When we face difficult moments, when fear, loss, or uncertainty rise up, whose authority do we give our faith to?

That question stays with me. Because not every power that claims authority deserves our trust.

In Revelation 13, John tells a story.

He sees a beast rise out of the sea, out of chaos, the unknown, the things we fear. And this beast is not acting alone. It’s given power by the dragon, the ancient serpent, the same deceiver from the Garden.

After losing the battle for heaven, the serpent turns to earth. Unable to rule by truth, it rules by imitation. But not all imitation is bad.

There’s imitation that honors and imitation that deceives.

And I say this not as a pastor or theologian, but as a storyteller. Because storytellers know imitation can be sacred. When we retell a story or echo a truth that’s older than us, we’re honoring what’s real. We imitate to understand, to pay tribute, to stay connected. That’s holy mimicry. It reflects something divine.

But the serpent’s imitation isn’t about reflection. It’s about replacement. It imitates to counterfeit, to confuse, to control. That’s not art. That’s manipulation.

The mocker, the evil one, doesn’t create anything new. It only mocks what is holy. It takes the shape of good but empties it of love. And what John shows us isn’t just a monster story. It’s a story about power pretending to be divine. Because although the serpent gives authority to the beast, and the beast in this story is absolutely terrifying, the serpent’s real power isn’t in the monster.

It’s in its ability to mirror God, to appear holy, to sound right. For most of our lives, it doesn’t arrive as a dragon or a beast. It arrives with a smile or a promise. It wears a suit, signs a deal, or says, “This is for your good.” That’s the trick of imitation without love. It can look like light, but it doesn’t heal.

But if you’re the serpent, delegating power to earthly things to claim power over earth, the only way you can win is to convince the world that you know the end of the story — and that you can deliver it.

And the only way to make that case is to give them an ultimatum, and to be authoritative in delivering those consequences on earth.

But what we are asked to believe is that isn’t the end of the story.

So again, how do we tell the difference?

Then John closes this vision with a warning and a hope. “If anyone has an ear, let them hear.” He’s saying, listen carefully. Don’t get lost in the noise. Don’t mistake imitation for truth.

Because the serpent and the beast aren’t locked in history. They still live in every form of power that demands fear instead of love.

And, just like all good questions, the question still remains: when things fall apart, who gets your faith?

Well, John gives us more good news. Sort of. He reminds us that following real authority also has a real cost. There’s pain. There’s captivity. There’s loss. Faith isn’t safe, but it’s true.

Christ showed us that.

He faced those consequences and still gave his spirit, not to a mimic, not to fear, but to God. And maybe that’s where we touch the experience of God most clearly, as parents.

We watch our children make choices.

We guide, we tell stories, we set boundaries.

But at some point, they have to choose for themselves.

And love, real love, lets them.

We hope they stay true to the God who is love, but even when they don’t, we wait with open arms.

Forgiveness. Grace. Another chance.

That’s not pretending to be God.

That’s trying to embody God, unconditional love.

That’s as close as we come to touching the divine.

OK, if you’re like me, maybe you still need some convincing. Maybe this all sounds too abstract, too big, too meta. So here’s a storytelling hack that helps me keep perspective.

The thing I know as a storyteller is this: you can always tell who the author is. The author carries a quiet confidence because they know the end of the story. They care for the characters. They want what’s best for them, even when the story gets rough. But sometimes, characters get it twisted. They start thinking they’re the author.

And instead of honoring the larger story, they start mimicking it.

They imitate not out of love, but out of fear.

They try to write their own ending, one built on control, power, and manipulation. Those characters aren’t the final boss. They can’t deliver the story. They can only pretend until we reach the end, where every character, even them, finds out who the real Author is.

False power shouts to be believed.

The true Author can whisper because He knows where the story is going. That voice doesn’t rule by fear. It rules by love. And if we can quiet ourselves, really listen, we’ll hear it. That still, small voice that’s been with us all along, saying:

Be still, and know that I am God.

Maybe that’s the real message of Revelation. That in the end, love is the only thing worth giving your faith to.

Oh, and here’s the good news.

We already know the end of the story.

If we have the faith to get through the book, we get to meet the Author. And the Author is love.

And love doesn’t demand allegiance. It invites.

Love doesn’t rule. It redeems. The end.