Courage & Tel Aviv

I delivered a speech at Constantine United Methodist Church a week ago, one county East from where I was raised. I brought Rev. Manning’s congregation up-to-date about my mission, my training, my evolving theology, my work and, generally, matters I ought to have blogged about here. Afterward, a lady approached me and, shaking my hand, commended my courage. “Well,” I deflected, “courage is not what I thought it would be.”

On the train to Chicago, I started to sketch the outline of an essay about Courage so that I could unravel my feelings in interesting ways for my audience. There was plenty there to work with, even a small, encouraging ‘buzz’ from the Holy Spirit. A juicy treatise on courage might have preceded my flight to Istanbul, had I not been enjoying the hospitality of friends in Chicago. The lesson on courage is still forthcoming and sure to be much richer than what I had in mind on the train that day.

“I think you’re very courageous,” said Rin, driving me to the airport. She is my favorite friend to try my musings on, a budding psychologist and close sister. “What are you most nervous about?” “Israeli security,” I said without hesitation. Even as our discussion became more insightful, the content of my thoughts took a place in the background. After a few minutes, Rin noted what showed on my face: “You’re brave but I also think that you are more anxious than you are letting yourself notice—which is natural...” She said that every time I started talking about my mission my speech slowed and my knee started to jiggle; I looked uncomfortable.

“Oh,” I rebutted, “that’s because the burrito is getting to m—no, you’re right: I’m having indigestion because my stomach is making more acid because I am apprehensive.”

“And that’s natural!”

A few hours later, I left the continent.

The airport in Tel Aviv was immaculate, a welcome relief; the lower-level restrooms in Istanbul were flooded with water, which is ironic for an airport whose second-level is a high-end mall (“Everyone loves duty free!”). My six hour stew in Istanbul, where I bought nothing, ended on a positive note: security waved me through as soon as I showed my return itinerary. My pacing and worrying in Turkey seemed unwarranted and I wondered if I was becoming invested in the mythology of boldness draped upon me by small-town folks. All I needed was a tolerance of uncertainty, I thought, moving from challenge to challenge. For example, a Jewish family asked me to switch seats with them on the plane so they could be next to their small children; they gave me Israeli chocolate for my trouble, which I snacked on as I queued, in the gorgeous Tel Aviv airport, to have my passport stamped at one of the security booths. Airport, security, plane, chocolate, airport, security... car, Eastward: step to step.

It was past 1 AM in Tel Aviv when I approached the booth. Prior to this, my missionary contact gave me a set of explicit instructions for how to get through security; to quote directly: “You don’t have to lie, just don’t tell the whole truth”. The guard was a young woman, an Arab-Israeli with not-quite-shoulder-length black hair and slicing, dark eyes. Frankly, she was lovely but even more serious. She was what Ziva from NCIS is supposed to be and, yes, reality trumps television. I bet she could trace her ancestors to the Babylonian captivity, which is more than what the New York Jews on the plane could say (and it needs to be said). More importantly, she was wearing the uniform and she was probably sick and tired of being called pretty. It took me two seconds to realize that I was not going to flirt through this.

“Why did you come to Israel?”

I gave her the official answer: “To tour; I’m meeting with a tour group.” (true: Rev. Manning is coming in November)

“Why are you alone? Where are your friends?”

This question was also expected: “I booked separately to get a better price; my friends are coming on earlier and later flights.” (true: some came on flights years ago...)

The script broke down. “Where are you staying?—look at this! You are staying for more than a month. Where are you staying for this long?” I remembered my instructions: (“It is best to give short answers. Do not volunteer information or try to elaborate. Basically, just act like a dumb tourist who doesn’t know anything...”)

“In the Jerusalem area.” (true) Her eyes narrowed at me.

“How are you getting there and what is the name of the place you are staying?”

“A driver is taking me. I don’t know the name of the place but my friends do.” (truish)

“What is the name of your group? You say you are touring but what is your tourist group?”

“The United Methodist Church sent me” (true... but impossibly broad).

“What is this ‘Methodist Church’ –where is it in Israel?” (she’s looking for a building)

“It’s a network of churches, headquartered in New York City.” (I gave her ‘connectionalism’)

“Are you trying to get work in Israel?” (¿Vienes para trabajar?)
“No, not at all.” (subjectively true: I believe I will be working in Palestine, thanks...)

“Who paid for your plane ticket?”

“The United Methodist Church” (totally true!)

“Why cheap, then?” (good move... but I was ready...)

“They knew the right people to book with (true) in case I need to reimburse later” (lie-ish).

I should mention that the return itinerary I showed in Istanbul and at the booth has something in common with a key-ring I handed to my mother once when she grounded me. The keys on the ring all worked but not in the vehicle I was heisting; I hid and replaced that with a ‘dummy’ key. The return itinerary would take me to Washington DC at Thanksgiving: it is a dud, a ruse.

“What are the names of your friends? Give me just one name...” This is where the fun began.

“My friend in New York? Liz Lee...” (true: good luck finding the right Lee in New York City)

[A special message to Liz: I love you; I am sorry—your last name is Lee and I would do it again.]

Finally, it was coming down to the name game and neither of us was ‘playing’ around. “What is your driver’s name?”

“I don’t know yet.” (LIE~ that would endanger her mission).

“How do you not know the name of your driver? How do you know they will be there?”

“The driver will know my name—my friends arranged it this way for me.” I continued the dumb tourist routine, permutations of the same answers, until she led me to an enclosed area away from public view. Get the lemon juice, this fish was going on the grill.

She pointed to an average waiting-room chair outside the door to a lit office. A gush of terse, slightly agitated Hebrew spurted from behind the door. To my surprise, I did not panic. I remembered the time that I walked my dog down an easement into the woods. We loved to run. As we ran out of the woods, a tall man chased us, yelling. He accosted me, asking what I had seen, threatening to kill my dog if it bit him. That was the one time I have ever seen my dog growl at a human being—he has a sense for people. I stuck out my hand and said “my name is John Daniel Gore.” To make a long story short, I shook his hand and talked him down. He should have cut my throat—he was cooking meth and went to prison on my ‘tip’ to the police. My boldness is not a myth: it appears at critical times.

Courage comes easiest, I told Abigail Keebler, when you have two choices or less and the only decisions to make are related less to action than to attitude. I realized there was nothing I could do, sitting in that ordinary chair, to make it through Israeli security. I turned my palms skyward. Courage is not the thing that ever mattered. Courage is just what we call the brave things people do, faced with risk and uncertainty. Jesus said “...if you had Faith even as small as a mustard seed, you could say to this mountain, ‘move from here to there,’ and it would move. Nothing would be impossible.” (Matthew 17:20—also see Luke 17:6 for a knarley mulberry tree). I have a ‘mustard prayer’ I use, where I pretend that I have a seed[i] that powerful in the palm of my hand and I only need El Shaddai to activate it. “I know only You can take me to the West Bank, Ma.”

After a short prayer, Ziva Jr. called me into the office. She took her post next to the desk, standing bolt stiff with both eyes on my face. Behind the desk was a man leaning on his left arm over a pile of paperwork, obviously a middle-manager on a graveyard shift. My heart lightened: I was her suspect but his inconvenience. Middle management spoke-up, in a sleep heavy accent:

“You stay for three months, yes? How much money do you have?” (illegal question)

“About two hundred dollars, American,” (true, but he had no right to know)

“Just two hundred? You think will last you? Do you have credit card?” This was also an illegal question, though I did not know it because I was leaning in closer to work through his accent. He repeated and I said, “Oh yes, of course. I thought you meant only cash.” He turned to her. This was one of several side conversations that erupted in Hebrew; I might have been nervous except that it gave me a chance to pick up their accents without answering questions. “May we see the card?” (unheard-of, according to my missionary contact, and not legal)

I showed them my Mastercard. In a flash, my nightmare moment was upon me. “This card, it expires in October, before you leave...” I leaned in toward him again, processing. He repeated. Ironically, this was the crucial moment in courage. It would have been tempting to start telling a more verisimilar story: a fleshy lie. Was I going to use my story telling skills or wait it out.

Some puzzles are solved with a key, others with an algorithm. “Oh darn!” said the dumb tourist, “I’ll have to call my bank and get that renewed. Thank you for pointing that out for me, sir.” Knowing what I do now, I actually had every ounce of power and did not know it—they did not have the right to check my bank accounts. All I had to do was hold my position. I told them how much was in my savings without batting an eye-lash. They asked me what I did in the United States and I told them I had worked in non-profit as a volunteer coordinator (true) but that I was between jobs. They asked me about my group name, the driver’s name and the church’s name. I stayed consistent. When they asked me about what sites I was visiting, I used my actual (yes, actual) ignorance of their country. “I want to see Nazareth and Jerusalem”.

“What sites do you visit? What churches?”

“Uh... like the wailing wall and the church of the Tomb in Jerusalem” (don’t say The church of the Nativity, that’s in Bethlehem).

“Will you be visiting the Palestinian Territories?”

I had already decided to lie about that before I left Chicago, unequivocally: “Oh. No no...”

“Who are your friends in Israel?” was probably the toughest question of all.

“I have not met them yet—but I am sure they will take good care of me. I trust my friends in New York, they arranged all of this for me” (This was the greatest truth, though I did not know it).

Courage rides on Faith: in God, UMC missionaries, and Palestinian people I had never met.

Middle-management muttered something to Ziva Jr. Her eyes went wide. She cast me a penetrating look and made a hot reply. I knew then, without understanding the Hebrew. Middle-management waved a hand at me, as if to say ‘this idiot is not worth the trouble to send home.’ She had to stamp my passport, yes, but took it like a professional. As he walked out of the room, probably to get coffee , she looked me in the eye and said “I hope, for your sake, the driver is waiting for you.”

“Thank you! Thank you for being concerned about my well-being,” I said smiling and letting her see the blues of my eyes, “I appreciate that very much.”

Faith is the basis of Courage... but Swagger is the cherry on top! Victory was the Lord’s but the perks were mine. On my way out, I surely did not want to be stopped by anyone asking to see the passport stamp: I went to them. I picked a booth with another lady guard and said “hey, they told me to go through but I just wanted to make sure.” I smiled at her. She smiled at me and said “have a good time in Israel!”

Swagger: a spoon full of sugar makes the medicine go down.

Well, the only thing I saw on my way through Israel was a high-way. It was a good time but better times were to come because Faith is the belief in things unseen. What I staked my Faith in is what I have found to be absolutely true: these people are the most hospitable people I have ever known. Since I came here, they have let me eat their food, stay in their beautiful house on the hillside, follow them around the place of Christ’s birth and continually ask them what the Arabic word for ‘please’ is. I already know ‘thank-you’. “shk’raan. shk’raan Allah. shk’raan falasTeen.”

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[i] —or a really great sensu bean, if you watched DBZ ten years ago like I did. Kah-may-ha-may-HAH!