We were supposed to die in that sanctuary. The exits were burning and the smoke was already lethal until rain fell from a clear sky. Brothers, sisters, I’m Pastor John Jones from Clarksdale, Mississippi. I’ve been serving the Lord for 30 years. I’ve led my church through storms and hardships, but nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for that night in 2019 when I had to save my wife and 87 brothers and sisters from death in a burning sanctuary. Editorial note: Names and ages are used with consent for the sake of testimony.

It was a Wednesday night service at our small Baptist church. At 8:50 p.m., five men surrounded the building and set it on fire with chemicals at all the exits simultaneously. Within 90 seconds, we were trapped. I looked through the flames and saw Dorothy May Henderson, 83 years old, one of our founding members, standing calmly near the altar. Smoke everywhere, intense heat, exits blocked, people screaming. Death was seconds away.

Here’s what the fire captain couldn’t explain in his official report. What the meteorologist, a retired scientist from our congregation, called meteorologically impossible. Don’t skip this part because what I’m about to tell you will change your perspective on what’s possible when God decides to act. This isn’t theory. 87 of us lived it.

Before that night, the Delta had already taught me to cling to Jesus. I was born in 1961 in Tunica County about 45 mi north of Clarksdale, the youngest of four to Samuel and Mavis, sharecroppers working land they’d never own. I watched my father leave at 4:00 a.m. and return with calloused, bleeding hands, and every Sunday he’d remind us, ‘The world may treat you like nothing, but God calls you his sons and daughters.’

I remember the summer of 1974. I was 13 years old, walking home from school when three white teenagers cornered me near the railroad tracks. They threw rocks, spit on me, called me names I won’t repeat here. I ran home crying, blood running down my face from where a rock had hit my forehead. My mother cleaned my wounds and whispered in my ear, ‘Baby, this world is full of hatred. But Jesus loves you more than they hate you. Don’t you ever forget that, brother.’ That moment changed everything for me. I realized that the only way I’d survive in this world was by holding on to Jesus Christ with everything I had.

2 weeks later, on July 14th, 1974, I walked down the aisle at First African Baptist Church during an altar call. I was baptized in the Sunflower River that same afternoon. The water was cold, the sun was blazing, and when I came up from under the water, I heard God’s voice for the first time. Not audibly, but in my spirit, clear as day. ‘John, I’m calling you to preach my word.’

I didn’t tell anyone for 3 years. I was scared. Who was I to preach? I was just a sharecropper’s son with a 10th grade education, but God kept pressing on my heart. In 1977, at age 16, I finally told my pastor, Reverend James Montgomery, about the call. He looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, ‘Boy, I’ve been waiting for you to say that. I’ve been praying for you since you were baptized.’

Reverend Montgomery became my spiritual father. He mentored me, taught me how to study scripture, how to pray, how to pastor. I spent 6 years learning under him while working odd jobs to support myself, cleaning houses, mowing lawns, fixing cars. In 1983 at age 22, I preached my first sermon at First African Baptist. The title was ‘God sees you.’ 37 people came forward that day to give their lives to Christ. That’s when I knew I wasn’t supposed to stay in Tunica. God was preparing me for something bigger.

In 1984, I enrolled in a Bible correspondence course through Memphis Theological Seminary. It took me 5 years to complete because I was working full-time, but in 1989, I received my certificate in pastoral ministry. I’ll never forget the day it arrived in the mail. My mother cried. My father, who rarely showed emotion, hugged me and said, ‘You’re going to do something great for the kingdom, son.’

But before I tell you about my ministry in Clarksdale, I need you to understand something. I’m not a perfect man. I’ve made mistakes. In 1990, I married my first wife, Sarah. We had two children together. But in 2015, she passed away from breast cancer after a 5-year battle. Those were the darkest years of my life, brother. I questioned God. I was angry. I felt abandoned. There were nights I’d sit in my study, Bible closed on my desk, and I’d ask God, ‘Why did you take her? Why did you let her suffer?’ I don’t have all the answers to those questions even today. But what I do know is this. God didn’t abandon me in that darkness. He held me. And he used that pain to prepare me for what was coming.

In 1989, at age 28, I moved to Clarksdale, Mississippi to serve as associate pastor at First African Baptist Church. The senior pastor, Reverend William Hayes, was 72 years old and looking for someone to eventually take over the ministry. The church had 95 members at the time, most of them over 60. It was a faithful congregation, but the community around us was struggling. Poverty, drugs, broken families, the Delta was suffering, and our church was trying to be a light in the darkness.

I spent eight years serving under Reverend Hayes. He taught me what it meant to shepherd a flock, to love people when they’re messy, to preach truth even when it’s uncomfortable. In 1997, when he retired, the congregation voted unanimously to make me senior pastor. I was 36 years old, and I felt the weight of that responsibility like never before.

Let me tell you what Clarksdale was like in the late ’90s. This is a small town of about 18,000 people in the heart of the Mississippi Delta. It’s the birthplace of the Blues, but it’s also a place marked by deep poverty and racial tension. Even decades after the civil rights movement, the divisions between black and white communities ran deep. Our church was located on the predominantly black side of town, and we rarely interacted with the white churches across the railroad tracks.

When I became senior pastor, I made a commitment before God. I would preach the full gospel. I would love every person who walked through our doors. And I would never ever compromise the truth for comfort. I started preaching verse by verse through the Bible, teaching our congregation how to study scripture for themselves. I initiated prayer meetings every Wednesday night where we’d gather and cry out to God for revival in our community.

Brother, sister, I’ve seen many things in 30 years of ministry. I’ve seen God heal marriages that were on the brink of divorce. I’ve seen addicts set free from drugs and alcohol. I’ve seen young men who were headed to prison turn their lives around and become leaders in the church. In 2003, we had a man named Robert Lewis. He’d been a gang member for 15 years. Walked into our church on a Sunday morning. He sat in the back row, arms folded, face hard as stone. But when I preached about the prodigal son that day, something broke in him. He came forward weeping, gave his life to Christ, and today he’s a deacon in our church.

By 2010, our congregation had grown to 150 members. We started a feeding program for the homeless, a tutoring program for at-risk youth, and a prison ministry that reached men incarcerated in the Mississippi State Penitentiary 30 mi north of us. We weren’t a wealthy church. Most of our members were working-class folks who gave sacrificially. But we had something money can’t buy. We had the presence of God.

In 2011, something happened that shook me to my core. My wife Sarah was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. For the next four years, I watched the woman I loved fight with everything she had. There were days she couldn’t get out of bed. Days when the chemo made her so sick she couldn’t eat. I’d sit beside her in the hospital, hold her hand, and pray. And I’ll be honest with you, there were times I wondered if God was listening.

Sarah passed away on March 17th, 2015. She was 52 years old. The church rallied around me and my children, but I felt like I was drowning. For 6 months, I went through the motions of ministry, but my heart wasn’t in it. I’d stand in the pulpit on Sundays and preach sermons I didn’t even believe myself. I was angry at God, confused, broken, but God wasn’t done with me.

In 2016, I met Ruth Williams at a pastor’s conference in Memphis. She was 53 years old, a widow whose husband had died in a car accident 9 years earlier. We talked for 3 hours that first night, and I felt something I hadn’t felt in years. Hope. We started dating long distance, and in 2017, we got married. Ruth moved to Clarksdale and became the worship leader at First African Baptist. Sister, I need you to understand. Ruth wasn’t just my wife. She was my partner in ministry, my prayer warrior, my best friend. She brought joy back into my life when I thought joy was gone forever.

By 2018, our church had grown to 180 members. We’d just completed a major renovation on the building, adding new pews, a new sound system, and a fresh coat of paint. We were seeing two to three new families visit every month and there was a buzz of excitement in the congregation. I thought we’d finally reached a place of stability. I thought the hard years were behind us. But God had other plans and what was coming would test my faith in ways I never imagined.

In February 2019, I started having dreams. Not normal dreams. Vivid, intense visions that woke me up at 3:00 a.m. in a cold sweat. In the dreams, I’d see our church surrounded by flames. I’d hear people screaming, and I’d hear God’s voice saying, ‘John, I’m preparing you for battle. Don’t be afraid.’ I didn’t tell Ruth about the dreams at first. I didn’t want to scare her, but after the fourth night in a row, I knew I couldn’t ignore them anymore.

On February 18th, I woke up at 3:47 a.m., went into my study, and fell to my knees. I prayed, ‘God, what are you trying to tell me? What’s coming?’ The answer came in my spirit, clear as anything I’ve ever heard. ‘There’s an attack coming against my people, but I will protect them. Trust me, brother.’ I’ve been a pastor long enough to know the difference between my own thoughts and God’s voice. This was God, and it terrified me.

I spent the next hour in prayer asking God for more clarity, more details. But all he said was, ‘Trust me. When the fire comes, lead them to worship, not to fear.’

When I finally told Ruth about the dreams, she grabbed my hands and looked me in the eyes. ‘John,’ she said, ‘I’ve been having the same dreams.’ We sat there in silence for a long time, just holding each other. She told me she’d been afraid to mention them because she thought I’d think she was being overly dramatic. But hearing that she’d seen the same visions confirmed what I already knew. Something was coming and we needed to prepare.

I called an emergency prayer meeting with our deacon board. Seven men gathered in my office on a Tuesday night. I told them about the dreams, about God’s warning. I could see the fear in their eyes, but I could also see faith. Marcus Webb, a 67-year-old retired meteorologist who’d been a member for 20 years, spoke up first. ‘Pastor,’ he said, ‘if God is warning us, then he’s also promising to protect us. We need to pray and fast.’

For the next 2 months, our church entered a season of intercession. Every Wednesday night, we’d gather for prayer that lasted 2 to three hours. We prayed for protection, for discernment, for courage. Ruth led us in worship, and there were nights when the presence of God was so strong that people would fall to their knees weeping.

But I’ll confess something, brother. Even with all that prayer, I was scared. I kept thinking, ‘What if I’m wrong? What if I’m leading these people into danger?’

The attack came on April 17th, 2019 at 8:47 p.m. It was a Wednesday night, and we were in the middle of our weekly prayer service. 87 people were in the sanctuary, men, women, elders, young adults, all of them 21 and older. Ruth was leading worship, her voice rising above the piano as we sang, ‘Great is thy faithfulness.’ I was standing at the pulpit, preparing to transition us into prayer time.

That’s when I smelled it. Gasoline? No, something stronger. Chemical. My heart dropped into my stomach. I looked toward the back of the church and saw smoke seeping under the doors. Then I heard it, a whooshing sound, like a jet engine as flames erupted outside every exit. Front door, side door, back door, all of them engulfed in fire within seconds. Someone screamed, then another person, then chaos.

People started running toward the exits, but the heat drove them back. I could see the flames through the windows now, 30 ft high, orange and red and hungry. The smell of burning wood mixed with that chemical odor. And I knew instantly what this was. This wasn’t an accident. This was an attack.

I shouted over the noise, ‘Everyone get to the front of the sanctuary, away from the doors.’ My voice was shaking. I looked for Ruth and my heart stopped. She was near the side exit, frozen in place, staring at the flames. A burning beam had fallen between us, cutting a path of fire across the aisle. I couldn’t get to her. She was 30 ft away, but it might as well have been a mile.

‘Ruth,’ I screamed. She looked at me and I saw terror in her eyes. ‘Ruth, move away from the door. Get to the front.’ She nodded, but she didn’t move. She was paralyzed by fear. And brother, in that moment, I faced a choice that no husband should ever have to make.

I could see the clock on the wall. 8:49 p.m. 2 minutes had passed since the fire started. The temperature in the sanctuary was rising fast. It must have been 110 to 115° already. Sweat was pouring down my face, and I could barely breathe. The smoke was thick, black, suffocating. People were coughing, crying, praying, screaming.

Dorothy May Henderson, 83 years old, was sitting calmly in the front pew, her hands folded in her lap, lips moving in silent prayer. She looked at me and said, ‘Pastor, God hasn’t brought us this far to let us burn.’ But I wasn’t so sure.

Every fiber of my being wanted to run to Ruth, to grab her and pull her away from that door. But I was the pastor. I had 86 other people looking to me for leadership, for hope, for a way out. If I panicked, they’d panic. If I ran, they’d run. And there was nowhere to run.

I looked at Ruth again. She was still frozen near the side exit, flames roaring behind her. And then I heard God’s voice, the same voice from my dreams. ‘John, lead them to worship, not to fear.’

Brother, that was the hardest decision I’ve ever made. I turned away from my wife, climbed onto the platform, and raised my hands. ‘Church,’ I shouted. My voice cracked, but I forced myself to keep going. ‘Church, listen to me. We’re not going to die tonight. God promised me he would protect us. But we need to pray. We need to worship right now.’

Some people were still crying, still panicking. But Marcus Webb stood up and shouted, ‘The pastor’s right. We serve a God who walked through fire with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. He can do it again.’ He started clapping his hands, and slowly others joined in.

I closed my eyes and began to pray. Not a polite prayer. Not a Sunday morning prayer. A desperate, gut-wrenching cry from the depths of my soul. ‘God, we need you. We can’t save ourselves. If you don’t show up right now, we’re going to die. Please, God, don’t abandon us. Don’t let these people die.’

And then I heard it. Ruth’s voice. She was singing through the smoke, through the heat, through the fear. She was singing, ‘It is well with my soul.’ Her voice was shaky at first, but then it grew stronger, and then 12 other people joined her. They started singing in tongues, a heavenly language I didn’t understand, but recognized as the Holy Spirit.

I opened my eyes and looked at Ruth. She was still standing near the side exit, hands raised, tears streaming down her face. And in that moment, I knew she’d made the same choice I had. She’d chosen to worship instead of panic. She’d chosen to trust God instead of trying to save herself.

The clock read 8:51 p.m. We’d been trapped for 4 minutes.

Let me describe what it felt like in those moments, brother, because I need you to understand the impossibility of our situation. The temperature had climbed to at least 120°. My shirt was soaked through with sweat. My throat burned from the smoke. Every breath felt like inhaling fire. People were on their knees. Some lying flat on the floor trying to find breathable air. Children. No, wait. There were no children that night, thank God. But the adults were suffering. I could see the fear in their eyes. The realization that this might be the end.

Marcus Webb, the meteorologist, was near me on the platform. He leaned close and whispered, ‘Pastor, we’ve got maybe two more minutes before the smoke becomes lethal. Carbon monoxide levels are already critical.’ His voice was calm, scientific, but I could hear the tremor underneath. Even a man of science was facing the limit of human knowledge.

I looked up at the ceiling. The wooden beams were starting to crack, smoke billowing through the gaps. If those beams gave way, the roof would collapse and we’d all be crushed or burned alive. The windows on the west side had shattered from the heat, feeding oxygen to the fire and making it rage even hotter. I could see flames licking at the door frames, advancing slowly but steadily toward us.

This is it, I thought. This is how I die. This is how we all die. And for a split second, brother, I felt anger. Raw hot anger at God. Why would you warn me about this if you weren’t going to save us? Why would you give me dreams? Prepare me only to let us burn.

But then I remembered the last thing God had said in my dreams. ‘When the fire comes, lead them to worship.’ Not if the fire comes. when. God knew this was coming and he’d promised to protect us. I opened my mouth and started singing with Ruth. My voice was cracking, barely audible over the roar of the flames. But I sang anyway. ‘When peace like a river attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll…’

The clock on the wall read 8:53 p.m. 6 minutes.

At 8:54 p.m., I felt something change in the atmosphere. It wasn’t physical at first. It was spiritual, a warmth that wasn’t the fire, a presence that wasn’t human. The hair on my arms stood up, and I felt a tingling sensation run down my spine. Ruth felt it, too. I could see her eyes widen, her hands rise higher.

And then Dorothy May Henderson stood up. This 83-year-old woman, who could barely walk without a cane, stood up in the front pew and shouted at the top of her lungs, ‘I see angels. I see angels at the doors.’ Her voice was strong, clear, filled with authority.

Brother, I’ll admit. My first thought was that the smoke had gotten to her, that she was hallucinating. But then I looked where she was pointing and I saw something. I can’t fully explain it even now. There was a shimmer in the air near the front exit like heat waves, but it wasn’t heat. It was light. Faint at first, then growing brighter.

Marcus Webb grabbed my arm. ‘Pastor, look outside.’ I turned toward the shattered west windows. The sky outside was completely clear, not a cloud. The moon was bright, stars visible. But as I watched, the sky directly above our church began to darken. Not with clouds, with something else. Something that looked like a swirling, churning mass of… I don’t know how to describe it. It was like the air itself was coming alive.

And then I heard the thunder, not distant rumbling, a crack so loud it shook the building, rattling the remaining windows in their frames. But there was no lightning, no flash, just thunder.

‘That’s impossible,’ Marcus whispered. ‘You can’t have thunder without lightning. It’s meteorologically impossible.’

The clock read 8:54 p.m. and 40 seconds. 7 minutes since the fire started. We had maybe 60 seconds before the smoke killed us all. But God had other plans.

At 8:55 p.m., the first raindrop hit the roof. I heard it. A single heavy thud like someone dropping a rock. Then another. Then another. And then the sky opened up.

Brother, sister, I need you to understand. This wasn’t rain. This was a deluge, a torrent. A wall of water that sounded like a freight train hitting the building. The sound was deafening. A thousand drums. 10,000 drums pounding on the metal roof. The fire outside hissed and spat as water hit it. Steam rose in massive clouds.

And through the broken windows, I could see something that made my knees buckle. The rain was falling only on our church. Only on our building and the parking lot around it. 20 ft away, the street was dry. The houses across the street were dry. But over us, it was like someone had turned on a celestial fire hose.

Ruth screamed, not in fear, but in joy. ‘John, look at the altar.’ I turned, and what I saw next, brother… I’ve seen many things in 30 years of ministry, but nothing prepared me for this.

A light had appeared above the altar. Not from a fixture. All the lights had blown out minutes ago. This light was golden, almost white, pulsing with a rhythm that reminded me of a heartbeat. It started small, maybe the size of a basketball, hovering 5 ft above the communion table, and then it expanded. It grew outward in a perfect circle, 10 ft in diameter, then 20 ft, then 30 ft, until it enveloped the entire front half of the sanctuary.

Brother, how do I describe what happened when that light touched us? The heat vanished instantly. One second I was suffocating in 120° air and the next I felt cool. Not cold, cool, like stepping into an air-conditioned room on a summer day. The smoke that had been choking us was pushed back, repelled by the light, like oil and water refusing to mix. Inside the light, the air was clean, breathable, sweet, and the sound. Oh, the sound. Outside the light, I could still hear the roar of the fire, the pounding of the rain, the crackle of burning wood. But inside the light, there was silence. Perfect sacred silence. It was like being in the eye of a hurricane. Chaos all around, but peace at the center.

People started falling to their knees. Some were crying. Some were laughing. Some just stood there with their hands raised, mouths open in awe. Dorothy May Henderson was dancing. This 83-year-old woman was dancing like a teenager, spinning in circles, her cane forgotten on the pew.

Ruth was 30 ft away, still near the side exit, but I could see her clearly now. The light had reached her, too. She looked at me, and I’ve never seen such joy on her face. She mouthed the words, ‘I love you.’ and I mouthed back, ‘I love you, too.’

Marcus Webb, the scientist, the man who’d spent 40 years studying weather patterns and atmospheric conditions, dropped to his knees beside me. ‘This isn’t possible,’ he kept saying. ‘This isn’t possible.’ Tears were streaming down his face. ‘The sky was clear. There were no clouds. Rain doesn’t fall from a clear sky. And that light, that light has no source. It’s not reflecting off anything. It’s just… existing.’

I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Brother,’ I said, ‘you’re right. It’s not possible. Not by human standards, but we’re not dealing with human power right now. We’re dealing with God.’

The rain continued for 7 minutes. I watched the clock counted every second. 7 minutes of impossible torrential rain falling from a cloudless sky, dousing flames that had been burning at roughly 1,200 degrees. The fire outside didn’t slowly die. It was smothered, drowned, extinguished with a violence that matched the violence with which it had started.

And the whole time that light protected us. Not a single person suffered a burn. Not a single person passed out from smoke inhalation. The doctors who examined us later found it medically impossible. We should have had carbon monoxide poisoning, lung damage at minimum, but we didn’t. We were fine. Better than fine.

At 9:02 p.m., the rain stopped abruptly, like someone had turned off a faucet. The light began to fade, shrinking back toward the altar, growing smaller and smaller until it winked out. And then there was silence. Real silence this time. No rain, no fire, no thunder. Just the sound of 87 people breathing.

I looked around. The sanctuary was ruined. The walls were charred black. The pews were scorched. The carpet was soaked and stained. But we were alive. All 87 of us were alive.

Ruth ran to me then, crossing the distance that had separated us for those eternal 9 minutes. She threw her arms around me and sobbed into my chest. ‘We’re alive,’ she kept saying. ‘We’re alive. God saved us. He saved us.’ I held her and wept. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. All I could do was feel. Feel the weight of what had just happened. Feel the magnitude of God’s intervention.

Brother, sister, I’m telling you the truth. We should have died. Every single one of us should have died. But God…

The fire trucks arrived at 9:03 p.m. 16 minutes after the attack started. Captain Gerald Foster, a 52-year-old veteran firefighter, was the first through the door. He walked into the sanctuary with his crew, axes, and hoses ready, expecting to find bodies. Instead, he found 87 people standing in the ruins singing ‘Amazing Grace.’

He stopped in his tracks. I watched his face go through a series of emotions, confusion, shock, disbelief. He looked at me and said, ‘Pastor, how long were you trapped?’ I told him 16 minutes. He shook his head. ‘That’s not possible. With chemical accelerants and blocked exits, you had maybe four minutes before smoke inhalation became lethal. How did you survive?’

I looked at Ruth, at Dorothy May, at Marcus, at all 87 faces in that ruined sanctuary, and I smiled. ‘Captain,’ I said, ‘we didn’t survive. God saved us. There’s a difference.’

He started to respond, but then he looked up. I followed his gaze. The ceiling beams were cracked, twisted, blackened, but they hadn’t fallen. Structurally, they should have collapsed, but they hadn’t. He walked over to the altar where the communion table still stood. The white cloth was slightly singed, but the wooden Bible that had been sitting on it was completely untouched. Not a single page burned, not a single word obscured.

Captain Foster picked up the Bible, opened it, and read the verse it had been opened to. Isaiah 43:2. ‘When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. And when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned. The flames will not set you ablaze.’

Brother, I watched this man, this tough, secular firefighter, start to cry. He looked at me and said, ‘I can’t explain this, pastor. I’ve been fighting fires for 30 years, and I can’t explain this. This should be a tomb, but it’s not.’

Within 20 minutes, the sanctuary was filled with police, firefighters, paramedics, and investigators. They wanted to take everyone to the hospital for evaluation, but nobody wanted to leave. People were hugging, crying, praying, singing. It was chaos and celebration all mixed together.

Tommy Chen, a 28-year-old fisherman who’d been standing on the riverbank by the Sunflower River about 200 yd away, pushed through the crowd carrying a video camera. He was out of breath, his eyes wild. ‘Pastor,’ he said, ‘I filmed it. I filmed the whole thing.’ He pulled out his camera and showed me the screen, and brother… What I saw confirmed what I already knew, but gave me chills anyway.

The video showed our church from his angle near the river. At 8:47 p.m., you could see smoke rising, flames erupting. At 8:54 p.m., the sky above the church, which had been completely clear just seconds before, suddenly darkened. Then, at 8:55 p.m., rain began falling. But here’s what made my breath catch. The rain was falling only on the church. You could see the boundary line, sharp as a knife. Rain on one side, dry ground on the other. And through the broken windows, you could see a golden light glowing inside the sanctuary.

‘I’m not a Christian,’ Tommy said, his voice shaking. ‘I’ve never believed in God, but I can’t explain this. I’ve watched this footage 50 times already. How do you explain rain falling from a clear sky? How do you explain light with no source? How?’

I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘Tommy, you can’t explain it with science. You can only explain it with faith. And right now, brother, you’re holding evidence of God in your hands.’

The news spread like wildfire. Ironic, I know. Within 2 hours, people from all over Clarksdale were showing up at the church. By midnight, there were over 200 people gathered in the parking lot, singing, praying, crying. Some were members of our congregation calling family members. Some were neighbors who’d heard the sirens. Some were people from other churches who’d gotten text messages and couldn’t stay away.

Dorothy May Henderson, still full of energy despite being 83 years old, was telling anyone who would listen about the angels she’d seen. ‘They were standing at the doors,’ she said. ‘Tall as the ceiling, bright as the sun. They weren’t going to let that fire touch us. No, sir.’ People gathered around her asking questions, and she answered everyone with the same refrain. ‘God is faithful. He promised he would protect us, and he did.’

Marcus Webb, the meteorologist, had pulled out his phone and was showing people the weather data. ‘Look,’ he said, pointing at the screen. ‘This is the radar image from 8:54 p.m. No clouds, no precipitation, nothing. And yet 7 minutes later, over 3 in of rain had fallen on this exact location. 3 in in 7 minutes. That’s impossible. The atmospheric conditions weren’t even close to what you’d need for rainfall.’

But the most powerful testimony came from an unexpected source. Brandon Cole, the 32-year-old man who’d led the attack, had been arrested two blocks away. Police found him sitting on the curb, hands on his head, staring at the sky. When they asked him why he’d done it, he said, ‘I wanted to kill them. I wanted to send a message, but I saw… I saw something I can’t explain.’ The arresting officer said Brandon was in shock, muttering about the rain and the light over and over.

In the days that followed, our story made national news. CNN, Fox News, local stations. Everyone wanted to interview me, to see the church, to understand what had happened. But I turned most of them down. I wasn’t interested in fame or attention. I was interested in giving God glory.

However, there was one interview I did agree to with Dr. Sarah Chen, a meteorologist from the University of Mississippi. No relation to Tommy. She came to Clarksdale 3 days after the fire, bringing instruments, cameras, and a team of graduate students. She interviewed Marcus Webb for 2 hours, reviewed Tommy Chen’s video frame by frame, and studied the weather data from that night.

At the end of her investigation, she held a press conference. I’ll never forget what she said. ‘As a scientist, I’m trained to find natural explanations for natural phenomena, but I cannot find a natural explanation for what happened at First African Baptist Church on April 17th, 2019. The atmospheric conditions were wrong. The timing was wrong. The localization was wrong. What I can tell you is this. 87 people survived an unsurvivable situation. And I can’t explain why.’

Brother, sister, when a scientist, someone whose entire career is built on finding rational explanations, admits she can’t explain something, that’s when you know God showed up.

3 days after the fire, I went to visit Brandon Cole in jail. Ruth tried to stop me. ‘John,’ she said, ‘he tried to kill us. Why would you visit him?’ I looked at my wife and said, ‘Because Jesus visited me when I was his enemy. How can I do any less?’

The guard led me to a small room with a table and two chairs. Brandon was brought in wearing an orange jumpsuit, handcuffed. He was a big man, 6’2, probably 220 lb, with tattoos covering his arms and neck. Some of those tattoos were symbols I recognized from white supremacist groups. He sat down across from me, refused to make eye contact.

‘Brandon,’ I said softly. He didn’t respond. I waited. Finally, he looked up, and what I saw in his eyes wasn’t hatred. It was fear. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I tried to kill you. I tried to kill your wife. I tried to kill everyone in that church. Why would you come here?’

I leaned forward. ‘Because I forgive you.’ His eyes went wide. ‘You what?’ ‘I forgive you, Brandon. What you did was evil. It was wrong. But Jesus died for you just like he died for me. And if he can forgive me, then I can forgive you.’

He started to cry. This big tattooed man who’d spent his life cultivating hatred began to sob like a child. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘I saw it. I saw the rain. I saw the light. It was… chasing me. Everywhere I ran, I could see it. And I knew… I knew I’d just tried to kill people who were protected by God himself.’

Brother, that was the first of many visits. Over the next 6 months, I went to see Brandon every single week. Sometimes he’d talk. Sometimes he’d just sit there in silence. But slowly, week by week, I watched the hardness in his heart begin to crack. I brought him a Bible and he started reading. I answered his questions about Jesus, about grace, about redemption.

On December 3rd, 2019, 8 months after the fire, Brandon Cole gave his life to Christ. We were sitting in that same visiting room, and he’d just finished reading Romans 5:8. ‘But God demonstrates his own love for us in this. While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.’ He looked up at me with tears in his eyes. ‘Pastor John,’ he said, ‘I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t deserve love, but… but I want it. I want what you have. I want to know this Jesus who saved you from the fire I started.’

Right there in that cold, sterile visiting room in the county jail, I led Brandon Cole in the sinner’s prayer. When he said, ‘Amen,’ something broke in that room. The presence of God was so strong that even the guard standing at the door started to cry. Today, Brandon is out of prison after serving 4 years. He works as a counselor in our church’s reconciliation ministry. He stands on stage with me at events across the South telling his story of hatred transformed into love. And every time he speaks, people give their lives to Christ. The man who once wanted to destroy the church is now one of its most powerful evangelists.

Tommy Chen, the fisherman who filmed the miracle, had his own journey. 3 days after the fire, he showed up at my office. He was pacing, agitated, clearly struggling with something. ‘Pastor,’ he said, ‘I haven’t slept in 3 days. I keep watching that video. I keep trying to find an explanation, but I can’t. How do you live with something you can’t explain?’

I smiled. ‘Tommy, you’re asking the wrong question. The question isn’t, “How do I explain this?” The question is, “What am I going to do about what I’ve seen?”‘ He stopped pacing. ‘What do you mean?’ I mean, I said, ‘you’ve seen evidence of God with your own eyes. You’ve filmed it. You’ve studied it. So now the question is, are you going to keep looking for an explanation, or are you going to surrender to the God who showed up, brother?’ That young man fell to his knees right there in my office and gave his life to Christ. He was 28 years old and he’d been an atheist his whole life. But one 7-minute miracle changed everything.

Tommy still has that video. He’s shown it to over 8,000 people in person at evangelistic events, youth camps, and apologetics conferences. Scientists from three different universities have analyzed it, and none of them can explain what they’re seeing. The video has been viewed over 2 million times online, and Tommy has personally led hundreds of people to Christ by showing them undeniable evidence of God’s intervention.

Let me fast forward to today, 5 years after the fire. First African Baptist Church has grown from 180 members to 520 members. We’ve planted three daughter churches in nearby towns, Tunica, Mound Bayou, and Helena, Arkansas. Our feeding program now serves 200 meals every week. Our prison ministry has led 89 inmates to Christ in the past 5 years.

But more than that, our story has sparked a movement of racial reconciliation in the Mississippi Delta. Eight churches in Mississippi, Louisiana, and Alabama have started reconciliation programs inspired by the story of me forgiving Brandon. White churches and black churches that never interacted before are now holding joint services, joint prayer meetings, joint community outreach events.

Dorothy May Henderson, now 88 years old, has led 47 people to Christ through personal evangelism. She goes to hospitals, nursing homes, grocery stores, anywhere she can find someone to talk to, and she tells them about the night God sent rain from a clear sky. People can’t help but listen. She’s become a legend in Clarksdale.

Ruth and I have been invited to share our testimony at 73 churches across the South. Every time we speak, we bring Dorothy, Marcus, Tommy, and Brandon with us. We stand on stage together, a pastor, his wife, an elderly saint, a scientist, a former atheist, and a former white supremacist. And we tell the world what God did. And every time people come forward to accept Christ.

The Clarksdale Press Register did a four-page investigative article about the fire. It’s the most read article in the newspaper’s history. The headline read, ‘Miracle or mystery? 87 Survive Unsurvivable Fire.’ But brother, there’s no mystery. It was a miracle, pure and simple.

But you know what? In all of this, in all the testimony, all the growth, all the salvations, there’s one moment that stands out to me more than any other. 3 months after the fire, Ruth and I were lying in bed one night and she said, ‘John, can I tell you something?’ ‘Of course,’ I said. She was quiet for a long moment. And then she said, ‘That night when the fire started, when that beam fell between us and I couldn’t get to you, I thought God had abandoned me. I thought he was going to let you die trying to save me. Or he was going to let me die while you watched.’ Tears started streaming down her face. ‘I was so scared, not just of the fire, but of losing you. I lost my first husband in a car accident. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you, too. And for those 2 minutes before the rain started, I was angry at God. I was so angry.’

‘What changed?’ I asked. She smiled through her tears. ‘I heard you praying. I heard you leading the church in worship and I realized you’d made the same choice I had to make. You could have tried to save me physically, but instead you chose to lead us spiritually. And in that moment, I understood something. God wasn’t asking us to save ourselves. He was asking us to trust him. So I did. I lifted my hands and worshiped even though I was terrified. And that’s when the rain started.’

Brother, sister, I’ve preached a thousand sermons in 30 years of ministry. But that moment, lying in bed with my wife, hearing her talk about the choice she made in the fire, taught me more about faith than any theology book ever could.

Now, I need to be honest with you about something. In the 5 years since the fire, I’ve been asked the same question over and over. ‘Pastor John, why did God save you? Why did he save those 87 people? What makes you special?’ And here’s the truth, brother. I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers. I’ve lost sleep thinking about the people who’ve died in fires just like ours. I’ve wept for the families who’ve prayed for miracles and didn’t receive them. I’ve wrestled with God asking, ‘Why us? Why not them?’ I don’t understand God’s ways. I don’t understand why he chooses to intervene in some situations and not others. I don’t understand why some prayers are answered with thunder and rain and others are answered with silence.

But here’s what I do know. God is sovereign. God is good and God is faithful. Even when I don’t understand, I trust him. The second lesson I learned is this. Miracles aren’t about making life easier. They’re about bringing glory to God and advancing his kingdom. God didn’t save us so we could go back to comfortable Christianity. He saved us so we could be witnesses of his power. He saved us so we could tell the world, ‘Look what the Lord has done.’

The third lesson is about worship. Brother, sister, listen to me. When the fire comes, and it will come in some form, your first response shouldn’t be to look for an exit. Your first response should be to look up. Worship isn’t something you do when everything is going well. Worship is a weapon you use when hell itself is trying to consume you.

So, let me pray with you. Wherever you are right now, I want you to close your eyes with me. Maybe you’re facing a fire of your own. Not a literal fire, but a trial, a crisis, something that feels insurmountable. Maybe it’s financial. Maybe it’s relational. Maybe it’s health related. Maybe you’re dealing with addiction, depression, fear, or doubt. I want you to know the same God who sent rain from a clear sky can send help into your situation.

Father, I pray for everyone listening to this testimony right now. I pray that you would meet them in their crisis. Lord, some of them feel trapped just like we felt trapped in that burning church. They don’t see a way out. But God, I’m asking you to open their eyes. Let them see that you are with them in the fire. You haven’t abandoned them. You’re right there waiting for them to lift their hands in worship instead of panic. For those who don’t know you, Lord, I pray that this testimony would be the evidence they need. Like Tommy Chen, maybe they’ve been looking for proof that you’re real. Well, here it is. Rain from a clear sky, light with no source. 87 survivors who should be dead. God, draw them to yourself. Let them understand that you’re not a distant deity. You’re a father who intervenes in the lives of his children. For those who are carrying unforgiveness like Brandon Cole once did, I pray that you would soften their hearts. Help them to see that holding on to hatred is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die. Set them free. Lord, show them that forgiveness isn’t weakness, it’s power. In the name of Jesus Christ, who died for us, who rose for us, and who’s coming back for us, I pray all these things. Amen. And amen.

Now, brother, sister, I want you to do something for me. If this testimony strengthened your faith, pick up the phone tonight and call someone who needs hope. Tell them what the Lord has done. Write a short letter to a friend or a family member who’s walking through a hard season. Invite a neighbor to church this Sunday and share this story face to face. If you need prayer, come see us after service or call our prayer line. Tell us where you’re listening from and what fire you’re walking through. We will pray for you by name this week.

If you’ve never given your life to Christ, I invite you to do that now. The same Jesus who saved us from a physical fire wants to save you from spiritual death. Believe in him, confess your sins, and ask him to be Lord of your life. Your life will never be the same. And if you’re already a believer, but your faith has grown cold, let this be your wakeup call. God hasn’t changed. He’s still powerful. He’s still faithful. He’s still worth worshiping even when the fire is burning and the exits are blocked.

May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God the Father, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all now and forever. Amen.