In 2010, I was part of a group of ministers who went to Israel together on pilgrimage.  We were all Protestants—Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, UCC, and Episcopalians, along with one Mennonite for good measure. We were used to going on trips as church leaders, but this was different. We went as pilgrims.

Pilgrimage is not a familiar term for Protestants and surely not Baptists. A friend of mine once said our spirituality is “extraverted, programmatic, and evangelistic.” Being silent, mystical contemplation and words like “pilgrimage” smacked of Catholicism, and when I was growing up that was negative, even if I didn’t have a clue why.

In recent years, the notion of a more reflective faith has become more comfortable to me. My heritage was a good one—we learned the Bible, we were experts in fellowship and acts of mercy to people in need. We were the gold standard for organizing to get things done. But not being quiet for long periods of time.

On this trip in 2010, though, we were invited to a different pace. We did not rush around to see as much as we could cram into our time. We were given time to reflect. We walked into old Jerusalem singing and praying as we walked, reading the gospel story at each traditional site leading up to the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus.

One morning we got up at dawn and met the priest who managed the guesthouse where we were staying, the Notre Dame Center of Jerusalem, across the street from one of the entrance gates to the Old City. He had invited us up to the roof just before dawn for an orientation to the city and our stay.

From that place, we could see from the Mount of Olives to the Dome of the Rock, where the ancient temple of Herod stood and the temple of Solomon before that. He walked us through the last week of Jesus’ life, ending with the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, on which site Queen Helena originally had a church built in the fourth century to mark the spot where Christ died and was buried, according to local tradition at the time.

He turned to us after the stunning retelling of the story we’d known all of our lives, looked at us intently, and said, “Don’t forget. You are not here for a tour. You have come here to meet the Risen Christ.” The power of his sentence has stayed with me.

We were gazing at the entire passion of Jesus below. It was, in the space of a single week, a drama of betrayal, political cowardice, treachery, denial, and cynical plotting. Abandoned by his followers, blamed by his enemies and denied by one of his closest disciples, Jesus was left alone against the cowardice of political expediency. A bloodthirsty mob clamored for his death and release for Barabbus, a criminal, and perhaps a nationalist Zealot. Left alone to die by the worst humanity as a herd had to offer.

And here all these years later, he haunts us still, as Flannery O’Conner once described the South. We call his name and shrink from his way. Walter Rauschenbusch, the Baptist theologian, said in his Theology of the Social Gospel that every sin of humankind was on display in the injustice against the Innocent. And so we are here, standing upon another rooftop, looking at our own journey on this planet. The actors different but the weaknesses and sins not much different. What will coming days bring? And more importantly, amid the clamor of tweets and rants and anonymous trolls, where is He Whom so many claim to yield as their Lord? Will we know Him in our midst?

An old hymn we don’t sing much anymore says,

I shall know Him, I shall know Him, 
And redeemed by His side I shall stand; 
I shall know Him, I shall know Him 
By the print of the nails in His hand.

But will He know us? I think of that rooftop again these insane and stupid days, and long to climb up again at sunrise and look across to the Mount of Olives, be quiet, gather myself and try to remember who I am and try to see Him again. Maybe I will be courageous this time, and stay awake under the Olive tree, and go with Him, through the angry mob and the fickle crowds, quiet enough to remember what is truth, as the spineless Pilate cynically asked.

It’s a good memory, that rooftop, with my friends and the Catholic priest. The cool of the Jerusalem morning, the sun lifting its first light over the ridge. Remembering why we came. Remembering who we are supposed to be. How easy it is to lose the way and let Him walk alone into the horrors of human treachery. Remember His forgiveness of their stupidity, even as he died, remember those He took into his heart, the lost and forgotten, the lepers and sinners, banished from community and hope. We can find Him, I remember. But not standing where i usually stand. We have to move and go where he is.