The Book of Daniel and the Mystery of the Resurrection Machine

by Holloway, Daniel;

  The demon was the voice of guilt, from mothers and fathers, family and friends, the do-gooders of God who so ridiculed in the name of the very devil they worshiped each Sunday. Always denigrating in tone, always condescending, they merely spoke what the master of their minds commanded: “Do this.” “Don’t do that.” “Work more.” “Get your life straight.” “Get your head out of the clouds.” “What is your problem?”. Though I had surely tried, in the end nothing I could do was enough to keep up with these Joneses.

  Other, far crueler things made their way back to my ears as well, their opinion often gnashing at the core of my soul. This was the source of darkness that held me down each night as I lay terrified of my failures in this life. It haunted me with the reminders of their words, the fault and the blame. Not till well into my 50s would the monster of condemnation lose its grip. It was then that guilt, the fuel that fired this burning of my mind, finally ran out.

  But this is the whip of God, the very tool that has readied me for the work that God Himself had devised. Thus it is only right that such things should come to destruction. Yet ironically within that darkness is also a treasure that is little understood, a true paradox of hardship and glory. In it I have learned so much, never turning my back on the lessons that lead to the Wisdom of God.

  The dream continued, however; she noted that early each morning, the demon would stand-to, powerless to proceed. Thereafter she would see me again, each time crossing the same dam, somehow revived with an inexplicable smile of joy. In that smile was a victory that made no sense. How could something so powerful fail to kill such a frail and seemingly helpless old man? What was the resilience that she saw within the emerald sparkle of my eyes? It gave her a sense of hope in an otherwise hopeless nightmare.

  Still pouring her tears, she said that I finally died alone. I was rather, “just gone,” she said. Accordingly “they” found, as it were, only one remnant of my life, one unsuspecting reminder: my cane, wrapped in countless coils of thin paper-like bark. “People came from somewhere, the government and scientists I think, they took it away to study it.”

  They unwrapped its bindings to find that it told a story beyond what they could understand. They struggled to find out how I knew of that which was written upon its rough script, how I came to this knowing, but they could not. Upon those sheets was the story of what I saw and knew. She recalled that they took the cane and its wrappings to a museum. There people came from all around the world just to see it—upon it things that were never before heard nor seen.

  Ah, but it was all just a dream. I realize of course that in today’s world, few believe in God, devils, demons, and angels. Religion is fading as perhaps it should be; the desire for dogma, the belief in unbelievable tales, often traded for seeming rational pursuits. We point to our education that we feel brings awareness. Such high understanding thus negates the need for ancient belief and superstition.

  Don’t misunderstand my intentions; in the end, believing is what it is all about, yet it is the conflict of our beliefs that cause so many of the world’s woes. The root of course is the religious playbooks we were handed from the past. These are the scriptures of elusive interpretation, the boxes that our cultures shook in an effort to guess their content. Though billions herald these texts as truth, hardly any two people agree on the totality of what that truth really is.

  The Bible itself makes a wonderful example: For over 2,000 years, all have speculated as to its one true interpretation—over 30,000 denominations, that is, 30,000 guesses of the same book revered as truth by believers, yet so often the core of their bitter and even deadly religious rivalries. How could that be? And how embarrassing would it be to find that they were all wrong?

  The truth is a sharp sword: the Catholics and the Protestants, the Sunni and the Shiites and so on. They all shook the box; they all picked their poison, the book and interpretation of their choice, the Hindu and the Jews as well; the countless doctrinal bickering of the Bible, the Koran, the Vedas and more. Some were our own guesses; others those that tradition gave.

  We aligned ourselves with those guesses as well. We found within them a sense of righteousness, rhyme, and reason. How ironic that our search for truth would bring such ruin: the archetypes of bigotry, bias, and hatred. Was not our differences in belief and doctrine the prelude for every religious war that has ever occurred? As history has shown, we fight to the death for our “truths” that we believed, wrongly-so. To find in the end that the real myth was our misunderstanding of those same scripts and scrolls.

  All things evil must one day perish, and so with the deception that hides the truth. Wouldn’t we all love to know, once and for all, exactly what lies hidden within those ancient boxes from the past? To open, finally, and see, without guessing, the whole truth, the real truth? And in this, to find our real place within the world, to finally realize, on a grand level, why we are here? To know that we are more than just our senses, more than just a temporary creature in this archaic universe? In the end, to realize that we were never intended to “fit-in”?

  There is only one interpretation that puts every verse of every holy book of the world in-sync. The primer is deceptive in that it is, in no way, shape or form, literal or historical in nature. Once you see it, there will be no more questions; there will be no more denominations; there will be no more strife of religious doctrine and dogma, one against the other. Indeed, once we find that primer, that code of truth, it reveals a science far greater than our minds till now could comprehend but also puts to an end every guess that came before it.

  Let’s face it, you seek evidence; you need evidence. You already know that something big is about to happen. We feel it subconsciously in the very depth of our being. The scientists have already discovered the God particle; we are close to this thing, this discovery of which we all await. Somehow we sensed it; we knew it was near.

  Thus what I offer is validation, not by a new or futuristic discovery, but from the ancient past; that indeed there is something more, something bigger than the status quos of this life. Here something greater emerges about who we are and where we are from. Here, now, the unlikely becomes the probable, the visible, and the miraculous. Now there will be no more guesses but only the truth that lay before us all along.

  That is what I offer you, the seals of the ancient texts removed: Your Bible, your Koran, your Vedas, the pyramids, the megaliths, the ancient past, will be opened and understood as they were meant to, in this day and at this time; to show you the mysteries that someone from long ago left for us today.

  True to my daughter’s dream, true to her prophecy, I am alone yet with an indomitable joy within. I learned of course to keep it to myself, my cane, the images and truths that sustained me since the days of the little old man. What I knew all along I kept till the end. I wrote it for you that in the end and after I was gone, you would have this, that all of humanity would partake in the fruits of my estate.

  It is my gift to you, the sheets of information that you are about to read. Herein the rough outer bark of scripture is removed to reveal a scientific treasure that defies imagination. This is the wealth I leave to you. Indeed it will change you forever, whoever you may be. In it is the one and only way out of death and, beyond your greatest hopes, the path to immortality.

  Some of you will understand it, some of you will not; but it is the truth, and no one will ever prove it wrong. It is the grand finale of those who once roamed your planet. It is what they knew, an intellect they hid within the sacred books that we all shook as mere children in a child’s game of guessing about God.

  To them however, it was not a guess but an exacting science. They gave it to us in code, encrypted within the wrapping of literalism that we believed. Therein was the greatest performance and the greatest drama of all time. What they did was incredible; what they knew was incomprehensible to the primitive human mind. Yet it is a screenplay of which we are all still partakers.

  We are at the climax of the single gr
eatest engineering feat ever accomplished, and the fruits of their work are about to be reaped. The miracle, I suppose, is that you will find in the end that the supernatural is not a myth but instead a super-science. So while the outer stories we absorbed were but a mere distraction for children, an even greater truth is about to be revealed.

  People like to say, “Abortion is a sin and the Bible says so. Adultery is a sin and the Bible says so. And so on . . .” We throw our stones no doubt, based upon our perceptions of the ancient books, behind each cast the might of popular religious opinion and interpretation. But if only you knew what was really meant by those verses, those stones by which people so-arrogantly condemned one another for millennia—to find that the authors of those texts were themselves cruel by the standards of men; to find that they cared less about our humanity, that is, who died, who lived, and the moral purity of the world.

  What they did, they did for one reason and one reason alone: They were sent for salvation, yet not of the human or human kind. To them there was only one creature here worth saving, one you’ve never seen nor met. It is the greatest creature to ever inhabit this earth and, haughty as we’ve become in our perceptions of truth, it is the real truth that will condemn our own religious judgment and condemnations . . .

  My memory is keen for a soul of such age, the images still crisp after all this time. Some say I am delusional, that I see nothing; I suffer, they contend, from old age and hardship, the imagination of a madman. I suppose by the appearance of things I am inclined to agree. My eyes aged and failing, my mind somewhere between this world and the next—what possibly could I know? Admittedly the line for me is a fine one, a razor’s edge, the boundary between genius and insanity, what is real and what is not.

  In my defense, consider the seclusion to which I was subjected. For too long I was a captive in the most brutal of hells: my past—a very long road of tortured memories. Now I live as a hermit, half-crazed and alone with what I see in my mind. Like a movie, my tour in time replays over and over again, a journey of the eons.

  Madness then, I suppose, is the prerequisite for what I am about to tell you, the only greater lunacy of which would be to say nothing at all. But perhaps I should let you be the judge, whether outstanding or outlandish, real or imagined. Hear, then, my story, from beginning to end.

  It is my contention that I remember these things for a reason, that regardless of how bizarre or unlikely my tale, I was touched, not by the peculiar, but by my own past. Indeed my recollections are the only record in existence of a people and information that has all but been erased. And while I am not the last of my kind, unto me it was entrusted to reveal the secret, the code, the magic.

  Yet no matter how far removed from time and ages gone by, the images I see are not thousands of years old but of yesterday. Indeed, fresh are the pictures: the Temple Mount, now only ruins of pillars and stones that were once so grand, so domineering. I was there from the beginning and at the end; I sat upon the remnant of my world, all that I knew and lived and loved—now only ashes. How could a place, I ponder, a spectacle of such reverence, come to such treachery? I try to remember it as it was, before the Roman hordes plundered our creation.

  Humans—I had traveled again to Jerusalem as chief of the magicians, that is, the magi, to oversee a city gone mad. Rampant chaos in the streets, corruption in the priesthood, zealots who, in full rebellion, have drawn the ire of the legions and now almost a million bloated corpses rotting in the sun. Almost every Jew in the city was slaughtered. To no avail, those who did survive were taken to the far corners of the empire as either slaves or entertainment for the games.

  And while I loved the Israelites, like all humans, they were prisoners to their own lies. They could not see beyond their physical selves, a fact reflected in their fight to preserve a physical holy land. They perceived the scriptures and Israel by the flesh; that the Messiah would be an outer being, -physical as were they, and that somehow the temple of God was of this world.

  But the message was far deeper and far more profound than that. I put the patterns before them, not only them, not only in Israel, but everywhere I wandered throughout the world and throughout the years. I showed them the symbolic sacrifices of the calf, the lamb and the two fishes—these the ages of Taurus, Aries and Pisces. It was in these epics that the truth was slaughtered via the ignorance of man, dead within all of humanity, their own blood the cost of drunken sleep.

  It was in these ages that the glow of the heavens finally receded. The light had existed for millennia, but by the beginning of the age of Pisces was gone except within the skies above the Earth’s poles. And with the end of this illumination, also came the suppression of their inner eye. Now they, the human creature, saw only with its physical-eyes, now a lust for the things of the physical world. They had forgotten the ancient wisdom, the real wife of their youth, and thus their memory of the world from which they came.

  But only the Jews of all people valued money enough to eat it. They filled their guts with gold and silver coin in an effort to hide it from the invading Romans, oblivious that the real treasure already lay hidden within them. Yet with this absurdity they lost both their money and their lives. The Romans disemboweled them by the thousands, crucifixions lining the hills and roads around Jerusalem.

  I pondered the blindness of the world in which I lived, how only a hardened generation would trade the inner love of God for a lust of outer things, forfeiting the eternal for the temporal. But they simply could not see. They defended their perceptions to the last, crowding within the halls of the treasury in a last-ditch effort to prevent its theft by the legions. And now myself beneath the city of tunnels, trapped as were they. I could hear their screams above me as they burned alive.

  Gone with them are the stockpiles of the treasury, the tithes of their temple. Like every lust of the eyes, the riches they harbored were fleeting, taken to Italy as plunder in a caravan that stretched beyond the horizon. And though the outer Temple is destroyed, it survived long enough. It served its true purpose and, as you will see, offered a peculiar treasure for us all.

  All was not lost; I saved many of the Sacred Maps, the magic sheets of the heavens. This was the greatest treasure and the real secret of the Temple. The last of my couriers made their escape as the Romans encircled Jerusalem. They fled for the Judean desert, to the caves of Qumran; and though they buried my mystery within those sands, they could not save themselves. They too were eventually surrounded and slain.

  I myself survived by a fluke of faith, for as the Temple collapsed it trapped me within the storage cellars below, safe from the warfare that raged outside. I remember sitting in the blackness of those secret tunnels, a willing prisoner once again, my body silently and safely tucked away within the sanctuary of God. Yet as I stumbled in the gloom of those caverns, I found more sheets, more scrolls that hadn’t escaped.

  They were rolled in parchment, the skins of beasts, and sealed with the mystery of God, encoded with the real truth that was forbidden until the time of the resurrection. It was I who scribed their lines, who measured each word, every letter counted, added to perfection. Each was placed in its own rounded case and though my refuge was darkness, the light of these passages was still visible in my mind.

  Sadly, while I could not save those sacred writs, I did at least save myself. After three days I escaped from beneath the Temple Mount, crawling from the collection pool that drained the blood of the altar. There I emerged from above the Brook of Kedron and ascended to the stench and destruction of the Temple ruins.

  My cloak covered in the blood of animals, the Roman soldiers stare in contempt, themselves unsure of my pale complexion and unusual eyes. They could see that I was no Jew, which, some would say, saved me from the fate of my comrades. Yet the barbarity of the Romans was no match for the visage before them. My glare chilled them to the bones as they walked wide circles, their arms full of stolen loot.

  But whatever the excuse for my survival then, it was faith
itself that ensured my memory through the ages and, now over 2,000 years later, would preserve the truth for you today. It was meant to be, written long ago that the words are sealed until the end. And here I stand, in proper order, to tell you my keeping of the ages.

  And what of my involvement as a magistrate within the great cabal? How shall I begin? Time fails me to tell you everything: how we traveled the ancient world, to Greece, Babylonia, Egypt and of course, Israel too. Contrary to what the historians say, we crossed the mighty oceans millennia ago; we established the traditions of the Incan, Mayan, Aztec, and even the Chinese cultures. We went southward and northward to the frozen poles as well; you will see…

  That we traveled the globe is evident by our calling card; the iconic “dragon” or serpent who was part of every ancient-lore. In prehistory this flying monster terrified the primates as it circled in the skies above. Its fear forever etched within their instinct, we used its legend to portray a far greater and real monster who has you.

  Yet even today the serpent survives in your myths and modern festivals. You will find him in your scriptures. Indeed his likeness still haunts the Aztec and Mayan pyramids, still painted upon the cliffs of the Mississippi, and molded into the dirt of the serpent mound in Ohio. I will show you who and what the dragon, the fallen serpent, truly is.

  Draco the Ancient Dragon: Known as both a serpent and/or a dragon, this ghastly-beast was the chosen hallmark of the Magi. Its imagery is found in every ancient religion from around the globe. We used man’s instinctive fear of this mythological creature to instill obedience upon the cultures we formed and controlled.

  There is more evidence than mere dragons however. We did things, seemingly impossible feats, and yet the arrogance of modern man still refuses to believe. Guess, if you will, how our Sumerian text was found on ancient clay bowls high within the mountains of Bolivia, an unlikely place, don’t you think, for those who were unable to cross the oceans? Ponder, if you will, the perfect symmetry and alignments of the pyramids. Consider our scriptures, thousands of years old, which your cultures still use today. More so, not only these physical creations, but the secrets encoded within them.