“Water the ground of this city with worship,” God whispers to me.

How do I do that? I wonder.

I walk streets filled with garbage. Burst pipes often turn the streets into muddy swales. I look for dry patches and step over the garbage.

How do I water this ground with worship?

I wipe my shoes clean at the door of the center where dozens of young Muslim refugees come to hear about Jesus, fill their tummies with food, and learn English. We sit on the floor, sound out words together, and give hugs and high fives. I love these kids. I love watering this ground with the worship of my service to these small ones.

Walking deep into an urban slum, I spend several days a week using my medical skills to help the very poor of this city. I am humbled by the Muslim mothers who love their children so much that they carry them long distances and take multiple buses to get to our physical therapy center. It’s a wonderful chance to bless—to water the ground with my work.

Sometimes, I wander into areas of the city where I hold my bag a little tighter. I don’t like walking these streets so much. I feel very foreign and vulnerable. Occasionally, men say unkind things. I feel exposed and anxious.

“I’m not sure I want to walk this ground, God,” I pray, the defensiveness of self-preservation rising up in me. “I don’t want to water it with worship.”

One recent Friday, I went to visit a local friend. I dread walking to her house. Her neighborhood has always felt unsafe to me.

I began climbing the stairs to go over the metro line. As I descended into the neighborhood on the other side of the tracks, I heard the call to prayer. It was about time for the Friday mosque message.

My anxiety intensified as I remembered that my Muslim friend lives in an alley across from a mosque. All the neighborhood men would be in attendance, filling the mosque beyond capacity and overflowing into the side streets.

My heart sank as I turned onto the alley where my friend lived. It was packed with men, sitting shoulder to shoulder as they listened to the mosque leader’s message.

There was no room to pass. Walking in front of them would have been inappropriate, and I wouldn’t dare step on their prayer mats laid on the ground. I attempted to walk behind them, but there was no room.

I sat down on a curb and fumed about the brilliant person who thought that putting a mosque in a tiny alley was a good idea. I thought about all those men who would not let me pass, and about the fact that I felt very uncomfortable and out-of-place sitting in this wrong-side-of-the-tracks neighborhood. I hoped the mosque leader wouldn’t to be too long-winded with his message.

Then it dawned on me: I could worship in this place. Was that why I was stuck sitting on a curb listening to Friday mosque prayers over the loudspeaker—to worship?

I began quietly singing a verse from “Be Enthroned,” a song I had sung with my team that morning:

“Be enthroned upon the praises of a thousand generations. You are worthy Lord of all. Unto You, the slain and risen King, we lift our voice with Heaven, singing worthy Lord of all.”

Tears came to my eyes as I imagined a thousand generations of people in this place, enthroning Jesus with their praises. My heart lifted as I praised the only One who is worthy.

In that moment, the Spirit filled me with faith to believe that God is shifting unseen spiritual things. My anxiety lifted as God gave me hope for a place I had judged as hopeless.

Pray for God to equip followers of Christ living in Muslim communities to worship the One who is worthy—the Lamb of God.

May they bring hearts full of praise into every needy place, dark neighborhood, and broken life—so that Jesus Christ would be enthroned upon the praises of a thousand generations!

**Diana is a long-term field worker who has been living in North Africa for several years.**

Main photo by David Evers

Original article: FrontiersUSA.org/blog/article/worshiping-on-the-wrong-side