My name is Gassan.

I’m 47 years old and on May 6th, 2019, I was supposed to die.

I had been pastoring underground churches in Thran for 12 years.

That morning, 13 of us stood before hangman’s nooses waiting for execution.

But Jesus had other plans.

For 12 years, I led secret house churches across Thran, baptizing converts in hidden basements and abandoned warehouses.

Every Sunday, we would gather in different locations, never the same place twice.

I watched as Muslims who had found Christ risked everything to follow him.

There was Sarah, the university professor who lost her job after her conversion.

There was Ahmmed, the shopkeeper whose family disowned him.

And there was Mariam, barely 18, who chose Jesus despite knowing it could cost her life.

The work was dangerous, but it was also beautiful.

I remember the night I baptized Hassan, a former revolutionary guard who had been hunting Christians for years.

As he came up from the water, tears streaming down his face, he whispered, “Pastor Gassan, I finally understand what real peace feels like.

” These moments made every risk worthwhile.

We weren’t just building churches.

We were building a family of believers who would die for each other.

Every week the revolutionary guard grew boulder and in their persecution they began raiding homes at random, arresting anyone found with a Bible or Christian literature.

I started carrying my scripture verses memorized in my heart instead of written on paper.

We developed code words for our meetings.

Tea gathering meant Sunday service.

Book club meant Bible study.

Family dinner meant baptism ceremony.

The believers became experts at living double lives faithful to Christ in private while appearing to be devout Muslims in public.

The danger was real and constant.

I had baptized over 300 Muslims who found Christ, knowing each baptism could mean death for both of us.

Every time I lowered someone into the water, I wondered if this would be the baptism that got us all killed.

The government had made it clear uh that converting from Islam to Christianity was punishable by death and helping someone convert was an even greater crime.

Yet people kept coming.

The Holy Spirit was moving in Iran in ways I had never seen before.

My wife Nasarin begged me almost daily to flee the country.

Gassan, she would say with the tears in her eyes, we could go to Turkey, then to Europe.

Our children could grow up free.

But how could I abandon my flock? That these new believers needed shephering? They needed someone to teach them, to encourage them, to help them understand what it meant to follow Christ in a hostile nation.

Every time I considered leaving, I would think of Jesus telling Peter to feed his sheep.

These were a Christ’s sheep and he had entrusted them to my care.

The pressure on our underground network intensified month by month.

Churches were closing throughout the country as pastors either fled or were arrested.

I knew of at least 15 pastors who had simply vanished.

Their wives never heard from them again.

Their children grew up without fathers.

The remaining pastors lived in constant fear, moving from safe house to safe house, never sleeping in the same bed two nights in a row.

Ask yourself this question.

Would you risk everything for your faith? Would you continue preaching if you knew that tomorrow might bring soldiers to your door? I wrestled with these questions every night as I lay awake listening for footsteps in the hallway.

But every time I was tempted to quit, I would remember the faces of my converts.

I would think of Ahmad’s joy when he first read the sermon on the mount.

I would remember Sarah’s courage as she shared her testimony with her students despite the consequences.

I would picture Hassan’s transformation from persecutor to passionate believer.

The government’s strategy was working.

Fear was paralyzing the Christian community.

Believers stopped attending services.

House church leaders went into hiding.

Even I began to wonder if we were fighting a losing battle.

The Islamic Republic seemed determined to eradicate every trace of Christianity from Iranian soil.

Thus, they had the power, the resources, and the ruthless determination to succeed.

But in the darkest moments, God would send encouragement.

A new believer would approach me with tears of gratitude.

Someone would report that their Muslim neighbor was asking questions about Jesus.

A house church leader would call to say that attendance was actually growing despite the danger.

These glimpses of hope kept me going when everything else screamed that I should run.

The final months before our arrest were the most intense.

Intelligence agents seemed to be everywhere.

We suspected that our network had been infiltrated.

Several believers reported being followed.

The phone calls were clearly being monitored.

Yet we continued meeting, continued baptizing, continued sharing the gospel.

Looking back, I realized we were living on borrowed time.

They sustained only by God’s grace and protection.

I knew deep in my heart that our time was running out.

The signs were everywhere.

too many coincidences, too many close calls, too many reports of strangers asking questions about our activities.

But I also knew that this was exactly where God wanted me to be.

Iran needed the gospel.

These precious souls needed a pastor.

And if that meant laying down my life, then I was ready to follow my savior to the cross.

The believers in our network were more than converts.

They had become my spiritual children.

Watching them grow in faith despite impossible circumstances was the greatest privilege of my ministry.

They taught me what real courage looked like.

They showed me what it meant to count the cost and choose Christ.

Anyway, they were living proof that the gospel of Jesus Christ could transform any heart, no matter how hardened, no matter what the cost.

None of us knew that everything we had built over 12 years was about to be tested in the most unimaginable way.

We were about to discover whether our faith was strong enough to carry us through the valley of the shadow of death.

At exactly 4.00 a.m.

on May 5th, 2019, they kicked down my door with such force that the wooden frame splintered across my bedroom floor.

I woke to the sound of boots thundering through my house and the terrified screams of my wife and children.

Before I could even sit up in bed, three revolutionary guards had their rifles pointed at my chest.

The leader, a man with cold eyes and a thick beard, shouted, “Gassam Moradi, uh, you are under arrest for crime against the Islamic Republic.

” As they dragged me from my home in handcuffs, I could see my neighbors watching from their windows.

Some looked terrified, others appeared satisfied that the Christian troublemaker was finally being removed from their midst.

My wife Nasarin ran after the police van crying and begging them to tell her where they were taking me.

The last thing I saw was her face stre with tears growing smaller as we drove away into the darkness.

What I didn’t know at the time was that this was happening simultaneously across Iran.

While I was being arrested in Thran, Pastor Cyrus was being dragged from his home in Isvahan.

Pastor Danielle was being seized in Sharz.

Pastor Matthew was being captured in Tabre.

It was a coordinated operation that had taken months to plan.

The government had been watching the US, mapping our networks and waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

In one night, they arrested every known Christian pastor in the country.

They transported me to Evan Prison, the most feared detention center in Iran.

As the heavy metal doors clanged shut behind me, I was thrown into a cell that was barely large enough for five men.

But somehow they managed to cram 13 of us inside.

The cell was freezing cold with no windows, just a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling that never turned off.

There was one bucket in the corner for all of us to use, and the smell was overwhelming.

Looking around at my fellow prisoners, I recognized faces I had only heard about in whispered conversations.

There was Pastor Raza, the legendary church planter from the north, who had converted over a thousand Muslims to Christianity.

There was Pastor Joseph, barely 30 years old, who had been running orphanages for Christian children whose parents had been executed.

There was Pastor Abraham, an old man in his 70s, who had been preaching the gospel since before the Islamic Revolution.

We spent the first day sharing our stories, trying to understand how they had found us all.

Pastor Raza believed we had been betrayed by someone high up in our network.

Pastor Joseph thought the government had been intercepting our communications for months.

Pastor Abraham with the wisdom of his years simply said, “Brothers, it doesn’t matter how they found us.

What matters is that God allowed this to happen for his purposes.

On our second day in prison, the guards brought us stale bread and dirty water.

As we shared this meager meal, we could hear construction sounds coming from the prison courtyard, hammering, sowing, and men shouting orders.

Pastor Raza managed to climb up to the small ventilation grate near the ceiling and peer outside.

When he came down, his face was pale.

brothers,” he whispered.

“They’re building gallows, 13 of them.

” The reality of our situation hit us all at once.

This wasn’t just imprisonment.

This wasn’t even just a death sentence.

They were planning a public execution, a spectacle designed to terrify every Christian in Iran and send a message to the world that the Islamic Republic would tolerate no challenge to their authority.

On the third day, they brought us before a judge who read our charges, evangelizing Muslims, operating illegal churches, corrupting the youth, spreading Western propaganda, and crimes against the security of the Islamic Republic.

Each charge carried the death penalty.

The trial, if you could call it that, lasted less than an hour.

We weren’t allowed lawyers.

We weren’t permitted to present evidence.

The judge had clearly already made his decision before we entered the courtroom.

But it was on the fourth day that we received the most chilling news.

Through the prison speakers, a voice crackled to life.

It was unmistakable the voice of the supreme leader himself, the Ayatollah.

His words sent ice through my veins.

The Christian pastors who have corrupted our people and turned them away from the true faith will be executed publicly tomorrow at dawn.

Let this be a warning to anyone who would dare challenge the authority of Islam in our nation.

Now every pastor will hang as an example.

That night we knew it was our last night on earth.

We wrote goodbye letters to our families though we had no way to send them.

I wrote to Nasarin telling her how much I loved her and the children.

I wrote to my congregation encouraging them to remain strong in their faith even after my death.

I wrote to each of my converts thanking them for the privilege of leading them to Christ.

We took turns praying for each other, for our families, and for the believers we were leaving behind.

Pastor Abraham led us in communion using torn pieces of bread from our dinner and drops of water from our drinking cup.

“This is my body broken for you,” he whispered, and we all wept as we remembered our savior’s sacrifice.

As the hours passed, we could hear them testing the gallows outside our window.

The sound of ropes being pulled tight, the creaking of wooden beams, the satisfied grunt of men preparing for an execution.

Sleep was impossible.

We spend the night singing hymns softly, sharing scripture verses we had memorized and preparing our hearts to meet Jesus.

At 5 a.

m.

they came for us, 13 guards, one for each pastor.

They shackled our hands behind our backs and chained our feet together.

“Today you die,” the lead guard announced with obvious satisfaction.

“Today the world will see what happens to enemies of Islam.

” As we shuffled toward the door of our cell, I looked back one last time at the place where I had spent my final days on Earth.

In a few hours, this nightmare would be over and I would be in the presence of my Lord and Savior.

But first, I had to walk to the gallows and face death for the crime of loving Jesus Christ.

The dawn air was crisp and cold as they marched us from our cell toward the prison courtyard.

Our shackles clinkedked with each step, creating an arithmic sound that seemed to echo the beating of my heart.

I was the third pastor in line, walking behind Pastor Abraham, whose frail body struggled with each step.

The old man’s faith had never wavered during our imprisonment.

And even now he was whispering prayers under his breath asking God to receive our spirits and to comfort our families.

As we emerged from the darkness of the prison corridors into the early morning light, I saw them.

13 wooden gallows stood in perfect formation across the courtyard, their nooses swaying gently in the morning breeze.

The sight was more terrifying than I had imagined.

These weren’t just instruments of execution.

They were monuments to hatred, carefully constructed to send a message of fear to every Christian in Iran.

The courtyard was packed with witnesses.

I counted at least 300 people, maybe more.

Government officials in their expensive suits sat in elevated chairs like spectators at a sporting event.

Revolutionary guards stood at attention along the walls.

their rifles ready.

Prison staff clustered together, some looking excited, others appearing uncomfortable with what they were about to witness.

Television cameras were positioned at multiple angles to capture every moment of our deaths for broadcast across the nation.

Picture yourself in that moment, walking toward your own execution while hundreds of people watch.

Every face in that crowd represented someone who wanted to see me die.

They weren’t just witnessing an execution.

They were celebrating it.

Some were taking pictures with their phones.

Others were chatting casually as if they were waiting for a parade to begin.

The casual nature of their cruelty was almost more disturbing than the gallows themselves.

They positioned us in a line facing the crowd.

Each pastor standing beneath his designated noose.

The rope above my head cast a shadow across my face as the sun began to rise behind the prison walls.

I could feel its rough texture brushing against my neck as the morning wind moved it back and forth.

To my left stood Pastor Joseph, barely 30 years old, his lips moving in silent prayer.

To my right was Pastor Raza, whose face showed a piece that I envied.

In that moment, the prison warden stepped forward with a megaphone and began reading our names and crimes to the assembled crowd.

Gassan Moradi, convicted of evangelizing Muslims and operating illegal churches.

The crowd responded with shouts of approval.

Cyrus Amadi convicted of corrupting the youth with Christian propaganda.

More cheers.

One by one he announced each of our death sentences while the crowd grew more animated with bloodlust.

During this grotesque ceremony, I found myself thinking about my children.

Were they awake yet? Did they know their father was about to die? I prayed that somehow God would shield them from seeing the television broadcast of my execution.

I thought about my wife Nasarin probably sitting by the phone hoping for news that would never come.

I thought about my congregation scattered and afraid they wondering if their pastor was still alive.

The executioner approached each of us individually to place the noose around our necks.

When he reached me, his hands were steady and professional, as if he had done this a thousand times before.

The rope was rougher than I expected, scratching against my skin as he adjusted it to the proper position.

He pulled it tight enough that I could feel my pulse beating against the coarse fibers.

Any last words? He asked with mock politeness.

Looking out at the crowd of people who wanted to watch me die, I summoned all my strength and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “I forgive you all, and I pray that Jesus Christ will reveal himself to you as he has revealed himself to me.

” Some in the crowd laughed, others looked angry that I would mention Jesus’s name, even in my final moments.

But a few faces showed something different.

Maybe curiosity or even respect.

As I stood there with the noose around my neck, I began to pray silently.

Jesus, into your hands I commit my spirit.

Thank you for allowing me to serve you in Iran.

Thank you for the privilege of leading so many to salvation.

Please comfort my family and protect your church in this nation.

The peace that came over me in that moment was supernatural.

Despite the rope around my neck and the jeering crowd, I felt closer to God than I ever had in my life.

Pastor Abraham, despite his age and frailty, managed to start singing a hymn in Farsy.

His voice was weak but clear.

Jesus loves me.

This I know for the Bible tells me so.

One by one, the rest of us joined in.

With 13 condemned men singing about the love of Christ while standing beneath the gallows created a sound that silenced the crowd.

Even our executioners seemed momentarily affected by the sight of men facing death with such peace and faith.

The Ayatollah himself had arrived and was seated on a raised platform directly in front of the gallows.

He wore his traditional black robes and white turban, his face turned and unmoved by our hymn singing.

This was the man who had ordered our deaths.

The supreme religious leader who believed that killing Christian pastors would strengthen Islam in Iran.

His presence made the moment even more surreal and terrifying.

The warden raised his hand for silence and announced.

The sentences will now be carried out by order of the supreme leader.

The executioner moved to a lever that would simultaneously drop all 13 trap doors beneath our feet.

In seconds, we would all be dead.

Our necks snapped by the fall, our bodies left hanging as a warning to anyone who dared follow Christ in Iran.

I closed my eyes and whispered one final prayer.

Jesus, receive our spirits and please somehow use our deaths to advance your kingdom in this nation.

The crowd fell completely silent.

The only sound was the wind moving through the courtyard and the creaking of the wooden gallows above our heads.

The executioner’s hand moved toward the liver.

The executioner’s hand was inches from the liver when something extraordinary happened.

The Ayatollah who had been sitting calmly on his elevated platform but she suddenly froze mid-sentence.

He had been speaking to an aid about the timing of the television broadcast, but his words stopped abruptly.

His entire body went rigid as if he had been struck by lightning.

The change was so dramatic that even the executioner paused, looking toward the platform for guidance.

I watched as the most powerful man in Iran began to tremble uncontrollably.

His face, which had been stern and composed just moments before, turned completely white.

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