A Different Jesus: A Reflection on Experience and Identity

Here’s a question worth considering—what if there are, in fact, many different versions of Jesus? Not as in fabrications or counterfeits, but genuine, personal revelations that differ based on the heart, understanding, and context of the individual. Anyone who has explored the varied expressions of Christianity in the second and third centuries would likely affirm this reality. The early followers of Jesus held diverse views about who he was and what he meant. This is not an argument for embracing Jesus or returning to him. Rather, it is an invitation to those who feel hesitant to fully let go of him—to reconsider, to reflect, and to find peace in their unique journey with him.

When I was a pastor, my congregation was small. At most, we had 25 people. Often, it was just 15 or 20. During that time, I met a woman pastor through my then-wife. She had a congregation but lacked a place to gather. I had a place, but few to preach and teach to. We agreed to join forces. I was what you might call a “grace preacher,” though not in the conventional sense. My theology was loosely Calvinistic, but I wouldn’t have been accepted by traditional Calvinists. Instead of adhering to the standard TULIP acronym (Total depravity, Unconditional election, Limited atonement, Irresistible grace, and Perseverance of the saints), I taught what I jokingly referred to as TUUIP.

What made my belief different was my conviction in universal atonement. I believed—and still believe—that Jesus saved everyone. With that foundation, I preached heavily on the depth of human brokenness and ended with the victorious truth that grace is irresistible, but not just for the elect—for all.

One Sunday, after I preached, the woman pastor took her turn. Her sermon was entitled, “Don’t let the Jesus in you step on the Jesus in me.” At the time, I thought it was absurd. How could there be more than one Jesus? Hadn’t Paul rebuked the Corinthians for entertaining different versions of Christ? It seemed theologically off base. But in the years since, I’ve come to see that she was right. Deeply right. She was speaking from a place of personal knowing. She had experienced Jesus in a way that was true to her—and that deserved honor, not correction.

Over time, and through much reflection, I’ve come to see what she meant. In the second and third centuries, Jesus was understood differently by different communities. Jesus was intuited—not universally defined. To some, he was the divine Logos. To others, the great teacher, the mystic, the liberator, the revolutionary, the cosmic savior. Each group, each individual, saw in Jesus what their heart and mind were ready to receive. And this remains true today.

There is the cessationist Jesus, who no longer performs miracles. There is the Calvinist Jesus, who elects a few and saves them irresistibly. The Pentecostal Jesus, who baptizes in fire and fills people with tongues. The Jehovah’s Witness Jesus, the Mormon Jesus, the progressive Christian Jesus, and many more. For every community, and even for each individual, there is a Jesus who meets them in their own context, their own framework.

And here’s what complicates the picture further—I’ve had real, personal encounters with Jesus. Not just a few. Many. They continue even now. As recently as this week. These are not emotional memories or echoes of old beliefs. These are living, guiding experiences with a presence I still call Jesus.

My Jesus has evolved alongside me. This Jesus has revealed truth to me in ways I could not have imagined in my early years of ministry. And what was revealed often came to pass. That cannot be easily dismissed. It shaped me and gave me courage in times of doubt.

So what’s my point in saying all this? It’s simple: if you’re at peace without Jesus, that’s okay. I’m not trying to reintroduce him into your life or convince you that you need him. But if you’ve had moments—real moments—with Jesus, and those moments mattered, then don’t let rigid doctrines or other people’s interpretations erase that. Don’t be swayed by fear or shame if your version of Jesus doesn’t line up with orthodoxy. Even Paul, in 2 Corinthians 11, was deeply concerned about his converts being swayed by a “different Jesus”—but that was his concern. Maybe your Jesus isn’t wrong, just different.

Maybe your Jesus is a bridge between you and creative consciousness, a mediator not to orthodoxy, but to inner peace and divine clarity. Maybe the voice you heard and the comfort you felt wasn’t a crutch, but a compass. Maybe, just maybe, your Jesus is still walking with you, not demanding conformity, but inviting you deeper into your own awakening.

This won’t resonate with everyone. And that’s perfectly fine. Some will say, “This isn’t for me,” and I respect that. But to those like my friend Aaron who still has encounters with Jesus though not as before—thank you for being honest about your encounters. Thank you for admitting that you’ve talked to Jesus, and that it was good for your soul.

There’s more than one way to follow a path. And sometimes, the Jesus that walks beside you is yours for a reason.

Ultimate Selfhood

The self that we experience as the “I am I” is far more than the fleeting narrative of personal identity we often mistake for reality. Beneath the surface of daily thought and perception lies a deeper, more intricate structure: a threefold composition of spirit, mind, and materiality. This triadic nature of the self echoes the Hermetic principle of correspondence—“As above, so below”—which reveals the hidden unity and mirrored relationships between all levels of existence. The spiritual plane, the mental plane, and the physical plane are not separate silos, but interdependent dimensions of one unified Self. This understanding, though ancient, is stunningly well articulated in more modern esoteric writings such as those of William Walker Atkinson, especially in The Kybalion and Arcane Formulas. Atkinson, writing under pseudonyms and through veiled traditions, pulled back the curtain on ancient wisdom, not simply to dazzle but to instruct those prepared to receive such teachings.

Having recently participated in a profoundly thought-provoking session, I find myself unexpectedly revisiting The Kybalion with a sense of awe and curiosity. Though published in 1908 and fairly recent in the stream of spiritual literature, it possesses a timelessness and clarity that makes it feel as if it speaks across centuries. This work, attributed to “Three Initiates,” distills Hermetic wisdom into digestible yet potent axioms and principles, emphasizing the interconnectedness of all things and the dynamic operation of the mind as the bridge between the spiritual and the physical. What has become unmistakably clear to me is that there is but one Self, capital S, and that the ego—what we often rely on to define individuality—has accumulated too many layered and contradictory meanings to be truly helpful. The ego, while a functional necessity in the physical realm, becomes an obstruction when mistaken for the totality of the Self.

The true Self exists simultaneously in three planes: the spiritual, the mental, and the physical. It is not that we have a spirit, mind, and body—it is more accurate to say we are all three at once. These are not compartments but gradients of expression. The spiritual plane is the realm of pure potential and original cause, the unmanifest energy or essence. The mental plane is the realm of formation, where thought forms take shape and begin to organize energy. The physical plane is the realm of manifestation, where those patterns of energy solidify into experience, matter, and motion. What is astonishing—and increasingly evident the more I reflect on Atkinson’s insights—is that the mind is not merely an observer, but an active intermediary. It is in the mental plane that the energy of the spiritual is applied to the realm of the physical. The mind draws down the light of the spirit and impresses it upon the fabric of material existence.

And yet, it is precisely within this mental plane that conflict arises. This realization is central to my growing understanding. The spiritual and physical planes, for all their oppositional qualities, share something crucial: they are both amoral. The spiritual plane, as the infinite field of potentiality, does not discriminate in the way we morally evaluate outcomes—it simply is. Likewise, the physical plane, composed of matter and governed by impersonal forces, does not possess inherent ethical dimensions. It responds to causes, follows patterns, and reflects energies without judgment. The mental plane, however, is where discernment, conflict, and decision emerge. This is the stage on which our struggles play out—not because the mind is flawed, but because it bears the weight of mediation. Every thought we form, every desire, fear, and memory, creates a ripple that tries to organize itself between the above and the below. The friction of trying to bring coherence between the two produces what we often call suffering.

But it is in this very realm of tension that our creative potential is also born. As Atkinson often emphasizes in his esoteric formulations, the mental plane is both the problem and the solution. It is through our capacity to think, to imagine, to direct attention, that we unlock the power to transform. We become alchemists not by avoiding the world or retreating into spirit, but by engaging all three planes with conscious integration. This was a radical and liberating idea for me: that the same mind which suffers can also heal; that the same internal space where confusion reigns can give rise to insight. The mental plane is our forge, and we are both the blacksmith and the iron.

What we are being invited to do, as I now see it, is to integrate these three realms—to embody them as facets of one Self. This integration is not achieved by domination, by letting one plane override the others, but by harmonizing their interaction. The spiritual must inform the mind, which in turn must consciously mold the physical. This, I believe, is the essence of true Hermetic work—not escape, but transformation. Atkinson’s writings, especially in Arcane Formulas, outline this process with unexpected precision, providing methods and meditations that are as applicable today as they were over a century ago. The formula is not religious dogma, but a science of inner being—a way to know and operate the levers of Selfhood.

I walk away from this journey—and from this session—with renewed appreciation for how layered and luminous human existence truly is. To even begin to understand that we are not fragmented creatures but a unified field of consciousness expressing itself across dimensions is both humbling and empowering. There is no separation between above and below, only a difference of vibration. The Self is not a prisoner of the body or a figment of the mind, nor is it some disembodied spirit trapped in form. The Self is the totality of all three—a dynamic, ever-unfolding unity. When the mind serves as a faithful mediator, honoring the wisdom of the spirit and the structure of the body, balance and purpose emerge.

This insight has altered my view of inner work and self-development. I no longer see the mind as a battlefield or the body as a hindrance. Instead, I recognize that each is a reflection of the other, a necessity in the unfolding of Self. The answer, for me, lies in acceptance, in deliberate cultivation of harmony, and in the ongoing process of integration. The teachings of Atkinson and the principles of Hermetic thought do not demand belief so much as they invite practice—experimentation with how we direct thought, how we perceive energy, and how we bring our internal universe into resonance with what lies beyond it.

This exploration has not only illuminated certain truths I had long intuited but never named—it has also rekindled my hunger for further study. To see anew something like The Kybalion—to find within its words the scaffolding of my own inner experience—is a gift I didn’t expect. I now understand why the ancients spoke in symbols and correspondences: not to obscure, but to awaken. The world above and the world below are not divided, and neither are we. We are the bridge, the channel, the living testament of unity-in-expression. And in this, I find both peace and purpose.