The Counterfeit

by Nate Allen

lifts His hands up while pushing his fingers apart. And immediately, the light draws away from Him like a curtain. And what I see is a Man of beautiful simplicity. He is fully bearded and Middle Eastern. His hair is black and a series of thick curls. Simple, undefined features make up His face. He is entirely ordinary. And yet absolutely awe inspiring. His eyes are an ever changing display of beauty. Rings of solid gold surround His irises which seem to contain the universe itself. The depth in his stare is endless. If I were still in my body, it feels as if I would tear apart at my very seams.

  Jagged, ugly holes stamp His wrists and feet. No dramatic representation has ever gotten close to the reality of His scars. The holes in His wrists are nearly big enough to separate his hands from the rest of his body. Very little remain of His wrists. And in His feet, it is still clear where the bones were broken and split apart, like the way disturbed earth looks around a freshly dug hole…

  And all of this was for me? All of this was so I could have a choice? I’ll never understand why He would suffer this immeasurable pain for me. I’ll never understand…

  The light that covered Jesus is noticeably more and more desperate to reattach to Him. He’s kept it at bay but moment by moment it crowds around him in thicker layers, bursting brightly as it slams into the force-field He has put around Himself. The light is becoming like a vicious creature. The bursts of light look like small suns exploding. It began as sporadic. But, the longer the light has been kept from Him, the angrier it has become. Now explosions are spreading from top to bottom: a violent chain reaction.

  “Light itself is creation, Andrew. Genesis 1:3 says, “And God said, ‘Let there be light.’” You notice how it acts up the longer it is separated from me? Just think of a fish being pulled from the water; or think of a plant being plucked from the soil. I am its environment. Without Me, it would die. I want you to take something from this demonstration, Andrew.”

  What demonstration, Lord?

  ”The human soul can only live when it is connected to its Creator. The longer you live your life without Me, the more desperate it becomes to reattach itself. Early in your life, it will send violent, loud disruptions, trying to wake you up while it still has the energy to fight, because it doesn’t take very long for death to start setting in.” He pulls his hands down, and all at once, the light immediately reattaches. “Just as the light is immediate in covering Me again, the human soul longs for Me until your very last breath. But, it is easily tricked by empty promises of fullness. It is easily manipulated into believing that temporary moments of happiness will fill its need. In the counterfeit the soul is still alive, still longing, but only small bursts of energy remain. And it has been buried under a lifetime worth of doubt, disbelief, and the endless pursuit of fullness without Me. Andrew, very few souls get saved in the counterfeit.” the sadness in His voice is undeniable. “Near the end of a life, an unsaved soul is usually content to lie to itself: if it believes hard enough that it has found fullness, it can live in that reality until it fades away into the dark forever.”

  I never thought I would be able to understand the Lord’s perspective, but I do in some small way. He can control all of creation with only His words, and yet, the human soul is something He has no control over. And for all of His unspeakable power, there is one part He willingly gave away in hope of something real. Feeling the Lord’s sadness magnifies my own. I feel just like a child who has seen his Father cry for the first time. He is supposed to have all the answers; He is supposed to comfort me when I hurt. How do I comfort Him? I never realized that the Lord set an example for Himself through parents. I never understood that He lives in a suspended state of helplessness when it comes to the very thing He wants most: to be loved by His creation.

  What can I do?

  ”When you are in the counterfeit, you are behind enemy lines. You are not welcome there; you are not wanted. The counterfeit is much closer to Hell than Heaven. It is a world built up on the desires of the flesh: empty promises of fullness. You reach them by speaking to that longing in their souls, Andrew. But, they will ultimately decide. Your mission is exposure. Your mission is to reignite the longing. It’s the only hope left in the counterfeit.”

  8

  His instructions stick to me like the light does to Him. I can tell that my time here is short.

  When do I get to come home for good, Lord?

  ”Your assignment is only for a short time, Andrew.” He says as He lifts up his hands and spreads his fingers apart again, drawing the light from Him just enough for me to see a warming smile. “I am with you always. I’ll see you in The City someday very soon.”

  As quickly as He came, He has disappeared over the hills. And like a sun setting on the horizon, His glorious light fades away moment by moment, leaving only the steady, calm waves of His presence to wash over me. Even with His physical presence gone from me, there is no lack. He is still all around me, in every wave, in every breath.

  I look down at my body. It no longer brushes from side to side like wet paper. It’s flat on the hillside, just like my father’s body. And I can feel myself starting to sink back into it. The sensation is like being slowly lowered into cold water. As I enter back into my body, the feeling of containment is undeniable. I couldn’t stand if I wanted to. I’m not experiencing exhaustion but physical rejection. The presence of God continues to wash over me but movement is impossible. I can’t even find the strength to speak.

  “The fruit will do nothing for you anymore, son.” I hear dad able to move next to me. “Your body is not made to live here. Just as too much electricity can destroy an outlet, the same is true of Heaven. Your body is unable to respond any longer, because it has been broken by the Holy atmosphere.”

  I wish I could speak. But, I can only listen. It doesn’t even feel like I am attached to my body anymore, but like I have been placed back into a loose vessel. My spirit is alive, contained by a flimsy casing.

  Dad has moved to where I can see his face. He smiles at me. “I love you, son. Hold onto what you’ve seen here, because when you go back it will fade, as if it was only a dream.” His words are fading. He is fading. And I find myself aware of only one thing: I am lying in bed.

  Below the Surface

  1

  My eyes are open to a dark room lit only by the red glow of the alarm clock on the nightstand next to me. Already, everything I just experienced is trying to slip away from me. I am disconnected from the waves of His presence. And everything feels cold in comparison. I long to be back home…

  I sit up in bed, using the headboard behind me as a support. This isn’t my life but my mind is doing all it can to convince me that everything was a dream: the shooting, the coma, the counterfeit, and, most of all, the experience I had with The Lord. Even though it happened only moments ago, the details have already faded to a point where I can’t remember anything vividly. There is nothing like being fully alive only to wake up and forget how it felt; there is nothing like being warm only to wake up cold.

  The quiet of this place is chilling, void of warmth entirely. This isn’t my life; this is Hell or as close to it as possible. The longer I try to focus on what came before this moment, everything becomes even foggier. I know this isn’t life. And I know that I was home for a moment. But, now the cold has left me worse off than before. How do you function in a place like this? How do I take the first step? I want to go back home.

  I am a selfish man. Despite the fog of details surrounding anytime before this, the pieces I remember are enough to give me a sense of context. I lived my life in mockery of my Savior, saved only by His grace and mercy. And I am here because—how can I not remember? I am here because—

  “Help me!” a shrill scream and a loud thud shatters the quiet. My skin is alive with fear; my heart is beating at an unimaginable rate. The sense of danger is heavy. I turn on the light on the nightstand next to me. But, it doesn’t help. The darkness remains, choking out the dim glow of the light until I am sitting back in the darkness.


  The wide window next to my bed allows no light in. The vertical shutters are slowly brushing from side to side, revealing a night so black and so thick that I can’t imagine day time ever comes.

  “Where am I?” even my speech sounds muffled, as if I’m contained in a tightly sealed pocket. The beating of my heart hasn’t slowed down. In fact, it may still be increasing. I haven’t heard another scream, but what that could mean is even more terrifying…

  Maybe this is a nightmare. No. Some part of me, despite the fog, knows what it is. Trying to find clarity in this atmosphere is nearly impossible. I have to close my eyes. I have to focus on what came before. It’s like trying to remember a dream: though I know so much came before this, I can’t begin to grasp onto any details. And even when I think I know a true detail, it approaches me with hesitance. And I begin to wonder once again if any memory is accurate.

  What I remember and what I know are both lost in the fog. In many ways, it doesn’t feel like anything came before this room. And maybe that is the truth. Maybe this is Hell. And maybe everything that came before it will never be clear again. I can’t think of a worse form of torture than eternal uncertainty.

  I need some form of context. I need to find