THE GUARD AND THE FASTING CHILD: WHAT 15 YEARS IN JORDAN TAUGHT ME ABOUT CHRISTIANITY & ISLAM
BY YOUNGIN YOO
I was two when my family relocated from Korea to Jordan. My parents were missionaries. Eighteen years later, they are still there.
I am their son. I was raised to speak Arabic, hear the call to prayer, and watch my Muslim neighbors pray in a way that embarrassed my own distracted devotions. But for years, Christianity was my parents’ faith, not my own.
Then 2014 happened.
ISIS swept through Iraq. Assyrian Christians had a choice: either convert or die. Over one hundred thousand chose death. Survivors fled to Jordan, where I saw them huddle in damp, windowless rooms. It was illegal for them to work. Their children woke up screaming.
And yet they simply smiled and said, “Allah Kareem.”
God is good.
That phrase shattered me. They were not missionaries with a seminary education. They were Arabs who looked like my Muslim neighbors, spoke like them, and used the Arabic word for God—Allah—yet refused to renounce Jesus at gunpoint.
The Christmas Guards
Muslim policemen are stationed outside churches in Jordan on Christmas Eve Mass every year. They hold their rifles as we sing about the Prince of Peace.
My Christian friends wonder, “Why would Muslims protect Christians?”
Because they are our neighbors.
The policeman standing in the cold so my family can pray is not confessing that Jesus is the Son of God. He is fulfilling an Islamic ethic—protecting the vulnerable, honoring the “people of the book.” I receive his protection as a gift, not as an affirmation that we worship the same God.
Islam taught me submission. Christianity showed me that submission is not final—adoption is.
The Ramadan Silence
I learned to return this gift when I was just seven years old.
During Ramadan, my Muslim classmates fasted from sunrise to sunset. No food. No water. And the Christian kids did something remarkable: we stopped eating in front of them. No teacher instructed us. We simply knew not to tempt a friend sacrificing for God.
We ate Hot Cheetos in the stairwell. We waited until our friends left the cafeteria.
In America, religious liberty is debated in courts. In Jordan, I experienced it as a relationship. My freedom did not require my neighbor to stop being Muslim. It required us to bend toward one another.
What I Learned About Islam
Fifteen years in Jordan taught me that Islam is not monolithic. It is not inherently violent. For most neighbors, it is a sincere orientation toward a God who is great and just—even if that God is not Triune.
Tawhid—the absolute oneness of God—is the core of Islam. Muslims revere Jesus as a prophet but cannot accept God becoming flesh and dying. Divine majesty means divine transcendence. God does not bleed.
I believe this is incomplete. But I no longer dismiss it as insincere.
What I Learned About Christianity
Living with Muslims made my faith clearer.
Islam taught me that God is great. Christianity taught me that greatness serves. Islam taught me submission. Christianity showed me that submission is not final—adoption is. We are children of a Father who descended into suffering.
The cross became the difference. In Islam, a crucified prophet is a failed prophet. The crucified Messiah in Christianity shows God’s character. He is love, pierced through. The God of Christianity is Father, Son, and Spirit. This is not the God of Islam. To pretend otherwise dishonors both faiths.
The Muslim policemen taught me that you can hold firm to your confession and still hold out your hand.
What I Learned About Mission
I used to look at Muslims as projects. Comparative theology diagrams I memorized. I looked for points of entry.
Then I watched my parents.
Eighteen years in Jordan. Close to two decades of learning Arabic, raising children, and navigating visas. They did not see projects. They saw neighbors. My father drank countless cups of sweet tea, sat on floors, listened to stories, and prayed for opportunities that took decades.
Fifteen years in Jordan undid my project mentality.
Muslims are not projects. They are people. Not debates: These were my primary faith conversations. They were in mutual presence: drinking tea, fasting together, and receiving protection from a policeman who knew that I was a Christian yet guarded me anyway.
If you want to get to Muslims, stop trying to “reach” them. Start arriving. Show up to Eid feasts. Admit your own questions. Stay when there is nothing to convert. The Gospel is not a weapon. It’s a gift given in a relationship.
My parents are still in Jordan. They imparted that faithfulness is not measured in converting—it is measured by presence.
Conclusion
I still believe Jesus is the Son of God, that He died for my sins, and that He rose from the dead. I believe He is the only way to the Father.
But faithfulness does not require hostility.
The Muslim policemen taught me that you can hold firm to your confession and still hold out your hand. The Christian children who ate lunch in stairwells taught me that holiness is bending toward the other in small sacrifices. The Assyrian refugees taught me to endure. My parents taught me to stay.
We do not worship the same God. But we live in the same country. We breathe the same air. And on cold Christmas nights in Madaba, a Muslim policeman stands guard so a Christian child can sleep in peace.
That is not theology. That is grace.
YoungIn Yoo is a junior at Wheaton College in Wheaton, Illinois.