I clutched my purse tightly in front of me, just like the tour guide said. I walked quickly, intentionally, up the sidewalk towards the bus, being careful not to make eye contact with anyone. Still, I could feel the eyes of a dozen men glaring into my profile from across the street. I picked up my pace.

A motorcycle turned the corner in front of me and sped past. I felt a slight moisture suddenly splatter across my cheek, and I couldn’t help but turn around and search for the source of the liquid. The teenager on the motorcycle was looking over his shoulder, laughing, when we made eye contact and I realized what had just happened.

That loser-punk kid just spit on me!

I was in Jerusalem, just blocks away from the Garden of Gethsemane where our group had just spent time in solitude, sitting under the olive trees, praying in the very place where Jesus knelt and wept before His crucifixion.

Our trip was coming to an end. We’d spent days ministering to Jewish men and women, establishing trust, fostering friendships and building bridges that we prayed would one day lead to salvation for those still denying the Messiah-ship of Yeshua (Jesus). I’d listened to their heartbreaking stories of modern day persecution and I’d witnessed firsthand the shocking difference between the warm, welcoming, clean atmosphere of the Jewish quarters compared to the dirty, scary, unsafe atmosphere of the Muslim quarters in Old Jerusalem.

I was beginning to formulate an “us versus them” mindset, and the stranger’s saliva on my cheek just solidified it.

For two solid seconds, I enjoyed complete resolve and disgust against an entire people group, wiping away any lingering compassion that might lie dormant in my heart as I wiped away the spit my face. That’s when I heard a voice, quiet and small, whisper in my spirit, “I love him too.”

I pretended not to hear and picked up my pace again. “Did you hear me?” the voice continued. “I love that young man just as much as I love you.” I started listening. “When I wept in the garden, I thought of him. When I carried my cross, I carried his sins. When I died, I died for him too.”

By the time I joined the others on the bus, my heart had changed. In my flesh, I wanted to use that boy’s spit as ammunition to justify my hate. I wanted to use his actions to fuel my fear and disgust. But in the end, I found disgust only in myself. I had forgotten that behind every face is a soul loved by Jesus. Behind every radical ideal are a million hearts, and Jesus died for every one of them.

“But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.” (Matthew 5:39 NIV)

Only God knows the name of that young Muslim man who saw a group of Christians leaving the Garden of Gethsemane and decided to spit on the woman with the blue purse from his motorcycle that day. All I know is that once upon a time, Jesus said to “turn the other cheek,” and I finally understood how difficult, but how necessary, that command could be.

What has God taught you about “turning the other cheek”?