Thoughts upon returning from the Holy Land

I spent one summer a few years ago river guiding on the Provo River above Vivian Park. The river was mild, but the scenery is beautiful. There's a little porch a ways down the run where, when I first started, another guide told me that President Monson grew up and still spends as much time as possible. I've floated that section of river upwards of 50 times and every time, despite never actually seeing him there, I am reminded of him. 

When I read President Monson's biography, "To the Rescue" my knowledge of the area added a new dimension to his numerous stories that take place there. When he told about the time he accidentally started a forest fire I was able to visualize little Tommy running up the cliff sides I know, panicking at the fast burning brown underbrush that's always there in the summer of a drought year. It makes the story feel more real to me, it adds to the immersion and that, in turn helps me internalize the lessons his stories teach. 

Just a couple weeks ago, when President Monson told about inner tubing down the Provo, coming up on a whirlpool and saving a little girl who was being pulled under I said, "Hey! I know that whirlpool!" I've played in it in my kayak countless times and I can just see the story happening in my minds eye as he tells it. 

Knowing the place, reading his biography, listening to his talks for as long as I've been alive, I feel like I know President Monson. In some sense of the word at least. Just like I can get to know Jesus by walking where he walked, listening to his stories, and reading the biographies his apostles left us. 

As members of the church, we aren't just called to know Christ in the same way I have gotten to know President Monson however. Much more than his historians, Christ calls us His "Friends", His family, His sheep, His disciples and He is our Savior. We are called to have the kind of intimate relationship with him that just reading a biography and visiting historical sites simply does not allow. The kind of knowing a person that philosopher C. Terry Warner said, "Is only possible through genuine, unguarded interaction". And what Jewish Philosopher Immanuel Levinas called, "the face-to-face". If I really wanted to get to KNOW President Monson in this way, I suppose I'd have to knock on his door and ask if I can move into his house or something.

By being where President Monson saved a little girl from drowning and hearing his story, I learn something about being saved and about President Monson, but I am not, myself, saved. Only the little girl, who herself was in that river with him was saved. Only she had the true, face to face, genuine interaction that I'm talking about.

If our prayers are as genuine and unguarded as are our most intimate conversations with our spouses, parents or best friends. If we listen to the voice of His servants, truly keeping in mind that, "by mine own voice, or by the voice of my servants, it is the same", if we always remember him, as we weekly covenant, then we will KNOW Him, not as historians, but as friends.

So, this is what I'm taking away from my holy land experience. The Savior is not to be found in the holy land any more than He is to be found in the Garden Tomb. But there is somewhere where he may be found.  

I felt the spirit on the Mount of Transfiguration, the tomb and Gethsemane. The steps of the temple mount may have been the holiest place Neil Armstrong ever stood, but the holiest place I have ever been to is the holy temple. Where on the entrance is written, "Holiness to the Lord, The House of the Lord". And about which he has said, "my presence shall be there, for I will come into it, and the pure in heart that come into it shall see God."

When my Dad and I landed in Israel we had a couple hours to wait for the rest of the group at the airport. I found a seat near baggage claim, got on wi-fi and was greeted by an e-mail from my wonderful cousin currently serving a mission in Washington DC. He sent me a poem that has been a focal point of my pondering the entire trip that I want to share with you all now. 

"The Iron Rod"

From far away I saw the Tree

And grasped the iron rod,

And pressing forward through the mist,

The narrow path I trod.

 

But faltering along the path,

I slowed and dropped my gaze.

From shining Tree I turned and saw

A building through the haze.

 

It towered high above the ground,

And people fine and proud

From ev’ry doorway beckoned me

To come and join the crowd.

 

But though the scene was glamorous,

It filled my heart with dread.

I turned away and fixed my view

On path and Tree ahead.

 

Yet ever as my feet moved on,

My thoughts dwelt on the crowd,

Which mocked my struggle down below

In voices harsh and loud.

 

The mist pressed close around me now;

I felt its tender strands

That pulled so softly at my feet,

So gently at my hands.

 

One strand sang sweetly in my ear,

A soothing melody:

“Why walk this path so long and hard?

Come with us and be free!”

 

Relaxing grip upon the rod

And view upon the Tree,

I checked my pace and glanced around,

Intrigued by what I’d see.

 

The fog obscured the distant scene

That I could not resist.

I soon had left the pathway and

Was walking in the mist.

 

The threads of shadow pulled me on.

The night grew dark and cold—

My only warmth from thick’ning cords

That now took greater hold.

 

Then streaming from the distant Tree,

A beam of light did shine,

And I perceived these gentle cords

Were chains of dark design.

 

At once my bonds were loosened and

Gave way before the light.

But fearing now to lose their touch,

I turned into the night.

 

I stumbled down my unseen path,

Uncertain and confused.

O’er rocks and pits I fell until

My hands and knees were bruised.

 

The cords that led so gently once

Now pulled a frantic pace,

And tripping down one final slope,

I fell upon my face.

 

Then glancing up, my eyes beheld

A river dark and deep,

And kneeling on that sandy shore,

I soon began to weep.

 

I shuddered at my bitter fate:

Afraid and lost, alone.

Why had I wandered from the path

And left the truth I’d known?

 

I stood once more on weary feet

And summoned all my will,

Determined to retrace my steps

Back up the treach’rous hill.

 

But though I tried to climb the bank,

The cords would give no slack,

And whipping at my arms and legs,

They roughly pulled me back.

 

Then wrapping ‘round my chest and waist

And tightening their hold,

They dragged me down the sandy bank

Into the water cold.

 

These chains, not soft but sharp and hard,

Cut short my desperate scream,

And laughing in my ears they pulled

Me ‘neath the murky stream.

 

Oh what an end for one so blessed,

Whose fate had seemed so fair!

I fell through icy darkness as

Regret turned to despair.

 

But as I sank into the depths,

My mind caught on the Tree,

And straightway from my heart I cried,

“Dear Savior, rescue me!”

 

Then suddenly a light appeared

Above me on the sand,

And Jesus, kneeling on the shore,

Reached down and took my hand.

 

And as He made to raise me up,

My heart was filled with peace,

But still the heavy chains would not

Their rightful prize release.

 

I wondered then, “What could He do?”

I knew the law’s demand.

But reaching down, He grasped a chain

With His almighty hand.

 

The razor edges cut Him, but

The chain broke with a crack

And lashing out in fury left

A gash upon His back.

 

He reached again and broke once more

A heavy chain of sin.

It too recoiled, biting deep

Into His precious skin.

 

And each strong cord that He undid

Sprang back with all its might

And threw upon that Guiltless One

A vicious blow of spite.

 

When I could bear no more I cried,

“I don’t deserve such grace!

It is not fair that you should bleed

And suffer in my place!”

 

With no response, He carried on.

The final chain fell slack.

He lifted me—from bonds set free!—

And placed me on His back.

 

I clung to Him as one new-born,

His blood mixed with my tears.

Somehow His love had conquered sin

And quieted my fears.

 

And though I hoped He’d bring me to

The Tree with no delay,

Instead He set me on the path

Where first my feet did stray—

 

Then very gently placed my hand

Back on the iron rod

And for a while walked with me,

The pathway home to God.

 

“Remember,” He in parting said,

“My love and sacrifice,

But don’t forget, though great the cost,

That you are worth the price.”

 

So through the mists I struggle on,

A slow, unsteady pace,

Relying every step upon

His mercy, love, and grace.

 

And someday when I’ve reached the Tree,

I’ll fall down at the feet

Of Him who drank the bitter cup

And made this fruit so sweet.

May we all come to know Christ as our own personal Savior.

-Kyle