Sometimes I think Jesus gets a bad rap.

He reminds me of those musicians who began playing because they loved the sound of music but then everyone started calling them a “God” . . .and they were eventually led astray by either their agents or the rest of the guys in the band . . . and succumbed to the peer pressure of insipid lyrics, increased radio-play and high-priced tickets.

But it’s not fair to call Jesus a sell-out when he’s not actually here to make his own decisions.

Lucky for him, there exist busloads of devout followers who have taken it upon themselves to start their own churches and expose the teachings of Jesus without the baggage (or divisive agents and personalities) which seems to weigh down Christianity.

But the fact that I instinctively cringe when I see WWJD bracelets, or that I measure my words much more carefully when I’m with someone who has a cross around their neck, says that Christianity is still failing to spread the message about love and forgiveness. Because when faced with confident tokens of faith, I either categorize people as ultra-conservative or sit in fear of judgment from them. Somehow, Christianity has been taken to an extreme, encrusted with Teflon, repelling instead of replenishing.

I believe Jesus is actually ABOUT love and acceptance and forgiveness. And I’ll tell you why. About six years ago, Barb Kiebel, a dear friend and strong woman who used to serve me spiked lemonade and Marlboro Lights on her back porch when I was first starting my business, lent me a book called Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time. She was involved in her church—an open community where lectures on Islam were not considered threatening, even in 2002.

Upon reading the book, I was somewhat surprised to discover that Jesus, this guy from Nazareth, and religion, the Catholicism I’d grown to be suspicious of, were often two very different things.

However, let’s be clear about where I’m standing. It’s on the bottom rung. I’m talking about Jesus, the man. Not Jesus the divine son at the right hand of the father who will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead. Not the giver of life. Not the one whose kingdom will not end. Not Him.

Just an inspiring guy who has happened to have the biggest following of all time.

Since we’ve come to Beirut and began working for Inma Foundation, I feel I’m meeting Jesus yet again. Among other beliefs, at the very minimum, the staff of this organization follow his teachings. And it’s evident within their community. These people are balanced human beings who give of their time and resources without seeking something in return. They empower without controlling. They exude goodness without making me sick. They don’t really gossip. They make me want to be a better person.

This has been a recurring theme as we explore the earth. We’ve been part of “an economy where sharing is the primary currency,”(thanks Jen Lemen) as we couchsurf, hitchhike and rely on the kindness of strangers. We have become more aware of the impact of our own energy on others. About the sky-high value of old-fashioned, but evergreen kindness.

Funny, eh? How after so much meditative, deep-sea-diving into my soul, that life’s little sevens or twos or nines (or whatever you happen to need in your game of Go Fish) are not found in some spiritual temple amid the silence, but in a bomb-common place like Beirut, amid the chaos of Christianity and Islam.

We are on the fourth official day of Wanderlust or Bust (WOB), our tour through the Middle East and hopefully Africa.

Water Bottles Purchased: 9

Strange Bed Slept In: 3

Cloves Smoked: 1

Meals Eaten Which Have Included Lamb: 6

Kind Strangers Encountered: Too many to countTraveling. It’s a medicine of sorts. It cures that whole “When this happens, everything will be fine” concept. It rids our life of reasons to hurry. And this tr?p, espec?ally, slays the concept of a destination from all vision. Because we are traveling to TRAVEL. Every DAY is our destination, and every moment our purpose. (My hubby sneaks up on me to the right).In fact, we’ve realized our Lonely Planet Turkey book, which we ceremon?ously opened once inside our sleeper car, is not the precious guide I guarded so dearly. We are not so interested in mosques, ruins and baths. These things are for tourists and we are not tourists. Charming coastal towns, w?th cushions to while away the hours w?th wine are part of a vacation. And we are definitely not on vacation. We are looking to coin our own brand of ethnodiscovery. Information like bus times, simple Turkish terms, maps and hostel addresses can be cruc?al, but they are also largely outdated in a not yet three-year old tome. Chill Out Hostel, for example, checkitt out to the right, is not as promised (or threatened). It was pretty sticky on arrival. To our relief, the shower is no longer perched over the squat toilet, but to our chagrin, the price is now 20 lira per dorm bed as opposed to 12. The world is moving fast.We’ve been to Istanbul thrice before–enough that it feels a little like a third home. It is marinated in memories of our parents and friends. We can welcome with ease what it always has to offer: metrosexual men, fresh cheap mussels, headscarfed-wrapped skin and charismatic hospitality. Last night we visited Kafeka hookah room for a Bitburger beer, and chatted with our backgammon teacher from last spring. Good times.Boudreaux began purifying water this morning with our miniscule iodine tablets–this will not only keep us diarrhea free, but save us money as well. He also created a complex spreadsheet with our daily expenses, average expenditures and a cell with a fluctuating date, telling us exactly how much longer our trip can last based on the money we plan to spend and what we make along the way. It is a strategic game now–saving money. Saying no to one more beer, eating while stand?ng up, choosing the morning-breath flavored dorm over the private double room.On to the home of a 29-year old Turkish guy in Bursa, a town in Western Anatolia, via ferry and bus, for our first couchsurf?ng experience.

Check back soon. . .

Wait, where are we going again?A tribal circle. In honor of the full moon. To pray for world peace. Right.I saw a bad moon rising. Earlier.That day. After picking olives and finding the abandoned, hard-shelled houses of turtles and snails in the earth. Scraping my skin against the metal of the tree markers. Combing the tree as I do my hair, tugging at the knots of olives and waiting for the satisfying plop. Smashing olives with my bare feet. My purple-tinsel scarf wound around my head like a gypsy.

But trouble was not on the way. Tonight there will be nothing but a tribal circle in the round, stone wall dwelling in the orchard. The smoke of burning sage will be tossed into my fleece. I will sit, unspeaking, on a mat, staring at the well-tended fire for hours. I will meditate. I will struggle to get settled-I mean situated. I will see faces in the coals.What do you see?

There was no earthquake. No lightning. Not nasty weather. Nothing all that dramatic. But there was the sound of palm to drum and a child’s cough. The rhythm of shoes in the dirt. The music of a far-away Turkish wedding. The rooster’s insistent cockadoodledoos. The sound of Michael’s breathing.

Don’t come round tonight. And I didn’t. Not there. It wasn’t my time. I had both feet on the ground. No floating or zoning or rising. I was merely an observer, looking in. Others stared into their own possibilities. I just kept staring at the moon.

It’s bound to take your life. No, but I can see how they thought the moon might. I was giving it power with my own energy And receiving. . .something back. Staring like I’d never seen it before. It was no longer the moon, but the perfectly round polka-dot-on-a-dress sized window to another world. The pure white light of another galaxy. I felt so small, but part of something so big. Humbled and empowered. In one moment. And the gravity of my thoughts drug me to the ground. Kept me there. Clutching the earth.

There’s a bad moon on the rise. It was still going up when we left the circle and held each other’s soft, gloved doll-hands down the orchard path at 1AM. That’s when we saw the Yakaba horse. Calmly eating grass in the moonlight, shimmering olive branches between its head and the sky. A creature of the universe. Like me. Like Michael.And I. . kkkkk. . .kkkk. . . . I felt the energy kick in. The connection. The current through all of us. For just a few seconds. Before it slipped through my fingers once again.

Do you feel the oppression here in Turkey?I choose not to feel it. We have a word, created in the last few years “Mahalle Baskisi”. It means the pressure a place exerts on its inhabitants.

Where do you feel it? In my wallet. Turkish identification cards require a religion. In my opinion, you might as well put your star sign or your favorite color. Why should your religion define you?There was a survey and most people in this country defined themselves first as Muslim, then as Turkish, then as male.

How would you define yourself? Well, my father was from Albania. He died when I was seven. My mother is from the Caucuses. But I was born here in Turkey. I guess that makes me Turkish, but I prefer to define myself as a member of the universe. A creature of the natural world. A human. I don’t like to define myself with a group, because this creates exclusion. It builds walls and boundaries. It means I’m NOT something else.

Do you feel Turkey’s oppression in other ways? Well, if a woman who is wearing a full birka sees my bare arm, she instantly views me differently. As if I am a stranger. As if I am an alien. Not one of her kind. That sucks.

How old are you, Rana? 22. Just.

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This made me think: I do like defining myself in different ways. But if I had to choose, which comes first? My ethnicity? My religion? My gender? My family name?How do you define yourself? And in what order?

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