When the towers fell on September 11, 2001, the whole world changed. But for the Arabic community in New York City, the aftermath was felt in particularly painful ways. Fear and grief blanketed the city, but for Arab immigrants and their families—even those who had lived in the U.S. for decades—their very identity became a reason for suspicion. Overnight, neighbors looked at them differently; strangers whispered or shouted insults, employers questioned loyalties, students in schools faced mocking and bullying. In those moments, being Arab became synonymous with being a threat in the eyes of many, regardless of one’s actual beliefs. And even Arab Christians, followers of the Prince of Peace, could not escape the harsh judgment of being associated with terrorism. This is the world in which the gospel’s calling in the Arabic church in New York had to take root and shine, a world of grief, rejection, misunderstanding, and fear.
Nabil, a friend of mine who witnessed the tragedy, and is a faithful Christian man, had been attending an Arabic church in Brooklyn for many years. He used to work as a taxi driver, and his heart was generous, always helping people from his church with rides, groceries, and small acts of kindness. After September 11, his world changed dramatically. He began to notice fewer people wanted to ride in his cab once they heard his accent. One day, a passenger got out of his car midway, leaving the door open and shouting, “Go back where you came from!” Of course, he did not mean his home in Brooklyn. Nabil returned to his house shaken; he confessed to his church family that he felt ashamed, even though he had done nothing wrong. Being Christian did not shield him from being seen first and foremost as “Arab.” His children were taunted at school; one was called “terrorist” even though the family regularly attended church and taught their children to love their neighbors. Nabil’s story, though deeply personal, echoed the experiences of many Arab Christians across the city.
In this climate, the calling of the gospel became a lifeline. The gospel met people at the point of their anger, fear, and rejection, and it redirected them to the cross of Christ. Many were tempted to withdraw, to hide their heritage and Christian faith in order to avoid discrimination, while others felt bitterness rise in their hearts. But the gospel called them to something higher, to see in their suffering a reflection of Christ’s own suffering and to bear witness to his love amid misunderstanding. The gospel was not only a comfort but also a commission, turning pain into mission and wounds into testimony.
Over the past 24 years, the gospel has worked powerfully to reshape how Arab Christians understand themselves and how they are perceived by others. In the beginning, the gospel helped them endure the storm of prejudice. When anger threatened to consume hearts, the Arabic church found no comfort but in Christ, who endured scorn and rejection yet prayed for his enemies. The words of Jesus, “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God,” became a banner over their lives. By the Holy Spirit’s power, Arab Christians learned to transform their anger into prayer, their bitterness into acts of love. Some began intentionally reaching out to non-Arab neighbors, bringing food during community events, or volunteering in local schools. Slowly, small acts of kindness chipped away at walls of suspicion.
The gospel also gave them courage to adopt a wider vision. Instead of retreating into cultural enclaves, many Arabic churches in New York City became places of welcome not just for Arabs but for others in the community who longed for truth and love. A church that once feared rejection began to see growth because of its willingness to open its doors widely. Nabil, for example, after wrestling with his own anger, began volunteering at a food pantry run by the church. Over time, he built friendships with people who initially distrusted him. His consistent kindness bore witness to the reality that his faith defined him more than the stereotypes attached to his background. Through his example, others in the congregation were encouraged to engage the city with courage.
This transformation did not erase the hardships, for Arab believers still had to deal with discrimination, misunderstandings, and systemic challenges. But the gospel reframed the struggle. The community began to learn that their suffering for being misunderstood could be joined to Christ’s own suffering. Instead of being crushed by rejection, they could see rejection as an opportunity to bear witness to the one who was despised and rejected, yet who conquered sin and death. Their identity was no longer trapped in fear or anger; it became rooted in the joy of belonging to Christ. This perspective empowered many Arab Christians to endure with dignity and to respond with love when confronted with prejudice. Even more, the cross and resurrection of Christ became a game changer for their lives and communities. The message of a Savior who suffered unjustly, bore the world’s pain, and then rose again became a lens through which they understood their own trials. They discovered that the gospel is not only good news of comfort but also a call to live out resurrection hope. As they embraced the gospel of pain and resurrection, the community itself reflected this reality, bearing wounds yet radiating new life, scarred yet transformed, and through their witness showing New York City that the cross can turn despair into hope and suffering into a testimony of God’s redeeming love.
As years passed, the gospel’s influence began to ripple outward, and misconceptions changed. Neighbors who once looked with suspicion recognized these congregations as communities of peace. Partnerships formed with other Christian churches, working together in ministries of mercy, refugee assistance, and evangelism especially through Hurricane Sandy eleven years later. The very presence of Arabic Christians in New York City became a testimony that the gospel is not bound by culture but is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes. Their lives showed the city that being Arab and being Christian was not a contradiction but a reflection of the breadth of God’s kingdom.
The gospel’s calling has been both humbling and inspiring. It has taught younger generations that their scars are not marks of shame but signs of Christ’s victory. What once tempted them to despair now calls them into hope. The power of the gospel has redefined their community, not as one marked by bitterness, but as one shaped by peace. Their scars look like the scars of Jesus: wounds that speak not of defeat but of redemption. In this way, the Arabic church in New York City became a prophetic witness, reminding the city that reconciliation and salvation are possible through Christ alone.
To live under the gospel’s calling in an Arabic church in New York after September 11 is to carry scars that resemble the scars of Christ, marks of suffering that do not call for revenge but instead proclaim peace and salvation. The wounds of rejection and misunderstanding become testimonies of grace, much like the pierced hands and side of our Lord Jesus that speak not of defeat but of victory. The gospel has called this community to embody reconciliation, teaching them that in their pain they share in the fellowship of Christ’s suffering, and in their endurance, they share in his resurrection life. Most of all, it has called them to stand as a witness that the good news of Jesus Christ is the answer, not only to Arab Christians’ questions of identity and belonging but also to the city’s deep longing for peace, unity, and hope. For in the end, the gospel has not only carried the Arabic church through hardship but has also transformed it into a vibrant presence in New York City, a living testimony that, as Jesus declared, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12). And with Paul, they can proclaim, “We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed but not driven to despair; persecuted but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed” (2 Corinthians 4:8–9). These scars, joined to Christ, shine as signs of redemption, proving that indeed, the light of the gospel shines brightest in the darkness.