The Bible Didn’t Save Me

October 25, 2011 will mark my 40^th anniversary of being a Jesus person.  The day I began my journey with Christ, I was riding my motorbike 70-80 miles an hour while on my way home from Thanksgiving dinner at my friend, Ellen’s house. I’d heard her father pray a blessing over the meal and it had greatly moved me.

I didn’t know anything about the Bible and I had never opened one. After all, as far as I was concerned, it was a corrupt book so why bother? I didn’t know anything about John 3:16. I hadn’t heard about the Roman Road or been given a tract on the Four Spiritual Laws and there was no one around to have me repeat the Sinner’s Prayer. On top of all that I didn’t believe I was a sinner. Even worse, I didn’t accept the very foundation of the Christian faith: Christ’s death on the cross, his divinity, or his position as the Son of God. But, I was one desperate and hopeless Muslim man who was willing to try anything. So, without knowing it, I did what Apostle Paul had said almost 2,000 years earlier, “Everyone who calls, ‘Help, God!’ gets help.” (Rom. 3:13, the Message)

I called and He helped.

On that day, my journey with Christ started apart from the Bible. The foundation of my faith began to form on the basis of an experience —an experience stemming from me calling on Jesus for help. Eventually, I came to understand Christ to be my Lord and savior by reading the Bible, but without my initial experience, I would have never read it. So, today, even if one proves to me that every word in the Bible is a lie, my faith in Christ will not be shaken because it is not based on the word of God, but on the Word of God (Christ) himself.

When I pastored the Iranian church, a majority of my Muslim background believer members had started their journey with Jesus through tangible experiences with him (dreams, visions, healings and so on) and apart from the Bible, very much in the same way that many early Gentile Christians had. I often wonder how the early Church did their daily “devotions” since the Bible had not be canonized yet and even after it was, not everyone could afford to have one under his arm, which brings me to my purpose for writing this blog.

In 2001 I started teaching at a Bible college. After a year into teaching American students who were almost all born and raised in Christian families, I began to notice a correlation between Muslim and postmodern evangelism, and how they both long for an experience with God. The Muslim longs for it because He’s been taught that God is not approachable and my postmodern students had only known God theologically apart from an experience (this applies to postmodern non-Christians too, but at the present my focus is on postmodern Christians).

For years, our evangelical mentors taught us not to rely on any experience, but to rely on the word of God. “After all, your experiences are not reliable,” they told us. I wonder if after getting knocked off his ass on the way to Damascus and going blind, Paul was told the same thing by the Pharisees of his time. I also wonder if we would’ve had 2/3 of the New Testament if Paul had not had his Damascus experience. After all, isn’t most of the Bible a collection of man’s experience with God?

No doubt some of my readers will disagree with me because they might assume that I’m putting more weight on an experience than the word of God. I am not. What I’m saying is what we used to say during the “Jesus People” time: “God has no grandchildren.” For our children to stand by their parents’ faith in Christ, they themselves need to have an experience to support their theology.

Being In The Middle Is Not Easy

As a Muslim background believer, I have certain beliefs that put me at odds with some Christians. For example, I have no firm Eschatological stance on the part that Israel plays in the Second Coming. Some evangelicals automatically assume that I hate the Jews because of my Muslim background, or even worse, they might question my salvation as if it is based on a firm support of Israel rather than my faith in Christ.

The other day I was listening to Dr. Doda (not his real name), a mega-church pastor, being interviewed on a radio talk show. Our doctor is known for his partnership with the nation of Israel and has written books on the subject. During the course of the interview, he made the comment that the future of America rests upon her supporting Israel. When the interviewer asked why, he quoted what the Lord said to Abraham (Gen. 12:13), an interpretation that, for many years, has been argued for and against. I leave that argument to smarter people and theologians of which I’m neither. The conversation hit home with me when the subject of Iran came up.

Very confidently, Dr. Doda said something like, “As Ezekiel tells us, Iran and Russia will join forces to attack Israel and that’s when God will destroy them both.” I was rather shocked at the glib and nonchalant way this man of God was referring to the destruction of millions of people. “If what you’re saying is true, Dr. Doda, shouldn’t you be doing all you can to introduce these masses of humanity to Christ?” I asked myself. Not once during the interview was it brought up that in the midst of all this confusion and political unrest, our Lord has made Iran the fastest Muslim country coming to Christ. I guess that couldn’t be as important as what one should or should not believe when it comes to supporting Israel.

On the other hand, there are those Christians who question my sincerity in Christ and love for Muslims because of my stance against Islam as a religion. According to them, somehow being a Christian should prevent me from criticizing the religion of my fathers.  And since apparently I support Israel by cautioning the Church about the advancement of Islam in the West, I’m somehow encouraging people to hate Muslims. I guess this group of Christians assumes because I left Islam I automatically hate Muslims.

For almost 30 years I pastored the most unique church on the face of the earth. It consisted of 50% Muslim background Iranian believers and 50% Messianic Jewish Iranians. I find it rather amusing that a majority of those Christians who are so diligent in supporting Israel as the nation and people of God have never raised a finger to win one Jew to Christ. And, on the other hand, many of those Christians who are so concerned about me offending Islam have never had the privilege of sharing the Gospel with one Muslim. I have done both. I don’t hate Israel or Muslims and my record speaks for itself.

This Is What I Mean By "Social Justice"

I was meeting with New York Times bestselling author. This was our second meeting. I’d read her book a while back, liked what she had to say, and when I found out that another friend knew her, I asked to be introduced to her. Our first meeting had gone well.

It was a few weeks before the last presidential election. As we sat at a table at Starbucks, she started to tell me about the conversation she’d recently had with a friend who disliked Sarah Palin. 

“I’m voting for McCain.” I told her.

“What?! You’re a Republican?” 

“Yes, I am.”

I could tell she was surprised.  People who don’t know me have a hard time pigeon-holing me. Some Evangelicals feel that I’m too liberal to be a Christian, and non-Christians are shocked to find out that I, a brown-skin Iranian, am a conservative Christian. She wasn’t any different. Her book, which I recommend very highly, is not something that every evangelical would have on their bookshelf. So, she had assumed I was a liberal.

Her curiosity got the best of her, so she asked, “Why do you like McCain?”

“He is for securing our borders,” I replied.

“I want our borders left open.”

Now it was my turn to ask questions:  “Why do you want our borders left unsecured?”

“I want people to come here so they can be helped.”

“If you want to help them, why don’t you go over there?” I asked her.

That’s when everything hit the fan.

In the middle of Starbucks, she began pounding the table with a raised voice saying, “How dare you?! How dare you?!”

Those who know me know that I never shy away from a good confrontation, but I almost never go out of my way to deliberately provoke anyone to anger or hurt their feelings.  My new-found friend’s reaction was a total surprise to me.

I had no idea why she was so angry with me. I was almost in tears and shaking. My brain began to search for the cause of her anger like my Mac doing a search on the hard drive for a lost document.  If she had listened hard enough, she could have heard the clicking in my head. Then, Eureka! I figured it out.

She was angry because a naturalized American, me, had just told her, an American, to leave her country. But that wasn’t what I meant. It took me a while to explain to her what my point was, and eventually she apologized to me. I think I might have been as upset if I was in her place not knowing what the other person meant with those words.

I was simply referring to what I’ve practiced in my own life. For example, when I visited Tajikistan in 1998 (a war-torn ex-Soviet satellite, which is among the poorest nations in the world), I was so moved by the lack of healthcare in the country that the following year I went back with a medical team hoping to alleviate some of the pain I’d witnessed. I didn’t go around demanding that the government should bring all sick Tajiks here so Americans can take care of them. That was my personal issue. I was obeying Christ’s mandate.

In asking my question, I was telling my friend, “If you really care about helping people of other countries, YOU go over there and help them. Don’t turn something personal into a public problem demanding that others take care of it for you.”And to me, this is "Social Justice".

After my explanation and her apology, we went back to being friends. We have met once or twice since in the same Starbucks.

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It’s the last day of a grueling seven days of providing care to over 600 sick people by an American medical team in Ghorghan Tepeh, Tajikistan—a Muslim nation. Except for me, everyone in the team has suffered from some kind of dysentery.  Being born and raised in Iran has its benefits. For over a week we’ve had no water or electricity. It’s in the middle of summer and it’s quite hot.  Although the team is under my care, I mostly act as a translator and at times help with crowd control.

We’re all tired, smelly and desperately in need of a shower.  I am also quite frustrated.  There is so little the team’s doctors can do with the limited resources they have available.  They have no X-ray or CAT scan machines, and can’t run blood tests.  So sometimes the best we can do is pray over the patient.

As Marvin (a team member who’s directed many medical teams before with his doctor wife) and I are guiding patients to where they’re supposed to go, a Tajik lady walks up to us.  She’s crying.  Our doctors can’t do anything for her.

“My in-laws want my husband to divorce me,” she tells me in Tajik.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I’m barren and my in-laws demand grandchildren of us.  But I love my husband.”

Now, I’m in tears.  I know the pain of being barren.  My wife experienced that for the first eight years of our marriage, but there’s nothing we can do.  I explain to Marvin what the issue is, and then ask her if she would let us pray for her.

I want her to know to whom I’m praying, so I pray in Tajik.  My heart is heavy as we send her away.  She is crying and I’m wondering how God’s going to answer this prayer.  Even if there was a medical solution, these people are so poor and can’t afford even the most basic surgical procedure.

As the end of the day draws near, I’m even more frustrated. There are more patients to see and we’ve ran out of most of our medicine.  I’m grateful that our doctors have so sacrificially put aside their own interests and seen patient after patient for hours on end.  But, I also wish they could do more.  Frankly, I’m beginning to wonder if this has been a successful trip when our infertile lady shows up again.

This time she is full of joy.  Her tears have turned into laughter.  “What in heaven’s name could have changed her so quickly?” I wonder.

This is what she tells us:  “By the time I got home there was a letter from the government telling us we’ve been approved to adopt the twins we’ve been asking for.  We’ll start the procedures tomorrow.”

She then makes another announcement, “The twins will be called, Shahrokh and Marvin.”  Dear God, I feel sorry for those kids.  Shahrokh is a Persian name and can be handled with much less difficulty in that culture, but Marvin?

And finally she presents Marvin and me with a naan — a flat, round bread popular in that part of the world.  “I want you and Marvin to each take a bite on different parts of the bread,” she tells us.  We comply.

She takes the bread back and says, “We will nail the bread to a wall in our house and keep it there for as long as it lasts.  This is our tradition; something we practice in memory and respect of people who have touched our lives.”

By the time we leave for the States, we have seen over 600 patients. We’re all filled with a sense of gratitude and fulfillment for being able to touch so many lives in such a short time. Yes, there are many more people to be helped, but none of us come away thinking that somehow every American is obligated to share our burden and bring the needy Tajiks to the US so they can be helped.   

I Love My Church, Starbucks II!

I’ve just dropped my car off to be serviced, and have a couple of hours of waiting, so I go to the Starbucks across the street. This is my second time at this place.

As I sip on my coffee, I notice a couple walk in together. The man walks up to the counter and after ordering his drink, he turns around and asks the lady behind her what she’d like to have. He pays for his purchase and goes to the end of the counter where he’s to pick up his order. Anyone watching the couple would have no problem assuming the two are together, but this is not the case.

When it’s the lady’s turn to order her drink, the barista tells her, “Your drink was already ordered and paid for.”

“By whom?” asks the lady with a very confused look on her face.

“By that guy,” the barrister points to the man who’d walked in before her.

The woman walks up to the guy and thanks him insisting to pay the stranger back when the man says, “Lady, I’m grateful to be alive. Riding my bike here, I almost got killed by a driver who didn’t see me. So, please accept my gift to you.” He then walks out.

“Did you see what just happened?” I ask the gentleman sitting across from me.

“No!”

I go on to explain what just transpired and finish by saying, “May God help us all to see life the way this man just experienced it.”

“Amen!” responded the gentleman.

His quick response causes me to ask, “Where do you go to church?”

It turns out that Mike is a worship leader of a very large church in the neighborhood. We hit it off very pleasantly. We spend the next two hours talking about our faith, worship and the church.

As we’re talking I notice a young lady standing in line can’t take her eyes off me. Eventually she walks up to me and says, “Do you remember me?”

I really don’t, but I fake it. “Of course, I remember you! But can’t remember your name.”

With tears in her eyes she says, “Mehri! I’ve been thinking about you so much lately.”

As soon as I hear her name, I remember her totally. Over ten years ago, she used to be one of my church members. She goes to this Starbucks often, and as fate has it today, she’s come in later than usual. If it were any other day, she would not have run into me.  I introduce her to Mike and after exchanging contact info, we promise each other to meet soon.

Eventually Mike has to leave which gives me a chance to fire up my Mac and update my status on Facebook when another young man sits next to me.

“Are you on Facebook?” he asks with his thick African accent.

“Yes, I am.”

“My name is Zach! Can I be your friend on Facebook?”

“Why do you want to be my friend? You don’t even know me.”

“I’ve never met many of my friends on Facebook. At least I’ve seen you in person.”

I find it fascinating what his generation considers friendship.

“My name is Shah. You’re from Africa, correct?” I say, as I shake his hand.

“Yes, but you’ll never guess where.

“Cote d’lvoire”

“No! Benin. I told you, you’ll never guess.”

I’m not going to argue with him about the fact that I was only a country or so off the mark.

“I have over 350 friends on Facebook, but except for a handful, I’ve never asked anyone to be my friend. They all requested to be my friends,” I continue.

“Why’s that?”

“This way, I’m assured that these people wanted to be my friends because they know who I am and what I believe, so my comments and thoughts will not offend them.”

“So, what is it that you believe?”

I know that question was going to come up, and am ready for it.

“Being from Benin, I assume you’re a Muslim,” I tell him.

“Yes, I am.”

I begin to share my testimony with him from a shame-based perspective, a culture he was raised in. He finds my life-story to be interesting and identifies with much of what he hears. He goes on to tell me about some of his Christian friends who’ve been sharing the same kind of life-stories with him.

As Zach and I are talking, I notice another old friend standing in line. I haven’t seen him for over 8-9 years. It’s good to renew our friendship.

Eventually. I get a call from my mechanic. The car’s ready, and I have to leave. As I walk across the street, I realize, “I had church at the Starbucks this morning.” I had fellowship and renewed friendships, exchanged ideas on church and worship, met some new people, and shared my faith with a Muslim man.

When was the last time you did all this at your Sunday service?

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Since our first meeting, I’ve met with Mike again, and have had the honor of being given the three CDs he’s produced. He’s one talented man of God. I also had a chance to meet with Mehri, my old church member. She’s been through a lot these last 10 years including a divorce, unsuccessful attempt to move back to Iran, the loss of all personal possession, a new, but painful start in America, and battling leukemia.

In our last meeting, after sharing all she’s been through, trying very hard to hold back tears, she said, “Pastor Shahrokh, do you remember the first day I came to your church? I’ve never been the same since. Thank you for introducing me to the Lord. Throughout these past 10 years, He’s been my only true friend. I would have never made it without him in my life.”