ELLEN DLOTT, THE JERUSALEM POST May. 19, 2005
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Some weeks ago, my doorbell rang in the early evening. Normally I wouldn't have answered. Unexpected callers are either selling items I don't need; more frequently they're people who don't read the sign on the door which explains in three languages that the dentist is one flight up. But I was sweeping up dog hairs nearby and thought, okay, I'll open and point them up.
Two well-dressed, sweet-faced women in their 30s stood there.
"Hi," I said. "The tooth doctor is right above me."
"Do you know Jesus?" asked the smaller young lady.
"What?!" I spluttered.
"Oh ? maybe you speak English," the other girl said kindly. "Do you know Jesus?"
"Do you know where you are?" I asked, stunned.
"Of course," they chimed together. "This is Jesus' country."
I did not invite them inside. I declined the pastel-pink literature they pressed on me. I did advise them, as gracefully as I could, to cease and desist. Did they listen? No. As soon as I closed the door, they clattered upstairs and rang another bell.
I've always had a problem with proselytizers. I'm a Christian myself, but just as some haredim regard their secular brethren as goyim, I too am in the "unsaved" category according to Jehovah's Witnesses, Mormons and other denominations.
I've read, heard and understood Jewish suspicion regarding apparently benevolent Christian encampments here in Israel. The enlightened among us berate the suspicious and laud the wonderful works of these Christians. It's true: Some have accomplished, by contributing time and money, great deeds. They help finance Eastern European aliya. They have opened soup kitchens. They devote their talents to the needy. They vehemently support the State of Israel.
But what do they want in return?
I'M SUSPICIOUS, myself, and what I've observed, I do not like. I don't like it that Born Again Christians hang out at Jaffa Gate, pouncing on passers-by. I don't like it that Mormons posthumously baptize those of us who didn't raise Joseph Smith on a pole. I don't like it that so many Christians noisily support this country because its existence is part of their agenda.
And I really don't like it that even here in the Negev, where I am part of such a tiny minority I hardly register on the census, I am not free from proselytizers. And neither are you, the Jewish majority.
What they want from me is what they want from you. An invitation to sit and chat. For us to listen. Be convinced. Converted.
We're all fair game.
I have lived in Israel for 20 years. No one has suggested I need to convert to Judaism. No one has implied I don't belong, never mind that I look like a caricature of a goya, bland as Velveeta cheese in coloring and features. Now and then, though, I "pass" ? and I have to say it pleases me. I'm not here to teach. I'm here to learn.
I can't speak for other denominations, but the essence of my own is humility, tolerance and the constant, almost impossible striving to save our own souls. We are taught to listen, learn and shut up, until such time arrives that we are so perfect we can be examples and help others. I'm so distant from that goal, I should be mute for at least another couple of millennia.
Keeping my mouth shut and listening, I have learned so much here. Besides, who the hell am I to preach to you? Your ancestors were devotedly following your spiritually and intellectually rich religion while mine were having hoedowns around trees, sacrificing infants, slavering over stones and whatever else pagans in Europe and North America were into.
I love Israel. Not just for its past, because Jesus walked here and so many places are sacred to me. Not for the future, because the ingathering of the Jews is supposed to herald His return. I love this country for what it is, here and now. In all its exasperating, in-your-face, multicolored and deafening pageantry. Even when it drives me bonkers, it makes me grin. It's a 24/7 circus, a delight to the mind and senses.
So never fear. You won't find me on your doorstep, peddling papers, inquiring about your acquaintance with that first-century superstar, or bouncing around bellowing "Hallelujah!" on street corners.
It isn't a matter of just not being my style. It isn't my religion, any more than it is yours.
The author is a freelance writer and editor residing in Beersheba.
