Teaching the Tourists

Bideesh shukran. I don't want it thanks. A phrase I repeat so habitually these days it could be my own name. Whether to little boys on the street selling postcards and candy or to the vendors of Jerusalem's Old City, the Abu Muhammeds playing cards, I persistently remind the faithful that I am in no need of more trinkets or souvenirs, taxis or fresh-squeezed pomegranate juice. Nobody knows better than I how to play the game. This is the dance you learn as you walk the limestone streets, rubbed smooth from the passage of pilgrims, patrons and police.

Having mastered phrase and game, anticipating the rhythm of the dance, my surprise must have proved noticeable when my routine was interrupted. "Why don't you take a taxi? All you tourists think that we are terrorists, that we will rob you or beat you or blow you up. This is what they tell you on the other side of this wall." Stop, catch your breath and think. Suddenly the precarious equilibrium between Palestinian and passerby gives way to uneasy tension. No longer can I slide from place to place, in sync with my imaginary metronome, spewing my rehearsed response. I was the bishop on a chess board, unaware that my movements betray a strategy, but now I am the player. Each comment I make, signal I use, offer I refuse, these all proffer the possibility for an array of interpretations by those with whom I come in contact. And none should be ignored offhand.

Whether I like it or not, I speak for more than myself. To this taxi driver, I was one more example of Western fear and ignorance, one more reason to ponder whether it was worth waking up early every morning to maneuver the city aimlessly and in vain. Although the intelligent conversation that followed did much to rectify this misunderstanding—I walk to class in Bethlehem biweekly and enjoy the exercise and interaction with those whom I pass by—I couldn't help but think of the likely occurrence of similar occasions when local opinions were not voiced.

For the Christian, especially those who call America home, this task of overcoming stereotypes and spreading the truth is particularly daunting. We are forced to face head-on the reality of thousands of years of peace-less history, controversial, western, political policies disseminated in the name of God and the fear that our true motive in this land is always to proselytize. Adding insult to injury, it is the actions of tourists in this land that continue to shout the loudest. Against these odds it may seem as if there is no hope, and indeed there are times when I imagine myself standing before a tidal wave, unable to do anything more than raise a hand to stop the impending flood.

Yet despite all of this, the church is called to spread the truth throughout the world. Though I am but one man, one Christian, in a sea of many, God empowers me as part of that church to be the difference in a journey in which only the patient can persevere. It proves fruitless for me to dream of overcoming the broad misconceptions and injustices in one fell swoop. In this race, it behooves me to remember that it is the faithful tortoise, and not the mocking hare, who wins in the end. Rather than succumbing to the painful reality of what I am up against, I instead opt in favor of making a small difference in the lives of a few whose paths I cross. If we elect not to represent ourselves and our savior favorably, will someone else not gladly step up in our stead and offer a message of their choosing? I guarantee my right to speak out by doing that very thing! By challenging ignorance, I am supporting knowledge; by battling fear, and I strengthen love. Sometimes this will mean building a relationship, as with my conversation with the taxi driver. Other times, it may end less favorably—I was recently asked to leave my favorite restaurant after challenging a tourist group to remember Palestinian Christians. Still, we must continue to confront the world at every opportunity, to "teach the tourists."

This is a critical juncture for every committed Christian. Though we look distastefully at the outstretched baton approaching us, one characterized by hatred and violence, ignorance and abuse, we each must choose whether to accept the challenge, our unfavorable position in the race against injustice, or to drop the baton and disqualify ourselves. In a world of intense inter-religious and interstate strife, can we really afford the latter? The church today must model an alternative community; we must stand out against the grain and prove that Christ's message can indeed transform the world. To live this message, however, it must first transform us, and, as is usually the case, the challenge begins with the small stuff. It commences when we step out of the checkpoint and onto Hebron Road. It continues during the 15 minute conversation with a taxi driver, and it solidifies in the commitment to truth that permeates our interaction back home. This is the message of truth to which we are called. And to that, I won't be saying bideesh shukran.