The preparation process leading up to The Jerusalem Experiment is turning out to be perpetual series of movements away familiar things: my church home, my town home, my friends, family and cozy coffee shops. Two months ago, I sat in a hospital waiting room with my aunt, uncle, step mom and father as we nervously awaited news on my grandmother’s heart valve replacement surgery (so far she’s doing wonderfully). A week ago I learned of my grandfather’s terminal stomach cancer. Such volatile circumstances make the idea of living on the other side of the globe for five months a bit precarious.
Today (my 29th birthday) I took a Sabbath and set aside a chunk of time to reflect upon my life’s rather awkward wanderings and often aimless trajectory which have (according to God’s sovereignty) brought me to this point–46 days from Jerusalem.
I anticipate The Jerusalem Experiment will be a fruitful project for many within the local church, but I believe my sojourning will cause a sort of renovation within my own heart. I don’t know a soul in Jerusalem. And while I often times boast of the fact that I possess and sort of independence which suggests such an experience should be easy, if I’m honest, I’m scarred.
Today I pulled Nouwen’s The Genesee Diary of my bookshelf. The book documents the nine months my spiritual hero spent at a Trappist monastery in Upstate New York. For all my grand ideals about solitude and time alone to write and think, my inclination (like Nouwen’s) toward solitude is rather paradoxical,
While speaking nostalgically about an empty desk, I feared the day on which that would come true. In short: when desiring to be alone, I was frightened of being left alone. The more I became aware of these paradoxes, the more I started to see how much Id had indeed fallen in love with my own compulsions and illusions, and how much I needed to step back and wonder, ‘Is there a giant stream underneath the fluctuating affirmations and rejections of my little world? Is there a still point where my life is anchored and from which I can reach out with hope and courage and confidence?
Of course, my fears lie in the possibility of a negative response to the question above. And at times, only the quiet whisper faith provides suggests a reality rooted in the hope of God’s relentless nearness, a hope the writer of Hebrews calls “an anchor of the souls.”
As I continue to prepare my heart for the journey that lies ahead, and in turn withdraw from the familiar comforts normalcy affords, I pray that God’s non-geographically specific presence wraps me round and anchors my fearful heart with a quiet and confident trust.
