Free The Shroud Codex by Jerome R. Corsi Page A

they’re pretty considerable, just the same. If you let me take you into my own form of analysis, I am sure I could convince you not only that Sigmund Freud died a long time ago but also that there is a God who is very much alive.”
    Castle appreciated that Bartholomew was highly intelligent, smart enough to be a particle physicist invited to join the faculty of the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton at a young age. Einstein had ended his career at the institute and Bartholomew in his years as a physicist had aspired to solve the problems of a unified field theory that Einstein himself had failed to solve.
    “But I’ve got to ask you a question,” Castle said, wanting to get serious.
    “I’m here to answer your questions,” Bartholomew acknowledged. “Ask away.”
    “Why don’t you cut your hair and trim the beard? Maybe if you looked a little less like Jesus Christ, you wouldn’t be seeing a psychiatrist.”
    “That’s possible,” Bartholomew answered honestly, “but even if I could return to having short hair and being clean-shaven, I still have the stigmata.”
    “Are you telling me there is nothing you can do about your hair?”
    “Every time I cut my hair and shave the beard, within a day or two the long hair and beard are back. I’ve tried cutting my hair and trimming my beard three or four times a day, so they don’t get a running start. But even that doesn’t seem to work. If you want to prove it for yourself, we can head to the barber shop right now.”
    “That won’t be necessary,” Castle said, taking off his reading glasses so he could look Bartholomew directly in the eye. “I’m sure you know I’m an atheist.”
    “Yes, I do.”
    “I’m not even certain that Jesus Christ ever really existed. The events happened two thousand years ago. That’s a long time ago. You’re familiar with the Dead Sea scrolls, I assume.”
    “Of course.”
    “Then it’s quite possible the whole story of Jesus Christ had been made up, out of a misunderstanding about the Essenes, the splinter religious sect that wrote the Dead Sea scrolls, or—who knows?—maybe by some other splinter Jewish religious sect wandering around in the desert of ancient Israel. Who knows if Christianity was invented simply to meet psychological needs these dissident religious groups faced in coping with their occupying captors from Imperial Rome. Besides, the Romans crucified countless thousands of people all over the ancient world. What was so significant about this one particular Jew? If there was a historical Christ and the ancient Romans did crucify him, I’m quite sure it was just another day’s hard work for the centurions in Jerusalem unlucky enough not to be home in Rome. Instead they got the thankless job of nailing yet another unlucky Jew to boards and watching him die.”
    “There’s one problem with your theory, Dr. Castle, as good and as interesting as I have to admit it is.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I died after that accident and I saw with my own eyes Jesus crucified. I stood there with my mother at Golgotha and I watched Jesus die.”
    “And I’m told you see Jesus in the confessional and that he tells you how to heal people. Is that correct, or did I get the wrong information.”
    “You have the right information,” the priest said without showing emotion.
    Then a thought occurred to Castle. “Do you see Jesus now?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where is he, then?”
    “He’s with us right now, sitting right over there on your couch.”
    “I don’t see him. How come you can see Jesus when I can’t?”
    “I can’t answer that question,” Bartholomew said. “But there’s something I need to say to you.”
    Castle sat back in his chair. “What’s that? Is it a message from Jesus?”
    “I will let you decide that for yourself,” Bartholomew said. “The only thing I want you to know is that you were not responsible for the death of your wife.”
    This took Castle by surprise. He rarely talked