Christopher Alam - Out of Islam: One Muslims Journey to Faith in Christ

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OUT OF ISLAM by Christopher Alam
Published by Charisma House
Charisma Media/Charisma House Book Group
600 Rinehart Road
Lake Mary, Florida 32746
www.charismahouse.com

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrievalsystem, or transmitted in any form by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopy,recording, or otherwisewithout prior written permission of the publisher, exceptas provided by United States of America copyright law.

Unless otherwise noted, all Scripture quotations are from the King James Versionof the Bible.

Cover design by studiogearbox.com

Copyright 2006 by Christopher Alam
All rights reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Alam, Christopher, 1954
Out of Islam / Christopher Alam.
p. cm.
ISBN 1-59185-890-9 (paper back)
1. Alam, Christopher, 1954- . 2. Christian converts from Islam--Biography. 3. Conversion--Christianity. I. Title.
BV2626.4.A39 A3 2006
248.246092--dc22

2006009069

ISBN-13: 978-1-59185-890-4
e-ISBN: 978-1-59979-873-8

Contents

Prologue
AN UNFINISHED SERMON

S OMETHING WAS IN the air.

I could feel it.

The words Are you ready? slipped from my lips and roared from the platform speakersand across the grass field. My eyes traced the scene before me. A short distanceaway sat thousands who gathered in a soccer stadium not to cheer on a team but tolisten to a man behind a pulpit.

I was the man.

Returning as He promised, Jesus is coming again. Are you ready?

Uncountable eyes stared back at me.

Overhead the sun pressed down its rays, warming the late afternoon and washing thestadium in light. The weather in Blagoevgrad, Bulgaria, presented no distraction.Blagoevgrad, once a bastion of Communism, once a showpiece of a political philosophythat had no tolerance for the very message I brought to this service, was now thecenter of an evangelistic crusade. Communism was now a dark memory, and the citywas open to a presentation of the gospel. I had the honor of presenting it.

Those who lived in New Testament times called this land Macedonia. The city liesnestled at the foot of the Rila and Pirin Mountains and is the major municipalityof the region. Twenty-five villages ringed the city limits. Those who sat in thestands had come from city and townone in four of the citys population was present,and each sat in stony silence.

Jesus is coming again. Are you ready to meet Him?

I had delivered a simple message about Jesus, one I had given many times, but somethingwas different. Something was in the airand something was in me.

In my core, at the center of my being, the ever-present passion I felt for Jesusflashed to a roaring blaze. I had proclaimed a message about the life of Jesus,about His death, about His triumphant resurrection that changed the world. Now Icame to the climax of the sermonthe imminent return of Christ.

I never finished.

Are you ready? I asked again, then paused.

The silence was palpable, heavy.

Then a sound.

A noise.

Someone in the stands shouted. Then another. Before I could utter my next words,the crowd was on its feet. They surged forward, pouring over the railing that separatedthe seating from the field like a river over the crest of a waterfall.

Their noise rose in thunderous tones. The platform upon which I stood vibrated, resonatingwith the voice of the congregation.

They flowed forward like the tide, crossing the distance between the seats and platformin moments. Hands shot up, reaching skyward as if attempting to touch the face ofGod.

Tears rolled down their cheeks, and their voices rose in loud prayersprayers formercy, prayers of acceptance. At the platform many knelt, heads bowed, souls sobbing.

My sermon was over before I planned. God moved ahead without me. I stood still asa statue as I watched the sight unfold before me. I was at a loss for words, whichis not something that happens often. The Holy Spirit touched not one, not a hundred,but thousands of listeners.

What could I say? What could I do? What could I add?

The same emotion that had swallowed the crowd inundated my own soul. Meaningful wordswere gone from my mind. I surrendered the microphone to a Bulgarian pastor and askedhim to lead the crowd in a salvation prayer.

In this moment of high drama, in the midst of this outpouring of the Holy Spirit,I felt broken in the most marvelous way. I stumbled to the back of the platform,hiding myself behind some chairs. Inside me emotion boiled, then erupted in sobs;sobs turned into prayer.

While thousands were finding salvation at the front of the platform, I was facingmy own sense of unworthiness to be part of such a stunning display of Gods power.

Thank You, Lord Jesus, was all I could mutter. I have learned that the more meaningfulthe emotion, the more simple the prayer. Thank You for saving me when I was downand lost; thank You for bringing me so far and allowing me to see Your power andYour glory. You have brought me such a long way... such a very long way. ThankYou, Lord. Thank You.

The words came with tears and with the stiff realization that the man who hunkereddown behind folding chairs in prayer was far removed from the person he used to betheperson I used to be.

The service continued, and I returned to my duties. My sermon may have been cut short,but God wasnt finished. A paralyzed man, carried in a blue blanket by his family,rose to his feet and began to run through the crowd. Others, just as crippled, stood,walked, and jumped, some for the first time in their lives. Blind eyes began to see,deaf ears opened, and miracles aboundedall in a stadium in the heart of a formerCommunist city.

As always, Jesus had the final word, not just in this city or in this crusade, butin my lifesomething no one would have anticipated.

That night in my hotel room, I lay on my bed, my spirit soaring and my thoughtsdirected to God. In the dark of that evening, I thought about what I had seen, whatI felt in the pulpit, and the long road that led me here.

The man that lay on the bed in the hotel room was not the same man who decades beforebegan life in a Muslim home.

Chapter 1
MUSLIM ROOTS

I AM CHRISTOPHER ALAM, descendant of Muhammad, of Ishmael, and of Abraham.

I was born on March 29, 1954, in a Muslim home in Pakistan. My fathers side ofthe family was Hashemite Arabs from the Middle East. Members of my grandfathersextended family still live in Jordan and Lebanon. People called us by the honorifictitle Shareef (or Sayyid by some), a term used only for those directly descendedfrom Muhammad, the founder of Islam.

Muhammad had only one son, Ibrahim, who died in infancy; consequently, the familyline runs through his daughter Fatima, who became the wife of Ali, Muhammads youngcousin and the first convert to Islam. Because I was a direct descendant of Muhammad,people respected me, treating me as a holy person. Most considered me superiorto them. I, however, knew my own heart and could never escape the fact that I wasnothing more than a sinner.

One of my uncles had a copy of our family tree. It traced our lineage back to Muhammadand from there to Ishmael, Abrahams son, and, of course, to Abraham himself. Wewere proud of our heritage.