful since August 2006, there are still obvious signs of military interference….Why else would abandoned tanks be parked in the middle of the city’s playgrounds?

By now we’ve learned not to ask when our automated wake-up call will be. If the call itself is necessary in the first place, we’re not going to like the answer.

In any event, it was at an obscene hour of the morning that we were riding toward the Israel/Jordan border along the Via Maris, a valley that stretches from Egypt to Baghdad. We circled along the north of the Sea of Galilee, and I’ll go ahead and serve as a firsthand account of its size: It may look like a lake on all the maps, but that thing is enormous. It is most definitely a “sea”.

I’m not sure whether this is evidence of a geographical or a geological knowledge deficiency, but I never would’ve guessed that lower altitudes (even below sea level) equate with a ridiculously intense amount of heat. Bananas were pretty common along either side of the Via Maris for that very reason–the air was so stiflingly hot that we might as well have been in the tropics of Costa Rica.

After a quick stop near an olive bush on the side of the road, we got off at a tranquil area of the Jordan River where the stream was narrow, calm, and clear. Lord Carey used the olive branches to splatter us with the river’s water as we gathered by the shore and renewed our Baptismal vows, concluding with Allison Krauss’s “Down to the River to Pray”.

And then, of course, there was the group of guys who preferred the total immersion approach. Half an hour later, six soaking figures were slumped over their seats in the (rather muddy) back of bus, but with triumphant grins on their faces.

Although the Golan Heights is mountainous, their overall altitude is still pretty low and its temperatures range from 100 to 110 degrees. If that makes you cringe, imagine hiking straight down, around, and back up one of its rocky flanks. I seriously considered posting a picture of our descent and ascent, but the camera just doesn’t do the steepness justice.

By that point we had crossed over into Syria and were on the verge of seeing the only synagogue dating back to Jesus’ time–and by “the only”, I mean “the only synagogue originally built with the purpose of being a synagogue”. After seeing all sorts of changes and modifications spanning 2,000 years these past few days, secondary usage and later alterations don’t count.

This particular site, known either as Gamla or as the Masada of the North, fell in 67 CE to the Romans and wasn’t fully excavated until 1979. All sorts of theories were proposed during the first several years of its archaeological digs, but it wasn’t until 1982 that a ritual bathing mikveh was discovered and therefore labeled the area as an ancient synagogue. Indeed, its front door faces Jerusalem’s direction as a tribute to the Holy City’s temple and its ritual sacrifices to God.

So, slightly winded and extremely in need of A/C, we all settled down around the synagogue’s steps just as rabbis and scribes once did in Jesus’ time. Synagogues, unlike the cut-and-dry rules mandated by temples, encouraged apodictic laws that were entirely absolute but simultaneously allowed for interpretation. Unlike King David’s leviticus laws, which established a legal structure through if/then statements, rabbis had considerable room to argue their views on their own laws within the synagogue. The commandment “Honor thy father and thy mother”, for example, can be approached from all sorts of scenarios and viewpoints–but King David would be more likely to declare that “if you kill my ox, I can take yours instead”. That, quite simply, is set in stone. And if you kill my mule instead, I’m sure David foresaw and tackled that scenario as well.

So what about “Thou shalt not kill”?

We might have been sweaty, smelly, and exhausted, but our formerly casual debate over this simple apodictic commandment gradually evolved into a passionate discussion that acknowledged circumstances, exceptions, and contexts to defend our own points. It was as though we’d entirely forgotten about our surroundings and were lost in a single line of scripture that we’ve read and repeated countless times in our lives but never really considered on our own.

But even today, this law can be taken in radically different directions. In the time of Abraham, Moses, and David, “Thou shalt not kill” referred only to Jews–but as Galen pointed out, in this day and age that same line could refer to swatting a fly to keep it out of your hummus dish (which, I’ll point out, I fought the urge to do during lunch).

And to top off the setting, Father John directed a reenactment of a typical synagogue scene with Dr. Tommy, Julie, Drew, and Lord Carey acting as rabbis and Alastair as a diligent scroll boy. (I regret not getting a video of his labored trips to and from the scrollery, because it was absolutely hilarious.)

It goes without saying that the return climb was a bit of a nightmare. I’ve never heard so many huffs and puffs coming from above and below, but thanks to God’s grace and some seriously stubborn Pilgrims we made it back to the lookout point. If the shopkeeper at the top of the hill was alarmed at the sight of a huge group of Americans rushing toward his supply of Nutty Buddy bars, he didn’t show it.

I wish I could say that the next leg of our trip was just as aesthetically beautiful, but that would be a lie. Only two months ago the army began fire training exercises in the fields between the Golan Heights and Quneitra. I don’t have to rattle off rainfall statistics to support the widely-known fact that the Middle East is dryer than my desert-worn and lotion-deprived feet. Despite their attempts to extinguish its spread, the fields have been singed for miles and miles around to leave nothing but black straw and soot. The birds and eagles so popular at Gamla’s nature reserve were M.I.A., and the only sign of life we saw was an army Hummer a few hundred yards in front of us on the road.

Even without the Hummer, it was evident that we were in a military area. Although a few stone tabletop burial markers dating back to the mid-Bronze age were visible from the road, they were nothing compared to the number of stone house foundations and abandoned homes along the way. Rocky front stoops led to thin air, yellow signs marked land mines instead of crosswalks, abandoned tanks dotted the hills, graffiti covered the sides of gutted mosques and churches, and bomb shelters were a more frequent sighting than speed limit signs.

This shocking sight surrounds once the prosperous town of Quneitra–that is, until Israel ordered its destruction in 1974 before complying with America’s request that it return the land to Syria. I’m not a huge fan of documentaries, but the whole scene might just as well have been something straight off The History Channel’s WWII special.

We stopped in Mas’ade’s Nedal Restaurant for a very non-French meal of pitas, cucumbers, hummus, tomatoes, baba ghanoush, slaw, beans, cabbage, French fries (which, again, are apparently not French), falafel, goat cheese, baklava, Coke, and the new love of my life: Turkish coffee. Baklava has been the prime food-based discussion topic since our arrival in Tel Aviv-Yafo, so when the restaurant owner stepped out of the kitchen with a heaping platter of the little pastries he was met with a storm of squeals and applause.

Our next stop was Caesarea Philippi, also called Banias, at the mountainous origin of the Jordan River. If we thought our baptism renewals downstream were in clear water, it was nothing to this: Several ancient pebbled walls divided the mountain gorge water so that it trickled gently downward from level to level. Romanesque pillars freckled the ground, benches rested against low stone walls, and gnarled trees offered shade from our enemy The Sun.

That’s the descriptive and very Romantic-era description of the site. I’d rather leave out the tourist trap of a gift shop around the corner and the little picnic area where families were sitting down to canned tuna, Nabs, and Little Debbie cakes.

If the name “Banias” doesn’t sound all too familiar, don’t bother checking out Wikipedia for Bible references–it’s not there. Although the name derives from the Pagan god Pan (think “Pan’s Labyrinth”), the closest letter in the Arabic language to “p” is “b”. Iyad added that most Arabic-speaking natives have trouble with the letter even when speaking English, which would explain a few mentions of “beoble”, “bottery”, “bita bread”, and “You bay me in shekel, I give you better brice!” that we’ve heard since our arrival.

…Hence the adaptation “Banias”.

Indeed, the gaping cave in the side of the canyon face was once a temple to Pan, but that would not warrant its appearance in the Bible–it is known for an entirely different reason. It was here in Caesarea Philippi that Jesus asked his disciples, “Who do men say that I am?”

It was at this pivotal point in time that Jesus committed himself to his death, just as his baptism in the Jordan was a commitment to his ministry. Our experiences (and, at times, our sufferings) throughout the past 24 hours are perfect proof that commitments don’t necessarily have to be life-changing, let alone world-changing: All of us showed commitment while trekking up the side of a rocky mountain in 103-degree weather with a 120% humidity index; a few of us have shown commitment while camping out on the roof at ridiculous hours of the morning and night for Wi-Fi access; a handful of us have shown commitment while scouting out the best prices and souvenirs in Nazareth for our families, friends, and neighbors; and I’m proud to say that I showed commitment while restricting myself to only two cups of Turkish coffee today, even if I’m sorely wishing I’d had the third.

We often erroneously think that commitments are scary things. Words, like laws, might be set in stone if we make a promise or dedicate ourselves to a project or venture. As humans, we make mistakes: We stumble, we fall, we hate gravity with a passion…but without fail, we always have the ability to get up again.

One current resident at the convent is no older than I am and has been traveling by foot for the past seven months. She has committed herself to walking from her French hometown to Jerusalem, and although there have been rough patches and times when she’s wanted to turn back, the promise she has kept all this time has been to herself and to no one else.

Jesus didn’t commit to his ministry, his fate, or his death because other people wanted him to. He, like the French girl whose name I can neither pronounce nor spell out, had the opportunity to turn back, shy away, and succumb to the temptations of the Devil.

When we first arrived at the crest of the hill overlooking Gamla some ten miles below (that might be an exaggeration, but my wobbly legs still claim otherwise), we were given the choice to sit by the ice cream shop nearby, return to the air-conditioned bus, or sign our fates in blood, sweat, and tears before starting the rocky descent.

We had that choice, but we still made a commitment to learn, to experience, and to see the world through the eyes of a first-century rabbi. It may have been a small offering, but I think I’m right in saying that each and every one of us was proud to have done so.

Now let’s see if we say the same thing at 5:30 tomorrow morning, when we find our leg muscles entirely unresponsive.

I have great news: Thanks to the combined genius of Ridge, Will, and Martin, we’ve discovered a single Wi-Fi hotspot next to one of the rooftop chimneys. One step in any direction and it’s gone, I kid you not–but the nun working the front desk seems suspicious of my incessant use of their French PC and its unilingual keyboard.

I have to hand it to them, though–they have a way in the kitchen, and I’m not just saying that because of their grande-sized coffee mugs. Breakfast was a simple but delicious meal of bread loaves, cheese, honey, jams, and butter at an indecently early hour of the day, but–and you’ll catch me saying this time and time again–Father John and Iyad know what they’re doing.

Not very unlike yesterday’s early departure, the reason we were to be found in the middle of an ancient Roman ruins site at eight in the morning was to enjoy only slightly warm and humid weather instead of the stifling sauna it became later in the day.

Zippori, once called “the Ornament of All Galilee”, was a major city and capital during Jesus’ time. It was largely influenced by the Romans, which is evident not only through their 4,000-seat amphitheater but also through the centered gridlock plan that divides the city into distinct sections. The east-west road, called the decamanus, intersects the north-south cardo (similar to the cardo that divides the Jewish and Armenian quarters) at a point called the tetrapylon.

These roads and intersections consist of stones that are worn completely smooth and even feature a double set of deep indentations, perfect grooves for the wagon wheels that trekked to and from the merchant’s square for centuries. Nearby is a mikveh, or a cleansing ritual bath, along with a stone fortress from the Crusader period made partially out of reused sarcophagi. If Dr. Patrick is reading this right now, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to wrench one out of the wall for you. I’ll stay on the lookout, I promise.

Not too far downhill is a relatively new archaeological site that was excavated in 1990 and shows immense Egyptian as well as Roman influence. Zippori, which was renamed Sepphori(s) when it fell into Israel’s hands in 1948, was once located on a major trade route that ran from Egypt to Baghdad–so it’s really no surprise that the vast mosaic recently discovered depicts men and women measuring the Nile’s depth and reporting its statistics to Alexandria. The higher the Nile, the more prosperous the cities…and the more prosperous the cities, the more frequent the feasts, hunting, and merriment.

So what? It’s a ruined city–there are hundreds of thousands around the world that still exist today, despite the excavation conditions or mysteries surrounding them. Why would such a site attract a group of 42 pilgrims on a blistering Sunday morning in the hills of Galilee?

Not only did Mary’s parents live in this city, but Zippori also lends evidence as to the layout of the Last Supper. I love “The DaVinci Code” as much as the next person, but poor Leonardo was a bit off in his interpretation of this momentous gathering: It’s much more likely that Jesus and his disciples gathered in a tritanium, which is usually held in celebration of the gods Dionysus and Bacchus (think wine, grapes, and more wine) where the hosts and guests lie on pillows around the edge of a decorative floor with each head resting on another person’s chest or arm.

This practice was something performed exclusively by the wealthy in society, which raised a few eyebrows among our group. We’ve been taught from a young age that Jesus was a peasant–just the son of a carpenter, and therefore lacking in money and material possessions. But during the height of Zippori’s power and popularity, Galilean residents were classified into four distinct social classes. The most elite were the government workers, but the step directly below included carpenters (called “tectons”) such as Joseph.

Don’t forget that point–I’ll be bringing it up later.

We passed by Haifa, Israel’s third largest city after Tel Aviv-Yafo and Jerusalem, on the way to Shefa-Amr. Unlike Haifa and other major cities in the area, Shefa-Amr has a relatively large proportion of Christian residents as well as a number of Druze, or Egyptian Jews who believe in reincarnation and are loyal to Israel. Like almost all cities, the majority of the population is Muslim.

The town does, however, boast two Episcopal parishes. We stopped at St. Paul’s and were greeted by Fr. Fuad Dagher and several parishioners, who had sectioned off two-fifths of the church’s pews for their American (and English) guests. Lord Carey himself acted as celebrant, and watching the interactions and translations from the former Archbishop to an Arab Palestinian Anglican priest to a primarily Arabic-speaking congregation was somehow more unifying than I ever could have imagined. Throughout the service we read prayers and sung hymns in two completely different tongues, but the knowledge that we were following the same spiritual path at every moment made the chapel seem simultaneously humble and majestic.

The parishioners treated us to an amazing lunch–after 24 hours without them, we’d started having pita withdrawals–and then both groups of Anglicans began to sing together. Father Fuad, who was basically a one-man show during the service and juggled between his roles as priest, organist, and translator–played several songs on his electric guitar, the children’s youth group sang and danced in Arabic and English, and we stood and sang “Prince of Peace” together as an offering in return.

By that point we were all laughing and talking together like old friends, and as one youth passed around cups of the mud-like and ever-popular Turkish coffee (I downed three) we began making speeches. It almost felt like an awards ceremony: Lord Carey, Father John, and Father Fuad spoke about international cooperation through faith and friendship, Kang and I defined our most striking epiphanies from this Pilgrimage…and then a young woman from Haifa University took over the microphone.

After so many jokes and smiles, I don’t think any of us expected what came next. As she began with a welcome and a friendly introduction, her choice of topic gradually shifted onto the American-Iraqi war and all that we’ve done to destroy her country and her people. Note that I say “all that we’ve done” and not “all that America has done” or even “all that the U.S. government has done”–she pinpointed us as sidekicks in the countless murders, injuries, attacks, and imprisonments that have taken place in the last decade. Looking around at my fellow Pilgrims was reassurance enough that I wasn’t the only one who felt like a Butterball turkey just before the huge Thanksgiving rush. Suddenly we were the targets and not the guests, and on account of something over which we had no control.

Iyad later apologized for her tearful speech, which I don’t think was quite right. Why should he apologize? In fact, why should anyone? Although we aren’t specifically to blame–actually, most of us are too young to have anything to do with political decisions anyway–her anger and despair were almost refreshing. It was impossibly optimistic to believe that that we could spend two weeks in the Middle East and receive nothing but warm welcomes and great food, and in a strange way, hearing the truth was like a splash of cold water across the face. I should probably confess that I’m making our reactions sound a lot stronger than we really felt at the time, although I’m probably the only person who openly cried. What other response could be more natural when you’re forced to represent your own country in such a critical and condemnatory hue?

And by the way, our leaders are amazing. That’s a bit of a “duh” factor, but it still deserves saying…especially when they recognize our exhaustion after long days and 5:30 wake-up calls on telephones that date back to the 1970s. We were split into two groups, one of which went shopping in the marketplaces around southern Nazareth while the other was asked to meet at the foot of the courtyard for what Father John termed “a two-hour excavation”. Considering that we’d spent several hours exploring Zeppori’s excavations less than nine hours before, it was remarkable how excited we were as we went down several flights of stone stairs beneath the convent.

It was only in the 1840s when Bishop Leone asked the French Order of the Sisters of Nazareth to set up a school in–surprise, surprise–Nazareth, where they had never actually been before. There was a bit of a mix-up while trying to locate available land in the area, especially when the current landowner asked for a higher real estate price because they were buying “the Home of the Just”. It seemed like a rip-off and a load of nonsense at the time, but they bought the land and began construction.

When a worker fell through a square opening in the ground not long after construction began, no one expected what came next. The corpse of a Byzantine-era bishop, sitting erect in a chair with an episcopal ring on one finger, was found several rooms away from a baptismal font, which was located directly below an ancient cistern. A rolling-stone tomb showed evidence of earlier excavations before it was used as an area for worship in Crusader times, and above the tomb was a kahn (a cavelike home) beneath a Byzantine church which, in turn, was beneath a Crusader church.

So here’s a question for you: Why on earth would two churches be built on top of a cavelike home, and why was that cavelike home built on top of a rolling-stone tomb?

Let’s examine a few facts. We know that Mary, Joseph, and Jesus lived in Nazareth, not far from the town’s only well. We know that Jesus’ body was never buried. We know that Joseph died as an old man, and that Mary moved to Capernaum shortly afterward. We know that with the family’s only carpenter gone, no one was left to construct the kokhs (or, as Father John calls them, the pizza ovens for dead bodies) similar to those found in Joseph of Arimathea’s tomb.

This one consists of only two kokhs, which means the last three were never built. It’s located beneath a house where the living family would have lived had they stayed long enough to finish the tomb’s construction. We know that only wealthy families could afford a rolling-stone tomb, which were in use from 50 BCE to around 60 CE. We know that Joseph’s occupation warranted a considerably high social status. And we know that, despite the way Jesus chose to live during his lifetime, he was able to hold the Last Supper gathering in the style of a Roman tritanium.

I earlier stated that Joseph’s tomb was destroyed in a riot only a decade ago, which–honest to goodness–is what I read only a few nights ago. I won’t directly quote him, but Father John made it pretty obvious that he deemed that bit of information ludicrous.

If Joseph, christened “The Just Man” in the Bible, were buried in a tomb, it would most likely have been a rolling-stone tomb for the wealthy. He would not have had the opportunity or the necessity to add extra kokhs for his remaining family members. He would, however, have chosen to construct the tomb directly below his home–and although tombs were outlawed within city walls at that time, Nazareth is surrounded by hills that have always served as natural protection. It has never been enclosed by city walls.

If these facts were already known after his death, the Byzantines in the 300s CE would undoubtedly have wanted to protect the Home of the Just from raiders, enemies, and dilapidation. What better way to do so than to construct a church on top of that home? And if Crusaders followed the same path of logic, why not build a second church on top of the first?

If all of this holds true, the Sisters of Nazareth not only grabbed the best piece of property in Nazareth but are also guarding a site that may be just as holy as the Church of the Nativity and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher. If all of this holds true, we’ll be spending four nights directly above the home of the Holy Family. The thought still gives me goosebumps.