What Happened When 9 Christians Prayed in a Mosque in India

Traveling in India is like tumbling through a sensory kaleidoscope – a swirl of colors, sound, tastes, and scents. Quite literally, it’s a feast for the senses.

Being on a short term mission trip in India is like taking said kaleidoscope and sending it down a roller coaster – everything from the “ultimate tetris-like traffic” to the “only in India” moments make for great photographs and even better stories.

It’s the ultimate rush.

And then every once in a while, a moment comes through that completely stops you in your tracks, leaving you heartbroken for the country so culturally rich and extravagant in every custom, decoration, and meal.

That happened Tuesday afternoon.

Our team is ministering at an orphanage in the mornings, an incredible ministry caring for over 160 special needs children in Southern India. Between hugging and playing with children, we are cleaning and painting walls, clearing trash, carrying children to other homes/levels of homes, helping with the constant administrative tasks, and even photographing the ministry to help with a future brochure. We are willing and ready to do it whatever is needed, all with a heart to serve Christ and in the spirit of prayer.

After lunch, we return to our hotel and debrief the morning. Our stories are of joy – of seeing God at work and the love in the hands, eyes, and hearts of the ministry’s staff. Something in us resonates with every moment spent at Sarah’s Covenant Homes (SCH), because we all worship the same God.

But this is not the case for most of India. In fact, India is barely 2% Christian. 

After debrief on Tuesday, our team went to a local mosque. While the ride there was only 45 minutes, it felt like we’d stepped into another world.

The roads were congested with traffic and pedestrians – auto rickshaws, vehicles, motorcycles, and people moving in every direction. Honks and yells in Telegru (the local dialect) filled the smog-filled air, as everyone seemed to be trying to get to the same place at the same time. When we finally reached our destination, we stepped out into a traffic circle and looked around.

Women in burkas and men in Western clothing milled all about us as far away as I could see. Literally, we were the only 9 Westerners in a sea of thousands. Local signs advertised in both Arabic and Telegru script. Even the buildings were shaped in familiar pointed arches of Muslim architecture. Hundreds of market stalls lined the packed streets. Bangles, sequined shoes, and rhinestones sparkled in the late afternoon light.

I’m not a fan of crowds.

As the auto driver pointed behind us to the monument we sought, I took a deep breath, chalked the experience up to adventure, and began to prayer walk with my team. Within minutes, a government tour guide who spoke excellent English found us and offered to show us around.

Our new friend walked us up to the mosque, where a woman wrapped our scarves around us females in complicated patterns. Already dressed in punjabis or leggings with tunics, we still had to cover our hair and shoulders.

We walked through the security gate, into the courtyard, and through what I can only describe as a solid wall of spiritual oppression.

I don’t know how to describe it other than that. The second we entered the gates of this mosque and heard the call to prayer over the loudspeakers, a weight of darkness pressed onto my heart and almost physically against my shoulders.

Goats skipped past as entire loft of pigeons took flight over our heads. I ducked and turned to the fountain, watching men and young boys wash their feet, hands, and mouths with the dirty water, before going inside. The sky was thick, white with smog, as the sun began to set.

And we stood there – 9 Christians in a mosque in Southern India, praying to the One True God.

One by one, people approached us – teen girls giggling and coming forward with cell phones, asking my female teammates and leader for pictures with them. We smiled and posed with them, asking their names and wishing them a “Happy Friendship Day” (a national day celebrated the day before). Being in the back of the group, I just watched and prayed.

Eventually we left and began to make our way through the market, with the help from our guide. Once again swept into a sea of thousands, I was overwhelmed. 

Statistically speaking, it was safe to assume that literally everyone in every direction did not know Christ.

Overwhelmed by the sheer numbers, I looked down. Two young girls ran up to me. Initially, I thought they were going to beg. But instead they giggled and looked up at me. One blew a small horn, the kind given at birthday parties that unfurl with a simple breath. Another met my eyes and asked me for a picture. I raised my lens and clicked the shutter, blinking tears from my eyes.

Because if my heart was broken for the thousands, in that moment, it was overcome with the deep, continuing, inexpressible love of Christ for this one.

My team had to keep moving, and soon she faded back into the crowd. But I couldn’t forget her face. As my teammates shopped, I stood and watched the crowds streaming past, seeing her face on every one of theirs. Interceding for this nation, praying for long term Workers to do what I could not, lifting this girl who’s name I don’t know to her Heavenly Father, who knows every desire of her heart.

The ride back from the mosque was silent, as we all were praying and processing what happened. Simply leaving the town meant the physical weight we’d felt before had lifted. The veil of spiritual darkness became a memory. Still feeling burdened for what we’d seen, I mentioned it to a teammate. She reminded me of something very important – that darkness cannot exist where there is light.

And the light of the 9 followers of Christ in a mosque surrounded by thousands was enough to catch everyone’s attention. They took pictures with us, watched us, and shook our hands. And every step we took, every hand we touched in the name of Jesus, stepped into the light for that moment.

The hope of Christ was there because he is in us.

I can’t forget the face of the little girl I met in the crowd, and I don’t want to. I hope the memory of her face reminds me to pray, not only for her, but for those who need to hear of Christ, both in America and across the world. 

But right now, I am thinking of a song the kids of the children’s home sang for us in the past:

“Pray for India, pray for India, pray for India.”

My prayer for India is that this nation, so united in its love of color and divided in religion, will one day recognize and surrender to the beauty, grace, and power of the resurrected Christ.

 

How, then, can they call on the one they have not believed in? And how can they believe in the one of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone preaching to them? And how can anyone preach unless they are sent? As it is written: “How beautiful are the feet of those who bring good news! Romans 10:14-15