Downtown in the financial district where I go to do banking, a row of shoe shiners ply their humble trade along one of the busy sidewalks. These men are great conversationalists, and their skilled hands, thick like shoe leather and blackened by years of accumulated shoe polish, are always in motion.

Walking through the financial district one morning soon after our arrival in Turkey, I decided to get my shoes shined. I sat down in front of one fellow in his fifties who sported a big smile under an even bigger handlebar moustache. As he went to work on my shoes, we introduced ourselves—his name was Hasad—and began a jovial conversation.

“Where are you from?” he asked with a grin. (No one here mistakes me for a Turk.)

“America,” I replied, returning his contagious smile.

The transformation of Hasad’s demeanor was instantaneous and shocking. His smile vanished, and his hands froze in mid stroke over my shoe. Drawing slowly back, he looked sadly into my eyes. For a moment, I thought he was going to cry. “I have polished the shoes of people from Germany, Holland, England, and all over Europe,” he said slowly, “but I have never polished the shoes of an American. How can I polish their shoes when they are hurting people in Afghanistan and Iraq?”

Caught entirely off guard, it took me a moment to form a reply. “Those things make me sad, too,” I finally said. I spent the next few minutes convincing Hasad that my view of life was quite different from many other Americans, and I shared his sorrow at all the pain and death.

Satisfied with my character, Hasad’s affability soon returned. He finished shining my shoes, and we parted friends.
Over the next two years, whenever I was downtown, I visited Hasad and his shoe-shiner friends for a polish and a chat. From time to time, I would drop hints that I was a spiritual man; thanking God for the beautiful weather and talking about His creation, provision, and goodness.

One day, Hasad asked me if I was a Christian. I replied that I was a servant of God and I firmly believed that Jesus would soon return to the world. Hasad and the next shoe shiner over broke into smiles and nods. Clearly, they adored this idea. Encouraged, I pushed on: “And I believe we need to accept all the prophets. Abraham is the father of the righteous.”

“You are our brother!” Hasad and his friend said almost in unison, looking deeply into my eyes as they put their hands over their hearts and patted their chests.

I was on a roll. “Also, like you, I do not consume pork or alcohol.”
Hasad’s friend looked at him incredulously. “This man is a Hanif!” he said.

(In the Quran, the Hanif are the spiritual heritage of those who are above Christians.)

Here in Turkey, I have found people in all walks of life—rich and poor—who are deeply spiritual and have great regard for God. Our purpose here is not to erode the strong faith these people already have. Rather, it is to build on it and find bridges and commonalities that allow us to move them toward faith in Jesus Christ.

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