Some friends and I attended a Turkish Festival. Lots of wonderful Turkish food, music and dancing. Hundreds of people, most looking Turkish in some way. I felt at home. Why? Because Middle Eastern food and music tends to be similar regardless of the country it comes from. My pita bread was stuffed with veggies and meatballs resembling an Israeli falafel. And the dancing? Well whatever they call it, it looks pretty much like an Israeli hora to me and I was able to join like I was one of them. I felt like I was on vacation with some Sephardic friends in Israel.
Of the hundreds of people there, a man who happened to be standing next to me asked, "So, did you see everything?" I replied we had seen everything, ate everything and even danced some. He seemed pleased, then introduced me to his wife with whom he spoke Turkish. "I'm an American who became Turkish," he said. "And she's Turkish who became an American." I thought I should answer in kind so I said, "And I'm an American who's Jewish, and enjoying all this Turkish stuff." He looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and said, as he put out his hand to take mine, "Me too. I'm David Silverman." I shook his hand and told him my name. We were immediately mishpuchah (family). My (non-Jewish) friends were amazed that out of all the people there, the one who talks to me is Jewish. I wasn't. "Welcome to my life," I said. It happens. Often.
In an art exhibit of mosaics and photos of Turkey, my Greek friend Barbara mentioned that her mother came from Samos, just off the coast of Turkey. One of the Turks handing out brochures at the exhibit overheard and said. "I come from Cos, close enough to swim to Samos." I asked him what he was doing in Jacksonville, so he told me how he'd fallen in love with a girl when he came here to study who was decidedly not going back to Turkey with him. So he stayed here. I could see he was wondering if I too were Turkish or Greek, so I told him I'm Jewish, interested to see what his reaction would be. He immediately got really excited.
"Oh, I must tell you," he said in his melodious Turkish accent. "Eighteen of us went to a Seder this week. We went to a synagogue and we did the whole lamb thing," he said. "We put the horseradish on the matzoh to remember the tears of slavery..." He went on to tell me what had taken place and did a great job of conveying the whole Passover Seder in two minutes. He got it. The Passover story had evidently become very real to him.
He asked me if I knew the rabbi who had conducted the seder.He seemed sure I should know him. After all, we're both Jewish. I didn't. I explained that I am Jewish but I believe in Jesus so I attend another kind of congregation. He looked puzzled. "I don't know about those things," he said. So I continued, with the Turkish music playing enthusiastically in the background, "Jesus, you know who He is?" He shook his head, "Oh yes." "He is the Son of God," I said, "and He was Jewish." Again he nodded affirmatively. "But most Jewish people have not believed in Him," I said intending to go on to say how this is changing in fulfillment of prophesy. This time he shook his head back and forth and said, "He's Jewish but the Jews don't believe in Him? That's crazy. Very confusing." I agreed.
I left it with saying that the God of the Passover cares about us all wants to bring everyone who looks to Him out of whatever kind of slavery we may find ourselves. "Yeah, yeah," he agreed. I left with a joyful sense of having been at the right place at the right time for seed planting and with a greater sense that God is still using the Jews and the Passover seder to show the world how good He is!
