During the 1983 Lebanese Civil War, Lieutenant Robert Goodman of the U.S. Navy was acting as Bombardier-Navigator on an A-6E Intruder when his plane was hit by Syrian surface-to-air defenses.
Goodman ejected. After landing, he was captured by Syrian troops.
Naturally, the United States government wanted him back. But it soon ended up in a diplomatic deadlock.
If Syria released Goodman, it would look like it yielded to American pressure. If the U.S. raised the pressure, it would look like escalation. With Syria and with the USSR (which was allied with Syria), during one of the tensest moments of the entire Cold War.
There was no path home for Lieutenant Goodman.
Until Jesse Jackson stepped in.
Jackson offered to mediate. On his own. With no formal authority or license from the U.S. government.
He flew to Damascus personally.
Syria found him credible because he was not some agent of the government strictly aligned to U.S. power and interests.
The United States found him credible because he was a widely recognized moral leader, not a political operator.
What did he say in the negotiation?
Nothing about interests, precedents, security, deterrence, alliance, escalation, quid-pro-quos, threats, concessions, or anything like that.
Something simpler. Starker. And more powerful.
He talked about the release not as a strategic consideration but as a humanitarian choice.
And because Syria would be giving Goodman up to Jackson, not to the U.S. government, it wouldn’t look like surrender.
Jackson reframed the decision. By his presence. And by his message.
Instead of a concession to an adversary, it became an act of compassion.
On January 3, 1984, Jackson and Goodman left Syria together and came home.
Medieval canon law had a name for what Jackson became in that room. Sanctuary.
For centuries, if you could get yourself through the doors of a church, you were untouchable. Kings, armies, it didn’t matter. The institution’s moral authority was so accumulated, so real, that violating it was simply unthinkable. Nobody created that power during a crisis. It was deposited slowly, over centuries, by people who weren’t thinking about crises at all.
Jackson walked into Damascus as a one-man sanctuary. A space both sides could enter without it meaning anything strategically. It worked for exactly the same reason it worked in the 12th century. The authority was real because it had never been manufactured.
Every wise word you say and every principled action you take is a deposit. When the balance gets big enough, it opens doors that don’t exist for anyone else.
But reputation is almost beside the point. Why was Jackson the only person who could walk into that room in the first place?
Syria couldn’t place him inside their mental model of American power. He didn’t fit the game. He wasn’t legible to the system, and that illegibility was the whole thing. It was his most valuable asset.’
The leaders with the most range are the ones who resist becoming fully predictable to the systems around them. The moment everyone knows exactly what you’ll do, you lose the ability to do the one thing that actually matters.
Jackson spent twenty years following his conscience, not managing his image. The authority was a byproduct, not a strategy. And because it was real, it worked.
Reputation isn’t vanity. It’s the whole thing. Just don’t make that the reason you show up.
