Several weeks ago, I worshipped with a group of 20-something Muslim-background believers in a musty basement room in a Middle Eastern country. These men and women had each come to faith in Jesus Christ though their families were Muslim.
For many of them, their families did not accept their new faith. This mid-week time of worship was the only time they could freely pour their hearts out to the God they were trusting with their lives. Though accepting Christ put them at odds with their families and communities, the sacrifice is worth it because Christ brings peace to their spirits and hope for the future.
We sang and prayed together for an hour. Most of the time, I had no idea what their Arabic words meant. But I could see their faces: relaxed, joyful, yet yearning for more of Christ as they sang. And when they sang songs with a familiar tune, as I sang along in English I considered what it meant for them to be saying those words.
Together we sang, “I love You, Lord, and I lift my voice to worship You…Take joy, my King, in what You hear.” My brothers and sisters lifting their voices were at risk of being discovered simply through the act of singing. They had sacrificed to be able to come together to worship. And I believe God was extremely pleased as he looked on these men and women praising Him in those circumstances.
Back at home, I continue to fellowship with my brothers and sisters in the persecuted church when I worship at my own church. As I sing lyrics praising God’s character and celebrating His holiness, I think about what it would mean for a persecuted Christian to sing those same words.
If my family rejected me and sent me away, what would it be like to sing “Bless the Lord, oh my soul and all that is within me?” Yet many persecuted Christians who have been thrown out by their families still sing these words, meaning each one.
What do the Syrian Christians think when they look around them at the incredible destruction going on and sing “This is my Father’s world… His hand the wonders wrought”? In many cases, I’m sure all they can do is to cling to the comfort offered in one of the last stanzas: “This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget that though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.”
As we worship, may we always remember that God is the ruler over this whole and join together with our persecuted brothers and sisters in any way we can.
Dory P. has worked with VOM for six years. She grew up in Ecuador, met her husband while working with another mission organization, and now lives in Oklahoma. Between Dory, her husband and two-year-old son, they share five passports. Dory helps tell the stories of the persecuted through VOM's newsletter, and her husband serves with VOM's international department.
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