Personally, I don't think Soteriology is a Salvific issue for Evangelicals;
Soteriology, the doctrine of salvation, is not an abstract theological category—it is the matter of life and death, of heaven and hell. These are not peripheral discussions; they concern the soul’s eternal state and the true knowledge of the One who saves.
From my earliest memory, I believed in God. There was never a day I doubted His existence. I also believed in Jesus: that He was born of a virgin, that He lived, and that He was indeed, the Messiah of Christians. These truths were as settled in my mind as gravity or the rising sun. But belief in certain facts does not equate to salvation.
My understanding of salvation—my soteriology—was severely malformed. I was a follower of Islam where I earnestly tried to be a good Muslim, though ironically, all the while many professing Christians affirmed me in this belief. I lost count of how many times I heard, "We all worship the same God." It was said so often and so casually that it lost all weight—but not its danger.
It wasn’t until the day I truly believed in the Lord Jesus Christ—believed unto salvation, not merely assent to a doctrine—that everything changed. When I was drawn by grace to confess Christ as Lord and trust in His finished work, when I began to worship the Triune God, the God who has revealed Himself as Father, Son, and Spirit—I crossed over from death to life. My faith was no longer wrongly defined, but it was tethered to truth, to Scripture, to Christ.
And this is when things turned upside down.
Ironically, it was then, as a regenerate believer, that I began to be accused by some Christians of worshiping a "different God"—not because I denied the Trinity or Scripture, but because I clung to the God of Scripture with unflinching loyalty. It was bewildering. I had left Islam, embraced Christ, submitted to Scripture, and still found myself alienated.
I began to wonder if I had lost my mind. Was I delusional? Had trauma broken me so profoundly that I had invented this faith? But I couldn’t stop believing. I couldn’t unsee the Christ who had saved me. I was holding onto this God with a trembling hand, but He was holding me with an unshakable grip.
Clarity came not from contemporary voices, but from saints of old—men long dead, but who knew this God as I did. They spoke my language. Their theology was my theology. Their Christ, my Christ. And through them—and through the man who became my husband—I realized I wasn’t insane. I was simply born again.
In those early days, I was caught in a crossfire. Muslims called my faith a deception of shaytan. Christians accused me of idolatry for worshiping the very God they confessed. But I held fast—not because of strength in myself, but because the Spirit bore witness with my spirit that I was a child of God.
My faith took shape. It conformed to Scripture. It conformed to Christ. It settled into this conviction: those who love my God are my brethren, and no one else is. And those who love Him will, in turn, love His people—for He dwells in us.
As Jude exhorts us, “Beloved, although I was very eager to write to you about our common salvation, I found it necessary to write appealing to you to contend for the faith that was once for all delivered to the saints” (Jude 1:3). That is the faith I now proclaim. The faith of the prophets, the apostles, and the reformers. The faith of Scripture. The faith that saves.
So I waited—for my brothers in the faith. Though many have entered their rest, not all are gone. A faithful remnant yet remains—men and women who love the truth, not for its controversy, but for its Christ. They care deeply for the faith once for all delivered to the saints, not as a matter of ideology, but because it is the treasure of their hearts—the doctrine that exalts the glory of God and magnifies the grace of Christ. It is not a fight for power, but a fellowship in love—a love shaped by truth, and a truth defined by love.