My Journey from Islam to Christianity: Compelling Evidence for Those Seeking the Truth

By Kenny Abdulsalam

This book is about my life growing up as a Muslim boy and young Islamic scholar in West Africa. In search for answers, I arrived at the truth through objective study of the Bible and the Quran. I began to discover the errors in the Quran. Many Muslims have been misled, which will be demonstrated in this book, and some have become extremists as a result. For those who have the potential to become Islamic extremists and terrorists, and for the Christian reader, this book is my attempt as a former Muslim to create a bridge between the Islamic and Christian world. Without judgment or condemnation, this is my way of reaching out to my Muslim brethren, so that we can at least have a conversation about Jesus Christ and Mohammed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: May 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490880457

Kenny Abdulsalam

Kenny Abdulsalam, the founder of Jesus Calls World Outreach Ministries, International, was born into a Muslim home in West Africa. At the age of three, he began attending the Koran school where he was given the name AbdulRasheed. He became an Islamic scholar and an Imam, leading a mosque of two thousand worshippers by the age of thirteen. He attended All Nations for Christ Bible Institute where he obtained a degree in Biblical Studies. He attended Christ Message University where he obtained a BA in Theology. He has given lectures at The International School of Leadership and Ministry in South Africa, and The University of Swaziland. He has been preaching the gospel of Christ for over thirty-five years. He is the author of A Call to Follow.

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Copyright © 2015 Kenny Abdulsalam.

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Art Credit: Placid Gomes

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-8043-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8044-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-8045-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015908562

WestBow Press rev. date: 05/28/2015

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1 Clear Skies

Chapter 2 School Days

Chapter 3 Big Plans

Chapter 4 The Seed Is Sown

Chapter 5 Prelude to the Storm

Chapter 6 The First Detour

Chapter 7 I Carry My Cross

Chapter 8 Wounds That Never Heal

Chapter 9 A Ray of Hope

Chapter 10 The Path Unfolds

Chapter 11 Midway

Chapter 12 The Prophet of Islam

Chapter 13 My Discoveries

Chapter 14 More Discoveries

Chapter 15 Bittersweet Reunion

Chapter 16 Destiny Is Fulfilled

Chapter 17 The Final Mile

Chapter 18 Hope for the Future

Chapter 19 Hope in Christ

Chapter 20 A Heart Changed

Glossary

References

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to first and foremost give thanks to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, who has given me the gift of life. It is He who ordered my steps and directed my path. Without Christ’s leading and calling on my life, I would have never had this journey. Christ, before the foundations of the earth, knew the family I would be born in, the experiences I would have to endure, and how these experiences would shape the man of God I would become.

This journey would not have been possible if it were not for the parents God chose to shape me in my youth in the ways of the Koran, Mr. and Mrs. Abdulsalam. I am truly blessed to have been born with parents who were very dedicated to their faith and to instilling their values in their children.

To Julius, God used you to lead me to Christ. I would not be a Christian today if you had not made yourself available to God. God used you in a mighty way.

This book would not have been possible without the support and encouragement of my darling wife, Loutrecia Abdulsalam. Words cannot express my gratitude.

Much thanks to my children, Sharon, Princeton, and Lyric, who provided much joy and support while I wrote this book.

I am also grateful to the faithful members and supporters of Jesus Calls World Outreach Ministries, International

PROLOGUE

This is the story of a unique journey that has spanned several decades and two continents. It is a story that has changed lives. It is a story of agonizing struggles, remarkable victories, indescribable pain, crushing desolation, and incredible grace.

This is not a tale of wild adventures, crazy escapades, or dashing, heroic feats but of the quiet struggle of one man in search of his soul. Ultimately, it is a story of uplifting joy and hope.

These pages describe my journey from darkness into light … This is my journey from Islam to Christianity.

I am not writing my story for fame or personal gain but because I believe it is a story worth telling. I also believe there are many former Muslims with stories worth telling but who are not in a position to make their voices heard. I hope that in speaking of my own experience I can articulate some of the emotional hardships associated with this type of journey and give a voice to those who are unable to speak out.

I have been able, by the grace of God, to make peace with my past after years of pain and struggles. I am now able to look back on those years with a heart filled with peace and forgiveness. I see now that they were necessary stepping-stones that have made me stronger and infinitely wiser. I urge the reader to look beyond the pain, despair, and suffering of my story to the hope and optimism and will hopefully be inspired and uplifted.

In writing about my journey, I hope to prove the wisdom of that old saying The Lord works in mysterious ways. I am humbled and astounded by God’s grace and how He has touched and transformed my life. It is not my intention to proselytize through this book (although I am an ordained bishop!) but simply to testify on my own behalf to the glory of Christ. God has worked miracles in my life, and this is ultimately what I want to share with the world.

CHAPTER 1

CLEAR SKIES

I was born on May 19, 1970, in Bolgatanga, Ghana, into an affluent Muslim family in the suburbs of Ghana in an area where the population was predominately Muslim. My father was fifty at the time of my birth, and my mother was half his age, twenty-five years old. We lived on a wide, shady street in a sprawling one-floor house with a big front garden and a spacious backyard, where mother hung up the wash to dry and raised chickens and rabbits.

We were a big family; numerous children were a mark of status and prestige in West African culture. My twin brother and I were the middle boys among three brothers and three sisters.

My father worked in real estate. He had inherited land from his father that he sold to start a real estate business, taking advantage of the post-independence housing boom in big cities such as Accra, Kaduna, Lagos, and Kumasi.

My mother, like most women of the day, had married very young. She kept the house, looked after the children, and cooked huge meals for our big family. She wore many gold bangles on her wrist, a sign of my father’s wealth. She rarely left the house, as we had a maid who went to the market for all our household needs. Mother was a kind, mild woman who rarely got angry despite our rowdy boisterousness and sometimes devilish antics.

I remember seeing her get really angry just once. My twin brother, who liked to draw, had received a set of oil paints for his sixth birthday One day soon after, when we children were all home—thankfully, Father was out on business, and we were shocked to hear Mother’s scream from the backyard. Running outside, we found Mother standing before the washing line, where she had hung up a row of dazzling white, freshly laundered sheets. Smack in the middle of each sheet was a monster face in oil. I think that was the first time she had ever spanked any of us.

Why did you do that? Why did you do that? she yelled as she was spanking my brother.

My brother, tears streaming down his face, gasped out, I wanted to scare you with the monster faces! He was so earnest, so indignant that he was being spanked for something he honestly didn’t think was wrong, that we all burst out laughing, and Mother, bless her heart, burst out laughing as well as she hugged my brother and dried his tears.

I suppose we were no different from any other family living in upper class West Africa in the early ’70s, as nothing in particular stands out in my memory. Father and Mother went about their daily routines, and we went to school. We laughed, squabbled, gathered around the big dining table for meals, visited with relatives, and had the occasional holiday at the seaside.

My father was a devout Muslim and a steadfast believer in the tenets of Islam. Like millions of Muslims around the world, he believed the Qur’an was the literal Word of God, revealed through the angel Gabriel to the prophet Muhammad. He believed the prophet Muhammad was the last and final messenger, the seal of all the prophets who had come before. Like millions of Muslims around the world, he turned toward Mecca five times every day to recite the mandatory prayers. When we were about six years old, he bought each of us a prayer rug, and when the call to prayer sounded from the nearby mosque, we would leave whatever we were doing, line up at the bathroom to perform the ritual washing known as Wudu in Islam, and all pray together. My mother was under strict command to see that my sisters also did not miss prayer, and they would pray separately in their rooms.

My father attended Friday prayers at the local mosque without fail, and he fasted from sunrise until sunset during the month of Ramadan. He recited the Qur’an, and piously followed the rituals and practices decreed by Allah and His messenger. His biggest dream was to one day be able to make pilgrimage to Mecca and from then on be called hajji, meaning one who has made pilgrimage to the holy sites. Although he could well afford to undertake the costly journey, he didn’t do so until much later, after I had left home. I suppose his business obligations and not wanting to leave Mother alone with a gang of young children for two weeks was the reason.

He was a good man and highly respected in the community; he donated generously to the local mosque and was active in many Islamic community events. On Eid al-Fitr, the holiday celebrating the end of Ramadan, he would have clothes and money distributed to the poor in neighboring villages. On Eid al-Adha, the day of sacrifice, he was the only man in the neighborhood to slaughter not one but two sheep, and the meat was distributed to the poor.

He was a good father but not an overly doting one. We all loved and revered him but were also scared of him. We were always much quieter and better behaved when he was in the house. He was never violent toward us but was a strict disciplinarian, and we dreaded angering him.

As a fervent believer, it was my father’s wish that all of us boys receive a solid Islamic education and become devout Muslims. By raising his children to be pious Muslims and upholders of the canons of the one true faith, he would be fulfilling his duty to Allah. He would also ensure that after his death, his sons would keep his good deeds running by giving alms, practicing charity, and distributing Qur’ans in his name (and if we were exceptional sons, even building a mosque in his memory). He often quoted to us the hadith, or sayings of the prophet, saying, When the human being dies, his deeds come to an end except for three: ongoing charity, beneficial knowledge, or a righteous child who prays for him (Muslim 1631).

Thus, my father saw it as his duty to spare no expense and to invest heavily in his five sons by sending us to the local Qur’an school. It would be a costly business to put five sons through both regular school and Qur’an school; however, he had high hopes that the investment would be worthwhile.

And so at the age of three, still unable to read and write, barely able to string two sentences together, I was to attend the local Kuttab school, where I would memorize the Qur’an, learn the basic tenets of Islam, and study the hadith, the sayings of the prophet Muhammad that were considered to be almost as holy as the Qur’an and complementary to it.

Preparation for my first day was a delightful and exciting ritual. Since all students were required to attend in Islamic dress, I was to have a set of jilbabs. My mother cut and sewed the white muslin herself after carefully taking my measurements. Each little robe had a high collar, slit pockets in the sides, and a tiny pocket on the front—exactly like the ones I had seen Father wear to the mosque! Father bought me a white skullcap imported from Saudi Arabia, hand-sewn with delicate transparent beads. My outfit was completed with tiny leather slippers. The night before school was to start, Mother dressed me in my new clothes and paraded the little scholar through the house while my brothers and sisters clapped and cheered. I was thrilled and excited to be the center of attention and even more excited that I was going to learn to recite the Qur’an just like my father and older brothers.

I remember that first day well. I set off for the school holding my father’s hand, walking proudly down the road. Kuttab schools throughout the Islamic world are attended exclusively by boys, and we joined the small group of little boys waiting with their fathers outside the school. The school was a simple one-room building with a wide door and plain whitewashed walls. The floor was spread with reed mats, where the pupils would sit facing the imam. The imam, a bearded young man of about twenty-six, came out, greeted the fathers, and invited the children to come inside.

The imam proceeded to randomly assign the students Islamic names with which they would be called in class. He gave me the name Abdul Rasheed, which means servant of the rightly guided. People with this name tend to initiate events, to be leaders rather than followers, and to have powerful personalities. They tend to be focused on specific goals, experience a wealth of creative new ideas, and have the ability to implement these ideas with efficiency and determination. They tend to be very courageous. I honestly don’t know on what theory this was based or if it’s based on a theory at all, but this is what I was told. I was proud that my Islamic name held so many great qualities.

The fathers began nudging their boys to go inside with the imam, but the terrified boys clung to them, refusing. It was a traumatic event for the young boys, most of whom had never been left alone without their parents before. To my father’s astonishment, amid the crowd of terrified toddlers who had begun to scream and cry, I looked around me with bright, curious eyes, calmly walked inside, headed to the front of the class, and sat down and crossed my legs, as I had seen my father and older brothers do at the mosque.

I was a bold, inquisitive child, and any new situation was always an adventure. The other dads, trying to disengage themselves from their screaming sons, pointed to me, saying, Look! Look at Rasheed; see how quietly he’s sitting? He’s waiting for the imam to teach him the Qur’an so that Allah will be pleased with him.

Then some of the boys, not wanting to be outshined by me, came and sat down as well. Soon all the children