My mother and I work together now telling our story, encouraging new believers, helping the church grow.

She’s become a powerful voice for faith and freedom.

When the wife of Moshtaba Kam speaks, people listen.

Other members of my extended family have come to Christ, too.

Two of my cousins, an uncle, even some of the servants from the compound.

The very family that once ruled Iran through Islamic law is now being transformed by Christianity.

The vision Jesus showed me is becoming reality.

Not all at once, not without struggle and setback, but undeniably, inevitably, Iran is changing.

Just last week, I attended a church service in Thran.

not underground, but in an actual building with a cross on top.

2,000 people packed inside worshiping Jesus loudly and joyfully.

The police drove by and did nothing.

They’ve learned that trying to stop the church only makes it grow faster.

After the service, a young woman approached me.

She was maybe 20 years old with bright eyes and a beautiful smile.

“Are you Zara”?

she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I just wanted to thank you,” she said, tears streaming down her face.

I watched your testimony video 3 years ago.

I was suicidal.

I hated my life.

I hated the regime.

I hated everything.

But when I heard you talk about Jesus, something inside me broke open.

I had to know more.

I had to meet this Jesus who appeared to you.

She grabbed my hands.

I gave my life to Christ that night and he saved me, not just spiritually, but literally.

He gave me a reason to live.

He gave me hope.

He gave me joy.

And now I’m studying to be a missionary.

I want to tell other Iranians about Jesus the way you told me.

I hugged her tightly.

Both of us crying.

This was why.

This was why I left everything.

Why I risked everything.

Because Jesus saves.

He transforms.

He gives life.

Stories like hers are everywhere now.

The harvest Jesus promised is happening.

Iran is being saved one person at a time, one family at a time, one city at a time.

Is the transformation complete?

No.

There are still revolutionary guards who persecute believers.

There are still laws against conversion.

There are still Christians who suffer and die for their faith.

But the tide has turned.

The momentum has shifted.

What was once a tiny underground movement is now a massive wave that can’t be stopped.

Jesus is building his church in Iran, and the gates of hell will not prevail against it.

I think often about that first night when Jesus appeared to me.

When he stood in my room in blazing light and called me to follow him, when he showed me the vision of Iran’s future.

At the time, it seemed impossible, fantastical, too good to be true.

But God’s promises are not too good to be true.

They’re exactly as good as he says they are.

And he is faithful to fulfill every word he speaks.

To anyone who is reading this, who is considering following Jesus but afraid of the cost, I want to say this, do it.

Follow him no matter what it costs.

Because I promise you, what you gain is infinitely greater than what you lose.

I lost my family, my wealth, my security, my old identity, everything I thought defined me.

But I gained Jesus.

I gained truth.

I gained freedom.

I gained purpose.

I gained eternal life.

And I gained the privilege of watching God move in history, of being part of the greatest revival the world has ever seen, of witnessing prophecy being fulfilled before my eyes.

Iran’s story is not finished.

The best is yet to come.

Jesus told me that this nation would become a light to the Middle East and the world.

That the transformation happening here would inspire similar movements in other Muslim countries.

That a wave of conversions would sweep across the Islamic world.

I believe him.

because everything else he promised has come true.

Why would this be any different?

To the church in Iran, I say, be bold.

Be courageous.

The government that once terrorized you is crumbling.

The system that once imprisoned you is failing.

This is your moment.

This is your time.

Shine the light of Jesus without fear.

Tell the gospel without shame.

Make disciples without hesitation.

To Christians around the world, I say, pray for Iran.

Support the believers here.

Send resources, send encouragement, partner with what God is doing.

Because what happens in Iran will affect the entire region.

This is a strategic moment in history.

To Muslims who are searching for truth, I say Jesus loves you.

He died for you.

He wants to save you.

Everything you’ve been taught about him is incomplete.

He’s not just a prophet.

He’s the son of God.

He’s alive.

He’s powerful.

He’s calling you.

Don’t resist.

Don’t delay.

Come to him today.

And to those in power, those who still try to suppress the gospel, I say you’re fighting against God.

And that’s a battle you cannot win.

No government has ever succeeded in stopping Jesus.

Not Rome, not the Soviet Union, not communist China.

And you won’t either.

Your time is ending.

The kingdom of God is advancing.

Surrender to him while you still can.

My name is Zara Kmin.

I am the granddaughter of Iran’s former Supreme Leader.

I am a follower of Jesus Christ.

I am a witness to his power and his faithfulness.

And I am telling you with absolute certainty that Jesus is taking over Iran.

The revival is here.

The transformation is happening.

The prophecy is being fulfilled.

And nothing can stop it.

Because when Jesus builds his church, hell itself cannot prevail against it.

This is not the end of my story.

It’s just the beginning.

Because the God who called me, who saved me, who used me is not finished yet.

He has more for Iran, more for the Middle East, more for the world.

And I’m honored to be a small part of his great plan.

All glory to Jesus Christ, the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords, the Savior of Iran.

He is worthy.

He is faithful.

He is victorious.

And he is just getting started.

This is my testimony.

This is my story.

And I’m sharing it with you because I want you to know that Jesus is real.

That he still appears to people.

That he still transforms lives.

that he still moves in power.

If you’ve never encountered Jesus, I invite you to seek him.

Read the Gospels, pray, and ask him to reveal himself to you.

He will because he loves you and he wants you to know the truth.

If you’re already a Christian, I encourage you to pray for Iran, for the church, for the millions who are coming to faith.

Partner with what God is doing here because this isn’t just about one nation.

It’s about the advancement of God’s kingdom throughout the earth.

And if you’re an Iranian reading this, especially a Muslim, I want you to know Jesus sees you.

He knows you.

He loves you.

And he’s calling you to himself.

Don’t be afraid of what it might cost.

Because what you’ll gain is worth infinitely more.

My life was changed forever the night Jesus appeared to me.

And he can change your life, too.

All you have to do is call on his name.

Jesus Christ, Savior, Lord, King.

He is real.

He is alive.

He is here.

And he loves you.

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OTHERS STORY

Thousands of Jews Watch LIVE as Senior Jewish Rabbi Declares Yeshua the Messiah and Son of God !!!

I have found the Messiah.

His name is Yeshua, Jesus of Nazareth.

He is the Son of God, the Lord and Savior of all mankind.

And I believe in him with all my heart, all my soul, and all my strength.

I stood before my congregation that Shabbat morning with my hands gripping both sides of the wooden podium, trying to keep them from shaking.

300 faces looked back at me.

Faces I had known for decades.

Faces I had married to their spouses.

Faces I had comforted at funerals.

Faces whose children I had held at their Brit Ma ceremonies when they were 8 days old.

The morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows of our synagogue, casting familiar patterns across the prayer shaws of the men swaying gently in their seats.

The women sat in their section, some with their heads covered, some with their prayer books open.

Everything looked exactly as it had looked every Shabbat for the past 23 years I had served as their rabbi.

But everything was about to change.

I had barely slept in 3 days.

My wife Rachel hadn’t spoken to me since the night before when I told her what I was planning to do.

My stomach felt like it was filled with stones.

My mouth was dry despite the water I had drunk before walking up to the beimma.

I looked out at the faces and felt a love for these people that nearly broke me.

I knew that in a few moments most of them would hate me.

Some would mourn for me as if I had died.

Others would spit at the mention of my name.

But I had found a truth, and the truth had set me free, even as it was about to cost me everything.

I took a breath and began to speak.

The words came out stronger than I expected.

I told them that I had spent the last 18 months on a journey I had never planned to take.

I told them that I had discovered something that shook the foundations of everything I thought I knew.

And and then I said the words that changed my life forever.

I have found the Messiah.

His name is Yeshua, Jesus of Nazareth.

He is the son of God, the Lord and Savior of all mankind, and I believe in him with all my heart, all my soul, and all my strength.

The silence that followed felt like the world had stopped breathing.

How did I get here?

How does an Orthodox rabbi, a man who spent his entire life devoted to Torah and the traditions of our fathers, come to believe in Jesus?

Let me take you back to the beginning.

Hello viewers from around the world.

Before our brother continues his story, we’d love to know where you are watching from and we would love to pray for you and your city.

Thank you and may God bless you as you listen to this powerful testimony.

I was born in Brooklyn in 1979, the second son of Mosha and Esther Silverman.

We lived in a small apartment in Burough Park in the heart of one of the most Orthodox Jewish communities in America.

My father worked as an accountant.

My mother raised us children.

I had two older sisters and one younger brother.

Our life revolved entirely around our faith.

I have memories from when I was very young, maybe four or 5 years old, of sitting at the Shabbat table on Friday nights.

My mother would light the candles just before sunset, covering her eyes with her hands, and whispering the blessing in Hebrew.

My father would come home from shul synagogue and would lift the cup of wine and sanctify the day.

We would eat chala bread that my mother had baked and we would sing the songs our ancestors had sung for thousands of years.

The apartment was small and cramped, but on Friday nights it felt like the most beautiful place in the world.

My grandfather, my father’s father, lived with us in those early years.

His name was Caim and he was a survivor.

He never talked much about the camps, but we knew.

We saw the numbers tattooed on his arm.

We saw the way he would sometimes stop in the middle of doing something and just stare off into the distance, his eyes seeing things we couldn’t imagine.

But his faith never wavered.

Not once.

He would wake up every morning at 5:00 and pray.

He would study Torah for hours.

He taught me to read Hebrew when I was 5 years old, sitting with me at the kitchen table with infinite patience as I stumbled over the letters.

One thing he told me has stayed with me my whole life.

I must have been seven or eight years old.

I and I asked him how he could still believe in God after what happened to him, after what he saw.

He looked at me with those deep sad eyes and he said that the Nazis had taken everything from him, his parents, his siblings, his first wife, and their baby daughter.

Everything.

But they couldn’t take his faith.

That was his.

That was the one thing they couldn’t touch.

And as long as he had his faith, as long as he had the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, they had not won.

I grew up believing that my faith was the most precious thing I possessed, more precious than life itself.

I was a serious child.

While my friends played stickball in the streets, I was studying.

I loved learning.

I love the Talmud, the arguments and the reasoning, the way the rabbis would debate the meaning of every word.

I love the smell of old books.

A the feel of the pages, the sense that I was connecting with thousands of years of wisdom.

By the time I was 13, when I had my bar mitzvah, I could read and understand large portions of the Torah in the original Hebrew.

My parents were so proud.

When I was 16, my rabbi approached my father about sending me to Yeshiva, a special school for advanced religious study.

This was a great honor.

It meant that the community leaders saw potential in me, that they believed I could become a rabbi myself one day.

My father cried when they told him.

My mother made a special Shabbat dinner to celebrate.

I spent the next eight years in intensive study.

I studied the Torah, all five books of Moses.

I studied the prophets and the writings, what we call the Tanakh, what Christians call the Old Testament.

I studied the Talmud, the massive collection of rabbitical debates and interpretations.

I studied the midrash, the ancient commentaries.

I studied the medieval scholars, rashi, mimmonades, nakmanites.

I learned Aramaic.

I learned the intricate details of Jewish law, what you can and cannot do on Shabbat, the proper way to observe the festivals, the dietary laws, the purity laws, every aspect of life governed by the Torah and the traditions.

I didn’t just learn these things academically.

I lived them.

I breathed them.

Judaism wasn’t something I did.

It was something I was.

It was in my bones, in my blood, in every breath I took.

When I put on my Teflin every morning, those leather boxes containing scripture that we bind on our arms and foreheads, I wasn’t just following a ritual.

I was connecting with God, with Moses, I’d with every Jewish man who had put on to fillain for the past 3,000 years.

When I kept Shabbat, resting from Friday evening to Saturday evening, I wasn’t just obeying a commandment.

I was participating in creation, remembering that God rested on the seventh day, sanctifying time itself.

This was my life.

This was my identity.

This was everything.

When I was 25, I married Rachel.

She was the daughter of a respected rabbi in Queens, a beautiful woman with dark eyes and a gentle spirit.

Our families arranged the introduction, but we fell in love on our own.

We were married under a chupa, a wedding canopy with our families and friends surrounding us.

We broke the glass to remember the destruction of the temple.

We danced and celebrated and started our life together.

Over the next 15 years, a God blessed us with three children.

Sarah was born first, then Benjamin 3 years later, then Miriam 5 years after that.

We raised them in the faith, the same faith that had been passed down to us.

We celebrated every holiday.

We kept our home kosher.

We sent the children to Jewish day schools.

On Friday nights, I would bless my children, placing my hands on their heads and reciting the ancient blessing.

I would watch them grow and learn and develop their own relationships with God and with Torah, and my heart would nearly burst with gratitude.

When I was 33 years old, I was offered a position as the rabbi of a midsized Orthodox congregation in New Jersey.

It was everything I had worked for, my own congregation, my own community to serve and teach and guide.

I accepted immediately.

I and we moved our family into a modest house near the synagogue.

Those early years as a rabbi were the happiest of my life.

I loved my work.

I loved teaching.

I loved counseling young couples before their weddings, helping them understand the sacred nature of marriage.

I loved sitting with families in their grief when they lost loved ones, offering what comfort I could from our tradition and our faith.

I loved studying with young men who wanted to deepen their knowledge of Torah.

I loved leading services, standing before the ark that held our Torah scrolls, feeling the weight of responsibility and the joy of service.

I was good at it.

The congregation grew.

People respected me.

Other rabbis sought my opinion on matters of Jewish law.

I published several articles in rabbitical journals.

I was invited to speak at conferences.

My life had purpose and meaning and direction.

But there was something else.

Something I didn’t talk about.

Something I barely admitted to myself.

Sometimes late at night when everyone else was asleep, I would lie awake and feel a kind of emptiness that I couldn’t name.

It wasn’t unhappiness exactly.

I loved my family.

I loved my work.

I believed in God with my whole heart, but there was this sense of incompleteness, like I was reading a book and some of the pages were missing, like I was looking at a puzzle with pieces that didn’t quite fit together.

I would pray and the feeling would go away for a while.

I would throw myself into my studies and my work and my family and I wouldn’t think about it.

But it would always come back, usually in the quiet hours of the night.

This vague sense that something was missing on that there was some truth I wasn’t seeing.

I had no idea that God was preparing me for the greatest shock of my life.

It started with a question from a student.

His name was Joshua.

We called him Josh and he was 17 years old, sharp and curious, always asking the kinds of questions that made me think.

We were studying the book of Isaiah together, working through the prophets as part of his preparation for university.

We had reached chapter 53, and Josh was reading aloud in Hebrew, translating as he went.

He got to verse 5 and stopped.

He read it again.

Then he looked up at me with a puzzled expression on his young face and asked me a question that would change everything.

Rabbi, he said, “This passage talks about someone who was pierced for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities, and it says the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds, we are healed”.

Who is this talking about?

Isn’t the Messiah supposed to come in glory and power?

Why would he suffer for our sins?

I gave him the standard answer, the answer I had been taught, the answer every Orthodox rabbi gives.

I explained that this passage was about the nation of Israel suffering in exile among the nations or it was about the righteous remnant of Israel or it was about the prophet himself.

The Messiah, I told him, would come as a conquering king, not as a suffering servant.

Josh nodded and we moved on.

But that night, alone in my study, I opened my Bible to Isaiah 53 and I read it again.

Continue reading….
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