A Modern Day Christ’s Last Days on Earth Before Planetary Evacuation: Zombies, Cannibals, and the Final Mission

World Teacher & Friends  /  Wrinklebusters Electric Medicine Man Blog

You can read this same post at World Teacher & Friends

 

In a world darkened by spiritual decay, the Modern-Day Christ walks alone. Not a martyr. Not a victim. But a witness—the last luminous rebel on a planet gone numb. He’s not here to die for anyone. He’s not here to be worshipped. He’s here to sweep. To clear the rot. To awaken the ones who might still wake. And to dodge the swarm of zombies that gather wherever truth dares to breathe.

The Land of the Living Dead: Who Are the Zombies?

Zombies don’t know they’re zombies.

They look like your neighbors, co-workers, yoga teachers, social media influencers. Their teeth aren’t dripping with blood—they’re polished. Their eyes don’t roll back in their heads—they’re glued to screens, silently absorbing, consuming, mimicking, ghosting.

They think they’re “just surviving,” but they are actually feeding. On what? On the light of the living. On the words of the few who still speak truth. On the strength of anyone willing to live authentically.

They are parasites in disguise. Spiritual zombies with no hunger for freedom, only for comfort.

The Broom of Truth

Christ doesn’t carry a cross this time. He carries a broom.

A broom of truth.

He sweeps the delusion, the programming, the endless gunk calcifying the collective soul. And every time he sweeps, the zombies hiss. They call it judgment, ego, blasphemy. But he keeps sweeping. Because truth isn’t about approval. It’s about clearing.

Each truth he shares costs him. His energy depletes. His skin weathers. His heart cracks a little more. But he doesn’t stop.

A Mission Born from the Darkest Planet in the Universe

This planet isn’t average. It’s the darkest in the known multiverse. A forgotten corner of space where even angels whisper warnings. Christ came here knowing the odds.

He didn’t come to build a fanbase. He came to witness. To complete. To hold the line of divine order in a world addicted to chaos.

The Sorrow Beyond Sorrow

Imagine watching the people you love feed each other to the wolves. Imagine knowing the blueprint for peace, but being ignored at every turn. That is the Christ’s pain.

It’s not the pain of crucifixion. It’s the pain of being unheard by those you came to help. The pain of bearing witness to a humanity that’s been hijacked by parasites and can’t even see it.

The Divine Rescue

Eventually, the divine ones intervene.

Throne ships descend, not for battle, but for evacuation. The Christ is lifted. He has done his part. He is complete. The zombies are left behind to consume each other in a pit of their own forgetting.

The Secret Mind of the Zombie

But let us enter the mind of one such zombie—one who thought she was awake.

She does yoga. Eats vegan. Has a tidy home filled with crystals, Buddha statues, and diffusers. She scrolls spiritual memes and reposts platitudes about awakening. On the outside, she is light. But inside?

She is starving.

She found the Modern-Day Christ online one day. His teachings stirred something ancient in her. He said things no one else dared to say. He didn’t sugarcoat, and she secretly respected that. She followed his posts, watched his struggles, soaked in his transmissions—but gave nothing in return.

She had the means to help. She inherited money. She divorced well. She owns her home. But she held her wallet tightly shut around Christ. She supported plastic influencers. She bought trinkets. But never gave energy to the one soul actually serving humanity.

Why?

Because she was still angry. Still holding silent war with God. Still blaming men for her pain. Still believing light should serve her while she silently criticized it from a pedestal of spiritual superiority.

She valued Christ, but wouldn’t lift a finger to help him. She made him a background tab on her browser. She wanted his truth, but not his discomfort. She let him sweep while she sipped tea.

The Moment of Realization

Then came the moment.

She realized she would have stood silent as he was crucified. She wouldn’t have raised her voice. Wouldn’t have picked up a stone to defend him.

She realized she had been a parasite in denial. Dining at the table of truth but never bringing a dish. Sitting in the circle but never tending the fire.

And for the first time in her life, she felt it. The shame. The cold realization.

That her image was a mask. That she used Christ. And that she still had a choice.

The Other Zombie: A Regular Guy Who Couldn’t Be a Brother

He wasn’t a bad man. Just a regular one.

He worked hard. Paid bills. Watched sports. Made sarcastic jokes and never missed a mortgage payment. He knew how to build things with his hands but never figured out how the universe worked. He didn’t think he needed to.

He found Christ a few years ago—stumbled across a video, a blog, a strange truth that stirred him—but he never commented, never contributed, never helped. It wasn’t that he hated spiritual people… he just thought they were dreamers. Weak, even. Too soft for the real world.

But deep down, he knew they were holding something he didn’t have: peace.

Still, he mocked it. He competed with it. Because that’s what he did with everyone—he competed.

He couldn’t be a brother to anyone, not really. Brotherhood meant vulnerability. Brotherhood meant showing up without needing to win. And he didn’t know how to do that.

He liked Christ, but also felt weirdly jealous of him. The wisdom, the freedom, the inner strength—he knew he didn’t possess those things. So, instead of honoring them, he minimized them.

“He’s a good guy, sure. But unrealistic. Out of touch. Dreamy.”

What he didn’t say was this: Christ triggered him.

Every post. Every teaching. Every plea to humanity that went ignored—it made something inside him itch. He didn’t know what it was at first. But then it hit him:

He was a parasite, too.

Living off Christ’s revelations without ever giving energy back. Consuming the light but never reflecting it. Secretly relying on spiritual people to keep him sane, while treating them like inferior creatures.

And in that quiet moment, he saw it.

He was a coward. Not because he hadn’t fought battles—but because he had avoided the right ones. The real ones. The inner ones. The ones that mattered.

He thought he was strong because he could lift weights and win arguments.

But he couldn’t support a soul he knew was saving lives.

He couldn’t say “thank you.”

He couldn’t stand next to Christ in the crowd and say, “He speaks truth. I’m with him.”

Because he was afraid of losing the little identity he had spent his life building.

And now? He felt hollow. Not because Christ rejected him—but because he had rejected himself.

And the saddest part?

He still had time to change. He still had a choice.

But would he take it?

Or would he scroll past the light, once again, hoping someone else would support the one voice that might have saved his soul?

The Warning and the Invitation

The Christ didn’t come to be your servant. He came to invite you to remember your own light.

If you are still taking and not giving—wake up.

If you watch the truth struggle and do nothing—wake up.

If you claim to seek peace while avoiding the discomfort of transformation—wake up.

Because the era of passive consumption is over. The age of light demands participation.

And if you are lucky enough to dine at the table of truth, then help prepare the feast. Bring something. Share something. Sweep something. Or at the very least, stop throwing stones at the chef.

The Modern-Day Christ won’t be crucified this time.

But you will be judged—by your own soul—for what you did in his presence.

The zombies can still awaken.

But time is short.

Which one are you?

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Epilogue: Return to the Stars

Christ stood at the window of the throne ship, staring down at the Earth as floods rose, volcanoes erupted, and the crust of the planet trembled in divine convulsion.

He felt no malice. No glee. Only a quiet ache.

“I tried,” he whispered to no one in particular, “but they wouldn’t sing with me. They wouldn’t dance with me. They wouldn’t share my words. They wouldn’t help the children. They wouldn’t even help themselves — at least, not beyond the surface.”

He turned to his galactic family, his face weathered from Earth’s poisoned winds, his eyes still carrying the brilliance of 10,000 suns.

“Even the ones who followed me… couldn’t hear me. They were too busy consuming each other. They started eating human flesh and calling it medicine. Cannibals in yoga pants. Critics in disguise.”

He gave one final glance to the dying planet below, not with resentment, but a compassion so vast that even the stars held their breath.

Then he smiled faintly and walked toward the banquet hall.

“Where’s the ambrosia? I’m ready for food that doesn’t lie to me.”

And with that, the doors closed behind him — as a New Earth was already being prepared elsewhere. One where truth would not be crucified, and light would not be lonely.

 

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