Glory Ho

“Avaseet” says Catherine, with a big smile and a graze of a hand against her smudged purple apron. Her aura is heavy with sweat and dust but she smiles with teeth that have been brushed. Catherine is the wife of Frances, who is the brother of Mutinda, who we found on couchsurfing.

Catherine is always saying this the moment we get to the hotel, which in Kenya means only a small restaurant. All day, Catherine makes three things from leaf-and-flour scratch. Tea with milk and sugar which is poured from tall red, insulating thermoses for 10 cents, chapati (sort of like a crepe) for 20 cents and undazi (sort of like a doughnut-no sprinkles or frosting) for 10 cents. Sometimes I help her by pouring molasses-colored oil onto the dough and then rolling them into cinnamon bun shapes. Catherine fries them over a small coal fire, her back bending toward what will one day be a permanent curve. Yesterday, as I sat with Michael ignoring the stares of other patrons, she brought me a Parents Magazine article: Relationships: Dealing with Change for the Working Woman. The magazine date was 1995.

The hotel is very popular. Villagers, mainly men, Africa’s most idle individuals, in their third-hand sports coats, frayed trousers and shiny dress shoes come to fill the fifteen seats, eat, drink and play checkers with bottle-caps. Some, particularly those living on less than 100 shillings ($1.50) a day, can’t cook in their own homes. This village is without electricity—the power lines end in Kangundo, but soon, the people say, soon, we will have electricity, too. They say we’re one of the lucky ones—the house where we stay has a generator, which is used to watch local news, Everybody Loves Raymond and 70s-style Colgate commercials.

Along the red “market” road, a few feet from Catherine and Frances’s hotel, there are two small, dark general stores, one which sells avocados (10 cents) and tomatoes (15 cents), one selling only cow’s milk, a carpentry shop and a more general store with toilet paper.  There is also a bar with bottles of Tusker, Pilsner and Kenya’s own version of Guinness behind a massive cage, but we don’t go there much. The kerosene light is blinding and buzzing and too many tipsy Kenyans ask us for money.

But this is a regular thing. And it’s the hardest thing. Arabs tend to overcharge tourists. Africans just come out and ask for money with a rude sense of entitlement all over their face, while our curiosity about their lives and their culture disappears into the dust. They will ask us for anything—breakfast, a bus ticket or a mobile phone. It’s maddening.

Of course, I have come to think about it this way: what if I was living on a planet with very little water. And a person from another planet arrived with her very own truckfull of water. And I thought, we’ll can’t she give me just a cup? Surely, she can spare just a cup.

It’s tough. But strategies develop over time. We’re still only calf-deep in Africa’s waters.

One day we go to a funeral. I am wearing my only real dress as we hike up and down dirt paths which divide plot after plot of maize and beans. Our entrance behind Catherine and Frances is not quiet, but we keep a straight face to ensure that mourners eyes do not linger long, that their shriveled faces and dish-towel-style wrapped heads swivel back to the coffin as they struggle to keep their balance on old logs and tree-branch chairs. Still, children form a small crowd to stare at our skin, which is closer to the color of their milky morning tea than any human they’ve ever seen. They whisper “howayoo” with all their might. We eventually look behind us, where rows of matching royal blue jumpers sit fascinated by our backsides.

The voices of the choir, like their arms which have been mashing corn, and their legs which have been carrying babies and buckets, are robust. Yet, I do not hear them. The generator-fueled blow-horn they use—technology for the sake of technology–is like a colander, sending each and every note through a hole much too small and then scattering it into the fields of cattle, snakes and acacias.

I watch as the spirit of this old woman fades back into the universe.

It would be easy and romantic to wish away the approaching electricity—power lines which pencil scratch the valley view, more speakers to dull the sweet sound of the church choir and the blare of a dozen new black and white television set to disrupt the evening cicadas.

But there are reasons for it. I understand that. One day soon, they’ll be proud to have a wire-strung sun.

What do you do when you’re the only white people on a hill full of hundreds of Kenyans and everyone starts getting up to clap and sing and raise their hands when identically dressed dancers emerge from a semi with the words “Jesus Big Miracle Crusade” written on it?

You join in.

We were nervous that first day in Nairobi. On the flight from Cairo, my small 3 pixel Canon and our mobile phone had been stolen. Very carefully, too. As if someone knew exactly what they were after. It was the first time we’d been victims of theft in seven months of traveling.

That, combined with the fact that Nairobi had the worst crime reputation in the universe had made us in a word, paranoid.

I kept my eyes glued to the baskets on people’s heads, the babies on their backs or the briefcase at their calfs. I clutched my bag to my chest, envisioning it being ripped from my body. No one was beyond suspicion. It was Sunday. And we walked out of our hotel—the one with iron bars on the reception, five security guards and double-padlocked rooms–we walked right by the Stanley Hotel, the bookstores and balconied restaurants, past the taxi park with buses that resembled Ken Kesey’s MerryPranksters, right by the kitchens frying their bread and spilling their gravy onto old-fashioned patterened china plates.

And we found something unexpected.

A park with ponies and ice cream carts, duck ponds and picnickers. A hill of three hundred plus souls who we eventually realized were waiting to worship. So we had a seat with a view of the Jesus Saves semi truck to see what would unfold. Scrubbed the ants off our legs. Watched the clouds gather round. Pretended not to notice the stares. Settled into the Kenyan grass, conspicuous black-eyed peas on a bed of greens.

I think we figured nobody would rob us there. There was even a sign which read: Littering of the park will lead to outright persecution by ordinance of the town clerk. If that were true, surely mugging was discouraged.

It turns out Christianity is pretty darn popular here. Between the British and the missionaries, a whole lot of crosses had passed through their hands. The crosses might be cracked, the sermon might sound full of static, but the Philips, Marys, Isaiahs and Stephens of the crowd were listening, dancing and loving it.

We ended that day with a Tusker beer and some wings on the terrace of a local bar, sucking their thumbs of comfort and learning what it’s like to be treated not as a movie star, but a minority.

Every day in Dahab seemed a lot like the one before. Every morning brought flies, breezes, heat and cats. Michael went running. I read or did yoga. Every day, Shepl would deliver our meals. Every day, Mustafa and Waleed would wash another section of rugs, positioning the pillows like crayons in a box before late-rising guests would dump them out all over again. Every afternoon, as the sexy tide pulled up its sundress to expose bits of broken boat and surface-sliding jellyfish, the haze arrived, napping between Egypt and Saudi Arabia. That’s when dozens of flipper-fitted feet walked straight into that haze to float atop a zero-scaped ocean floor and Arabian nights would splash their hoofs through the water, promising a fairy tale ride. Every day, I worked on the Penguin’s website, rewriting the redundant English text so we could get 50% off our meals, making two full breakfasts of pancakes, eggs, cheese-toast and tea less than $3. I read The Thirteenth Tale. Michael read Where God Was Born. We finally finished Beirut to Jerusalem. Every day, we reviewed the Book of World Faiths I’d borrowed from a nearby hostel, landing on Buddhism and aspiring to the Eightfold Path. Every day, we said we’d move back into the Penguin from our shared apartment with Romi over the Internet cafe, where we paid $10/night for room and unlimited online access. Every day, we found ourselves in the room once again, opening the shutters, ignoring the lopsided bed, listening to our roommates Polish-Egyptian drama and facing the Red Sea.

Every hour was happy hour. Sometimes with the Brit, Joe Berry, an aspiring author. Other times with Kent and Lauren, the Boulderites who lent us their Lonely Planet and reminded us how much we loved Colorado. But toward the end, it was with Ingie and Simon, the Norwegian couple who gave us the key to their downtown Cairo flat, a colonially-furnished clusterfuck with fifteen foot ceilings and an electrically unstable fridge full of beer. Venturing left or right down the coast always seemed an exhausting idea. We did go snorkeling once. Michael even dove. We barbequed on the beach with a couple Egyptians and drove out to a Bedouin oasis with a bunch of Dutch.

One night, we strayed ten feet south to a difficult-to-pronounce restaurant. But the name doesn’t matter. Behind Michael was a coral-red-brocade backdrop. Sconces dripped cheap jewels on the wall, toy-chest-green clap boards covered the brick fireplace, our hibiscus tea glowed like Egyptian wine. Bouquets of garlic splayed above, like sepia toned roses. Red checks, in the spirit of Italy and America, covered the wood tableaux. Jars of olives with towels across their shoulders, like my grandmother’s kitchen when she was pickling. The beams of a pub and the antique lamps of Arabia.  Oh how I wanted it all to last. . . to stay there on my tongue forever.

That night, as we sat on our pillows, staring at the moon, I looked over and said: If we weren’t already married, I’d ask you right now.

What a glory.

I found the Field Guide to Getting Lost by Rebecca Solnit at a hostel in Jordan. Sometimes books are placed on our own mosaic-potted patio by the universe herself.

I’ll never forget when I read The Good Earth, by Pearl S. Buck, an parable-like tale of poverty, gender discrimination and cultural strife in 17th century China. But not only because it was an excellent book, but because the next night as I started a squishy novel about a pregnant teenager’s triumph above her troubles in the American South, she referenced the difficult labor and delivery of the squatting Chinese woman in The Good Earth. When this happened, I sat up and looked around the room. (Yes, I often believe me life is a sitcom and the disappointment never really goes away) but I just couldn’t believe it. If I had been on Alias, wouldn’t this clearly indicate that someone had PLANTED these books for me to find in succession? It was an eerie, yet strangely comforting feeling. As if the man behind the green curtain had offered me some of his Milk Duds.

But back to Rebecca. Because this is when it happened again. First she talked about the Rocky Mountains (where I live). Then she spoke about being Jewish (I don’t know any practicing Jews or anything about their traditions and was about to enter Israel). Then she spent three pages on Virginia Woolf (I had just read The Hours). THEN, when we were about to cross the Jordan into the wadis and canyons of Petra, she began talking about the D-word.

I’ve never been a woman of the desert. I certainly love the way my sparkling earring lay against my skin (which is turning) so brown. But I’ve always preferred the soft loaf of Wonder grass to the rough brown edges of the wheat. I guess you could say my bubble gum taste gets in the way. While years ago, Natalie Goldberg forced me to consider it, somewhere between the Dead Sea and the Jordan River, Rebecca’s timing gave it a craggy context I couldn’t ignore.

In the Middle East at least, it’s such a suspicious landscape. The wind carries only the wispy, hot breath of Arabic across the sand. Bare skin and bones with steak-colored, magenta veins with the perfect shade of the softest eye-shadow braising its best features. Clunky, caricatured trucks drive at the bottom of my screen. Tracks—a camel’s, road runner’s, snake’s– are the only sign of life you’ll find. As I do in the sky, in the wallpaper, the carpet or in the coals of a fire, I find faces in every texture. Faces of eagles. Men. Gods. Monsters. I am always in search of others.

But the desert meditates with meticulous precision. Its a prodigal student. Naked, but not vulnerable. Buried, but not dead. Empty, but quite nourished. It refuses to talk and in the process, shuts us all up.

(Graffiti’d on the desert-colored visor of the 4×4)

Our camel ride began in Rum Village, Jordan. Between the Mexican, Spaghetti-Western reminiscent walls, we and the Dutch sisters were led into the great wide open on the brightly-blanketed backs of growling camels. After an hour, I brushed the carrot-cake-mix-like sand from the folds of my dress and stepped out, slipped through the silent orange sand wondering how any place could be so quiet. Then we four wheeled and yee-ha’d over dunes and across wadis toward the Bedouin camp to sleep in the desert. Where we drove became the road. No matter how fast our driver went, I didn’t care. I knew that we could only crash into ourselves.

Due to some botch in planning, and despite enough churches to lift entire town at least a few kilometers closer to heaven, there was no Catholic mass in English on Easter Sunday in Jerusalem.

So we went to sunrise service at the Garden Tomb, the spot where Protestants believe Jesus is buried.

I’d slept just a few hours the night before. Female dorm life had become an oddly comfortable slumber party in the past week but sleeping wasn’t one of the benefits. The wild-eyed Norwegian girls, Eda and Maria, were on the rooftop with wine until four. Natalie, a tough English chic with feathers and patent leather to spare, fell into bed slightly before. Ingor the, retired Dane who loved America and had once been married to a Coloradoan, had slipped in near midnight after five hours of prayer. Katya, the mysterious Moldovan, who lived at the hostel in exchange for her maid service and got free food from the Jewish soup kitchen every day, had been gone for hours. Finally, South African Andrea whose tall frame and layers of wrap-around skirts flowed with peace and love no matter her mood, had been asleep for hours. A wiry and easily frightened black cat which favored the end of my bed skittered in and out of the five-foot windows. I could hear the drunk howls of Purim, today’s Jewish, Halloween-like holiday which celebrates the deliverance Persian Empire Jews from Haman’s plot, by the heroine Esther.

But at 5:45, we slipped across the stones and between the nuns, early marketeers, Hasidic Jews and closed iron doors of an empty souk. The line was long, the crowd was loud and I was nervous.

Over the past week, I had spat out Jerusalem’s koolaid again and again. I was parched for a drink of spirituality. But I was determined to keep my expectations low today. I knew that even the chance for reflective meditation would be low. Not with this crowd. Not with these cameras. Not in this town. Easter Sunday in Jerusalem would make a good story. Period. This is seriously what went through my mind on what has turned out to be one of the most important days of my life.

Michael, on the other hand, was near giddy. His lavender and khaki linen, tanned skin and smile relieved me. Going to church without stained glass to color our view of the sky was a novelty and I guess he knew. Yes, he just knew.

The Garden Tomb was just that, a bountiful garden of stone benches, bright peonies, private space and historic significance. This is a little closer to where God lives, I thought, as we stepped inside. Without mosaics, steeples or frescoes to clutter the view. Without pouty priests and scolding devoutees to kill the buzz. Without politics and power laying claim to their share of the Old City’s square footage..

I’d been to a variety of services over the years. I knew there would be no Eucharist. I knew there would be more song and prayer, less Liturgy. But I was still unprepared for the celebration that followed.

The clapping. The singing. The rejoicing. The literal hallelujah and the claim of happy day. The kind faces of the crowd. The various orators voices, unrehearsed and happy, were like my mother’s voice on the end of the line. Faceless, but undoubtedly smiling. The live earth—bougainvilleas and birds—shared their oxygen like picnickers passing out watermelon slices in a park.

I was happy instantly.

In fact, my initial reaction was laughter. This was not church! This was too happy. Too uninhibited. Too much fun. Too fulfilling. Too spiritually accessible. I felt nourished. I actually cried.

I said: “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Michael responded: “You mean what’s right with you.”

It took me a few days to reconcile the paradox. The Protestants were singing about a divine Jesus, a Jerusalem Jesus, one I don’t believe in. They were celebrating his rising from the dead and his “wash(ing) their sins away”. Ideas which I don’t hold dear. So why was I suddenly comfortable? Because within their transmission was energy, kindness, acceptance and optimism. Ideas that guy Jesus and I  hold dear.

Check out Michael’s video for the live story. . .

It all started with the Danes–Anders and Frederick. And Eric, too. It was definitely his fault. Somehow, in this land of criss-crossed (get it??) confusion, they’d both bumped into Tony, a gay, eccentric, Christian Palestinian hairdresser who loved to host foreigners.

So the day after late-night Guinness glasses to celebrate St. Pats (see here)

. . .we went with them to Bethlehem, which by the way, means House of Bread. Just a little bit of trivia.

We saw the Epcot Center-like market with its mandatory castles-and-cream stone, the posh University made possible by the United States, the grotto which supported some ridiculous story about Mary, a drop of milk and a miracle, and of course, the Church of the Nativity, with its almost rustic-looking barn-like rafters, endless hanging lanterns (not so unlike Lamps Plus) the five chapels (accommodating every Christian faith) and the now remarkably straw-free spot where baby Jesus was born. As we took our turn at viewing, a group of Koreans sang Silent Night in a circle. This was nice. And right then, if you squeezed your eyes and concentrated, listening to a psychopathic choir sing We Three Kinds, Oh Little Town of Bethlehem and Away in a Manger simultaneously in your head. . then maybe you could feel the novelty of it all—as if you were pressing your finger directly upon the navel of Christianity.

But the day got infinitely more interesting when we spent time with Tony. There were teddy bears, color cut outs of Mozart and Elvis, hair dryers and silk flowers. See it live here:

To remain in awe in Jerusalem, you must not only BELIEVE COMPLETELY but truly abandon all reason and logic so as to accept that some council at the ministry of tourism and religion in Israel knows the exact spot of baby Jesus’ birth.

While Rome shines with a self-aggrandizing decadence that refuses to be bothered by what you do or don’t believe, Jerusalem doesn’t feel the need to dress up, because its authenticity is more than enough. The church architecture is not especially awe-inspiring. The Sea of Gallilee is no longer (perhaps never was) a mysterious sea of baptismal waters. The Church of the Nativity is a simple hall of contemporary lanterns and almost atmospheric barn rafters. The Old City is a fantasyland for so many who can certainly get a Jesus keychain or Indian textile bag in their hometown, but feel so much cooler buying it in Jerusalem.

On Good Friday, following the schedule of our handy Holy Week Guide, we marched over to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher for the three-hour celebration–three hours where once inside, NO ONE would be allowed to exit the church.

According to Constantine who made it so 300 years after his death, this church is the site of Jesus’ crucifixion, mourning and burial, and must accommodate the Greeks, Syrians, Egyptians, Romans, Armenians and Ethiopians in all their individual Catholicism. As a sad result, it’s discombobulated design lacks any flicker of communal spirit. Its as though in exchange for giving everyone in the family their own private room, the living room was sacrificed.

Back and forth around the corners of this confusing chapel cluster, bishops, friars, priests, monks stomped their sticks against the stone in processional after processional. It was all very confusing and very, very serious. We sat on a bench most of that time. I tried to pray, but it didn’t really work. I also tried to freeze frame the beauty of the glittering mosaic of the mourning apostles, but there were just too many people. We watched. Waited to see what would happen next. Gave our seats to teary-eyed old woman who amazed us with their ability to be moved among the chaos.

Because faith is so abstract, so like the wind, it’s much better if we can touch it. Here in Jerusalem, you can. I understand. That’s a big reason why people are here.

But these tourists were disturbing. Hundreds of (mostly Spanish) women with their bibles, Puma tennis shoes, water bottles and determination, were prepared to engage in arguments with monks, to push worshipers out of their way and to beg for admission to the first ritual of remembrance. We wanted nothing to do with it.

No, this was not a place where I felt closer to God.

Even the alluring decor couldn’t help the atmosphere in there ascend toward heaven. In fact, by the time we left in search of $8 bagels, the whole experience had felt a little like a wait in a visa office.

Toward the end, we chatted with an Irish priest and I looked for something, anything, which merited remembering. Some shadow or shaft of light. Someone. What I found was a young nun in a full cornflower blue habit leaning over the second balcony railing. But she was taking a picture.

See for yourself here. . .

At the fourth station of the cross, the point along Via Delarosa (Sorrowful Way) Street, as Jesus carried the cross to his crucifixion, he saw his mother Mary crying for him. I’ve seen the Stations of the Cross my whole life—etched in wood, glowing in stained glass or shaped in wrought iron along the east and west wings of cathedrals in France, England, Spain, Bulgaria, Syria and the U.S. A.

But I never understood them until today.

Two thousand years ago, this narrow medina was full of Jews, Gentiles and Romans; camels and donkeys. Now the stations are commemorated with steel signage in the Muslim Quarter, a chaotic and exotic bit of the Old City with dirt-stained filigree gates, slits of sunlight, disobedient children and jaded storekeepers. But today, the path included armed security guards and police barricades to manage group after group of devout believers on a pilgrimage along this path. And as the Muslims became angrier and angrier for facing roadblocks in their own cul-de-sacs, each pilgrim wanted to walk in Jesus’s footsteps more literally than they had before, chant into the eyes of their bible and create a memory they could clutch between their praying hands forever. In one mixed ménage, we heard the deep, dark praying voices of French-speaking Africans from the Ivory Coast and the echo of the Filipino church hymns as they paused at each station’s miniature chapel. A brown-robed friar guided them through the madness. At the fourth station, beneath the well of a dripping grotto, they sang:

We’re you there when he saw his mother weep?
Were you there when he saw his mother weep?
Ohhh. Sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble.
Were you there when you saw his mother weep?

I cried almost instantly. I’m not sure if I was moved more by the idea of a mother witnessing the suffering of her son, the devoutness of these kneeling souls, or the truth that I was no longer a believer.

You see, I still reach for the comforting blanket of complete Christianity by an occasional church attendance. I say the Our Father and the Apostle’s Creed like an obedient child. I try and listen to the Liturgy, but often drift off, brushing away the guilt with justifications for personal meditation.

We all want something sacred. And Christianity, as our new friend Erik recently commented, does “sacred” really well. But it’s the personal connection where they need a little work.

Feeling as spiritually flat as I did in Jerusalem was a sign without a signal. I could no longer contrive any drama or stretch toward any symbolism. For years, familiarity had kept me in the pew. But the memorized prayers and instinctive pantomimes were simply keepsakes of my past. Like old love letters, their relevance had slipped away.

I wish I could believe. I really do. It would be so much easier. But recent experiences have led me into the darker caves of my soul where an honest life is the only way out.

As we travel, we don’t often know upon arrival just how long we’ll stay. But somehow, we always know when it’s time to go. Because when energy sources become sparse and you begin recycling the spirits of yesterday to rise toward today, there is nowhere to move but on.

So it goes for my pilgrimage out of Catholicism.

Current Location: Jerusalem

In February, one of my best friends Erin passed on a message from her pastor at Montview Presbyterian. The message was: It’s not our job to love who we love. It’s our job to love who Jesus loves.

A few years ago, I might have rolled my eyes at this comment. But now, I’m in. I believe it.

Because this is a message about kindness. It doesn’t mean I have to necessarily spend time with everyone I meet or know or live with or work for, but I should love them just the same. It’s a message I also received from historical Jesus and it seems to fall into my hands again and again.

On Thursday evening of Holy Week, I went to mass with our friar-to-be friend, Erik at the Church of the Notre Dame, a new France-funded cathedral outside the Damascus Gate of the Old City. This would be my one Catholic mass of the week. Some predictability. A little comfort. A bridge to huddle upon between this crazy land of religion and the familiar rituals of my childhood church.

Holy Thursday or Maundy Thursday, has a heavy load. Not only does it commemorate the Last Supper, but also the agony of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane and the betryal of Christ by Judas Iscariot and the washing of the Disciples’ Feet.

According to Wikipedia:

The word Maundy is derived through Middle English, and Old French mandé, from the Latin mandatum, the first word of the phrase “Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos” (“A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you”), the statement by Jesus in the Gospel of John (13:34).

It seems that on this eve, after washing the Apostle’s feet, Jesus asked them to wash one another’s feet.

Now, let’s consider the time period for a moment, which included a largely shoeless society, no recorded sewage system and the somewhat free mingling of camels, donkeys, dogs and other beasts with humans, (Yes, I know Charlton Heston appeared fairly clean in the Ten Commandments) and you get an idea of just how horrible this task was perceived to be. But all the more demonstrative of his point: Love others as I love you.

As part of the mass, twelve people had been chosen (all men, hmph) to have their feet washed by the priest and other clergymen.

All week, Erik had invited us to attend church with him. And all week, there had been some unavoidable conflict. What’s odd is that prior to this evening, I knew nothing about the significance of Holy Thursday except for the Last Supper. Yet in the sea of the bible’s gospels, parables and commandments, this mass’s message, which lets face it, may or may not have blossomed from an actual foot-washing party, is one I believe in.

This is just the beginning of Jerusalem’s impact on my spiritual road-trip. . .

Note: This is a flashback to Beirut. Because I thought it best to wait until we had exited both Lebanon and the Big I before publishing it, it is appearing now. . .

Inma Foundation (for whom we built a website) was founded by a Muslim who follows the teachings of Jesus. Not exactly your typical blend. The foundation does not claim any particular denomination, style or practiced religion, but they follow life in faith, through God’s love. And their foundation strives to give without bias in a country divided by culture, religion and sect.

In January, Inma’s founder hosted an unofficial religious delegation of seminary students, pastors and spiritual leaders, on a three country, five day tour to build bridges between Islam and Christianity. As it turned out, most of these delegates were from Colorado. Cherry Hills Church, Smokey Hill, Denver Seminary, and others. At a reception in their outlandishly Lebanese two-story penthouse, the founder Samir, a charismatic, diplomatic and informal fellow, gave a short lecture on the similarities between the Koran and the Bible and how we are much stronger through unity than division. How we are all living through the love of our Creator. As a souvenir, each delegate was given a large varnished and wood-bound tome, containing each Koran passage which mentioned Jesus.

During their time, Samir organized a meeting with Nabil Kawook, the, Hezbollah’s Southern Lebanon commander. Michael and I were invited along.

TIMEOUT

So for my own sanity, let’s go over Hezbollah for a moment. You might have heard of them. The U.S. and UK, among other countries, classify them as a terrorist organization. Here’s a little more—the most truthful, but neutral description I could find– from another acronym called the BBC::

Hezbollah – or the Party of God – is a powerful political and military organisation of Shia Muslims in Lebanon. It emerged with financial backing from Iran in the early 1980s and began a struggle to drive Israeli troops from Lebanon. In May 2000 this aim was achieved, thanks largely to the success of the party’s military arm, the Islamic Resistance. In return, the movement, which represents Lebanon’s Shia Muslims – the country’s single largest community – won the respect of most Lebanese. It now has an important presence in the Lebanese parliament and has built broad support by providing social services and health care. It also has an influential TV station, al-Manar. But, it still has a militia that refuses to demilitarize, despite UN resolution 1559, passed in 2004, which called for the disarming of militias as well as the withdrawal of foreign (i.e about 14,000 Syrian) forces from Lebanon. As long ago as 2000, after Israel’s withdrawal, Hezbollah was under pressure to integrate its forces into the Lebanese army and focus on its political and social operations. But, while it capitalized on political gains, it continued to describe itself as a force of resistance not only for Lebanon, but for the region.

BUT BACK TO REALITY

There we were. Eleven men, a Lebanese woman and us. Heavy security. A meeting room which had been host to past negotiations and stalemates, I was certain. No cameras or cell phones. A lot of guards.

Nabil Kawook, arguably Israel’s most wanted man, was tall. He had a beard, a turban and a presence.

He strode up and back the narrow, yellow, sofa-lined, fluorescent-energy-star lit room. Past the Kleenex boxes and candy dishes of gold on glass. He shook each man’s hand, meeting eyes with concentration and confidence. Upon reaching me, we both clutched our hearts with one hand, the traditional Muslim greeting between unfamiliar men and women. He then moved to his throne at the head of the room. Samir, the man who made this meeting possible, and today’s translator, sat beside him. A gold Hezbollah flag stand stabbed the ceiling with power behind him.

I have to admit, I was somewhat afraid to move. As if we were all in a flat-bottom boat and the crossing of my legs might throw the whole gathering off balance and splash water into the freshly-ironed folds of the Sheik’s triple layered robes, tip the caricatured cotton off his head, cause him to drop his prayer beads or extinguish the flammable power of Islam floating around him.

He spoke of Hezbollah and their effort to help those who could not help themselves. He told the story of Ashouraa, the Muslim holiday honoring Mohammad’s martyred grandson, Hussein, and he talked about the miracles he believed had occurred. He answered questions from the delegation—about why Hezbollah wasn’t providing more humanitarian aid to refugees and about how he connected with God. I listened, but my absorption was constantly broken by two things: Unfounded fears of imminent explosion and my mesmerized gazing at his face.

But there’s that Lebanese drama again. We would not have gone unless we felt safe. Because we trusted our guides, Rob and Samir. This meeting was about bridges, not bombs.

After an hour, we all participated in a final prayer. One of the visiting pastors even asked if he could put his hand upon the heart of Nawook while we prayed. You can bet security detail was all over that one. But it happened.

As the Sheik exited, he complimented me on my last-minute dash at immersion—a black winter scarf wrapped ’round my head. He said that I looked like Mary—that this practice would strengthen my faith.

I’m not sure about that. But the experience did widen my perspective. This story is not about dispelling myths. I can’t go into Hezbollah’s tactics, strategies or battles with Israel and just how politics play into their motives. And I know nations have their reasons–good ones–for labeling Hezbollah as terrorists. But this IS about remembering there are multiple sides to a fight and about the unfortunate ignorance of those (including me) who sometimes place guilt by association. Just because the Sheik’s costume and look reminded me of the big O does not mean that he is an evil man. Just because Al Qaeda is violent doesn’t mean Islam is. Just because people don’t approve of our government doesn’t mean they dislike us as individuals.

I do know that for sure.