The Final Prophet

CHAPTER ONE

New York City—June 2032

The television studio, a vast jungle of electronic equipment, was teaming with frantic workers preparing for the most ambitious event of their careers. This day was the climactic moment awaited round the world. A daily avalanche of media coverage had prepared billions of viewers for this phenomenon. A live satellite uplink, carried from one orbiting dish to another over every corner of the planet, was to transmit the telecast of the century. One man would sit before the eye of humanity and speak to every living human being in the same instant. Nothing would ever be the same afterward.

The prophecies of spiritual masters and illumined visionaries heralded this event as the turning point in the evolution of human consciousness, the moment of mass awakening to a level of awareness and insight that would break through the opaque clouds of separate consciousness into the vistas of union with universal life.

All work was at a standstill. Offices were dead silent as employees stood motionless before television sets. Millions upon millions were frozen into one common beam of attention.

Instant translation of each word pronounced by the speaker into every known language would insure a synchronization of hearing and understanding, thanks to the colossal powers of techno-genius that circled the globe like one great nervous system, connecting every nerve to the central vortex of activity. Satellite dishes looked toward the heavens in front of countless churches, temples, ashrams, mosques, universities, and hotels—all packed with silent, expectant faces.

Red lights flashed on and off with urgent words. Ten minutes and counting before the worldwide telecast. Cameramen adjusted their headphones, nerves on edge with the magnitude of the moment. Producers hurried back and forth, called out orders to assistants, checked their watches obsessively. Sweat gleamed on brows that had seen it all, veterans of the great feats of global broadcasting. But this one was different. This was an encounter between humanity and its destiny. This was the final revelation to a race come of age.

Technology and science had established this possibility now facing the world. History’s painful road had reached its kairos time, its transitional point.

Where is he?

Jeanne Fleming, network producer extraordinaire, shot out her question to no one in particular. The floor director looked anxiously into the control room, hoping somebody had an answer. He motioned like a panicked mime at the shadows commandeering the booth.

You tell me! yelled back an outraged director. His face ravaged by thirty years of tantrums over tight deadlines and prima donnas, the man hadn’t a drop of patience left in his system. Especially this evening.

Frank Ross rushed out of the control room, into the studio, and sought out the producer like a loose bull in a Spanish fiesta.

This is your fault, Jeanne!

She turned around and faced her assailant.

How dare you! I had the agenda worked out to the minute.

Ross knew that, having done over twenty shows with her. But he needed to vent his frustration on someone.

What the hell are we going to do now?

Jeanne removed a lock of red-dyed hair from between her eyes and took a deep breath.

I was told by his people that they would have him here twenty minutes before air time.

Twenty minutes? You know that’s unheard of for a live telecast! Why’d you agree to that? There’s half a dozen guys with heart conditions in this studio!

We’re not dealing with someone whose schedule can be controlled! Jeanne fired back angrily. I did the best I could.

Ross turned in circles several times, taking in the hectic scene around them.

I better not lose my job over this, he muttered.

Take it easy, Frank. The world will wait for him.

The aging, worn out director stopped his anxious pacing. He looked into the eyes of his colleague. For an instant, he lost track of the noise whirling around them. Jeanne Fleming, aggressive go-getter and unflinching personality, felt herself soften as a smile crossed her lips. The reality of the moment came back to her and lifted her above the whirl of emotions that was such a part of her daily activity.

They’ll wait for him . . .  she repeated gently with a strange, distant voice. Ross felt a chill rise up his spine and goose bumps spread across his entire body. He was far from being religious, but there was something special—sacred—about this event. Even a jaded TV director recognized the exceptional quality of the moment.

It’s bigger than the Oscars, isn’t it? he said, paradoxically feeling the weight of worry evaporate from his chest and shoulders.

You bet, Jeanne retorted. You go on back to your chair and do your job.

Right, he agreed with a new determination.

Ross watched her walk off into the crowd of technicians. He shook his head in amazement and returned to the control room.

So what’s the deal? asked one of the assistants at the switch.

You tell me, Ross grunted as he grabbed his headphones.

The audio man looked up from his vast board of knobs and buttons and nearly jumped out of his seat. Rex Conway, senior vice-president of programming, was standing over him peering through the wall-length window.

Mister Ross, sir, I think there’s someone here to see you.

Ross had just seated himself comfortably in his cushy swivel chair.

Are you joking? We’re going live in minutes.

Not if the set is empty, we’re not!

The VP was now in the control room, his cultivated baritone voice booming over the dozen people in the booth.

Ross swallowed hard. Top brass only showed up in his work area when things were going very wrong.

What’s the backup plan? the director asked as calmly as he could.

There is no backup plan, Ross! Conway cried out. The ugly tone of his voice clashed with his shiny, perfectly tailored Italian suit. Everyone seemed to shrivel at his rage. Conway looked at them with that arrogant air made possible by too much power and a huge bank account.

We’ve got over five hundred million dollars of corporate sponsorship hanging on this thing. It’s your job to make us look good.

So do we run the logo and put up a ‘please stand by’ slate? Ross dared to ask. The VP flashed him a disdainful look.

Put a gazillion people on hold? It could start a war!

Conway nervously ran his manicured fingers through the scented grease holding his hair back.

I knew we shouldn’t have agreed to this. It’s too weird . . . and too dangerous.

He noticed that the pretty engineer by the vectorscope overheard him.

What can you do when the President gives you a call and the World Federation Secretary himself walks into your office?

He held in check a sheepish look which might have betrayed the limitations of the power that gave him his bombastic confidence. The young woman was not impressed. The eagerly anticipated presence of today’s visitor to the studio obliterated all pretense to self-importance. A mind-bending breakdown of imaginary hierarchies and power bases had invaded the building since early morning. Nothing was the same, and the man had not even made his appearance.

* * *

A door opened, and the prophet appeared, surrounded by a nervous entourage. A great hush came over the studio as he slowly walked toward the lighted stage where the cameras awaited him. Tall, intense, ruggedly handsome, he looked more like a film star than a wonder worker. But there was something about his presence that was unlike anyone else. An aura of all-seeing awareness accompanied him like a luminous cloud. Those who came under his gaze, however briefly, were seen through and through.

His disciples flanked his side more like bodyguards than devotees. Several hurried ahead and confirmed where he was to sit. A make-up artist was angrily told to forget about powdering their leader’s forehead. It just wasn’t done.

Producers, directors, and technicians watched with stunned silence as the man walked onto the set and took his seat. Presidents and other world leaders had come before them in the past, and these professionals had long ago lost any trace of fascination with celebrities. But this man was different. He was more than a famous person. In his wake, he seemed to carry some mysterious power from the heart of the universe. He had performed miracles before the eyes of a cynical, suspicious world. No one doubted anymore.

Roll camera! Ross shouted with a blend of relief and enthusiasm.

The prophet sat stoically before the eyes of the world.

"Many have come before to warn you of what lay ahead. But I have come to tell you that the warnings are over. The Tribulation, the age of transition, is here!

"Each of you who listen to me must awaken now to your true nature so that you may not only survive the cataclysms and tragedies that are about to devastate the world, but most especially—so that you may participate in the rebuilding of the aftermath.

"A new beginning will rise out of the destruction and purification of the old. Prepare yourselves now to become instruments of the higher realm that seeks to bring light to this forsaken place. Otherwise you will be mere fodder for the terrible calamities that are already on their way.

"What is the nature of this change you must undergo? First, centuries-old misconceptions must be uprooted. Among them are the idolatry of the self and the legions of evil that come with it: separation, violence, greed, reckless abuse of the earth.

"Turn your attention from yourselves to the Source of your existence. This is what you were created to do and be: co-workers in the completion of creation, not its vultures and destroyers. You cannot participate in the building of a new age without serving a higher world by letting it work through you.

How is this done?

He paused for a moment.

We must get beyond religion.

The words were stated slowly and emphatically. A worldwide audience watched in stunned silence. The man on the television screen stared unblinking at the camera that was sending his message around the planet, live and instantly translated.

The forms must die so that their true content can be released.

The serene speaker knew that every sentence he pronounced could be a death warrant. But this moment was the climax of his strange and wondrous journey on this plane of existence. It was for this that he was born.

Hardly middle aged, the prophet of the new millennium was a man of mystery. His life was virtually anonymous until the previous year when his fame exploded across the globe. Now he spoke from the depths of his mysterious soul to a critical mass of humanity. The outcome could change entire societies and lead to an enlightened epoch for all peoples.

We are one family. All of our intuitions of the Sacred are partial truths. The time has come to tear down the barriers between us. Religious institutions have failed humanity and the teachers they claim to represent. A new day has arrived. Today, we can each recognize the oneness within all authentic religious teaching. We must now turn beliefs into experience. The only genuine sanctuary is within each one of you, not in buildings. Rituals are only useful if they lead us into the depths of our own heart.

A hushed crew watched intently in the darkness of the vast studio. The solitary man sat peacefully on a stool beneath a dozen lights. Alone and uncompromising, he addressed the world.

In the bowels of the cavernous studio, hurried footsteps echoed toward the control room. An anxious Rex Conway burst into the room.

We’ve got to cut him off! The phones are ringing off the hook! We’ll lose every one of our sponsors!

Frank Ross rose from his chair and cried out impatiently.

The World Federation has approved the appearance of this man on the International Link! What he says is their concern, not ours.

The vice-president, more nervous than ever, was losing his mask of suave confidence and turning into a bundle of twitches.

This heresy is not Federation-approved! It can’t be! In less than a minute, the man’s made himself the number one enemy of every religion on the planet!

So?

Conway stopped short and looked into the eyes of the director. Their cold, disinterested gaze said it all.

One more dead lunatic won’t bring the world government to an end, he added with a certain pleasure. He’s making his bed. Let him lie in it.

The executive turned to the large window opening onto the studio. The solitary man was still talking in a slow and steady voice to a shocked world audience.

2 

Enid, Oklahoma—October 2031

It had all started on a quiet night in the middle of nowhere, less than a year before.

A light was on in the library of the old Gothic seminary building. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. Hardly another light could be seen for a hundred miles in the barren plains of Oklahoma. The library was on the top floor of the cathedral-like building and overlooked the small city of Enid like a misplaced monument from another age.

Perched above the roof, surrounded by gargoyles and statues of forgotten saints, was a narrow tower. It was from here that the solitary light shimmered in the darkness. Inside the tower were kept old books that no one had studied for half a century or more. Decaying covers lined the walls like abandoned sarcophagi guarding unimaginable treasures. The wisdom of mystics and scholars across two millennia was gathered there, mute legacies crying out from their hopeless confinement.

Neither professors nor students came to visit these orphans of the most illumined minds of the past. Dismissed as irrelevant and even ignorant, these books from the loftiest souls of the race were rejected in favor of the latest academic best-seller gracing the book review pages of important journals, assuring tenure and pay raises for their authors.

One man still visited the tower and its disdained treasures. An old professor, soon to reach his eightieth birthday and kept on the faculty out of charity, spent his evenings here. Dr. Anton Hogrogian, an Eastern European scholar once beloved by generations of students, was now long past his prime. Though he had published several books in his day, he had committed more time to teaching than to advancing his fame among his peers.

During his forty years at the seminary, he had outlived the entire faculty several times, had watched his wife slowly die of cancer, and was now utterly alone in the world. No one took him seriously anymore, not even freshman students who considered the slow talking, slumped over old man little more than an easy course to get through. The latest president had tried several times to force him into retirement, but always found himself unable to pronounce the words when gazing into those large, dark and melancholic eyes that saw through to the core of his soul.

Dr. Hogrogian was considered an eccentric and patronizingly called a mystic, without any understanding of what the word meant. But the few who came to know him were clear that he was indeed a mystic whose powers of mind blended with keen intuition and certain innate psychic capabilities. The aged professor was also a striking example of humility, the kind that could only be forged in a lifetime of inner spiritual effort. He never put forth his unusual talents and brilliant learning unless they could benefit another person, and even then it was with an unassuming aura that often veiled his profound contributions.

Despite a serious heart condition and a laundry list of physical ailments, the professor was in the tower again on this night. Sitting at the small wooden table in the corner of a room jammed with books, he was leaning over yellow, water-stained pages attempting to decipher the fading print.

Something was different on this silent night. Never before had the professor remained in the tower at such a late hour. Never before had his shriveled skeleton of a body been wracked with an intensity that bordered on frenzy.

Before him lay writings dating back to the first century AD. The words were in Hebrew. Dr. Hogrogian slowly, relentlessly moved his finger across the page from right to left. In an excited whisper, he translated the ancient words to himself.

"And there shall be two . . . "

The trembling finger stopped and remained on the end of the sentence, shaking like a reed in a howling wind. The aged professor turned to his battered briefcase that sat open on the desk next to him. With his other hand, he rummaged through the mess of papers and books and pulled out a shiny new paperback that seemed oddly out of place in this mortuary of withered works. He fumbled through it, searching for a passage he had marked in ink the day before.

The top of his balding head turned a scarlet red. His worn and wrinkled face suddenly began to beam with a youthful energy, a momentary Indian summer peering through the late autumn of his life. The book was the latest publication on the findings of the Dead Sea Scrolls. Lost for centuries and accidentally found in caves near the sight of the mysterious Essene sect, these treasures were still being deciphered for the general public. He read from a chapter on one of the most intriguing scrolls to be pieced together, the Manual of Discipline. It contained both the way of life and the teachings of the esoteric community at Qumran in the heart of the Judean desert, not far from the wilderness where John the Baptist had called his people to spiritual renewal.

Another Messiah . . .  the old man murmured in awe. There is to be another Messiah for our time . . . 

He threw the book down and pulled from his pocket the morning edition of the local paper. Spreading the newspaper out before him, he turned to the back page of the second section. His finger once again undertook its scanning efforts, this time rushing down through the columns of print.

He came across a small, insignificant article hidden away in the lower third of the page. The headline read: The Tale of the McCormick boy: Some say it’s a miracle. The professor came to sentences he had underlined with a shaky pen: The part-time pastor, a student at the local seminary, was unavailable for comment.

Dr. Anton Hogrogian, Ph.D. from Oxford, professor Emeritus and lifelong student of things sacred, sat back in his little wooden chair. He closed his tired eyes and breathed deeply. A tear appeared in the thick crow’s feet at the corner of his eye and slowly wound its way down his cheek.

Could it be? he sighed. Holy God, could it be?

After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked toward the window. Pale moonlight streamed into the room, peaceful and serene.

Am I just an old fool? he wondered out loud. The stars shimmered in the night. They seemed to answer the old philosopher with their mysterious light journeying down to him from unimaginable distances. Their stability comforted him. They mirrored the changelessness of some eternal truth shining down on a world gone mad.

After all his years of study, Dr. Hogrogian was certain of one thing: History had reached an impasse, religion was nearly dead, and civilization was wandering aimlessly without direction. It was time for a new revelation!

3 

The formation of the World Federation, which replaced the anemic and impotent United Nations, had given hope to nations wracked with instability. The centralizing of power and economic trade barely managed to slow the disintegration of societies and the imbalance of the haves and the have-nots. Born from twenty years of negotiations and cantankerous debates, the design of this amalgamation of governing powers included all sorts of clauses to safeguard the population from total oppression.

Certain birthrights were no longer so, but this was justified for the sake of the larger picture. In the last years of the twentieth century, it had become clear to everyone that the world family would either sink together or find new ways of living together. A quarter of a century later, the World Federation still seemed like a good idea. Oversight of national crises was carefully monitored. Crop failures were anticipated well in advance and preparations made on another side of the globe to ease the oncoming famine. Renegade leaders were dealt with swiftly and efficiently: War planes from a dozen nations flew in, locked onto their target, and didn’t leave until the remains of the culprit were identified in the debris. Laser powered X ray detectors were all the rage in these search and destroy missions. No one could hide anywhere. No matter how far underground the bunker was buried, regardless of the layers of steel and rock, the enemies of the Federation would be discovered with the ease of a hunting dog sniffing the trail.

The peoples of Earth were willing to pay the price for relative safety. And pay they did. Everything was now within reach of the all-powerful world government, from stock markets to individual credit and medical histories. Monster computers stored information bytes on every living person and, at the tap of a button, revealed intimate details that had once been off-limits. Genetic and DNA structures had long replaced fingerprints as marks of identification. Personality profiles dissected every potential job candidate and filed them under categories that determined their future.

Freedom and privacy had sold out to efficiency and security, even though the Federation could only oversee the growing chaos.

Within five years of this new configuration of power, the signs of breakdown were evident everywhere. National pride and prejudice still grumbled beneath the veneer of international unity and was kept in its cage only through the threat of severe reprisal. Crime was still vying for ultimate control of the streets, despite sophisticated methods of spying and infiltration. The board rooms of great industrial conglomerates were glowing with a new level of greed and success, and the very rich were getting ever richer. But for the average person just trying to get by, the unification of policies and trade meant very little. Worst of all, the human soul had been left to continue its downward fall into despair and meaninglessness.

With the linking of cultures and nations into one giant Pangea-like government came an ever greater mechanization of society. People were now cogs in a more complex and immense wheel that generated the survival of all inhabitants of Earth. The pooling of resources meant an increase in commitment to the big picture and a disinterest in individual need. All religions were held in check for the sake of order and reduced to their most superficial, external manifestations. The World Federation approved what was made available to the believer. That was the answer to religious fanaticism: Water it down and make it essentially meaningless. Religion was one more controlled substance for the consumer, one more stimulant in the escapist fare provided for the anthill of the working masses. Efficiency had no room for spiritual awakening and devotion to a Being who did not seem to contribute to the economic health of the Federation. Besides, history proved that religion was a failure, a major contributor to violence and instability. However, the Federation honored each religion as a pillar of social stability as long as it remained within the boundaries of its particular guidelines. The purpose of religious institutions was no longer the pursuit and veneration of Truth, but the support of the status quo.

In order to keep this new multi-ethnic, multi-cultural hodgepodge of civilization from shattering into fragmented subcultures, it was necessary to relativize all morality and values. Anything too hard-edged was suspect and entered into the central computer system of the Federation’s Security Department. To achieve balance and harmony among the yoked nations, the power-possessors had chosen as their creed the only option before them: Nothing is sacred, everything serves the global effort of maintaining order.

But the architects of this new unified world and its fragile balancing act had grossly miscalculated. Though the surface of society seemed to run relatively smoothly under the subtle tyranny of the Federation, the intense dissatisfaction with such a generic existence was creating secret pockets of rebellion whose leaders were more zealous than ever. Social upheaval could be held in check and trade deficits balanced out at the end of the year, but the human soul could not be reduced to a well-functioning automaton in the service of planetary stability.

Most people were quite content with their little share of goods and services. Though taxes had gone through the roof in the last two decades in order to underwrite a central controlling agency, the shopping malls and groceries stores were well-packed with the necessities of life. The World Federation even approved the latest international film stars, making sure they did not violate some group’s sensitivities so that they could be idolized throughout all cultures. This supervision not only guaranteed gargantuan profits from all parts of the world, but also insured that most everyone was kept satisfied with the distractions made available to them. And distractions were very big business.

One hundred years of motion pictures had evolved from mere entertainment to vital fixes for addicts of escapism. Keeping the world population in hypnotic contentment was a key strategy of the Federation. Revolutionaries rarely arose out of the ranks of the numb and apathetic. It was even rumored among the more courageous journalists that the Federation quietly accepted the international drug cartel’s business dealings. Not only was it one of the most efficient and successful trading partners in the worldwide market, but the goods it circulated assisted in the overall goal of the government: Keep the masses content and in a daze. No expert on human psychology had come up with a better plan to stop humanity from destroying itself.

New generations born into this anesthetized and carefully monitored society were trained to think of themselves as world citizens rather than children of specific nationalities. The philosophy behind this effort sounded good on paper and from the lips of three decades of politicians, but the end result was becoming demonic. With this new identity also came an arch-patriotism: Loyalty was now demanded by the Federation in the name of humanity rather than in the name of some particular flag. To be human meant to be in line with the accepted norms provided by the World Government. To think for oneself was as dangerous as ever. There were means of identifying and isolating those individuals who persistently refused to participate in the grand parade of sustaining the planetary economy.

Behind the power of the World Federation stood the genius of high-tech wizardry. From miniature cameras to integrated computer systems analyzing probabilities of human behavior, the very soul of the government lay in the electronic chips that gave it access to every conceivable bit of information. Liberated from absolute values, the authorities were free to pursue all avenues of science, including DNA manipulation and subliminal education.

The freedom of the press was as relative as religious doctrine, and only naive reporters imagined that they were allowed to provide information unsanctioned by the powers that be. Getting on the air meant facing several billion people across the continents, and the Federation was not foolish enough to leave that kind of access to just anyone. The information superhighway of the late twentieth century had created a network so potent in its outreach that the privilege of communication was now restricted to government-approved organizations. Though individual modems could talk to the other side of the globe, so could the international police scanners and anyone caught generating inflammatory information was sure to be found out. Particular words transmitted via fiber optics would set off search and scanning devices so intricate that before the sender finished his sentence, his address would be flashing in fluorescent red on a central office computer. There was little room for stepping out of line. That was the price for world peace, a peace that existed only on the surface.

At the turn of the century, a conflict in the Middle East broke out that started with terrorists and evolved into an all-out war involving a dozen countries. The devastation of chemical warheads shocked the world so greatly that a new demand for international control brought about the first stirrings of what would later become the World Federation.

Technology had broken new barriers, many of which only further destabilized humanity’s precarious situation. Organ harvests and other horror stories concerning the misuse of science were pervasive and virtually impossible to control. The knowledge was out, and like Pandora’s box, there was no putting the furies back.

Spiritual teachings of the past that had generated a fever-pitch of interest in the last decades of the previous century were now nearly forgotten by the majority of people who were too busy trying to survive from day to day as cogs in a giant machine. To be rejected from that system meant that there was no way to make a living or feed oneself. Survival meant control, and control meant loss of freedom. Loss of freedom meant loss of self-respect. Many people were beaten down and turned into Medieval serfs who were slaves to the technology that had originally been invented to serve them.

A backlash had taken place among the descendants of the spiritual seekers of a previous age, and religion was dried up and fossilized all the more. Yet many had returned to religion, primarily for the sake of the communal network that served their basic social needs and gave them a superficial sense of meaning in their dreary lives. The clergy had become powerful once again after enduring ridicule from society for more than half a century. They were a small elite that the Federation used in its subtle efforts to establish a social hierarchy. People knew their place in this kind of a world, and the clergy saw themselves as power brokers in the structure.

Yet most churches, temples and synagogues continued their hundred-year fall into decay as the majority of society lost all sense of a reality beyond the one dimensional version that gave them so much stress. The Federation had developed extraordinary expertise in the art of distraction to keep great masses of people passive and seemingly content. Entertainment so dominated the world that it was a virtual mind-control system. What was heard and seen from the first days of life carefully upheld the belief systems and world views that the Federation wanted to maintain, not because they had any meaning, but because they contributed to the stability of the economic structure.

Television was the great umbilical cord that fed its illegitimate children. People lived from it thoughtlessly, and had long forgotten that only critical discernment could save them from its subliminal ability to shape their perceptions. If this mother force decided there was no God, then one way or the other the world would become molded to this perspective through the relentless manipulation that overwhelmed it every minute of every day.

Human beings were shaped for whole lifetimes without suspecting anything—passive clay in the hands of an invisible potter whose purposes were not benevolent. Those who remained independent thinkers were enemies of the state and chastised mercilessly from grade school onward.

In this rigidly structured world society, people were kept in separate compartments. The haves did not see the have-nots, and the have-nots did not see the haves, many of whom hired their own private security forces to protect their goods against the desperate hordes.

The poor of the world groveled in greater numbers than ever before in world history. Famine was a constant nightmare for a third of the globe. The yearly eruptions of deadly contagious diseases were unstoppable. Those in power concluded that the upside of this catastrophe was the weeding out of a population that the earth could not sustain. This grotesque view was