“Oh, probably a bunch of times—and been punched by a Muslim in the face a bunch of times too.”
That’s Justin Trigg answering a question he knows sounds outrageous. But Justin is an MMA fighter and trainer (mixed martial arts), and he’s not trying to be provocative—he’s telling the truth about where some of his most meaningful relationships have formed: not in a formal “Muslim outreach” setting, but in a fighting cage.
“MMA doesn’t discriminate based on race or religion,” Justin says. “You will be punched in the face and punch everyone in the face from all backgrounds of the world.”
And then, with the kind of blunt humor only a fighter can get away with, he adds:
“And there’s no equalizer like being locked in a cage in your underwear with another man ... you are as equal as it gets when you are locked in a cage and there’s just a referee to save you.”
Justin’s story matters because he’s not a specialist. He’s an evangelical Christian, an MMA fighter and coach, a husband and dad—someone whose life keeps putting him in real proximity to Muslims, and who has had to decide what to do with that proximity.
“I’M TRYING TO REFLECT JESUS IN A WAY THAT’S BOTH LOVING AND STILL TRUTHFUL.”
A trip that changed everything
Justin traces a big shift in his thinking back to 2019, when he went on an Israel/Palestine trip through his church. He says it was an “eye opening experience”—not only about Christian–Muslim relationships, but about the Western and Middle Eastern world.
His experiences became even more relevant when he met Ali, a Muslim fighter at his gym. He started training with Ali, and they soon became close friends.
Justin learned about Ali’s background—Christian mom, Nation of Islam (Muslim) dad—which led to a lot of faith-based discussions as well as personal and political conversations.
Justin doesn’t pretend these conversations are simple. What he emphasizes is tone—how he tries to show up without fear and without shutting down the conversation.
“I try not to shut down anything that he says,” Justin explains. “We’re not worried about the other person judging us. We could disagree, but it’s not a big deal.”
Justin is strikingly honest about the internal climate he’s trying to resist—especially when faith gets politicized and Christians feel pressure to see Muslims as nothing more than targets for cold-contact evangelism.
“As Christians, we focus on the conversion by any means necessary,” Justin says. “And I don’t know if ‘by any means necessary’ is the way that Jesus operated.”
Then he gives his own imperfect, lived answer:
“I’m trying to reflect Jesus in a way that’s both loving and still truthful.”
That posture shows up again when he describes how he enters conversations with Ali:
“Yes, conversion might be the ultimate goal,” Justin says, “but ... what I feel like Jesus has informed us to do is to share his love and he’ll do the rest. I don’t know that I am having any success attempting to convert him, but what I do know is that he asks me questions about what Christians think about Jesus.”
“I’M ALWAYS UNCOMFORTABLE IN FAITH CONVERSATIONS,” HE SAYS. “THAT DOESN’T MEAN I DON’T HAVE THEM.”
Finding support at church
Justin and his wife have also found opportunities at their church that helped give them an open mind for these kinds of relationships.
Justin’s pastor has been organizing concrete opportunities for members to interface with Muslims—especially around meals and honest Q&A. In one gathering, about 30 people from a local mosque came to the church for a shared meal, with intentional table mixing and a guided
question exchange on index cards. People asked real questions respectfully, and were instructed to “only answer for yourself,” not for an entire religion.
The church also visited a mosque for prayer and a meal, followed by an “ask a pastor / ask an imam” style question time, then later hosted another meal where Muslim neighbors returned to participate again.
These experiences help explain why Justin’s story is less about a single event and more about a culture of steady, human engagement—where relationships can grow in normal places like gyms, and also be strengthened by what the church is practicing together.
Do it anyway
Justin’s story isn’t conducive to a neat list of dos and don'ts when it comes to engaging with Muslims. There is, however, one clear takeaway: If it feels hard to spark up a conversation with your Muslim neighbors, do it anyway.
“I’m always uncomfortable in faith conversations,” he says. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have them.”
He refuses to make Muslims a special category of fear. He calls out the stigma and says the more you get to know people, “you’d be surprised at how little of it is true.”
And then he lands the line that sounds like it’s meant for all of us:
“Once you start to make those excuses, you can excuse your way out of anything.”
Justin’s story isn’t a sermon. It’s a testimony that Muslim relationships don’t only happen in “Muslim ministry.” They happen in the gym. On a trip. Over meals. In the slow, ordinary overlaps of life—where you may not be “called,” but you are absolutely invited to be a neighbor.
And yes... sometimes that neighboring includes getting punched in the face.