The Jerusalem Experiment

Behold. Contemplate. Claim. Translate.

The below posts related to my time in Turkey (however brief my time there was) represent moments where God, often times through unforeseen events, caused me to ponder His character, the trajectory of His heart, and His desire that, “none should perish, but that all should reach repentance.” (2 Peter 3:9).

These, of course, are realities God could have revealed to my cold heart through a myriad of other means. One need not travel to the other side of the globe to come to grips with the absurdity of grace in light of our shared depravity. The birth of each new day ought to stir our hearts into a frenzy of gratitude, because we neither deserve its light nor partner with the Author of Life in lifting it over the horizon. Every moment we meet with breath in our lungs is grace. We slumber and God creates.

Despite the fact that God could have taught me the things He did in Western North Dakota rather than Western Turkey, He didn’t. God brought me to Turkey, and used it as a context to continue the process of sanctification meant to bring me from stumbling saint to worshiping sinner. Before reflecting on his own experience in Turkey, Rob Bell begs his readers, “If it is true, if it is beautiful, if it is honorable, if it is right, then claim it. Because it is from God. And you belong to God.” (Velvet Elvis, 79). I’ve spent the past three reflections pondering the truths God confronted me with while in Turkey. But there was also much beauty, and since beholding and contemplating it, I’ve yet to make a concerted effort at claiming it. Claiming beauty is essential for the God-entranced sinner, but one must go further. We must translate beauty, brand it as ultimately derivative of the cross, something Christ died to preserve, something waiting to be affirmed as grace and reflective of God’s burning heart for the world.

In many ways, I believe (and I’ll warn you in advance: this could get incredibly sappy) our hearts are meant to be like sponges built to be supersaturated by the unfolding beauty of this wounded world. We ought to be stilled, shut up, and stolen away from the chaos of our busy lives by simple things we might otherwise pass by without a second thought. When I’m confronted by beauty (which, if it’s true, is always God’s beauty) I either grow exceedingly anxious or (on a good day) I breathe deeply of whatever lies before me, the grace and truth of it all, and over the course of my day, slowly breathe it back to the watching, hurried world. Here, I am essentially responding with gratitude to the life God has given me. As one who has witnessed a tremendous amount of ugliness in my life, I understand the above task as essentially my vocation. During my two weeks in Turkey, there was so much beauty around me that I found myself steadied and stilled, and now, poised to slowly breathe some of it back.

So here goes:

The Aegean: The sea’s green arms became a familiar friend. On a few occasions I stumbled into the surf, turned to face the shore, and allowed the waves to roll up my back and around my shoulders, often forcing my knees to cave and my shins to sink into the pillow of sand hidden below me. I was a willing participant in the repetitive drama that stamped a smile on my face and coated every pore of my skin in a delicate blanket of salt.

The Kebab Stand: Across the street from our hostel in Istanbul stands an antique copper grill, which throughout the day mixes the sweetness of dying slivers of olive wood into Istiklal’s dense convergence of cultures. Where East meets West, three men (who speak absolutely no English) serve the sort of fare words fail to describe from the confines of an eight foot by twelve foot tile box. If not for the smell racing from the tiny enclave of the restaurant and the esteemed reputation the food carries among those who frequent the hostel, most folks would miss the best food I tasted anywhere in Turkey.

Izmir: My travel companion, Paul, and I opted to fly back from Ephesus (instead of repeating our 9-hour bus ride). In order to get to the nearest airport, we had to take an hour bus ride to the city of Izmir. After a bit of pleading, I finally convinced Paul that since our flight from Izmir to Istanbul wasn’t scheduled to depart until 3 p.m., our early arrival in Izmir (about 11 a.m.) necessitated we wander into the center of the city (while carrying all our luggage) and, well, see whatever it is one sees in Izmir. We boarded a bus we were about 70% sure would take us into the center of the city (whatever that meant) and waited until roughly the thirteenth stop before we exited the bus, readjusted our luggage, and began an aimless journey through the city’s streets (it might be important to note that 3.2 million people live in Izmir). Eventually, Paul spotted the Aegean, and figuring there would be “something cool” there, we pressed on. We had no idea how we would get to the airport (or even where the airport was relative to where we were), nor did we know how early we were supposed to arrive at the airport (believe it or not, we had never flown a domestic flight in Turkey)…but like two naive Americans (which we most certainly were/are…I realize I speak for myself here) we pressed on. Eventually we came to a clearing. This is what I saw:

My first thought was that Turkey had, between the time we left our hotel in Kusadasi and the time we arrived in Izmir, declared war on Greece and was readying the troops. Fortunately, prior to allowing my nerves to devolve into an all out panic, I looked the other direction and saw this:

Realizing that we had (instead of world war four) stumbled upon some sort of parade, I relaxed, dropped my bags, and took in the surroundings. Suddenly, a man who introduced himself as Memo began to explain the setting. Apparently we had wandered into what is for the citizens of Izmir equivalent to the Forth of July: a celebration commemorating the leadership of Attaturk in establishing a Turkish republic during the 1920′s. Toward the tail end of the parade, Memo offered to buy us lunch. We sidestepped onlookers as we made our way to a seaside restaurant. Memo implored us to wait until the end of the parade, explaining that following the procession of Attaturk’s faithful, the Turkish equivalent of the Blue Angels were to take the sky. We obeyed and soon the howl of jet engines rang our ears like a bell. I had never scene an air show.

By the time the show was over, we were directed by Memo to make a mad dash to the nearest taxi in order to make our flight to Istanbul. Thankfully, Turkish taxi meters climb based on distance (rather than time), which meant that Paul and I essentially experienced a military parade, airshow, and NASCAR ride-along experience all in a matter of three hours. And we just happened to end up in the midst of it all. I don’t believe in coincidence. I believe in grace: God giving us what we do not deserve.

Beneath the arms of the Aegean I surrendered the embrace of a God who implores road-weary wanderers to, “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). While entranced by the smell of roasting lamb kabobs, and served by the hands of those who took honest pride in the international visitors they caused to smile amidst their culinary gifts, I bore witness to a God who transcends cultures, borders, and fear-inspired dividing lines we are so prone to erect. I considered how on so many occasions throughout the Scriptures, food and grace are intimately connected. Bread. Wine. Lamb. Bitter herbs. Flat bread. And in Izmir, I couldn’t help but laugh aloud at the playfulness of a God who would cause two ignorant Minnesotans to stumble upon such a historic and joyful celebration.

Throughout my time in Turkey, I beheld much beauty, contemplated bits of it, and am now attempting to claim it all as God’s beauty, beauty that ultimately points to a love fully revealed on the splintered and rugged cross of a God who would pierce our darkness with the pure light of Heaven.