Iran’s Muslim Ayatollah Meets Jesus and Reveals a Terrifying 2026 Warning

Iran’s Muslim Ayatollah Meets Jesus and Reveals a Terrifying 2026 Warning

For years, I stood here and taught hate, saying it came from God.

But I was wrong.

[music] Then Jesus met my eyes.

I am going to tell you something today that will shake everything you think you know about Iran, about Islam, and about who God really is.

And stay with me until the very end.

Because what I saw and what I was told is not just my story.

It is a warning for the entire world.

My name is Davar Husini.

I was born in Thran, Iran, and I now live in the United States.

I was not born a radical.

I want you to understand that from the very beginning.

I was born into a home that smelled like cardamom tea and fresh bread.

My mother sang while she cooked.

My father read poetry in the evening after dinner.

We were a religious family, but we were not a violent family.

We prayed five times a day and fasted during Ramadan and believed with all our hearts that Islam was the most perfect and complete way of life that God had ever given to human beings.

My father Mahmud Husini was a middle school teacher in Thran.

He taught Persian literature and he loved words the way some men love money.

He would read me roomie and huffes at bedtime when I was a smaller child.

He told me that the greatest gift God ever gave a man was the ability to speak truth with beauty.

I believed him.

I wanted to be like him.

I wanted to use words to move people and shape the world around me.

We were not wealthy.

We lived in a modest apartment in a workingclass neighborhood in the southern part of Thrron.

There was never extra money for nice clothes or vacations or the kinds of luxuries that the families in the northern part of the city enjoyed.

But there was always enough food and there was always love and there was always the mosque at the end of our street where the community gathered and where I felt most at home.

I was 12 years old when I first fell completely in love with the mosque.

Our neighborhood imam was a man named Shik Farad.

He had a long white beard and a voice that could fill the room without him ever raising it.

When Shikh Farh had spoke about Islam, something happened inside your chest.

It was like a fire being lit in a place that had been called and your entire life.

He spoke about the beauty of submission to Allah.

He spoke about the brotherhood of all believers.

He spoke about justice and the duty of every Muslim to stand against oppression wherever it existed in the world.

I started spending more and more time at the mosque after school.

I memorized large portions of the Quran faster than any other boy my age.

Sheikh Farad took notice of me.

He told my father that I had a gift.

He said that my memory and my voice and my passion marketed me as someone who could one day serve Islam in a significant way.

My father was proud.

He told me that if I continued on this path, I could become a scholar or a cleric and that there was no greater honor a man could achieve in this life.

By the time I was 16, I had made a decision.

I was going to pursue religious studies.

I was going to become an Islamic scholar and eventually a cleric.

I was going to dedicate my entire life to serving Allah and this spreading the message of Islam.

Shake Farhad helped arrange for me to enroll in a religious seminary in the city of K, which is the center of Shia Islamic scholarship in Iran.

It is the city where the most powerful clerics in the country are trained and where the theological foundations of the Islamic Republic are built and maintained.

Leaving Tehran was hard.

Leaving my mother and father and the familiar streets of my neighborhood was harder than I expected.

But I told myself that I was doing it for Allah.

I told myself that sacrifice was the mark of a true believer.

I told myself that the discomfort of leaving home was nothing compared to the eternal reward that awaited those who dedicated themselves to serving God.

The seminary in K was unlike anything I had ever experienced.

The other students were serious and intense and competitive in their religious learning.

We walk before dawn every morning to pray and then spend the entire day in study and memorization and debate.

We read the Quran and the Hadith and the writings of the great scholars of Islamic history.

We debated theology and jurist prudence and the proper interpretation of religious law.

We were being shaped into something specific.

We were being trained not just to believe but to lead.

It was in Kum that I first encountered the ideology that would define the next 15 years of my life.

The senior teachers at the seminary had very specific views about the role of Islam in the world and about the enemies of Islam and about the duty of every true believer to stand against those enemies.

They spoke about Israel and America with a hatred that was presented a righteousness.

They spoke about western culture as a poison designed specifically to destroy Islamic civilization.

They spoke about the Islamic revolution of 1979 as the greatest event in modern history and about Ayatah Kumeni as a man sent by God himself to restore true religion to its rightful place at the center of human society.

I absorbed all of it.

I was young and passionate and hungry for purpose.

And these teachers gave me a framework that explained everything.

The suffering of Muslims around the world was the fault of America and Israel and the corrupt leaders who served them.

The solution was pure uncompromising Islamic governance based on Sharia law.

The duty of every Muslim scholar was to support the Islamic Republic and its mission to spread this governance across the world.

Anyone who resisted this mission was an enemy of Allah and deserved whatever came to them.

I graduated from the seminary at the age of 24 with distinctions that placed me among the top students of my year.

I had a sharp mind and a powerful speaking voice and an absolute certainty about everything I believed.

I was offered a position as a junior cleric at a mosque in Thran and I accepted immediately.

I wanted to go home.

I wanted to take everything I had learned in Kum and pour it into the hearts and minds of ordinary Iranians.

My early years as a cleric were the most energetic of my life.

I preached it two or three times a week and every sermon was an event.

I had a gift for taking complicated theological ideas and translating them into plain language that ordinary people could feel in their bones.

I could make people cry and make people angry and make people ready to act all in the space of a single Friday sermon.

The mosque filled up more every week.

People came from other neighborhoods just to hear me speak.

But looking back now with eyes that can finally see clearly.

I understand what I was really doing in those sermons.

I was not feeding people with truth.

I was feeding them with rage.

I was taking their very real frustrations about poverty and inequality and powerlessness and giving them a target.

I was telling them that their suffering was not the result of bad governance or corruption or mismanagement.

I was telling them it was the fault of external enemies who hated Islam and wanted to destroy it.

And I was telling them that Allah was on their side and that one day justice would come.

It was the perfect formula for keeping people angry and obedient at the same time.

Angry at the right enemies, obedient to the right leaders.

I did not understand this at the time because I genuinely believed every single word I said.

That is the most dangerous kind of preacher.

Not the one who lies knowing he is lying, but the one who sincerely believes his own deception.

By my late 20s, I had come to the attention of senior clerics in the government structure of Iran.

The Islamic Republic needs preachers like me the way a machine needs fuel.

It needs men who can stand in front of large crowds and make the ideology feel real and alive and urgent.

I was invited to speak at government events and at universities and eventually at large gatherings of thousands of people that were broadcast on state television.

My name began to appear in newspapers and on religious websites.

People called me a rising star among the young clerics of Iran.

I was given access to senior officials and two meetings where policy and religious strategy were discussed.

I was no longer just a neighborhood preacher.

I was becoming something larger, something more official, something that the system needed to protect and promote because I was useful to it.

I believe that all of this was the blessing of Allah rewarding my faithfulness.

I had no idea that I was simply being used.

The first real crack in my certainty appeared in 2021.

I was 30 years old and at the peak of my public profile.

I had been invited to participate in a government organized conference in Thran where senior clerics and officials gathered to discuss the future direction of Islamic governance in Iran and across the region.

What I saw at that conference shook me in ways I was not prepared for.

The men sitting around those tables were not the holy warriors I had imagined them to be.

They were politicians.

They were maneuvering for power and resources and influence just like politicians everywhere in the world.

They argued about money and territory and leverage.

They spoke about religious law as a tool for controlling the population rather than as a path to God.

When the cameras and the recorders were off, these men talked like businessmen calculating profit and loss, not like a scholars seeking the face of Allah.

I drove home from that conference in silence.

I sat in my small apartment and I tried to process what I had seen.

I told myself that I was misreading the situation.

I told myself that even great men is sometimes speak in practical terms about sacred things because the work of building a godly society requires practical decisions.

I told myself that my doubts were a test from Allah and that the faithful response was to push them aside and continue my work.

But the doubts did not go away.

They multiplied.

The protests that swept through Iran in late 2022 hit me like a physical blow.

Young people, men and women barely younger than me were pouring into the street demanding freedom and dignity and an end to the system I had spent my entire adult life defending.

And the government I served was responding with bullets and arrests and disappearances in the middle of the night.

I watched video footage on my phone of a young woman being dragged away by security forces and I felt something break inside my chest.

She was not an enemy of Allah.

She was a young person who wanted to live without fear.

She wanted to make choices about her own life.

She wanted the basic dignity that every human being is supposed to deserve.

And the system I had been defending was treating her like a criminal for wanting these things.

I could not preach that weekend.

I sat in my apartment and I could not make myself stand behind that pulpit and say the words I had always said.

For the first time in my adult life, I did not know what I believed.

The weeks that followed were the loneliest of my life.

I continued performing my official duties because I was too afraid to stop.

I preached but my sermons were hollow and I knew it.

I kept waiting for Allah to speak to me.

I kept waiting for a sign or a feeling or a clear voice that would resolve the confusion tearing through my mind.

I prayed more than I had ever prayed in my life.

I fasted and I read Quran for hours at a time.

But the silence I received in response was deafening.

I started doing something I had never permitted myself to do before.

I started reading things that were not approved by the seminary.

I started reading articles and books and testimonies from people who had left Islam.

I read accounts from former clerics who had walked away from the system.

I read histories of the Islamic Revolution that were not written by people who celebrated it.

I read about the executions in the early years after 1979.

I read about the political prisoners.

I read about the systematic use of religion to control and suppress ordinary Iranians.

Every page I read made me feel sicker.

Not because these things were news to the world, but because I had known about most of them on some level and had successfully talked myself out of caring.

I had built elaborate theological justifications for all of it.

Now those justifications were crumbling one by one, and I had nothing to replace them with.

I began secretly attending a small discussion group that met in the apartment of a professor I had met at a university speaking event.

The group was made up of academics and artists and a few former religious students like me.

They talked openly about politics and philosophy and religion in ways that would have been dangerous if overheard by the wrong people.

For the first time in my life, I was in a room where people disagreed openly and asked hard questions and expected real answers rather than obedience.

One evening, a woman at the group named Nasarin mentioned that she had recently spoken with a Christian, not a nominal Christian from a traditional Christian family in Iran, but a Muslim who had converted.

She said the person had told her about an experience of encountering Jesus in prayer.

She said it almost dismissively as a curiosity, as an interesting data point in a conversation about religious experience.

But something about those words lodged themselves in my chest and would not leave.

I had spent my entire adult life telling people that Jesus was a prophet and nothing more.

I had preached specifically against the Christian claim that Jesus was the son of God.

I had told congregations that the Bible had been corrupted and that Christianity was a distorted version of the true religion.

I had been certain about all of this the way I had been certain about everything.

But now my certainty about everything was gone and the name of Jesus was echoing somewhere inside me in a way I could not explain.

It was a Tuesday night in March 2023.

I remember it being cold and raining outside.

I was alone in my apartment.

I had not been sleeping well for weeks.

My mind would not stop running in circles.

The same questions over and over without any answers.

Who is God really? Have I been serving him or serving men who use his name? Is there any truth left in anything I have believed? I was sitting on the floor of my small living room in the dark.

I had not turned any lights on.

I was not praying in any formal sense.

I was just sitting there in the dark with my hands in my lap feeling utterly empty.

I was 31 years old and I had built my entire life around a faith that was now dissolving and I had nothing solid to hold on to.

Then I did something I had never done in my entire life.

I spoke out loud to Jesus.

I do not know exactly why I did it.

I was not planning to do it.

The words came out before I had consciously decided to say them.

I said out loud in the dark of my apartment.

Jesus, if you are who the Christians say you are, I need you to show me because I have nothing left.

What happened next is something I have tried to describe to people many times and I always failed to do it justice because human language is not built to carry experiences like this one.

The room changed.

That is the only way I can begin to explain it.

The darkness did not disappear exactly, but something else entered the darkness.

A presence, a warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

It was like the air itself became aware of me, like something vast and living and impossibly gentle had turned its full attention toward one small man sitting alone on the floor of a cold apartment in Thran.

I sat completely still.

I was not afraid.

That surprised me later when I thought about it because I should have been terrified.

But whatever was entering that room with me carried no threat in it.

It carried something I recognized even though I had never actually experienced it in its full form before.

It carried love, pure, complete, unconditional love that as nothing and offered everything.

Then I saw him.

I want to be very clear about what I mean when I say I saw him.

I was not asleep.

I was not dreaming.

I was not in some kind of religious trance.

I was sitting on my floor wide awake.

And I saw with what felt like more clarity than my physical eyes had ever provided a man standing in the room with me.

He was dressed in white, not theatrical white, not costume white, a white that seemed to generate its own light, a light that was warm and living.

His face was the most peaceful thing I have ever seen and also the most powerful.

Not powerful in the way of earthly authority or physical strength.

Powerful in the way of absolute truth.

The way a fact is powerful because it simply is what it is and nothing can change it.

He said my name.

He said Davar.

And the way he said it destroyed something inside me that had been standing between me and the truth my entire life.

He said my name like he had always known me, like he had been watching me since before I was born.

like every single thing I had ever done, good and terrible, and in between was known to him completely and he was still standing in my room saying my name with tenderness.

I started weeping.

I am not a man who cries easily.

I had not cried since I was a child.

But I was weeping like a child now sitting on that floor in the dark in Thran.

Then Jesus showed me things.

He showed me my sermons not as I had experienced them from the pulpit feeling powerful and anointed and certain.

He showed them to me from inside the people in the congregation who were listening.

I saw a young man sitting in the second row whose brother had recently been arrested by the government.

I felt his grief and his rage and I felt how my words had taken that grief and that rage and pointed them like a weapon at people who had nothing to do with his brother’s arrest.

I felt how I had given him an enemy and stolen from him the space to simply mourn.

I saw a teenage boy who had come to the mosque with his father.

I saw how my words had planted seeds of contempt in him toward his Christian classmates and his Jewish neighbors and any person who who did not share his religious identity.

I saw the wall my preaching had built around his heart.

And I saw how that wall would cost him years of loneliness and suspicion before it ever came down.

I saw face after face of people my words had damaged, not killed.

Not like the story of the men in the financial networks, but damaged in quieter ways that were no less real.

I had taken the very real hunger people have for meaning and for justice.

And I had fed it with anger instead of love and called the anger holy.

Then Jesus looked at me and he asked me a question.

He said, “Davar, why have you been building walls between my children instead of bridges?” I had no answer.

I could only weep.

Then he showed me something I had never seen before.

He showed me what love actually looks like in its true form.

Not the love described in political theology.

Not the conditional brotherhood of those who agree with you, but the love that created every human being on this earth and refuses to stop pursuing them regardless of what they have done or believed or said.

He showed me that this love had a name and a face and a body and a history.

that this love had walked on the earth and eaten meals with people who were despised by their society and touched people who were considered untouchable and died for people who had done nothing to deserve it.

That this love had risen from the dead and was still alive and was standing in my apartment in Thran on a rainy Tuesday night talking to a confused and broken former preacher who had nowhere else to turn.

I reached out my hand toward him.

I do not know why.

It was instinctive the way a drowning man reaches for anything solid.

He took my hand.

The moment his hand closed around mine, I felt something move through me from my hand all the way to the deepest part of whatever I am.

It was not just warmth.

It was like every crooked thing inside me was being made straight.

Every lie I had believed about myself and about God and about the world was being gently removed the way you remove a splinter from a child’s finger.

Patient and precise and with complete knowledge of exactly where the damage was.

I said, “I am sorry.

” I said it over and over.

I said it for my sermons and for the people I had misled and for the years I had spent building walls I called righteousness.

I said, “I want to follow you.

I do not know how, but I want to follow you.

” And Jesus smiled at me and the smile was like sunlight after a year of winter.

Then slowly the presence began to fade.

The room was just a room again.

The dark was just dark again.

I was just a man sitting on a floor in Thran with tears running down his face and his hands trembling.

But I was not the same man who had sat down.

After that night, nothing was the same.

And I knew immediately that I could not pretend otherwise.

The first thing I did was find a Bible.

This was not simple in Iran.

Christian materials are restricted and possessing them can lead to arrest.

But I was resourceful and I had connections even if I was now deeply afraid of where those connections led.

I found a Farsy Bible through a contact who I will not name to protect them.

I read it for 3 days almost without stopping.

I slept in short bursts and then woke up and read more.

Everything I read was like water on ground that had been dry for a very long time.

The teachings of Jesus in the Gospels were unlike anything I had encountered in all my years of religious study.

Not because they were strange, but because they were simple in a way that cut through all the complexity I had built my faith around.

Love your enemies.

Do good to those who hate you.

The greatest among you will be the servant of all.

These were not the words of a political movement.

These were not the words of a system of control.

These were the words of someone who understood human beings at a level that no political or religious ideology ever reaches.

The mountains that followed were the most difficult and the most alive of my entire existence.

Difficult because I was still performing my duties as a cleric while knowing that everything I had preached was wrong.

I was living a double life and the pressure of it was enormous.

Every Friday, I stood behind a pulpit and gave a version of my sermon that was slowly, carefully, almost invisibly changing.

I stopped using language that pointed toward enemies.

I started talking about compassion and mercy and the love of God in ways that were still within acceptable boundaries, but were moving quietly in a different direction.

Some people in the congregation noticed.

A few told me afterward that my sermons had become more moving and more personal.

A few others looked at me with slight confusion as if they could sense something had shifted but could not name what it was.

Difficult also because I was completely alone in this transformation.

I could not tell my family because my father especially would have been devastated.

I could not tell colleagues because one word to the wrong person would have ended everything and possibly landed me in prison.

I could not tell friends because I did not fully trust anyone in my immediate circle anymore.

The loneliness was profound in a way that only people who have kept a secret of this magnitude will understand.

But I was also the most alive I had ever been.

Every morning I woke up and I felt the presence that had visited my apartment still with me in a quieter form.

Like an ember that does not blaze but never goes completely cold.

I prayed to Jesus every day, not with formal religious ritual, but with the directness of a person talking to someone they know is listening.

I told him my fears.

I told him my confusion.

I asked him to guide me and to show me what to do next.

By early 2024, I knew I could not stay in Iran much longer.

The intelligence services in Iran are very good at noticing when people change, especially when those people are public religious figures.

My sermons were being monitored as all public sermons are, and the subtle shifts in my language had not gone undetected by everyone.

I received a visit from a man I will simply call an official.

He came to my home under the pretense of a friendly check-in.

He sat in my small living room and drank tea and smiled and asked questions that were perfectly designed to sound casual while probing for exactly the information he was looking for.

I gave him careful and unrevealing answers.

But I knew after he left that I was on borrowed time.

I began making preparations to leave Iran.

This is not a process that can be described in full detail because people I care about are still in the country and I will not put them at risk.

What I can tell you is that leaving required months of careful planning and the help of people who work in the shadows to assist those fleeing religious persecution in Iran.

These people are not paid.

They do this work out of genuine conviction and at great personal risk to themselves.

In the fall of 2024, I left Iran.

I crossed a border that I will not name in the way that uh I will not describe and I arrived in a country in Europe where I was connected with a network of Iranian Christians who have been in exile for various amounts of time.

These people became my family in a way that my biological family was unable to be during this period.

The grief of leaving my parents behind is something I carry every single day.

My father does not know the truth about why I left.

He was told that I had a personal crisis and needed to go abroad for a period.

My mother cried for a month.

According to the messages I received through intermediaries, she still lights a candle for me at the mosque every Friday, which is both heartbreaking and beautiful because I know that the God who receives her prayer for her son is the same one who showed up in my apartment on a rainy night in 2023.

I spent 2024 in Europe healing and the studying and growing.

I connected with Iranian Christian leaders in exile who have been doing this work far longer than I have.

I learned from them what it means to follow Jesus not as a concept or a theological position but as a daily practice of love and honesty and service.

I helped where I could with ministry effort reaching Iranians inside the country through internet and satellite broadcasts.

I began very carefully and quietly to consider whether God was calling me to share my testimony publicly.

Then in early 2025, I began receiving something in my prayer times that I can only describe as a burden.

Not a negative burden.

The kind of burden that presses on you not to crush you, but to compel you, a weight of urgency, a sense that there was something specific I needed to say and that I needed to say it soon.

Over many weeks of prayer and conversations with my mentors in the Iranian Christian community, the message became clear.

Jesus had not just visited me to save my soul.

He had visited me because he wanted me to deliver something to the world.

A message, a warning specifically for this moment in history.

Here is what I believe I was shown and what I must tell you now.

The systems of religious control that I served in Iran are not unique to Iran.

The use of God’s name to justify human power and human violence and human control over other human beings is as old as history itself.

It exists in many forms across many countries and many traditions.

But what is happening in Iran, specifically in this season in 2025 leading into 2026 is reaching a point of crisis that the world does not fully understand.

The regime in Iran is not primarily a religious project anymore.

if it ever truly was.

It is a political project using the language and the structures of religion as a container for power.

The senior clerics who sit at the top of this structure do not speak in private the way they speak in public.

I sat in rooms with some of these men.

I heard the private conversations.

I saw the gap between what they preach and how they live.

But here is the part that the political analysts and the journalists do not tell you because they do not have access to it.

and would not know how to interpret it if they did.

There is something happening in Iran at a spiritual level that is running completely beneath the surface of the political story.

Young Iranians are encountering Jesus at a rate that has no historical precedent.

Underground house churches are multiplying faster than the government can track and shut them down.

Dream experiences and vision experiences of the kind I had in my apartment are being reported by ordinary Iranians across every demographic, young and old, men and women, former clerics and people who never attended a mosque in their lives.

I have spoken with people who have had these encounters.

The stories are not identical, but they carry the same weight of reality.

a young woman in Shiraz who saw Jesus standing in her kitchen and speaking her name.

A former IRGC soldier in Mashad who dreamed of standing before Jesus and being shown every person he had heard during his service and who woke up and walked out of his position the next morning and never returned.

an elderly man in Isvahan who had been a committed revolutionary since 1979 and who encountered Jesus during a routine hospital visit for a minor procedure and who immediately gave away everything he owned to his neighbors.

These are not the stories that make the news but they are the stories that are actually shaping what is going to happen in Iran.

Jesus told me something during that night in my apartment that I have sat with for 2 years now trying to fully understand.

He said, “The walls that men have built in my name are coming down and nothing will stop them.

” He said this not with anger but with the quiet certainty of someone describing what they already know to be true.

The way you describe the sunrise before it has happened.

Because you know the earth will keep turning.

I believe that what is coming to Iran and to the broader Middle East in 2026 is a moment of decision, not a political decision made by governments or armies, a spiritual decision made one person at a time in apartments and hospital rooms and prison cells and military barracks across the region.

A decision about who God really is and whether love is more powerful than the structures of control that have used his name for decades.

The 2026 warning is this.

The world is watching Iran through the lens of nuclear deals and proxy wars and geopolitical strategy.

These things are real and they matter.

But the thing that will actually determine the future of Iran and of its people is not happening in any government building or military installation.

It is happening in the dark of ordinary rooms where ordinary people are asking the same question.

I asked on that Tuesday night in March 2023, God, if you are real, show me who you really are.

And the answer that is coming to those people again and again across the country is the same answer that came to me.

A figure in white, a love that defies explanation, a name spoken with the tenderness of someone who has always known you.

I am telling this to the world in 2025 because I believe with everything in me that 2026 is going to be a year when what has been hidden comes to the surface.

When the movement that has been growing in secret in Iran becomes visible in ways the world will not be able to ignore.

When people who have made the same discovery I made begin to speak loudly enough that the silence can no longer be maintained.

I want to speak directly now to anyone watching or reading this who is inside Iran.

I know what you are risking just by watching something like this.

I know the fear that comes with every video you watch through a VPN and every conversation you have in whisperers.

I know what it costs to even allow yourself to wander.

I was one of the men who built and maintained the system that makes you afraid.

And I I am telling you from the other side of that system that the fear is a lie.

Not the danger.

The danger is real.

But the fear that tells you there is nothing worth risking for is a lie.

What I found on the other side of all my certainty and all my preaching and all my service to a system built on control was a love so real and so complete that it made everything I had ever thought I knew feel like a dim photograph of the actual thing.

The god who showed up in my
apartment was not a god of rules and rage and political ambition.

He was a father looking for his children.

He was a savior with his scars on his wrists who paid a price he did not owe for people who had done nothing to deserve it.

His name is Jesus.

And if you call on him in the dark of your own room tonight, I believe with everything I am that he will answer you the same way he answered me.

I want to speak to anyone watching this in the United States or in Europe or in Canada or in Australia who grew up in a Muslim family and who has been carrying questions they were never allowed to ask out loud.

You are not betraying your family or your heritage by asking those questions.

You are not dishonoring the people who raised you by wanting to know the truth about who God actually is.

The most courageous thing any person can do is follow truth wherever it leads.

Even when the destination is different from where they started, I left Iran with nothing.

I left behind my position and my reputation and my income and my family and the only country I had ever called home.

I came to the west as a man with no status and no certainty about what came next.

And I am telling you that what I gained was worth immeasurably more than everything I left behind.

Because what I gained was the truth.

And the truth, as Jesus himself said, will set you free.

I am Davar Husseini.

I am 34 years old.

I was a cleric in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

And I preached hatred from a pulpit for years and called it the will of God.

Then Jesus walked into my darkness.

And he showed me what the will of God actually looks like.

It looks like love that will not quit.

It looks like forgiveness that has no conditions.

It looks like a man with nail scars in his hands reaching out to take the hand of the most broken and guilty person in the room.

That man was me and he is reaching for you too.

If this testimony has moved something in you today, write in the comments, “The walls are coming down.

” Say it as a declaration.

Say it as a prayer.

Say it as the first word of a new chapter in your own story.

The walls are coming down and nothing will stop