POWERFUL TESTIMONY: Former Quran Teacher Leaves Islam for Christianity

My name is Ahmad Hassan. For 15 years, I taught the Quran in Aman, Jordan.

I was good at it. Really good. Parents trusted me with their kids. Other teachers asked my opinion.

I had the beard, the prayer beads, the reputation. I’d memorized huge sections of the Quran.

I could recite with perfect Tajed.   I knew the hadith, the juristprudence, all of it.

And then a 12-year-old boy asked me a simple question. I had no idea that question would cost me everything.

It was a Thursday afternoon, early spring,   six students sitting in a circle on the carpet at the Islamic Center.

We were working through Surah Al- Imran. Sun coming through the lattest windows, making patterns on the floor.

Normal day routine. Then Bilal raised his hand. Bilal was bright, always thinking. His dad was a doctor who’d worked in Europe for a while.

The kid asked good questions, the kind that made you think. Ad Ahmad, he said.

That’s what they called me. Teacher, my friend at school says, Muslims believe the Bible got changed.

Is that true? I’d answered this question a hundred times. Easy standard. Yes, Bilal.

The injil the gospel it was originally revealed to prophet Issa peace be upon him but his followers changed it over time   that’s why Allah sent the final revelation the Quran to fix those mistakes bilal nodded but I could see more questions coming you can always tell butad how do we know it got changed have you read the Bible and there it was the honest answer no I hadn’t read the Bible?

Not really. I’d read verses quoted by Muslim scholars,   passages they said showed contradictions.

I’d studied Islamic sources that   explained Christian corruption. But had I ever sat down with the actual   book cover to cover?

No. The scholars have documented it, I said, kept my voice steady, authoritative.   There are many contradictions in the Christian Bible.

Changes made by councils and scribes.   The Quran tells us this. Our scholars point to verses like 279 and 378.

But how do the scholars know if they haven’t compared the original texts? Bilal wasn’t challenging me, just genuinely curious.

My friend showed me his Bible. It seems really old. He says Christians   have manuscripts from way back that match what they read today.

The other students were watching now.   I felt something shift inside me. Just a crack, small, uncomfortable.

Bilal, these are complex matters. Maybe I said it sharper than I meant to.   The important thing is we have the Quran unchanged, perfect, preserved since it was revealed to the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.

The Bible’s corruption is well established. Yes, ad. He lowered his eyes, respectful. Class ended.

Students left.   But the question stayed. It followed me through afternoon prayers. Followed me walking home through the crowded   streets, followed me through dinner with my wife, Ila, and our two daughters.

That night, lying in bed, I couldn’t sleep. How could I claim the Bible was corrupted if I’d never properly examined it myself?

Was I just repeating what I’d been taught, accepting conclusions without checking the evidence? The Quran itself said,   “And those who, when reminded of the verses of their Lord, do not fall upon them deaf and blind.”

I’d always encouraged my students to understand their faith deeply, not to accept things blindly.

But here I was making definitive claims about a text I’d never studied. I made a decision right there in the dark.

I’d read the Christian Bible not to convert. That was absurd.   Just to equip myself better, to understand the corruption firsthand, to point to specific   examples, to be a better teacher.

Simple academic exercise. I had no idea what I was starting.   The next day, I hit a problem I hadn’t thought about.

How do you get a Bible in Aman without raising questions?   Jordan’s moderate, relatively speaking.

We have Christians. They’re a small minority, but   respected. There are churches, but for a known Quran teacher   to be seen with a Christian Bible.

That would start conversations I didn’t want to have. Parents would worry. The center director would ask questions.

I spent days thinking about this. I couldn’t ask Bilal’s Christian friend. Too weird. Might scare the kid’s parents.

I couldn’t walk into a church. Word spreads fast in our community. And yes,   Jordan has bookstores, even a Bible society outlet downtown.

But I couldn’t risk being seen there. Then I remembered the university library. They had a religious study   section, comparative religion materials, academic resources, a teacher doing research.

Completely normal. I went on a Saturday morning, found the section. There it was, a bilingual Arabic English Bible with study notes, heavier than I expected, much bigger than the Quran.

I checked it out with three other books on Islamic history. Camouflage. At home, I wrapped it in brown paper, hid it in my study behind my Islamic books where Ila wouldn’t look.

I felt guilty. Ridiculous really. This was legitimate research. But I felt like I was hiding something shameful.

I started reading late at night after everyone was asleep.   I began with Matthew, first book in the New Testament.

I wanted to read chronologically. The opening   surprised me. A genealogy tracing Jesus through Joseph, who Christians didn’t even think was Jesus’s biological father.

Already an error. But the notes   explained it was about legal lineage, rights to David’s throne.

Interesting. Not necessarily corruption. I kept reading, looking for contradictions,   signs of tampering, theological mistakes.

But something unexpected happened.   The words started affecting me. The Sermon on the Mount, chapters 5-7.

It was unlike anything I’d encountered.   Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.

These weren’t the words of just a prophet. They carried weight,   authority, something that unsettled me.

You have heard that it was   said eye for eye and tooth for tooth.

But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also.

This   went beyond law, beyond justice, into something transcendent. Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you that you may be children of your father in heaven.

I put the book down. My hands were shaking. This wasn’t what I expected. I expected   obvious lies, clear fabrications, teachings that contradicted basic morality.

Instead, I was reading words that cut to the core of human experience, that challenged   me in ways I found both uncomfortable and compelling.

The Quran spoke respectfully   of Issa, acknowledged him as a prophet born of a virgin who performed miracles.

But it portrayed him as one prophet among many, subordinate to Muhammad. These words   in Matthew suggested something more.

Jesus spoke with an authority that seemed above Moses, above   the prophets. Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets.

I have not come to abolish them, but to fulfill them. Fulfill them. Not just obey or teach.

Fulfill, complete them,   bring them to their intended purpose. What did that mean? I read   until 3:00 a.m., finished Matthew, started Mark.

I told myself I was looking for contradictions between the gospel   accounts, a common Muslim criticism.

But I found consistency instead.   Each writer emphasizing different aspects of the same person, the same remarkable figure.

Over the next weeks, I developed a routine. Day teach Quran as always lead   prayers at the center.

Counsel students and parents. Be the respected teacher   everyone expected. Evening. Beautiful husband and father.

Dinner. Help with homework. Watch the girls play.   Night. Retreat to my study. Read the forbidden book.

I moved through the Gospels, then Acts, then Paul’s letters. I took notes, cross-referenced passages, consulted the study materials.

I looked for the contradictions Muslim scholars always cited. I found discrepancies.   Different gospel writers recorded different details, emphasized different teachings, organized events differently, but these were the variations you’d expect   from different witnesses to the same events, not evidence of corruption.

Actually, the variations increased my confidence. If the gospels had been coordinated, they’d agree on every detail.

What I found was coherence, a single personality emerging from all four accounts. Jesus of Nazareth, a man who spoke and   acted with unprecedented authority, who challenged religious establishments, who showed compassion to   outcasts, who claimed to forgive sins, something only God could do, who predicted his own death and resurrection.

The resurrection. This was the claim I’d always been taught was ultimate Christian corruption.

Islam   teaches Jesus wasn’t crucified at all. That Allah substituted someone else who looked like him, that Jesus   was raised directly to heaven.

The Quran says in Surah Ana, “They did not kill him, nor did they crucify him, but another was made to resemble him to them.”

But as I read the gospel accounts, I was struck by their detail, their specificity, their evident basis in eyewitness testimony.

These weren’t myths that accumulated over centuries. According to most scholars, they were written within a few decades of the events by people who claimed to have seen what they described.

And the resurrection wasn’t peripheral.   It was the climax, the point everything moved toward.

Without   it, nothing made sense. With it, everything fell into place. I read   Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians.

He listed the resurrection appearances.   He appeared to Cphus and then to the 12.

After that, he appeared to more than 500 of the brothers and sisters   at the same time, most of whom are still living.

Most of whom are still living. Paul was writing to people who could verify his claims, who could question the witnesses themselves.

This wasn’t legend.   This was claimed as historical fact recorded while witnesses were alive and could   be checked.

Something was happening to me, and I didn’t know what to do about it. Two months into my secret study,   the weight of what I was doing started crushing me.

During the day, I taught my students that Christians corrupted   their scripture, that Jesus was merely a prophet, that the Trinity was sherk, the unforgivable sin of associating partners with Allah.

But at   night, I read words that challenged every one of these claims. The cognitive dissonance was   exhausting.

I found myself distracted during prayers, my mind wandering to passages I’d read the night before.

I became short with my students, then immediately felt guilty. Ila noticed. You seem troubled, husband, she said one   evening as we prepared for bed.

Is something wrong at the center? No, nothing like that.   Just tired. Been preparing new lessons.

Not entirely a lie. I was preparing lessons, constantly thinking about how to address questions   about Christianity with my new complicated understanding.

But I was also keeping a massive secret from her.   The deception ate at me.

The worst moment came during Friday prayers. The imam’s hudba that week was about the dangers of Christian missionary activity in Jordan.

He spoke passionately about protecting our youth from corruption, about the lies Christians told about their prophet being divine.

They claim their prophet is the son of God, he declared, voice rising.   But Allah says clearly in the Quran, “Say he is Allah the one.

Allah the eternal   refuge. He neither begets nor is born nor is there to him any   equivalent.

There is no son, no trinity. These are innovations, corruption,   sherk.” The congregation murmured agreement.

I sat there in silence, aware of the Bible   hidden in my study, aware of the doubt growing in my heart.

Because the more I read, the harder it became to dismiss Christian claims   as simple corruption.

The New Testament writers weren’t claiming Jesus was a separate God alongside Allah. They were claiming something far more complex and   strange.

That the one true God had somehow entered his creation, taken on human flesh, walked among his creatures.

The word became flesh   and made his dwelling among us. John’s gospel said, “We have seen his   glory, the glory of the one and only son who came from the father full of grace and truth.

Scandalous claim violated everything I’d been taught about God’s transcendence, his absolute otherness. But was it corruption or was it revelation?”

I began studying Islamic sources more carefully, looking for honest engagement with these questions, reading classical commentators, modern apologists, scholarly debates.

The Islamic arguments against Christianity boiled down to two points. First,   Christian teachings contradicted the Quran, and since the Quran was the final revelation, it   must be correct.

Second, Christian doctrines like the Trinity and incarnation were logically impossible or absurd. But the first argument was circular.

It assumed the conclusion it was trying to prove.   And the second argument seemed to place limits on God’s power.

If God was truly omnipotent, couldn’t he enter his creation if he chose? Couldn’t he reveal himself in ways that transcended human logic?

The Quran said, “Allah is able to do all things.” If Allah was truly all powerful, why would the incarnation be impossible for him?

These thoughts felt dangerous, heretical. I tried to push them away, return to the certainty I’d felt for 15 years.

But once questions begin, they’re hard to stop. I needed to understand how Christians themselves explain their faith.

I found books online. CS Lewis, Timothy Keller, Lee Strobel. I ordered   them to my cousin’s electronic shop.

Told him they were study materials for   a comparative religion project. Lewis’s mere Christianity   hit me hard.

His famous argument about Jesus, that he must be either a liar, a lunatic, or Lord.

It forced me to confront the question directly. The Quran’s   solution that Jesus was a righteous prophet but not divine didn’t fit with what Jesus actually claimed about himself in the   Gospels.

I and the father are one, Jesus said in John. When Jewish leaders tried to stone him for blasphemy, Jesus didn’t correct   them.

Didn’t say, I only meant we’re united in purpose. He doubled   down. I did tell you, but you do not believe.

The works I do in my father’s name testify about me. Either Jesus was claiming to be God,   in which case he was right or deluded, or the gospel writers completely made up these sayings.

But if they fabricated the sayings, why create a Jesus who made such problematic claims?

Why not make him a simple moral teacher whose message would be easier to accept?

Now,   Lewis’s argument doesn’t address every scholarly view. Some say legendary development happened over time.

That sayings got attributed to Jesus. He never spoke. I read about those   theories, too.

But here’s what convinced me those alternatives were less plausible. The early nature of these   claims.

Paul’s letters written in the 50s AD,   within 20 years of Jesus’s death, already proclaimed him as divine.

The   gospels written probably between 60 taub and 90 AD all consistently portrayed this same high christologology.

If these were legends that developed slowly, we’d expect to see earlier, simpler versions.   We don’t.

The more I studied, the more I realized Christianity’s problems. The incarnation,   the crucifixion, the resurrection weren’t corruptions added later.

They were the core from the very beginning. The things that made Christianity distinctive. 4 months into my study, I hit a crisis point.

I’d finished the entire New Testament   twice, studied Islamic responses to Christianity, studied Christian responses to Islam, wrestled with the theological and historical questions, and I was no closer to certainty than when I began.

Actually, that’s not true. I was certain about some things. I was certain the Christian scriptures hadn’t been corrupted the way I’d been taught.

The manuscript   evidence was too strong, the historical transmission too well documented. Whatever one thought about the theological claims, the texts themselves had been faithfully preserved.

I was also certain Jesus wasn’t who I’d been taught he was. The Quran’s portrait of Issa as a righteous prophet who performed miracles.

That was true as far as it went, but it was incomplete. A sketch, not a full portrait.

The Jesus of the Gospels was far more radical, far more challenging, far more divine.

His claims about himself,   his authority to forgive sins, his predictions about his death   and resurrection, his post-resurrection appearances, these couldn’t be easily dismissed.

But I wasn’t certain what to do with this knowledge. Accepting Jesus as   a great teacher or even a prophet was easy.

Muslims already did that.   But accepting him as the son of God, as God incarnate, as the savior who died for sins, that was something else entirely.

That would mean everything I’d believed and taught for 15 years was wrong. That   would mean converting to Christianity with all the painful consequences that would bring.

I thought about my position   in the community, the respect I’d earned, the trust parents placed in me,   my family, Ila and our daughters, what this would mean for them, my friends, my extended   family, my entire social world, to convert to Christianity in Jordan, even moderate Jordan, wasn’t >>   >> illegal.

But it was unthinkable. Social death, family rejection, loss of career.   And yet, what good is it for someone to gain the whole world yet forfeit their soul?

Jesus had asked. Late one night after Ila went to bed, I sat in my study with my head in my hands.

The Bible lay open before me. Gospel of John 3. Jesus telling Nicodemus, “Very truly I tell you, no one can see the kingdom of God unless they are born again.”

Born again. Strange expression,   but I understood what it meant. Complete transformation,   new beginning, death to the old life, resurrection to something new.

I didn’t want to be born again.   I wanted to remain who I was, comfortable, respected, secure in my identity   and place.

But I also wanted truth. I’d spent my entire adult life   claiming to teach truth, to guide others to it.

How could I turn away from truth now simply because it was inconvenient? I decided to pray.

Not the ritualized salah I performed five times daily. A raw, honest prayer.   I slipped to my knees on the carpet, spoke to God in Arabic as I had all my life.

But this time I didn’t   recite memorized words. I spoke from my heart. Oh God, I began paused.

Was Allah even the right name? It just meant the God in Arabic. Christians used it too.

But when I said Allah, I meant the God of the Quran. The God who had no son, who had never become incarnate.

I started again. Oh God, creator of heaven and earth, you who know all things.

I’m confused. I started studying the Christian Bible to   disprove it, to show my students its corruption.

But instead, I found words that   move me, claims that challenge me, a portrait of Jesus I can’t reconcile with what I’ve been taught.

I paused, aware of how dangerous these words would sound   to any other Muslim.

I was questioning the Quran, questioning   Muhammad, questioning everything. I don’t know what’s true anymore, I continued.

I thought I knew, but I was just repeating what I’d been taught, accepting conclusions without investigating.

Show me the truth, oh God. If Islam is true,   confirm it to me.

If Christianity is true, reveal it to me. I’m willing to accept whatever you show me, no matter the cost.

Most honest prayer I’d ever prayed. I stayed on my knees,   waiting, hoping for some sign, some confirmation, some peace.

Nothing happened. Room stayed quiet.   Night still. I felt no sudden conviction. Saw no vision.

Heard no voice. Disappointed, I rose and went to bed. Maybe God was   silent because he disapproved of my doubts.

Or maybe he didn’t care about one confused Quran teacher in Ammon. I fell into troubled sleep.

The dream   came with an intensity unlike anything I’d experienced. I found myself   standing in a place that seemed both mosque and church.

The architecture shifted as I looked.   Islamic geometric patterns, then Christian arches and crosses.

I was alone, or so I thought. Then I saw a figure before me. Simple robes, Middle Eastern style, dark hair, kind eyes, light around him,   not blinding, warm, comforting.

I knew immediately who it was. Not because anyone told me, I simply knew the way you know things in   dreams.

Jesus. Peace be upon you, Ahmad. He said in Arabic,   using the traditional Islamic greeting.

I tried to respond. Return the greeting. But my voice wouldn’t work. I felt paralyzed by fear and awe.

Jesus   smiled gently. Do not be afraid. I’ve come to answer your prayer. My prayer?

I managed   to whisper. You asked for truth. Said you’d accept whatever God showed you, no matter the cost.

Did you mean it? The question hung between us in the dream. I felt exposed.

Every doubt, every fear, every hidden motivation visible to him. I I think so, but I’m   afraid.

Afraid of what truth might cost me. I know, Jesus said, his voice full of compassion.

I understand   fear, Ahmad. I felt it in Gethsemane facing the cup I had to drink.

But I also told my disciples. In this world,   you will have trouble. But take heart.

I have overcome the world. He stepped closer. I felt overwhelming love radiating from him.

Not romantic or familiar love. Something deeper, purer.   The love of creator for creation.

Ahmad,   you’ve been teaching about me for years, but you haven’t known me. You’ve spoken my name, but you haven’t spoken to me.

You’ve honored me as a   prophet, but you’ve denied me as I truly am.

I don’t understand. Though I was beginning to,   you already know, Jesus said gently.

You’ve read my words,   seen the evidence, wrestled with the truth, but still you deny me   because accepting me would cost everything you’ve built.

He   was right. I did know. Deep down beneath all the intellectual arguments and theological debates I knew,   I’d known for weeks, too afraid to admit it.

“Why do you deny the one you already believe in?” Jesus asked. His words   pierced my heart like a sword.

I fell to my knees in the dream. Tears   streaming down my face. Because I’m afraid.

Because it will destroy my life.   Because I don’t know how to live as a Christian in a Muslim world.

Jesus knelt   beside me, placed a hand on my shoulder. The touch felt real, solid, warm.

Ahmad, I didn’t call you to an easy life. I called you to follow me, to take up your cross.

Yes, it will cost you much, but what I offer in return is worth infinitely more than   what you’ll lose.

I offer you forgiveness of sins, eternal life, and most of all,   myself. I offer you relationship with God, not as a distant master, but as father.

I offer you the Holy Spirit to dwell within you, to guide you, to transform you from the inside out.

But how? I asked desperately.   How do I do this? How do I convert?

Where do I go? Who do   I tell? Jesus smiled. First, you must believe.

Not just intellectual agreement with facts. Trust. Trust that I am who I claim to be, the son of God, the way,   the truth, and the life.

Trust that my death on the cross paid the penalty for your sins. Trust that I rose from the dead and now sit   at the right hand of the father.

Do you believe this, Ahmad? In that moment, the last walls of resistance crumbled.   All my theological objections, all my fear of consequences,   all my pride and stubbornness.

They fell away. I was   left with a simple choice. Believe or not believe.

Yes, I whispered. I believe. Jesus, son of God. I believe you are who you claimed to be.

Forgive me for denying you. Forgive me for spreading lies about you. Come into my life.

Teach me to follow   you. The moment I spoke those words, something changed. The light around Jesus grew brighter.

I felt   that light enter me, filling me with warmth, peace, joy. I felt for the first time in my life truly clean.

The guilt I’d carried for years, guilt over sins I could never quite atone for   through prayers and good works, was washed away in an instant.

I woke suddenly, gasping, heart pounding. Ila stirred beside me. “Ahmad, are you all right?”

“Yes, just a dream. Go back to sleep.” She murmured something and rolled over.

I lay there in the darkness, staring at the ceiling,   mind racing. It had been just a dream, just neurons firing during sleep,   creating images and sensations.

That’s what I should have believed. But I knew better. I knew with absolute certainty   it had been more than a dream, an answer to my prayer, a revelation, an encounter   with the living Christ.

I was a Christian now. Somehow   in that dream, everything had changed. I believed, truly believed, not just with my mind, with my whole heart.

As the reality sank in, I began to weep silently in the darkness, overwhelmed by joy and terror in equal measure.

Next morning,   I woke before dawn as usual for fudger prayers. But this time, I didn’t perform ritual ablutions.

Didn’t roll out my prayer mat toward   Mecca. Instead, I sat in my study, read from the Gospel of John,   and prayed to Jesus.

It felt strange, almost transgressive.   I’d prayed to Allah five times a day for 37 years.

But now, I was praying to   Jesus, speaking to him as if he were present in the room with me.

Lord   Jesus, I began awkward with the unfamiliar address. I don’t know what I’m doing.

>>   >> I don’t know how to be a Christian, but you called me and I answered.

Please guide me. Show me what to do next. I heard Ila stirring in the bedroom.

Quickly, I hid my Bible and went to prepare for   the day, playing the role of beautiful Muslim husband and father.

Over the following days, I lived a double life. Outwardly, nothing changed. I still taught Quran at the center, still attended Friday prayers, still spoke about Islam with authority and conviction, but inwardly everything was different.

When I taught about Jesus now, I felt like a fraud.   I’d tell my students the Islamic version, that Issa was a prophet, not   divine, not crucified.

But my heart rebelled against the words even as I spoke them.   I was teaching lies and I knew it.

The guilt was crushing. But what choice did I have? To reveal my conversion would mean losing my job immediately, possibly facing violence from angry community members who’d see me as an apostate.

It might even put Leila and the girls at risk. So I remained silent, a secret believer, speaking the expected words while my heart belonged to Christ.

I searched online for resources about secret believers in Muslim contexts. I discovered I wasn’t alone.

There were thousands, perhaps millions of Muslims around the world who’d come to faith in Christ, but couldn’t publicly acknowledge it.

They lived in fear, isolated,   unable to openly worship or fellowship with other Christians.

Some called them insider movements or Muslim background believers. There was debate about whether it was acceptable to continue outwardly practicing Islam   while secretly following Jesus.

Some argued it was necessary for survival and witness. Others   said it was compromise, a failure to count the cost of disciplehip.

I didn’t know what to think. I only knew I needed help. I couldn’t do this alone.

I decided to find a church, but how to make contact   without raising suspicion.

I couldn’t just walk into a Sunday service. Too many people, too much risk of being recognized.

I needed a smaller gathering, less visible. I searched online, found a church in West Aman near the university, small building,   modest.

They had a midweek Bible study on Wednesday evenings that   could work. 2 weeks after my dream on a Wednesday night, I drove to the church.

I parked two blocks   away, walked the rest, kept my head down. The building was simple, far humbler than the grand mosques I was used to.

Plain walls, simple wooden cross. About 15 people gathered in a small room. A man in his 50s approached me,   smiling warmly.

Welcome. I’m Pastor Elias. First time visiting us? Yes, I’m I’m interested in learning about Christianity.

I kept my voice low.   I teach comparative religion doing research. If Pastor Elias suspected   more, he didn’t show it.

Of course, you’re very welcome. Please sit wherever you like. I sat in   the back, listened as they studied from the Gospel of Luke.

The leader explained passages, connected them to daily life. It was beautiful, simple, real. After the study, they had tea.

Pastor Elias sat with me, made polite conversation, asked about my work, my studies. You know, he said gently, “We have a few members who came from Muslim backgrounds.

They struggled with similar questions you might have. If you ever wanted to discuss these things more deeply, I’d be happy to talk.”

Careful offer, no pressure. I felt my heart racing.   that might be helpful for my research.

Of course, he gave me a phone number and email   address. Feel free to reach out anytime.

That night,   I created a new email address not connected to my name or identity.

I wrote to Pastor Elias. I explained my situation that I was a Muslim teacher who’d come to believe in Jesus, that I couldn’t publicly convert, that I needed help.

His response came the   next morning. Brother, I wondered if this might be the case.

Yes, we can meet. There’s a quiet cafe near the university. Would Tuesday afternoon work?

I met Pastor Elias at the cafe. Corner table far from the window. Ordered coffee and I poured out my   story, Bilal’s question, my study of the Bible, my growing conviction, my dream, my secret conversion.

Pastor Elias listened without interruption. His face showed compassion and understanding. “You’re not alone,” he said when I   finished.

“I know several other believers in situations like yours. Men and women who found Jesus but can’t openly confess him because of family and social pressures.”

He paused, took a sip of coffee. “We have a small group that meets very discreetly for prayer and Bible study.

Would you like to join us?” “Yes,”   I said. Relief flooded through me. “Yes, please.”

But he didn’t invite me that week or   the next. First, we met three more times.

Just the two of us, coffee shops, quiet   corners. He asked questions, tested my understanding, made sure I grasped the basics of Christian theology,   that I wasn’t just attracted to Jesus as a figure, but understood the gospel message.

He explained the risks,   not just for me, but for the group. If one person got exposed, all could be at risk.

I understood, appreciated his caution. Finally,   after our fourth meeting, he said, “Okay, I’d like you to meet the others.

We gather every other week. I’ll send you the address.” The home fellowship met in a small apartment in   a quiet neighborhood.

There were eight of us, four men, four women, all from Muslim backgrounds, all secret believers.

We rotated locations, different apartment each time, used encrypted messaging apps, varied our meeting times,   never the same pattern twice.

There was Nadia, a university professor who’d come to faith through studying historical evidence for Jesus’s resurrection.

Kareem, a businessman healed of cancer after   Christians prayed for him. Huda, who’d married a Christian, but only truly understood the gospel years later.

Others, each with their own story of how Jesus found them. We sat in a circle on floor cushions, like I sat with my Quran students.

But the atmosphere was completely different. Here we could speak freely about doubts and   fears, questions and discoveries.

Here   we could worship without pretense, pray without performing. The first time we sang worship songs together,   I wept.

The words were in Arabic, simple declarations of love and devotion to Jesus. I could finally express what I felt in my heart   without fear of judgment or consequences.

Pastor Elias led our studies,   teaching us basics of Christian theology, helping us understand baptism and communion, prayer and scripture   reading.

He emphasized that while we weren’t yet able to be baptized publicly, God knew our hearts, knew our   faith, accepted us fully.

Jesus sees you, he’d say.   He knows your situation. He doesn’t condemn you for not being able to openly confess him yet.

He’s preparing the way. When the time is right, he’ll make   a path for you.

In this fellowship, I found what I’d been missing.   True community with other believers who understood my struggle.

We prayed for each other, encouraged each other, held each other accountable. But the double life was taking its toll.

At home, I was increasingly distant from Ila. I couldn’t share with her the most important thing that had ever happened to me.

Couldn’t tell her about the joy I felt, the   peace I’d found, the transformation taking place in my heart.

She knew something was different. One evening about 3 months after my conversion, she confronted   me.

Ahmad, what’s wrong? You’re not yourself anymore. You seem distracted   during prayers. You don’t discuss the Quran with me like you used to.

Are you sick,   in trouble? I wanted so badly to tell her, to explain what I discovered, to invite her to read the Bible with me, to share the good news of Jesus.

But I was terrified.   Ila came from a conservative family. Her father was even more religious than mine had been.

If she rejected my faith, if she told her family, the consequences could be severe.

Divorce, loss of my children, possibly worse. I’m fine, I lied.   Just stressed about work.

Some challenging students. She didn’t believe me. I could tell, but she didn’t press further.

The distance between us grew. 6 months after my conversion, I reached another crisis point.

I was teaching a class on Islamic doctrine, explaining why   Christians were wrong to believe in the Trinity.

As I spoke the words I’d spoken dozens of times before, something inside me broke.

I couldn’t do this anymore. I couldn’t stand in front of these students and teach them lies.

Couldn’t misrepresent   what Christians actually believed. Couldn’t deny the truth I knew in my heart.

Ad Ahmad. One student was looking at me with concern. Are you all right? I realized I’d stopped mid-sentence, standing frozen at the front of the class.

I’m sorry.   I’m not feeling well. Let’s end early today. The students filed out whispering among themselves.

I sat at my desk, put my head in my hands. That night at the home fellowship, I broke down.

I can’t keep doing this, I told the group. I can’t keep teaching Islam when I believe in Jesus.

I feel like Peter denying Christ, except I’m doing it every single day. I’m living a lie.

Pastor Elias spoke gently. Ahmad,   no one here will judge you for whatever decision you make.

But you need to count   the cost carefully. If you reveal your faith publicly, you’ll lose your job.

You might lose your family. You could face consequences, even violence. Are you ready for that?

I don’t know. But I also don’t know how much longer I can live   like this, split between two worlds.

Nadia spoke up. I understand your struggle. I felt the same way for a long time.

But I’ve come to see this season as preparation.   God is teaching us in secret, strengthening our faith before he brings us out into the open.

When the time is   right, he’ll make the way clear. But how will I know when the time is right?

You’ll know, she said simply.   God will open a door that no one can shut.

I wanted to believe   her, but the tension was becoming unbearable. Then 2 weeks later, something happened that forced my hand.

I arrived home one evening to find Ila waiting for me in the living room.

Her face was   pale, hands shaking. On the table in front of her was my Bible, the one I thought I’d hidden so carefully.

“What is this?” She asked. Voice barely above   a whisper. My stomach dropped. I’d been so careful.

How had she found   it? But even as I wondered, I knew. I’d been getting sloppy lately, distracted.

I’d left a receipt from the   Christian bookstore in my jacket pocket a week ago.

She must have seen it, started looking. I was searching for some papers you’d mentioned, Ila explained, reading my thoughts.

I pulled out books from your shelf. This fell out. Ahmad, why do you have   a Christian Bible hidden in our home?

I could have lied. Could have said it was for   research, for understanding students questions.

But suddenly I was tired of lying, tired of   hiding, tired of denying the most important truth in my life.

“Sit down,”   I said quietly. “Please, I need to tell you something.” Over the next hour, I told Ila everything about Bilal’s question.

My study of the Bible, the contradictions I’d found in Islamic apologetics, my growing   conviction that Jesus was more than just a prophet.

I told her about my prayer, about the   dream, about my secret conversion 6 months ago.

She listened in stunned silence. Her face a mixture of shock, hurt,   and fear.

How long? She finally asked. How long have you been living this lie? 6 months since my conversion, but I’ve been studying for almost a year.

A year? She laughed bitterly. A year you’ve been keeping this from me, your wife, the mother of your children, making me believe we shared a faith, a   life, when you were secretly following another religion.

I wanted to tell you, but I was afraid. Afraid you’d reject me. Afraid of what your family would do.

Afraid of losing you and the   girls. And so instead, you lied to me every day.

Tears streamed down her   face now. You prayed beside me while believing it was all false.

You let me believe we were raising our daughters in the true faith while you’d abandoned it.

Ahmad, how could you? I’m sorry. I meant it with all my heart. I know I’ve hurt you.

I know I’ve betrayed your   trust. But Ila, I had to follow the truth.

Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. Jesus is real. He’s alive. He’s not just a prophet.

He’s the son of God, the Savior. And I want you to know him, too.

Stop. She stood abruptly. Don’t you dare try to convert me. You’ve already destroyed our family with this betrayal.

I won’t listen to you speak blasphemy against Allah. It’s not blasphemy. It’s truth.

Ila, please just read the Bible yourself. Study it as I did. Ask   God to show you the truth.

Get out. Her voice shook with anger and pain. Get out of this house. I need to think.

I need to talk to my family. My heart sank. If she told her family, everything would fall apart.

Ila, please don’t tell your father yet. Give me a chance to explain to him myself.

Give us time to figure this out. You’ve had 6 months to figure this out, Ahmad.

6 months of lies. I’m done with lies. She turned and walked into our   bedroom, slammed the door behind her.

I stood there in our living room, Bible in hand,   knowing my double life had just come to an end.

Whether I was ready or not, my secret was out. I grabbed   my phone, called Pastor Elias.

It’s happened. My wife found my Bible. She knows everything. I think I need to leave the house.

Come to my apartment, he said immediately.   You can stay here as long as you need.

We’ll figure this out together. As I packed a bag,   I prayed. Not elaborate memorized prayers, simple, desperate words.

Jesus, I don’t know what’s going to happen now. I’m afraid, but I trust you.

You said you’d never leave me or forsake me. I’m holding you to that promise.

I spent that night at Pastor Elias’s apartment,   barely sleeping. My phone buzzed constantly with calls and texts from Ila’s family.

Her father, her brothers,   aunts and uncles, everyone demanding to know if it was true, if I’d really become a Christian, how I could betray them this   way.

I didn’t answer the calls. I didn’t know what to say yet. Next morning, Pastor Elias and I prayed together, then talked strategy.

You have choices to make,   he said. You can try to convince Ila to give you a chance to read and study with you.

Or   you can accept that your marriage may be over. You can try to keep your job by hiding your faith again.

Or you can resign and find something else. You can stay in Jordan and face the social consequences.

Or you can consider relocating. I don’t want to leave Jordan. This is my home, my country,   and I can’t abandon my daughters.

I understand. But you need to be realistic about what you’re facing. Best   case, divorce and ostracism.

Worst case, there have been incidents, secret converts being attacked, even   killed. I felt cold fear wash over me.

I thought Jordan was moderate. It is relatively, but feelings run high on these issues.

Some people believe apostasy must be punished. We sat in silence. Then Pastor   Elias spoke again.

Ahmad, I need to ask you something. Do you believe Jesus is worth this? Worth losing your job, your reputation,   your family?

Because if you don’t, if you’re going to return to Islam, now is the time.

Say it was a momentary lapse, a   mental breakdown. Recite the shahada publicly. You might salvage your life.

I thought about his question. Thought about everything I’d lose. Career, wife,   daughters, social position, identity as a respected teacher and community member.

But I also thought about what I’d found. The peace that surpassed   understanding. The joy of knowing Jesus personally, the freedom from the burden of trying to earn salvation through good works.

The assurance of eternal life not based on my performance, but on Christ’s finished work on the cross.

Jesus   said, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.”

I didn’t understand what that meant before, but I’m beginning to understand   now. Yes, Pastor Elias, Jesus is worth it.

Even if I lose everything else, I found something infinitely more valuable. I found truth.

I found life. I won’t deny him. Pastor Elias   smiled, his eyes wet with tears.

Then we move forward together. You’re not alone in this, brother. Over.   The next week, I lived at Pastor Elias’s apartment while trying to figure out my next steps.

I wrote a letter to Ila pouring out my heart, apologizing for the deception while explaining why I’d felt compelled to hide my faith,   begging her to at least consider reading the Bible herself, to seek truth wherever it led.

She didn’t respond.   I wrote to the director of the Islamic center, resigned from my position, didn’t explain why, just said I could no longer in good conscience   continue teaching there.

Word spread quickly. Ahmad Hassan,   the respected Quran teacher, had suddenly quit his job.

Rumors flew. Some said I’d gone crazy. Others said I’d been caught in scandal. Then someone from the church   saw me attending a Sunday service.

Within hours, everyone knew the truth. My phone exploded with messages. Most were angry, accusing me of being a traitor, an apostate, a fool.

Some were concerned, asking if I’d been brainwashed or deceived. A few were threatening, warning me that apostasy was a serious crime in the eyes of God and man.

Ila’s father showed up at Pastor Elias’s apartment, pounding on the door, demanding to speak with me.

When I opened the door, he stared at me with rage and   grief. “You’ve destroyed my daughter’s life,” he said, voice shaking.

“Brought shame on her and our entire family. Because of you, people are talking, judging.

You need to fix this, Ahmad. Recant this foolishness. Return to Islam.” I can’t.

I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused, but I can’t deny what I know to be true.

Then you leave me no choice. Ila will divorce you. You won’t see your daughters.

You’ll be dead to us. He turned and walked away. I felt a part of my heartbreak.

The divorce papers came 2 weeks later. Ila was granted custody of our daughters.

I’d have supervised visitation twice a   month, 2 hours each time at her parents house under their watch.

It wasn’t conditioned on returning to Islam. The court wouldn’t enforce that. But it was limited,   controlled, meant to minimize my influence on the girls.

I signed the papers with tears streaming down my face,   knowing I’d miss watching my girls grow up, miss their school plays and birthdays,   miss tucking them in at night.

I lost my apartment. The landlord didn’t renew my lease. Said neighbors were uncomfortable, that it was creating problems in the building.

I moved into a smaller place across town, a neighborhood where fewer people knew me.

I lost most of my friends.   They either cut off contact or tried to convince me to return to Islam.

My extended family disowned me.   Told me I was no longer their son, their brother, their cousin.

But I also gained something.   I gained a new family. The Christian community in Aman embraced me.

Pastor Elias helped me find my new apartment.   Members of the church gave me furniture, food, support.

They prayed with me, wept with me, and when I was finally ready, they celebrated with me.

My baptism happened 4 months after   my public conversion, not in a big church service.

Too risky for me and for them.   Instead, in a private home, just the fellowship group, eight believers and pastor   Elias.

They filled a large tub with water. We sang quiet worship songs   and then Pastor Elias baptized me.

As I went under the water, I felt the symbolic death of my old life.

And as I came up gasping for air, I felt the reality of resurrection.

Not just Jesus’s resurrection 2,000 years ago, but my own resurrection to new life in him.

I am a new creation, I declared to the small   group, quoting Paul’s letter to the Corinthians.

The old has gone. The new is here. They embraced me,   welcomed me, called me brother.

I needed to work. I couldn’t teach Quran anymore, obviously. But I was still knowledgeable about Islam, about Arabic, about Middle Eastern culture.

I started tutoring students, Arabic language mostly, some classical literature. I worked with a private institute   that specialized in comparative religion, helping them develop curriculum, advising on Islamic perspectives.

I was honest with everyone about my Christian faith. Surprisingly, some appreciated that perspective, a former insider who could explain Islam clearly without animosity.

The church helped financially those first two months, a benevolence fund. It covered rent and food while I got on my feet.

I also did translation work, Arabic to English, English to Arabic, websites,   documents, business materials.

It paid decently, gave me flexibility. I began writing articles and blog posts about my journey, about the questions that led me to Christ, about the comparison between Islamic and Christian theology.

Some Muslims attacked me online, called me a traitor and worse, but others reached out privately,   saying they had similar questions, similar doubts.

I started to realize my story might help others on the same journey, that perhaps God had allowed me to go through this difficult   path so I could be a guide for others.

One day, about 6 months after my public   conversion, I received an email from someone using a pseudonym.

The message was simple. I am a Muslim teacher like you were. I’ve been reading the Bible in secret.

I don’t know what to do. Can we talk?   I met with this teacher, I’ll call him Ibrahim, at the same quiet cafe where I’d first met with Pastor Elias.

And I listened to his story, heard the familiar wrestling with truth and cost, and   I was able to say, “I understand.

I’ve been where you are. Let me help you.” Ibrahim eventually came to faith   in Christ, joined our home fellowship, and he introduced another seeker and another.

The small group grew. I realized that while I’d lost my position as a respected Quran teacher, God had given me a new role.

As a teacher of the gospel to Muslims who were seeking   truth, a year after my conversion became public, I was sitting in a cafe reading the Gospel of Luke.

I heard a familiar voice. Ahmad. I looked up to see Ila standing there, our daughters beside her.

My heart leapt.   I hadn’t seen them in months. Not since the last supervised visit.

They’d grown so much. Ila, girls, how are you? My daughters looked uncertain,   clinging to their mother.

They’d been told I was dangerous, misguided, someone to be pied or feared. Can we   talk?

Ila asked. Privately? I nodded. We found a quiet corner. The girls sat nearby with juice and pastries.

I’ve   been thinking, Ila began, not meeting my eyes about what you   said about following truth wherever it leads.

And I’ve been I’ve been reading. My heart began to pound. Reading what? The Bible.

She said it quietly, almost ashamed. I told myself I was reading it to understand why you’d gone astray, to see the corruption you’d fallen for.

But Ahmad, she finally looked at me. I saw tears in her   eyes. I see what you saw.

The beauty of Jesus’s teachings,   the power of his claims, the evidence for his resurrection.

I’ve been trying   to explain it away, trying to find the corruption, but I can’t.

Leila, what are you saying? I’m saying I don’t know what to believe anymore. I’m saying everything I was taught about Christianity being corrupted doesn’t match what I’m reading.

I’m saying I’m confused and scared and I need help. I reached across the table,   took her hand.

I can help you. I’ve walked this road. I know how frightening it is. My father will disown me if I convert just like   he disowned you.

I know, but Leila, Jesus is worth it. He’s worth everything. She was quiet for a long moment.

Then she said, “Tell me about your dream, the one where Jesus spoke   to you.

Tell me everything.” So I did. And as I spoke, I saw hope dawning in her eyes.

Over the next   several months, Ila and I met regularly. I introduced her to Pastor Elias,   to the women in our home fellowship.

She read through the entire New Testament, asked thousands of questions, wrestled with the cost of conversion.

And then one evening, she called me, said simply, “I believe, Ahmad, I believe in Jesus.

I want to follow him.” We   were eventually remarried. Not legally at first. That would take time, paperwork, complications,   but in a small church ceremony.

Just our fellowship group and a few close friends. Pastor Elias blessed our union. We exchanged vows   before God and witnesses.

This time, I said to Ila, “We’re building our marriage on the solid rock of Christ, not on the shifting sand of tradition or culture, on truth.”

Her family did disown her as we’d expected, but we faced   it together, supporting each other, raising our daughters in the knowledge and love   of Jesus.

The girls, young enough to be flexible, adapted more easily than we had.   They asked beautiful questions.

If God loves everyone, why does he let bad things happen? How can Jesus be both God and   man?

Questions I’d once asked, questions I was now equipped to help them explore. 5 years after my conversion, Pastor Elias retired.

The church asked me to take over leadership of the Muslim Background Believer Fellowship. It had grown from eight people to over 40.

We split into smaller regional cells for safety, met in different locations, used encrypted messaging, varied our patterns.

Security was essential, not paranoia. Wisdom. I also started a ministry online. I called it questions welcome.

The name came from something Leila and I had started after our baptisms. A small discussion circle where people could ask anything about faith   without judgment.

Now it was a website, a YouTube channel. I posted under a pseudonym, blurred faces in videos, removed location data,   routed uploads through partners abroad.

I addressed common questions Muslims had about Christianity, explained Islamic and Christian theology, shared testimonies of other converts.

Some videos received death threats in the comments. Others received messages from seekers,   from secret believers, from Muslims beginning to question.

Each message was precious to me because I remembered being that person. Confused, searching, afraid.

One day I received a message from Bilal, the   student whose innocent question had started my entire journey.

He was in university now studying medicine. Ustad Ahmed, he wrote, I never told you this, but after you resigned from the center, I started to wonder why.

When I heard you’d become a Christian, I was   shocked. But I also remembered how you’d encouraged me to think critically, to seek truth.

So I’ve been reading and studying, and I think I think I’m beginning to understand what you found.

I met with Bilal,   walked him through his questions and doubts, prayed with him, and eventually   he too gave his life to Christ.

His parents were devastated, but he stood firm, counting the   cost as Jesus had commanded.

“You changed my life,” Bilal told me. “If you hadn’t had the courage to follow truth,   even when it cost you everything, I might never have found it myself.”

I thought about that, how my story had rippled outward, affecting not just my life, but the lives of others.

How God had taken my questioning and seeking and used it for his purposes.   It’s been eight years now since Bal asked his question in my Quran class.

8 years since I began reading the Bible intending to disprove it. 8 years since I   encountered Jesus and found that he was nothing like what I’d been taught.

The cost has been high. I lost my career, my reputation, my   extended family, years of relationship with my daughters.

I faced threats and rejection, isolation and fear. But what I gained   was infinitely greater.

I gained truth. Not the comfortable truth of inherited tradition, but the challenging truth of a God who loved me enough to become human, to suffer and die for my sins, to rise again and offer   me eternal life.

I gained relationship not the distant master slave relationship I had with Allah but the intimate father child relationship offered through Jesus Christ.

I gained freedom not freedom to sin but freedom from the crushing burden of trying to earn salvation through good works.

Freedom to rest in the finished work of Christ. I gained purpose not just to live a good life and hope for paradise but to know God personally to be transformed by his spirit   to participate in his redemptive work in the world.

People sometimes ask me if I have regrets if I wish I’d never ask those questions never read that Bible never encountered Jesus.

And my answer is always the same. How could I regret   finding truth? How could I regret knowing Jesus?

How could I regret discovering life, real, abundant, eternal life? Jesus   said, “I am the way and the truth and the life.

No one comes to the father except through me.” For 15 years, I taught   that this was blasphemy, corruption, sherk.

But now I know it’s simply truth, the most important truth in the universe. I think about the irony of my journey.

I set out to disprove Christianity to show my students   it was corrupted and false.

Instead, I discovered that Islam’s claims about Jesus   were the diluted version, a portrait that diminished who he truly was.

The Quran   calls Jesus the word of God, born of a virgin, who performed miracles, who will return at the end of days.

But it stops short of the full truth that Jesus is not merely a word from God, but the word made flesh.

Not merely a miracle worker, but God himself entering his creation. Not merely a prophet awaiting return, but the resurrected Lord who sits   at the right hand of the father.

I teach Quran no more, but I teach about the Quran,   helping Muslims understand what their own scripture says about Jesus, encouraging them to dig deeper, to ask questions,   to seek truth wherever it leads.

And I teach the gospel, the good news that God loves us, that   Jesus died for our sins and rose again, that salvation is offered freely to all who believe, that we can know God personally and   intimately through Christ.

Some people call me a traitor to Islam. Others call me a brave truth seeker.

But I think of myself simply as a student. A student who asked a question and followed the answer to its logical conclusion no matter the cost.

What is truth? Pilate asked Jesus. And Jesus had already answered. I   am the truth.

That’s what I found. Not a religious system or a set of rules or a theological framework.

Though Christianity includes all these things, I found a person.   I found Jesus. And he was everything I’d been searching for my entire life.

Everything I’d tried to find through prayer and fasting and study and good works. He was enough.

He is enough. He will always be enough. If you’re reading this and you’re a Muslim who has questions about Christianity, I want to say something to you directly.

Don’t be afraid to ask questions. Don’t be afraid to read the Bible for yourself, to examine the evidence, to think critically about what you’ve been taught.

Truth is not threatened by investigation. If Islam is true, it will withstand scrutiny. If Christianity   is true, it will reveal itself as you seek.

I’m not asking you to accept my word   blindly. I’m not asking you to trust my interpretation.

I’m asking you to do what I did. Read and study for yourself. Ask God to show you the truth.

The Quran says in surah alabut,   “Is not Allah sufficient for his servant?” Ask him.

Ask Allah or God or however you address the creator. Ask him to reveal the truth about Jesus.

Ask him to show you whether Jesus was merely a prophet or something infinitely greater.

And be prepared for an answer. Because when you genuinely seek truth, God responds. He may not answer the way you expect.

He may challenge everything you thought you knew, but he will answer. For me, he answered through a student’s innocent question,   through late night reading of a forbidden book, through a dream that shattered my final resistance.

Your path may be different, but if you seek him, you will find him.

Jesus promised, “Ask and it will be given to you. Seek and you   will find.

Knock and the door will be opened to you. The question is,   are you willing to seek even if the answer costs you everything?

I was,   and I’ve never regretted it. May God bless you in your search for truth wherever it leads.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son that   whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

John 3:16.