Syria the Serene: Life and Ministry in War-Torn Syria

“Did you see that, Habiib*?” I asked my tour guide. “Jesus just did a miracle.”

“Yes,” he said, “I do believe in miracles.”

Syria has always brought diverse people together in difficult times. Paul and Ananias would not have imagined becoming friends and brothers, but they became both. You wouldn’t think that John the Baptist’s alleged grave would be in an Umayyad-era Mosque, nor would it architecturally resemble a European cathedral.

Still, both monuments are peacefully standing side by side. You wouldn’t think that Muslim and Christian women would walk arm in arm through the Damascus markets, laughing freely, talking about nothing and everything simultaneously. Still, there they strolled along, chatting happily with each other.

You wouldn’t think that a conservative Pentecostal missionary would, or should, kiss the cross of a sweet Syrian Greek Orthodox nun, but when she asked me to, I did. She reminded me of my 90-year-old Greek grandmother, and no good Greek American disobeys his Yai Yai (grandma).

Syria — she brings diverse people together.

Habiib was our intelligent, gracious Muslim host. The rules of engagement in Syria required him to inform the security police to gain their approval for every location to which we traveled. He did this joyfully and faithfully. We visited Damascus to register our compassion initiatives in Syria and to share Jesus’s love with all of God’s children. Habiib, therefore, was with me when I sat to meet a lawyer to ask about the way forward.

The lawyer was helpful, honest, and practical, but he was in physical pain. He had gone to the hospital for outpatient surgery that morning, but all was not well. He was ashen-faced and squirming through our entire appointment. Recognizing his discomfort, we drew the appointment to a close. Standing up, I asked him, “Sir, before I go, may I pray for you?”

He agreed to let me pray, so I walked around his desk to hold his hands. I prayed that Jesus would take away his pain and heal him completely.

When we opened our eyes, it was evident that Jesus had answered the prayer. The lawyer’s face shone; he said in astonishment, “My pain is gone! I don’t know if it is because I stood up or. ...”

“No!” I interrupted him, “Jesus just healed you!”

With a big smile, he turned to me and said, “Then pray to Jesus again for me. In these difficult days, I need some money.” We all laughed as he escorted us to the door. Still beaming from ear to ear, he repeated, “I can’t believe it. My pain is completely gone!”

My new Muslim friend Habiib and I walked down Damascus Road arm in arm, both feeling joy over what we had just witnessed.

“That was an amazing miracle,” Habiib told me. “It happened immediately. We cannot deny what we just saw.”

“Yes, Habiib,” I said. “Jesus did a miracle, and He certainly has the power to do another one by granting us registration in Syria.”

THE GOSPEL PENETRATES THE DARKNESS

There was no light in the cold, dirty stairwell of the old, run-down building. I hoped I had found the right place but wasn’t sure. I kept climbing slowly, one step at a time. My teammate followed behind. Carrying my 1-year-old daughter in one arm and a bag of groceries in the other, I whispered under my breath, “God, please help me. I’m so tired. Give us Your words to speak. Oh, Jesus, reveal yourself to this family today.”

Finally, we saw light shining from an open door on the floor above us. Several women and children stood there with kind, smiling faces that were wrapped in colorful hijabs, eagerly waiting to greet us. Removing our shoes at the door, we stepped inside.

“Ahlan-wa-sahlan.” They repeated this welcoming phrase as they kissed our cheeks and ushered us in. One of the ladies lifted aside a thick blanket hanging in a doorway. We stepped into a small room where a red, well-worn rug with an ornate pattern covered the floor. Brown, thin rectangular cushions lined bare cement walls and an iron wood stove burned hot in the corner. From the smell of the smoke, I could tell they were burning whatever they could find to keep the fire going for us.

The women and their children gathered around as we each sat on a cushion. They were curious to talk with us. We shared openly with them that we were bringing groceries as a gift from the church.

“We want you to know that we care about you. You are not alone here,” I said.

Soon, one of the older daughters brought in a tray of tea and set it on the floor in front of us. She poured each of us a glass.

“Where in Syria are you from?” I asked as I stirred in a spoonful of sugar.

“Rural Aleppo,” the women replied.

I imagined them — like so many other Syrian villagers we had met — raising livestock among arid olive groves, canning miniature stuffed eggplants called makdous, and spending their evenings listening to the music of the tabla and oud under the stars.

For a moment, I flashed back to my own rural upbringing in small-town America. I remembered sitting under an old oak tree with the smell of freshly mowed grass and watching golden leaves gently falling on a crisp autumn day.

As a teenager, I was shy and insecure. But one day, I saw a statistic in the Pentecostal Evangel magazine that changed the direction of my life. “There’s just one missionary for every 1 million Muslims.” That’s not enough, I thought. Someone needs to go. God began breaking my heart for the Muslim world.

“Can I pour you some more tea?” One of the women broke my daydream. I smiled and said, “No, thank you,” but she insisted and began to pour, illustrating the beautiful virtue of hospitality, deeply ingrained in Arab culture.

“What is your name?” I asked as she returned to her seat on the floor next to me. Her three young children began to climb onto her lap and tug at her sleeves.

Her name was Samira*. When she was 13 years old, her parents gave her in marriage to a much older cousin. Samira never finished school and couldn’t read or write. She had never traveled outside her village until the day she fled on foot for her life, clutching her newborn baby girl. Bombs were falling nearby.

For a year, villagers had heard rumors of an escalating war. Eventually, those rumors turned into occasional flashes of light in the distance and the low rumbles of explosions not far away.

Samira and her family couldn’t afford to leave Syria. They didn’t have the means. How could they leave the place where their family had lived for generations? This was all they knew. Besides, the roads were far too dangerous. No, they would stay and wait it out. Surely, one day, everything would return to the way it was.

But that day never came.

Instead, one hot summer day, a barrage of vehicles came, firing gunshots, the black flag of ISIS waving. There was nowhere in their simple home to hide.

Armed men rushed into the house, shouting, and waving guns in their faces.

“They grabbed one of our cousins by his arm and dragged him out into the street along with several other men. Then, we watched in horror as they killed them one by one. We were too afraid to even go out and get his body,” Samira said, hanging her head.

“This has really affected us,” her sister added with a lifeless look.

It was a look I had seen repeatedly in the eyes of other Syrians we had met as they shared their stories:

Once a Syrian mother told me, “I had to hold my 5-year-old daughter’s hand as we walked past dead bodies… This became normal.”

“While living in a war zone, I was diagnosed with cancer. I had to risk my life every time I went to the hospital to get treatment,” stated another.

“I lost all three of my grown sons in the war, each one leaving his wife and kids behind. The hardest thing I still can’t accept is that my nephew killed my son. He was forced to under threat of his wife being killed.”

“While we were in hiding, fleeing through the wilderness, one of the people in our group froze to death. Another lost her child in the darkness and chaos and never found her again.”

“True, we are living, but inside, we are dead.”

We were heartbroken once again as we offered listening ears and shoulders to cry on. These women and children had walked through, and still lived in, such deep, deep darkness.

But the light of Jesus was about to pierce through the darkness of their situation.

The conversation began to move on to other things. They had lots of questions for us.

“So, you are Christians?” Samira asked. Religion is an integral part of their daily lives, so it wasn’t an awkward or taboo question.

“Yes, we follow Jesus. Have you ever heard stories of Jesus from the Bible?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Would you like to hear some?”

“Sure,” they all said enthusiastically.

I relied on the Holy Spirit for strength as I bounced my fussy daughter on my hip. Taking a deep breath, my teammate and I began to share the gospel. We told the story of Adam and Eve, Jesus’ birth, His miracles, and His death on the cross.

They hung onto every word.

“Then,” the story culminated, “three days later Jesus rose from the dead.”

Samira’s eyes went wide. She was shocked.

It was her first time ever hearing the good news.

After more discussion, we asked if there was anything we could pray about in Jesus’ name. Her sister-in-law Amina*, who had been quiet throughout our visit, sat up and asked us to pray for her pregnancy.

Sitting down on either side of her, we laid our hands on her shoulders and prayed a simple prayer in Arabic. We looked up to see the women staring at us in wonder. They had never seen anyone pray this way before.

By this point, we had been there for nearly three hours, so we thanked them for the tea, hugged the kids tightly, and left.

Several months later, we returned to see them. Amina was holding a healthy baby boy. “Do you remember when you prayed for me when I was pregnant? This is the baby you prayed for.”

We also found out, unknown to us at the time, that she had lost her previous baby five months into her pregnancy. When we had visited previously, Amina was five months along with her new baby and terrified of losing another.

“God answered your prayers,” she told us, smiling.

“Why is it that you are such good people?” The matron of the family asked.

“It is not us you are seeing,” we told her. “It is Jesus in us.”

OUR PRAYER FOR SYRIA

Before the recent war, Syria was 19% Christian, consisting of evangelicals, Catholics, Syriacs, and Coptics. That percentage has dwindled, yet endures, as does arm-in-arm relationships with beautiful Muslim friends. Syrians don’t tend to ask each other about religion. When you are under pressure, you accept friends wherever you find them.

Despite the violence around them, despite the rage of Islamic radicals — who have killed Muslims as thoughtlessly as they have killed Christians — Syrians are beautiful, peace-loving people, proud of their heritage, and longing for a reason to hope. Thirteen years of war has devastated ‘Alawites, Druze, Sunni Muslims, Christians, and Kurds alike. More than half of the population has been displaced from their homes.

Would you pray that our team, who has been praying and trying to access Syria for the past five years, would be granted residency permits?

Would you pray for our Syrian partners who have chosen to stay in the land they love when so many others have fled? They have five different fellowships that meet regularly to worship Jesus.

Would you pray for the beautiful Syrian people, that whatever their background they would find eternal life in Jesus Christ?

The greatest miracle on the Damascus Road was the saving revelation of Jesus to Paul — the granting of eternal life, and the transformation of a man who hated the gospel. Those who embrace this miracle become missionaries who go to all the nations believing that similar miracles can happen again, for the glory of God.

This was Syria’s past. This will be her future.

Editor’s note: Although this article shares some insights to the ongoing violence in Syria, many may not be aware of why the gift of some groceries was significant. This link is to an AP story sheds more light on the plight of everyday Syrians who Brogden is reaching out to with help and Hope.

*This article originally appeared in Worldview magazine. Used with permission.

Dick Brogden and Lisa Wright

Dick Brogden and Lisa Wright are AGWM global workers.