I Was Raptured and Bitten by a Rattlesnake: A Rapture Dream Meaning

Have you ever had a dream that perfectly coincides with current events? You wake from sleep holding an image, a message, a sense of urgency—and then the world seems to follow the same script. That’s what happened to me the week TikTok lit up with predictions that the Rapture would occur on September 23 or 24, 2025. Millions watched videos counting down to midnight, waiting for the skies to split open and judgment to begin. The date came and went, but the conversation lingered.

For me, though, the Rapture did come—just not in the way one might expect.

Carl Jung believed that dreams arise from the collective unconscious, carrying symbols that link the personal and the cosmic. When our dreams echo what the world is obsessing over, he said, we are witnessing synchronicity—a meaningful coincidence revealing something alive in both psyche and culture. These are not ordinary dreams; they are communications from the deeper strata of consciousness, balancing what the waking mind cannot yet articulate.

The night before the so-called Rapture, I dreamed. . .This was my dream, along with the rapture dream meaning and rattlesnake dream symbolism.

I was raptured. I went to the dreamtime just to be bitten by a rattlesnake that had no effect on me. I saw all those around me not care I was bitten or that I might die. Still, nothing happened to me. Then I left that special rapture place and descended back to earth, where I stepped off the threshold of that rapture and the sun cut the air like a bone saw.

All those who had not looked up were safe in their small unknowing; I, however, carried a promise. The rattlesnake had not tried to kill me; it had chosen me as a witness. It gave me the antidote to the poison we have all been subjected to. The bite — a neat, ceremonial puncture — had opened a doorway in me where dust and old songs pooled. I could feel the Dead leaning close, correcting my posture with the weight of their hands.

I returned to the place I grew up and walked to the yard behind my grandmother’s house. I dug until my fingers found cool dark earth and buried the congealed venom with a prayer I had not known I remembered. When I rose, I could see the threads that ran from the houses to the crossroads and beyond; I could map kinships no census had ever recorded. People’s small cruelties were visible as tears in cloth; their kindnesses were bright stitches.

The work was not to fix the world but to teach it to look. I lit an oil lamp on the stoop and placed a small stone marked with the snake’s pattern on the sill. Those who noticed came, and those who would not notice found themselves unsettled by reality. In time, the people might learn to listen. The Dead taught me the words to say; I am tasked with teaching the living how to hear them.