Confessions from Kindergarten

These days, I’m practicing my letters. My teacher has to help with my spelling, and if she asks me a question in front of the class, I’m likely to have a mind blank. Reading can be a chore; sometimes after I struggle through a word, I realize that it is something very simple, like “Hi,” “Okay,” or even “George.”

My sister Katie and I are taking Hebrew lessons twice a week. Together with Hen, Hannah, Hezi, Ann, Annabelle, Annalie, Stephen, Estefan, Ali, Lolita, Marlena, Matthias, Michael, and Katherine (give or take a few – no one ever shows up all at once!), we are exploring such intricacies as:

“Hi, I’m Lisa, and you are…?

“Nice to meet you! I’m from America; where are you from?”

This last is important, because we have about ten countries represented. It is our grand social occasion, let me tell you! It also appears to be our best opportunity so far to be ambassadors for Jesus.

That’s where I’m really in kindergarten.

Let me go back a little. At home, I was used to looking different. Then I come to Israel, and… I fit in! The going style, at least in Jerusalem, is something I call “conservative chic.” That is, many girls my age wear ankle-length skirts, tailored blouses with elbow-length sleeves (and if they’re married, artistically tied scarves covering their whole heads, and trailing down their backs.) They look trim, elegant, and even exotic, not to mention unabashedly, regally feminine. So, I come in and bask in their glow. I can’t manage the chic, but conservative works. Suddenly, I like fitting in. People ask, “Are you Jewish?” and I smile.

Then one day, while touring David’s Citadel, we met some nice Canadian girls, Christians. We chatted about this and that…and then they asked, tentatively, “Are you believers?” Yes! “Oh,” they replied, “You look so Jewish.”

Oops. I forgot one very important fact in my cultural comfort. Over here, Jewish means not Christian. Or so they think. Now what do I do? I can go on in my happy anonymity, or…I can figure out some way to look Christian. Hmmm…Wear a cross? The cross and the name “Christian,” to the Jewish people, means Crusader violence and forced conversions and Nazis and missionaries who “steal” Jews’ Jewishness. Gulp.

I’m caught between two extremes: timidity and boldness. How can I “fly the flag” of my Christianity when I don’t want to offend people? How can I not “fly the flag” when I don’t want to be ashamed of Jesus?

I don’t mind being in kindergarten, as long as Jesus is my teacher.

I wrote the above two years ago. As far as my Hebrew goes, I must be halfway through second grade by now, and Jesus has been faithful to teach me in the much more important matter of standing up for Him. In fact, the answer, when it came, was very simple: no matter who I am talking to, one of three leading questions always seems to come up.

The first is: “What state are you from?” I always look a little puzzled and reply, “I don’t know: I’ve lived all over the place.” Naturally, my questioner wants to know why I’ve moved around so much, and then I get to answer, “Because my father is a pastor!”

The second question is: “Are you making aliyah?” (Invoking the Jewish right to become an Israeli citizen). I immediately answer, “No, because I’m not Jewish.”

The third question is: “Where are you studying?” My Hebrew teacher told me that I look like a religious high school girl. Others peg me as a Jewish seminary student. Questions like this often make a little bubble of laughter well up inside me, because they are wrong on both counts! I love the look of surprise I get when someone learns that I am 6 or 8 years older than I look…and I am studying at a Christian college.

Once, just once, I got the response I imagined I’d get from an Orthodox Jew. I was in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City, when a stooped little lady walked up to me, and asked if I’d accompany her to Jaffa Gate, since she didn’t walk to walk on her own. I cheerfully agreed, and we chatted together as we walked…until we got to the college question. When it dawned on her that she was walking with a Christian, she did an about-face, said, “Thank you anyway,” and walked back the way she had come. I stood there, feeling slightly like a leper might, just after he’s told somebody what disease he has.

In the end, the very fact that I don’t fit into anybody’s mold has proved to be one of my greatest assests as an ambassador. When Israelis learn that I’m not Jewish, they want to know why in the world I am here! I get to tell them: because I love Israel and want to learn about and pray for her. When I say I am a Christian, I find I have some very curious listeners. One girl wanted to know why Christians go to Nazareth and Bethlehem: she had no idea that they are Jesus’ hometown and birthplace! My bubbly blonde neighbor, Esther, wanted to know all about the difference between pastors and priests. Our hosts at a dinner in honor of the feast of Shavuot wanted to know what our feast of Pentecost was all about, and I got to tuck in an account of Jesus’ death as the Passover Lamb.

I’ve also learned that I will never argue anybody into my point of view. Like the ultra-Orthodox man at the Western Wall who wanted to tell me all about what the rabbis have to say. He heard a lot about the Bible in return, but our methods of interpretation were so different that we finally decided to meet at the Temple Mount when the Messiah comes, and see who he turns out to be! No, only the Holy Spirit changes hearts, but even I, the girl who has always hated to rock the boat, can be an ambassador. Simply by being who I am – someone who (with God’s help) is firmly attached to the Vine – I can help those around me begin to see Jesus as He truly is.

And that’s well worth being in kindergarten!