“The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed me to bring good news to the poor, he has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor, and the day of vengeance of our God; to comfort all who mourn; to grant to those who mourn in Zion –to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the Lord, that he may be glorified.” Isaiah 61:1-3
Six years ago I read these verses while sitting in a small mud hut in West Africa. It was as if God, through Isaiah, wrote these words especially for me thousands of years ago. I was shattered. At the time, I was brokenhearted, a captive to sin and bound in a prison of my own making. One of the most fabulous passages in the Gospels is when Jesus reads these words in Luke 4 and says, “Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” I professed Jesus many years before this time. I was a Christian in that sense –but a carnal Christian living for myself and my pleasures. I defeated my conscious by repeatedly ignoring it for years on end. But I was incredibly unhappy, miserable in fact. I’d convinced myself my poor choices made me unusable by God. I was God’s child but I was soiled and He was just putting up with me. I wish I could tell you the whole beautiful story of God’s pursuit of me; I was the 100th sheep. I could write an entire book of how He lavished His love on me, just as he called Hosea to do to his sinful wife Gomer. But this is not my story alone. These same verses echoed in my heart as I left my home two years ago to join a team in a small Islamic country in Africa. I could never have imagined the things that God had in store for me. I have experienced the highest mountains and the lowest valleys. I have fallen on my face in worship because I witnessed the hand of God at work. I have cried myself to sleep in loneliness and despair on countless nights. It has only been two years. Some days it feels like I arrived just yesterday and other days it feels like a lifetime.
This little island nation is 99.98% Muslim. To be an islander is to be Muslim. There are no churches or missionaries. I am not a missionary. I teach English to adults. “English is an international language” is the phrase all of my students will repeat when asked why they want to learn English. Life here offers little hope of betterment. It is a poor country with corrupt government officials who steal the little bit of aid money that trickles into the country. Islanders are hard workers but for the majority, the hard work leads nowhere. The lucky ones leave the island for more developed countries and rarely return. Those that remain here plod through life with little hope.
Islam is a thin veneer worn over a morally bankrupt society. Men walk around in their thobes and kufis, showing their outward devotion to Allah, yet later spend the night with their mistresses or go home to beat their wives. It’s a dirty little secret that most men drink alcohol, though this is strictly forbidden by their religion. Women dress modestly, wrapped in yards of fabric, and act demurely on the street but the sexuality of their many ceremonies would make any Western woman blush. Spirits (djin) are worshipped and regularly given sacrifices. The witch doctors all have booming businesses as men and women alike cast curses and attempt to repel them. The island itself groans under its taskmaster. Ten years ago there were 50 rivers that ran year round. Today, there are five. Riverbeds have turned into trash dumps. During the rainy season, the trash washes out to the ocean along with inches of topsoil. The ocean turns a muddy brown and the fish suffocate and wash up dead on the shore. Trees are continually cut for the never-ending energy needs leading to more erosion, less rainfall and less viable farmland. Another hopeless situation.
There is one small hospital for a population of over 300,000. They have practically no equipment. Patients must bring their own sheets, mosquito nets and provide their own food. Every week hundreds of islanders sneak into small fishing boats and attempt the 64-mile crossing to a more developed island with real medical care. They leave at night, during rough seas in hopes of avoiding the police and radar. Thousands drown every year. It is a travesty.
Have I painted a bleak enough picture? I hope it is now obvious that this island needs Jesus. They need a lot of things, but first and foremost, they need a Savior. That’s why I’m here, right? To bring God to a godless nation? Wrong. God was here. God is here. God will be here long after I leave. Instead of bringing God with me, I made the most incredible discovery shortly after arriving. I discovered that God was already at work in the hearts and minds of people and they were waiting for someone who was willing to answer their questions–questions that God had placed on their hearts, not me.
Work has been going on here for 30+ years. While some men had come to know the Lord in that time, there were almost no women believers. My team of ten adults made it a priority to pray for the women. As a single woman myself, this was a special burden for me. In a gender-polarized society, it was only appropriate for me to hang out with women. I needed some sisters!
Three months after my arrival, I was invited to a discussion group for World Women’s Day. It was there that I met Amalia, a 40-something mother of four. For whatever reason, she made it her mission to befriend me. Through her, I was introduced to her niece and her niece’s two friends. They shared with me how they had all rejected Islam. They drank, smoked and partied every weekend (quite scandalous in this society). I was an anomaly to them. They knew I could drink and party. All the other expats they knew did these things. But I chose not to. I’d explained the freedom I had in Christ but how I chose not to exercise it to show respect for local culture.
Quickly, my teammate and I developed close friendships with these women and invited them to our Sunday morning worship service. That was followed by a Bible study where they could learn the stories of the prophets that they knew from the Qur’an. We showed them how all the prophets pointed to Jesus.
When my team returned to the islands after a 6-week absence, we learned that these four women had all given their lives to Jesus. That was a little over a year ago. My eyes are starting to tear up as I think about what God has done since then, so much more than anyone could have expected. This tiny seed of belief has exploded. Two of the women have left the island, as so often happens but new women have joined. Amalia and her niece continue to share their faith daily. Amalia’s 14-year old son made a profession of faith just last week. Her niece’s husband, brother and mother are all believers. They no longer meet with us on Sunday mornings (we are too many) and they desire to learn and worship in their own language.
Our weekly women’s Bible study continues. It is the highlight of my week. I love to sit at the feet of these women and learn from them. Their wisdom and understanding far surpasses my own. The Holy Spirit is so evident in their lives.
So far this burgeoning group has avoided undue attention. However, changing religions is illegal. Meeting to worship Jesus is illegal. They risk their businesses, property, homes and even their lives. Persecution has not yet come but if the past is any indicator, it will come.
Pray for these brothers and sisters. When you worship in a beautiful church building freely, remember those here who must gather in small homes. Pray for their faith, that it would be strengthened. Pray for the Body that they would love one another and care for each other as the New Testament church did. And remember that God is already working in the lives of those around you. We may be the hands and feet of Jesus, but His Spirit goes ahead of us to prepare the way.
Blessings,
J
About the Author
J is a single, 29-year old English teacher on a small island in the middle of the ocean. She has lived and worked there for two years. She is not an expert in any field, strategy or method. She tries to live her faith in a tangible way, demonstrating to her Muslim neighbors that Jesus loves and cares for them.