Muslim Scholar Tried to Disprove the Bible — But Jesus Arrested Him Instead

My name is Rashid Hassan al-Manssuri and I need to tell you what happened to me.

I was born in Damascus, Syria in 1984. My earliest memories are filled with the sound of the call to prayer, echoing through our neighborhood five times a day.

That sound was the rhythm of my life, the heartbeat of everything I knew. I can still close   my eyes and hear it.

The muees voice floating over the rooftops in   the blue hour before dawn calling the faithful to prayer.

Allah Akbar, God is greatest. Those words shaped my world before I even understood what they meant.

My family was devout Sunni Muslim, not extreme, not radical, but sincerely deeply religious. My father worked as a civil engineer.

My mother raised six children. And our home was filled with the quiet practice of faith.

We prayed. We fasted during Ramadan. We read the Quran. Islam wasn’t just something we believed.

It was the air we breathed. The foundation everything else was built upon. But it was my grandfather, my jido, who truly shaped my spiritual life.

He was a retired imam, a man with a white beard that seemed to glow in the afternoon sun and eyes that crinkled when he smiled.

Every Friday after Juma prayer, I would sit with him in his small garden surrounded by jasmine and roses and he would teach me not just about Islam but about God himself.

I remember one afternoon when I was maybe 8 or 9   years old. I had asked him a question that had been troubling me.

Something about why   God allowed suffering. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he picked a rose from the bush beside us and handed it to me.

The beauty of this flower doesn’t erase the existence of its thorns, he told me.

But the thorns don’t make the flower any less beautiful. He taught me that seeking to understand God was the highest calling of   human life.

I loved those afternoons. I love the way he spoke about Allah. With reverence, yes, but also with intimacy, as if God was not distant and cold, but close and knowingly present.

My grandfather planted in me a hunger to know God, to understand him, to serve him with my whole life.

By the time I was 12, I had memorized large portions of the Quran. The Arabic words felt like music in my mouth, ancient and powerful.

There was something transcendent about reciting those verses. Something that made me feel connected to generations of faithful Muslims stretching back 1400 years.

I was proud to be part of that legacy. I was honored to carry forward that tradition.

When it came time for university, there was never any question about what I would study.

I wanted to dedicate my life to Islamic scholarship. My parents were thrilled. My grandfather wept with joy.

At 19, I left Damascus to study at Alazar University in Cairo, one of the oldest and most prestigious centers of Islamic learning in the world.

Those years in Cairo transformed me. I studied under scholars who had devoted their entire lives to understanding Islamic theology, Jewish prudence and history.

I learned classical Arabic until I could read ancient texts with ease. I studied the hadith, the sayings and traditions of the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.

I learned the intricate details of Islamic law, the beauty of Sufi poetry, the arguments of medieval Muslim philosophers, but I also studied other religions.

This was important to me. I wanted to understand what others believed, not to learn from them, but to better defend Islam against their claims.

I studied Judaism and Christianity with particular focus. I learned Hebrew so I could read the Torah in its original language.

I learned coin Greek so I could read the New Testament as it was first written.

My professors encouraged this. They told me that a true scholar must understand his opponent’s arguments better than they do themselves.

Only then can you effectively refute them. Only then can you protect the ummah, the Muslim community, from false teachings.

I graduated with honors and returned to Damascus to continue my studies. I married a wonderful woman named Ila, the daughter of one of my father’s colleagues.

She was intelligent, kind, devout. We built a life together. We had two children, a son Omar and a daughter Amira.

I can still see their faces, still hear their laughter echoing through our apartment. Those were happy years.

I became known in Damascus as a scholar you could turn to for difficult questions.

Young people especially would come to me concerned about doubts they were having or arguments they’d heard from Christian missionaries who sometimes operated in our city.

I would sit with them, listen carefully, and then systematically dismantle whatever claims had troubled them.

I wasn’t arrogant about it, or at least I don’t think I was. I genuinely believed I was helping people.

I believed I was protecting them from falling into error, from being deceived by corrupted scriptures and false doctrines.

When I debated with Christian missionaries, and I did this several times, I did so with what I thought was respect.

I never mocked them personally, but I was confident, utterly confident that I could prove their beliefs were wrong.

My specialty became comparative religion, particularly the so-called errors and contradictions in the Bible. I collected examples of textual variance in New Testament manuscripts.

I studied the councils where church doctrines were decided by vote. I examined the historical evidence for the claim that the Bible had been corrupted over the centuries.

I knew all the arguments. I knew them cold. I gave lectures at our mosque.

I wrote articles for Islamic websites. I was interviewed on local radio programs. People respected me.

They trusted me. When parents worried about their children being influenced by Western ideas or Christian   procolitizing, they sent them to me.

I would sit with these   young people and calmly, methodically explain why Christianity’s central claims couldn’t be true.

The Trinity mathematically impossible. I would tell them God cannot be three and one at the same time.

It violates basic logic. The divinity of Jesus, a later invention I would explain. Jesus himself never claimed to be God.

His followers made him into God decades after his death. The crucifixion. Why would God allow his prophet to die such a humiliating death?

And how could killing an innocent man pay for the sins of guilty people? The whole theology made no sense.

The Bible itself corrupted, changed, unreliable. We have the Quran perfectly preserved since it was revealed.

They have a book with thousands of contradictions and varants. I believed every word I said.

I believed I was speaking truth, protecting people from falsehood. And I was good at it.

I could answer almost any question, counter almost any argument. I had spent years preparing for this.

Then in early 2017, I was approached by a prominent Islamic publishing house in Beirut.

They had seen my work, read my articles, heard about my lectures. They had a proposal for me.

They wanted me to write a comprehensive book, a definitive work that would expose the errors of Christianity and prove   once and for all that it could not be the true path to God.

It would be scholarly, they said, but accessible. It would be thorough but readable. It would be the book Muslim parents could give their children.

The book that imams could reference in their teaching. The book that would settle the question permanently.

I remember the day they made this offer. I was sitting in my study at home surrounded by my books and I felt this surge of purpose.

This was what I had been preparing for my entire   life. This was how I would serve Islam, serve God, protect the ummah from deception.

I would   write this book and it would matter. It would make a difference.

I accepted immediately. They gave me a generous advance and a deadline of 18 months.

I told my family this would require intense focus. Ila understood. My children were young.

Omar was six, Amamira only four, and I promised them that when the book was finished, I would take them to the sea.

I would make it up to them. I began my research in June of 2017.

I set up my study with everything I needed. I had Arabic, English, Hebrew, and Greek Bibles in various translations.

I had commentaries from Christian scholars. I had books on textual criticism, church history, theology.

I had notebooks full of my previous research. I was ready. My plan was systematic.

I would go through the New Testament book by book, documenting every contradiction, every historical error, every theological impossibility.

I would trace how doctrines like the Trinity developed over time through political processes rather than divine revelation.

I would show how the manuscripts disagreed with each other. I would prove that Christianity, whatever good intentions its followers might have, was built on a foundation of errors and corruptions.

I worked long hours. I would pray fajger the dawn prayer and then go immediately to my study.

I would work until midday prayer, break for lunch with my family, then return to my books until   evening.

After the children were asleep, I would often work late into the night. Ila would bring me tea and worry that I was pushing myself too hard, but I assured her this was temporary.

This was important work. The first few months went exactly as I expected. I filled notebook after notebook with examples of biblical contradictions.

I documented textual varants. I outlined the historical development of Christian doctrines. Everything I found confirmed what I already believed.

I was building a case that seemed unassalable. But then something began to happen. Something small at first, so small I barely noticed it.

Little things that didn’t fit my categories that couldn’t be easily dismissed. The manuscript evidence for the New Testament, for example.

I had always been told it was unreliable, full of major changes and corruptions. But when I actually examined the scholarly literature carefully, when I looked at the dates and the numbers, I found something different.

There were thousands of manuscripts, many of them very early. Yes, there were variants, but the vast majority were minor spelling differences, word order changes, nothing that affected major doctrines.

The level of textual preservation was actually remarkable, especially compared to other ancient documents. This troubled me, but I pushed it aside.

I was looking for problems with Christianity, not reasons to respect it. Then there were the words of Jesus himself.

I had read them before, of course, in my comparative religion studies, but now reading them day after day, something started to happen that I didn’t expect.

The words began to affect me. The sermon on the mount particularly unsettled me. The command to love your enemies, to pray for those who persecute you, to turn the other cheek.

These weren’t the words of a mere prophet. There was something in them that felt different from anything I had encountered before.

A kind of radical love that seemed almost impossible yet somehow compelling. I would read these passages and feel something stirring in my chest, some emotion I couldn’t name.

Then I would close the book quickly and turn to documenting contradictions instead. I was not supposed to be moved by these words.

I was supposed to be refuting them. There was one passage in particular that began to haunt me.

It was from the Gospel of John 14 6. Jesus said, “I am the way and the truth and the life.

No one comes to the father except through me. The absoluteness of that claim troubled me.

Not because it was arrogant. I was used to absolute religious claims. Islam makes absolute claims too.

But there was something in the way Jesus said it. He didn’t say he would show the way or teach the truth or point toward life.

He said he was these things. He equated himself with the way, the truth, the life itself.

I tried to dismiss it as the gospel writer putting words in Jesus’s mouth, but the claim stuck in my mind.

I found myself thinking about it at odd moments while playing with my children, while praying, while trying to sleep at night.

Then I made the mistake of reading Isaiah 53. I had studied the Hebrew prophets before, but I had always read them through the lens of Islamic interpretation.

Muslims believe these books were originally true revelations from God, but were later corrupted by Jews and Christians.

So I approached them with suspicion, looking for the corruptions, the changes. But Isaiah 53 stopped me cold.

It described a suffering servant, someone who would be pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities, someone who would bear our sins and by whose wounds we would be healed.

The description was so vivid, so specific, and the parallels to Jesus’s crucifixion were undeniable.

Christian apologists claimed this was a prophecy about Jesus written 700 years before he was born.

Muslims claimed it was either about the prophet Isaiah himself or the nation of Israel collectively, and that Christians had misinterpreted it.

But as I read it in Hebrew, as I studied the passage carefully, I couldn’t make the Muslim interpretation work.

The servant was clearly an individual, not a nation. He was innocent, yet suffering for the sins of others.

He was killed, buried, and yet somehow would see his offspring and prolong his days.

It sounded exactly like Jesus. I spent days trying to find an explanation that didn’t point to Jesus.

I read Jewish commentaries, Islamic interpretations, anything that would give me an alternative, but nothing quite worked.

The passage resisted my attempts to make it mean something other than what it seemed to mean.

This frightened me more than I wanted to admit. I didn’t tell anyone about these doubts.

Not Ila, not my colleagues, not my friends at the mosque. How could I? I was supposed to be writing a book disproving Christianity.

I couldn’t admit that I was finding things that troubled my certainty. I couldn’t admit that Jesus’s words were affecting me in ways I didn’t understand.

So, I worked harder. I isolated myself more. I told Ila I needed absolute focus to meet my deadline, that I couldn’t be disturbed.

The truth was I didn’t want anyone to see my face, to read in my eyes the confusion that was growing inside me.

6 months into my research, I began having dreams. Strange, vivid dreams that I couldn’t explain.

I would dream of light, overwhelming and beautiful. I   would dream of someone calling my name, though I could never see who it was.

I would wake up with tears on my face, feeling emotions I couldn’t identify. One night, I dreamed I was drowning, sinking into dark water, unable to breathe.

Then a hand reached down and pulled me up into the air. I gasped and looked up to see who had saved me.

But the light was too bright. I couldn’t make out his face. When I woke, my heart was pounding and I was trembling.

These dreams unsettled me deeply. I tried to interpret them as spiritual attacks, as the devil   trying to distract me from my important work.

But they didn’t feel like attacks. They felt like invitations, though I didn’t know to what.

By December of 2017, I was in crisis. Outwardly, everything looked fine. I was making progress on the book.

My family was well. I was respected in the community, but inwardly I was coming apart.

Every day I spent in research. Every page of the Bible I read, every argument I tried to construct, it all seemed to be building towards something I was terrified to acknowledge.

The certainty I had built my life upon was developing cracks, and I didn’t know what would happen if it shattered completely.

My colleagues would sometimes ask about Zuk’s progress. I would assure them everything was on schedule, that the research was going well.

But I was lying. The truth was, I had stopped writing. I was just reading   now over and over trying to find my way back to the certainty I had lost.

One evening in early January 2018, I sat in my study staring at the Gospel of John on my desk.

I had been avoiding it. Of all the Gospels, John’s was the most explicit about Jesus’s divine identity.

It was the hardest to reconcile with Islamic teaching. It was the one that challenged me most directly.

I knew I needed to deal with it eventually. I needed to systematically refute its claims for my book.

But every time I picked it up, I felt this strange resistance. This fear I couldn’t name.

That night, with my family asleep and the city quiet outside my window, I made a decision.

I would read the Gospel of John one more time straight through from beginning to end.

I would face it directly. I would find the flaws I needed, document them, and then I would finally be able to move forward with my book.

I made tea, settled into my chair, and open to the first chapter. My hands were shaking slightly, though I didn’t know why.

It was just a book, just words on a page. What did I have to be afraid of?

I had no idea that before the sun rose again, my entire life would be destroyed and remade.

I had no idea that I was about to hear a voice that would shatter everything I thought I knew.

I had no idea that the man who opened that Bible was about to die and someone completely different would be born in his place.

I thought I was in control. I thought I was the one conducting research, the one seeking answers, the one who would write the definitive book.

I had no idea I was the one being researched. I was the one being sought.

And the book I thought I was reading was reading me. The weeks that followed that January evening blurred together into a period I can only describe as slow motion drowning.

I kept going through the motions of my normal life, praying at the mosque, sharing meals with my family, answering questions from students who came seeking guidance.

But inside, something fundamental was shifting, like tectonic plates grinding against each other before an earthquake.

I continued my research, but my approach had changed. I was no longer hunting for contradictions to document.

I was searching for something else, though I couldn’t have told you what. I read the Gospels over and over.

I cross referenced them with the Hebrew prophets. I studied the historical context, the original languages, the manuscript evidence.

But now I was reading like   a man looking for a way out of a burning building rather than like a scholar cataloging its architectural flaws.

The Gospel of John haunted me especially. I would read it at night in my study and the words seemed to pulse with a life I had never noticed before.

In the beginning was the word and the word was with God and the word was God.

These opening verses should have been easy to refute. Pure polytheism. Exactly the kind of thing Islam most strongly rejects.

But every time I read them, something in my spirit resonated in a way that terrified me.

I started keeping a secret journal separate from my research notes. I didn’t write it in Arabic, but in English.

Some irrational part of me worried that even my notebooks   might betray me. In this journal, I documented what I was really thinking, the questions I couldn’t ask aloud, the doubts that were eating away at my foundations.

One entry from February read, “Today I tried to prove that Jesus never claimed to be God.”

I made a list of every time he referred to the father as separate from himself.

But then I read John 10 again. I and the father are one. He said it directly.

And when the Jews tried to stone him for blasphemy, he didn’t correct them. He didn’t say, “You misunderstood me.

I’m just a prophet.” He accepted their interpretation of his words. He knew exactly what he was claiming.

Why would he do this if it wasn’t true? Another entry. The Trinity makes no sense.

I keep telling myself this. One God, three persons. It’s mathematical nonsense. But today I read the church fathers writing about it and they admitted it doesn’t fit human logic.

They called it a mystery. What if some truths about God are too big for human logic?

What if our reasoning is the problem, not the doctrine? I’m terrified by this thought.

I started having more dreams. Not every night, but often enough that I began to dread sleep.

In one dream, I was in a mosque leading prayer. But when I prostrated, when my forehead touched the ground, I couldn’t get up.

It was as if the weight of the sky was pressing down on my back.

I tried to cry out, but had no voice. Then I heard someone say my name, Rashid.

And the weight lifted. I turned to see who had spoken, but woke before I could see his face.

I told myself these were just anxiety   dreams, stress from the pressure of the book deadline.

But they felt like more than that. They felt like someone trying to get my   attention.

My research led me to the writings of former Muslims who had converted to Christianity.

I had read some of these testimonies before, always with skepticism, always looking for the flaws in their reasoning.

They were confused. I had thought they had been deceived or bribed or socially pressured.

They didn’t understand true Islam. Their conversions were emotional rather than rational. But now I read their stories differently.

I recognized in their words my own growing turmoil. They described the same troubling questions, the same verses that wouldn’t let them go, the same sense of being pursued by something, someone they couldn’t escape.

One testimony particularly shook me. It was from a Moroccan imam who had converted to Christianity.

He described reading the sermon on the mount and being overwhelmed by the beauty of Jesus’s teaching.

He wrote, “I realized I was reading the words of someone who wasn’t just teaching about God’s character.

He was embodying it.” This wasn’t a prophet pointing to God. This was God showing us what he is like.

I closed my laptop quickly after reading that as if the words themselves might infect me, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

I had read the sermon on the mount dozens of times now. And the more I read it, the more I had to admit.

These weren’t the words of a normal man, not even a normal prophet. There was an authority in them, a penetrating love that seemed to come from somewhere beyond the human.

The hadith, the traditions about Muhammad’s life that I had studied so carefully, contained nothing like this.

Muhammad, peace be upon him, was a great man, a courageous leader, a dedicated prophet.

But his teachings as recorded in the hadith were practical, legal, concerned with the details of how to live as a Muslim.

Jesus’s teachings were different. They went deeper somehow into the very heart of human motivation and divine love.

I felt guilty even thinking these thoughts. It felt like betrayal of my faith, my family, my grandfather who had taught me to love Islam, my entire identity.

I began avoiding people. When students came to ask questions, I would answer briefly and send them away.

When my colleagues wanted to discuss theology, I would make excuses about being busy with research.

I stopped giving lectures at the mosque. I told them I needed to focus on finishing the book.

Ila knew something was wrong. She would watch me from the doorway of my study, concern evident in her eyes.

Sometimes she would bring Omar and Amira to see me, hoping the children would break through whatever wall I was building.

I would hold them, kiss their heads, try to be present with them. But my mind was always elsewhere, wrestling with questions I couldn’t voice.

One afternoon in March, Omar climbed into my lap while I was reading. He was 7 years old, curious about everything.

He looked at the book in my hands. It was the Gospel of Matthew in Arabic, and asked what I was reading.

Just research, Habibi, I told him, for the book I’m writing. He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Baba, why do you look so sad all the time now?”

His question pierced something in me. I hugged him close and told him I wasn’t sad, just tired from working so hard, but the truth was, I didn’t know what I was feeling.

Sadness didn’t begin to cover it. I felt like I was being torn apart from the inside, like two opposite forces were pulling at the very center of who I was.

The worst moments were during salah, during the five daily prayers. I had prayed five times a day since I was a child.

The prayers were as natural to me as breathing. The movements, the words, the postures, I could do them without thinking.

But now when I prostrated, when I said subhanah rabial Allah, glory to my Lord the most high, I would find   my mind wandering to Jesus.

When I recited the fata, the opening chapter of the Quran, when I said, “Guide us to the straight path,” I would wonder what path I was really on.

When I declared ashadua muhamadan rasool Allah, I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God.

My voice would falter. I felt like I was losing my mind. In late March, I did something I had never done before.

I reached out to a Christian pastor. Not openly. I couldn’t risk that. But I had learned through my research that there was a small evangelical church that met secretly in Damascus.

They served both Arab Christians and the tiny number of Muslim converts who lived in hiding.

I found a way to contact them through an intermediary. I told them I was a researcher studying Christianity, that I had questions, that I wanted to understand their faith better.

They were cautious at first. They had to be given the dangers they faced, but eventually they agreed to meet with me.

I met the pastor, a middle-aged Syrian Christian named Butros, in a quiet cafe on the outskirts of the city.

I wore casual clothes, nothing that would identify me as a shake or scholar. We sat in a corner speaking quietly.

I asked him academic questions at first, questions about textual criticism and church history, but he seemed to see through my facade.

After a while, he stopped answering my scholarly questions and asked me a personal one.

“Brother,” he said gently, “why are you really here? What are you seeking?” I couldn’t answer him.

I sat there with my untouched coffee growing cold and I couldn’t find words. Finally, I just said, “I don’t know anymore.

I don’t know what I’m seeking. I don’t even know who I am anymore.” He nodded as if he understood.

He told me that questions weren’t sins, that God was big enough to handle my   doubts.

He offered to pray for me, but I refused. I was too afraid someone might see us.

We parted ways and I never contacted him again. It was too dangerous, too risky.

But that conversation stayed with me. He had seemed so at peace, so certain in a way that I had once been, but no longer was.

I envied him that peace. I hungered for it. By early April, my book was hopelessly behind schedule.

The publishing house contacted me concerned about the delay. I assured them I was working diligently that I wanted the book to be thorough and excellent.

But the truth was I had written almost nothing in months. How could I write a book disproving Christianity when I could no longer prove it to myself?

I decided I needed to make one final systematic attempt. I would read through the entire New Testament one more time, carefully documenting every problem, every contradiction, every reason to reject it.

I would force myself to see the flaws clearly. I would find my way back to certainty.

I started with the Gospel of John again. I always came back to John. It was the most theological gospel, the most explicit about Jesus’s identity.

If I could dismantle John’s testimony, the rest would follow. I read chapter 1. The word became flesh and dwelt among us.

I documented my objection. This contradicts the Islamic understanding of God’s transcendence. I read chapter 3.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only son. I documented my objection.

God doesn’t have a son. This is sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with God.

I read chapter 6. I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me shall not hunger.

I documented my objection. Jesus is claiming to satisfy spiritual hunger that only God can satisfy.

This is blasphemy. Unless I stopped writing. Unless what? Unless he was telling the truth.

Unless he actually was who he claimed to be. I kept reading, kept documenting, but my objections were becoming   weaker.

I was arguing with myself now and losing. I reached chapter 10. Jesus said, “I am the good shepherd.

The good shepherd lays down his life for the sheep. And then I have authority to lay down my life and I have authority to take it up again.

This charge I have received from my father. I sat back in my chair staring at those words.

Jesus was claiming authority over his own life and death. He was claiming he would die voluntarily and rise again by his own power.

No prophet had ever made such a claim. No human being had such authority. Either Jesus was a madman and a blasphemer or he was exactly who he said he was.

I closed my eyes and felt tears sliding down my cheeks. I was tired of fighting.

I was exhausted from maintaining my certainty against the weight of evidence that was crushing me.

I was drowning in questions that had no answers except the one I was terrified to accept.

I looked at my desk covered with books and notes. The Gospel of John sat open before me.

The lamp cast a pool of light on the pages. Outside my window, Damascus slept.

My family slept. The world went on, oblivious to the battle raging in my small study.

I knew I was approaching a cliff edge. I could feel it. One more step and everything would change.

I could retreat now, turn back, force myself to reject what I was learning, bury my doubts, and finish the book as planned.

I could choose to remain who I was. Or I could keep reading. I could take that final step.

I could let the truth, whatever it was, take me where it would. I wiped my eyes and turned the page.

Chapter 11. The story of Lazarus, Jesus’s friend who had died. The Jews were arguing among themselves, saying, “If Jesus was truly from God, he could have prevented this death.”

Jesus stood at Lazarus’s tomb and wept. Then he prayed and called out in a loud voice, “Lazarus,   come out.”

And the dead man came out, still wrapped in his burial cloths, alive again. Jesus had authority over death itself.

I kept reading through the night, chapter after chapter. Jesus washing his disciples feet, the master serving the servants, Jesus promising to send his spirit to guide them.

Jesus praying for his followers, present and future. Jesus being arrested, tried, crucified, and then the resurrection, the empty tomb.

Jesus appearing to his disciples, showing them his wounded hands and side. Jesus breathing the Holy Spirit on them.

Jesus appearing to Thomas who doubted. Thomas seeing Jesus and falling to his knees. My Lord and my God.

Jesus didn’t correct him. He accepted the worship. I finished the gospel as the first light of dawn was showing through my window.

I sat in my study exhausted rung out. The book lay closed before me and I knew, though I wasn’t ready to admit it yet, that everything had changed.

I couldn’t go back. I had crossed some invisible line in the night. The certainty I had built my life upon was gone, shattered into pieces I couldn’t reassemble.

And in its place was a terrifying, exhilarating possibility that I barely dared to acknowledge.

What if it was all true? What if Jesus really was who he claimed to be?

What if God had indeed become flesh and dwelt among us? What if the voice I kept hearing in my dreams, the presence I kept sensing in my study, the truth that kept pursuing me through the pages of scripture?

What if it was real? I sat there as the sun rose over Damascus, and I knew with absolute clarity that I was going to have to make a choice.

I couldn’t remain in this limbo forever. I couldn’t keep studying and questioning indefinitely. At some point, I would have to decide.

I would have to say yes or no. I just didn’t know yet which   answer would destroy me more.

But I had a growing terrifying suspicion that the real destruction wasn’t in accepting the truth.

It was in continuing to run from it. I heard my family beginning to stir in the other   room.

Soon I would have to emerge from this study, put on my normal face, pretend everything was fine.

I would pray fajger with them though the words would feel hollow in my mouth.

I would eat breakfast and play with my children and go through the motions of being Rashid al-Mansuri, respected Islamic scholar.

But that man was dying. I could feel him slipping away with every page I read, every question I asked, every doubt that cracked my foundation.

Someone else was being born in his place. Someone I didn’t know yet. Someone I wasn’t sure I wanted to be and I had no idea of the price I would have to pay to become him.

It was the night of April 17th, 2018. I remember the date because afterward my life was divided into two distinct periods.

Before that night and after. Everything that came before feels like it happened to a different person.

Someone I used to know but barely recognize anymore. It was just past midnight. My family was asleep.

Ila had given up waiting for me to come to bed hours ago. The children had school in the morning.

The apartment was silent except for the occasional sound of a car passing on the street below.

I sat in my study surrounded by books. My Arabic Bible was open on the desk in front of me.

I had been reading the Gospel of John again. I kept returning to it like a man probing a wound he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

I was exhausted, spiritually and physically drained from months of wrestling with questions that had no safe answers.

But that night, something felt different. There was a weight in the air, a density to the silence that I had never experienced before.

It felt like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks, when the atmosphere itself seems to be holding its breath.

I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. Or maybe   I was too tired to be afraid anymore.

I had been running for so long, fighting so hard against what I was learning that I had no strength left to resist.

I was empty, hollowed out, ready finally to stop fighting. I turned to John chapter 10 and began to read.

My sheep hear my voice and I know them and they follow me. I give them eternal life and they will never perish and no one will snatch them out of my hand.

I read the words slowly, letting them settle into me. Then I closed my eyes and said something I had never said before, not even in my secret prayers.

I said it in a whisper, barely audible even to myself. Jesus, if you are real, if you are who you claim to be, I need to know.

I can’t keep living in this uncertainty. Show me the truth, whatever it costs me.

I don’t know what I expected. Nothing, probably. Or maybe a continued silence. The same silence I had been wrestling with for months.

I certainly didn’t expect what happened next. I heard my name. It wasn’t a voice inside my head, not a thought or an impression.

It was an audible voice as clear and real as if someone was standing in the room with me.

It said, “Rashid.” My eyes flew open. My heart stopped then began racing. I looked around the study wildly, but I was alone.

The door was closed, the window was shut. There was no one else there. I must have imagined it, I told myself.

I was exhausted, stressed. My mind was playing tricks. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down.

My hands were shaking. I looked back down at the Bible, trying to continue reading.

But before I could focus on the words, I heard it again. Rashid. This time, there was no mistaking it.

It was a voice, real and present, speaking my name with an intimacy that made my chest tighten.

It wasn’t loud, but it filled the room somehow, filled the space inside me. It was a voice that knew me, had always known me, was calling   me with a tenderness I had never experienced in my life.

I stood up from my chair so quickly it fell backward, clattering against the floor.

I was trembling now, my breath coming in short gasps. My first instinct was to run, to flee from the room, to escape whatever was happening.

But my legs wouldn’t move. I stood frozen, gripping the edge of my desk. Then the voice spoke again and this time it was more than just my name.

Rashid, I have loved you with an everlasting love. I have called you by name.

You are mine. The words washed over me like a wave. I felt my knees begin to buckle.

This couldn’t be happening. This was impossible. I was a Muslim, a scholar of Islam, a man who had dedicated his life to serving Allah.

This couldn’t be real, but it was real. I knew it with every fiber of my being.

This was the most real thing I had ever experienced. I tried to speak, tried to say something, but no words came out.

My throat was closed. Tears were streaming down my face. Though I didn’t remember starting to cry.

And then something happened that removed any remaining doubt I might have had about what was occurring.

The Bible on my desk, the one I had been reading, the one sitting closed now after I had stood up, opened by itself.

The pages turned, rifling quickly as if blown by a wind, though there was no wind in my close study.

The pages stopped moving and the book lay open. I stared at it, unable to process what I was seeing.

Slowly, with legs that barely supported me, I stepped closer to the desk. I looked down at the page where the Bible had opened.

It was Isaiah 43. And my eyes fell immediately on verse one. But now, thus says the Lord, he who created you.

Oh Jacob, he who formed you, oh Israel. Fear not, for I have redeemed you.

I have called you by name. You are mine. The exact words the voice had just spoken   to me.

I collapsed. My legs gave out completely, and I fell to the floor beside my desk, landing hard on my knees.

The pain didn’t register. Nothing registered except the overwhelming reality of what was happening. This wasn’t my imagination.

This wasn’t stress or exhaustion or a mental breakdown. This was God. This was Jesus.

He was here in my study speaking to me, calling me by name. And I was terrified.

I had always believed in the supernatural. As a Muslim, I believed in Allah, in angels, in jin, in the reality of the unseen world.

But believing in it and experiencing it were two completely different things. I had never felt the presence of God before, not like this.

My prayers had always been formal, ritualistic. I spoke to Allah, but I never felt him speak back.

I submitted to him, but I never felt his love surrounding me like this because that’s what I felt now.

Love. It was pouring into my study like light, like liquid warmth filling every corner of the room and every corner of my heart.

It was a love so pure, so intense, so personal that it was almost unbearable.

I felt seen, completely seen in a way I never had before. Every part of me, every secret doubt, every hidden sin, every moment of shame and failure, all of it was visible and all of it was loved.

I was sobbing now. Great heaving sobs that shook my whole body. I had my face pressed to the floor, tears soaking into the carpet.

I couldn’t bear to look up. I felt like if I saw him, if I looked into his face, I would simply cease to exist.

How could a human being stand in the presence of the God who spoke the universe into being?

But even as I thought this, I felt arms around me. Not physical arms, there was no one there.

But I felt embraced nonetheless, held, comforted, like a father holding his terrified child and telling him everything would be all right.

And the voice spoke again. Rashid, do not be afraid. I know everything you have done, everything you have thought, every time you have turned away from me.

And I love you. I have always loved you. I died for you. I rose again for you.

And I am here now because I want you to know me, to follow me, to come home.

The words broke something open inside me. All my years of scholarship, all my confident arguments, all my certainty that I had the truth and Christians were deceived.

It all crumbled like dust because I had encountered the living Jesus Christ and there was no argument that could stand against that reality.

I tried to speak. I tried to say something, anything. My mouth moved, but only broken sounds came out.

Finally, I managed to choke out a few words. But I am Muslim. I have rejected you.

I have spoken against you. I was writing a book to prove you false. How can you want me?

The presence intensified, if that was even possible. The love grew stronger, deeper, and the voice answered me with words that I will remember until the day I die.

Rashid, I chose you before the foundation of the world. Your rejection of me was never stronger than my love for you.

Your arguments against me were never louder than my call to you. I have been pursuing you your entire life, waiting for this moment   when you would finally stop running and let me catch you.

Nothing you have done has made me love you less. Nothing you could do would make me love you more.

You are mine and I am yours. Now stop fighting and come home. I broke completely.

Whatever was left of my resistance, my pride, my identity as Rashid al-Mansuri, the Islamic scholar, it all shattered.

I wept like I had never wept before. With a grief and joy mixed together in a way I couldn’t separate.

I grieved for all the years I had lived without knowing this love. I grieved for all the times I had spoken   against Jesus, had called him merely a prophet, had denied his divinity.

And I felt joy, impossible joy, at finally meeting him, finally hearing his voice, finally coming home.

I don’t know how long I stayed there on the floor. It could have been minutes or hours.

Time had lost all meaning. I was in the presence of eternity and earthly time was irrelevant.

At some point, I became aware of something else. The presence of Jesus was still there, still surrounding me.

But now, I felt him speaking   to my heart rather than to my ears.

He was showing me things, memories from my life, but seen differently now. I saw myself as a child sitting with my grandfather in the garden and I realized Jesus had been there too loving me even then.

I saw myself at university studying Islamic theology and I saw how he had used even that to prepare me for this moment.

I saw myself with Ila and our children and I understood that every good thing in my life, every moment of love and joy had been a gift from him.

He showed me moments when he had tried to reach me before. Times when I had felt unexpectedly moved by beauty or truth, when I had sensed something beyond myself calling to me.

Those had been him reaching out,   inviting me to see. He had been pursuing me all along, and I had been too   blind to recognize it.

Then he showed me something else, and this was harder to bear. He showed me people I had turned away from him.

Students who had come to me with questions about Christianity, whom I had convinced to remain Muslim, friends who had been curious about Jesus, whom I had discouraged.

He showed me how my words spoken with such confidence and authority had kept people from finding   the truth.

The weight of this realization crushed me. I had been so certain I was serving God, protecting people from error, but I had been doing the opposite.

I had been keeping people from the very one who loved them and died for them.

I cried out loud this time, the words finally coming. Forgive me, God. Forgive me.

I didn’t know. I thought I was serving you. And immediately before the words had even finished leaving my mouth, I felt the response.

Not in words this time, but in a knowing that went deeper than words. I was forgiven.

Completely, totally, absolutely forgiven. Every argument against Jesus, every student I had turned away, every word I had spoken against his name, all of it was washed away, covered by his blood, erased as if it had never been.

I understood then, in a way I never had before, what grace meant. It wasn’t a concept to debate or a theological position to defend.

It was this unearned undeserved love and forgiveness flowing freely from God to me despite everything I had done.

I couldn’t earn it. I couldn’t deserve it. I could only receive it and I did.

I received it like a man dying of thirst drinking water. I let it wash over me, through me, into every part of my being.

I let it cleanse me of my guilt and shame. I let it fill the empty places in my heart I hadn’t even known were there.

I don’t remember saying any formal prayer of conversion. I didn’t recite specific words or follow any ritual.

I simply surrendered. I stopped fighting, stopped arguing, stopped defending my old certainties. I said yes to Jesus with every part of myself.

Yes to his love. Yes to his lordship. Yes to whatever following him would cost me because I knew even in that moment that it would cost me everything.

As the intensity of the experience began to gradually ease as I slowly came back to awareness of my physical surroundings.

I realized the night had passed. The first gray light of dawn was showing through my window.

I had been in the presence of Jesus for hours, though it had felt both like a moment and like forever.

I pulled myself up from the floor, my body stiff and aching from lying in one position for so long.

My face was wet with tears, my eyes swollen from crying. I looked around my study and everything looked the same yet completely different.

The books were still there, my desk, my notes for the book I would never finish.

But they seemed distant now, irrelevant, like artifacts from someone else’s life. The Bible still lay open on my desk to Isaiah 43.

I picked it up with trembling   hands and read the full passage. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you, and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.

When you walk through fire, you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior. I understood now that these weren’t just ancient words written to Israel.

They were words for me, promises for what was coming. Because I knew with a certainty that went beyond reason, that I was about to walk through waters that would threaten to overwhelm me.

I was about to pass through fire that would try to consume me, but he would be with me.

The one who had called me by name, who had filled my study with his presence, who had shattered my certainty to give me truth.

He would be with me through whatever came next. I sat down in   my chair, exhausted beyond words, but more awake than I had ever been.

The sun was rising over Damascus. My family would wake soon. I would have to face them, face the world, face the consequences of what had happened in this room.

But for now, in this brief moment between night and day, I simply sat in the presence of the one who had found me.

I sat in the ruins of my old certainty and the foundation of my new faith.

I sat as Rashid al- Mansuri, Islamic scholar, for the last time. Because when I walked out of that study, I would be someone   else.

Someone who had heard the voice of Jesus Christ and could never unhear it. Someone who had been called by name and could never pretend it hadn’t happened.

Someone who had been found, claimed, loved, and forever changed. I thought of my grandfather who had taught me to seek God with all my heart.

I thought of him with tears in my eyes, wishing I could tell him what I had discovered.

I thought of how he had said that seeking to understand God was the highest calling of human life.

I had sought and I had found or rather I had been found. The God I had spent my life serving from a distance, had come close, had spoken my name, had held me while I wept, and nothing would ever be the same.

I heard stirring in the bedroom. Ila was waking. Soon the children would be up.

I would have to make breakfast, help Omar get ready for school, continue the routines of normal life.

But how could anything be normal now? How could I go back to the prayers I had prayed every day when I now knew the God who answers?

How could I return to the certainty I had taught others when I had encountered the one who is truth itself?

I couldn’t. I knew I couldn’t. But I didn’t yet know what I could do instead.

I didn’t yet know what path forward was even possible. I only knew that I had crossed a line in the night from which there was no return.

I had heard a voice that silenced all my arguments. I had encountered a love that exposed all my pride.

I had met Jesus Christ not as a figure in a book to refute, but as a living reality who knew me and called me   his own.

And whatever came next, whatever price I would have to pay, whatever suffering awaited me, I knew now it would be worth it because I had found what my heart had been seeking my entire life.

I had found home. I had found truth. I had found him. Everything else was just details.

I didn’t tell anyone right away. How could I? I barely understood what had happened myself.

For three days after that night, I moved through my life like a ghost, physically present, but mentally and spiritually somewhere else entirely.

I went through the motions, eating with my family, playing with the children, answering questions from students who stopped by.

But inside, I was in turmoil. The experience in my study had been undeniable. Overwhelming, impossible to dismiss as imagination or stress.

Jesus had spoken to me. He had called me by name. The presence I had felt, the love that had surrounded me, it was more real than anything I had ever experienced.

I couldn’t unknow it. I couldn’t go back to who I was before. But I also couldn’t move forward.

Not yet. Because moving forward meant admitting what had happened. It meant saying the words out loud.

It meant facing the catastrophic consequences I knew would follow. For those three days, I didn’t pray salah.

I would go through the motions when my family was watching, but the words died in my mouth.

I couldn’t recite the shahada anymore. The declaration that Muhammad is the messenger of God because I now knew that Jesus was God himself and that changed everything.

I couldn’t pray to Allah as I had before because I had met him in the person of Jesus Christ and the old prayers felt empty   now like addressing someone I no longer believed was there.

Instead, I pray differently in my study. With the door closed, I would simply talk to Jesus.

At first, I felt foolish doing it. I had been trained to pray with specific words, specific postures, specific rituals.

This felt almost disrespectful, this casual conversation with the divine. But then I would remember how he had spoken to me with such tenderness, such intimacy.

And I realized he wanted this. He wanted relationship, not just ritual. He wanted me to know him, not just know about him.

On the fourth day, I made a decision. I needed to tell someone. I needed to speak the truth out loud to make it real outside my own head.

I needed help. I thought about contacting Pastor Bros again, the man I had met in the cafe weeks earlier, but that felt too risky.

Instead, I did something I never thought   I would do. I searched online for how to contact Christian organizations that helped Muslim converts.

I found several, but most were based outside Syria. Finally, I found a contact method for an underground network that operated within Damascus.

I sent a message explaining that I was a Muslim who had encountered Jesus and needed guidance.

I didn’t give my real name. I didn’t explain who I was. I just said I needed to talk to someone who would understand.

Within a day, I received a response. A man named Elias, probably not his real name, agreed to meet me.

He gave me an address in a part of Damascus I rarely visited and a time, 8:00 p.m.

On a Tuesday evening. I told Ila I had to meet with someone about research for my book.

She didn’t question it. She was used to my odd hours and research meetings. I hated lying to her, but I wasn’t ready yet to tell her the truth.

I wasn’t ready for what that truth would do to our marriage. The address led me to a small apartment building.

I climbed three flights of stairs and knocked on the door. A man in his 50s answered, smiled warmly, and invited me in.

The apartment was modest but comfortable. We sat in a small living room with tea between us.

Elias didn’t press me for information. He simply asked how he could help. And suddenly, sitting across from this stranger, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

The whole story poured out of me. My research, my doubts, the night in my study, the voice, the presence, everything.

I wept as I spoke. This middle-aged scholar crying like a child in front of someone I had met 5 minutes ago.

When I finished, Elias was quiet for a long moment. Then he smiled with such joy that it transformed his face.

“Brother,” he said quietly. “Welcome home. Welcome to the family of God.” Those simple words broke something open in me.

I hadn’t realized how desperately I needed to hear them. I had been alone with this secret for days.

Carrying the weight of it by myself. But I wasn’t alone. There were others who had walked this path before me.

There was a family waiting to receive me. Ilas explained the reality of my situation with gentle honesty.

As a Muslim who had converted to Christianity, I was considered an apostate. Under Islamic law, apostasy was punishable by death, though this was rarely enforced in Syria at that time.

But the social consequences would be severe. I would lose my family, my job, my reputation, my community.

I would likely face threats, possibly violence. If I chose to publicly acknowledge my conversion, I would need to leave Syria.

I had known all of this intellectually, of course. I had studied Islamic law. I knew what apostasy meant.

But hearing it spoken aloud, hearing the concrete details of what I was facing made it terrifyingly real.

What about my family? I asked. What about my wife and children? Elas’s expression became sorrowful.

He told me honestly that most Muslim families could not accept such a conversion. Wives usually left.

Children were kept away, parents disowned. The family network that was so central to Arab culture would collapse.

But he also told me that God was faithful, that Jesus would walk with me through whatever came.

That the loss as terrible as it would be could not compare to what I had gained.

He quoted Paul from Romans. I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.

Before I left that night, Elias prayed for me. It was the first time anyone had prayed for me as a follower of Christ.

He prayed for strength, for wisdom, for protection. He prayed for my family. He prayed that somehow miraculously they might come to know Jesus, too.

As he prayed, I felt that presence again, the same one from my study. Jesus was there in that small apartment listening to Elas’s prayer, surrounding me with his love.

I wasn’t alone. Whatever came next, I wouldn’t face it alone. Over the next two weeks, I met with Elias three more times.

He taught me the basics of Christian faith, not as academic theology, but as a lived reality.

He explained salvation, grace, the work of the Holy Spirit. He helped me understand the Bible as the word of God rather than as a text to critique.

He taught me how to pray, how to read scripture, how to listen for God’s voice.

He also helped me count the cost. He made me think through every consequence, every loss I would face.

He wanted to make sure I understood what I was choosing. Because once I made this public, once I told my family there would be no going back.

I knew I couldn’t delay much longer. The longer I pretended, the worse the eventual revelation would be.

And I couldn’t keep living this double life. I couldn’t keep lying to Ila, lying to my children, lying to everyone who knew me.

But I was terrified. Not of losing my career or my reputation. Those seemed almost trivial now.

I was terrified of losing my children. Omar was seven, Amamira was five. They were my whole heart.

The thought of not seeing them grow up, not being there for them, not watching them become who they were meant to be, it was unbearable.

I spent hours in prayer begging Jesus to show me another way. Couldn’t I follow him secretly?

Couldn’t I keep my faith hidden, protecting my family while privately believing in Christ? Couldn’t there be a path that didn’t require losing everything?

But every time I prayed this way, I felt the gentle but firm response. I asked you to take up your cross and follow me.

I never promised it would be easy. I never promised it wouldn’t cost you everything.

But I promised I would be with you, and I promised it would be worth it.

I knew he was right. I knew I couldn’t follow Jesus in secret. He had called me by name.

He had claimed me as his own. How could I respond to that love by hiding our relationship, by being ashamed of him?

Finally, one evening in early May, I made my decision. I would tell Ila that night.

I would tell her everything. The research, the doubts, the encounter, the truth. I would tell her I had become a follower of Jesus Christ and I would face whatever came after.

I waited until the children were asleep. Ila and I sat in our living room with tea as we had a thousand times before, but this time my hands were shaking as I held my cup.

“I need to tell you something,” I said. “Something important, something that will change everything.

She looked at me with concern, setting down her tea. She had known something was wrong for months.

She had been patient, trusting that I would tell her when I was ready. Now her face showed both relief that I was finally opening up and fear about what I might say.

I told her everything. I spoke for almost an hour explaining the whole journey from my initial   confidence in writing the book to the doubts that crept in to the night in my study when everything changed.

I told her about hearing Jesus’s voice, about the Bible opening by itself, about the overwhelming presence and love   I had experienced.

I told her that I had been meeting with Christians, learning about following Christ. I told her that I couldn’t deny what I had experienced.

I told her that Jesus was real, that he was Lord, that he had claimed me as his own.

And then I told her that I loved her, that I loved our children more than my own life, but that I had to follow Jesus no matter what it cost me.

When I finished, the silence in our living room was deafening. Ila sat perfectly still.

Her face pale, her hands gripping her teacup. For a long moment, she didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t even seem to breathe.

Then she sat down her cup very carefully, as if afraid she might drop it.

She looked at me with an expression I had never seen before. A mixture of horror, disbelief, and something that might have been grief.

She spoke quietly, but her voice was shaking. “Tell me this is a joke. Tell me you’re testing me somehow.”

“It’s not a joke,” I said softly. “It’s the truth. I know how difficult this is to hear.”

Difficult. She cut me off, her voice rising. Difficult? Rasheed, you’re telling me you’ve abandoned Islam.

You’re telling me you’ve become a Christian. You’re telling me you’ve committed apostasy. Do you understand what you’re saying?

I understand. No, you don’t. She stood up, becking away from me as if I had become dangerous.

You don’t understand what this means for us. For the children, for both our families.

You’re destroying everything. I stood too, reaching out to her, but she stepped further away.

Ila, please listen. No, you listen. She was crying now, tears streaming down her face.

Whatever you think happened to you, whatever you think you experienced, you’re wrong. You’ve been working too hard.

You’ve been stressed. You’ve had some kind of breakdown. This isn’t real. Jesus didn’t speak to you.

You’re confused. You’re exhausted. You need help. I’m not confused. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.

Then you’re insane. She was almost shouting now, which was unlike her. Ila never raised her voice.

Do you know what people will say? Do you know what your father will do?

What the imam will say? You’ll be shunned, Rashid. Worse than shunned. You could be killed.

I know. And you’re willing to risk that? You’re willing to risk our family, our children’s futures, everything we’ve built together.

For what? For some voice you think you heard in your study. It wasn’t just some voice.

It was Jesus. It was God himself. She stared at me as if looking at a stranger.

Maybe I had become one. I can’t do this, she said finally, her voice breaking.

I can’t be married to someone who has rejected Islam. I won’t raise my children with an apostate.

You need to fix this, Rashid. You need to go talk to the imam. Get help.

Come back to your senses because if you don’t, she didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

I understood what she was saying. It was him, the Rashid I used to be, or nothing.

There was no middle ground. I won’t change my mind, I said gently. I can’t.

I’ve encountered the truth. How can I turn away from it? Then we have nothing more to talk about.

She walked out of the room. I heard our bedroom door close, heard the lock click.

I stood alone in the living room, the tea growing cold on the table, and felt my heart breaking into pieces.

That night was the longest of my life. I slept on the couch, though I barely slept at all.

I lay awake listening to Ila crying in our bedroom, knowing I was the cause of her pain.

And unable to do anything about it. In the morning, before the children woke, Ila emerged from the bedroom with red, swollen eyes.

She told me she was taking Omar and Amamira to her parents’ house. She needed time to think, she said.

She needed space. She needed to figure out what to do. I asked if I could at least say goodbye to the children.

She hesitated, then nodded. I went into their room where they were just waking up.

They were so innocent, so unaware that their world was about to shatter. Omar hugged me and asked if I would take him to the park later.

Amira climbed into my lap and showed me a drawing she had made. I held them both, memorizing the feeling of their small bodies in my arms, breathing in the smell of their hair, fighting back tears.

I told them I loved them more than anything in the world. I told them to be good for their mother.

I told them I would see them soon, though I didn’t know if that was true.

When Ila took them away, when I heard the apartment door close behind them, I collapsed on the floor and wept.

I wept for the loss of my family, for the pain I was causing people I loved, for the price that following Jesus was costing me.

But even in my grief, even in the worst pain I had ever felt, I still felt that presence.

Jesus was there weeping with me. Holding me through the agony, reminding me I wasn’t alone.

Over the next few days, the situation escalated exactly as I had feared. Ila told her parents, who told my parents, who told the rest of our families.

My father came to the apartment. His face read with rage and grief. He demanded to know if it was true, if I had really betrayed my family and my faith.

When I confirmed it, he struck me across the face. It was the only time in my life he had hit me.

Then he wept, which was worse than the blow. He begged me to recant, to come back to Islam to save myself and our family from disgrace.

I tried to explain what had happened, but he wouldn’t listen. None of them would listen.

My brothers came, my sisters, the imam from our mosque, family, friends, colleagues. They all tried different approaches.

Some angry, some pleading, some trying to reason with me logically. They offered me everything they could think of.

Money if that was the problem. Therapy if I was mentally ill, a vacation if I needed rest, anything if I would just recant and return to Islam.

But I couldn’t. I had encountered Jesus Christ. I had heard his voice calling my name.

How could I deny that? How could I pretend it hadn’t happened? The offers turned to threats, vague at first, then more explicit.

People who left Islam faced consequences. They reminded me I was putting myself in danger.

I was putting my family in danger. Did I want to be responsible for what might happen?

Through it all, I tried to respond with love. I tried to explain that I wasn’t rejecting them.

I was following truth. I tried to tell them about Jesus, about his love, about what I had experienced, but they couldn’t hear it.

To them, I had betrayed everything. I had abandoned not just a religion, but an identity, a culture, a way of life.

After two   weeks of interventions and arguments, my family gave me an ultimatum. Publicly recant, return to Islam and all would be forgiven or refuse and face the consequences.

Complete separation from my family, divorce, loss of access to my children. I asked for one night to pray and make my final decision.

That night, alone in the apartment that no longer felt like home, I got on my knees and cried out to Jesus.

Is this really what you ask of me? Do I really have to lose my children?

Isn’t there another way? I didn’t hear an audible voice like I had that first night.

But I felt a response deep   in my spirit. A reminder of Jesus’s own words.

Whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me. And I understood.

Jesus wasn’t asking me to stop loving my children. He was asking me to love him more.

He was asking me to trust that he loved them even more than I did.

That he had a plan even when I couldn’t see it. I wept until I had no tears left.

Then I made my decision. The next morning, I told my family I couldn’t recant.

I told them I had encountered the living God in Jesus Christ and I would follow him.

Whatever it cost me. My father’s response was cold and final. He told me I was no longer his son.

Ila filed for divorce. Her family made it clear I would not be allowed near the children.

My brothers said if I tried to contact any family member, they would report me to the authorities.

In the space of a few weeks, I lost everything. My marriage, my children, my extended family, my job, my reputation, my community, my country.

Everything that had defined who Rashid al-Mansuri was, it was all stripped away. Elias and the underground church helped me arrange to leave Syria.

It wasn’t safe for me anymore. There had been threats and they were taking them seriously.

They helped me get to Jordan, where I could apply for refugee status, where there was a larger Christian community that could support me.

I left Damascus on a hot night in June. I had one bag with a few clothes and books.

I had no money except what the church had given me. I had no family except the brothers and sisters in Christ I barely knew.

As the car pulled away from the city, I looked back at the lights of Damascus fading in the distance.

Somewhere in that city were my children, sleeping in their beds, growing up without their father.

Somewhere in that city was my old life, my old certainty, my old identity. All of it was gone now.

All of it was lost. But I had Jesus. And somehow, impossibly, that was enough.

The first months in Aman were the darkest period of my life. I lived in a tiny apartment provided by a Christian refugee organization.

I had almost no money, no job, no legal status in Jordan. I was waiting for my asylum case to be processed, which could take years.

I was completely dependent on the charity of others. But the physical hardship wasn’t the worst part.

The worst part was the grief. I grieved for my children constantly. Omar and Amira haunted my thoughts every moment.

I would wonder what they were doing, if they missed me, if they understood why I had disappeared from their lives.

Were they angry with me? Did they hate me for abandoning them? Were they being told I was dead or worse that I had betrayed them?

The not knowing was torture. I also grieved for Ila. Despite everything, I still loved her.

She had been a good wife, a wonderful mother. Our marriage had been happy before all this.

I grieved for the pain I had caused her, for the difficult position I had put her in, for the dreams we had shared that would never come true now.

I grieved for my father, for the way I had shattered his heart. I grieved for my mother, my siblings, my extended family.

I grieved for my old life, my old certainty, my old understanding of who I was and what my purpose was.

Some days the grief was so heavy I couldn’t get out of bed. I would lie there staring at the ceiling wondering if I had made the right choice.

I had given up everything for Jesus. But Jesus felt distant now, silent. I didn’t hear his voice anymore.

I didn’t feel his presence like I had that night in my study. Had I imagined it all?

Had I destroyed my life for a delusion, in my darkest moments, these doubts would creep in.

But then I would remember. I would remember how real that voice had been. How undeniable that presence.

I would remember the Bible opening by itself to Isaiah 43. The exact words I had just heard spoken.

I would remember the love that had surrounded me. The certainty I had felt. It had been real.

It was still real even if I couldn’t feel it right now. Jesus hadn’t abandoned me just because I couldn’t sense him every moment.

Faith wasn’t about feelings. It was about trust. The Arabic speaking church in Aman became my lifeline.

They were mostly Iraqi and Syrian Christians who had fled persecution along with a handful of converts from Islam like me.

They had so little themselves yet they shared everything with me. They brought me food, helped me navigate the refugee system, sat with me when the loneliness became unbearable.

They didn’t judge me for my doubts or my grief. They had walked similar paths.

They understood. There was an older Iraqi woman named Miriam who particularly took me under her wing.

She had lost her husband and two sons to ISIS violence. She had every reason to be bitter, to be angry at God.

But instead, she radiated a peace I couldn’t understand. She would make me tea and tell me stories about how Jesus had sustained her through the worst imaginable losses.

One afternoon when I was particularly low, when I was questioning everything again, she took my hands and looked me in the eyes.

“Brother Rashid,” she said gently, “you think you gave up everything for Jesus, but the truth is you gave up nothing.

Everything you lost was already temporary, already fading. Your children will grow up whether you’re there or not.

Your career would have ended eventually. Your reputation would have faded. All of it was dust.

But what you gained, eternal   life, knowing God personally, being called his child that is forever, that can never be taken from you.

Her words didn’t erase the pain, but they gave me perspective. She was right. I had traded temporary things for eternal things.

I had traded knowing about God for knowing God himself. The cost was real, but the gain was infinitely greater.

Slowly, very slowly, I began to rebuild my life. Not the life I had before that was gone forever, but a new life built on a different foundation.

I started volunteering at the church, helping with translation work since I spoke Arabic, English, and some Greek.

I began teaching Bible studies for other Arabic speakaking refugees. I found work doing odd jobs, cleaning, tutoring, whatever I could find.

The work was humble, nothing like my former prestigious position as a scholar. But there was dignity in it, a simplicity I had never experienced before.

And I started writing again. Not the book I had originally planned. That manuscript was abandoned, worthless now, but a new kind of writing.

I began documenting my testimony, recording what had happened to me so that others might understand.

I wrote about the journey from certainty to doubt to encounter. I wrote about hearing Jesus’s voice, about the cost of following him, about the strange joy that existed alongside the grief.

I shared my testimony at a small gathering of believers one evening. I was nervous, afraid I wouldn’t be able to get through it without breaking   down.

But as I spoke, as I told them about that night in my study, when everything changed, I felt Jesus’s presence again.

Not as overwhelming as that first night, but real gentle, surrounding me with love. When I finished, there were tears on many faces.

And then a young Syrian man in the back raised his hand. He said he was Muslim, that he had been curious about Christianity and had come to investigate.

He said my story had touched something   in him, had made him want to know more about Jesus.

In that moment, I understood something profound. My suffering wasn’t meaningless. My losses weren’t wasted.

God was using even the worst thing that had happened to me. Losing my children, my family, my old life to reach others who needed to hear about his love.

The pain didn’t disappear, but it gained purpose. Over the next year, I saw several Muslims come to faith in Jesus after hearing my testimony.

Each conversion filled me with joy, but also with fear for them. Knowing what they would face, I walked with them through their own journeys of loss and discovery.

I became the person I had wished I’d had when I first encountered Christ. Someone who understood, who had been there, who could guide them through the darkness.

I also began to understand grace in deeper ways. As a Muslim, I had believed salvation came through good works, through obedience to religious law.

I had tried so hard to be good enough, to pray enough, to know enough.

But I was never certain it was sufficient. There was always the fear that my good deeds might not outweigh my bad deeds on the day of judgment.

But Jesus had given me something completely different. He had given me certainty. Not because I was good enough, but because he was, not because I had earned it, but because he had freely given it.

The burden of trying to save myself was lifted. I was saved by his grace alone, through faith alone.

It was a gift freely given that I could never deserve but could gratefully receive.

This truth transformed how I lived. I no longer served God out of fear or obligation, trying to earn his favor.

I served him out of love and gratitude, responding to the incredible gift he had given me.

The difference was profound. About 18 months after arriving in Jordan, I received an email that stopped my heart.

It was from my daughter Amira. She had somehow found my email address. I don’t know how.

The message was brief, written in the careful Arabic of a 7-year-old learning to write.

It said, “Baba, I miss you. Mama says you went away. Are you coming back?

I drew you a picture, but I don’t know where to send it. I love you.

I wept reading those words. I read them over and over until I had memorized every letter.

My daughter hadn’t forgotten me. She still loved me. She still called me Baba. I wanted desperately to respond to tell her I loved her, too.

To explain why I had left. But I was afraid. What if her email had been discovered by her mother’s family?

What if responding would put Amira in danger or cause trouble for Ila? What if my words would only make things worse?

I prayed about it for days, seeking wisdom. Finally, I wrote a brief response. I told her I loved her more than anything in the world.

I told her I hadn’t left because I wanted to, but because I had to follow what God was calling me to do.

I told her I prayed for her every single day. I told her I hoped someday she would understand.

I sent it and waited, heart pounding, for a response, but none came. Either she never received it or someone prevented her from replying.

I never heard from her again. The grief of that silence was almost unbearable. But I clung to the knowledge that Jesus loved my children even more than I did.

He could reach them in ways I couldn’t. He could protect them, guide them, draw them to himself in his perfect timing.

I had to trust him with the people I loved most in the world. After 2 years in Jordan, an opportunity arose to relocate to Lebanon, where there was a larger community of believers and more possibilities for ministry.

I moved to Beirut and began working with a ministry that served Arab refugees and conducted outreach to Muslims.

I also began sharing my testimony through anonymous blogs and Christian websites that reached Arabicspeaking audiences.

I never used my real name or identifiable details for safety reasons and also because I didn’t want it to be about me.

I wanted it to be about Jesus. I wrote under a pseudonym sharing my journey from skepticism to faith.

The response was overwhelming. Thousands of Arabicspeaking Muslims read my testimony online. Some wrote angry messages accusing me of betrayal and deception.

But many others wrote to say my story had touched them, had made them curious about Jesus, had helped them understand Christianity in a new way.

One message particularly moved me. It was from a young man in Egypt who said he had been assigned   to write a paper refuting Christianity.

He had started his research with confidence. Certain he would prove Christianity false. But the more he studied, the more doubts he had.

Then he found my channel and heard my story. He said it was like hearing his own journey reflected back to him.

He said he had recently surrendered his life to Jesus and wanted to thank me for helping him feel less alone.

I wept reading his message because I saw in his story an echo of my own and I understood then with stunning clarity how God works.

The project that was supposed to destroy Christianity, my book disproving the faith, had instead become the very thing that led me to Christ.

And now through my testimony about the journey, others were finding him too. God had taken what was meant for destruction and used it for redemption.

He had taken my losses and transformed them into something beautiful. He was beauty from ashes, joy from mourning, praise from despair.

I thought about the publishing house that had commissioned my original book, the book I never finished.

Sometimes I wondered what they thought happened to me, why I disappeared, why their scholar vanished without delivering his manuscript.

I imagined their confusion, their anger perhaps at the wasted investment. But God hadn’t wasted anything.

Every hour I spent studying the Bible to refute it had actually been preparation for understanding it truly.

Every argument I learned against Christianity had become a bridge for reaching other Muslims who had the same questions.

Every piece of my former life that was stripped away had made room for something infinitely more valuable.

It had been 3 years now since that night in my study. 3 years since I heard Jesus call my name.

Looking back, I could see his hand in everything. In the doubts he planted, in the passages that haunted me, in the dreams that prepared me, in the encounter that changed me forever.

I would be lying if I said the pain was gone. It wasn’t. I still achd for my children.

I still mourned my old life sometimes. I still struggled with loneliness, with uncertainty about the future, with the lingering effects of trauma and loss.

But I had Jesus. And I had discovered something I never knew as a Muslim.

That knowing God personally, intimately as a loving father through his son Jesus Christ was worth any cost.

The relationship I had with him now was so much deeper, so much more real than anything I had experienced before.

As a Muslim, I had submitted to Allah from a distance, never quite sure if he heard my prayers, never certain of my standing before him.

Always striving to be good enough, but never knowing if I was. But as a Christian, as a follower of Jesus, I knew I was loved.

Not because I was good enough, but because he was. Not because I deserved it, but because he chose me.

I was his child. Called by name, held in his love, secure in his grace.

This changed everything about how I lived. I no longer woke up anxious about whether I had prayed enough or followed enough rules.

I woke up grateful, amazed that the God of the universe knew my name and called me his own.

I no longer served out of fear of punishment, but out of love for the one who had pursued me, found me, and changed me.

I thought often about my grandfather, the Imam who had first taught me to love God and seek truth.

I wished I could tell him what I had discovered. I wished I could share with him that the hunger he had planted in me, the hunger to know God truly had led me to Jesus.

I believed that if my grandfather had encountered   Christ the way I had, if he had heard that voice calling his name, he too would have followed.

Perhaps someday in eternity, I would be able to tell him. Perhaps I would see him again in the presence of Jesus and we would worship together the one we had both been seeking all along.

One evening I was asked to share my testimony at a gathering of believers, both Arab Christians and Western missionaries who worked in the region.

After I finished speaking, a woman approached me with tears in her eyes. She told me she had been a missionary in Syria years ago before the war.

She said she had prayed for Muslim scholars and leaders to encounter Jesus. She said she had sometime felt discouraged wondering if her prayers made any difference.

Now she said, seeing me stand before her as a living answer to those prayers, she knew that nothing in God’s kingdom was wasted.

Every prayer mattered. Every seed planted bore fruit in God’s timing. Her words reminded me that I was part of a larger story.

My conversion wasn’t just about me. It was about all the people who had prayed for Muslims to know Jesus.

It was about the centuries of faithful witnesses who had preserved the gospel and passed   it down so that it could reach even a skeptical scholar in Damascus.

It was about the God who never stops pursuing those he loves, who speaks into the darkness and calls us by name.

I still keep the Bible from that night, the one that opened by itself to Isaiah 43.

It’s worn now. Pages marked and underlined, margins filled with notes. Sometimes I hold it and remember that night.

Remember the terror and the joy. Remember the voice that shattered my certainty and gave me truth.

I have started writing letters to my children, letters I may never be able to send.

I write to them about who I am now, about why I made the choices I did, about how much I love them and pray for them.

I write about Jesus, about what he means to me, about the hope I have that someday they might understand.

I don’t know if they’ll ever read those letters. I don’t know if I’ll ever see them again in this life.

The not knowing is still painful. But I’ve learned to hold that pain alongside the joy, to carry grief and gratitude at the same time.

Because that’s what following Jesus often means. Holding sorrow and hope together. Trusting him through losses that don’t make sense.

Believing that he is good even when circumstances are hard. If I could speak to my former self, the confident scholar who sat down to write a book disproving Christianity, I would tell him this.

You think you’re in control. You think you’re researching God, but God is researching you.

He’s pursuing you. He’s calling your name even now, though you can’t hear it yet.

And when you finally hear it, when you finally encounter the living Jesus Christ, everything you think you know will be undone.

You will lose everything, but you will gain infinitely more. You will lose your certainty, but you will find truth himself.

You will lose your family, but you will be adopted into God’s family. You will lose your old life, but you will find real life.

Eternal life. Life that begins now and never ends. And it will be worth it.

Every loss, every tear, every moment of anguish, it will all be worth it because you will have Jesus.

And once you have him, once he calls your name and you recognize his voice, nothing else will ever be enough.

I close with this. I’m sitting now in my small apartment in Beirut, thousands of miles from the home I once knew.

I have very little in terms of earthly possessions. I have no family nearby. I have no prestigious position or respected career.

By the world’s standards, I’ve lost everything. But I have Jesus. I know him. I hear his voice.

I walk with him daily and that is worth more than everything I lost combined.

If you’re watching this, if you’re hearing my story, I want you to know I’m not asking you to become a Christian because it will make your life easier.

It won’t. Jesus never promised easy. He promised his   presence. He promised his love.

He promised that he would never leave us or forsake us. I’m sharing this because it’s true.

Not because it’s convenient or comfortable or socially acceptable, but because it’s true. Jesus Christ is who he claimed to be.

The son of God, the savior of the world, the way, the truth, and the life.

I know this because I met him. I heard his voice. I experienced his love.

And once you’ve encountered the risen Christ, you can never be the same. The cost is real.

I won’t lie to you about that. Following Jesus may cost you everything. It cost me my family, my country, my old identity, everything I thought defined me.

But I would pay that price again in a heartbeat because what I gained was infinitely greater than what I lost.

I gained Jesus and Jesus is worth everything. So if you’re seeking truth, if you’re questioning, if you’re hungry to know God truly, don’t stop seeking.

Keep searching, keep asking, keep knocking. Because Jesus promised that those who seek will find and those who knock the door will be opened.

He’s calling your name right now. Even if you can’t hear it yet, he’s pursuing you with a love that will never give up.

And when you finally hear his voice, when you finally recognize who’s been calling you all along, your life will never be the same.

But it will be better. So much better. Not easier, but better. Not comfortable, but real.

Not safe, but worth everything. My name is Rashid Hassan al-Mansuri. I was a Muslim scholar who set out to disprove Christianity.

Instead, Jesus found me. He called me by name. He shattered my certainty and gave me truth.

He took everything I had and gave me himself. And that was the best trait I ever made.

That is my testimony. That is my story. And every word of it is true.