It was my hope that by taking a break from the classroom and getting out of Michigan that I might be able to restore that which I had lost. After all, what better place to do this than the very land that Jesus, the Apostles, and heroes of old had walked.

When going on tours to all the great sites around Jordan, at least with the biblical sites, what struck me was how tiny these great cities and capitols of kingdoms actually were. By seeing the actual sites, the legendary power of the stories was removed. These were not great cities, they were small tribal villages. The sites that were inspiring were Petra and Jerash, neither of which plays a role in the Bible.

We had one weekend that was free from the normal schedule of tours. Most of us used this to go to Jerusalem since the insurance company wouldn’t allow us to go there officially. It was a week after Hamas had seized control of the Gaza Strip, but the boarder was open so we crossed the Jordan and made our way up into the Judean highlands.

We could feel the tension while eating pizza at a cafe on the Via dela Rosa as Arabs made their way past Israeli troops with their M-4s to the Al Asqa Mosque for Friday prayers. There were security checkpoints complete with metal detectors to go to the Western Wall. On the way up to the Dome of the Rock there were signs from the Rabinate of Jerusalem warning the faithful to not step foot on the “Mount of God.” If you try to get a cab to take you back to East Jerusalem from downtown you have to get an Arab driver, otherwise the cab will be stoned. The feeling I got while I was there was not one of awe inspiring power of faith, but the divisive and powerful concept of “sacred” land.

We went to the Western Wall just before the sun set on Friday. There I touched the stones and begged God to take away my doubt and give me something to hang on to. I did the same a little later at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, the traditional site of Jesus’ burial. The next day I again poured out my heart to God at the Grotto of Gethsemane, the traditional site where Jesus had prayed before his arrest. While watching the sun set over the spires of Jerusalem from near the top of the Mount of Olives, I again poured out my heart to God. Each time I felt nothing. Well, I actually felt some chills at Gethsemane, but that may have been because my prayers went on deaf ears the same they had for somebody else there in some old stories.

During the long hours at the dig site there was a lot of time spent sifting dirt looking for pottery and figurines. It was incredible to be able to take a pause and look out across the landscape of the Mabada Plain and the hills in the background. The one good thing about sifting was that it made for plenty of time to think. My journey to the Holy Land was more than just a diversion, it was a pilgrimage. As great at the adventure was, I didn’t find what I was looking for. I continued to feel like Balian in the movie “The Kingdom of Heaven” who thought that God did not know him and who feared that he was loosing his religion.

I still had one more last ditch effort to salvage mine. The day after I flew back to the states I had a flight to Mexico where I would preach the Gospel. I was resolved that if my unbelief was not taken from me by the time I returned to campus that I walk away from it all.

When I arrived in Cancun we had meetings with our faculty sponsor and the ShareHim coordinator. I then went to the church a few miles out of town and met with the elders and my translator. A few days after arrival, the preaching started. I was “El Pastor,” as the locals called me. My translator was very helpful and the people seemed quite receptive. After each sermon I would feel that emotional high that I was used to from preaching.

Then I would get back to the hotel and feel horrible. I didn’t believe a damn thing that came out of my mouth. I was the lowest of the low. I was a hypocrite. After three sermons I was feeling really uncomfortable, but I was trying to hold out to the end.

After the fourth sermon I started feeling kind of depressed, complete with a headache and nausea. I thought it over a bit and decided to sleep on it. That lasted until about five or six in the morning when I woke up and wrestled with it until my roommate got up at 7:30. We talked until the 9:00 morning meeting. I sat through the meeting knowing what I had to do, but dreading the conversation that I had to have.

I first met with the professor, then both him and the coordinator. When I told them I was no longer a Christian they were surprised and disappointed. They tried to talk me out of it, but in the end they thanked me for the integrity I had shown. In that one conversation I quit the series, withdrew from the Seminary, and walked away from my faith.

It was three years ago today that I walked out of that room with my burden finally lifted. This was my apostasy.