A few years ago, while we were still in the States, our oldest son was circumcised. We scheduled him on the eighth day of his young life. In ignorance, his mother and I decided to sit with him, hold his tiny hand and watch the whole procedure. I should never have watched. It was terrible! Seeing our newborn cut and bleeding, and hearing him screaming like he was . . . well, like he was being circumcised! It made me cry.

Here in Turkey, circumcision is the most significant spiritual tradition related to children. If a boy misses this “opportunity” due to neglectful parents, shame follows him the rest of his life.
Turkish boys are usually circumcised between the ages of nine and eleven. This probably has roots in the fact that Ishmael was older than Isaac when Abraham circumcised his sons. Circumcision, called Sunnet in Turkish, is big business here. Money flows like at weddings. It is common to see big billboards advertising circumcision services. (How would you like to know your dad gotten a big discount when using coupons for your circumcision doctor?)
Turks make circumcision into a grand festive occasion, a life event. The boy is dressed in royal suits with feathers, a scepter, and a jeweled cape. He may be paraded through the streets atop a horse, in a decorated carriage, or in a red 1970 Chevy Impala convertible and made to feel like a king. Spring and late summer are popular times for circumcisions, and every Sunday you can witness dozens of parades with little emperors riding in glory toward their painful fate. Musicians play drums and oboes, and dancers perform. Relatives cheer, serve delicious food and throw candy to the children. They pin money and gold medals onto the boy’s royal garments. All of this attention is psychological warfare to counter the terrible expectations swirling through the boy’s mind as he reflects on the fact that, in a few short moments, someone is going to take a knife to his private parts.

I know. In the West, we blush a bit and don’t like to talk about circumcision. It’s just too private. That’s not the case here. Men and women talk about it eagerly and without shame. They smile and make a snipping gesture with their fingers. They ask personal questions that I don’t think anybody ought to be asking anybody else.

At the right moment, they set the boy uncovered on the lap of an appointed friend of the father (called the Kirve) in a room full of 10 to 40 gawking relatives and neighbors. They speak encouraging words stressing manly virtues. The Kirve holds the boy’s arms back, and as they do the deed, they repeat the phrase “Allahu ekber. Allahu ekber.” (“God is great. God is great.”) Onlookers recite a bantering couplet: “It has happened at once, May God preserve him. It will grow better by God’s will.”

In the West, circumcision is one of those Bible topics that seems to get edged out of the sermonic calendar year after year. But here in Turkey, we may be visiting the circumcision scriptures more often. It may be a significant gospel bridge to the Turks. People react in surprise when I tell them my older son has been circumcised. Turks generally assume foreigners are uncircumcised, so circumcision feeds their national sense of superiority. When they learn that we are not “uncircumcised dogs,” a light bulb turns on behind their eyes, and cracks begin to form in their walls of pride and prejudice. Suddenly we are one step closer to being spiritual brothers.

Capitalizing on this, my wife and I are contemplating having a party for our Muslim friends centered on our youngest boy’s upcoming circumcision. It will be a combined baby dedication and circumcision party and will give our friends some exposure to scripture and heartfelt prayer. (We will have the actual circumcision at the hospital, as some city-dwelling Turks do the same these days.)
Another way in which circumcision is a bridge to this culture is that it is descriptive of necessary suffering. Every Turk understands that Sunnet is painful and unavoidable. Every male Turk has had the feelings of fear leading up to it and then the victory of making it through. How does this relate to the gospel? Under current social and political circumstances, embracing Christ would be an act of total bravery for any Turk. Believers will have to face their fears head on as they experience what Jesus warned about: “A brother shall betray a brother until death . . . and you will be hated by all men.” The new believers’ circumcision of heart will take more courage than anything else they have ever faced.

I also think circumcision will become a living allegory of the new life. Though Turks don’t understand the covenant aspects of the tradition, they will listen all the more closely when we talk about Jesus wanting to circumcise their hearts. They will reflect on this second circumcision as a serious rite of passage. And, for those with circumcised hearts, honor, joy and royal robes await in the life to come.

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