I was talking to a guy last night about tomato paste. This corporate executive travels all over the world selling literal shiploads of smashed, condensed, canned tomato goo. Of course, being a longtime potluck lasagna connoisseur, I had my own opinions on this important subject!

The man was downright angry with northern and eastern Europeans for not knowing what to do with tomato paste. “There’s a vast market out there, my friend,” he reflected, shaking his head in disappointment at the naiveté of EU cabbage and potato lovers, “if only we could teach those people the value of tomato paste.”

I couldn’t have agreed more. I still vividly remember my hunger pains for a thick, zesty marinara sauce while traveling years ago in Slavic lands.

As the man continued on wistfully about his dream that 100 million Europeans would abandon their long-established diet patterns, I didn’t have the heart to point out that their hankering for creamed cod, or pirogues, or stroganoff wasn’t likely to change in the near future. Really, however, I think that getting a family in Luxembourg or Latvia to eat a big can of tomato paste each week might be a whole lot easier job than what we have to do here in Muslim Turkey.
During my first week in Turkey, I passed a fairground and watched in curious amazement as a long line of Muslim girls in conservative dress (heads covered and long dress coats) waited for a haunted-house amusement ride. The facade was complete with gruesome depictions of demons, ghosts, and vampires. These young girls in scarves waiting in line to be terrified was my introduction to the fact that Turkey is full of paradoxes and difficult to read culturally, economically, and spiritually.

Many visitors come to Turkey and think that, after a week touring the seven ancient cities of Revelation and a few sites in Istanbul, they understand Turkey pretty well. Many people in our city dress stylishly and are equipped with the latest digital phones. Some girls walk around with their navels showing, and it is common to see university students with headphones, tattoos, and Satanic t-shirt insignia (sounds like the U.S.A., doesn’t it?). The fact that nearly every person you meet, from doctor to shoe shiner, can tell you a bit about NBA basketball and give a rundown of current NBC sit-coms could lead many foreigners (including this one) to some mistaken assumptions. Namely: “These people must think pretty much like my secular neighbors in America.”

Perhaps it’s this stereotyping problem that makes some mission journals reticent to publish pictures of modern life. Plainly, goat herders look like they need mission money more than insurance salesmen do. But many readers wrongly assume that access to a laptop computer or French fries means easy access to Bible truth! Here in Turkey, we don’t often take pictures of people driving BMWs (though they do) and eating Burger King Whoppers (though they do) and wearing Ralph Lauren clothing (though they do). Pictures of mosques and farmers at least give the clue to the reader that these people really do think differently.

How differently do Turks think? This last week, a friend of mine was sitting in an English language class. They were playing a game where they pretended to be on a boat with a single life raft. After reading through descriptions of 20 different people, the students could choose who they would take on the life raft to help them survive should they find a deserted island. One of the descriptions was of a young man—very talented, healthy, with a number of survival skills—who was a missionary. All the Turks in the group chose not to take the man. Instead, they chose an older, less talented man who had cancer. My friend couldn’t help himself and asked why they had rejected the missionary. The Turks were all in agreement: “He could be dangerous.”

Missionaries dangerous?! Don’t they know that a missionary’s job is to help people? But that’s not what they have been taught.
What else have Turks been taught? A Turkish friend of mine has a beautiful daughter. One day, the girl’s grandmother left a boiling teapot within the child’s reach. The girl grabbed it and spilled the scalding water over her neck and chest. She spent months in the hospital and could have died. The grandmother is a fashionable business owner, someone who looks perhaps very much like your favorite bank teller. What was her response to this tragic incident brought on by her carelessness? No, it wasn’t an apology. No, it wasn’t sorrow. “Oh, well, it must have been written in the child’s fate,” she repeated over and over. “If she hadn’t been burned, something else terrible would have happened to her.”

I don’t share this story to say that Turks are hardhearted, because nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, I share it as a case study to illustrate that, likely, not one western person in the tens of thousands who will read this article will follow the lady’s train of thought. Why did this grandmother think that way? Belief in fate is very prevalent here. Fatalism is the idea that we are all actors on a stage, and our scripts are already written.

What else lurks in the minds of these Toyota-driving, Lipton-tea-drinking, Levi-jeans-wearing Muslim people? I was sitting with a doctor of microbiology. This learned individual keeps a cord with a blue bead with a black and yellow eye always around her neck. Why? To absorb any evil that someone may cast upon her through a jealous, spiteful, or vengeful glance. It is the power of Nazar, and Turks don’t take it lightly. Though some Turks may laugh at superstitions, you won’t find any joking about the blue Nazar beads. Nazar is beyond superstition in their minds. To them, it is simple fact. It holds serious importance in their worldview, to the extent that a Nazar bead is the first thing they pin on a newborn baby. “I have seen beads crack the moment someone glares at someone else,” is a common testimony. Perhaps it really does happen—the devil fans the embers of his lies to keep them glowing in people’s minds.
Other traditions are such stews of Islam and ancient paganism that people don’t know the difference. I was standing in my friend’s nut shop. A man sporting a new Motorola RAZR phone and Nike shoes came in with a big sack, dropped it on the floor, and left. Curious, I nudged it with my toe. Hmm. It had an unexpected feel to it. I asked my friend behind the counter what was in the sack. “That is a sheep sacrifice,” he said. “That man who came in here just bought a new bus. He sacrificed the sheep to secure the protection of Allah for the vehicle. Now he has given me the meat to find some poor people to give it to.”

Though one might think that Islam is a major unifying factor for Turkey, really just the opposite is true. Ninety-five percent of the population staunchly claims Islam, but the majority doesn’t participate, and many view the rigorous practitioners with annoyance. This said, on any given Friday, fully 30 percent of the country’s males can be found bowing toward Mecca at a local mosque. Islam is taught in the schools, and very little is taught about other faiths except Catholicism, which is considered representational of all Christianity.

Yes, these three—Islam, ancient superstition, and modernism—are seemingly at odds and paradoxical, yet they stand shoulder-to-shoulder to block the advance of the true gospel. Though Turks have not fully let go of ancient deceptions (the zodiac, tarot cards, spirit mediums, etc.), they wildly chase the latest digital deceptions—spiritualistic movies, immoral music videos, and Internet mania. The nation is married to Islam and passionately committing adultery with western media and ideologies. Few even know that there is another option for life purpose and faith.

It is into this context that Jesus has sent me, my family, and my teammates to find those who are “weary and heavy laden.” I believe there are many who hunger for freedom from this maddening confusion. The beauty and simplicity of the true gospel is bread that lasts and water that refreshes.

If tomato paste is a hard sell in Northern and Eastern Europe, how about the blood of Jesus in the Middle East? Somehow, pizza has sliced through cultural boundaries and become a world staple. Smeared with tomato paste, it has steadily marched over European favorites like turnips, cabbage, and pickled herring. Similarly, I believe God will grow an insatiable hunger for His salvation here in Asia Minor.

Pray for us as we re-invent the pizza, working to see the masses here savor the good news of Calvary and the Advent message.

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