Christianity’s Final Battle
Getting the Jews Saved
I understand some things can sound like insanity, especially when someone is describing an experience that never happened to you before.
I’ve been documenting and sharing my experiences for quite some time now, even physically publishing them in books you can buy at your local Barnes & Noble or Walmart.com.
This will be another attempt to fulfill my vow to God in hopes of explaining any details I may have left out. I have been cautious in how I relay my message, but I have been anything but shy about it.
On May 11th, 2008, God’s word alone healed me instantaneously of an insidious voice/entity in my head that had tormented me 24/7 since the age of nine. I was 24 when I was healed—instantaneously.
I even had a forensic psychologist examine me because they couldn’t deny that something had changed. But where do you place a guy who won’t deny who healed him, no matter the threats or bribes?
I was put on psych drugs—a cocktail of them—starting at the age of nine. I would have died had I not obeyed God and stopped taking them. I’ve heard of a few people who tapered off and lived, but I’m the only person I know (or have heard of) who quit cold turkey and had no side effects. I’m lucky to be alive and to have a son of my own.
https://x.com/PSSDNetwork/status/1916526972127097146
None of the charismatic Christians believed me. The irony is, that’s all they talked about—healing. But when God does a miracle in real life, and they can’t make money off it? Boy, how quickly their theology changes. LOL.
Holidays land on different dates each year, and Mother’s Day in 2008 was no exception—it fell on May 11th. Remarkably, my healing that year also coincided with Pentecost, which landed on the same day: May 11, 2008 (Western Christian tradition).
This overlap is rare. The last time Pentecost and Mother’s Day shared a date was in 2008, and it won’t happen again until 2035.
Mothers are powerful. I couldn’t imagine the pain of childbirth, yet when it comes to social pressure, it’s very rare that a mother doesn’t bail ship and leave her kid for dead.
I’m sorry I’m making you read the Bible, LOL, but this story provides needed context.
Jesus Heals a Man Born Blind *(John 9:1-34, NIV)*
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=John%209&version=NIV
Put yourself in my shoes for a minute—or the shoes of the man who was born blind, who had an experience with Jesus like I did. My healthy physical body is proof of the story’s accuracy. I’m a living witness—medical reports and all—that this story, documented 2,000 years ago, indeed happened. They’ll believe the story, but not the man in the flesh. Did I take anything away or add to God’s word? No, I didn’t. My real life complements the Biblical story. Jesus and I both weep together.
Like me, the blind man’s mother didn’t stand up for her disabled son. He was a throwaway, forced onto the streets to beg. He was 40 when he was healed; I was 24. What do you suppose a man is to do when he loses even his side hustle? He can’t beg anymore once he can see. And he’s old now—no skills, no place to rest his head. What woman would want him?
Luckily for me, I’ve been prepping. We’ve got this thing called double jeopardy in America. If they ever deny me my check, then I can sue them for attempted murder—from all the drugs they tried to poison me with.
This Mother’s Day (2025) was on May 11th, so it was a little extra sentimental to me. It also reminded me of that mysterious motherly, divine woman—or whatever or whoever she was—who gave me the confidence to trust something God had spoken to me about four years prior to my healing.
Here’s a Lot of Additional Needed Context (I Guess, LOL)
I was 19—fat, depressed, always crying. It was raining out. I wore only black, with my favorite zebra-print, six-inch spike collar. I had so many spikes and leather gauntlets on, I looked like the Shredder. I skateboarded in my combat boots in the rain to my local Dutch Reformed church—the same one I was dedicated to at age five.
I knocked on the door to see if they would pray for me. They said, “Go away; we don’t do that here.” Even though I was dedicated there at five, I didn’t know the difference between church theologies yet. When you speak in strange tongues, charismatic churches prey on you (no pun intended). Reformers didn’t do that—they think speaking in the language of angels is Baal. LOL.
So I got on my knees in the rain, outside the church next to a tree, and I said:
*“God, I want a place for people like me to worship You 24/7. I want them to listen to cool Christian hardcore and death metal music—and not be lame.”*
Sure enough, I was working at McDonald’s—no future, no car, no ambition other than to be a shock-rocker for Jesus—when some newspaper photographers from Ohio (who were covering this emo band) came in and asked, “Do you know where this church is?”
I said, “Yeah, but that band would never play there—not in a million years.” LMAO.
Welp, the band played there—in the same church that said they didn’t want “my kind.” LOL. Later in life, it became my church—the one I merged with the group I’m about to tell you about. Currently, it’s a new-age alien cult, but that’s another story for another time. LOL. SMH.
At this point, I’m 20, and I met some new friends that I literally prayed for. I won’t go into all the details because it’s so much, but one event led to another—friends getting saved, others committing suicide, and this crazy website called MySpace.
They picked me up, and I got in the car. The first words out of this girl’s mouth were:
“I don’t want to die a virgin if I die on my skydiving trip.”
I fell in love instantly. She had me at one sentence after hello.
I was like, “You’re a virgin?” And they were like, “We’re all virgins, Dan.”
I was like, “Wait, what? LOL. You guys are into Jesus, listen to Christian heavy metal, and actually follow God’s teachings to the point of not having sex before marriage?”
We all became inseparable best friends, church-hopping and feeding the homeless together at Hart Plaza, Detroit.
The Scammer Pastor & Jehovah’s Breath
The first church we hopped to was this Pentecostal church. The pastor said he had “Jehovah Jireh’s breath.” The Holy Spirit told me not to take any money with me. I had $100 to my name—had I not obeyed the voice, I would have inevitably given it to this scammer pastor out of desperation to be healed.
Even though my eyesight wasn’t the best back then, I saw these religious bikers in the pew in front of me (who looked like they were addicted to pain pills) writing checks to the guy for $300. I started crying heavily. My new friends had no idea I had emotional problems, but if you don’t tell people things—and your friends have no connection to anyone from your past—how are they gonna know unless you or someone else tells them?
(My new friends at the time were educated kids, by the way—the cream of the crop, who grew up in literal mansions.)
So, I ended up bull-rushing the pastor, breaking through the crowds—like the stories of Hannah, the Samaritan woman, Jacob, and many others: legends who wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
I said, “You say you have Jehovah’s breath—PROVE IT!”
Well, as the story goes, scammers gonna scam. But God is a God who honors our purity, dedication, and desperation. That’s when God spoke to me and said:
“My word alone will heal you.”
I had no idea what that really meant at the time. I thought it could mean taking prescribed psychotropic drugs, working, going to school, studying systematic theology, and living a disciplined lifestyle to have a somewhat normal life.
But God meant literally—His word alone.
Four years later from that date, He told me, “It’s time.” And like an ant—who doesn’t need a sergeant or a boss to tell it what to do—I was perfectly synchronized with God’s Holy Spirit, the Author of Life, believing in His promise.
Mind you, I’ve never actually been crazy. I’ve always been logical and able to understand common-sense scenarios.
When my caseworker at Easter Seals said, “Daniel, you’re born this way. You’re gonna have to take these pills forever,” I replied:
“Yes, I understand what you’re saying. You make more sense than my crazy pastor, who says erratic things like, ‘Just claim it and stop taking them!’ But I believe if God chose to, He could heal me. Until then, I’ll take the pills.”
I never made rash decisions because I believed I needed the pills—and without God intervening in His timing, I wouldn’t have stopped without His clear approval.
If anyone was crazy and radical, it was the Easter Seals drug cartel and the “name-it-and-claim-it” churches.
After my church group fell apart, I focused more on my career as a tattoo artist. I was burnt out from church after what happened to my best friend—his wife was stolen, at least that’s how I saw it at the time. Later, I found out he wasn’t as innocent as he played the victim. Back then, I was furious. I couldn’t understand how my other brothers could cover something like that up. I’d get it if it were just a regular church, but we were different. We were a real spiritual family, the closest of friends.
It was a confusing time for many reasons. Hearing voices might be celebrated in some religious circles, but when you’ve been hospitalized for it most of your life, the last thing you want is to deal with the complexities of the spiritual realm. I tried to believe it wasn’t real. I even attempted to become a Baptist—lol—but I couldn’t. God speaking to me is my life; it’s what truly defines me.
I thought God told me that if I waited until marriage, He’d bring me someone who was waiting too. Unfortunately, I was raped by a girl who was supposed to be my cover because I didn’t want my shop to know how innocent I was. Some might ask how a guy gets raped by a girl, and I’ve shied away from telling certain stories because I don’t want to badmouth anyone. It’s in the past—all forgiven long ago—but it’s a crucial part of this story, one that leads to something much bigger, something that could change the course of the world.
So, I thought God spoke to me. Maybe He did. Maybe I wasn’t true—like the Fugazi song says, "They blame her for being there."
Most people would take my side, but God isn’t human. He judges the whole scope of a man—his intentions, even his shadow. That was hard to accept. How could God speak to me clearly about one thing, yet another message be so faint? So much of what He told me came true—except that one thing. I knew God couldn’t lie, so there was only one answer: I was the liar.
I put myself in that situation. Whether my intent was logical or even noble, He gave me other options—other shops to apprentice at. I made the choice. I put myself there. Once I accepted that—after fasting for a week (partly because I couldn’t afford groceries, working 40+ hours a week to please my parents)—that’s when it happened. That’s when God showed up and healed me.
My prayer to Him was: "I’m jealous of my friends who can travel freely. I feel stuck taking these pills. If You heal me, I’ll tell the whole world what You did for me."
But when you tell the truth and God changes your life, people you thought were friends stop liking you. They didn’t like that I wasn’t fat anymore. They wanted the “old me.” My family was angry—they believed I was ill, clinging to outdated ideologies and pharmaceutical lies.
My stepdad is now dying of cancer. He knows it’s from the vaccine. My mother forced all those drugs on my sister and me, and now it’s haunting her. She cries to my ex-wife about how guilty she feels for signing me up for those programs—the ones that put me on a list. A recruiter from the Catholic side of the CIA literally intervened, hacking my file and throwing out the petition to save me from my mother trying to institutionalize me against my will as an adult. I still have copies of that petition.
When I learned the truth about a lot of things, I got even angrier. At first, I was on board to work for the government. But when I saw how they’d betray their own people, play God with families, and laugh about it, I thought, "Nah, I’m good—this is crazy." I just wanted to be an artist. But they wouldn’t let me. They wouldn’t leave me alone.
One thing led to another, and I ended up living a whole other life. While most people my age were married, enjoying God’s blessings, I was living the Eyes Wide Shut life—lol—but not enjoying it. As The Great Gatsby says: "I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life."
I didn’t want it. I was reaching for God, but the devil sunk his hook into me, obsessed. The more you reject his advances, the more he offers—until you cave and start enjoying forbidden fruit. Then you age and die.
All I ever wanted—and still want—is a clear conscience before God. I look at the world I tried to change through media and metadata and finally see why so many Freemasons and pastors warned me to stop. "You’ll throw off the order, and it won’t benefit you." Yes, I created change—but for the better? No. They had to counter everything I said. They control the narrative no matter what; they’re the masters of the Matrix. You can’t fight fire with fire.
Now, the grand conclusion: I was one of the first to speak up about Israel—the OG pattern recognizer. Now, countless social media accounts echo similar things about the Jews. Israel offered me money (and more) to stop writing. I refused—until now. I stopped a decade later, after the cat was already out of the bag. I didn’t take a dime; I’ve been living on the run like a rat this whole time. I stopped because I realized the answer—and it’s going to piss a lot of people off. But it’s the only solution that will work.
We need to save the Jews.
If the Jews get saved, the whole world will return to normal. All men can have the good things of God. We must approach them as Christians, working diligently to convince them to repent. The Jews converting to Christianity is the answer—to full employment, no more wars, and wives who love us.
https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans%2011&version=NIV
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