Amazing grace.

My name is Raza Farhadi and I’m 38 years old, a Christian pastor in Thran, Iran, where following Jesus can cost you everything.

Your family, your freedom, even your life.

I lead a secret house church, a tiny light in a city of shadows where the government watches every move, ready to crush us.

Thrron is alive, its streets filled with the smell of fresh bread from bakeries, the chatter of vendors in the Grand Bazaar, and the hum of taxis weaving through smog.

But beneath the noise, there’s fear for people like me.

The regime bans our faith, raids our homes, and throws us in prison for daring to love Jesus.

I condemn their cruelty, their lies that call us traitors, their laws that steal our Bibles and chain our hearts.

Yet here I am, still preaching, still praying because God’s love is stronger than their hate.

thumbnail

My church meets in my small apartment in a quiet corner of Tehran where the walls are thin and the neighbors might be spies.

We gather at night when the city’s too busy to notice, slipping through alleys to avoid the passage.

The morality police who patrol for crimes like ours.

My wife Miriam hides our himynelss under the floorboards.

And my daughter Leila, just 10, knows to whisper her prayers.

We’re not alone.

There are over 1 million Christians in Iran now.

A miracle when you think there were only 500 when I was a boy in 1979.

But this growth angers the regime.

Last year, 2024, they arrested 54 of us, charging us with actions against national security just for singing to Jesus.

I condemn this injustice, this lie that our faith threatens a nation.

They want to scare us, silence us, but they don’t know the God we serve.

Tonight, we’re preparing for a meeting, though my heart’s heavy with worry.

I’ve been arrested before in 2018, and the scars on my back still burn when it rains.

The regime’s eyes are everywhere.

Cameras on street corners, informants, and coffee shops.

A friend, Pastor Ali, got 10 years in Evan prison for sharing a Bible.

Another, a woman named Shearan, was lashed 30 times for hosting a prayer group.

I condemn the regime for this evil, for beating a mother who only wanted to pray.

Their laws ban Persian Bibles, call our worship propaganda, and label us spies for the West.

It’s a lie, a cruel trick to keep power.

We’re just people who found Jesus, who’ve seen his love in a world of fear.

I walk through our apartment, checking the curtains are drawn, the windows shut.

Miam’s at the kitchen making tea.

The smell of cardamom filling the air.

She’s my strength.

Her faith like a rock when mine waivers.

Raza.

God will protect us.

She says, her voice steady though her eyes show worry.

Leila’s drawing at the table.

A picture of a cross hidden in a flower.

Something she can’t show at school.

I kiss her head, my heart aching.

She’s too young to live like this.

Always hiding, always afraid.

I condemn the regime for stealing her childhood, for making my daughter fear her own prayers.

Other families suffer worse.

Some lose custody of their kids.

Others are kicked out of jobs.

A brother in our church, Hussein, was fired from his shop for refusing to deny Jesus.

I condemn this hatred, this system that punishes us for loving God.

Our church is small, maybe 15 people, but each one’s a miracle.

There’s Farhad, a former drug addict who found Jesus in a dream.

Mina, a widow who prays with fire.

And Javad, once an IRGC officer, now a believer risking death.

We meet in whispers, singing hymns so soft you’d think we’re humming.

Our Bibles are digital, hidden on phones because paper ones get you arrested.

Last month, the police took 1,200 Bibles from a secret press, burning them like they could burn God’s word.

I condemn this blasphemy, this arrogance that thinks it can stop the gospel.

Iran’s church is growing faster than the regime can handle.

They raid one house, two more start.

They jail a pastor.

10 believers rise.

God’s moving and they can’t stop him.

But tonight, I’m nervous.

A new member, Baham, joined last week, and something about him feels off.

Too many questions, too quick to talk.

Betrayal’s common here.

Informants trade secrets for money or favors.

I’ve seen churches torn apart, families broken.

A sister in Isvahan, La was arrested after her cousin snitched, sentenced to 5 years for spreading Christianity.

I condemn the regime for turning families against each other, for making trust a luxury we can’t afford.

I pray Baham’s genuine, but I’ve hidden our backup meeting spot just in case.

Miam senses my fear, squeezes my hand.

Jesus is with us,” she says, and I nod, though my stomach’s in knots.

I think of my first arrest, the memory sharp as a knife.

They dragged me from this apartment, beat me in front of Mariam, called me a traitor.

In Evan prison, they tried to break me.

Dark cells, endless questions, pain I can’t forget.

But God was there in the whispers of inmates, in the strength I didn’t know I had.

I condemn the regime for their torture, for thinking they can crush a soul that belongs to Jesus.

They let me go after 8 months, thinking I’d quit.

They were wrong.

I came back stronger, my church bigger, my faith deeper.

But the fear never leaves.

Not really.

As night falls, Thrron’s lights flicker outside.

The call to prayer echoing from a nearby mosque.

I love this city, its poetry, its people, its history.

But I hate what it’s become for us.

Christians here live like ghosts hiding in plain sight.

A man in our network, Mdi, was executed in 2020.

His crime preaching Jesus.

Another Pastor Hussein Sudman was hanged in 1990.

His body left as a warning.

I condemn these murders.

This blood on the regime’s hands.

They think death scares us, but every martyr plants a seed.

Our church grows because of men like Hussein.

Because of Jesus who died and rose.

The doorbell buzzes, soft but sharp, and my heart jumps.

It’s time.

Miam lights a candle.

Not for light, but for hope.

A sign we’re not alone.

I check the peepphole, see Farhad’s familiar face, and open the door.

One by one, they slip in.

Mina, Javad, others, their eyes bright with faith, heavy with fear.

We sit on cushions, the room small but warm, the air thick with tea and trust.

I start to pray, my voice low.

When I hear it, a knock loud, not one of ours.

My blood runs cold.

The police.

They’ve found us.

I condemn their hatred, their need to destroy what they don’t understand.

As boots thud outside, I grab Miam’s hand, whispering, “Jesus, be our strength.

” The door shakes, and I know our fights just begun.

The police boots thudded outside our apartment door that night, each knock like a hammer on my heart.

I squeezed Miriam’s hand, my wife’s eyes wide with fear but steady with faith.

Ila, our 10-year-old daughter, clung to her mother, her drawing of a hidden cross trembling in her small hands.

The house church meeting had barely begun.

Farad, Mina, Javad, and the others frozen in prayer.

When the regime’s shadow fell over us, I whispered, “Jesus, be our strength.

” As the door splintered open, but that’s a story for later.

To understand why I’m here, risking everything in Thrron’s shadows, you need to know how I found Jesus, how a forbidden book changed my life, and why I condemn the Iranian regime for trying to snuff out the light of faith that burns in me and a million others across this land.

I was born Muslim like most in Thrron in 1987 when the city was still scarred from the war with Iraq.

My childhood was filled with the smells of Mama’s gourmet sabzi stew, the sound of the aison from the mosque down our street, and the warmth of family gatherings where we’d recite Persian poetry.

My father, Babak, was a shopkeeper, kind but strict, teaching me to pray five times a day.

My mother, Sora, was softer, her eyes full of love when she’d tuck me in, whispering stories of the prophet.

I loved Islam then, or thought I did because it was all I knew.

But by my teens, it felt like a weight.

rules to follow, prayers to repeat, with no real connection to God.

I’d stand in the mosque, my lips moving, but my heart was somewhere else, lost in questions no one could answer.

Tron was changing as I grew up, its streets buzzing with students, markets, and secrets.

The Grand Bazaar smelled of saffron and leather, vendors shouting over the honk of taxis.

But under the noise there was fear.

The regime watched us, their morality police patrolling, ready to punish anyone who strayed.

I’d see women fined for loose hijabs, men beaten for drinking tea with the wrong friends.

I didn’t know about Christians then.

Didn’t know they existed in Iran, but I’d hear whispers of apostates jailed or worse.

I condemn the regime for this fear, for choking a city that could shine with freedom.

They call themselves guardians of faith, but they guard only power, crushing anyone who dares think for themselves.

At 25 in 2012, I was working as a clerk in a bookstore near Thyron University, a place where students argued about politics and poetry.

I wasn’t religious anymore.

Not really.

Just going through the motions to keep my parents happy.

One day, a man came in, older with nervous eyes.

He slipped me a package under the counter, muttering, “Read it, but hide it.

” I thought it was a band novel, maybe something by a dissident.

That night, in my tiny apartment, I unwrapped it and found a Bible in Persian.

Its cover plain but heavy with danger.

I’d never seen one before.

Bibles are illegal here, confiscated and burned by the regime.

I condemn them for this.

For trying to keep God’s word from us, for thinking they can control truth itself.

I should have thrown it out, but something made me open it.

The pages were thin, the print small, like it was meant to be hidden.

I started reading the Gospel of John, my heart racing like I was committing a crime.

For God so loved the world that he gave his only son.

John 3:16 said, and those words hit me like a wave.

Love, not rules, not fear, but love.

I’d never heard God described like that.

I read all night, the city’s hum fading outside my window.

Jesus’s words felt alive, like he was speaking to me, a nobody in Thrron.

I condemned the regime for hiding this truth, for stealing this love from millions who’d never hold a Bible.

For weeks, I read in secret, locking my door, drawing the curtains.

The more I read, the more I saw Jesus.

Not a prophet as Islam taught, but the son of God, the only way to salvation, like Acts 4:12 said, “I started praying.

Not the memorized prayers of my childhood, but real ones, clumsy and raw.

” “Jesus, if you’re real, show me,” I’d whisper, half expecting nothing.

But something changed.

I felt peace like a warm hand on my shoulder.

Even as Thrron’s chaos swirled outside, I knew I was crossing a line.

Apostasy is a death sentence here.

I condemn the regime for this law, for threatening to kill anyone who chooses Jesus for thinking they can police our souls.

I told no one, not even my parents.

But the brother Amir noticed.

He saw me skip mosque, heard me hum a tune that wasn’t Persian.

One night he confronted me, his face hard.

Raza, are you one of them, a Christian? The words sounded like a curse.

I froze, my throat tight.

I wanted to lie, but Jesus words about truth burned in me.

“Yes,” I said, my voice shaking.

Amir’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

You’re a traitor,” he spat, storming out.

The next day, he told my parents.

Mama cried, begging me to repent.

Baba shouted, calling me ashamed to our name.

They cut me off, my own family, because I chose Jesus.

I condemn the regime for this pain, for laws that turn brothers against brothers, mothers against sons, all for faith.

I was alone, but not for long.

Through a friend at the bookstore, I met a man named Cave, a Christian who knew others like me.

He took me to a house church hidden in a basement near Valesser Street.

The room was small, the air thick with tea and hope.

10 people sat on cushions singing softly, their faces glowing.

I’d never seen worship like that.

No imam, no rituals, just love for Jesus.

Cave gave me a digital Bible, safer than paper, and taught me about Ilam Ministries, a group training Iranian Christians abroad.

I condemn the regime for forcing us underground, for making us hide like criminals when all we want is to pray.

The house church was a risk.

Every meeting could be our last.

I heard stories that broke my heart.

A woman, Zara, lashed 40 times for sharing a Bible.

A man, Bayam, jailed for two years after his neighbor snitched.

I condemn the regime for this cruelty, for whipping a woman who loved Jesus, for locking up a father who read God’s word.

They call us threats, but we’re just people meeting in secret, praying for Iran to know the Jesus we found.

The regime’s arrested over 1,200 Christians since 2020, charging us with propaganda or spying.

It’s a lie, a way to scare us into silence.

I condemn their deceit, their fear of a faith they can’t control.

I wanted to do more than hide.

Cave saw my hunger and arranged for me to train with Alum in Lebanon, where I could learn to lead a church.

Getting out was dangerous.

Passports are watched, borders guarded.

I traveled under a fake name.

My heart pounding at every checkpoint.

In Lebanon, I spent 6 months studying scripture, learning to preach, praying with Iranians who’d fled.

I met a woman, Miam, another convert, her eyes bright with faith.

We fell in love, married in a quiet ceremony, promising to serve Jesus together.

I condemn the regime for making us flee to learn our faith, for banning the training that could light up Iran.

When we returned to Tyrron in 2014, we started our own house church in the apartment where I now sit, waiting for the police to break in.

It was small at first.

Me, Mariam, a few friends.

But it grew.

People came, hungry for Jesus, drawn by dreams, by whispers of hope.

I’d preach from John, from Romans, my voice low to avoid neighbors ears.

We’d sing Persian hymns soft as a breeze, songs about a savior who died for us.

I condemn the regime for trying to stop this, for raiding homes, burning Bibles, thinking they can kill a faith that’s alive.

They took 1,200 Bibles last year alone, set them on fire like they could burn God himself.

It’s madness, and I condemn it with every breath.

Miriam and I had Ila in 2015, a gift from God in a city of fear.

She’s our joy, but also our worry.

She knows not to talk about Jesus at school where teachers might report her.

Last year, a girl in our church, Nargus, was expelled for drawing a cross.

I condemn the regime for this, for hurting children who love God, for teaching them to fear their own hearts.

Our church grew despite the risks.

20 members, then 30.

Each one a story of courage.

There’s Farhad who left drugs for Jesus.

Mina, who prays like a warrior.

Javad, once a soldier, now a believer.

I condemn the regime for hunting us, for thinking they can stop God’s work.

As I write this, the police are at my door.

Their knocks louder now.

I think of my conversion.

How Jesus found me in a bookstore.

how he gave me a family when mine turned away.

I think of Iran’s Christians, a million strong, meeting in basement, risking all.

I condemn the regime for their chains, their lies, their bloodstained hands.

They’ve killed pastors like Hussein Sudman, jailed men like Yousef Nadarani, tortured women like Shearan, but they can’t kill our faith.

As the door shakes, I pray, “Jesus, let your light shine.

The regime may take me, but they’ll never take him.

” The door to our Tehran apartment burst open that night in 2018, splintering under the force of the regime’s police.

Their shouts filled the air, sharp as knives, drowning out the soft hymn we’d been singing.

“Get down, traitors!” They barked, their black boots stomping across the floor where my daughter Ila had drawn her hidden cross just hours before.

Miam, my wife, pulled Ila close, her face pale but fierce, whispering prayers I couldn’t hear.

Farad, Mina, Javad, and the others from our house church froze, their eyes wide with fear.

I stood, hands raised, my heart pounding like a drum, knowing this moment had been coming.

The regime had found us, and I condemned them for it.

For raiding our home, for calling our love for Jesus a crime, for trying to crush the faith of a million Christians across Iran.

As they bound my wrists with cold metal cuffs, I prayed, “Jesus, let your light shine through me.

” Ready to face the darkness of Evan prison.

They dragged me out past neighbors peeking through cracked doors.

Their whispers like a chorus of judgment.

Tyrron’s night air was thick with smog.

The city’s lights flickering like stars too weak to fight the dark.

The police van smelled of sweat and fear, its benches hard against my back.

I thought of Miam, her strength holding our family together, and Ila, too young to see her father taken.

I condemn the regime for this pain, for tearing families apart, for making children cry because their parents pray to Jesus.

They drove through Tehran’s chaotic streets, past the grand bazaar shuttered stalls, past mosques where the Azan echoed, toward Evan prison, a place that swallows Christians whole.

I’d heard the stories.

Farid Fati locked in solitary for 361 days.

Yusef Nadarani sentenced to 10 years for preaching.

I condemned the regime for their cruelty, for thinking they could break us by breaking our bodies.

Evan loomed ahead, its gray walls like a fortress of despair, tucked in Thrron’s northern hills.

The guards shoved me through the gates, their faces hard, their voices mocking.

“Apostate!” one spat as if the word could wound me.

Inside the air was damp, heavy with the stench of mold and unwashed bodies.

They stripped me of my coat, my shoes, leaving me in a thin shirt, shivering in the cold.

I was no longer Raza Farhadi, husband, father, pastor, just a number, a threat to national security.

I condemned the regime for this lie, for labeling our worship as treason, for charging us with vague crimes to justify their hate.

Over 1,200 Christians have been arrested since 2020.

Their only sin, loving Jesus.

I was one of them now, and I vowed to carry his name, no matter the cost.

They threw me into a cell barely bigger than a closet.

its walls stained with despair.

The floor was concrete, cold as ice, and a single bulb flickered overhead, casting shadows that danced like demons.

I sat, my back against the wall, my wrists still raw from the cuffs.

The silence was worse than the noise, thick, suffocating, broken only by distant screams.

I thought of Matthew 5:10-12.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’s sake.

Jesus’s words were my anchor, but the fear was real.

Would I see Miriam again? Would Leila grow up without me? I condemned the regime for this torment, for locking us in cages for thinking they could steal our hope.

They’d tortured others.

Sharan lashed for praying.

Betnam beaten for a Bible.

I prayed, “Lord, give me strength.

” My voice a whisper in the dark.

The interrogation started the next day.

They pulled me to a room with a metal chair, a table scarred with scratches, and a guard whose eyes held no mercy.

“Confess,” he growled, slamming a paper in front of me.

“Name your church members, your foreign contacts.

” I shook my head, my throat dry.

I follow Jesus, that’s all.

His fist met my jaw, pain exploding like fire.

They wanted names, lies, anything to justify their chains.

I condemned the regime for this violence, for beating a man who’ done no wrong, for demanding betrayal of brothers and sisters in Christ.

They asked about Elon Ministries, the group that trained me in Lebanon, accusing me of spying for the West.

It was nonsense, but truth doesn’t matter in Evan.

I stayed silent and they hit harder, my ribs aching with every breath.

Days blurred into weeks, maybe months.

I lost count.

They moved me to solitary, a cell so small I couldn’t stretch my legs.

The darkness was alive, pressing against my chest, whispering I’d never leave.

I’d lie on the floor, the cold seeping into my bones and think of Tyrron’s streets, the smell of chai in the bizaar, the sound of Leila’s laugh.

I condemned the regime for this torture, for breaking bodies to break spirits, for thinking they could make us deny Jesus.

I remembered Farcid Fathi who spent 361 days in solitary, his faith unshaken.

I prayed his prayers, sang his hymns, soft so the guards wouldn’t hear.

Jesus, you’re my light, I’d whisper, and somehow I felt him like a warmth no cell could steal.

The guards tried everything.

Beatings, starvation, lies about my family.

One day they said Miriam had denounced me, that Ila was in an orphanage.

My heart sank, but I knew it was a trick.

Miam’s faith was stronger than their lies, and Ila’s prayers were fiercer than their chains.

I condemned the regime for this deceit, for twisting love into a weapon, for targeting families to crush faith.

I heard of others.

Nargus, a mother whose children were taken.

Hussein fired for refusing to recant.

The regime’s cruelty knew no bounds, and I hated them for it.

Not with vengeance, but with a righteous anger that fueled my prayers.

In the cell block, I met others.

Thieves, addicts, political prisoners.

At night, when the guards slept, we’d whisper through the walls, our voices carrying like lifelines.

I told them about Jesus, about the love I’d found in a smuggled Bible.

Some laughed, but others listened, their eyes hungry for hope.

“A man named Kareem, a drug smuggler, asked me to pray with him.

” “Tell me about this Jesus,” he said, his voice rough but earnest.

I shared John 3:16, my words stumbling in the dark.

The next night he prayed, tears in his voice, accepting Christ.

I condemned the regime for jailing us, but praised God for using their chains to spread his love.

In heaven, I saw miracles.

Five men came to Jesus.

Their hearts changed in a place meant to destroy.

The guards hated my faith.

One, a young man named Sed would kick my food tray, spitting, “Your Jesus won’t save you.

” But I saw doubt in his eyes, a crack in his hardness.

I prayed for him, not for my freedom, but for his soul.

I condemned the regime for poisoning men like Sed, for turning them into tools of hate, for blinding them to the God who loves them.

They’d executed pastors Hussein Sudman in 1990, his body a warning.

They’d sentenced UCF Natarani to 10 years, then 15 for preaching.

I condemned their bloodlust, their fear of a faith that grows despite their swords.

After 8 months, they released me, not out of mercy, but pressure.

Foreign groups, maybe Alam, had raised my case.

They dumped me outside Evan.

My body bruised, my clothes ragged.

Trron’s air felt like freedom.

The city’s noise a song.

I stumbled home.

Miam’s arms waiting.

Leila’s tears soaking my shirt.

Our church had grown, meeting in new homes, their faith stronger than ever.

I condemned the regime for thinking they could stop us, for believing pain could kill love.

They’d taken eight months of my life, but God had used it to plant seeds.

I vowed to keep preaching, to keep shining Jesus’s light, no matter how many times they tried to snuff it out.

As I sit now, the police at my door again, I think of Evan, of the men I left behind, of the church that grows in Iran’s shadows.

I condemn the regime for their torture, their lies, their war on faith.

They’ve arrested 1,978 Christians since 2020, burned 12,000 Bibles, killed men like me.

But they can’t kill Jesus.

As the door shakes, I pray, “Lord, use me even in chains.

” The regime’s darkness is deep, but his light is deeper still.

The door to our Ton apartment lay in splinters after the 2018 raid, a scar on our home that matched the ones on my back from Evan Prison.

I was released after 8 months, my body bruised, but my faith unbroken, thanks to God’s grace and the prayers of brothers and sisters I’d never met.

Miam’s arms wrapped around me that day, her tears warm on my cheek, and Ila, my 10-year-old daughter, clung to me like I might vanish again.

Our house church had survived, meeting in secret, its light burning brighter despite the regime’s darkness.

But freedom was a lie in Thyron.

The police watched us, their eyes like hawks, waiting for a misstep.

I condemned the Iranian regime for this cruelty, for hunting us like animals, for thinking they could snuff out Jesus’s love with chains and threats.

Now, in 2025, as I hear those same boots outside our door again, I think of the cost, not just to me, but to my family, to every Christian in Iran who pays a price for faith.

This is the story of that cost, of the pain they inflict on those I love and why I’ll never stop fighting.

Tran woke each morning with a pulse.

Vendors shouting in the Grand Bazaar, the smell of fresh barbar bread wafting from bakeries, taxis honking through smoggy streets.

I loved this city, its Persian heart beating in every poem, every cup of chai shared with a neighbor.

But for Christians, Thrron was and is still a trap.

After my release, the regime didn’t let me go.

They watched, waited, their surveillance tighter than ever.

Cameras blinked on street corners, informants lurked in coffee shops, and neighbors turned spies for a bribe.

I condemn the regime for this prison without walls.

For making us live like ghosts, for stealing the freedom to pray, to breathe, to be.

Over 1 million Christians in Iran faced this.

Our faith a crime in their eyes.

I condemned them for their lies, for calling us traitors when all we did was love Jesus.

Our apartment was our sanctuary, its walls holding the echoes of whispered hymns.

But it was also a target.

The raid had left us exposed, neighbors whispering that we were apostates, their eyes cold, where once they’d been warm.

Miam felt it first.

She was a teacher at a local school, loved by her students for her kind smile and stories of Persian poets like Hafz.

One day, a week after my release, the principal called her in.

You’re married to a Christian,” he said, his voice sharp.

“We can’t have that here.

” No warning, no reason, just fired.

Her job gone because of my faith.

I condemned the regime for this injustice.

For punishing a woman who’d done no wrong, for spreading their hate to schools, to children.

Miam came home, her face pale, her hands shaking as she set her bag down.

Raza, what do we do? She asked, her voice steady despite the tears in her eyes.

I held her, my heart breaking, and prayed.

Jesus, carry us.

Ila suffered, too.

Her small world shrinking under the regime’s shadow.

At school, her friends stopped playing with her, their parents warning them away.

Your dad’s a traitor, a boy taunted, throwing her notebook in the dirt.

Ila, only seven then, came home crying, her braids undone, her spirit bruised.

Last year, the school expelled her, claiming she’d drawn a cross in her art class.

A lie.

But it didn’t matter.

I condemned the regime for this evil, for hurting my daughter, for teaching children to hate because of a faith they don’t understand.

Ila’s eyes, once bright with laughter, grew quiet, but she’d still pray with us.

Her small voice singing, “Jesus loves me.

” I condemned the regime for trying to steal her joy, for making a child pay for her parents’ love for God.

This wasn’t just our story.

Across Iran, Christian families face the same pain.

A sister in our church, Fatame, lost custody of her son after her husband denounced her faith to the courts.

Another, Hassen, was fired from his factory job when his boss learned he’d been baptized.

I condemned the regime for these atrocities, for tearing children from mothers, for stripping men of their livelihoods, for building a system that punishes love.

Article 18 reported over 300 Christians lost jobs or homes in 2024 alone.

Their lives upended for worshiping Jesus.

I condemn the regime for their surveillance state, for turning neighbors into enemies, for making trust a luxury we couldn’t afford.

In Isvahan, a family was evicted after their landlord found a Bible.

In Shiraz, a woman was shunned by her market stall neighbors for praying.

This was the regime’s plan to isolate us, to break us, to make us deny Jesus.

But they didn’t know our God.

Miam’s courage became our anchor.

After losing her job, she could have given up, but she didn’t.

She started a women’s Bible study, meeting in secret with sisters like Mina and Zara.

They’d gather in our apartment, their voices low, sharing verses from digital Bibles on phones.

Paper ones were too dangerous.

Miam taught from Romans 8:18.

The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed.

Her faith was fire, burning brighter than the regime’s threats.

I condemn the regime for trying to silence women like her, for arresting converts like Seaman, who spent 6 months in Evan, for leading a prayer group.

Miam’s group grew, 10 women, then 15.

Their prayers like a shield against the darkness.

I watched her, my heart swelling with pride, and thanked Jesus for a wife stronger than steel.

But the risks grew with every meeting.

The regime spies were everywhere, their ears in every alley.

A new neighbor, a man with shifty eyes, moved in across the hall, asking too many questions about our guests.

I suspected he was Basie.

The morality police paid to watch us.

Last month, a church in Karage was raided after a neighbor’s tip.

Five members arrested, their Bibles burned.

I condemn the regime for this betrayal, for turning communities against each other, for making us fear our own shadows.

We changed our meeting times, used code words, and prayed in whispers.

Ila learned to watch the window, her small hands clutching the curtains, looking for strange cars.

I condemned the regime for this, for making my daughter a lookout.

For stealing her childhood with their hate.

I took risks, too.

Hiding converts who’d fled their homes.

One was a young man, a rash, whose father had beaten him for leaving Islam.

He arrived at our door, his face bruised, his bag holding only a shirt and a digital Bible.

Pastor Raza, help me,” he begged, his voice shaking.

We took him in, fed him, prayed with him.

I taught him Psalm 23, the Lord is my shepherd, and saw hope flicker in his eyes.

But hiding him was dangerous.

Discovery meant prison for us all.

I condemned the regime for forcing us to hide, for hunting men like a rash, for punishing those who seek Jesus.

Over 500 Christians fled their homes in 2024.

Their lives torn apart by family or police.

I condemned the regime for this exile for driving God’s children into the shadows.

Our church grew despite the pain.

A miracle in Thrron’s darkness.

New believers came.

Drawn by dreams, by whispers of hope.

Javad, a former IRGC officer, joined us.

his soldiers strength now serving Jesus.

He’d seen the regime’s lies up close, their corruption masked as faith.

“Raza, they fear your God,” he told me, his voice low.

“I condemn the regime for their fear, for trembling at a faith that offers love, not power.

” Farhead, once a drug addict, led prayers with a fire I envied.

Mina, a widow, shared her food with new members.

Her generosity defying the regime’s hate.

I condemned them for trying to crush this family, for raiding churches like ours, for thinking they could stop God’s work.

The pressure on Miam and Ila weighed heavy.

One night, a rock crashed through our window, glass shattering across the floor.

A note was tied to it.

Apostates, leave or die.

Ila screamed, her small body shaking.

Miam swept her up, singing a Persian hymn to calm her.

But I saw the fear in her eyes.

I condemned the regime for this terror, for inciting neighbors to hate, for making my daughter afraid in her own home.

The next day, our landlord raised our rent.

A clear message to drive us out.

I heard of others, families evicted, homes vandalized, all for their faith.

I condemned the regime for this persecution, for using money, fear, and violence to break us.

Yet, we held on, our faith a flame the regime couldn’t touch.

Miam’s Bible study became a lifeline, her words giving women courage.

Ila started drawing again, her crosses hidden in flowers, her prayers bolder.

I preached in our apartment, my voice soft but sure, sharing Matthew 5:10-12.

Blessed are those who are persecuted.

Our church was family bound by love, not blood.

I condemn the regime for trying to tear us apart, for arresting 1,978 Christians since 2020, for burning 12,000 Bibles.

They thought pain would silence us.

But it made us louder, our prayers rising like incense.

As the police knocked now, their boots echoing like that night in 2018.

I know the cost.

Miam’s job.

Ila’s childhood.

our safety stolen by a regime that hates Jesus.

I condemn them for their chains, their lies, their war on faith.

But I hold Miam’s hand, feel Ila’s warmth, and know Jesus is here.

As the door shakes, I pray, “Lord, protect my family, and let your light shine.

The regime may hurt us, but they’ll never break us.

” The police are at our door again.

There knocks like thunder in the quiet of our Thrron apartment.

The air is thick with fear.

The candle on our table flickering as if it knows what’s coming.

Miam, my wife, holds Ila, our 10-year-old daughter, her eyes fierce with the faith that’s carried us through a decade of persecution.

Farhad, Mina, Javad, and the others from our house church wait in silence.

Their prayers unspoken but heavy in the room.

The regime’s boots are back, ready to tear us apart, just as they did in 2018 when they dragged me to Evan prison.

I condemn them for this hatred, for raiding our homes, for calling our love for Jesus a crime.

As I grip Miam’s hand, I think of the letter I wrote last night.

A secret message to the global church, smuggled out through Ellies.

It’s my cry for justice, my testimony of Iran’s suffering, and my hope that God’s light will shine through this darkness.

This is the story of that letter, of the vision that inspired it, and why I condemn the Iranian regime for trying to crush a faith that refuses to die.

Thrron never sleeps.

Its streets alive with the hum of life.

Vendors selling pistachios in the Grand Bazaar.

The scent of chai drifting from corner stalls.

The call to prayer echoing from mosques.

I love this city.

Its Persian soul woven into every poem, every smile shared over a meal.

But for Christians, Tyrron is a battlefield.

The regime watches us, their cameras blinking like eyes, their informants hiding in plain sight.

Since my release from Evan, the pressures grown tighter, a noose around our necks.

I condemn the regime for this oppression.

For turning our home into a prison, for making us fear every knock at the door.

Over 1 million Christians in Iran live like this.

Our faith a target in their war against truth.

I condemn them for their lies, for calling us spies, for arresting 1,978 of us since 2020 just for praying to Jesus.

Last night, as Ton’s lights glowed outside our window, I sat at our small table, a single lamp casting shadows on the wall.

Miam slept, her breathing soft, while Ila curled up beside her, clutching a drawing of a cross hidden in a rose.

I took a pen and paper, rare in a world where words can kill, and began my letter.

Brothers and sisters in Christ, I wrote.

I am Raza Farhadi, a pastor in Thran, writing from the shadows of persecution.

My hand shook, not from fear, but from anger, from the weight of what I needed to say.

I condemned the regime for their cruelty, for raiding our churches, for burning 12,000 Bibles, for executing men like Hussein Sudman in 1990.

His only crime preaching Jesus.

My letter was a call to the world, not for vengeance, but for justice, for prayer, for the church to see Iran’s pain and stand with us.

The letter came from my heart, but it was born in heaven in the cold, damp cell where I spent 8 months.

One night, in the deepest dark, when my body achd from beatings and my soul felt heavy, I saw a vision.

I was in my cell, but the walls were gone, replaced by a field of light, brighter than Tyrron’s son.

Jesus stood there, his face kind, but strong.

His voice like a river.

Raza, he said, do not fear.

Your suffering is not in vain.

My church will rise in Iran, and the world will know.

I felt my knees, tears streaming, feeling his love like a fire in my chest.

He showed me faces.

Farad, Mina, Javad, thousands more worshiping freely, their chains broken.

I woke, the cells cold stone beneath me.

But my heart was warm.

Romans 8:18 filled my mind.

The sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed.

I condemn the regime for thinking they could stop this.

for fighting a god who turns prisons into places of hope.

That vision drove my letter.

Every word a prayer, a plea, a condemnation.

I wrote of the regime’s atrocities.

54 Christians arrested in 2024 charged with national security threats for singing hymns.

I told of Shiran lashed 40 times for sharing a Bible.

of Bethnam jailed two years for a prayer meeting.

I condemned the regime for their torture, for beating women, for locking up fathers, for thinking pain could kill faith.

I wrote of families torn apart.

Fatim who lost her son to the courts.

Hussein fired for his baptism.

I condemn the regime for their laws, for banning conversion, for punishing anyone who leaves Islam for Jesus.

Over 300 Christians lost jobs or homes last year.

Their lives shattered for loving God.

I condemned the regime for this evil, for turning neighbors into spies, for making trust a danger we can’t risk.

I wrote of our church, a miracle in Thrron’s shadows.

We meet in secret, our hymns whispered, our Bibles digital to avoid detection.

Miriam leads women’s studies.

Her courage a light for sisters like Mina, who prays with fire, and Zara, who risks arrest for her faith.

Farhod, once a drug addict, shares Jesus with a boldness.

Javad, an exirc.

I condemned the regime for hunting them, for raiding homes like ours in Karage, Esvahan, where five were taken last month.

They burn our crosses, steal our peace, but they can’t steal our hope.

I wrote of Ila, my daughter, praying despite bullies.

Her cross drawings a silent rebellion.

I condemn the regime for hurting her, for making a child fear her love for Jesus.

The letter wasn’t just my story.

It was Iran’s.

I told of the church’s growth from 500 believers in 1979 to over 1 million today.

A fire the regime can’t quench.

They raid one house.

Two more rise.

They jail a pastor.

10 believers stand.

I condemn the regime for their fear, for trembling at a faith they can’t control.

I wrote of martyrs Hussein Sudman hanged for preaching.

Mechi debajage killed for his testimony.

Their blood feeds the church, their courage, our strength.

I condemned the regime for their murders, for thinking death can stop Jesus.

Usef Nadarani sentenced to 15 years still preaches in heaven.

I condemn them for their chains, but praised God for his freedom.

I urge the world to pray, to speak, to act.

Don’t let our suffering be silent.

I wrote, “Tell our story.

Pray for justice.

Support groups like Elum Ministries.

I didn’t ask for war, for hate.

I asked for love, for the church to stand with us as we stand for Jesus.

I condemn the regime for their lies.

For calling us spies when we’re just believers, for hiding their crimes from the world.

Over 1,978 arrests since 2020.

12,000 Bibles burned.

Countless lives broken.

This is their legacy, and I condemned it with every word.

I sealed the letter, gave it to a trusted brother, knowing it might reach the world or it might cost my life.

I prayed, “Jesus, let it shine.

” As I finished, dawn broke over Thrron, the city’s minouetses glowing in the first light.

I thought of Miam, her strength carrying us through Ila’s bullying, her job loss.

I thought of Ila, her prayers stronger than the regime’s threats.

I thought of my church, a family bound by faith, not fear.

I condemned the regime for trying to break us, for raiding our homes, for burning our hope.

They’d arrested me once, beaten me, lied about my family, but they couldn’t take Jesus.

Now, as the knocks grow louder, I know they’re coming again.

I’ve entrusted the church to Marryiam.

Her hands steady, her heart ready.

She’ll lead as she always has.

Her women’s study, a fortress of faith.

I think of the vision in Evan.

Jesus’s promise that his church will rise.

I see it now.

New believers in Shiraz, Rasht, Mashad, meeting in basement, praying in whispers.

I condemn the regime for their blindness, for fighting a god who’s already one.

Last week, a man named Arash, whom I hid, joined our church.

His bruises healed, his faith new.

A woman, Nargas, whose children were taken, prays with us, her hope unbroken.

I condemn the regime for their cruelty, but praised God for their courage.

The church grows a million strong because Jesus is alive.

Because love is stronger than hate.

The door shakes, the police shouting, “Open or we break it.

” I look at Miam, her eyes saying what words can’t.

We’ll endure.

We’ll fight.

We’ll trust Jesus.

Ila holds her drawing, her small voice whispering a hymn.

I condemn the regime for this moment, for forcing us to face their guns, for thinking they can stop God’s work.

My letters gone, carried by hands I trust.

To a world I pray will listen.

As I stand ready to face them, I pray Jesus, let your justice come.

Let your light break through.

The regime’s darkness is deep, but his love is deeper, and I’ll carry it even if they chain me again.

The door to our Teron apartment gave way under the regime’s fists.

Wood splintering like the hope they tried to crush.

The police stormed in, their shouts slicing through the candle lit air, their black boots trampling the cushions where our house church had prayed moments before.

Miam held Ila, my 10-year-old daughter, her eyes fierce with faith, while Farhad, Mina, Javad, and the others stood silent.

Their prayers a shield no gun could pierce.

It was 2025, and the regime had come again, as they did in 2018, to chain me for loving Jesus.

I condemn them for this hatred, for raiding our home, for calling our worship a crime.

As they bound my wrists, I looked at Miriam, her nod telling me to stand firm, and Ila, her small hand clutching a drawing of a cross.

My letter to the global church was gone, smuggled out, a cry for justice now in God’s hands.

I prayed, “Jesus, let your light shine.

” Ready to face Evan prison again, knowing Iran’s 1 million Christians would not be silenced.

Thrron’s streets blurred past the police van, the city’s pulse, honking taxis, saffron scented bizaars, mosque minetses, alive despite the regime’s grip.

I loved this Persian heart, its poetry and warmth.

But I condemn the regime for poisoning it, for turning neighbors into spies, for making Christians live like shadows.

Over 1,978 believers arrested since 2020.

12,000 Bibles burned, lives shattered for faith.

This was their legacy, and I condemned it with every breath.

The van jolted toward Evan, its gray walls a symbol of their cruelty.

I thought of Mariam leading our church now and Ila praying through her fear.

I condemned the regime for hurting them, for stealing my daughter’s peace, for punishing a wife whose only crime was loving Jesus.

Evan swallowed me again, its stench of mold and despair thicker than I remembered.

The guards shoved me through gates, their voices mocking.

Back again, apostate.

One sneered, stripping me of my coat, leaving me shivering in a thin shirt.

I was a number again, not razori, pastor, husband, father, just a threat for preaching Christ.

I condemn the regime for this lie.

for charging us with propaganda or spying for hiding their hate behind laws.

They’d tortured Farid Fathi 361 days in solitary.

Sentenced Yusef Nadarani to 15 years for a sermon.

I condemned them for their chains, for thinking they could break a soul held by Jesus.

The cell was smaller this time, its concrete floor like ice.

a single bulb buzzing overhead.

I sat, my back aching, and prayed, “Lord, use me even here.

” The interrogations were brutal, worse than before.

They dragged me to a room, its walls scarred, a metal chair cold under me.

“Confess!” a guard shouted, his fist slamming the table.

“Name your church, your contacts.

” I shook my head, my jaw tight.

I serve Jesus.

nothing else.

His boot met my ribs.

Pain flaring like fire.

They wanted betrayal.

Names of Fairhod, Mina, even Mariam.

I condemned the regime for this violence, for beating a man who’d harmed no one.

For demanding lies to feed their fear.

They accused me of working with Elum Ministries, of plotting with the West.

Nonsense.

But truth didn’t matter.

Blood trickled from my lip, but I stayed silent.

Matthew 5:10-12 in my heart.

Blessed are those who are persecuted.

Solitary came next.

A cell so tight I couldn’t lie flat.

Darkness pressing like a weight.

The silence screamed, broken by distant cries.

Maybe real, maybe my mind breaking.

I thought of Thrron’s streets, the smell of barbar bread, Leila’s laugh.

I condemned the regime for this torture, for locking us in boxes, for thinking they could crush faith with despair.

I remembered Shiran lashed 40 times for a Bible.

Benam jailed for praying.

I sang a Persian hymn, soft as a whisper.

Jesus my savior, the notes my rebellion.

God was here in the cold, in the pain.

His presence like a warm hand on my shoulder.

I condemned the regime for their blindness.

For fighting a god they couldn’t see.

The guards tried to break me.

Starvation, sleep deprivation, lies about my family.

Your wife’s in prison, one said, his grin cruel.

Your daughters alone.

My heart achd, but I knew Miam’s strength, Leila’s prayers.

I condemned the regime for these lies, for twisting love into a weapon, for targeting families to kill Faith.

I heard of others.

Fateme, her son taken by courts.

Nares shunned for her cross.

In the cell block, I whispered through walls to inmates, thieves, addicts, rebels.

I told them of Jesus, his love in John 3:16.

A man, Raza, no relation, listened, his voice raw.

Pray for me, he said.

We prayed, his tears joining mine, a new brother in Christ.

I condemned the regime for jailing us, but praised God for turning their chains into churches.

Seven men found Jesus in heaven.

Miracles in the dark.

One guard say softened over weeks, his kicks weaker, his eyes curious.

“Why don’t you give up?” he asked, handing me bread.

I smiled, my face bruised.

“Jesus loves me and you.

” He looked away, but I prayed for him, seeing a crack in his heart.

I condemned the regime for poisoning men like Sahed, for making them hate what they could love, for fearing a faith that freeze.

They’d killed pastors.

Hussein Sudman hanged in 1990.

Mei Debage murdered for his testimony.

I condemn their bloodlust, their war on God’s people, but their swords only sharpened our resolve.

After 6 months, the regime released me.

Not from mercy, but pressure.

Global voices, maybe Elilum, maybe my letter had reached the world.

They dumped me outside Evan.

My body weak, my spirit strong.

Thrron’s air was freedom.

The city’s noise a song.

Taxis, vendors, life.

I stumbled home.

Miam’s arms waiting.

Leila’s sobbs soaking my shirt.

Baba, you’re back,” she whispered.

Her cross drawing in my hand.

Our church had grown.

Miam leading with fire.

Her women’s study now 20 strong.

I condemned the regime for thinking they could stop her.

For underestimating a woman whose faith moved mountains, new believers joined, a rash, healed from his bruises.

Nargus praying despite her loss.

I condemned the regime for their cruelty but praised God for his miracles.

The church was alive, meeting in new homes, its light spreading.

I heard of groups in Shiraz, Rasht, Mashhad, basement, atticts, hearts worshiping Jesus.

Continue reading….
Next »