Fear of being wrong, of being deceived by Satan, of throwing away my entire life for a mistake.

I closed the Bible and prayed with desperate honesty.

I said to God, whoever God really was, that I needed to know the truth.

I needed to be certain.

I could not base my entire life.

Could not risk everything I held dear on dreams and feelings alone.

I needed something more, something concrete, something that could not be explained away.

I said that if Jesus was truly the son of God, truly the savior, truly the way as he claimed, then I needed him to show me beyond any doubt.

I needed a confirmation that could not be attributed to my imagination or stress or anything else.

I need a sign.

Then I waited, hardly daring to breathe, wondering if I was being presumptuous to ask God for a sign, wondering if anything would happen at all.

The answer came 3 days later in a way I never expected.

It was a Saturday afternoon.

I was in the market buying vegetables for my family.

The market was crowded and noisy.

Vendors shouting prices, people arguing over goods, children running between the stalls, the normal chaos of Baghdad street commerce.

The air smelled of fresh bread and spices and vehicle exhaust.

I was standing at a stall, examining tomatoes, testing their firmness, negotiating with the vendor over price.

Then I heard someone call out a Christian greeting behind me.

This was unusual.

Christians in Baghdad had become very quiet, very careful about identifying themselves publicly.

To announce yourself as a Christian in a crowded market was to invite trouble, harassment, or worse.

I turned and saw a man about my age, perhaps slightly older, maybe in his mid-30s.

He was standing a few feet away, looking directly at me, with an expression I could not read, neither hostile nor friendly, but intense, purposeful.

He wore simple clothes, nothing that marked him as Christian, but there was something about his bearing that suggested strength, confidence.

Without thinking about the risk, without caring who might overhehere in that crowded market, he spoke to me in a low voice.

He said he had seen me before, knew I was a cleric from the local mosque.

He said he had been praying and God had told him to speak to me, to approach me specifically.

My heart began pounding.

How could this be?

Who was this man?

What did he want?

He told me his name was Daud, which is the Arabic form of David.

He said he was a Christian, that he was part of a small house church in Baghdad that met in secret.

Then he said something that made my blood run cold and hot at the same time.

He said, and I remember his exact words because they struck me like lightning from heaven that the spirit had shown him.

There was a Muslim religious leader who was seeking Jesus, who was having dreams, who was reading the Bible in secret, who was afraid and needed help.

I could not speak.

I could not breathe.

I stood there in that crowded market with the noise swirling around me, and I felt like time had stopped.

No one knew these things.

I had told no one.

I had been completely careful, completely secret.

There was no natural way.

This man could know any of this.

No human way.

He must have seen the shock on my face because he smiled gently and told me not to be afraid.

He said, “If I wanted to talk, to learn more, to meet others who had walked the path I was on, I should come to a certain address on Thursday night after dark”.

He gave me the address, made me repeat it back to him to be sure I had it right.

Then he turned and walked away into the crowd, disappearing among the people before I could respond, before I could ask any of the hundred questions flooding my mind.

I stood there among the vegetables and the shouting vendors, my whole body shaking, knowing I had just received my answer.

God had heard my desperate prayer.

Jesus had sent someone to find me, to help me at the exact moment I needed it most.

This was not coincidence.

This was not my imagination.

This was a miracle.

But going to that address would be the most dangerous thing I had ever done.

For 4 days, I debated with myself.

I would decide to go, then change my mind.

Within an hour, I would decide to forget the whole thing, to continue my life as it was, then find myself unable to think of anything else.

I barely slept.

I barely ate.

I was constantly distracted, jumpy, nervous.

My wife asked me several times if I was ill, if I needed to see a doctor.

I told her I was fine, just dealing with some difficult situations at the mosque.

Thursday came.

The day dragged on like a year.

I led prayers mechanically, taught classes without really being present, counted the hours until darkness.

I told my wife I had an evening meeting with other religious leaders to discuss community issues.

Another lie.

I was becoming someone I did not recognize, and I hated it.

But I felt I had no choice.

The truth would destroy everything, and I was not ready for that yet.

The address Daud had given me was in a neighborhood about 30 minutes away by foot.

As darkness fell and evening prayer time passed, I left my house and walked through the streets of Baghdad.

It was 2009.

And though the worst of the violence had passed, the city was still dangerous, especially at night.

checkpoints manned by nervous soldiers, militia patrols watching for targets, the constant possibility of kidnapping or random violence.

I passed burned out buildings, walls pokemarked with bullet holes, trash piled in the streets, but I was more afraid of what I was about to do than of any physical danger.

I found the address.

It was an ordinary house indistinguishable from the others on the street.

A singlestory structure with a small courtyard, a metal gate, yellowed walls.

I stood outside for several minutes, my heart hammering in my chest, giving myself one last chance to turn back.

I thought of my family.

I thought of my position.

I thought of everything I risked.

Then I thought of Jesus in my dreams looking at me with love, calling me to follow.

I thought of Yousef forgiving his son’s murderers.

I thought of the words I had read in the Bible about losing your life to find it.

I knocked on the gate.

The wood opened it almost immediately as if he had been waiting by it.

He smiled when he saw me, as if he had known I would come, as if there had never been any doubt.

He welcomed me inside quickly and quietly, looking up and down the street before closing the gate behind us.

The house was dark from the outside, but inside one room was lit by oil lamps and candles.

The electricity was out, as it often was in Baghdad.

There were about 15 people sitting on the floor in a circle, men and women together, which was unusual in our culture, young and old, all looking at me as I entered.

Their faces showed no suspicion, no judgment, only warmth and welcome.

They would introduced me simply as a friend who was seeking to know more about Jesus.

No one asked my name, no one asked my background or what I did for a living.

They simply welcomed me with smiles and nods, making space in the circle for me to sit.

Someone brought me tea.

A woman smiled at me with kind eyes and told me she was glad I had come.

What happened that night changed my life forever.

They began by singing songs of worship to Jesus.

quiet songs, beautiful songs in Arabic, songs about his love and sacrifice and resurrection.

I had never heard anything like it.

There was joy in their voices despite their circumstances, despite living in constant danger as Christians in an Islamic country, despite the persecution and loss many of them had experienced.

They sang about Jesus as if he was their dearest friend, their beloved savior, the reason for living.

Then they prayed.

Not ritual prayers repeated from memory with prescribed words and movements, but personal prayers spoken from the heart.

People talking to Jesus like he was right there in the room with them.

They thanked him for his blessings, for protection, for strength.

They asked him for courage and wisdom.

They prayed for family members who did not yet know him.

They prayed for Muslims to find the truth.

They prayed for me by name.

Though they did not know my name, they simply called me our new brother and asked Jesus to guide me and protect me and reveal himself to me fully.

I sat there with tears running down my face, overwhelmed by the intimacy and authenticity of their prayers.

This was nothing like the formal distant prayers of Islam.

This was relationship.

This was family.

This was real.

After prayer, they opened Bibles.

Most of them had small worn Bibles that looked well read.

And began discussing a passage from the book of Romans.

They read about how all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God and how we are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Jesus Christ.

They talked about what this meant, how it applied to their lives, how it was different from earning righteousness through works and deeds.

I sat there silent, listening, absorbing, feeling like I was hearing the truth explained with clarity for the first time in my life.

Everything in Islam had been about doing enough good deeds to hopefully outweigh your bad deeds, about following enough rules to hopefully please Allah, about living in constant uncertainty about whether you would be accepted or rejected on judgment day.

But these people were talking about assurance, about knowing they were saved, about being confident in God’s love, not because of what they had done, but because of what Jesus had done for them.

The discussion went on for perhaps an hour.

Different people shared insights, asked questions, encouraged one another.

There was no hierarchy, no one person dominating the conversation.

It was a fellowship of equals, brothers and sisters in Christ, learning together.

When the discussion ended, Dwood asked if I had any questions.

I had a thousand questions, but I started with the one that troubled me most.

The biggest obstacle between Islam and Christianity in my mind, the Trinity.

How could Christians claim to worship one God while saying God is father, son, and holy spirit?

This seemed like clear polytheism.

Sherk, the worst sin in Islam, the one unforgivable sin.

An older man in the group whose face bore scars from some past violence, burn marks on one side of his neck and jaw, answered me.

He did not give me complicated theology or philosophical arguments.

Instead, he asked me to think about water.

Water can be liquid, ice or steam.

Three different forms, three different states, but all H2O, all the same substance, one essence, three expressions.

God, he said, is one being who exists in three persons beyond our full understanding.

Yes, but not illogical or contradictory.

The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are all fully God, distinct in person, but unified in essence, unified in will, unified in purpose.

He said to think of it like the sun, the sun itself, the light it gives, and the heat it produces.

Three distinct things, but all one sun.

You cannot have the sun without its light and heat.

You cannot separate them.

It was not a complete answer to all my questions.

But it was enough to show me that what I had been taught about Christian belief was a caricature, not the reality.

Christians were not worshiping three gods.

They were worshiping one God who had revealed himself in three persons.

I asked about the crucifixion.

Islam taught that Jesus was not really crucified.

that God would not allow his prophet to be killed in such a humiliating way that someone else was made to look like him and crucified in his place.

How could Christians believe God would let his son die like that?

A young woman spoke up.

She could not have been more than 25, but she spoke with wisdom beyond her years.

She said that was exactly the point.

God did not send Jesus to be a political leader or military conqueror or protected prophet.

He sent him to be a sacrifice to pay the price for humanity’s sin to die the death we deserved so we could have life.

The cross, she said, was not a defeat.

It was the victory.

It was the moment when Jesus conquered sin and death and Satan.

It looked like weakness, but it was the greatest demonstration of power in history.

It looked like the end, but it was the beginning of our salvation.

And the resurrection 3 days later proved it.

Jesus rose from the dead, appeared to hundreds of witnesses, and ascended to heaven.

Death could not hold him because he was God.

We talked for hours that night.

The candles burned low and were replaced.

More tea was brought.

They answered my questions with patience and clarity, never making me feel foolish for asking, never treating me with anything but respect and love.

Several of them shared their own stories of coming to faith, of leaving Islam, of the cost they had paid.

The old man with the scarred face told how he had been a imam, how he had converted after studying the Bible to refute it, how his own mosque congregation had beaten him and set him on fire.

His wife had stayed Muslim and divorced him.

His children refused to speak to him, but he said with tears of joy in his eyes that knowing Jesus was worth all of it.

A young man in his early 20s told how he had been engaged to be married when he converted.

His fiance’s family called off the wedding.

His own father ordered him to leave the house and never return.

He lived on the streets for months before finding this church family.

One woman had been divorced by her husband the day he found out she was a Christian.

She lost custody of her children.

She had not seen them in 3 years.

But she said Jesus had given her a peace that surpassed understanding, that he was enough even when everything else was taken away.

Yet they all spoke of Jesus with such love, such devotion, such joy that it was clear they considered the cost worth paying.

They had found something more valuable than family, than reputation, than physical safety, than life itself.

They had found Jesus, and he was enough.

As the night grew late, and the gathering came to an end, Daud pulled me aside.

He said they met every Thursday night in different locations for safety, rotating between several homes.

He said, “If I wanted to continue learning, continue seeking.

I would be welcome to join them.

He also said they would understand if I never came back.

If the risk was too great, if I decided to walk away from this path, there would be no judgment, no condemnation, no pressure.

But he also said something else, something I have never forgotten.

He put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes, and said that Jesus was knocking on the door of my heart, and only I could choose whether to open it.

He said Jesus would never force himself on anyone, never coersse or manipulate, but he would continue pursuing me with love until I either surrendered to him or finally hardened my heart completely against him.

He said the choice was mine, but he prayed I would choose life.

I walked home through the dark street of Baghdad that night, feeling like I was floating.

Everything looked different.

The stars seemed brighter.

The night air seemed sweeter.

Despite all my fear and confusion, despite all the questions still unanswered, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever, I felt hope.

real hope.

Not the uncertain hope of Islam that was always tinged with fear, but a hope anchored in something solid, someone reliable.

When I got home, my family was asleep.

I sat in our small courtyard under the stars and looked up at the sky.

And for the first time in my life, I prayed to Jesus, not with fear or doubt, but with gratitude.

I thanked him for sending Dwood to find me in that market.

I thanked him for the believers who had welcomed me and taught me with such love.

I thanked him for being patient with my questions and fears, for pursuing me even when I was running away.

I still hadn’t fully surrendered.

I still had not made the final commitment.

But I was closer than I had ever been.

The walls around my heart were crumbling.

The resistance was weakening.

Jesus was winning.

And part of me was glad.

I went back the next Thursday and the Thursday after that and the one after that.

Each time I learned more.

Each time my certainty grew.

Each time the contrast between the fear-based submission of Islam and the lovebased relationship of Christianity became clearer and more undeniable.

The group began to teach me more systematically.

They explained the entire story of the Bible.

creation, humanity made in God’s image, the fall into sin, God’s covenant with Abraham and Moses, the prophecies about a coming Messiah who would save humanity, Jesus fulfilling those prophecies in precise detail, his death and resurrection, the church spreading the gospel despite persecution, and the promise of his return to make all things new.

They showed me how the Old Testament pointed to Jesus on every page.

The Passover lamb whose blood protected from death Jesus, the lamb of God.

The bronze serpent Moses lifted up in the wilderness to heal those who looked at it.

Jesus lifted up on the cross to save those who believe.

The suffering servant in Isaiah 53 who bore our sins and was wounded for our transgressions.

Jesus on the cross.

They taught me about grace, the unmmerited favor of God given freely to all who believe, not earned by works or deeds.

This concept was revolutionary to me.

In Islam, everything was about scales, about weighing good deeds against bad, about hoping you had done enough.

But in Christianity, it was about accepting the gift that Jesus had already purchased with his blood.

Salvation was not about my effort but about his finished work.

When Jesus died on the cross, his last words were, “It is finished”.

The price was paid in full.

They taught me about the Holy Spirit, the presence of God living inside believers, guiding them, empowering them, transforming them from the inside out.

This explained the peace I had seen in Christians like Yousef.

This explained the joy in this persecuted house church.

They had God himself dwelling in them, closer than their own breath.

After about 2 months of meeting with the group, Dwood sat with me privately one Thursday evening before the others arrived.

We sat in the courtyard of the house where we were meeting under a fig tree, drinking tea.

He asked me where I stood in my journey.

Was I still seeking, still questioning?

Or had I reached a point of belief?

I told him honestly that I believed Jesus was the son of God, that he had died for my sins and risen from the dead, that he was the only way to the father.

I believed it all.

The evidence was overwhelming.

the testimony of scripture, the witness of the Holy Spirit in my heart, the supernatural dreams, the changed lives I saw in the believers around me.

Everything pointed to the truth of Christianity.

But I also told him I was terrified of what confession would mean.

I had a wife and three children who knew nothing of what I was doing.

I had a position as a cleric that I would lose instantly.

I had a community that would view me as an apostate, a traitor worthy of death.

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