Wording a Radiance. Daniel W. Hardy

on the Philosophy and History of Science – and more recently for an inter-faith conference at the Hartman Institute, but that was also a non-religious visit, even if for inter-faith conversation: both visits had been for reasons other than a full engagement with the Holy Land. So it made a lot of difference to Perrin and me that this was pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and I give real credit to those who put the trip together. It was conceived by Yazid Said (who had been born in Nazareth and reared as a Christian, so he knew the situation and place well) in collaboration with others at Great St Mary’s, and they planned it well. They were trying to introduce us to the whole situation there, political and historical and religious, and we were confirmed in our desire to do the trip by the way it was organized. We rested quite easily in it . . .

      The pilgrimage began at Nazareth where we were taken to the Church of the Annunciation. It seems the intention was to expose us to a place where there had been a divine address – the Annunciation of the angel to Mary – and then there was a sequence of places and events after that: the Sea of Galilee, a boat trip and a visit to some of the shrines along the shores, but these were external, cultural events in a sense – not spiritual.

So it all really began when we went from the guesthouse in Nazareth where we were staying to visit the headwaters of the Jordan . . . a place where people had been touched. On the bus on the way I was asked to give a homily on ‘The Shaping of Desire’ (based on Psalm 42)22 – and this seemed to strike people quite powerfully. When we got there, there were waters simply ‘bubbling up’ out of the ground. We all gathered around the place where this ‘bubbling up’ was happening, and I was asked to read the psalm, ‘Like as the heart desireth water brooks . . .’ Then we shared a Eucharist with a renewal of baptism vows. There was a strange ambience. It was almost like being encircled by the waters, and, although it wasn’t a very polished exercise, there was a basic kind of renewal going on. People were folded into the atmosphere of the place – disappearing and then reappearing in the mists by the waters . . . It showed how we can be incorporated in something beyond ourselves. People realized that something was really happening; it was not just an ‘exercise’ to be observed, but a drama to enter into. This is when the pilgrimage really began.

      At the Headwaters of the Jordan

      I’ve no idea if it was as significant for the others as it was for me, but for me it was the beginning of an experience of the play of light. It was an opening into a new understanding of the dimensions of what is going on: the light really going deep into people and transforming them from within: irradiating them. And I noticed qualitatively different relationships between people: people were more open and prepared to engage with one another; it was no longer now a notably social tourist group. And of course it was not only what was happening to and within them, but the way I saw.

      The Road to Jericho

      Security wall on the road to Jericho

      After the Jordan, we went down towards Jericho. I’d prepared for it a lot, as I was taking the Eucharist there. It is in the West Bank: a Palestinian area of the Holy Land – land that has already been measured and configured for its use within the divine purpose – that is now surrounded and cordoned off by Israel.

      So the notion of Divine Measurement was on my mind and an important preparation for Jerusalem. What is it to be measured for God’s purposes? And what might it mean in this place: Jericho, this precursor to the measured city of Jerusalem? I thought about the notion that the world is ordered in a certain way and the ‘Chicago School’ understanding of this in phenomenological terms . . . But I also wondered how to move beyond this to something more ontological: not just decided by human beings, but an understanding that acknowledges something already given and dwelling in the place. Perhaps there could be another kind of measurement that rests not only on bodies and objective knowledge, but more in line with quantum theory, which is trying to measure things by their position and is relational. This opens up the possibility that divine measurement is not simply about God setting something down in a body and leaving it there, but that there is a more fluid, dynamic view that follows the divine purpose.

      And what might this mean for the city of Jerusalem? Perhaps that being measured out as special in God’s purposes would not be because it is embodied there in any final sort of way, but because it is a place where something could be learnt and recognized: a dynamic to be entered into . . . This would be a hugely significant shift in emphasis and understanding.

      But it has also become a very problematic place, a place of deep struggle about something people won’t bring to the surface: ‘the deep and dark places’ (religious, political, social). How do we even begin to think of these things? If the creation of light brings darkness, perhaps holiness creates envy – or greed – a claim to a right of possession and a need to possess God, to be God. Perhaps that is what’s at the heart of idolatry and at the heart of the competition and fighting that have become such a part of Jerusalem’s history.

And what can counter this? A shift from Paul Ricœur’s ‘human economy’ of equivalence and exchange to the ‘divine economy’ of abundance and excess.23 God is not competitive: what is best for him is best for us, too. That’s the mystery of service: entering and going deeper into relation with God is not about loss and restriction, but gain. But there is a great sense of urgency about it all.

      Entering Jerusalem

      Jerusalem overlook: The old city

      I found our entry into Jerusalem very powerful: the Holy Mount/Temple; the Wailing Wall and, even more so (to me), the entrance to the tunnel under the Western Wall. It’s not easy to say quite why, but what struck me as we walked down under the excavations of the old wall was the power of the place: the most ancient stones of the Temple, leading up to much later ones. It’s not the physical mass of the place in itself, but that it is alive: radiant with light. There was a Bat Mitzvah taking place down there and a steady stream of people stopping to pray. It gave me the sense of this being the repository of God’s light. One could see it phenomenologically, but it’s far more than that: it takes eyes to see it, that’s all. I just found I was embraced by the light.

      Light on the temple walls

      It was the sum total of all this that gave me a sense of the huge power of God’s light and energy and how the divine is at work. But the question is, ‘How to get it across?!’ It’s an infinitely probing thing: not so much light’s searching as light’s penetrating. What is it that attracts someone to something better? The strong sense I have is that the Goodness simply draws them to something fuller. It’s an opening and enabling process: an attraction and recognition of the life and source of life within. It is like a granulation of patterns, words, light, senses: things percolating up just like the waters of the Jordan; and a whole range of things coming to the surface, with a new awareness of the simple wonder and beauty of creation and life itself; and with that, the awareness of how little we’ve ‘got it’. So with the light comes sadness and loss but also a yearning to live from this source and to be oriented to it: to the life and health bubbling up deep within. The sense of sorrow is sharing in the grief of God and his longing for the best for his people and the world: longing for us not to be distracted or to waste time. It’s about recognizing how much more there is than you’ve ever seen before and being attracted by it and lifted up to it. This light is something that’s capable of lifting you deeply from within: the word I’ve used a lot for it is simply ‘attraction’.

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