Pastor Dies Six Minutes and Sees Hell

Chapter 1: A pastor's humble beginning Pastor dies six minutes and sees Christian leaders in hell for money. I died for six minutes and saw famous pastors burning in hell. One of them was my own spiritual mentor. What the angel showed me about money in the church will destroy everything you thought you knew. My name is Rodrigo Mald Onardo. I am 52 years old and for more than two decades I was the senior pastor of one of the most well-known mega churches in Colombia. Today, as I record this testimony in a small borrowed office in the San Ju neighborhood of Medelin, far from the lights and cameras that once surrounded me, I need to tell you something that changed my life forever. Something that terrifies me to this day, but that I cannot keep silent about because souls are at stake and time is running out. It all began 28 years ago when I was a young factory worker in a textile factory in the El Pablo neighborhood. I shared a two-bedroom apartment with my wife Marcela and our newborn son Sebastian. We earned just enough for rent, utilities, and the Arapas with cheese we ate every morning before I went to work. At that time, I didn't know God. I was an empty man full of resentment for poverty. Drinking aged on weekends to forget that my life had no purpose. Marcela begged me to stop drinking, to think about our son, but I was lost in my own selfishness. It was one December night during the Christmas noveners that everything changed. My mother invited me to an evangelical service in a tent set up in the Buenosire's neighborhood. I went just to Chapter 2: Building a mega church please her. My eyes read from the previous night and my heart as hard as stone. But that night, while a humble pastor preached about the love of Christ, something broke inside me. I cried like I had never cried before. I felt the weight of my sins. I saw my life wasted. And at that moment, there in that tent that smelled of damp earth and lit candles. I gave my life to Jesus. It was genuine. It was real. It was the most important day of my life. The following years were beautiful. Mara also converted. And together we began serving in that small congregation of 80 people. I preached on street corners in the neighborhood, visited the sick in public hospitals, and distributed food in the most dangerous areas of commun 13. We had nothing. But we had everything because we had God. In 2002, the pastor who had discipled me, Brother Eliza Ruiz, told me that God had spoken to him about me. Rodrigo, the Lord is calling you to pastor. You are going to build a large church for his glory. I cried with emotion and also with fear. I didn't feel worthy but I accepted the call with a pure heart. This is how the manual Davidida church was born in 2003. We started in a rented room in the castella neighborhood with 35 people. Our services were simple. An out of tune guitar, a capella singing and long sermons filled with the fire of the Holy Spirit. People came because God was present. Miracles were real. I saw lame people walk. I saw demon-possessed people set free. I saw marriages restored. Everything was for the glory of the Lord. Mara led the women's ministry. And I continued working part-time at the factory to support my family because the church barely had enough to pay the rent. But something Chapter 3: The trap of prosperity began to change in 2008. The congregation had grown to 800 people. And with that growth came influential people, business people, local politicians and professionals. One day an engineer named Carlos Majia invited me to a pastor's conference in Bogota. There I met leaders of megaurches who deeply impacted me. I saw pastors arriving in Prao SUVs wearing Hugo boss suits talking about a kingdom mindset and decreeing prosperity. One of them, Bishop Marlio pass of Cari became my mentor. He told me something that burned into my mind like fire. Rodrigo, God doesn't want his children to live in poverty. If you preach well, if you have the anointing, it's only right that you live with dignity. The apostles will be supported by the churches. Why do you have to keep working in a factory? Your faith is small. Those words confused me, but they also they were seduced. I started reading books on prosperity theology, listening to sermons by international pastors who preached about the Abrahamic covenant and financial blessings. Slowly, my message changed. I no longer preached so much about sacrifice, the cross, dying to self. Now I spoke of financial covenants, first fruits offerings, sewing to reap. People responded enthusiastically because we all like to hear that God wants to bless us materially. And it worked. The church exploded in growth. By 2012, Minancial Davidida had 3,000 members. We bought a building in the Lolli's neighborhood. We invested in professional sound equipment. We hired a worship band with musicians who had played for Juain and Carlos Vives. The services became productions with lights, smoke, and giant screens. I no longer wore simple shirts, but Italian suits. My Chevrolet Spark was replaced by a Mazda C5 and then by a black Lexus Wix with chrome rims. We moved from our apartment in Castilla to a house in the exclusive Elasera neighborhood with a pool, four bedrooms, and a spectacular view of the city. My children Sebastian and Kumla started attending private bilingual schools. Mara, my faithful wife, began to express concern. Rodrigo, don't you think we are losing focus? People come for the show, not for God, she would say as we had imported salmon at our new marble dining table. I silenced her with theological arguments. The Lord is blessing the ministry. We have more than 5,000 people now. Don't you see God's hand? But deep down in the quiet moments of the early morning, I knew something was wrong. I had begun to love things more than the giver of them. In 2015, I received an invitation to preach at the Chapter 4: Warnings from God Collazia Mar in Medelan at an event called the Faith and Prosperity Summit. I shared the stage with pastors from Mexico, Argentina, and Puerto Rico. 8,000 people paid 50,000 pesos per ticket to hear us speak about how to activate the keys to abundance. I preached eloquently on Malachi 3:10, about bringing tithes into the storehouse, and about the windows of heaven. At the end, we made a special appeal. If you sew an offering of 1 million pesos today, God will return 10 times that amount to you this year. More than 200 people came forward with envelopes. I received them with a smile. Praying over each one. While inside, I felt an emptiness I couldn't explain. That night, alone in my room at the Den Carlton Hotel, I had my first dream. I saw a giant scale in the sky. On one side were 50,000 Colombian peso bills, dollars, gold. On the other side were transparent, shining souls, weeping. A thunderous voice said, "What did you choose, Rodrigo?" I woke up sweating, my heart racing. Mara asked me, "What was wrong?" But I told her it was nothing, just a nightmare, but I knew God was speaking to me. I knew it and ignored it. The dreams repeated themselves for months. I saw empty churches. I saw abandoned sheep. I saw my name written in a book but then being erased. One early morning while praying in my private church office surrounded by my honorary diplomas and photos with politicians and Christian celebrities. I clearly heard in my spirit, "You are building your kingdom, not mine." I froze trying to justify myself, Lord, but we are reaching multitudes. Your name is being glorified, but the silence that followed was more terrifying than any words. It was the silence of God withdrawing. February 14th, 2018. That Chapter 5: Death and near-death was the day that changed everything. We organized the largest event in our church's history. A financial miracle night at the Collio mayor, 15,000 people. We invited Apostle Santi from Argentina, famous for his healing and prosperity crusades. We sold merchandise, anointing oils for 80,000 pesos, water from the Jordan River for 50,000, and prayer handkerchiefs for 30,000. I was at the peak of my ministry, but at the depths of my soul. During my sermon, I spoke passionately about breaking generational curses of poverty. People shouted, "Amen." They raised their hands. Many wept. I made the final call. Tonight is your covenant night. Bring your offering of faith to the altar and declare your miracle. Hundreds of people lined up. Some brought envelopes, others checks, some transferred money from their cell phones. I was in the center of the stage laying hands on people, praying and declaring blessings. And then it happened. I felt a sharp pain in my chest as if a red hot iron were being driven into me. My left arm went numb. I tried to keep praying, but the words wouldn't come. I looked up at the bright lights of the coliseum, and the last thing I remember was my son Sebastian's terrified face in the front row, screaming, "Dad!" and then darkness. The first thing I experienced was a strange Chapter 6: Watching his own death feeling of lightness, as if my body no longer weighed anything. I opened my eyes, or at least I thought I opened them, and I saw myself floating about 3 m above the stage of the main coliseum. From that position, I could see her body lying on the ground, surrounded by people screaming and crying. I saw Mara desperately pushing her way through the crowd, her face contorted with terror. I saw Sebastian and Camila embracing, paralyzed by shock. I saw the Apostle Santiago rays talking frantically on his cell phone, moving away from the commotion. And then the paramedics arrived with their resuscitation equipment. From my elevated position, I observed everything with supernatural clarity. I could see every detail. The beads of sweat on the paramedic's forehead as he pressed rhythmically against my chest. Marless lips moving in silent prayer. The mess of envelopes of money scattered across the stage floor that no one dared to pick up. I heard their voices, but I also heard their thoughts as if I could suddenly perceive another dimension of reality. The paramedic was thinking, "This one isn't going to make it. It's been 4 minutes without a pulse." Marlo was crying out in her mind, "My God, don't take him from me. Please don't take him from me." And my daughter, Kimla, only 16 years old, was repeating mentally, "Dad, don't go. I need you." I tried to shout to them that I was okay, that I was up there watching them, but no sound came out of me. It was then that I felt something I will never forget. A violent pull backward, as if an invisible force were yanking me up my spine. The coliseum began to recede, becoming smaller and smaller. I saw the city of Medelan illuminated at night, the lights of the subway, the dark mountains surrounding the valley, and then everything went dark. I entered what many testimonies describe as a tunnel. Chapter 7: Descent into darkness But this was not what I had heard preached about in so many conferences on near-death experiences. There was no warm welcoming light at the end, no peace, no feeling of enveloping love. This tunnel was cold, oppressively cold, and the darkness was so dense it seemed to have weight. I felt that darkness compressing my soul. if I still had one. The silence was absolute at first, but gradually I began to hear a low buzzing, like the sound of thousands of voices whispering in the distance. I was falling or being dragged. I don't know for sure, but the movement was swift and disorienting. I tried to pray, "Jesus, help me," but my voice sounded muffled, choked by the density of that darkness. The cold intensified with each passing second, a cold that wasn't physical, but spiritual, that it penetrated to the very essence of my being. And then, in the midst of that endless fall, he appeared. It was as if the tunnel itself tore open, and suddenly before me, an imposing figure materialized. He was an angel, but not one of those depicted on Catholic holy cards or in the paintings of evangelical churches. This being was at least 3 m tall with a robust and powerful build. His face was stern without a smile, with eyes that shone like embers, but without burning. He wore a white robe that emitted its own light, and around his waist he wore a solid gold belt with inscriptions in a language I didn't recognize. In his right hand, he held something resembling a scepter or staff of authority. The most striking thing was his expression. There was no compassion there. Only a terrible somnity that made me tremble. Rodriguez Mauled Onardo, he said in a voice that resonated, not in my ears, but directly in my conscience. You have been called to see what Heavenly Father wants to show you before your judgment. I tried to answer. I tried to ask if I was dead, if there was a chance to return, but he raised his hand and the movement silenced me instantly. Do not speak until you are permitted. What you will see is not for your salvation because you already knew the truth and exchanged it for vanity. What you will see is for testimony if the Most High in his mercy decides to return you. The terror I felt at that moment surpassed any fear I had experienced in my earthly life. I understood that I was in the presence of a being who did not negotiate, who felt no pity, who carried out divine orders without question. The angel extended his left arm pointing downwards, and the descent accelerated brutally. Now I was not falling into a tunnel, but we were passing through layers of darkness, each one denser than the last. It was like plunging into an ocean of progressively thickening darkness. The sounds began to change. The distant whisper I had heard before became a clearer murmur, then distinguishable voices, then screams. They were screams of agony, of utter despair. Some were shouting names, "Mamar, help me. God, have mercy. Let me out of here." Others simply howled like wounded animals. There were inconsolable cries, nashing of teeth, curses in different languages. I recognized Spanish, English, Portuguese, and languages I couldn't identify. It was an infernal cacophony that intensified with each passing second. The temperature also changed drastically. The penetrating cold of the beginning began to transform into heat, but not a natural heat. First it was lukewarm, then hot, then scorching. It was a heat that burned without consuming, that tortured without destroying. I felt as if my invisible skin were blistering, but there was no skin to blister. It was pure pain, without the relief of unconsciousness or death. And then we Chapter 8: Vision of hell's horrors arrived. The angel abruptly halted our descent and pointed ahead with his scepter. What I saw made me wish I had never been born. Before us stretched a dimension of horror that no human mind could fully imagine. It was like a system of endless caverns carved into a rock that seemed to be alive and pulsating. From the cracks in those rocks sprang flames that were not ordinary fire, but a fire that had consciousness, that actively sought to cause suffering. There were structures as if someone had architecturally designed this place of torment. I saw chambers, levels, divided sections. In some areas, people were alone in cells of absolute darkness. In others, they were there were demons, deformed, and grotesque creatures who seem to take immense pleasure in overseeing the torments. Some of these demons were humanoid, but with hideous animal features, twisted horns, sharp claws, mouths full of jagged fangs. Others were completely indescribable shapes that constantly shifted like liquid nightmares. This is the place prepared for him and his angels. The angel said without any emotion like someone describing a geographical location, but also for those who used the saints name for their own glory, for their own enrichment, for their own exaltation. Here come those who knew the truth and sold it. Those who traded in faith, those who turned the sacred altar into a cash register, those who promised false miracles for money, those who diverted offerings meant for the poor to fill their own bank accounts. I tried to close my eyes, but I realized that in that state I had no eyelids to close. I couldn't escape what I saw. The angel began to move among the structures of the abyss, and I followed him without my own will, as if I were tied to him by an invisible rope. We passed by multitudes of tormented souls. I saw people of all races and historical periods. I saw faces I recognized from photographs of dictators and famous criminals from history. I also saw anonymous faces, ordinary people whose stories only God knew. Now, the angel said, stopping in front of a particular section of the abyss that looked different from the others. You will see why you were brought here. The section we were approaching had an entrance marked with symbols that looked like inverted crosses and chalicees overflowing with what appeared to be blood. Above this entrance were words written in unconsumed fire in perfectly legible Spanish. Here dwell those who usered my name, says the Lord of hosts. The angel went through that entrance and I followed him. And what I saw inside that specific chamber of hell shattered my soul in a way that no human words can adequately express. There amidst torments specifically designed for their particular sin were faces I knew faces I Chapter 9: Famous pastors in torment had seen on platforms at conferences on Christian television broadcasts and among them the one who broke my heart the most was my mentor Bishop Mark Oropaz the man who had led me astray now paying for it eternally. The angel guided me into that section of the abyss with slow, deliberate steps, as if he wanted me to absorb every detail of what I was about to witness. The heat here was different from the other areas we had traversed. It wasn't just physical or spiritual. It was a heat that seared the very conscience, exposing every lie I had ever told from the pullpit, every emotional manipulation I had used to extract offerings. Every time I had twisted scripture to justify my greed, the chamber was circular with walls that seemed to be made of molten gold, which constantly dripped, but never ran dry. Rusty chains hung from the ceiling, and in the center was a raised platform from which one could observe different sections of torment. The angel stopped on that platform and extended his scepter to the right. Look and recognize, he commanded in that voice that made my very being tremble. The first thing I saw paralyzed me. Tied to a red hot iron column was a man I recognized instantly. Pastor Ernsto Villa Lobos from Guatemala. I had met him at a conference in Guatemala City in 2014. Ernsto was famous throughout Central America for his guaranteed miracle crusades which he held in stadiums and arenas. He charged between $300 and $500 per person to enter a VIP section where special healings supposedly took place. He had a team of actors who pretended to be blind, lame, and paralyzed. And during the event, they were dramatically healed to generate faith in the crowd. I knew it because one night after preaching together at an event in Tusa Galpa, he confessed it to me amid laughter while we drank imported whiskey in his hotel suite. Brother Rodrigo. People want a show. If you give them a show, they give you money. It's that simple. Now, I saw him there bound with chains that weren't made of ordinary iron, but of molten gold, which clung to his skin, burning it eternally. His body was covered in festering sores. And around him were grotesque demons holding signs with the exact words he had used in his false crusades, guaranteed healing or your money back. God revealed to me that today 50 people will rise from wheelchairs. The demons laughed with a laugh that sounded like shattering glass and shouted at him. Where is your healing now, lying prophet? Where is your guaranteed miracle? Ernsto screamed with a desperation that broke my heart. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I knew it was wrong. Forgive me, my God. Forgive me. But his cries were lost in the echo of the no one answered. No one came to rescue him. The torment continued without ceasing, without pause, without hope or determination. I tried to approach, but the angel stopped me with his scepter. You cannot touch him. You cannot ease his suffering. He is receiving exactly what he chose. He sold false hope for money. Now his hope is eternally dead. But he was a believer. I whispered, my voice breaking. He knew the scriptures. He preached from the Bible. The angel looked at me with those fiery eyes and replied, "Judas too, he knew the scriptures." Judas walked with the Messiah himself. Knowledge without obedience is double condemnation. Ernster Villobos knew he was lying. He knew those healings were fake. He knew he was stealing money from widows, from desperate mothers with sick children, from elderly people who sold their last possessions to buy a miracle that would never come. And yet he continued for 18 years. Here is his reward. The angel led me to another section. There, submerged up to his neck in a lake of burning Chapter 10: Consequences of false faith substance that looked like boiling oil mixed with something chemical and putrid was the Apostle Santiago from Buenosiris, Argentina. Santiago was the man with whom I had shared the platform the night of my death. He was very famous throughout South America. He had a television program on the Endless channel that was broadcast to millions of homes. He sold anointed products, olive oils for $150 a bottle, water from the Jordan River for $100, soil from Jerusalem for $200, handkerchiefs that supposedly touched Christ's tomb for $80. I had only visited one spiritual supply store in an industrial warehouse on the outskirts of Buenosiris in the Villa Soldati neighborhood. There secular workers bottled ordinary tap water in jars with gold labels that said water from the Jordan blessed by the apostle Santiago rays. The oil was ordinary cooking oil brought in bulk. The soil was simply construction sand. It was all a multi-million dollar scam. Santiago offered me a partnership in the business. Rodrigo, you have 5,000 members in your church. If each one buys even just one product a month, we're talking about $250,000 a month. I'll give you a 30% commission. I didn't accept it that time, but I didn't report it either. I stayed silent. I was complicit through my silence. Now Santiago was in the lake of torment, and every time he tried to get out, skeletal hands emerged from the burning liquid and dragged him back down. Around the lake were giant bottles, monstrous versions of his counterfeit products, and from them flowed more of that burning substance. The demons screamed at him, "Drink your own anointed oil. Wash yourself with your Jordan water." And they forced him to swallow that substance that burned his throat from the inside. Santiago vomited fire, wept tears that evaporated before they fell, and begged, "Never again. Never again will I do it. Let me go." But there was no way out, no second chance. The judgment had already been pronounced. Santiago, the angel said in a cold voice, stole the faith of 2.3 million people. That is the exact number of those who bought his counterfeit products, believing they would receive miracles. Many sold their homes, their cars, took out predatory loans, all to buy his bottled lie. Some died waiting for healings that never came. Others lost their faith completely when the promised miracles failed to materialize. He didn't just steal money. He stole hope. He stole faith. He destroyed souls. And he did it consciously and deliberately for 22 years. We continued walking through that chamber of horror. And I saw more familiar faces. I saw Pastor Daniela Marcardo from Kito, Ecuador, who ran a deliverance ministry where she charged for private sessions and sexually abused vulnerable women, telling them it was part of the deliverance process. He had her tied to a chair while demons whispered in her ear all the lies she had told, all the lives she had destroyed. I saw evangelist Mario Castillo from San Salvador who organized spiritual retreats on the beaches of Elanco charging dollar per person. But the money wasn't going toward retirement expenses, but rather into their personal accounts in Panama. I saw him chained to a rock with waves of liquid fire constantly pounding him like ocean waves. I saw the prophet Jeremiah Akoa from Managua, Nicaragua, famous for his personalized prophetic words that cost $500 each. He wrote them using artificial intelligence after researching his clients on social media. I saw him with his mouth open as demons poured words written in flames into it, drowning him with his own false prophecies. I saw the Apostle Rebecca Valenuela from Montree, Mexico, who sold reserved seats in heaven for $5,000 each with fake certificates that were supposedly recorded in the book of life. I saw her eternally tearing up those certificates that were now made of fire paper, which burned her hands, but were never consumed. Each one of them was screaming, each one begging for mercy. Each one confessing their sins too late. And the most terrifying thing is that all of them had once been genuine believers. All of them had had real encounters with God. All of them had started with the pure fire of the Holy Spirit. But somewhere along the way, they chose money over souls. They chose fame over humility. They chose to build their own empires instead of the kingdom of God. And then the angel led me to the center of the chamber where there was a special cell set apart from the others. This one, the angel said, is the one you need to see more than anyone else. My heart, if I still had one in that state, Chapter 11: Confronting his mentor stopped when I saw who was there. It was Bishop Mark Orio of Cari Colombia. My mentor, the man who had discipled me in the ways of ministry, the man I admired and respected more than anyone after my own father, Marcus Aurelius, sat in a golden chair that was red hot, constantly burning his body. In front of him was a table, and on that table were endless piles of bills, checks, bank statements, all ablaze, yet never consumed. He was forced to count this money eternally, and each bill he touched burned his fingers to the bone, but his fingers regenerated instantly to continue the torment. The demons around him screamed, "Count your wealth, bishop. Count the offerings you stole. Count the widow's money." I moved closer, and he looked up. Our eyes met and in that moment there was a mutual recognition that shattered me. Rodrigo said in a horse voice broken by eternal pain. Rodrigo mauled onardo. You two, the angel interrupted. He is here only as a witness. He has not yet been judged. Marcus Aurelius began to weep and his tears were like fire burning his cheeks and leaving fiery furrows. Sam Rodrigo said to me between sobs, "I warned you never to love money more than God. But I had already fallen when I gave you that advice. I was a hypocrite, a false teacher, a wolf in sheep's clothing." "What did you do, Marcus?" I asked, my voice trembling, "What did you do to end up here?" He lowered his gaze to the burning money on the table. I diverted offerings for 30 years, Rodrigo. the offerings the brothers gave for missions to help the poor to build schools in rural areas. I diverted to secret accounts in the Cayman Islands. I bought properties in Miami, in Panama, in Spain. I had a mistress in Carterina for whom I paid for an apartment. My children studied at European universities with tithe money. And the worst part was her voice completely broke down. The worst part is that she knew it was wrong. The Holy Spirit was constantly speaking to me, warning me, pleading with me that I should repent, but I ignored it. I silenced it. And I taught others like you that it was okay to live in prosperity if you had a large ministry. I infected you with my sin, Rodrigo. And now we were both heading toward the same fate. I was, I asked, confused. The angel answered, he has already been judged. You haven't yet. That's why you're here watching, not suffering. The most high in his mercy is giving you one last chance to choose. I looked at my mentor, the man who once seemed so anointed, so wise, so close to God, now writhing in eternal agony. Is there no hope for him? I asked the angel, "Is there no redemption?" The angel shook his head. The time of mercy is on earth here. There is only justice. James 3:1 says, "My brothers and sisters, not many of you should become teachers, knowing that we who teach will receive a stricter judgment. Those who teach the word will have greater responsibility, and those who twist it for their own gain will receive a harsher punishment." Marcus Aurelius looked at me one last time. Rodrigo, if you come back, if God gives you another chance, please warn the church. Tell them that money is a deadly trap for pastors. Tell them that hell is full of preachers who had the gift of gab but corrupt hearts. Tell them his voice was lost in a cry of pain as the demons renewed his torment. I wanted to stay. I wanted to keep talking to him. But the angel pulled me with supernatural force Chapter 12: The final warning away from that cell. You have seen enough. The angel said, "Now understand this clearly. You are on the same path. Your Lexus, your mansion, your prosperous lifestyle. While you preached to poor people that God would make them rich. Yes, they gave more money, you were one step away from ending up in this very chamber, but God, in his incomprehensible mercy, decided to give you one last warning. What will you do with it? The angel looked at me one last time with those eyes that burned like embers. There was no compassion in his face, but neither was the cruelty. There was only a terrible somnity like that of a judge pronouncing a sentence. Rodrigo Mauled Onardo, he said in a voice that resonated in dimensions I didn't understand. Go back and bear witness. The church must repent. Judgment begins with the house of God. Don't waste this mercy because there won't be a second warning. He raised his scepter and slammed it into the air before me. And it was as if he tore reality itself. A crack of blinding light opened in the middle of all the darkness of the abyss, and through it I could vaguely see the ceiling of the coliseum. The lights, the blurred faces of people, and then came the pain, a pain so intense, so absolute that all the torments I had witnessed in hell seemed pale in comparison. It was as if my soul were being compressed, squeezed, forced back into a physical vessel that no longer wanted to receive it. I screamed voicelessly. I fought without a body, and suddenly I felt a brutal impact, as if I were crashing into a concrete wall at full speed. My back arched violently. My lungs expanded, sucking in air with a horrible rasping sound. My heart began to beat with irregular, painful thumps that made me feel like my chest was going to explode. I opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was the face of a young paramedic, maybe 25 years old, with Chapter 13: Returning to share the truth beads of sweat running down his forehead. He was shouting, "He's back. We have a pulse." "Sir, sir, can you hear me?" I couldn't answer. A continuous high-pitched moan escaped my throat. A sound I didn't even recognize as my own. Tears streamed uncontrollably from my eyes, soaking my face and mingling with the saliva that trickled from the corners of my lips. My entire body trembled with violent convulsions. The paramedic tried to stabilize me while his partner prepared a destroying you from the inside. Tears began to roll down my cheeks again. I sat up with difficulty, my chest still aching, and took her hand. Mara, I said, my voice breaking. I saw hell. It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a hallucination from lack of oxygen. It was real, more real than this room, more real than you and me. An angel took me there. He showed me things I can't shake from my mind. I saw Christian leaders we know, famous pastors, renowned evangelists, suffering eternal torment, for having profited from faith, for having loved money more than souls. Marless stared at me. Why died? Processing what I was saying. Who? she whispered. Ernster Villobos from Guatemala, Santiaray from Argentina, Daniela Mardo from Ecuador, and Mario. When I mentioned my mentors name, Marcela put her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp. She knew him well, too. He had been to our house, shared meals at our table. Bishop Marlio asked incredulously, but how? He's one of the most respected leaders in Colombia. He was a thief. Marle had been diverting church offerings into secret accounts for 30 years and I was following the exact same path. Our Lexus, our house in Elteera, my Rolex, the international conferences where we charged fortunes. Ow!

Pastor Dies Six Minutes and Sees Hell

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