MOROCCAN IMAM Dies After Reading Bible to Mock Jesus — Returns With a Message !!!

My name is Hassan Benali.

On April 3rd, 2024, at approximately 7:38 in the evening, I died in my dining room in Casablanca, Morocco.

My heart stopped while I was reading the Bible out loud to my wife and three children.

But I wasn’t reading it to learn.

I was reading it to mock Jesus Christ, to show my family how foolish Christians are for believing that God could become a man, could die on a cross, could offer salvation through anything other than strict adherence to Islamic law.

I was an imam.

I had been leading prayers at Mashid al-Nure in the H Muhammad district for 18 years.

Every Friday, over 300 men gathered to hear me preach.

I taught Quranic studies, counseledled couples, officiated weddings and funerals.

I was respected in my community.

I had memorized all 6,236 verses of the Quran by age 16.

I knew the hadith Islamic juristprudence, the five pillars of Islam.

I knew exactly what Islam taught about Jesus, about Christians, about the Bible.

And I knew with absolute certainty that Christians were wrong.

So when that young man approached me outside the mosque in late March with his booklet, the Gospel of John printed in Arabic, I took it to refute it properly.

I wanted to demonstrate that the Bible had been corrupted, that what Christians read today is distorted.

On April 3rd, I decided to share my findings with my family over dinner.

We had just finished Mcgreb prayer.

My wife Fatima had prepared tene.

My 12-year-old son, Yousef, was telling us about his Quran competition.

My 9-year-old daughter, Amamira, was helping my youngest, Omar, age six, with homework.

It was a normal, peaceful evening.

And then I decided to mock Jesus Christ.

I retrieved the gospel booklet and began reading out loud in an exaggerated theatrical voice.

My children laughed.

I read about the word becoming flesh, about God dwelling among us, about Jesus’s claim that no one comes to the father except through him.

With each verse, I added mocking commentary explaining why these claims were impossible.

blasphemous.

“Do you hear this”?

I said to Yousef.

“They worship a man who ate food, who slept, and they call him God”.

I continued reading, my voice loud, confident, dripping with sarcasm.

I was protecting my children from dangerous ideas.

I was doing my duty as a Muslim father, as an imam.

And then, mid-sentence, midm mockery, I felt it.

A crushing pain exploded in my chest.

The booklet fell from my hands.

The room tilted.

I heard Fatima scream my name.

I saw Ysef jump up, face white with terror.

I saw Amira frozen, hand over her mouth.

I saw little Omar start to cry and then I was falling backward.

My head hit the floor.

Everything went dark.

According to medical records from Center Hospitalia Universed, I was clinically dead for 7 minutes.

From 7:43 p.m. to 7:50 p.m., my heart did not beat.

Dr. Karim Amrani’s report stated, “Patient presented with massive myioardial inffection.

No pulse detected upon arrival.

Patient declared clinically dead at 1943.

Resuscitation efforts continued.

Spontaneous return of circulation at 1950.

Total time without heartbeat 7 minutes.

During those 7 minutes, my wife performed CPR while our children screamed.

Paramedics found no pulse, loaded me onto a stretcher, and raced through Casablanca with sirens wailing.

Dr. Amirani shocked my heart three times.

Each time nothing.

During those seven minutes, Hassan Benali was dead.

But I wasn’t gone.

During those seven minutes, I stood face to face with the man I had just been mocking.

The man whose words I had read with contempt.

The man I had taught for 18 years was merely a prophet.

During those seven minutes, I met Jesus Christ.

And he was not a prophet.

He was he is exactly who he claimed to be.

I was born in 1982 in Fez, Morocco, home to Alcarowian University, the oldest continually operating educational institution in the world, founded in 859 AD.

My father was a hi who had memorized the entire Quran by age 19.

My mother wore hijab from age 12, prayed five times daily, fasted every Ramadan, even while pregnant with me.

They taught me the shahada.

I bear witness that there is no god but Allah and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.

before I could write my name.

At seven, I enrolled in a traditional Islamic school.

We learned classical Arabic, Quranic recitation, the life of the prophet Muhammad in exhaustive detail.

By age 10, I had memorized the last 10 suras.

By 12, I had memorized the entire 30th Jews.

By 16, I completed memorization of the entire Quran.

At 16, I entered Alcarowine University.

I studied fick Islamic Jewish prudence covering every aspect of Muslim life.

How to pray, fast, perform Hajj, conduct business, divide inheritance, handle divorce.

I studied tapsier, Quranic exa Jesus and interpretation.

I studied hadith, the recorded sayings and actions of Muhammad.

I learned how to evaluate which hadith were authentic, how to derive rulings from the Quran and hadith.

I graduated in 2004 at age 22 with honors.

My thesis covered differences between Maliki and Hanafi schools regarding business contracts.

I felt like I had been given the keys to understanding how the universe worked.

In 2005, my parents arranged a meeting with Fatima, then 19.

We met three times before engagement, always with family present.

We discussed expectations for marriage, raising children, Islamic principles for family life.

We married in March 2006, a simple wedding with 200 guests.

At 24, I became a mom at Mashid al-Nure in Casablanca’s workingclass Hey Muhammad neighborhood.

My responsibilities were extensive, leading five daily prayers, delivering Friday hutbas, teaching children and adults, counseling people with problems.

Parents brought troubled teenagers to me.

Young couples asked me to perform their weddings.

I felt like I was fulfilling my purpose, serving Allah, guiding others toward the straight path.

Fatima and I had three children.

Ysef in 2007, Amamira in 2010, Omar in 2013.

We raised them as I’d raised prayer, Quran memorization, Islamic values.

We monitored their media exposure, limited Western influence, taught them that Islam was the truth.

Throughout my education and career, I maintained a specific view of Christianity.

In Islam, we believe Jesus was born of a virgin, performed miracles by Allah’s permission, was given the angel as revelation, and was one of the greatest prophets.

But we absolutely reject that he is the son of God.

Surah 112 states clearly, “He begets not nor is he begotten.

We also reject that Jesus was crucified”.

Surah 47:58 says, “Someone else died on the cross, but Jesus was taken up by Allah.

He will return before judgment day, kill the antichrist, break the cross, establish Islamic rule, then die naturally.

I believed the Bible had been corrupted.

Tadif the original gospel given to Jesus was lost.

What Christians call the Gospels today are human writings, not divine revelation.

They contradict each other in the Quran.

I believed Christians were misguided, sincere, but deceived.

The Trinity was invented centuries after Jesus by church councils.

I pied Christians and believed it was my duty to protect Muslims from their influence.

In March 2024, a young Moroccan man approached me after Asser prayer outside the mosque.

Imam Hassan, he said, could I speak with you?

He pulled out a small booklet, the Gospel of John in Arabic.

I’d like to give you something to read.

I stiffened.

This was bold, reckless, even.

Proatitizing by non-Muslims is technically illegal in Morocco.

Why would I read this?

I asked coldly.

Because you teach about Isa, about Jesus, he said, “And I think you should know what he actually said, his own words”.

Men around me laughed.

One said, “Brother, the imam knows more about Issa than you do”.

The young man didn’t back down.

Then he should have no problem reading this and showing me where it’s wrong.

My pride was challenged in front of my congregation.

I took the booklet.

I’ll read it and I’ll show you exactly where your gospel contradicts itself, contradicts the Quran, and contradicts reason.

He smiled.

Thank you, Imam.

May Allah guide you to the truth.

That evening, I read the first chapter in my study.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.

I laughed quietly.

Nonsense.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son.

Pure sherk, associating partners with Allah.

I am the way and the truth and the life.

No one comes to the father except through me.

Arrogance, blasphemy.

Over two weeks, I read more, marking problematic passages, planning a detailed reputation.

But some words were unsettling.

I am the light of the world.

I am the bread of life.

I am the resurrection and the life.

On April 3rd, I decided to end this.

At dinner that evening, I told my family about the young evangelist.

Do you want to hear something funny?

Let me read you what Christians believe about Isa.

It was about 7:30.

The remains of our tene dinner were still on the table.

I held up the booklet.

A few weeks ago, a man gave me this, the Gospel of John.

He wanted me to read it.

So, I did.

And I want you to hear what Christians actually believe.

Why, Baba?

Amamira asked.

Because you need to understand how grateful you should be that Allah guided you to Islam.

You need to see how confused other religions are.

I began reading in an exaggerated theatrical voice, pausing for dramatic effect.

In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.

I looked at my children.

Do you hear this?

The word was God.

Does that make sense?

No, Baba.

Yousef said, “The word became flesh and made his dwelling among us”.

I paused.

God became a human being, a tiny helpless baby born from a woman.

Omar laughed.

Amamira smiled.

Only Fatima wasn’t smiling.

She watched me with concern.

I flipped to John 3:16.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only son.

I looked up.

His one and only son.

Allah has a son.

What does the Quran say about this?

He begets not nor is he begotten.

Yousef quoted correctly.

Exactly.

This is sherk the unforgivable sin.

I continued reading and mocking for several minutes.

John 14:6.

No one comes to the father except through me.

I shook my head.

This is why Christians are so exclusive because their prophet claimed to be the only path to God.

I read about Jesus claiming to be in the father and the father in him about eating his flesh and drinking his blood.

About being the resurrection and the life.

Whoever lives by believing in me will never die.

I read my voice dripping with sarcasm.

Never die.

Christians believe.

And that’s when the pain hit.

It started in my chest, a crushing vicel-like sensation.

I gasped.

The booklet fell from my hands and scattered across the table.

Hassan.

Vadima’s voice seemed distant.

Hassan, what’s wrong?

I couldn’t catch my breath.

The pain spread down my left arm up into my jaw.

My vision tunnled.

The room tilted.

Baba.

Amira’s terrified voice.

I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t obey.

I pushed against the table, knocked over a glass.

Mint tea spilled everywhere.

Hassan, talk to me.

Fatima was on her feet.

I wanted to tell her I was fine, but only a wheezing sound came out.

Yousef froze, staring.

Amamira had both hands over her mouth.

Omar started crying.

Baba, Baba.

The last thing I saw clearly was Fatima’s face close to mine, her hands on my shoulders.

I felt myself falling backward.

My head hit the tile floor.

Everything went black.

Fatima told me later what happened in those crucial minutes.

When I collapsed, she screamed, a full-throatated cry that brought neighbors running.

She felt for a pulse, nothing.

She put her ear to my chest, no heartbeat.

She had taken a basic first aid course 2 years earlier.

The training kicked in.

She tilted my head back, positioned her hands on my chest, and started compressions.

She counted out loud.

1 2 3 4.

Yousef stood beside her, crying.

Amira held Omar, both sobbing.

A neighbor called an ambulance.

Another neighbor, a retired nurse, took over compressions while Fatima breathed into my mouth.

“He’s cold,” Fatima said.

“Why is he so cold?

Keep going,” the neighbor urged.

“Don’t stop”.

The ambulance arrived 8 minutes later.

The paramedics found no pulse.

They loaded me onto a stretcher and rushed off.

Fatima tried to come, but they needed space to work.

She got to the hospital later, waiting in agonizing uncertainty.

Dr. Karim Amrani was waiting in the ER.

When paramedics wheeled me in, he checked the portable monitor.

No heartbeat, he checked manually.

Nothing.

How long?

He asked.

First responders on scene at 1938.

No pulse detected.

Patient has been down approximately 12 minutes.

12 minutes without a heartbeat.

Dr. Amrani knew this wasn’t good.

But he’d seen miracles before.

He ordered his team to continue resuscitation.

They hooked me up to equipment.

The monitor showed ASUS toll, a flat line.

They administered epinephrine.

They shocked my heart.

Once, twice, three times.

Nothing.

Dr. Amrani checked the clock.

7:43 p.

m.

Time of death.

1943, he said quietly.

A nurse reached to turn off the monitor.

Wait, Dr. Amrani said.

Something made him hesitate.

One more round.

Two more minutes.

The team looked at him.

This wasn’t protocol, but they obeyed.

They administered more drugs.

They shocked my heart again.

At 7:50 p.

m.

, 7 minutes after he declared me dead, my heart contracted once, then again, then settled into a weak but steady rhythm.

“We have sinus rhythm,” Dr. Amrani said, staring at the monitor.

“We have a heartbeat”.

My eyelids fluttered, my eyes opened, I gasped, a horrible rattling gasp, and my body jerked.

“Dr. Omrani leaned over me”.

“Hassan, Hassan, can you hear me”?

I looked directly at him.

The first words out of my mouth were, “I saw him.

You’re in the hospital, Hassan.

You had a heart attack.

Don’t try to talk.

But I grabbed his wrist.

I saw him.

I saw Jesus.

He sent me back.

Looked like what I’m about to describe was not a dream or hallucination.

It was real.

More real than anything I’d experienced in my physical body.

The transition was instantaneous.

One moment I was falling, consumed by pain.

The next the pain was gone.

And I was standing, not lying on the floor, standing upright, feeling no pain, no weight, no physical limitation.

I looked down at my hands.

They looked like my hands, but weren’t entirely physical.

More like the essence of hands.

Then I looked around.

I was still in my dining room, but I was standing in the corner near the window, looking down at the scene.

I saw my body on the floor, gray and lifeless.

I saw Fatima pumping my chest.

I saw Yousef frozen, face white.

I saw a mirror holding Omar both crying.

I saw the neighbor rush in and take over compressions.

I watched from above, feeling detached.

That body looked like me, but didn’t feel like me.

I felt more present, more aware, more alive than ever.

I’m here, I tried to say.

I’m right here.

I’m fine.

But no sound came out, not the kind they could hear.

I watched the paramedics arrive, load my body onto a stretcher, and carry me down.

Somehow, I followed without walking.

In the ambulance, I watched them work on me.

Compressions, airbag over my face, preparing medications.

I felt none of it.

We arrived at the hospital.

They wheeled me into the ER.

Dr. Amrani was waiting.

They cut my clothes off, stuck needles in my arms, placed electrodes on my chest.

I saw the monitor, the flat green line, the steady beep indicating no heartbeat.

I heard Dr. Amrani say, “Time of death, 1943”.

The words confirmed what I already knew.

My physical body was dead.

And then everything changed.

One moment I was in the ER, the next I wasn’t there anymore.

There was darkness.

Complete darkness, but not frightening.

More like closing your eyes in a peaceful room.

And I was moving, traveling rapidly through space, pulled by some invisible force.

I wasn’t afraid.

I felt anticipation, curiosity, like I was about to discover something I’d been searching for my entire life.

The darkness had variations, layers.

I became aware of other presences, beings, souls, entities.

Some felt peaceful, others troubled, restless.

I couldn’t see them clearly, but they were there.

Then I saw light.

At first, just a pinpoint in the distance, growing rapidly.

The light was warm, golden, unlike any earthly light.

This light had depth, texture, life.

As I got closer, the darkness receded.

The troubled presences faded.

The light surrounded me.

And it wasn’t just light.

It was love.

Pure, overwhelming love.

Someone was in the light.

A man standing in the center.

As I came closer, details became clear.

He wore a simple white robe.

His skin was olive toned like mine.

His hair was dark, falling past his shoulders.

His beard was full.

He looked in his 30s, though age seemed irrelevant.

But his hands captured my attention.

They were extended slightly, palms facing me.

In the center of each palm was a scar, a visible, unmistakable scar where something had punctured through.

I knew immediately what those scars were.

The nail scars from crucifixion.

But the Quran says Jesus wasn’t crucified.

Yet here he was with nail scars in his hands and scars on his feet.

This was Jesus.

And he was not just a man.

The presence emanating from him was divine.

It was the presence I’d been taught to reserve only for Allah.

My entire being bowed down, not by decision, but because I couldn’t do anything else.

Being in his presence demanded it.

I had spent my adult life teaching people how to bow correctly in prayer.

But I had never truly bowed until that moment.

For the first time, I was in the presence of someone worthy of worship.

He spoke my name, Hassan.

The voice wasn’t loud, but carried absolute authority.

It was gentle but impossible to ignore.

He spoke in Duria, Moroccan Arabic, the language of my heart.

Hassan, he said again, you were reading about me when your heart stopped.

I couldn’t respond.

I had no defense.

Do you know why you are here?

He asked.

No Lord, I managed to think.

The word Lord came automatically.

He was Lord, Master God.

You are here, he said, because I stopped your heart.

He extended his hands toward me, palms up.

The scars were unmistakable.

Does this look like someone else died on the cross?

I had no answer.

Everything I believed was crumbling.

The Quran, I tried to say.

The Quran is not complete, he said gently but firmly.

It tells you some things about me that are true.

That I was born of a virgin.

True.

That I performed miracles.

True.

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