The Gospel of Truth, Zen, and Tao

There is a silent thread that weaves through Zen Buddhism, the Gospel of Truth, and the Tao of Lao Tzu — a thread so delicate that it escapes easy detection, and yet so strong that it binds them at the level of spirit. Though these traditions arise from different times and cultures, they seem to speak to one another in a hidden language, one not written in doctrines but whispered in the silences between words.

At the heart of all three is a shared intuition: the real trouble with human existence is not evil in the moralistic sense, nor rebellion against some distant deity, but forgetfulness. In Zen, the seeker is not attempting to become enlightened in the sense of acquiring something new. Rather, the goal is to awaken to what has always been — the original, uncorrupted mind that lies buried under layers of thought, habit, and the illusory separations of the ego. The masters of Zen do not tell their students to build a better self; they ask them to pierce through the illusions that hide their true self. Enlightenment, in this view, is less a journey forward and more a sudden remembrance, a recognition so simple and natural that it often evokes laughter or tears.

The Gospel of Truth, attributed to early Valentinian Christians, echoes this same movement of spirit in a strikingly similar way. In this gospel, the story of humanity is not primarily one of wickedness deserving punishment, but one of souls plunged into ignorance, having forgotten their origin in the divine fullness — the Pleroma. Jesus in the Gospel of Truth is not merely a sacrifice to appease wrath; he is a revealer, a messenger from the hidden Father whose mission is to awaken the sleeping children and guide them back into memory. Sin is reimagined not as moral failure but as the consequence of living in forgetfulness, mistaking illusions for reality. Salvation is not the payment of a debt, but the healing of amnesia.

Lao Tzu, centuries earlier, had spoken of the Tao in ways that align with this understanding. The Tao is the source, the unnameable, the way things are before humans grasp and divide. The tragedy is that as soon as one tries to name the Tao, it slips away. To live wisely, then, is to move in harmony with the Tao, yielding and flowing rather than striving and scheming. Like Zen, Taoism sees direct experience as superior to conceptual understanding, and like the Gospel of Truth, it hints that the problem is not that we are fundamentally broken, but that we have lost touch with the nameless source that cradles all things.

In all three traditions, language itself becomes a kind of veil. Zen masters craft koans — paradoxical riddles meant to short-circuit rational thought and trigger sudden insight. The Gospel of Truth speaks of the "Word" not as dead text, but as a living reality that draws the soul beyond superficial knowing. Lao Tzu warns that words and teachings are like finger pointing to the moon; they are helpful only if one looks past them to the reality they suggest. If one clings to the finger, one misses the moon entirely. Thus, each of these paths distrusts verbal formulations when they become substitutes for direct encounter with the real.

The tie that binds them is more than similarity of metaphor; it is a shared vision of what it means to be human. Human beings are seen not as fundamentally evil creatures in need of beating themselves into submission, but as wandering children who have lost their way in a forest of forgetfulness. The answer is not conquest, not even self-conquest, but remembering, returning, yielding to what has been true all along. Effort does not produce enlightenment, salvation, or union with the Tao; it obscures it. Only surrender, only profound receptivity, allows the truth to dawn naturally, like the rising sun over a misty field.

Jesus, in the Gospel of Truth, becomes very much like the Zen master or the Taoist sage. He does not impose a new law from the outside; he calls the soul back to the memory of its origin. He does not save by force but by illumination, by casting light on the inner truth that had been forgotten. In this way, the Christ is not the founder of a new religion but the revealer of a deeper reality that has always been present but hidden. In the same way, the Tao is not something added to life; it is life itself, once seen clearly. Zen satori is not the acquisition of mystical powers; it is the dropping away of illusions, the naked encounter with what has always been.

When seen in this way, Zen, the Gospel of Truth, and the Tao are not separate systems of belief but different windows into a single mystery. Each approaches the ineffable from a different angle, each speaking to the heart more than the mind, each offering not a new burden but a release. They do not shout commands from on high but whisper invitations to come home, to remember, to rest.

The deeper one listens, the clearer it becomes: the source has never been absent. It is we who have turned away, who have fallen asleep to the miracle of being. Whether one calls it the Tao, the Father, or the Buddha nature, the truth is nearer to us than our own breath. It only waits for our remembrance.

The Kingdom Within: A Christian’s Awakening to Idealism and Quantum Truth

There comes a point in every spiritual journey where the questions start to deepen, and the safe, comfortable frameworks that once held our beliefs begin to feel a bit too narrow. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like to live decades inside a worldview that values the authority of scripture, the power of prayer, and the life-changing message of Jesus. I was raised in it. I taught it. I built systems and schools to pass it along. But something happened along the way. It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t deconstruction. It was more like an expansion—a slow unfolding of something truer, more mysterious, and perhaps even more faithful than what I once believed.

For years I’d hear the phrase “walk by faith, not by sight,” and nod. It was a verse I’d quoted hundreds of times. But then I started wondering—what does that really mean? Isn’t that the very heart of philosophical idealism? That what we see isn’t the ultimate reality? That mind, or spirit, or consciousness—whatever language we choose—is more foundational than the physical world? As strange as it sounds, the teachings of Jesus and the writings of Paul began to feel more real, not less, when I allowed that possibility.

Take Paul’s words in 2 Corinthians 4:18: “We fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” That sounds like idealism to me. That sounds like a man who’s realized that what we perceive as solid and lasting is actually the fleeting part of existence—and that the invisible, the spiritual, the inner life is where eternity actually dwells. Isn’t that what Jesus meant when he said “the Kingdom of God is within you”?

If you’re an evangelical Christian reading this, I want you to know this isn’t an attempt to pull the rug out from under your faith. I’m not asking you to abandon Jesus or reject the authority of scripture. I’m simply asking you to go deeper. To consider that maybe—just maybe—there’s more than we’ve been taught to see. Maybe the spiritual worldview that the Bible gestures toward is bigger than the systems of theology we’ve inherited.

That’s where quantum mechanics started to blow open the door for me. I’m no physicist, but I don’t have to be to be in awe. Quantum physics teaches that particles behave differently when they’re observed. That what we think of as solid matter is mostly empty space. That what we call "real" is often nothing more than probabilities collapsing into form through interaction with consciousness. If that doesn’t sound like something Jesus would say, I don’t know what does. “As you believe, so it is done unto you.” “According to your faith, be it unto you.” Those weren’t just spiritual affirmations. They were invitations to awaken to our role in shaping the world through awareness, trust, and divine connection.

Some might say, “Sure, but you’re just reading science into scripture.” And maybe I am. But what if the Bible was always pointing to something deeper? What if the truths we call spiritual are truths because they align with the structure of reality itself—whether revealed through mysticism, philosophy, or even science?

That brings me to something I never thought I’d say in public: I’ve found wisdom in the Gospel of Truth. Yes, the one the early church didn’t include in the canon. The one labeled Gnostic. But if you can read it without fear, you’ll find something hauntingly beautiful. It doesn’t deny Jesus—it illuminates him. It doesn’t reject the cross—it reframes it. It suggests that our deepest problem isn’t guilt, but forgetfulness. That we’ve forgotten who we are, and Jesus came to help us remember. Isn’t that what Paul meant when he said, “You have the mind of Christ”? Isn’t that what the Father in the prodigal son story was doing—welcoming someone home who had forgotten his place, not condemning him for his mistakes?

You might be wondering how this all fits together. Idealism. Quantum physics. Non-canonical gospels. Evangelical faith. How can these coexist? For me, the answer is simple: because God is bigger than our categories. The Spirit of Truth didn’t stop moving in the first century. Revelation didn’t end with the last page of the Bible. We are still learning. Still discovering. And every discovery that leads us deeper into love, wonder, connection, and humility—I believe that’s from God.

The world is aching for something more than rigid dogma and surface answers. People are leaving churches, not because they hate God, but because they can no longer pretend that mystery doesn’t matter. We are waking up to the reality that the universe is not just a machine made of dead matter, but a living, pulsing field of consciousness in which we move, breathe, and have our being. That’s not New Age fluff. That’s Acts 17.

When I look back on everything I’ve taught, everything I’ve believed, and everything I’m still discovering, I don’t feel like I’ve lost my faith. I feel like I’ve outgrown the shell of it. What I carry now is something more resilient, more imaginative, more reverent. It’s a faith that lets Jesus be more than just a historical figure or a theological necessity. He becomes what the Gospel of Truth calls him—a remembrance. A revealer of what has always been true: that we come from God, and to God we return, and that the Christ within us is the light of recognition that shines through the illusion.

I know this isn’t the kind of thing that fits neatly into a doctrinal statement. And I’m okay with that. Maybe the new wineskin we need isn’t a revised systematic theology, but a deeper willingness to say: I don’t know, but I trust. I don’t see clearly, but I’m willing to look. I haven’t abandoned the Bible—I’ve just let it breathe.

If this resonates with you, even a little, then I invite you to lean in. Ask the questions you were once afraid to ask. Read what you were told not to read. Wonder about the things you were told to dismiss. Not to destroy your faith, but to let it bloom. There’s a bigger picture, a deeper song, a greater light—and it’s been shining all along.

 

“Reimagining "the Way:" John 14:6 in a World of 8 Billion Souls”

In a world of more than 8.2 billion people, the stark reality that just under 500 million identify as evangelical Christians—many of whom interpret John 14:6 in an exclusive and absolute sense—presents a theological and existential tension that can no longer be ignored. If this verse is to be understood as stating unequivocally that no one can come to the Father except through an explicit belief in the historical Jesus of Nazareth, then we are left with a divine plan that has chosen to allow the vast majority of humanity to be born into religious traditions and cultural settings where that belief is unlikely, if not impossible. Such an understanding turns the path to God into a gated road accessible only to a small, theologically correct minority. This conclusion raises serious questions not only about justice and mercy but about the very character of God.

The verse in question, John 14:6, has been the cornerstone of evangelical doctrine: “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” For many evangelicals, this is the final word. Jesus is the sole path, the only truth, the exclusive channel through which salvation flows. But with fewer than half a billion people embracing that exact reading—and over 7.7 billion others living outside of it—it becomes incumbent upon those who uphold this verse to reconsider what it truly means. Not to water it down or reject it, but to open its depths, to listen to it again with ears attuned to the broader rhythms of God’s Spirit moving across cultures, religions, and hearts.

When we look across other religious traditions, we find that the yearning for divine intimacy, the instinct to see God as Parent, Guide, or Loving Source, is not the possession of Christianity alone. In Judaism, God is a father to Israel—not in a biological sense, but as covenantal protector and guide. In Islam, though God is never called “Father” to avoid anthropomorphism, Allah’s names of mercy and compassion echo the tender care of a parent, with the root word for mercy—rahm—being the same as that for womb. In Hinduism, the divine appears both as Father and as Mother, protector and nurturer, allowing worshippers to relate to the Absolute in deeply familial ways. Sikhism openly refers to God as both father and mother. Indigenous spiritualities throughout the world speak of Father Sky and Mother Earth, viewing creation as the loving expression of divine source. Even in non-theistic traditions like Buddhism, the bodhisattva ideal mirrors divine parenthood—a cosmic compassion that embraces and waits patiently for all beings to awaken. If the divine is revealing itself as parental love in countless ways across the planet, then the Christian must ask: Could John 14:6 be pointing not to exclusion, but to the universal path of divine encounter embodied in Jesus' life?

One way to reframe the verse is through the lens of inclusion. Perhaps Jesus was not claiming to be the only door, but rather identifying the nature of the door itself. The way he walked, the truth he revealed, the life he lived—self-emptying love, radical forgiveness, deep communion with God—these are not things that belong to one culture or time period. They are the shape of divine life made visible. In this sense, when Jesus says "no one comes to the Father except through me," he may be saying that no one comes into conscious union with the Source except through the kind of path he walked, the kind of truth he embodied, the kind of life he revealed. Whether one is Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, agnostic, or Christian, if one walks in humility, truth, compassion, and love, they are walking in the way of Christ—even if they do not use his name.

Another interpretive possibility sees Jesus not merely as a man pointing to truth, but as the embodiment of the eternal Logos—the divine Word through whom all things were made, as John’s Gospel opens in chapter one. The Logos is present in all cultures, all times, all hearts. It is the light that enlightens every person coming into the world. Seen this way, John 14:6 becomes a cosmic statement: all true approaches to God are mediated through the divine Logos, whether or not that mediation is named or known as "Jesus." The man Jesus becomes the incarnation of something vast and timeless, something already at work in every sincere seeker, in every act of compassion, in every longing for truth. The verse does not deny the validity of other paths; it reveals the underlying unity of them all.

Mystics have long seen in John 14:6 not a doctrinal boundary, but a mystical affirmation. When Jesus says “I am the way,” he is not making an egotistical claim. He is identifying with the “I AM” presence—divine being itself. He is saying, in essence, “the way to the Father is through the realization of the I AM that I embody, and that you too can awaken to.” The truth he speaks is not a creed to believe but a state of consciousness to awaken into. The life he lives is not one that ends in crucifixion but one that bursts forth in resurrection and is offered to all. To come to the Father, one must come through this deep, interior realization—the same realization the Christ had. It’s not about clinging to his name, but about awakening to his nature.

It is also helpful to recognize the historical and literary context of the Gospel of John. Written at a time of theological tension, perhaps even rivalry between early Christian communities and other Jewish sects, the Gospel presents a high Christology that may reflect the beliefs of John’s community more than a direct quote from the historical Jesus. Understanding this helps us avoid weaponizing John 14:6 as a doctrinal litmus test. Instead, we can read it as the poetic and theological expression of a faith community discovering that in the person of Jesus, they had encountered a living embodiment of divine truth and love.

What then are we to do with this verse, standing as it does in the middle of a pluralistic and suffering world? We must begin by recognizing that insisting on an exclusive reading of John 14:6 is not only theologically limiting—it is spiritually harmful. It erects walls where there should be bridges. It creates insiders and outsiders, chosen and damned, in a universe that, if truly ruled by Love, must transcend such tribal lines. If nearly 500 million people believe that all others are shut out unless they join their particular theological club, the result is not greater holiness—it is greater division, and perhaps, greater blindness to the mystery of God working in all people.

John 14:6, far from being a closing of the door, may be a profound invitation. An invitation to see Christ not as a barrier but as a pattern, a presence, a path that appears in many forms, speaks many languages, and wears many faces. It may be that the only way to the Father is through the life of Christ—but that life can blossom wherever there is love, wherever truth is honored, wherever compassion reigns. And so, in this light, it is not the billions outside of evangelical Christianity who must change course. It is the evangelicals who must deepen their understanding—who must look again and listen closer, not to convert the world to their view, but to allow the Spirit to convert their view to embrace the world.

That, perhaps, is the heart of the matter. When we step back and consider the vastness of humanity—over 8 billion souls, most of whom live and die outside of evangelical Christianity—it becomes increasingly difficult to insist that “God is love” while simultaneously holding to an exclusive interpretation of John 14:6. If divine love is truly unconditional, it cannot be constrained by religious identity, linguistic accident, or historical circumstance. To say that God’s love is real while also asserting that only those within a particular theological framework receive its benefits is to speak in contradictions. Love, by its nature, must be generous, boundless, and universal—or it is not love at all.

If God’s essence is love, then that love must be as vast as creation itself, flowing through every culture, every sincere heart, every longing soul. It cannot be reserved for those fortunate enough to have been born in the right part of the world or introduced to the right doctrine. And so, the exclusive interpretation of John 14:6 begins to collapse under the weight of the very claim it seeks to uphold. It does not magnify God’s love—it diminishes it, makes it small and tribal, conditional and capricious. But if, instead, we see in Jesus not a boundary but a window—an embodiment of divine truth that resonates across all spiritual paths—then the verse opens wide. It becomes not a declaration of exclusion, but an invitation to walk in the way of divine love, truth, and life. And only then does it harmonize with the deeper truth Christians proclaim: that God is love, and that love is for all.

Ages to Come and the End of the Age

When Peter stood up at Pentecost and quoted the prophet Joel, declaring, “In the last days, I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh,” he was not merely echoing an ancient prophecy. He was naming a seismic shift in the spiritual and cosmic order. Those listening to him may have thought he was referring to the imminent end of the world, but Peter, steeped in Jewish apocalyptic expectation and shaped by the presence of the risen Christ, was bearing witness to something much deeper. He was standing at the end of one age and the dawn of another—the closing moments of the Age of Aries and the birth pangs of the Age of Pisces. Just as the early followers of Jesus were awakening to a new consciousness and entering into a new spiritual reality, many today, particularly among evangelicals, are waking up to another great transition: the slow but steady waning of the Piscean Age and the faint but rising light of a new era.

Paul would later write of these realities with the language of “this present evil age” and “the age to come.” He spoke of the “end of the age” and of “ages to come,” not with a precise calendar in mind, but with a sense of being caught in the middle of a great spiritual unfolding. For him, the old age—bound by law, death, and separation from God—was passing away. A new age, defined by grace, Spirit, and union with the divine, had been inaugurated in Christ. Paul’s cosmos was layered with meaning; the material world was not merely physical but charged with spiritual forces. He saw the crucifixion and resurrection not just as historical events but as the turning point of the cosmos. In Christ, the axis of the ages had shifted. Those who believed were not just adherents of a new religion—they were citizens of a new age.

The term “aion” in the Greek—used by Paul and others—carries this dual meaning of time and world-system. It suggests both the duration of an epoch and the spiritual atmosphere that defines it. When Paul speaks of the “present evil aion,” he isn’t merely referring to bad politics or hard times, but to a spiritual condition under the influence of powers that resist divine transformation. Likewise, his vision of the “ages to come” is not a simplistic heaven-after-death narrative but a vision of ongoing unfolding realities, deeper dimensions of grace, and expanding awareness of the divine.

Now, two thousand years later, we find ourselves again in a liminal space—standing at the threshold of the end of an age. The Age of Pisces, which began around the time of Jesus, is slowly giving way to a new epoch. Many modern astrologers and esoteric thinkers associate the Age of Pisces with themes of faith, sacrifice, martyrdom, and spiritual devotion. It was an age that birthed Christianity, monastic mysticism, institutional religion, and collective faith structures. But its shadow side has also become increasingly visible: hierarchical systems, dogmatic rigidity, and a fixation on vicarious redemption. Evangelicals in particular are beginning to sense that something is amiss. The old certainties no longer comfort; the inherited doctrines no longer breathe life. There is a stirring, a hunger, and for some, a crisis.

And yet, just as Peter’s proclamation of the “last days” was not the end of time but the end of an age, so too might this moment we’re living in be understood. What we are seeing among many today is not merely deconstruction or rebellion—it is awakening. Just as the Spirit was poured out at Pentecost and people spoke in new tongues, so too are people today speaking new spiritual languages—languages of consciousness, of unity, of inner knowing. Many evangelicals, long trained to distrust their intuition and submit to external authority, are now learning to trust the indwelling Christ, the inner witness of the Spirit. They are rediscovering what Paul meant when he spoke of being “crucified with Christ, and yet I live—not I, but Christ lives in me.” They are realizing that faith is not so much belief in dogma, but participation in divine life.

This awakening is not happening outside of time; it is deeply rooted in it. Just as the Age of Aries was symbolized by the ram—linked to sacrifice, courage, and law—and gave way to Pisces, symbolized by the fish—linked to faith, compassion, and mysticism—so too is a new symbol on the horizon. The old forms are breaking down, not because truth has failed, but because truth is transforming. What we thought was the gospel was often a dim shadow of the deeper mystery—that Christ came not to rescue us from an angry God but to awaken us to our shared divine origin, to restore our memory of who we are.

In this way, Peter’s words echo through time. They were true then, and they may be true again: these are the last days—not the end of the world, but the end of an age. And just as the Spirit was poured out before, so it is being poured out again. Not confined to temples or denominations, but rising in yoga studios, in meditation circles, in late-night questions about existence, in whispered prayers and silent realizations. Something holy is stirring. The last days of Pisces are not a time for fear but for awakening. The Spirit has not left; it is brooding once more over the deep, preparing to birth something beautiful again.

My Easter Reflection

I recently watched a replay of a live session on Facebook that stirred something deep within me—something sacred, clarifying, and affirming of what I’ve long sensed to be my purpose on this earth. I’ve been on a journey, not of returning to the church as it stands, but of reaching those still within it who are suffocating beneath the weight of evangelicalism’s contradictions. I speak not as an outsider looking in, but as one who has walked that path, seen both the beauty and the brokenness, and now feels compelled to offer an alternative—a way forward for those who still feel tethered to the old framework but are awakening to something truer, gentler, and more whole.

First, let me state this plainly: I do not believe in penal substitutionary atonement. I never have. I don’t believe in hell as eternal conscious torment, and I certainly don’t believe that anyone needs to be “saved” in the way evangelicalism has defined it. As my friend Aaron often says—and I deeply agree—we are all safe. Whatever God is, whatever Jesus revealed, it is not fear-based. It is not built on appeasing wrath or earning worth.

Still, not everyone is at the same place in their journey. Some no longer need the symbolism of the cross. Some, like myself, have moved beyond it in many ways. But there are still many, especially those wounded by a toxic version of Christianity, who need a language of redemption—one not rooted in fear and shame, but in healing and reorientation. These are the people I’ve always felt called to serve.

Back in 2010, I felt the pull to help evangelicals break free from a double-minded gospel—a gospel that said “grace” but demanded performance. One of the most vital truths I was given to share is that justification before God does not come from our faith in Jesus, but from Jesus’ faithfulness. Romans 3:22 speaks to this when properly translated from the Greek: “the righteousness of God through the faith of Jesus Christ unto all, and upon all them that believe.” It is his faith, not ours, that accomplished what needed to be done—for those who need it. And that’s key. Not everyone does. But some do, and they deserve a liberating alternative to the twisted gospel they were fed.

Paul echoes this again in Galatians 2:16: “knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the law, but by the faith of Jesus Christ.” And later in verse 20: “I live by the faith of the Son of God.” This is not about belief in a transaction. It’s about entering into a way of being that Jesus already embodied. For those traumatized by sin-consciousness and guilt, this reframing is not only helpful—it’s essential.

The traditional gospel taught many that we are broken and must believe rightly to be fixed. But what if the real message was that we were never separated in the first place? What if the cross wasn’t a payment, but a symbol? What if Christus Victor is the true lens—that Jesus overcame the fear of death, the powers of this age, and the systems of oppression that enslave the mind and soul? For those who need redemption—not from God’s wrath, but from trauma, addiction, shame, and despair—the cross can still hold meaning. Not as punishment, but as liberation. A sign that good overcomes evil, and that death—literal or symbolic—is not the end.

Perhaps that’s why the crucifix holds power in exorcisms—not because demons fear torture, but because they fear light, love, and the reclaiming of human dignity. Perhaps the resurrection’s deeper message is that nothing true, nothing beautiful, is ever truly lost. That even in our darkest night, there is a dawn not far behind.

Galatians 3:21–22 asks a question many evangelicals overlook: “Is the law then against the promises of God? God forbid… But the scripture hath concluded all under sin, that the promise by faith of Jesus Christ might be given to them that believe.” But here’s what I see: the faithfulness of Christ wasn’t reserved only for those who believe—it was extended to all. His act of love, trust, and divine awareness wasn’t dependent on our response; it was a gift to humanity in its entirety. For those who feel fallen, his faith becomes the ladder back to self-worth. But even those who never climb it were never excluded. His faith was a cosmic declaration of unity, not a conditional transaction. The gift is given whether it's received or not. That’s the kind of love that changes everything.

So no, I am not going back to church. But I am going forward into ministry—my own way. Not to deconstruct everything for everyone, but to minister to those still inside the walls of evangelicalism who feel trapped and afraid. They may not be ready to toss out the cross or abandon the Bible. But they are ready for something healthier, more coherent, more kind. And if I can help deliver that—even a little—then I am fulfilling my mission. Not to convince the whole world, but to offer peace to those who still think they need it.

Could this be the gospel?

Across the world's sacred writings and mythologies, there is a striking and persistent theme: the idea that human beings are not adrift in a chaotic universe, but are instead intimately connected to a divine source—one that is not only powerful, but conscious, benevolent, and deeply present. Whether expressed through the Hebrew psalms, Hindu scriptures, Buddhist sutras, or Hermetic philosophy, this shared vision speaks to an ultimate assurance that life is meaningful and that we are not alone. The message isn’t always packaged as dogma or doctrine, and it often transcends the boundaries of religion entirely, resting instead in the mystical intuition that something higher is holding us, sustaining us, and calling us to remember who we really are.

In the 23rd and 91st Psalms, for example, we find words of comfort that speak directly to the soul’s deepest fears. These ancient Hebrew songs declare that even in the presence of danger, loss, or death, there is nothing to fear—for the Divine is present as Shepherd and Shelter. These verses do not present God as distant, demanding allegiance through fear, but as an ever-present guide and protector. The power of these psalms lies not just in their poetic reassurance, but in the deep metaphysical truth they point toward: that we are already in the care of the Divine, whether we realize it or not. Similarly, in The Kybalion, we are reminded that within the Father-Mother Mind, all mortal children are at home. There is “no Power outside of THE ALL,” and therefore, there is nothing to fear. The Hermetic promise is not one of external salvation, but of internal realization—that we are forever contained within the Infinite Mind, rocked in the cradle of the deep, unthreatened by anything that lies outside, because there is no “outside.”

This same idea surfaces again and again in the myths and sacred texts of other traditions. In Hinduism, Krishna promises in the Bhagavad Gita that whenever dharma is in decline, he will manifest to protect the good and restore balance. It is not merely an occasional intervention but a recurring assurance that the cosmos is morally ordered and that divine presence actively works through time. In Mahayana Buddhism, the Bodhisattva vows to remain in the cycle of existence until all beings are liberated—a sacred commitment rooted in compassion that promises no one will be left behind. In Islam, God assures believers that He is closer than their own jugular vein, suggesting that Divine intimacy is not something to earn, but something to realize. Even in the primordial Mithaq, the covenant between Allah and all human souls before they are born, there is an echo of the Hermetic idea that we have forgotten who we are, but we have never ceased to belong.

And so we see a pattern—not just of doctrines, but of deep spiritual recognition. That at the heart of reality is not absence, but Presence. Not judgment, but care. Not abandonment, but belonging. The myths, from the Greek story of the soul’s descent and return, to the Native American stories of origin and harmony with the Earth, to the Gnostic Gospel of Truth’s portrayal of Jesus as the one who came to help us remember—we find the same whisper: that our core problem is not sin, but forgetfulness. That our healing comes not through punishment, but through awakening. We are not alienated sinners pleading for mercy; we are children of the Divine who have forgotten where we came from and who we are.

So we must ask: is this the “good news”? Is this the gospel? Not in the institutional sense, not in the form shaped by councils and creeds, but in the root meaning of the word—euangelion—a joyful proclamation. Could it be that the gospel is not confined to a single story, religion, or book, but is instead the universal truth that breaks through the veil of separation and fear? That the good news is that we are already held, already loved, already one with the Source from which we came? That there is, in fact, nothing to fear—because the Divine is not far off, but closer than breath, more intimate than thought, and the very ground of our being?

If so, then the promise we see echoed across sacred traditions is not a collection of contradictory claims, but a chorus of voices harmonizing to reveal the same truth. Whether called God, the ALL, Brahman, the Tao, or the Great Spirit, this Presence holds all things together. The gospel, then, may not be a message we must accept to be saved, but a reality to awaken to—a truth that, once remembered, sets us free.

A Reimagined Gnosticism

Reimagining Gnosticism in light of both ancient texts and modern metaphysical theories allows us to reconstruct a vision of the cosmos and the soul’s journey that transcends the rigid dogmas of orthodox religion. In this re-envisioning, the Gospel of Truth, the Gospel of Thomas, the Kybalion, Poimandres of the Corpus Hermeticum, Neoplatonism, and select writings from the New Testament such as the Gospel of John, Ephesians, and Colossians, form a picture woven with spiritual insight and symbolic depth. These writings, when viewed through the interpretive lenses of modern thinkers like Donald Hoffman and Bernardo Kastrup, and when juxtaposed with emerging insights from quantum mechanics, offer a worldview that is more holographic than hierarchical, more participatory than punitive, and more evocative of divine remembrance than of guilt-laden redemption.

At the heart of Gnostic cosmology lies the notion of the Pleroma—the fullness of divine reality—and its fragmentation through a process of emanation, eventually leading to the emergence of the demiurge and the fashioning of the material world. In traditional readings, the demiurge is often seen as a malevolent or ignorant creator, distinct from the ultimate source. But reimagined as metaphor, the demiurge can be understood as the individuated mind mind that forgets its origin in unity and mistakenly believes itself the architect of reality. Sophia, then, is the mythic embodiment of the divine impulse to know, the wisdom that plunges into the depths of experience and forgets her divine identity. Her fall is our fall—the descent into fragmentation, fear, and material illusion. But it is not a fall from grace in a moral sense; rather, it is the story of consciousness descending into limitation so that it may rediscover itself through the mirror of separation.

The Gospel of Truth portrays this forgetfulness as the essential problem: humanity has simply forgotten who and what it is. Jesus in this text is not a sin-bearer but a revealer—a light-bearer who reawakens our memory of the Pleroma. The message is not one of external salvation but of internal realization. The Gospel of Thomas echoes this sentiment with its many sayings that point inward: “If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you.” These are the words not of a savior demanding allegiance, but of a mystic reminding us that divinity is latent in all, waiting to be quickened by remembrance.

This theme of inner revelation resonates with the Hermetic teachings of Poimandres, where Hermes Trismegistus is granted a vision of the All—a boundless, living light that is the source of all being. Hermes is told that humanity is a mirror of the divine, caught in illusion but capable of awakening. The Kybalion picks up this Hermetic thread by presenting the Principle of Mentalism: "The All is Mind." This idea mirrors the quantum view that consciousness, not matter, is primary. Donald Hoffman’s theory of conscious agents—that reality consists not of objective physical stuff but of interacting fields of consciousness—aligns surprisingly well with this ancient insight. We do not perceive reality as it is; we perceive symbols rendered by the interface of mind. Bernardo Kastrup extends this further with analytic idealism, arguing that consciousness is the ground of being and that matter arises as a ripple within the mind of the cosmos. Thus, the archons—the rulers and principalities that Gnostics described as the keepers of illusion—become metaphors for the structures of perception and the individuated mind that limit our access to the deeper levels of reality.

In this framework, Jesus is not merely a historical figure, but a cosmic archetype—an emissary from the Pleroma whose life and teachings reawaken the divine spark in humanity. Hermes serves a similar function in the Hermetic tradition. Both figures dwell at the intersection of myth and history, dream and flesh. They are not merely men, but mythic exemplars, patterned expressions of the Logos—the divine ordering principle. Plato too, especially in his dialogues on the Forms and the nature of the soul, participates in this tradition. In the Timaeus, the Demiurge is not evil but is the divine craftsman who fashions the world out of preexisting chaos using the Forms as templates. Though not Gnostic, Plato sets the philosophical stage for Gnostic thinking, especially as refracted through Neoplatonism, where the One emanates through successive levels of being, descending into multiplicity while always retaining its hidden unity.

This vision aligns closely with the mystical heart of the Gospel of John. In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was with God, and the Logos was God. This Logos, this divine pattern, becomes flesh not to condemn but to illumine, to reveal. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it—not because it is morally evil but because it is forgetful. John’s Christ does not come to demand sacrifice but to awaken sight. His miracles are signs, and his passion is a pathway back to the Father—not a transaction of guilt but a transformative unveiling of glory. The language of “eternal life” in John is not a reward for belief but an invitation to participate in the eternal now of divine presence.

This same energy pulses through Ephesians and Colossians, whether or not they were penned by Paul himself. These epistles speak of the mystery hidden from ages past now revealed in Christ. They describe a cosmic Christ through whom all things were made and in whom all things hold together. Colossians especially emphasizes that the fullness of the Godhead dwells bodily in Christ, and that we are complete in him. Such language evokes the image of the Pleroma restored, the reintegration of fragments into wholeness. The Christ of these letters is not simply a messianic figure but a metaphysical reality—a field of divine consciousness reconciling all things to itself.

Quantum physics lends metaphorical richness to this reimagined Gnosticism. The wave-particle duality, the observer effect, and entanglement all point to a reality that is relational and non-local. The world does not exist as a fixed machine but as a dynamic interplay of possibilities actualized through consciousness. This matches the Gnostic and Hermetic idea that the material world is not the base layer of reality but a projection—a symbol, an interface, an illusion to be seen through, not worshipped. The archons, then, are not demonic overlords but the constructs of perception, the cultural and cognitive filters that bind us to the apparent world and obscure the real. They are systems—mental, social, religious—that reduce the infinite to the manageable, the sacred to the sanctioned.

Jesus as the revealer comes to strip away these illusions. His parables, sayings, and actions are riddles designed to destabilize conventional thinking and point toward the inner kingdom. The kingdom of God is within you, he says—not in temples or rituals, but in the awakening of consciousness to its own divine source. The resurrection, then, becomes less an event in history than a metaphor for the awakening of the divine self within the tomb of matter. It is the rising of awareness from the sleep of ignorance. This is Sophia’s ascent, the soul’s re-ascension to the Pleroma—not by fleeing the world but by seeing through it.

In the reimagined Gnostic cosmology, salvation is not rescue from a fallen world but remembrance of the real. It is gnosis—knowing—not in the sense of mere intellect but of intimate recognition, like the way one recognizes a long-lost friend or remembers a dream that felt more real than waking life. The metaphors of fall and redemption are not to be discarded, but reinterpreted. The fall is the descent of consciousness into multiplicity and form. The redemption is its return to unity, not by erasing form but by suffusing it with light.

This synthesis of ancient mysticism and modern theory dissolves the rigid boundaries between science and spirit, between scripture and myth. Jesus, Hermes, and Plato speak in different tongues but point to the same truth: reality is not what it seems, and the divine is closer than breath. The Pleroma is not a distant realm but the ground of being itself, shimmering behind appearances, awaiting our rediscovery. The archons lose their terror when seen as the illusions of the individuated mind. The demiurge is not a villain but a teacher, showing us the limits of control and the necessity of surrender. Sophia is not a shameful figure but the wounded healer, the soul’s journey through pain into wisdom.

The journey of the soul, then, is not linear but spiral—an ever-deepening return to what we already are. The Logos sings in every atom, every thought, every experience, waiting to be heard. Christ, as John writes, is the true light that enlightens everyone coming into the world. This light is not owned by any religion, nor monopolized by any doctrine. It is the eternal witness within, the still point at the center of becoming. To follow Jesus, or Hermes, or Plato, in this reimagined vision, is to enter the mystery fully, to question bravely, and to remember—again and again—that we are sparks of the divine dreaming our way back to the stars.