“The Samaritan woman said to him, “How is it that you, a Jew, ask for a drink from me, a woman of Samaria?” (For Jews have no dealings with Samaritans.)“
John 4:9
In 2005, when I was in Istanbul, Türkiye shooting a film, I visited a bazaar not far from my hotel. This was not the well-known Grand Bazaar of tourist fame; rather, a place where local people would buy and sell their wares. To my eyes, there appeared to be no master plan of streets or alleyways, just an exotic jumble of sight and sound right out of The Thousand and One Nights. “This is going to be fun and maybe a little exciting!” I said to myself as I walked deeper and deeper into the bazaar, taking mental notes of “signposts” that would help me find my way back out again.
Probably ten minutes or so had passed when I found myself standing in front of a shop selling textiles, including rugs. Just what I was looking for—some nice carpets and floor mats for back home. One minor glitch, though. The shop owner spoke no English and I wasn’t about to just open my wallet to him. I wanted to haggle over the price! Come on, man, that’s half the fun of shopping in out-of-the-way places around the world! Not missing a beat, the merchant called to the shop owner across the way to come over. The man’s name was Kerem and he spoke English.
With Kerem translating, I bought the carpet I had my eye on (I think I got a bargain, I must say). Once the transaction was complete and before I could go on my way, Kerem invited me over to his store for tea, or çay as they call it. I accepted the invitation and Kerem, smiling happily and showing me his “humble” shop, pulled out a stool for me to sit on. In a flash, tea was served, and we began a friendly chat.
At first, it was all about basketball. Kerem knew all the teams and was a big admirer of Michael Jordan, who had retired from the NBA just two years prior. From there, we talked at leisure about work and family, and I very sincerely complimented Kerem on the natural beauty of his country and the wonderful food! Kerem smiled as I savored the baklava he had served me on a white porcelain plate.
And then, a troubled look came over Kerem’s face. I couldn’t help but notice it and in my—I suppose—naïve American manner, asked him, “Is something wrong?”
Kerem sighed. He looked so sad. And then he said something I’ll never forget: “Why do you hate us?”
I must have stopped chewing on my baklava. I just stared at him.
He continued speaking. “Iraq… Afghanistan… Palestine… Why do you hate us so?”
“But Kerem,” I said. “I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you at all.”
Kerem did not look very convinced. I could only imagine he was reacting to the endless wars and troubles in the Middle East. To the lines of separation that had been drawn over the decades and the prevailing attitudes (and prejudices) in the West toward Muslims. “Look how you’ve honored me by inviting me to sit here and share a cup of çay,” I said to him. “If we were in America right now, I hope I’d return the favor. I’m sure I would.” I smiled to see if that would help. And I think it did. A little.
And then, something entered my heart. It was like a little spark from a lighter. I’ll call it the inspiration of the Holy Spirit. And I somehow desperately wanted Kerem to know that I cared for him just as he was, that I loved his gentle spirit and kind ways. And I knew that—given the right circumstances—we really would have been the best of friends in spite of all the societal “noise” swaying us to keep our distance instead.
Kerem poured me another cup of çay, and our conversation turned to other subjects. I found myself sharing with him my spiritual journey and how I became a follower of Christ in my late 20s. Kerem nodded as I spoke and smiled several times. Then he spoke to me about his life. His hopes, his dreams… the joys his grandchildren gave him. The pressures of business.
Who were we at the end of the day? Two men from different countries having a friendly talk over a cup of çay in the middle of a Turkish bazaar. What could be more natural than that? (Though, admittedly, I can picture those who might have been watching us and saying words to this effect, “What do those two have in common? Why are they sitting together and what could they possibly be talking about? And—God forbid—did you notice? They seem to be enjoying themselves!”)
Jesus, it should be noted, remained in Samaria another two days after his initial encounter with the woman at the well, and her entire village received him with joy. In my case, perhaps two hours had passed when I considered it time to go.
I bought an item or two from Kerem’s shop, rolled my magic carpet under my arm, and bid my new friend farewell. The “signposts” I had mentally registered on my way in now served me well as I made my way out and back to the main street and the hotel where things were “safe” and “familiar.” But I tell you what, the few hours I spent that day in “Samaria” with a man named Kerem were an experience I’ll never forget. And I hope I will have many more such experiences before I take the final journey home.
Dear Friend, may I encourage you in a few things? One is to travel. Travel the world if you possibly can and see how other people live. You’ll probably be struck by how much we’re all alike as human beings and how distinctive—and beautiful—the differences between us can be.
And second, take a walk where you aren’t accustomed to going. Hang out with people who don’t think like you, or talk like you, or believe like you. Listen. Watch. Pray. Break with the paradigm that says we should have no dealings with “them.” For at the end of the day, “them” is “us” and we are all the children of God.
Enjoy your Christmas, my friend, and may the peace of Christ be with you.
P.S. Year-end gifts to Messenger Films are welcome and appreciated. We’ll be sharing with you the completed documentary, Daniel’s Garden, in January 2025.
