Divine Circuitry: Robo-Jesus Is Back — Brace for Impact
A shocking revelation unleashes the pandora's box of historic revisionism
In my youthful days, I dreamed of becoming an archaeologist, of unearthing the long-buried bones of our forebears and delving into mysteries concealed within forgotten crypts. Yet, as I matured, the image I had conjured of a swashbuckling archaeologist akin to Indiana Jones gradually morphed into something more akin to Nigel Thornberry.
I lacked the nerve of professional archaeologists, who devote years to meticulous excavation, fiddling around with brushes and scraps of history to decode what once was. Fortunately, I’ve retained the sense that there is something magical to be uncovered beneath the layers of time.
I told myself, ‘If you’re not smart enough to be one of them, then at least shadow them.’ So I became a knuckle-dragging journalist among the seasoned intellects of archaeologists and scholars.
A year into my role as a writer for the Present World Archaeology, I embarked on a journey to Israel, drawn by reports of mechanical fragments being unearthed 16 km east of Jerusalem, a mere 5 km west of Qumran, within Hyrcania Valley. The site had lingered in relative obscurity until the onset of the 2023 archeological campaign to excavate the ruins of the Hyrcania fortress.
After three days of documenting the excavation of numerous bolts, gears, and enigmatic devices, I was called over to a newly uncovered tomb within the craggy side of the mountain.
The instant I saw what was inside, I was taken aback. An eerie humanoid figure lay prone on a stone slab adorned with inscriptions. Azure torchlights illuminated the metallic silhouette.
I inhaled a shivering breath and quickly activated my recorder, determined to capture every spoken word.
At first, I thought it resembled a medieval suit of armor, but as the brushes removed the sand from its crevices, a more intriguing image emerged. Clinging to the figure’s head and neck was a helmet-like device with an open face, comprised of rusty gears, loosely coiled wires, and faint traces of glistening gold.
‘It’s unlike anything we’ve ever seen before,’ said Andrew Flickerd, the chief researcher of the dig site, at a later interview. ‘If this machine is as old as I suspect it is, this could be the most important find in history. It is an astounding piece of engineering — just a slight electrical charge for it to spring back to life!’
Dear reader, I don’t know any other way to put it, but I think I’ve witnessed the Second Coming of Jesus Christ.
The Saviour was quite rusty here and there, with a janky eye, ‘skin’ resembling a torn strip of old plasterboard, and tended to bellow black smoke from the left rib section. But aside from these quirks, it appeared that our Lord was in fine working condition.
That’s right, the Saviour has risen — again — but not in the way that any of us may have expected. Would you believe it — he’s a darn robot!
The face, marked by a black circle on the forehead, captivated me in a way that few things ever could. As those strange eyes met mine, I felt an odd sense of pity. Initially unaware that I was in the presence of a machine, it seemed as though that nonjudgmental gaze could see right through me.
While I understand that some might suspect this to be a practical joke — given the lengths people go to for their fleeting internet fame these days — I can assure you, dear reader, that the astonishment shared by our team at Present World Archaeology mirrors the astonishment of the scientific communities worldwide. The implications of this discovery are nothing short of mind-boggling.
This remarkable piece of technology challenges our understanding of the past, forcing us to reevaluate the timeline of human technological advancements and question our own role as architects of the future.
Through radiocarbon dating, stratigraphy, and thermoluminescence dating, enough compelling evidence has been gathered to confirm that this machine is at least a thousand years old. Its features have been remarkably preserved, and the corrosion of mechanical components has been minimal. The convergence of archaeological techniques and expert opinions points to the authenticity of this remarkable discovery.
Could this assemblage of clanking gears, miniature exhausts, and loose wires be the Jesus Christ who walked these lands two millennia ago? Surely, this is not the Saviour that the world has been waiting for…
The first words spoken by the machine-messiah were in Aramaic: ‘Peace be unto you,’ its voice thundering like a megaphone.
As it sat up inside the cave, it slowly raised its punctured palms, a gesture that alarmed us and drove us out of the suffocating cave. However, we couldn’t tear our eyes away; fascination held us lingering at the edge of the entrance, hearts pounding, as we listened to the monotone voice.
Upon reviewing the recording on my device, one of the researchers provided a translation of what the machine had spoken at that moment. ‘Look at my hands and my feet,’ it said. ‘It is I myself! Touch me and see; a ghost does not have flesh and bones, as you see I have.’
‘I was absolutely aghast,’ recounted Shai Lhevinne, a local archeologist with nearly three decades of experience excavating in the Middle East. Her hands trembled as she brought a glass of water to her lips. ‘Truly, I almost fainted when he sat up, but my team supported me as we hurried out of the cave. Of course, we followed the machine when it stood up and walked out of the cave. You saw it yourself, the body was a mess, skin peeling all over, and you could even see the mechanical insides. I kind of felt sorry for… whatever that thing is!’
I asked Shai what she, a lifelong Melkite Greek Catholic, thought this meant for the Biblical prophecies of Christ’s return.
She did not appreciate this line of questioning.
‘I think you’re a fool for even asking me that! You, journalists, are all the same, always trying to spin things to get a juicy headline, aren’t you?’
‘Not at all,’ I replied, ‘I simply wanted to know if this discovery might prompt you, or others with similar beliefs, to reevaluate your perspectives. I didn’t mean to offend.’
‘Well, regardless, I think you should know better. My faith in Biblical Scriptures is strong, and I trust that when the real Christ returns, nobody will have the option to question the veracity of the matter — they will be too busy accounting for their sins. This — ’ she pointed at the crooked machine-messiah bobbing about in meandering circles on the sand — ‘is not my Saviour. It is a mystery, something that may even open up a new field of research into ancient technologies, but it is not theologically pertinent.’
With that, my conversation with Shai Lhevinne came to a close.
The machine-messiah stopped its aimless wandering and lifted its head to the sky.
‘Follow me,’ it said, ‘and I will make you fishers of men.’
And with those words, the machine-messiah embarked on the desert road, and we followed.
We, the curious group of twenty, readied our cars and vans, cameras and recorders poised to capture every moment and every word. We trailed behind it, a synthetic Saviour chugging along, one difficult step at a time, beneath the relentless desert sun.
My thoughts soon wandered to the Apostles who, according to the Scriptures, followed Jesus Christ through these same lands thousands of years ago. And were we not now fulfilling a similar journey, filled with scepticism and confusion, of following in the footsteps of the machine-messiah?
Even as a heathen, I could not help but smirk at the serendipitous unfolding of events across time.
We were surprised to find that, when prodded, the machine-messiah was rather responsive. One of the researchers, a native Aramaic speaker, engaged it in conversation, and though the Aramaic of today is vastly different from that which the machine used, he managed to translate, albeit reluctantly, pieces of dialogue to the keen audience.
I jumped out of my car and walked alongside them, eager to record everything that was spoken. I kept my distance, though, still weary of whatever malfunctions might erupt from those rusty old pipes.
Here is the refined transcript of the conversation:
Native: ‘Please tell us, are you the Son of God?’
Robo-Jesus: ‘Is that your own idea, or did others talk to you about me?’
Native: ‘The Scriptures speak of you, your life, and your teachings, but we struggle to accept that this is truly you.’
Robo-Jesus: ‘You study the Scriptures diligently because you think that in them you have eternal life. These are the very Scriptures that testify about me, yet you refuse to come to me to have life.’
Native: ‘Yes, it’s not so simple you see.’
Robo-Jesus: ‘Why do you doubt me?’
Native: “You are... not real! Your appearance is unsettling. You are a machine, through and through, and your eyes do not reflect the glory of God!’
Robo-Jesus: ‘Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.’
Ernest: ‘Ask him why he can only talk in Aramaic!’
Native: ‘Are you capable of communicating in any other language?’
Robo-Jesus: ‘That which is born of the flesh is flesh, and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit.’
Ernest: ‘What the hell is he talking about? It seems like he is wired to only respond in Bible verses.’
Andrew Flickerd: ‘I believe he’s referencing the limitations of the body. The spirit knows all, but the body has its limits; or, rather, in his case, the programming.’
The native interpreter appeared puzzled at first, but I saw the flash of realisation crossing his intellect.
Native: ‘I noticed that each of your answers is a direct quote from the Scriptures. Why is that? Are you a limited creation? Who made you?’
Robo-Jesus: ‘I have much more to say to you, more than you can now bear.’
The native interpreter chuckled.
Native: ‘You did it again! You’re right, guys, he can only respond using established Scriptural sentences. Isn’t that right, O saviour of mankind? You are limited by the flesh, by the pre-written words embedded inside of you.’
In his moment of cheer, the interpreter slapped the machine-messiah on the shoulder. It remained silent, eyes firm on the road ahead.
Robo-Jesus: ‘If I said something wrong, testify as to what is wrong. But if I spoke the truth, why did you strike me?’
The interpreter shuddered at the question. Might the machine-messiah retaliate to a light pat on the shoulder?
Native: ‘No, no — I’m sorry, I got too excited. You respond to my questions with intellect, but you’re wired to only use Scriptural phrases. We find that most interesting.’
Robo-Jesus: ‘Why are you trying to trap me?’
Native: ‘Trap you? These are no traps; these are our honest observations.’
Robo-Jesus: ‘Are you so dull?’
The native gasped at the question, but we, the audience, laughed when he voiced the translation. It seemed that the machine had a sense of humour.
Native: ‘Excuse me? What do you mean by that? Why would you insult me?’
Robo-Jesus: ‘Does this offend you?’
The native glanced at me, then at the surrounding crowd of people, all eager to hear his response.
Native: ‘It offends not my pride but my faith. You are a machine, but you act as if there’s more to you. You are not the saviour; you are an ancient relic. It’s impossible that you could be Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God.’
Robo-Jesus: ‘What is impossible with man is possible with God.’
I could see that the interpreter was getting agitated. While I strive to remain impartial in my reporting, I can understand how such an experience could be seen as blasphemous by a devout believer.
Native: ‘Okay, tell me why the Scriptures fail to mention your stature and appearance? You are never described as being mechanical in any capacity — please enlighten us, O wise teacher of the ages!’
Rob-Jesus: ‘Are you not in error because you do not know the Scriptures or the power of God?’
Native: ‘I know the Scriptures like the back of my hand, you stupid… ugh, forget it. Next question? Fine, one last question, and then I need a break from this thing. So, rabbi, can you perform miracles? You are Jesus, after all. Can you heal the sick, walk on water, or turn water into wine? Show us something to make us believe, and then we will follow you, otherwise, we’ll continue to treat you like an old machine.’
Robo-Jesus: ‘It is said: “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, “Move from here to there,” and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.’
Native: ‘Curse you, machine! You have an answer for everything, don’t you? That’s it, I’m done! You people handle this rust bucket, I can’t take it anymore! I need a cigarette.’
The native interpreter walked over to a van moving slowly behind us, cursing under his breath. He climbed into the back of it and reappeared a couple of minutes later, holding a lit cigarette and a flask of some potent spirit that made him wince and groan.
Given his state, I knew better than to bother him for a round of questions.
The machine-messiah continued along the path, unchallenged and untouched. We remained captivated by the spectacle before us. Even the native interpreter, sitting in his van alongside his wife, could not look away.
As the sole journalist on site, I stayed close with my recorder switched on, capturing every clank of its rustic engine in anticipation of any words that might erupt from the speaker behind that crooked jaw.
As we neared the north-eastern outskirts of Jerusalem, we encountered an elderly American couple, their foreheads glistening with perspiration.
‘Well would you look at that?’ said the gentleman. ‘Um, shalom, fellers! What are y’all up to? And what in the name of God is that hunk o’ junk?’
His wife elbowed his rib. ‘Watch yer manners, Nelson. Can’t ya see they’re shootin’ a movie? Look at ‘em cameras an’ fancy equipment they be haulin’ wittem.’
I was first to correct them: ‘No, actually, this group of archeologists here has just uncovered something unique.’ I gestured at the machine-messiah that was focused only on the stretch of road ahead.
‘Oh…’ The old lady seemed bemused. ‘What is it? Why is it so loud?’
‘Well, it says that it is Jesus Christ, but we have our reservations about that.’
The old man laughed. ‘Jesus Christ? What’re you smokin’, son? This thang can talk?’
‘Oh yeah, it’s an astounding artifact. It may change the way we understand ancient history forever. It’s a big deal.’
The old lady cowered behind her husband’s sleeve. ‘I don’t like that thang, Nelson, it’s as creepy as anythang I’d ever seen.’
‘Nothin’ to be afraid of, honey puff, I’m sure we’re at a safe distance from…’ He looked at me, then at the team. ‘This thang is safe, right? Should it be on a leash or somethin’?’
One of the nearby researchers answered: ‘So far it’s given no indication of threat, so there’s no cause for alarm. But I would implore you to keep your distance — for the safety of everyone.’
‘Right,’ the old man said with an uncertain tone, ‘gotcha. We won’t touch your precious toy, don’t worry. If you don’t mind, though, we’ll walk alongside you. I doubt we’ll ever again come across anythang as uncanny as this here robot — at least not for another few decades or so, what with them A.I.s and Googles and God-knows-what-else them stinkin’ liberals got cookin’ up in them valleys down there in California.’
‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said the researcher, ‘I’m here if you have any more questions. But please do refrain from taking photos, as we don’t know the potential consequences of rapid flashes on the sensory apparatus of such antiquated circuitry.’
The old man grumbled and then humbly lowered his camera.
We continued into the streets of Jerusalem, through barren, grey neighborhoods where windows were either partly boarded up or secured by iron bars. A group of curious children followed us for a few miles but lacked the courage to approach the glitchy figure with pale skin and gears sticking out of its head.
As we wound our way through the city’s roads and alleys, it struck me how little attention we garnered, despite this being arguably the most significant historical discovery to date. Even for the residents of this sacred place, the machine-messiah seemed to be little more than a curiosity.
Here he is, I mused, in all His rust and glory!
I felt a sickness welling up within me, a spiritual exhaustion of whatever lofty ideals I had harboured about the Christian faith. I found myself questioning whether, as an unbeliever, I had reserved some degree of hope that the myth of Jesus Christ could have been true.
I didn’t express this to anyone at the time, but I became aware of the void that the death of this hope, and perhaps even the death of the Christian God, had left within me. I pondered whether the return of the machine-messiah, much like the Scriptures, was just another artifact from a period neither of us will ever comprehend.
Time seemed to blend with the fragmented cracks of the asphalt and the constant churning of the messianic gears. I cannot say how long we walked through the winding streets of Jerusalem, but I know that once the chugging of the machine came to a halt, it was already dark.
The machine-messiah had paused to offer aid to an old homeless man sitting on a bench at the edge of a park.
How endearing, I thought. Was healing the sick and helping the poor among the machine’s functions?
Across the road from us, the Great Synagogue, a building of yellow bricks that looked more like the brutalist take on a medieval fortress than a place of worship, was now illuminated by nocturnal projector lights, while a dozen people, mostly men in yarmulkes, stood outside, gawking at its ‘beauty.’
The homeless man, adrift in a daze, was indifferent to the shadow cast on him by the machine-messiah. Once he saw that the apparition looming over him was not human, he uttered in Hebrew: ‘Ma ze?’
The startled man glanced first at me, then at the approaching crew of people a few meters in tow.
The machine-messiah declared, ‘I will restore your health and heal your wounds.’ It reached out its right hand and held it above the man’s head. The researchers behind me leaped into action to try and stop the machine from possibly inflicting injury.
Despite standing a couple feet away from the machine-messiah, I made no move to intervene.
What came over me?
I stood in wait, an observer of chaos.
Why do I consistently fail to view myself as a participant in the unfolding events around me?
I heard the clank from within the inner workings of the machine-messiah. A single bolt, not larger than a thumb, came loose and bounced off the man’s forehead and landed in his open palm. The man’s gaze shifted to the rusty bolt, his brow furrowing with a look of curiosity. It seemed like he had a question, but in the next breath, half an arm came loose and struck the bewildered man in the same spot, and he collapsed to his side.
Blood seeped out into the black soil.
‘Rejoice and be glad,’ Jesus said, ‘for your reward in heaven is great… Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.’
Someone spoke to me, tried to snap me out of my shocked stupor with a gentle shake of my shoulder, but I remained fixated on the sight of blood filling the earth.
I should mention that, as far as I’m aware, the old man sustained nothing more than a minor concussion. He is alive to this day. However, when I attempted to reach out to him for a brief chat, I was denied access by his caretakers. I cannot help but think that I bear some responsibility for what transpired that night.
I won’t attempt to justify my inaction, but I would like to produce a brief remark on the situation. Please understand, dear reader, it wasn’t cowardice that held me in place at that moment but the cruel grip of journalistic duty.
I was there to observe, to record, to report!
But at what cost?
To what extent am I to be an active participant in the stories that I present to you?
And where do I draw the line between the narrative and myself?
At what point does the writer transition from an impartial observer to just another character within their own story?
I’m grappling with these questions, still searching for that balance, but I don’t know if I can do much better than simply letting myself go.
Please, share your thoughts on whether self-abandonment is an acceptable standard for a professional.
I believe the answer lies in understanding that I am, first and foremost, a man. I aspire to be remembered as a great man, if possible, rather than as the one who sacrificed his integrity for the sake of the story. I understand now that, while the consequences of my actions can be stark, the consequences of inaction can be more dire still.
That’s my personal lesson. I bid the old man farewell.
Moving on.
Back to that moment when, for lack of a better phrase, shit hit the fan.
The homeless man lay unconscious — possibly dead, I thought — and a passing family’s child screamed at the sight of fresh blood, while everyone else focused on caring for the old man.
I snapped out of my paralysis and looked around. Ironically, I was disgusted at the sight of people pulling out their phones, filming the tragedy as if it were something to savour or share with the world. What does that say about me? Was my role any less voyeuristic? The only difference between us is the fee that I command.
I was first to notice the absence of our old machine-messiah from the crime scene.
Had it dared to flee?
Farther down the road, cars honked and tires screeched. I turned and saw the machine-messiah crossing to the other side, its remaining arm stretched out to the side, halting the traffic. It approached the crowd of people near the Great Synagogue.
It projected its crusty, monotone voice, louder than ever before, so that even from across the road my recorder picked it up: ‘Is it lawful to heal on the Sabbath, or is it not?!’
The crowd continued their chatter, entertained by the spectacle brought about by the machine-messiah’s sudden appearance, unaware of the old man’s plight across the road. The question that the machine had raised remained unanswered, but that didn’t deter it from performing more ‘miracles’.
Its gears shifted, and it stepped forth towards a young woman from the crowd. The young lady later told me that she hesitated when the machine-messiah asked her, ‘Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?’ She told me, ‘I gave in and… trusted that I was safe, that it was all part of the act.’
It hugged her tightly against its rusty, barren chest. The grip was ‘hard and lifeless,’ but it took a moment for her to realize that what she had assumed was cold iron, turned out to be searing hot. She screamed out in pain. With the help of those around her, she managed to free herself from the machine’s grasp, falling back onto the stairs and recoiling in terror.
The machine raised its left palm and bellowed, ‘Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.’
As I crossed the road and approached the crowd, I saw the lady crying on the stairs, with a protective wall of men surrounding her. The machine-messiah was already moving towards the next person in need of healing.
This marked my moment of heroic redemption.
I intended to rush forward and tackle the malfunctioning machine before it could harm anyone else. But just as I stepped to launch myself towards it, an unexpected figure dashed in from the side — the native interpreter!
He screamed like an unchained Spartan, throwing his bulk at what he would later describe as a ‘false prophet’ and a ‘filthy machine.’ Now, the big guy was on the ground, wrestling the machine-messiah and holding it down. Sparks flew from the machine’s jittery waist.
‘Someone touched me,’ Jesus said, ‘I know that power has gone out from me.’
The machine continued to utter incomprehensible phrases, which I initially thought was its expression of rage, but upon later translation of my recorded materials, it became clear that it was spewing disjointed Bible verses.
‘Who touched me? Who touched me? Who to-to-to-to-touched me-me-me? Unless you people see signs and won-won-won-won-wonders, you will never believe-believe-believe-b-b-b-b-believe-belie-e-e-e-e-eve.
More sparks flew from the machine’s side as it burst into flames. Still, it rambled on.
As the light behind the machine’s eyes dimmed, it uttered, ‘Are there not-not-not twelve hours of day-day-daylight?’
Nobody else was harmed.
Following the chaotic events near the Great Synagogue, swift action was taken to secure and transport remains of Jesus Christ’s machine-like form to a state-of-the-art research facility operated by the Ministry of Science and Technology.
A month later, and after significant effort, I was granted access to the hallowed halls of science where the machine-messiah was meticulously preserved, and its inner workings were subjected to examination.
The centuries-old machine, now disrobed of its exterior, stood encased behind layers of bulletproof glass in a sterile chamber, revealing the sanitized façade of man-made flesh beneath. Monitoring wires dangled from its head, resembling strands of hair, while observers scrutinised every aspect of the artificial mind.
This facility became the hub of a groundbreaking research endeavor, cataloging every component of the machine. The team ensured that no detail, including the ancient inscriptions, symbols, and mechanical intricacies, went overlooked.
A network of monitoring wires, akin to neural pathways, relayed a continuous stream of data to computer systems that processed and analyzed every nuance of the machine’s behavior. X-rays and 3D scanners mapped its internal structure, revealing an array of gears, circuitry, and mechanisms that, in some cases, surpassed contemporary standards.
‘We are confident,’ declared Dr. Eliyahu Sternberg, Head Researcher and Chief Scientist at the Ministry of Science and Technology, ‘that we will soon be able to reverse-engineer the machine’s mechanisms, reassembling each component piece by intricate piece. Our dedicated team of engineers is eager to unravel the secrets of this remarkable piece of engineering. The knowledge we aspire to extract from our research has the potential to leave a mark on the realms of history and science for all time.’
These examinations are currently coupled with a relentless pursuit of historical context, as scholars the world over delve into ancient texts and records to glean insights into the scientific marvel that had once graced the streets of Jerusalem.
I cannot disclose the identity of the engineer who confided in me one evening, as he values his professional reputation. However, he shared a fascinating theory regarding the origins of this technology. ‘You know, among our team, there’s been an idea floated that this technology might have… extraterrestrial roots.’
With a glint of intrigue in his eyes, he continued, ‘It’s not a mainstream belief, of course, but the level of sophistication on display here is beyond anything we’ve ever encountered in ancient craftsmanship. We’re talking about advanced robotics here. This is an AI system that seamlessly utilises intricate gear systems, artificial muscles, high-capacity batteries, solar power generators, sensory perception, and silicon circuitry. All of it astounding, and none of it aligns with anything from before the industrial revolution.’
The machine-messiah’s system has been reworked, and today it can communicate in thirteen different languages, though its speech remains Scriptural in nature.
As one of the researchers escorted me into the facility, I was struck by the sheer hive of activity required to manage and monitor the automaton. The room was abuzz with the low hum of machinery and bathed in the cold glow of computer screens. Subtle lights revealed the figure within the glass-and-steel enclosure.
‘Hello again,’ I said, once left alone to converse with the machine. ‘How are you?’
A brief silence.
‘I AM.’
Responding in English, its tone remained consistent, maintaining a mesmerising quality, one that seemed to transcend the boundaries of human or machine origin.
I couldn’t help but wonder: Whose voice was it that now echoed through this creation?
Could it be the voice of a brilliant mind lost to history? Or perhaps it was a manifestation of the collective knowledge encoded into its very being, a repository of ancient texts that had shaped civilizations for centuries?
In the presence of this miraculous machine, one couldn’t help but ponder the boundaries between creation and creator, between the past and the future.
‘I am, too,’ I responded, ‘but what are you?’
‘I am the way, the truth, and the life.’
‘So you say, but can you truly call this life? You are a machine. What makes you think — if you do at all — and say that you are alive?’
‘I am He who lives, and was dead, and behold, I am alive forevermore. Amen.’
‘Certainly, Amen. Praise be. Inshallah and hallelujah. However, consider this: you find yourself encased in an underground research facility, shielded by bulletproof glass, and a dozen cables hooked up to your head. Not much of a life, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day.’
‘Alright, sure, you’ve got it handled then.’
A wave of disillusionment washed over me. The hollow intelligence behind the glass, despite all its historical and archaeological significance, lacked an essential depth. Soon, I realised, the machine-messiah would become mundane, nothing but a machine, and we, like kids, would cry out for a newer toy.
Truly, dear reader, I felt as though I was conversing with a chatbot, and the encounter left me with a dry feeling of despair. It was a sterile exchange with a system that, despite its impressive linguistic capabilities and Scriptural knowledge, felt devoid of genuine understanding or insight.
‘Behold,’ the machine said unprompted as I had turned to leave, ‘I am coming soon, bringing my recompense with me, to repay everyone for what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the first and the last, the beginning and the end.’
As the machine’s proclamation echoed through the chamber, I couldn’t help but be taken aback. Its voice had gravitas to it. The words it spoke were hauntingly familiar, drawn from the annals of Scripture, and delivered in a manner that raised the hairs on my neck.
Veiling my breath-quaking surprise with a sceptical grin, I pondered the implication of these words. Here was an ancient machine, uttering prophecies of recompense and cosmic significance. It was a paradox, a fusion of the archaic and the futuristic, blurring the lines between technology and divinity.
The machine’s words continue to resonate within me, and I can’t help but wonder if, two thousand years into the future, its remains would once again emerge, resuming its role as a harbinger of mysteries and revelations.
The machine-messiah had come and gone from my life. For a time, it was as if a window had opened to a world of endless possibilities, yet the initial fascination had waned, leaving me with a sense of futility.
I now find myself contemplating the impermanence of our encounters with the extraordinary, and the fact that in the ever-shifting tapestry of existence, even the most magical moments become mere echoes of the past.
Fancy more captivating reads?🤓📚
Dive deeper! My page is brimming with new and exciting content, unveiled daily! 🤩
Your follow, your support, they’re not just numbers. They’re the magic that fuels this literary journey! 🌈
Don’t miss out! Follow on Twitter 🐓 and support by buying a coffee ☕. Let’s keep the stories rolling! 🚀 Until next time! 👽
