steve shope: Interviews

& Speaking engagements


Throughout history, mankind has engaged in a relentless struggle to understand our origin, our true nature, our purpose and our destiny.

        At the same time, we seek to reconcile the notion that our reality straddles two different planes – one that is physical and visible – and one that is spiritual and invisible.

        The early Christian church movement was built upon a teaching that offered profound insight into the human condition and elevated all who were open to receive it. The message was so powerful that it was invariably accompanied by signs, miracles and healing.

        Even as the earliest disciples were sharing this message, it was being perverted by those who opposed or otherwise felt threatened by it. By the time Constantine unified the Roman Empire into a single kingdom in 324 AD, this teaching had vanished from the Earth. 

        Until now.


        Outside of his professional career, Steve Shope has dedicated nearly 30 years of his life studying and translating ancient religious texts. Coupled with a passion for the evolution of Proto-IndoEuropean and Proto-AfroAsiatic languages, Steve is able to offer rare and profound insight into intriguing correlations between Judeo-Christian scriptures, the Age of Aquarius and technological sciences. He has titled the body of his research, “The Womb of Man”. Steve is available for speaking engagements and interviews. Please use info found on the Contact page.

Ancient Religious Manuscripts

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Healing & Restoration

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Science & Technology

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SOME BACKGROUND AND HOW I CAME TO UNCOVER THE ANCIENT MESSAGE OF THE WOMB OF MAN

By Steve Shope


            My qualifications for preparing and presenting the research on the Womb of Man are simple. I have no qualifications – other than an overly inquisitive nature and a healthy irreverence for authority. Honestly though, it is my lack of institutional religious background that has allowed me to explore this subject matter objectively and without blinders or pre-conceived ideas.

            I was raised in a family that had no religious affiliations. I never attended church in the normal sense. I do recall a bus from a nearby Baptist church that would barrel through our lower middle-class neighborhood every Sunday. A few parents, none with any consistency, would force their kids onto the blue shuttle for no other reason than to get them out of their hair for a few hours.

            I also recall a time when my friend and I were still of elementary school age and popped into Vacation Bible School at a church down the street. Our only motivation was to score some of the snacks we learned they were offering to attendees.

            My family lived below the poverty line and depended on government assistance to get by. This included monthly rations of cheese, butter and powdered milk. We picked up these items at a local church that served as a distribution site when the vouchers arrived in the mail.

            Other than these instances, I only saw the inside of a church when a family member, usually a cousin, was getting married. It was commonly said of the county where I lived in northcentral Pennsylvania, that every intersection had a bar and a church. The statement was hardly an exaggeration either. With a population of just over 110,000 people, our county had, at one time, over 200 churches.

            My family felt more comfortable in the bars. As a young single mother of three, my mom bartended at night. As a teenager, I worked, and drank, in bars. It was comfortable. It was familiar. In a very real sense, bars were the sanctuary for working class people where I grew up.

            This lack of religious affiliation was true, not just for my immediate family, but all of my extended family as well. I don’t recall any of my relatives attending church. Our relationship with a God consisted of little more than saying grace before our Thanksgiving meal each year.

            I grew up in a culture of crime and poverty and was more often a willing participant than a victim. I was arrested several times for petty crimes before the age of 15.

            Although I was a smart kid, straight-A student actually, I was often suspended from school for fighting or smoking. Within a few weeks of beginning the eighth grade, I was forcibly removed from middle school by my probation officer. The courts would later determine that I could never return to public schools, and I was enrolled in a court-appointed school for delinquent youth.

            The school, and I use the term very loosely, had a single classroom with a single teacher that taught all subjects for all grade levels. Half of each day was spent in the classroom and the remaining half was spent doing hard labor. I have many fond memories of swinging a sledgehammer over my shoulder into a steel wedge positioned on a large tree stump. This was outside in the dead of winter no less. Summers were no better. We’d often be splitting cords of wood in the scorching hot sun on the same farm used by the county jail’s work release program.

            I wanted out of this situation badly and on my 16th birthday, in accordance with state regulations, I signed myself out of the program and became a high school dropout. The following Spring, I passed all the necessary tests to earn a General Education Diploma.

            I bounced around from one job to another earning only minimum wage. I worked for factories, sub shops, janitorial services, and once even tried being a vacuum cleaner salesman. On one hand, I had no respect for authority. On the other, I had a solid work ethic. I didn’t miss work, was always on time and always gave 100%. If I was cleaning toilets, they were the cleanest toilets you’d ever seen. The moment I felt disrespected or talked down to, I’d give the offending supervisor a piece of my mind and promptly walk off the job.

            My life changed just a few months before my 18th birthday. I was given a 30-day work assignment through a temp agency. I was to fill in as third-shift cleaner at a local factory while the employee that held the job was out for surgery. I cleaned that entire factory like it had never been cleaned before. The employees took notice. On the last morning of my assignment, a considerable number of employees lined up at the plant manager’s office to praise my work. I was offered a full-time, permanent job.

            Within a few months, the entire workforce was gathered to hear a message from the company CEO who had come in from corporate headquarters in Shelton, CT. He informed us that the market for our product was shrinking, and the company was struggling to remain profitable. The solution was to implement process improvement initiatives at each of their two U.S. plants. Whichever could become more efficient would remain open. The other would close.

            He further explained that they planned to select members from the workforces to receive training and lead the efforts. The employees at the plant I belonged to feared this was an effort to make them do more work for less pay. I, however, saw an opportunity, and volunteered. The company paid for my training at their Connecticut headquarters and my colleagues hated me for it.

            I returned to the plant and began working through the programs I had been trained to implement. The workers were outraged. After weeks of resistance, the tumultuous atmosphere came to a head. Over one hundred angry employees gathered at a local fire hall to condemn the actions of our company and I was at the very center of their blistering attacks. They were all very surprised when I too showed up for the event.

            I felt it was the right thing to do. I believed their fears were misguided. More importantly, I knew that if we did not put forth our best effort, our county was going to lose more than one hundred family-sustaining jobs.

            In time, their anger subsided but they never really gave their full support or cooperation. In the end, it cost them their jobs. I was being recruited by other companies throughout the U.S. to facilitate similar programs. Rather than accept any job offers, I started my own company and contracted work with each of them.

            I have spent more than two decades helping businesses and non-profit organizations achieve growth. Additionally, I have served three excepted-service appointments with the federal government leading large-scale operations, developing partnerships with key stakeholders and serving as media spokesperson in a geography comprised of nine states.

            These are all details of my life that people who know me are familiar with. I have been speaking publicly for over two decades in a variety of capacities and I often share many of these details. But there’s another story that I have shared with only a few people. A story that gives context to the passion that rediscovered the “womb of man” message.

            In 1993, the same year that I landed the temp job that serendipitously led to a phenomenal career, I began experiencing a great deal of emotional stress and anxiety. My step-father had recently passed away from cirrhosis of the liver and my own self-destructive lifestyle was catching up with me. I was having panic attacks and battling severe depression. At times, it was so overwhelming that I felt I would die.

            One of the maintenance guys at the factory I was working at seemed to always take lunch at the same time I did. Times I chose because I knew the breakroom would otherwise be empty. He was a kind Christian man and sensed my distress. Over the course of a few weeks, we spoke often, and in uncharacteristic fashion, I opened up to him. Such was the level of my fear and hopelessness. We talked about God and prayer and life in general. He suggested I begin going to church, that I might benefit from being around a different kind of people than I was familiar with. He suggested a specific church that had a pastor whom he felt I had a lot in common with.

            I was desperate. I began attending the church every time the doors were open. I was at Sunday morning service, Sunday evening service, Wednesday evening service, Tuesday morning men’s prayer – even Thursday morning women’s prayer. If the doors were open, I was there. The maintenance guy had also given me a Bible. I read the entire thing within a few weeks. I was just speed-reading and probably didn’t comprehend or retain much that first time through.

            I started reading through it a second time. This time however, I had purchased a spiral bound notebook to take notes of what I was reading. Often, I would come to a passage that just didn’t make sense to me for one reason or another. I would write it down and then try to casually ask the pastor or a deacon about it in the days following. I never felt quite satisfied with their answers. And if I pressed for more detail I’d frequently be told, “Sometimes you just have to accept things in faith.” I definitely was not satisfied with that answer.

            In a short period of time, I had filled several spiral bound notebooks with scriptures that either intrigued or puzzled me. At the same time, the pastor began taking me under his wing a little bit. He was largely unaware of the turmoil in my life and merely saw me as a zealous young man who was pursuing God, as evidenced my constant questions and relentless attendance at the church. In all honesty, I was simply seeking respite from the fear and anxiety I was tormented with internally at the time.

            The pastor began inviting me to join him as he traveled to speak at other churches and events. During one of these trips, my interest was piqued by something another clergyman stated from the pulpit. He was speaking about ‘time’ in the Bible. He further exhorted that this specific usage of ‘time’ in the original text was the Greek word ‘kairos’, and meant, ‘the proper time’. Wait! What? You mean the Bible was not originally written in English? Seems obvious now, but I had no idea.

            After the sermon, I made a beeline to this man of God and promptly asked him to explain. My jaw dropped in utter amazement to learn that the original texts of the Bible were written in Hebrew, Greek and Chaldean (or Aramaic). Furthermore, the tool for interpreting these scriptures into their original languages was available in almost any bookstore. Needless to say, as soon as I returned home from the trip, I drove directly to a Christian bookstore and purchased a Strong’s Exhaustive Concordance of the Bible.

            I couldn’t wait to start translating and I knew exactly where to start. I pulled out my stack of spiral bound notebooks and began with the scriptures that had perplexed me. In many instances, I was further perplexed to find translations that differed greatly from our common, contemporary understanding of a particular word. But I was hooked, nonetheless. I became devoted to study, translation, prayer and meditation.

            In 1995, my pastor was invited to participate in the graduation ceremony of a Bible College in Virginia. It was customary for one or more people, who were believed to be gifted by God, to speak prophetically into the lives of each graduate as they transitioned into their life’s ministry.

            I was still fairly new to church. The church I had been attending often prophesied and spoke in tongues. I thought it was all quite weird but didn’t think too much of it given my internal turmoil.

            On the day of the event, the graduating class took their places in three groups on the stage of a beautiful auditorium. In front of each group was a microphone stand and a prophet that was personally invited by the school’s founder. The microphones allowed each student’s prophetic message to be recorded and cassette tapes later provided.

            My pastor joined a few other church leaders on the stage to help direct traffic and tend to the needs of those involved. As the prophesies began, I felt a little uncomfortable with the whole scene. Each exhortation invariably began with the words, “Thus sayeth the Lord.”

            I sat in a chair midway back in the audience, hunched over with my head nearly between my knees, and started praying. Over and over, I just kept saying under my breath, “God, if you ever want to speak to me, you will just speak to me. It won’t be through some person or prophet.”

            The ceremony had only been underway for about 15 minutes when one of the prophets turned to the audience and asked who the young man was in the white shirt about halfway back. Mind you, at this time, I stuck out a little bit in an environment like this. I had long hair, an earring and tattoos. When my pastor, who was on the stage, realized the prophet was referring to me, he quickly attempted to suppress the inquiry. “No, no. He’s with me. He just came to observe”, he said. The prophet was not deterred however and instructed me to come up on stage as “God had a word for me”. Reluctantly, I obeyed, and went up onto the stage.

            Each of the three prophets left their groups and gathered around me, as did my pastor and the founder of the school. I have only shared in detail what happened next with two people in my entire life and I will not go into detail here. I would not hear the words that were spoken over my life that morning until I listened to the cassette tape in my pastor’s minivan on our way home that evening.

            The messages, lasting nearly 12 minutes, detailed my calling and spoke of miraculous outcomes. More significant to me, then, as now, was the experience that I had during this ordeal. I have come to be a very spiritual person, always seeking truth. As strange as it may sound, I am also a relentless skeptic. If someone told me about such an experience, I would probably dismiss it outright.

            In the twenty-six years that followed, I continued to translate the scriptures of the Judeo-Christian Bible into the original languages of Hebrew, Greek and Aramaic. To this effort I added aggressive study of the Nag Hammadi Library and other ancient manuscripts of the time period and regions in which the Biblical texts originated. Notwithstanding, my passion for etymology (word origins) was quite helpful. English, too, had changed over the centuries, further muddling the mysteries contained within the scriptures.

            The message that began to take shape before my very eyes was a powerful, cohesive story that I believe to be the lost gospel of the kingdom that was preached by Jesus and his early followers. It was this message that was validated by the accompaniment of signs, miracles and healing. By the end of the 3rd century, this message had disappeared, having been replaced with a vastly different teaching that was diluted and distorted by culture, translations, politics and religious assimilation. In the absence of this gospel, the ministry of the miraculous disappeared as well.

            I firmly believe that the lost gospel message that I share in the Womb of Man presentation will resonate with people of all walks of life, of any faith or no faith at all. Admittedly, it may be harder for Christians steeped in traditional teachings to digest. Further, I believe the true gospel of the kingdom has the power to improve the condition of the human race and move us all toward healing, regeneration and unity.

            My life has been forever divided into the time before I walked onto that Bible college stage in Virginia, in the midst of a graduation ceremony, and after. In the 28 years since, that experience has been either the greatest blessing or the greatest curse, depending on the season of my life. If it were just words, I could and would have dismissed the whole thing years ago. I cannot, however, dismiss the experience. Nor can I dispute the manner in which the revelation of the scriptures has come to me over the years. It has been strong and steady. Not as some enlightened saint, prostrate in a sanctuary. But, as a single father raising kids through two divorces, demanding jobs and bouts of severe depression. It never ceased whether I was being distracted by my successes or feeling defeated by my failures.

           Lastly, I want to make a promise to anyone interested in hearing more about the lost message of the “womb of man”. I will go beyond asking you to accept the substance of my research by faith. I will share many of the principles in logical details that anyone can relate to. Furthermore, I will show you how all invisible truths, including the mysteries of this true gospel message, are reflected in the things that are seen – most vividly in nature and technology. And in that respect, this message holds water like no other.