"Where is the Friend’s House?: Faith as Courageous Persistence" by Toph Beach


Too often Christians use the word “faith” as a synonym for “belief,” where “faith in Christ” is simply mental assent to a number of propositions about the person of Jesus and His death and resurrection. There’s an element of truth in this definition—those propositions are important!—but the Scriptures often portray faith as an active rather than passive quality. One film that illustrates this idea well is Abbas Kiarostami’s Where is the Friend’s House?, which can be viewed as a modern parable of faith as courageous persistence.

Abbas Kiarostami in 1977, Wikipedia (Public Domain)

Abbas Kiarostami in 1977, Wikipedia (Public Domain)

Ahmadpour is an eight-year-old boy in the village of Koker, Iran. In a tense the opening scene, his schoolteacher berates Ahmad’s classmate, Nematzadeh, because he did his homework on loose leaf paper instead of in his notebook, and the teacher threatens to expel him if he ever does it again. Walking home, Ahmad discovers that he misplaced Nematzadeh’s notebook in his own book bag, and he decides to make the long journey from Koker to Poshteh, where Nematzadeh lives, up over the hill with the famous zig zag road, so that he can find the friend’s house and return his notebook.

Ahmad and Nematzadeh live among inconsiderate and indifferent adults, and they struggle to navigate their responsibilities to family, friends, themselves. Sometimes that involves bearing the weight of shame, as when Nematzadeh endures the cruelty of his teacher, and Ahmad must suffer quietly alongside him. Other times, the moment calls for persistence in challenging authorities, and perhaps ultimately even crafty disobedience. But most often, they must deal unrelentingly with adults, pleading again and again for their case. Consider the following scene transcribed below (lightly edited to remove peripheral conversations), in which Ahmad realizes that he has Nematzadeh’s notebook and pleads with his mother to return it.


M: Ahmad, can’t you hear the baby? Give him his bottle. Rock him a bit.

A: Mother, I took Mohammad Reza’s notebook by mistake. I have to take it back to him. . . . Mother. . . . Mother.

M: What?

A: I took Mohammed Reza’s [Nematzadeh] notebook. I have to go give it back.

M: What?

A: I took Mohammed Reza’s notebook. I have to go give it back.

M: Do your homework. Then you can play.

A: I don’t want to play. I want to return his notebook.

M: Do your homework. Then you can play.

A: He has to write his homework in his notebook. He has to use his notebook.

M: Ali [Ahmad’s younger brother] came home and did his homework. Now he’s going out to play. You just make excuses for not doing your homework.

A: I’m not talking about him. I mean Mohammad Reza.

M: All the kids do their homework but you. Homework first, then play.

[A walks over to rock the crying baby, briefly. Rooster crows in the interstices of conversation.]

A: Mom, I took Mohammad Reza’s notebook. I have to give it back.

M: Do your homework.

[A sits in silence, thinking what to do and say. Mother continues the washing.]

M: Go rock the baby.

[Ali (younger brother) asks Ahmad to come out to play]

M: Ali, I said to go. Now go! And you [Ahmad] do your homework!

[A walks closer to mother as she is hanging clothes to dry.]

A: I have to take his notebook back –

M: Enough! Do your homework!

[A walks even closer]

A: But I have to go –

M: Go do your homework. Go on!

[A turns back and starts doing his homework, furtively watching his mother.]

M: Bring me the laundry basin.

[A brings the laundry basin to her, but also shows her the two notebooks.]

A: See? They look the same. The covers are the same. This is Nematzadeh’s, and this is mine.

M: So?

A: I have to go give it back.

M: Give it to him tomorrow.

A: But tomorrow the teacher will get mad and expel him.

M: Serves him right. He deserves to be expelled.

A: I took it by mistake.

M: Why weren’t you more careful?

A: They look alike.

M: You can give it back tomorrow.

A: But the teacher will yell at him.

M: Where does he live?

A: Poshteh.

M: That far away? You can’t go all that way.

A: It’s nothing. Lots of the kids come from there.

M: To go to school here? Don’t lie to me.

A: I swear I’m not lying. Ask anyone.

M: Don’t swear. Now go do your homework.

A: Please let me go.

M: Do your homework. And you have to go get bread. Do as I say. 

[A walks away.]

A: But I have to give it back.

M: Do your homework.

A: I have to give it back.

M: Do your homework.

A: But the teacher -- 

M: I said do your homework! [M throws a piece of clothing at him.] Stay right there and do your homework or I’ll smack you. Understand? Do you?

A: Yes. 

M [after picking up the crying baby]: You’re just wasting time. Go get some bread. Your dad will deal with you when he gets home. [She walks inside.]

[A puts both notebooks in his bag, puts on his shoes, starts to walk to get bread, and then reconsiders. He grabs Mohammad’s notebook and runs out the gate, on his mission to Poshteh to find the friend’s house and return the book.]


This conversation, which consists almost entirely of the lines, “I have to give it back,” followed by, “Do your homework,” lasts almost nine minutes. If the viewer is simply waiting for the next plot point, the fitful stops and starts of dialogue feel like an eternity. But the frustration we feel watching Ahmad fruitlessly argue with his mother is necessary to reveal the depth of his commitment to his friend. Ahmad’s mother thinks he is being rude, but he is not defiant. He knows that his friend will be in trouble, and is willing to go great lengths, figuratively and literally, to help him.

(Of course, there may be cultural elements at play that I, not an Iranian, do not understand. I remember once, in college, asking a Japanese friend if she would like to join a group of us for dinner. She declined and we left without her. Later her roommate explained to me that it’s typical in Japan to make multiple offers of generosity, and for the recipient to decline the first few times. I had inadvertently disappointed our friend by not asking her to join a second and third time. Perhaps something similar is true in Iran.)

Similar frustrating conversations happen throughout the film. Ahmad makes it to Poshteh, but can’t find anyone who knows were Nematzadeh’s family lives. He is directed to the wrong house at first. Adult try to divert him with their own requests. After searching well into the night, he fails to find the friend’s house and returns home exhausted.

Ahmad’s dedication to his friend remind me of several moments in Scripture where courage is praised as great faith. The first is an episode recorded in all the Synoptic Gospels, in which Jesus heals a bleeding woman, and the second is the parable of the persistent widow, told only in Luke. 


Mark 5: 25-34:

Now a certain woman had a flow of blood for twelve years, and had suffered many things from many physicians. She had spent all that she had and was no better, but rather grew worse. When she heard about Jesus, she came behind Him in the crowd and touched His garment. For she said, “If only I may touch His clothes, I shall be made well.”

Immediately the fountain of her blood was dried up, and she felt in her body that she was healed of the affliction. And Jesus, immediately knowing in Himself that power had gone out of Him, turned around in the crowd and said, “Who touched My clothes?”

But His disciples said to him, “You see the multitude thronging You, and You say, ‘Who touched Me?’”

And He looked around to see her who had done this thing. But the woman, fearing and trembling, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell down before Him and told Him the whole truth. And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.”


Luke 18:1-8:

Then He spoke a parable to them, that men always ought to pray and not lose heart, saying: “There was in a certain city a judge who did not fear God nor regard man. Now there was a widow in that city; and she came to him, saying, ‘Get justice for me from my adversary.’ And he would not for a while; but afterward he said within himself, ‘Though I do not fear God nor regard man, yet because this widow troubles me I will avenge here, lest by her continual coming she weary me.’”

Then the Lord said, “Hear what the unjust judge said. And shall God not avenge His own elect who cry out day and night to Him, though He bears long with them? I tell you that He will avenge them speedily. Nevertheless, when the Son of Man comes, will He really find faith on the earth?”


In both pericopes, faith functions as something closer to courage than to mere belief. Belief is present in the first story—the woman trusted that Jesus has the power to heal her disease. But simply accepting that Jesus can heal her is not the same as approaching him for healing. Understanding the context of Jewish ritual law illuminates the courage of the woman. Because of her menstruation, the woman was ceremonially unclean, and by entering and pressing through the “multitude thronging” about Jesus, she rendered many others unclean. It took tremendous courage to admit the collateral impurity she dispersed into the crowd. That Jesus praises her for her great faith indicates that faith is not simple belief, but the determination and bravery to act upon that belief, even at the cost of social shame. 

In the parable of the persistent widow, persistence is effective even against wicked, powerful people. The judge has no inclination to rule justly; he only “avenges,” or decides in the widow’s favor, because he is so annoyed by her frequent demands. If relentless plaintiffs can persuade evil people to act justly, then a fortiori, the righteous God surely will defend those who pray unceasingly. Jesus then connects dogged prayer to faith, although he suggests that such faith is difficult to find.

Ahmad demonstrates this kind of faith in his devotion to Nematzadeh. He comes home exhausted and disobedient; he has neglected to buy bread for his family. His only recourse is to stay up late, completing his homework and Nematzadeh’s. The next morning in class, the teacher doesn’t notice anything amiss, and the boy is spared, and so Ahmad’s great determination, his devotion to his friend, is rewarded. When the Son of Man comes, He will find faith among those like Ahmad who plead for and do what is good with tenacious and courageous persistence. 

Note on the Author: Toph is a film buff who teaches at the Habersham School. He is a subscriber to the Criterion Collection and this essay is about a film that you can enjoy through the streaming service.

Note on Accessing the Film: You can access the film “Where is Friends House?” through the Criterion Collection: https://www.criterion.com/films/28638-where-is-the-friend-s-house


"1917: Hope in the Midst of Hopelessness" by Toph Beach

The First World War, for Americans and most western Europeans at least, stands out as a bleak and senseless event. The globe’s great powers were drawn into a conflict on a previously unimaginable scale, destroying somewhere around twenty million lives. When the guns of August started firing, many onlookers thought the war would end by Christmas, but instead it lasted four years of trenches and barbed wire, mud and mustard gas. Failure to establish a permanent peace led to an even deadlier conflict twenty years later.

Of course, on April 6, 1917, no soldier could have known the full cost of the war. For Will Schofield (George MacKay), the main character in Sam Mendes’s 1917, such grave thoughts are far from the mind as he rests against a tree behind the reserve trench. He joins his friend Tom Blake (Dean-Charles Chapman), who has been asked to find a partner for an unknown purpose—naïvely, Blake hopes they’ll be sent home for a few days. Instead, they are entrusted with an urgent mission: they must cross no-man’s land and the purportedly abandoned German trenches to deliver a message calling off a nearby attack. (Cable lines connecting the British companies have been cut, so Schofield and Blake must go in person.) To make matters personal, Blake’s older brother is in the other company, and will surely die in the attack should they fail to deliver the orders.

The set-up recalls the final act of Gallipoli, a much less ambiguous war film, which also hinged on the delivery of orders to halt an attack. That movie ends when the messenger arrives to the front lines too late, and Allied soldiers are mowed down in enemy gunfire, portrayed in a stunning final, frozen frame. It is an antiwar message tailored to the First World War: despite all their courage and devotion, the soldiers’ efforts are ultimately meaningless.

1917 seems to tell a familiar story: two soldiers set out on a hopeless mission. When Schofield goes over the top and pierces his palm on the barbed wire, however, we’re right to wonder whether his Christlike wound foreshadows a Christlike sacrifice, and whether there can be redemption for all this great suffering. 

A pivotal scene early on suggests that the battlefield is the wrong place to look for redemption and meaning. Blake and Schofield watch two English pilots shoot down a German biplane, which suddenly crash-lands right in front of them, almost killing the two young men. Suddenly, their priorities are reversed—they had been cheering for the death of their enemy, but now that the German pilot is burning to death before their eyes, they struggle to pull him from the cockpit and save his life. When Schofield suggests they put him out of his misery, Blake refuses and insists on giving him a drink of water. Schofield draws water from the well, and offscreen the wounded enemy stabs Blake in the stomach, killing him.

Blake’s death seems to stand in for the hopelessness of the whole affair. Mercy is punished. Bravery brings death. In this world redemption cannot be found.

But that is not the whole story. Moments before the plane came crashing in, Schofield finds a cow standing in the barn. Next to it is a pail of fresh milk; he fills his canteen and drinks a little. Some hours later, after harrowing encounters with German soldiers, Schofield ducks into a sidestreet basement, where he finds a terrified young woman with an infant, not her own, she indicates in French and broken English. The three share a brief, touching respite from the violence outside their fragile bunker. Schofield charms the baby with the prescient nursery rhyme, Edward Lear’s “The Jumblies,” about nonsense figures who “went to sea in a Sieve.” The young woman says the baby needs milk, which happens to be the one thing Schofield has to offer.

Now why should Schofield have a canteen filled with fresh milk? At one point, riding through the ravaged French countryside, he notices that the Germans have indiscriminately shot and killed the grazing cows. But they left the one cow near the barn, and they spared her owner at least long enough to milk her that morning. Perhaps in all the madness of this war, some new life can be nourished, some hope preserved. (After all, despite their misplaced confidence in their makeshift sailing vessel, the Jumblies do not sink, and after twenty years they return from the “Torrible Zone, / And the hills of the Chankly Bore.”)

It is in this small moment, the gift of milk to a hungry infant, that 1917 finds redemption. Yes, war is gruesome—Mendes knows how to create chilling images, not that the battlefields of Flanders and Picardy limited his options. But in the darkest days human courage and mercy are not worthless, and even on April 6, 1917, one can find nourishment and meaning and hope.


Image from Wikipedia

Image from Wikipedia

Author Note: Toph Beach is a local film buff who teaches at the Habersham School


“Art brings us into an intentional and intensive experience of the physical, affective and imaginative aspects of our humanity and is characterized by its metaphoric quality.”

— David O. Taylor