I Won, Unfortunately

Winning at the gate, losing the plot

There is a certain gate into the Old City where you learn what you are and what you are made of. Not Jaffa Gate, not Lion’s Gate, but the most exclusive gate in the Old City: entry for vehicles.

This gate is for the select few who belong on the inside of the walls: residents, workers with special clearance, taxi drivers, and the religious. Rabbis in black coats, some with furry hats that proclaim allegiance to a sect. Priests in brown or black robes and beads that dangle at their side. And then there is me and Matt in our flip flops and hoodies. We have clearance too.

To tell you the truth, I am kind of proud of it. Not in a way that is overtly concerning. It is more like an inner gratitude, as we roll forward and others are turned away, and I remember the verse: I will give you an open door that no one can shut.

But even with permission, you still have to actually make it through.

The road to the gate narrows and cars press their way toward it like water through a small crack. Taxi drivers honk and cut and intimidate at the slightest hesitation, like a pack of wolves that can smell fear.

Every inch feels like a negotiation, and every negotiation feels like a contest, a duel of supremacy.

And on that particular day, I was running late for my discipleship class, and I had enough.

So when the taxi driver started turning in like he owned the line, the front of his car pressing toward me like I would evaporate to make room for him, I signed up for the battle.

Most days you just swallow it. You back up, make room and just let the shark have his bite, and you tell yourself it is not worth it.

That day I decided it was worth it.

I kept my eyes forward and my hands steady on the wheel. I did not look at him. I did not give him the courtesy of a response. I gave him nothing to work with except the fact that I was not going to be moved.

He kept coming.

I held my place like it was moral ground.

My car got in first, and I kept my north while the scraping of metal had its own battle outside. It appeared, by the cracking of his side mirror, that my car had won.

Good.

The gate lifted, and I proceeded toward Christ Church with the victory.

He followed behind me.

At the entry of the church, we had our second duel. He came towards me with his cracked mirror and a demand that I pay for it.

It is embarrassing to admit how quickly I met him at his level. I did not pause. I did not soften. I did not offer anything like, “I am sorry” or “Jesus loves you” I went straight to the courtroom. My words came sharp and fast.

“That’s what you deserve,” I said. “You are always bullying people, and I’ve had enough!” No one even looked up as I stood with the church behind me and my discipleship meeting ahead, raising my voice and demanding justice for myself and every person wronged for as long as the gate could remember.

He threatened to call the police, and I reminded him that there are cameras. Eventually, he wearied of me and drove off.

Victory. Sweet and Satisfying.

I quickly headed down the winding path to the girls’ discipleship meeting, and somewhere between the spices and the wooden crosses, the victory started to sour.

Not because I felt bad for the taxi driver, but because I was on my way to teach a passage that did not congratulate me on my trophy.

It was Jesus, actually: “Give to the one who asks. Do not resist an evil person. Turn the other cheek. And what reward do you have if you love those who love you… do not the taxi drivers… er, tax collectors do that?”

My mind tried to rescue me quickly. You were defending yourself. He was aggressive. If you do not stand your ground, you will get eaten alive out here. This place is not for the weak. You were late. You had responsibility. You cannot let people bully you.

And then, underneath all of that, I could see the real thing.

I wanted a certain kind of reward.

I wanted respect. I wanted to be treated fairly. I wanted to be seen as someone you cannot push. I wanted the taxi driver to look at me and know I was not to be messed with. I wanted the line to acknowledge my place. I wanted the Old City, for once, to yield to me.

It was not justice I wanted. It was repayment for so many wrongs I endured.

By the time I arrived, I felt the weight of my own contradiction. And it didnt easily fall off by promising to do better next time. The wasnt a do better and act like a christian but rather a little light that warns you not to teach about the way of Jesus without turning it into a theory that applies everywhere except in the places that actually cost me.