I recently became friends with Jesus. He asked for my phone number, and I was happy to give it to him. He said he would like to get together some time. About a month later, Jesus called, and we picked a spot to meet. Jesus doesn’t have a car, so I drove to the meeting point. There he was, standing on a corner, smoking a cigarette. He shook my hand and nervously fumbled some papers. We went to a café. Jesus ordered coffee, and I herbal tea. After some small talk, he revealed his true intent in calling me. He wanted me to help him find a job outside of Turkey, preferably as a dancer at a European festival.
After Jesus’ third cigarette, I couldn’t hold back any longer. “You know, Jesus,” I said to him, “you have a good name—the best name. Have you ever read about Jesus the Messiah in the New Testament?” He hadn’t. I encouraged him, saying he would find it most interesting reading. He blew smoke from the side of his mouth. I could see his mind was still on the paperwork in front of us.

Jesus in Turkish is Isa. Though it is not as common a name as Mohammed, parents give it occasionally. I haven’t seen my friend Jesus since that day in the café. He and I don’t have much in common.

Jesus Christ challenges me daily with these words: “If I be lifted up, I will draw all men to me.” Those words are constantly upon my conscience. They ring; they sting. They sting because I am heaven-appointed to lift the name of Jesus up in a society that aims to put Him down. They sting because often I fly my Jesus flag at half mast. Oh, I always tell people I am a Christian, and a different sort of Christian than they likely have known before. I am quick to tell them I don’t smoke, I don’t eat pork, and I love the prophets and the holy books. These virtues they applaud (usually while smoking).

But Jesus said, “If I be lifted up.” I. Jesus didn’t say, “If the works I do in you be lifted up.” Nor did He say, “If a Christ-filled man be lifted up.” Jesus—the one who was dead and now is alive, who is seated at the right hand of God—his name is to be lifted up. Jesus, who created the world, who breathed breath into Adam, who stopped Abraham’s hand, who was symbolized in every lamb upon every altar. Jesus—not just another prophet, but the unique one who alone gives rest for the human soul, who not only healed the lame, but forgave their sin—He is to be lifted up.

After nearly five years in Turkey being the good Christian who acts and lives like a virtuous Muslim, I now see how much damage the self-righteous Christian can bring to the cause of the gospel. It is anti-gospel to let my Turkish friends talk about my honesty and clean life without the inclusion of the name of the living Jesus. This only reinforces folly in the secular/Muslim mind: “There is a way to be free from this bad man inside of me if I try. Just look at that foreign guy. He isn’t even Muslim, and he is succeeding. Surely I stand a better chance than he if I just follow Islam more devotedly.”

I think that cowardly instinct that crept over Peter on the dark night of Jesus’ trial has some resemblance to the motive that keeps Jesus’ name from being voiced more loudly and often. Where were Peter’s thoughts as he stood by the haunting glow of the fire glancing at the bound Jesus? Was Peter not pondering his own future, the possibility of his own shame? What made Peter deny the name of Jesus when questioned by the girl? Was it not his imagining that he would be accused and possibly harmed? What keeps us from talking about Jesus at Wal-Mart, at the Jiffy Lube and the Turkish tea house? Our silence isn’t for Christ’s sake, it’s for ours. The mouth shares as long as self remains safe.

I live in a place where the overtly religious are greatly frowned upon. That’s what secularism does—it teaches people to frown on faith. So when I visit with educated, affluent people of this society, like university professors, my Life, my Light, my Hope and my Joy—Jesus Christ—so often takes a back seat that I have had to build a small chapel back there for Him. I admit it. I become Barnabas the honest, kind-hearted Christian American guy.

Subconsciously I reason, “Jesus can wait. Win friends first. Win their trust. Otherwise, they will categorize you as a missionary. You’ll get thrown out of the country.” I shelve Jesus’ name because it isn’t politically correct to bring up the fact that I worship Jesus, I bow to Jesus, I sing songs to Jesus, I believe Jesus is now judging the living and the dead, and I love Jesus.

“Do people I encounter in Turkey get the sense that Jesus is my hero?” That question has bothered me enough to force me to turn about face. Yes, after nearly five years in Turkey being the good American who acts and lives like a virtuous Muslim, I am determining to do differently. I want to frontload my life and conversations with Jesus.

My appreciation of Abraham comforts the Muslims I meet. My pork-free diet startles Turks and throws them off balance. But Jesus—letting people know that there is the possibility of having their sins wiped away and their lives refreshed in the grace and gift of God—here is where I am praying my tongue will become skilled. The alternatives spring from such low motives that they distress me. Did Jesus say, “If no-pork-eating is lifted up, I will draw all people to myself?” Nope. Pigs won’t fly.

Are you flying any other flags besides the name of Jesus? Maybe you are flying them because they are truly your greater passion, or maybe it’s because you are like fearful Peter, imagining the shame that may come if you should put Jesus’ name out front.

Perhaps that girl who asked Peter if he had been with Jesus wasn’t accusing him. Maybe she wanted to know more about Jesus. Perhaps Peter’s fear snatched Bread from this child’s hungry hands. How sad if my fears, my protecting of self, should starve anyone of the Christ they need.
One more thing about my dancer friend, Isa (Jesus). His last name is Don’t Fear. So his full name is Jesus Don’t Fear. A good name indeed.

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