The Forgotten Assembly: A Near-Death Warning from Hell

Marcus Desawn Williams was an ordinary man in Johannesburg, South Africa. At 34 years old, he worked as a sales manager at a logistics company in Sandton, a bustling suburb of the city. Marcus considered himself a Christian. He prayed occasionally, read his Bible when guilt nudged him, and even posted scriptures on social media. To outsiders, he seemed spiritual, but deep down, he had drifted. For over two years, he had stopped attending church. Work was demanding, his body ached from long hours, and Sundays became his only chance for rest. “God understands,” he told himself. “Worship is in my heart, not in a building.” But on September 3, 2023, everything changed.

It was a lazy Sunday morning. Marcus woke up in his apartment in Bompata, a quiet neighborhood in Johannesburg. The sun streamed through the curtains, and the distant ringing of church bells echoed through the streets. He thought about going to service but chose comfort instead. He made coffee, sat on his couch, and turned on the television. A sharp pain exploded in his head—a brain aneurysm. He collapsed, his coffee mug shattering on the floor. His neighbor, Mrs. Nosi, heard the crash and rushed in, calling emergency services. Marcus was clinically dead for 17 minutes.

In those moments, Marcus’s spirit left his body. He floated above himself, watching Mrs. Nosi press her fingers to his neck, her voice trembling as she spoke to the operator. “He’s not breathing!” she cried. Marcus tried to speak, but no sound came. Then, a powerful pull dragged him away—not through air, but through a deeper void. The temperature rose, suffocating heat enveloping him. He heard screams, moans, and cries of agony layering endlessly. The smell was unbearable: sulfur and decay. He had arrived in hell.

The ground was cracked, black stone glowing faintly from beneath like dying embers. No sky, just endless darkness that felt alive, watching. Marcus stood among rows of people—everyday folks in jeans, t-shirts, and work clothes. They knelt, faces in hands, sobbing. He recognized some from social media, his old church, his neighborhood. These weren’t atheists or criminals; they were Christians. A man nearby rocked back and forth, muttering, “I thought I had time.” A woman whispered, “I chose comfort over obedience.”

Marcus approached a man in his thirties, kneeling on the scorching ground. “I was a worship leader,” the man confessed, tears streaming. “I led people in praise, preached God’s grace. But I got hurt, offended, and left. I thought I was justified. Now, I’m here.” Marcus recoiled, realizing these souls had drifted slowly, skipping Sundays, isolating themselves, convinced their faith was enough alone. They had abandoned the “body of Christ,” the fellowship God designed for protection.

A presence appeared—an angel or Jesus Himself, radiating authority. “They honored Me with their lips, but their hearts grew distant,” the voice boomed. Marcus fell to his knees. “They loved Me in private, but abandoned My body. Fellowship is not optional; it’s where My presence dwells.” Visions flooded Marcus: his own life, skipping services, ignoring invitations from friends like Cyo, Endial, and Jou. He saw himself hiding when Jou knocked on his door. “I was becoming this,” he realized, his spirit breaking.

The angel showed him more: believers worldwide who had left church after arguments, disappointments, or exhaustion. A woman in Lagos, a man in Atlanta, a young man in Johannesburg—all drifting into isolation. Then, the faithful: those who endured, gathering despite fatigue, finding strength in community. “Those who stayed thrived; those who left fell,” the voice declared. Marcus wept, understanding Hebrews 10:25: “Do not forsake the assembling of yourselves together.”

The angel grieved. “I called them, sent My people to reach them, but they loved comfort more.” Marcus begged for mercy. “Your time is not finished,” the angel said. “Return and warn them. Hell is filled with lukewarm Christians who thought they had time.” Light shattered the darkness, pulling Marcus back. He gasped, heart pounding, in Charlotte Maxeke Johannesburg Academic Hospital. Doctors called it a miracle; Marcus knew it was a mission.

Discharged after days, Marcus returned to church. His pastor called him forward during service. Trembling, Marcus shared his story: the heat, the faces, the regret. “Hell is not just for the wicked—it’s for drifters,” he warned. The altar filled with repentant souls. Word spread. A woman from Pretoria reconciled after an argument. A young man from Cape Town joined a local church. A mother from Durban saw her son return.

Marcus recommitted fully. He joined a small group, served, and apologized to his friends. “The body forgives and restores,” he learned. He started sharing his testimony widely, speaking at conferences in Bloemfontein, where hundreds responded. “Church isn’t obligation—it’s protection,” he emphasized.

Reflecting, Marcus understood: isolation is the enemy’s trap. Fellowship sharpens, encourages, corrects. Alone, believers wither. His story warns: don’t forsake the assembly. Time is short; hell waits for the lukewarm. Marcus lives now in Johannesburg, vigilant, connected. “I was sent back,” he says. “Don’t let my story be in vain.”