My name is Pastor David Coleman.

I’m 42 years old and on November 2nd, 2020, I should have died in a public square in Riyad, Saudi Arabia.

I had been serving as an underground pastor for 3 years when the impossible happened.

The executioner’s blade was inches from my neck when Jesus intervened in a way that shook an entire nation.

What I’m about to share with you defies everything the world says is possible.

But I lived it with my own eyes.

It was a Tuesday morning in March 2017 when God turned my comfortable life upside down.

I was sitting in my office at Grace Community Church in Lukak, Texas, preparing Sunday’s sermon when the vision came.

I wasn’t praying or seeking some dramatic calling.

I was just reading through Matthew 28.

the great commission when suddenly I saw it clearly.

Crowded streets, desert landscapes, and faces hungry for the gospel in a place where Jesus’ name could cost you everything.

Saudi Arabia.

The moment that name formed in my mind, I knew my life would never be the same.

I’d been pastoring our small congregation of 200 for 8 years.

Sarah and I had built a beautiful life there with our three children.

Emma was 15, Joshua 12 and little Grace only seven.

We had a mortgage, soccer practices and all the blessed normaly of American Christianity.

But God was asking me to leave all of that behind for the most dangerous mission field on earth.

Have you ever felt God calling you somewhere that terrified you? I’m talking about the kind of calling that makes your stomach drop and your handshake.

That’s exactly what happened to me that morning.

I spent the next 6 months wrestling with God, hoping I’d misheard him.

I researched everything about Saudi Arabia’s brutal persecution of Christians.

Death sentences for evangelism, public beheadings for apostasy, underground believers disappearing forever into government detention centers.

The hardest conversation of my life came that September evening when I finally told Sarah about the calling.

I remember every detail of that moment.

She was folding laundry in our bedroom when I walked in and sat on the edge of our bed.

My hands were trembling as I reached for hers.

“Sarah, I need to tell you something that’s going to sound impossible,” I began.

“God is calling me to Saudi Arabia to plant underground churches.

” The basket of clothes fell from her hands.

For a long moment, she just stared at me with tears forming in her eyes.

Then she said the words that still echo in my heart.

David, promise me you’ll come home.

Promise me our children won’t lose their father.

I wanted to promise her that, but we both knew I couldn’t.

Ministry in Saudi Arabia meant there was a very real possibility I would never return.

We spent the next three months in prayer, fasting, and seeking counsel from trusted mentors.

Every wise voice told us not to go.

Every logical argument pointed to staying, but God’s calling only grew stronger.

The children took the news differently.

Emma, our eldest, understood the gravity and spent weeks barely speaking to me.

Joshua threw himself into researching Saudi Arabia, trying to understand why God would send his dad there.

Little Grace just kept asking when daddy would be back, not fully grasping that I might not come back at all.

By early 2018, all the pieces fell into place.

I would enter Saudi Arabia under the cover of humanitarian work with an international relief organization.

My official job would be coordinating food distribution programs, but my real mission would be far more dangerous.

I’d already made contact through encrypted channels with a small network of underground Christians who desperately needed pastoral leadership.

The night before I left, Sarah and I sat up until dawn, just holding each other.

“Promise me you’ll come home,” she whispered one final time.

As we watched the sunrise through our bedroom window, I kissed her forehead and said, “I promise I’ll do everything I can to return to you.

” It was the most honest answer I could give.

Arriving in Riyad in February 2018 was like stepping into a different world entirely.

The spiritual oppression hit me the moment I walked off the plane.

I’m not talking about cultural differences or homesickness.

I mean, a tangible heavy darkness that seemed to press down on everything.

The call to prayer echoing five times daily across the city felt like spiritual warfare playing out in the open air.

My first weeks were consumed with establishing my humanitarian work credentials while carefully reaching out to the underground network.

I lived in a modest apartment in a middle-ass neighborhood, trying to blend in while secretly learning Arabic phrases that would help me minister to closet Christians and seeking Muslims.

The first underground meeting I attended was in a basement storage room beneath a medical clinic.

Six believers huddled together, sharing one worn Arabic Bible and whispering prayers so softly I could barely hear them.

These weren’t new converts playing with faith.

These were people who had already lost family members, jobs, and freedom for following Jesus.

Their courage humbled me completely.

Abdul, a former imam who had converted three years earlier, became my closest partner in ministry.

Fatima, a young mother who’d found Christ through online Bible studies, risked everything to host meetings in her home.

and Ahmed, barely 19, had been disowned by his family for his faith, but radiated joy I’d never seen before.

Within months, our secret fellowship began growing.

We started with those six believers and by late 2019 had nearly 40 people attending rotating house church meetings across the city.

I baptized new converts in apartment bathtubs, taught Bible studies in hidden rooms, and watched the gospel transform lives in ways that reminded me why ministry is worth any sacrifice.

But ask yourself this question, can light remain hidden in such complete darkness forever? We were about to discover the answer in the most terrifying way possible.

By late 2019, the walls were closing in.

Though I was too focused on ministry to see the signs clearly.

Looking back, I realized the surveillance had been increasing for months.

The same black sedan appeared outside my apartment building three times a week.

Different men in traditional dress lingered too long at the cafe where I often worked on my laptop.

Phone calls would click and echo strangely, suggesting wire taps.

The religious police, the Mutawin, had begun questioning my neighbors about my daily routines.

Mrs.

Alzara, the elderly woman who lived across the hall, started avoiding eye contact when we passed in the corridor.

Ahmad, the building security guard who used to greet me warmly, suddenly became cold and formal.

I should have recognized these as warning signs, but I was so consumed with the growing underground church that I convinced myself I was being paranoid.

Our fellowship had grown to 43 believers by early 2020, and we were meeting in seven different locations throughout Riad.

Every Tuesday we gathered for Bible study.

Thursdays were for prayer meetings.

Sundays we held what we called invisible church, worshiping in whispered songs and silent communion in someone’s living room.

The joy of watching former Muslims discover the love of Christ had made me reckless with security protocols.

That’s when Omar entered our lives.

He appeared at one of our Thursday prayer meetings in March 2020 brought by Fatima who said he was her cousin seeking truth about Jesus.

Omar was 28 well educated and asked thoughtful questions about scripture.

He claimed to have been studying Christianity online for months and spoke passionately about wanting to leave Islam.

Everything about his conversion seemed genuine.

Over the next six months, Omar became one of our most active members.

He volunteered to help with logistics, suggested new meeting locations, and even brought two friends who he said were interested in the gospel.

I began mentoring him personally, spending hours teaching him deeper theological concepts.

We prayed together.

I shared my own struggles with faith and ministry.

I trusted him with details about our network that I should have kept confidential.

Have you ever been betrayed by someone you loved and trusted? I’m talking about the kind of betrayal that doesn’t just hurt your feelings, but threatens everything you’ve built and everyone you care about.

That’s the devastation I was about to experience.

The first sign something was wrong came in early October 2020.

Three of our regular members stopped attending meetings without explanation.

When I tried to contact them, their phone numbers had been disconnected.

Fatima mentioned that her neighbors had been asking strange questions about visitors to her apartment.

Abdul reported seeing suspicious men watching his workplace.

The paranoia that had been building for months finally consumed me completely.

I started changing my routes to meetings, using different cars, and implementing counter surveillance techniques I’d learned from missionary training.

But by then it was already too late.

Every security measure I took, Omar observed and reported.

On October 10th, 5 days before my arrest, I made a decision that haunts me to this day.

During our regular Tuesday Bible study, I asked Omar to help coordinate our upcoming baptism service.

We had seven new converts ready to publicly declare their faith, and I needed someone I trusted to scout the location and manage logistics.

I gave him the address, the time, and the names of everyone who would be attending.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Something deep in my spirit was screaming that danger was imminent.

I spent hours on my knees praying for protection over our fellowship.

I even considered cancelling the baptism service, but I dismissed the feeling as ministry anxiety.

How could I deny these new believers their moment of obedience to Christ because of my paranoid fears? The raid came at dawn on October 15th, 2020.

I was sleeping on the couch in Fatima’s apartment after our late night Bible study when the sound of splintering wood jolted me awake.

Heavy boots thundered through the doorway as a dozen men in military gear poured into the living room.

Automatic weapons drawn and shouting commands in Arabic.

The terror in that moment was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.

Fatima screamed from the bedroom where she had been sleeping with her infant daughter.

Abdul who had spent the night on the floor beside me raised his hands and began praying loudly in Arabic.

Young Ahmed barely 20 years old started crying as three soldiers forced him to his knees.

12 members of our fellowship were present that night.

12 people who had risked everything to follow Jesus.

As I watched each of them being dragged away in plastic restraints, I realized this wasn’t a random raid.

The authorities knew exactly where we were, exactly how many of us would be there, and exactly what evidence they would find.

That’s when I saw Omar standing in the doorway behind the soldiers, speaking quietly with a man in an expensive suit who was clearly in charge.

Omar’s eyes met mine for just a moment.

And in that instant, I understood everything.

The thoughtful questions, the eager volunteering, the late night conversations where I’d shared my heart and our ministry strategies.

It had all been a performance.

The man I’d baptized in Fatima’s bathtub just 3 months earlier had sold us all for money.

As the soldiers forced a black hood over my head and zip tied my wrists behind my back, my last sight was my Arabic Bible being torn apart and thrown into a metal trash can.

30 years of ministry, 2 and 1/2 years of underground church planting, and 43 precious lives had just been destroyed by someone I’d loved like a son.

Ask yourself this question.

How do you forgive someone whose betrayal doesn’t just wound your heart, but potentially cost lives? I was about to spend 18 days in hell trying to find that answer.

The underground detention facility where they took me existed in a place beyond hope.

Located somewhere beneath the streets of Riyad, it was a maze of concrete corridors and steel doors that seemed designed to erase human dignity completely.

My cell measured 6 ft by 8 ft with walls that wept condensation and a single fluorescent bulb that flickered constantly overhead.

There were no windows, no natural light, and no way to tell if it was day or night in the world above.

For the first 3 days, they left me completely alone.

The isolation was more brutal than any physical torture could have been.

I sat on a thin mattress that rire of previous prisoners sweat and fear, surrounded by graffiti scratched into the walls by men who had faced death before me.

Some messages were in Arabic, some in English, and a few in languages I couldn’t identify, but they all carried the same desperate tone.

Final prayers, names of loved ones, and please for God’s mercy.

The food when it came was barely edible.

Moldy bread, rice with insects crawling through it, and water that tasted like rust and carried the smell of sewage.

I forced myself to eat anyway, knowing I would need strength for whatever was coming.

But ask yourself this question.

How do you maintain hope when everything around you is designed to crush your spirit? On the fourth day, the interrogations began.

Captain Hassan al-Muteri was the man assigned to break me.

He was methodical, intelligent, and completely convinced that Christianity was a western infection that needed to be purged from Saudi soil.

Every morning at exactly 8:00 a.

m.

, two guards would drag me from my cell to a windowless room where Captain Al Muteri waited with his files, his questions, and his instruments of persuasion.

The psychological warfare started before any physical torture.

He knew everything about my life, my children’s names, Sarah’s daily routines, the layout of our home in Texas.

He would describe in vivid detail what would happen to my family if I didn’t cooperate.

He showed me photographs of other executed Christians, their severed heads displayed like trophies.

He made me watch grainy video footage of public beheadings while asking if I thought Jesus was worth dying for.

Your Jesus cannot save you here, Pastor Coleman.

He would say every session, his voice calm and almost paternal.

But I can save you.

Denounce your faith.

Convert to Islam and you will walk free.

Your family will never have to know how you died in this place.

When psychological pressure failed to break me, they escalated to physical torture.

The beatings came first.

Three men would hold me while a fourth used his fists, feet, and wooden batons to pummel every inch of my body.

They were careful to avoid permanent damage that might interfere with a public execution, but the pain was excruciating.

My ribs cracked, my face swelled beyond recognition, and breathing became an agonizing effort that reminded me with every breath how helpless I was.

But the electric shocks were worse than the beatings.

They would strap me to a metal chair and attach wires to sensitive parts of my body.

The current would surge through me while Captain Almutteri calmly repeated his questions.

Who are the other pastors in our country? Give us names and addresses.

Where do the Bibles come from? How many have you converted? During one particularly brutal session, they forced me to hold a picture of Jesus while administering the shocks.

Denounce him, Al-Mutari commanded, “Say that Muhammad is the final prophet and Jesus was just a man.

” The electricity coursed through my body as I gripped that picture tighter and whispered, “Jesus is Lord.

” Have you ever questioned if God has abandoned you? I’m ashamed to admit that during my darkest moments in that place, I wondered if my suffering had any purpose.

On the 10th day, after a session that left me barely conscious, I found myself screaming at the ceiling of my cell.

God, where are you? Why won’t you help me? The silence that followed was more terrifying than any torture they had inflicted.

But that’s when the miracles began.

That same night, as I lay broken and bleeding on my mattress, I heard someone singing hymns in the cell next to mine.

It was soft, barely audible, but unmistakably Amazing Grace, sung in heavily accented English.

I pressed my ear to the wall and sang along as quietly as I could.

For the first time in 10 days, I wasn’t alone.

His name was Marcus, a Filipino missionary who had been arrested six months earlier.

Through whispered conversations against the wall, he became my lifeline.

He had memorized entire books of the Bible during his imprisonment and would recite verses to encourage me during the worst moments.

When I told him about my doubts, he shared something that changed everything.

Brother David, he whispered one night, God hasn’t abandoned us.

He’s preparing us for something greater than we can imagine.

This suffering has a purpose we can’t see yet.

The next morning, something supernatural happened during my interrogation.

As Captain Al-Muteri prepared the electric shock equipment, I felt a piece wash over me that defied every circumstance.

It wasn’t my strength or my faith that sustained me.

It was God’s presence filling that torture chamber in a way that made the pain irrelevant.

I began to recite scripture aloud.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me.

Al-Muteri increased the voltage, but I continued, “Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.

” The guards looked at each other nervously as my voice grew stronger with each verse.

For the remaining 8 days of my imprisonment, I discovered what it truly means to find strength in weakness.

Every morning I would wake up knowing that God was present in that place of death.

Every torture session became an opportunity to demonstrate that Jesus was worth any suffering.

And every night, Marcus and I would worship together through the walls, turning our underground hell into a sanctuary of praise.

On the 18th day, they came to take me to trial.

As the guards unlocked my cell door, I realized something profound had happened during those weeks of torture.

I was no longer the same man who had been arrested.

Fear of death had been replaced by anticipation of God’s glory.

My capttors thought they were preparing me for execution, but God had been preparing me for a miracle that would shake the foundations of their kingdom.

They brought me to the Islamic court on October 30th, 2020, 18 days after my arrest.

The courtroom was a sterile, intimidating space with marble floors, ornate Islamic calligraphy covering the walls, and a raised platform where Judge Abdullah Arashid presided like an ancient king, pronouncing divine judgment.

I shuffled in wearing orange prison clothes.

my wrists and ankles shackled, still bearing the bruises and swelling from weeks of torture.

Judge Al-Rashid was a man in his 60s with piercing dark eyes and a meticulously groomed beard.

He had built his reputation on swift, merciless sentences for religious crimes.

As I stood before his bench, flanked by armed guards, I could see in his expression that my fate had already been decided.

This wasn’t a trial seeking truth.

It was a religious theater designed to justify an execution.

The charges were read in Arabic first, then translated into English for my benefit.

spreading Christianity among Muslims, converting Saudi citizens from Islam, conducting illegal religious gatherings, possessing and distributing banned religious materials, and apostasy by encouraging others to abandon the true faith.

Each charge carried a potential death sentence under Saudi religious law.

Captain Al- Mutteri testified first, presenting evidence collected during the raid.

He displayed photographs of our Bible study materials, recordings of our worship songs captured through surveillance equipment, and a detailed list of the 43 believers in our network.

What struck me most was how thorough Omar’s intelligence had been.

Every meeting location, every participant’s name, every detail of our ministry strategy had been documented and delivered to authorities.

When they called Omar himself to testify, I felt a mixture of heartbreak and rage that I still struggle to describe.

He walked to the witness stand wearing expensive clothes I’d never seen before, avoiding eye contact as he recounted intimate details about our fellowship.

He described our baptism ceremonies, our communion services, and even personal conversations where I had shared my doubts and struggles as a pastor.

Pastor Coleman told me that Islam was a false religion.

Omar lied smoothly.

He said that all Muslims would go to hell unless they converted to Christianity.

He promised me money from American churches if I would help recruit all the converts.

Every word was a fabrication designed to ensure my death sentence.

The man I had mentored, baptized, and loved like a son was now manufacturing evidence to guarantee my execution.

Have you ever watched someone you trusted completely destroy everything you built together? The betrayal cut deeper than any torture I had endured in that underground prison.

When Judge Al-Rashid asked if I wanted to respond to the charges, I stood as straight as my shackled legs would allow and spoke clearly.

Your honor, I am guilty of sharing the love of Jesus Christ with people who were hungry for truth.

I am guilty of baptizing men and women who chose to follow the prince of peace.

I am guilty of teaching the Bible to anyone willing to listen.

But I am not guilty of hatred, deception, or coercion.

Everything I did was motivated by love.

The judge’s expression hardened as I continued, “You can kill my body, but you cannot kill the truth that Jesus Christ is Lord.

You cannot stop the gospel from spreading even in this kingdom.

God’s love is stronger than your laws, and his kingdom will outlast every earthly government.

A murmur rippled through the courtroom as guards shifted nervously.

Judge Al-Rashid slammed his gavvel and demanded silence.

Then came the moment I’ll never forget as long as I live.

He leaned forward, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority, and asked me directly, “Pastor David Coleman, this court offers you one final opportunity to save your life.

Will you publicly denounce Jesus Christ, declare that Muhammad is the final prophet of God, and convert to Islam?” The courtroom fell completely silent.

I could hear my own heartbeat as every eye focused on me.

This was the ultimate test of everything I claimed to believe.

In that moment, I thought about Sarah and my children back in Texas.

I thought about the comfortable life I could return to if I just said a few words.

I thought about growing old, watching my grandchildren play, and living peacefully without the threat of execution hanging over my head.

But then I thought about Jesus hanging on a cross, refusing to save himself because he loved us too much.

I thought about Steven being stoned to death while praying for his murderers.

I thought about Marcus in the cell next to mine.

Singing hymns despite six months of torture.

I thought about the 43 believers who were counting on me to stand firm in the face of ultimate persecution.

Your honor, I said, my voice growing stronger with each word.

Jesus Christ is Lord of Lords and King of Kings.

He is my savior, my God, and my everything.

I will never deny him not to save my life, not to spare my family pain, and not to satisfy this court.

If loving Jesus means I must die, then I choose death with honor over life with shame.

Judge Al-Rashid’s face flushed with anger as he pronounced sentence.

David Coleman, this court finds you guilty on all charges.

You are sentenced to death by public beheading to be carried out in 3 days on November 2nd, 2020 in Alsafhat Square.

May your execution serve as a warning to any who would corrupt the faithful with foreign lies.

As guards dragged me from the courtroom, I felt an unexpected peace settle over my spirit.

The waiting was over.

The date was set.

In 72 hours, I would either be in the presence of Jesus or witnessing a miracle that would shake the foundations of this kingdom.

That night, they moved me to the execution facility, a fortress-like building adjacent to the public square where I would die.

My cell was larger here with a small window that allowed me to see the platform being constructed outside.

workers hammered together wooden planks and tested microphone equipment while I watched my own death stage being prepared.

I spent those final hours writing letters to my family that I knew they would never receive.

I wrote to Sarah telling her that our love was the greatest gift God had ever given me.

I wrote to Emma, Joshua, and Grace, sharing final fatherly wisdom and begging them to follow Jesus no matter what trials they faced.

I wrote to my church in Texas, encouraging them to support missions to restricted nations.

But mostly, I prayed.

I prayed for my family’s comfort, for my congregation’s continued faithfulness, and for the underground believers who would face increased persecution after my execution.

I prayed that somehow, even in death, my life would bring glory to Christ and advance his kingdom.

On November 1st, my final night on earth, something extraordinary happened.

As I lay on my narrow bunk facing the wall and trying to pray through my terror, a brilliant light filled my cell.

I turned around to see Jesus standing before me, more real and present than anything I had ever experienced.

He didn’t speak audibly, but his words formed clearly in my mind.

David, tomorrow my power will be displayed before this nation.

Do not fear what men can do to your body.

Trust me completely and watch me work.

The vision lasted only moments, but it changed everything.

The supernatural peace that flooded my heart made sleep possible for the first time in weeks.

I woke on November 2nd, not with the terror of a condemned man, but with the anticipation of someone about to witness the impossible.

Ask yourself this question.

What would your final prayers be if you knew you had only hours to live? Mine were surprisingly simple.

Lord Jesus, let your will be done and let your name be glorified, whatever that looks like.

I had no idea that God’s answer would shake an entire kingdom.

At exactly 10:00 a.

m.

on November the 2nd, 2020, four guards came to escort me to my execution.

I had been awake since dawn, spending my final hours in prayer and surprisingly peaceful reflection.

When they opened my cell door, I felt none of the paralyzing terror I had expected.

Instead, that supernatural peace from the night before surrounded me like a protective shield.

They didn’t shackle my hands for the walk.

A small mercy that allowed me to maintain some dignity in my final moments.

As we moved through the corridors of the execution facility, I could hear the roar of crowds gathering outside.

The sound grew louder as we approached the exit.

A mixture of angry voices calling for justice and curious spectators drawn to witness state sanctioned death.

The walk from the facility to the platform in Alsafhat Square was the longest 200 yards of my life.

Thousands of people lined the streets, held back by military barriers and armed police.

Some shouted curses at me in Arabic.

Others simply stared with the morbid fascination that public executions seem to inspire.

International media crews had set up cameras at strategic points, broadcasting my final walk to news networks around the world.

With each step on that sunbaked pavement, I felt my legs trembling beneath me.

Despite the supernatural peace in my heart, my body was responding to the primal terror of approaching death.

I focused on putting one foot in front of the other while silently reciting Psalm 23.

The Lord is my shepherd.

I shall not want.

He makes me lie down in green pastures.

He leads me beside quiet waters.

The execution platform stood about 4t high, constructed from rough wooden planks and surrounded by microphones so the crowd could hear everything clearly.

A wooden block stained dark from previous executions sat in the center where I would kneel.

The executioner stood beside it like a statue, his face covered by a black hood, holding an enormous curved sword that gleamed in the midday sun.

As guards helped me up the steps to the platform, the crowd’s noise reached a fever pitch.

I could see government officials in a special viewing area, their faces stern and satisfied.

Camera crews focused their lenses on my face, broadcasting my terror to the world.

Children sat on their father’s shoulders to get a better view of the American pastor who would die for refusing to abandon his faith.

Standing on that platform, looking out at thousands of faces, hungry for my death, I felt the full weight of what was about to happen.

In minutes, that curved blade would separate my head from my body.

My blood would soak into the wooden planks beneath my feet.

My wife would become a widow.

My children would become orphans, and my church would have to find a new pastor.

But in that moment of ultimate vulnerability, I remembered Jesus words from the vision.

Tomorrow my power will be displayed before this nation.

Whatever was about to happen, God was in control.

An imam approached the microphone to read the charges and sentence one final time.

His voice echoed across the square as he declared my crimes against Islam and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

When he finished, he asked if I had any final words.

I stepped to the microphone with hands that somehow remained steady despite my racing heart.

Looking out at that sea of hostile faces, I spoke the words that would either be my final testimony or the prelude to the impossible.

People of Saudi Arabia, I began, my voice carrying clearly across the silent square.

I stand before you today, not as your enemy, but as someone who loves you enough to die for the truth.

Jesus Christ is the prince of peace, the son of the living God, who gave his life so that all people, regardless of nationality or background, might find forgiveness and eternal life.

Angry shouts erupted from the crowd.

But I continued, “I forgive Omar for his betrayal.

I forgive my capttors for their torture.

I forgive this court for this sentence.

And I pray that the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will have mercy on this nation and reveal his love to each of you.

Finally, I declared what I knew might be my last words on earth.

Jesus Christ is Lord now and forever.

Into your hands, Lord, I commit my spirit.

The guards forced me to my knees on the wooden block, positioning my neck over the groove, worn smooth by previous victims.

The executioner raised his massive sword high above his head as the crowd fell into expectant silence.

I closed my eyes, whispered, “Jesus!” and prepared to meet my savior face to face.

The blade came down with tremendous force and shattered into a dozen pieces upon contact with my neck.

The sound of steel exploding echoed across the silent square like thunder.

Metal fragments scattered across the platform as the executioner staggered backward in shock, staring at the broken handle in his hands.

For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, no one moved.

No one breathed.

No one understood what they had just witnessed.

I remained kneeling, completely unharmed, feeling the warm sun on my face where cold steel should have drawn blood.

Slowly, I opened my eyes to see the executioner’s terrified expression behind his hood.

The massive sword that had taken countless lives had been reduced to useless fragments by an invisible force none of us could explain.

Murmurss of confusion rippled through the crowd as a second executioner rushed onto the platform with another sword.

This man was older, more experienced, and clearly determined to complete the job his colleague had failed to accomplish.

He examined my neck for any hidden protection.

Found none, and raised his blade with even more force than the first.

Again, the sword shattered upon impact.

This time, the crowd’s murmurss became gasps of astonishment and fear.

Two perfect swords wielded by experienced executioners had been destroyed by contact with my unprotected neck.

I remained kneeling, still alive, still breathing, still praising God under my breath for the impossible protection he was providing.

That’s when the ground began to shake.

Have you ever experienced the immediate terror of an earthquake? When the solid earth beneath your feet suddenly becomes unreliable, the platform started swaying as tremors rolled through Alsafat Square.

People in the crowd stumbled and reached for support as buildings around the square creaked and groaned under the unusual seismic activity.

But this was no ordinary earthquake.

As the ground continued to shake, a pillar of brilliant light appeared directly above the execution platform, visible even in the bright midday sun.

The light was so intense that people had to shield their eyes.

Yet, it didn’t hurt to look at directly.

It pulsed with a rhythm like breathing, growing brighter with each tremor that shook the earth.

Multiple witnesses later reported seeing a figure in white robes standing within that pillar of light.

Though I couldn’t make out details from my position on the platform.

What I could see were the faces in the crowd transforming from bloodthirsty anticipation to absolute terror and awe.

The executioner who had failed to kill me twice fell to his knees beside me, his sword hand trembling uncontrollably.

Guards who had seemed so confident minutes earlier now looked around desperately for orders that weren’t coming.

Government officials in their viewing area stood frozen.

Witnessing something their world view couldn’t explain.

As the light intensified and the earth continued to shake, I felt God’s presence surrounding me more powerfully than in any worship service, any prayer meeting, or any moment of my 30 years in ministry.

I was kneeling on an execution platform in the most anti-Christian nation on earth.

But I had never been more aware of God’s love and power than in that impossible moment.

The crowd began to scatter as the earthquake intensified, but thousands remained, transfixed by events that defied everything the thought they knew about reality.

Cameras continued rolling, broadcasting live footage of the supernatural intervention to news networks around the world.

And I remained there, kneeling, but very much alive, protected by a power greater than any earthly kingdom, witnessing God’s glory, being displayed before a nation that desperately needed to see the impossible become possible.

The earthquake lasted exactly 7 minutes, though it felt like hours as I knelt on that swaying platform surrounded by supernatural light.

When the tremors finally ceased and the pillar of light gradually faded, an eerie silence settled over Alsafhat Square.

Thousands of witnesses stood motionless, trying to process what they had just seen with their own eyes.

I remained on my knees, still very much alive, still breathing, still praising God for the impossible protection he had provided.

The executioner beside me was weeping openly, his hands shaking as he stared at the fragments of two broken swords scattered around us.

Government officials huddled together in urgent conversation while camera crews continued broadcasting live footage of events that would shake the Islamic world.

Within an hour, emergency vehicles surrounded the square as authorities tried to restore order and control the narrative.

But how do you explain away two shattered swords? an earthquake that struck only during an execution and a pillar of light witnessed by thousands.

Social media exploded with cell phone videos from every angle, spreading faster than government sensors could suppress them.

They escorted me back to the execution facility, not as a condemned prisoner this time, but as someone no one quite knew how to handle.

The guards, who had been cold and professional that morning, now avoided eye contact and spoke in hushed, nervous tones.

Word of what had happened spread through the facility like wildfire, and even hardened officials seemed afraid to be in my presence.

For 3 days, I sat in that cell while religious councils, government ministers, and legal scholars debated what to do with me.

Through my small window, I could see crowds gathering daily in the square.

Some leaving flowers and notes where the miracle had occurred.

The execution platform remained exactly as we had left it complete with broken sword fragments that had become impromptu religious artifacts.

Captain Al-Mutteri visited me on the third day, looking like a man whose entire world view had been shattered.

He sat across from me in the small cell, staring at his hands for a long time before speaking.

Pastor Coleman, he said quietly, in 30 years of service, I have never seen anything like what happened out there.

My superiors want me to find a rational explanation, but there isn’t one, is there? I leaned forward, seeing genuine confusion and fear in his eyes.

Captain, you witnessed the power of the God I serve.

The same God who parted the Red Sea, who raised Jesus from the dead, who protects his servants when they stand for truth.

What you saw wasn’t magic or trickery.

It was divine intervention.

He nodded slowly, then asked the question that was clearly tormenting him.

What does this mean for us, for our kingdom? For our faith? It means, I said gently, that God loves the people of Saudi Arabia enough to display his power here.

He’s not your enemy captain.

He wants to be your father.

On November 5th, 3 days after my failed execution, Judge Al-Rashid himself arrived at the facility with a small entourage of religious officials.

They seemed nervous, uncertain, clearly operating without precedent for their situation.

How do you execute a man when God himself seems to be protecting him? The judge’s message was brief and unprecedented.

David Coleman, this court has decided to commute your death sentence and order your immediate deportation from the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.

You will be escorted to the British embassy and expelled from this country within 24 hours.

I understood the unspoken message clearly.

They were releasing me not out of mercy or justice, but out of fear.

Fear of what might happen if they try to execute me again.

Fear of the growing crowds gathering at the miracle site.

Fear of the international attention and the videos circulating worldwide showing God’s supernatural protection.

The journey to the British embassy was surreal.

People lined the streets, some shouting angrily, others reaching out to touch me as our vehicle passed.

Word had spread that I was the pastor who couldn’t be executed and the response was electric.

Some saw me as a dangerous threat to their faith while others whispered that perhaps I carried divine protection.

Ambassador Richardson met me personally at the embassy gates.

His expression a mixture of relief and amazement.

Pastor Coleman, he said, gripping my hand firmly.

The whole world has been watching what happened here.

Your wife and children are safe in London, waiting for you.

The reunion with Sarah and my children 12 hours later was the most emotional moment of my life.

We held each other and wept in the embassy’s secure quarters as I shared everything that had happened.

Emma, now 16, kept touching my neck where the swords had struck, unable to believe her father was really alive and unharmed.

“Dad,” Joshua asked, his 12-year-old mind trying to understand.

“Why did God save you when other Christians have died for their faith?” It was the question I’d been wrestling with myself.

Son, I said carefully, I don’t know why God chose to display his power this way at this time in this place, but I believe he did it to show the world that he’s still performing miracles and that the gospel cannot be stopped by any earthly power.

Within days of my release, reports began flooding in from across Saudi Arabia and the broader Middle East.

The underground church network I thought had been destroyed was not only surviving but exploding with new growth.

The failed execution had become a powerful testimony to God’s protection, inspiring countless Muslims to investigate Christianity.

Fatima, who had been released after two weeks of detention, sent word through secure channels that house churches were meeting in twice as many locations as before my arrest.

Abdul reported that hundreds of people were asking questions about the American pastor’s God, who could break swords and stop executions.

Even some of the guards from my detention had begun attending secret Christian meetings.

The Saudi government’s attempts to suppress the story only fueled more interest.

Video footage of the miracle continued circulating on social media despite aggressive censorship efforts.

International news organizations ran feature stories about the miracle in Riyad, bringing global attention to Christian persecution in the kingdom.

Omar, the man who had betrayed our fellowship, reportedly experienced what locals described as a complete mental breakdown after witnessing my failed execution.

Several sources indicated he had begun asking forgiveness from the families of believers he had exposed, claiming that seeing God’s protection over me had convinced him he had been fighting against the true God.

6 months after my deportation, I received a letter through underground Christian networks that brought tears to my eyes.

It was signed by 847 new Saudi converts who had come to faith after hearing about the miracle.

They called themselves the swordbreaker church and requested Bibles, training materials, and continued prayers for protection as they spread the gospel throughout the kingdom.

Today, four years later, I travel internationally sharing this testimony at churches, conferences, and missionary gatherings.

Every time I tell this story, I see the same reaction in people’s eyes that I saw in Alsafhat Square.

Amazement that our God still performs impossible miracles for his glory.

But let me ask you this question.

What impossible situation in your life needs God’s supernatural intervention? The same God who broke those swords, who shook the earth, who displayed his power before a hostile nation, is still on his throne today.

He’s still protecting his children, still performing miracles, and still demonstrating that his love is stronger than any opposition.

The underground church in Saudi Arabia continues to grow exponentially, now estimated at over 15,000 believers meeting in secret throughout the kingdom.

Government efforts to stop this movement have largely failed because how do you arrest a miracle? How do you execute people when the whole world is watching for God to intervene again? Look inside your own heart right now and ask yourself, do you believe God still works miracles today? Because I’m telling you, as someone who knelt on an execution platform and lived to tell about it, our God specializes in impossible situations.

if he can stop an execution in Saudi Arabia, shatter steel swords with supernatural force, and turn a death sentence into a testimony that spans continents, what can he do in your life when you trust him completely? The answer to that question might just shake your whole world.