Liberating the Father and Jesus From Orthodoxy and Evangelicalism

To speak of “liberating” God may sound strange to some ears, even presumptuous. But what we are really talking about is liberating our understanding of God—particularly the Father and Jesus—from the confines of institutionalized religion, especially the rigid frameworks of orthodoxy and modern evangelicalism. These systems, while intending to preserve truth, have often distorted it through the lens of power, fear, and binary thinking. The result is a spiritual landscape where mystery is suppressed, questions are taboo, and God is presented more as a cosmic bureaucrat than a loving Parent.

Orthodoxy, by definition, means “right belief.” But who gets to decide what is right? Throughout Christian history, “heresy” has been nothing more than the name orthodoxy gives to its losing arguments. Jesus himself would have been labeled a heretic by the very standards later enshrined in the institutional church. In fact, he was.

Consider how Jesus was received in his own day. He broke Sabbath laws, consorted with the marginalized, reinterpreted Torah, and directly challenged the religious elite. He said outrageous things like “You have heard it said... but I say unto you...” which undermined legalistic interpretations of Scripture. He claimed unity with the Father in a way that scandalized the religious authorities. These weren’t polite theological differences. They were confrontations with the theological gatekeepers of his time—gatekeepers who believed they were defending orthodoxy. From their perspective, Jesus was the heretic. And for this, they saw him crucified.

Paul, too, was called a heretic. Once a persecutor of Christians in the name of Jewish orthodoxy, Paul underwent a radical transformation and began preaching a gospel of grace that tore down walls between Jew and Gentile, insider and outsider. His letters often pushed against early church expectations and Jewish norms alike. His emphasis on the spirit over the letter of the law—and his claim that faith in the risen Christ abolished the old distinctions—put him in direct tension with the very religious world he once upheld.

And let’s not forget the Reformers. Luther, Calvin, Zwingli—all were considered heretics by the Catholic Church of their time. Each, in their own way, sought to liberate Christianity from what they saw as distortions and legalism. And yet, within a generation, many of their followers turned those new insights into dogmas of their own, excommunicating and persecuting those who dared to diverge. The same spirit that condemned Luther was alive in Luther when he condemned the Anabaptists.

This historical pattern reveals a troubling truth: orthodoxy is not a static container for divine truth. It is a moving target shaped by power dynamics, cultural assumptions, and the psychological need for certainty. It’s not that truth doesn’t exist—it does—but our formulations of it are always partial, always filtered through human lenses.

Which brings us to the tyranny of binary thinking. The theological tradition, especially in the West, has been plagued by either/or categories: saved or damned, in or out, true or false, believer or heretic. This black-and-white framework flattens nuance, ignores mystery, and leaves no room for growth or evolving understanding. When God is confined to the binaries of systematic theology, we lose the relational, dynamic, and often paradoxical nature of the divine.

Jesus did not speak in systematic theology. He spoke in parables, riddles, and paradoxes. He emphasized fruit over doctrine, love over law, and mercy over sacrifice. He rarely answered questions directly, often responding with another question. He challenged the very idea that being “right” was what mattered, shifting the focus instead to being righteous, meaning aligned with the heart of God.

Yet evangelicalism today often reverses this emphasis. Rooted in a post-Reformation desire for doctrinal clarity and a modern need for certainty, it treats the Bible as a rulebook and God as a distant judge. Jesus becomes less a living presence and more a theological formula: a sinless substitute paying a legal penalty to appease an offended deity. In this framework, God the Father is often portrayed as angry and exacting, with Jesus acting as a buffer. But this is not the God Jesus revealed.

Jesus called God Abba—Father, even “Papa.” He spoke of a Father who runs to meet prodigals, who gives good gifts, who knows our needs before we ask. He modeled intimacy, not fear; union, not separation. The Father Jesus reveals is not a divine accountant tallying sins but a lover longing for relationship. To distort this Father into the image of a wrathful judge who demands blood to forgive is to miss the heart of the gospel.

When we liberate Jesus and the Father from the scaffolding of rigid theology, what emerges is something far more compelling than orthodoxy’s caricatures. We see Jesus as an elder brother, showing us what it means to live in union with the divine. We see the Father not as a monarch demanding allegiance but as a Parent drawing all creation into the dance of love. We recognize that truth is not found in perfect propositions but in the transformation of the heart.

And we reclaim the right to think, to question, and to doubt without fear of hellfire. In fact, the very fear of hell—so central to evangelical urgency—is itself a product of later theology and cultural conditioning. Jesus spoke of Gehenna, a real place outside Jerusalem, in the context of prophetic warnings. His use of it was not a cosmic threat but a metaphor for the consequences of choosing death over life, ego over spirit. We were never meant to live in fear of a vindictive afterlife but to awaken here and now to the indwelling Christ.

To call this heresy is, ironically, to repeat the very mistake made by those who called Jesus a blasphemer. It is to privilege the letter over the spirit, the map over the territory. But when we follow Jesus in spirit and truth, we are freed from the need to conform to any doctrinal box. We are invited into a living relationship with the divine—one that transcends dogma, embraces paradox, and leads to radical love.

In the end, the only orthodoxy that matters is love. Not the kind of love that fits neatly into creeds, but the wild, boundary-crossing, life-giving love that Jesus embodied. A love that heals, includes, and liberates. And if that is heresy, may we all be heretics—walking in the way of Christ, not the constructs of religion.

Jesus as Elder Brother: Awakening to Our Divine Family and True Nature

In the total of spiritual history, no figure has stirred the soul and challenged the world’s understanding of divinity quite like Jesus of Nazareth. Though often portrayed through layers of dogma and doctrine, at the heart of Jesus’ life and message was something deeply personal and relational: the introduction of the Divine as a loving Parent and humanity as one spiritual family. In this light, Jesus is not only the Savior or Son of God, but more intimately, our Elder Brother—the one who awakened first, to show us who we truly are.

Before Jesus, the Hebrew tradition revered God as Creator, King, and Judge. Though God was sometimes called “Father,” it was primarily in the collective sense, referring to Israel as a nation. The personal, intimate, and relational aspect was largely missing. Jesus changed this. He spoke of God not with fearful reverence or theological abstraction, but with loving familiarity. His consistent use of the word “Abba”—an Aramaic term meaning “Dad” or “Papa”—was revolutionary. It unveiled a Divine Parent who longs not for sacrifice but for connection, not for legal compliance but for heartfelt trust.

In calling God “Father,” Jesus invited his followers into a familial relationship with the Divine. He urged them to pray, “Our Father, who art in heaven…” not “My Father,” but our—signifying that we all share the same Divine source. This was a spiritual democratization of the highest order. It implied that no priest, prophet, or ruler held exclusive access to God. Rather, every human being stood as a child of the same Divine Parent, and therefore, as brothers and sisters.

Jesus took this idea further. When told that his mother and brothers were looking for him, he gestured to the crowd and declared, “Whoever does the will of my Father in heaven is my brother and sister and mother” (Matthew 12:50). In this redefinition, Jesus moved beyond biology and established a new kind of kinship—one based on spiritual awakening and alignment with divine love.

This familial framework finds a profound echo in the writings of Paul, particularly in Romans 8:29, where he describes Jesus as “the firstborn among many brothers and sisters.” For Paul, Jesus was not only the uniquely anointed one but also the prototype, the forerunner of a great awakening. Jesus embodied the Christ—the divine Logos, the light that was in the beginning with God and that illuminates every person. But Paul dared to say that what was in Jesus could be in all. “Christ in you, the hope of glory,” he wrote in Colossians 1:27. This was no distant salvation plan—it was an invitation to recognize the indwelling Christ in ourselves.

Jesus, therefore, was the first to consciously acknowledge the Christ within himself. He lived out of this realization, not merely as a messenger but as a manifestation of Divine Love in human form. His awareness of being the Son of God was not an egoic claim but a deep spiritual knowing of his origin and essence. In recognizing the Christ within himself, he opened the door for all humanity to discover that same light within. As John’s Gospel begins, “In him was life, and that life was the light of all humanity” (John 1:4).

Yet, this light was not always recognized. Jesus’ ministry took place within a very specific context—first-century Judaism under Roman occupation. His people were burdened by centuries of religious law and the crushing weight of sin-consciousness. The Law of Moses, while once liberating, had become a source of spiritual oppression for many. Guilt and fear had taken root, and the joy of intimacy with God had been buried under rule-keeping and ritual purity.

The angel’s announcement that “He will save his people from their sins” (Matthew 1:21) must be read in this historical context. The sins were not simply moral failings, but the entire system of guilt, shame, and alienation perpetuated by the Law and the temple economy. Jesus came to bring freedom from sin-consciousness, not by ignoring sin, but by transcending it through grace, forgiveness, and divine embrace.

In this sense, Jesus' mission was not merely juridical (paying a penalty), but restorative and awakening. He came to reveal the truth of who we are: not broken, condemned beings, but children of God who had forgotten our origin. This theme finds its deepest resonance in the Gospel of Truth, a second-century text associated with the Valentinian Christian tradition. It states that people suffer not because they are sinful by nature, but because they live in “forgetfulness”—they have forgotten who they are and where they come from. Jesus, in this gospel, is the one who comes to “reveal the Father” and to awaken humanity from ignorance into remembrance and joy.

In this light, Jesus is Savior because he restores awareness, not because he satisfies wrath. He is the light that shows us our own inner light. He is the Son who reveals that we too are sons and daughters. He is the elder brother who returns from awakening to guide his siblings home.

It is also worth noting how Jesus' references to hell (Gehenna) fit within this context. Many of Jesus' strongest warnings—often framed with dramatic language about fire and worms—were not threats of eternal punishment, but hyperbolic critiques of the Pharisaic teaching that some people would be consigned to Gehenna, a metaphor derived from the Valley of Hinnom, for a year of post-death purification. This bears some resemblance to later Catholic ideas of purgatory. Jesus turned this imagery on its head, using it to forewarn of the coming destruction of Jerusalem and the temple—a cataclysm that would occur within a generation, as he predicted. His reference to "where the worm does not die and the fire is not quenched" (Mark 9:48) draws directly from Isaiah 66, which describes the aftermath of divine judgment upon the nation. These were not abstract descriptions of eternal torment, but urgent calls to repent and awaken before societal collapse.

The implications are staggering. If the Christ—the divine nature—dwells in all people, then salvation is not exclusionary but universal. It’s not about being chosen or unchosen, but about becoming aware of what has always been true: that we are one with God and with one another. This doesn't negate Jesus' uniqueness—it amplifies it. He becomes the first to fully live what is potentially true of all humanity.

To walk the path of Jesus, then, is not to worship him, but to follow him into that same awakening. It is to say, as he did, “I and the Father are one”—not in arrogance, but in awe. It is to recognize the Christ not only in ourselves but in each other. It is to live as siblings, with God as our shared source, and love as our common bond.

This is the spiritual family Jesus initiated. This is the good news that transcends religion and time. The Christ is not an external figure to be appeased but an inner reality to be realized. Jesus, our elder brother, awakened to it—and showed us how to awaken too.

 

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.

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.

My Current View of the Nature of Reality

In our world saturated by materialist assumptions and scientific reductionism, and religious dogma, a new form of spirituality is emerging—one that reclaims ancient wisdom while embracing modern consciousness studies. Two contemporary thinkers, Bernardo Kastrup and Donald Hoffman, offer compelling bridges between science, philosophy, and deep spiritual insight. Kastrup, through his model of Analytic Idealism, asserts that consciousness is the sole ontological primitive—that all things emerge within and from consciousness itself. There is one universal mind, and what we experience as individual consciousness is a dissociated aspect of this one source. Donald Hoffman, meanwhile, proposes what he calls Conscious Realism, a theory in which consciousness is not the product of the brain but the very fabric of reality itself. Instead of a single mind, Hoffman posits a universe composed of interacting conscious agents, each contributing to what we mistakenly perceive as an external, objective world. He argues that what we call reality is merely a user interface, shaped by evolution to promote survival rather than truth. Our perceptions are icons, not windows.

These modern frameworks echo the poetic metaphysics found in early Christian mystical texts, particularly The Gospel of Truth, attributed to Valentinian circles in the second century. In that gospel, creation is not a literal series of events but the unfolding of divine awareness. Humanity's fall is described not as sin in the traditional sense but as a state of forgetfulness—of ignorance regarding one's origin in the divine. Christ is not merely a sacrifice for wrath but the embodiment of divine memory, sent to awaken humanity from its slumber. He comes not to punish but to remind. The cross is not the locus of appeasement but the fulcrum of revelation, shaking the soul out of its amnesia and into the awareness of its source. This mirrors Kastrup’s assertion that our apparent separation is not real, but a dissociation—a compartmentalization within the larger consciousness. Likewise, in Hoffman’s terms, we have believed too literally in the icons we see, taking interface for substance and forgetting the deeper, conscious structures beneath.

But long before these Christian mystical texts were written—and even before Greek philosophy laid the groundwork for idealism—indigenous peoples across the world were articulating similar views through shamanic traditions. Ancient shamanism, found in the Amazon, Siberia, Africa, Australia, and the Americas, consistently holds that the material world is not the primary reality. Shamans enter altered states of consciousness—through trance, dance, plant medicines, or dreams—not to escape the real, but to access a more real, spirit-infused realm that underlies and interpenetrates the visible world. In these states, they report encounters with entities, ancestors, and archetypal forces, and they navigate dimensions where thought, symbol, and intention shape the environment. Such experiences support the idea that consciousness precedes matter, and that the material world is a symbolic interface, much like what Hoffman and Kastrup suggest.

Shamanism also shares the core insight found in The Gospel of Truth—that we are beings who have forgotten who we truly are. The shaman does not merely heal the body but retrieves the soul, restores memory, and reintegrates the person into the web of life. These rituals aim to reverse fragmentation, to mend the split between the visible and invisible, between the individual and the cosmos. Kastrup's view of dissociation within universal consciousness closely resembles the indigenous notion of spiritual disconnection as a form of soul loss or imbalance. Likewise, Hoffman’s conscious agents resemble the spirit-beings and intelligences recognized in animist and shamanic cosmologies. These beings are not figments of a primitive imagination, but inhabitants of other layers of the conscious field, accessible through non-ordinary states of awareness.

The prologue of the Gospel of John carries a striking resonance with these themes. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Logos here functions not simply as a name for Christ but as the rational pattern and meaning behind all things—the structure of divine mind. “In Him was life, and that life was the light of all humanity.” Life and light—consciousness and awareness—are not accidents of biology but the very essence of being. When John later says, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us,” it is not merely about incarnation but about divine consciousness breaking into human perception. Chapter 17 deepens this mystical theme. Jesus speaks of unity: “That they may be one, Father, as you are in me and I in you… that they may be brought to complete unity.” This is not an institutional unity, but ontological unity. He speaks as though his own consciousness and the Father's are intertwined, and he desires that same experience for humanity. It is the language of reintegration—the healing of the dissociation that Kastrup describes, and the lifting of illusion Hoffman critiques.

Paul’s epistles echo this cosmic consciousness in deeply mystical terms. In Colossians, Paul proclaims, “He is before all things, and in him all things hold together.” Christ is not just an individual but a cosmic template, a unifying field. “For in Him all the fullness of deity dwells bodily.” Christ is not just an agent but the pattern of divine reality itself. In Ephesians, Paul extends this thought: “There is one body and one Spirit… one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.” Here, spiritual union is not moral agreement but ontological participation in the divine. The individual ego, separated by fear and survival instincts, begins to dissolve into a larger, luminous unity. This mirrors not only Hoffman’s model of conscious agent networks but also indigenous visions of the great web of life, in which all beings are animated by Spirit and interrelated through sacred reciprocity.

Modern spirituality, then, has an opportunity to synthesize these diverse insights into a cohesive path of awakening. It begins with a fundamental shift: seeing consciousness not as a byproduct of brain chemistry but as the very ground of existence. The illusions of separation—between self and other, divine and human, sacred and secular—can be healed. In this spirituality, prayer is not pleading with a distant deity but aligning with the deeper flow of the one mind. Meditation becomes a tuning of attention back into the divine presence from which we are never truly separate. Ritual, long dismissed as superstition, regains its sacred function: to symbolize and enact inner realities, to realign the self with the rhythms of cosmos and spirit. Shamanic ceremony, Christian sacrament, and contemplative silence all become valid technologies of the sacred.

The story of Christ becomes not a once-for-all transaction, but an eternal drama of remembering, of awakening from forgetfulness. The “kingdom of God within” is not metaphor, but an invitation to rediscover one's identity in the universal consciousness. This is a message as ancient as the drumbeat of tribal medicine men and as contemporary as quantum theory. It bridges the firelit visions of the shaman with the deep exegesis of the mystic. It is the perennial message: you are not what you think you are, you are more, and you have never been separate from the Source.

In this synthesis, the Gospel of Truth, the Gospel of John, and Paul’s mystical Christ are no longer bound by doctrinal literalism but are seen as poetic revelations of the structure of consciousness itself. Analytic Idealism, as articulated by Bernardo Kastrup, gives a metaphysical framework for this spirituality: the world is real, but it is mental, symbolic, and alive within divine mind. Conscious Realism, as proposed by Donald Hoffman, offers a scientific metaphor: the reality we see is not the thing-in-itself but a dashboard—custom-tailored to our sensory evolution. Indigenous shamanism, often dismissed by modern thinkers, returns to the table as an intuitive, experiential map of the same insight: that the world is sacred, that mind is primary, and that true healing is a return to relational, holistic consciousness. We are the divine, looking through filters, interfaces, and personas, slowly remembering what we always were.

Thus, modern spirituality becomes an act of reconnection. Not through dogma, but through direct experience. Not through fear, but through awakening. It speaks to the mystic, the scientist, the seeker, and the shaman. It honors ancient scripture, not by freezing it in the past, but by decoding its deeper truths in the light of new understanding. In Christ, we see not a gatekeeper, but a guide—calling us out of the dream of separation and into the luminous truth of shared being. In the language of John, we become one as Christ and the Father are one—not by merit, but by nature. In the terms of Kastrup, we awaken as fragments of the One Mind dissolving the illusion of fragmentation. In Hoffman’s vision, we learn not to cling to the icons, but to explore the deeper conscious reality they hint at. And in the heartbeat of the shaman’s drum, we find the rhythm of a world where all is alive, all is interconnected, and all is sacred.

This synthesis is the gospel for a post-materialist age—a gospel of unity, awakening, and inward return. It is the good news that we were never separate, never lost, only dreaming. And now, the dream is thinning, the light is dawning, and the Word that was in the beginning is speaking again—not in thunder, but within. And the Spirit that moved across the waters, danced in sacred fire, and whispered in tribal chants is still speaking in every tradition that dares to remember.

What Don Juan Matus, Don Miguel Ruiz, and William Walker Atkinson Have in Common

The exploration of personal power within the unseen world of consciousness finds intriguing parallels in the writings of Carlos Castaneda, William Walker Atkinson, and Don Miguel Ruiz. Although these authors stem from distinct cultural and philosophical backgrounds, their works converge on key concepts that illuminate the nature of human potential, perception, and spiritual mastery. Castaneda’s Don Juan novels delve into the esoteric practices of Mesoamerican shamanism, where the Yaqui sorcerer Don Juan Matus teaches the path of the warrior, emphasizing the necessity of impeccability and the accumulation of personal power. Similarly, Atkinson’s works, rooted in the Western Hermetic tradition, explore the control of thought and the harnessing of mental energy as a means to influence both the material and spiritual realms. The concept of impeccability, also echoed in Don Miguel Ruiz’s The Four Agreements, acts as a common thread that binds these traditions, revealing a shared understanding of the disciplined life required to navigate the unseen dimensions of existence.

In Castaneda’s accounts, Don Juan presents personal power as an elusive force that must be meticulously cultivated through heightened awareness, discipline, and the ability to shift one’s perception of reality. This power is not merely about control or dominance but rather the capacity to engage with the world in a manner that transcends ordinary human limitations. For Don Juan, impeccability—living with unwavering intent and responsibility—is essential for accumulating this power. Every thought, action, and decision must align with a deeper sense of purpose, allowing the practitioner to move through life with clarity and strength. Failure to maintain impeccability results in the dissipation of personal power, leaving the individual vulnerable to the chaotic forces of both the seen and unseen worlds.

Atkinson’s perspective, though articulated through the lens of Western Hermeticism and New Thought philosophy, resonates with Don Juan’s teachings. His works, particularly The Kybalion and Thought Vibration, emphasize the mastery of mental energy as the key to shaping one’s reality. Atkinson asserts that thought is a form of vibration that can be directed with intention, influencing both the inner world of consciousness and the external circumstances of life. This process requires unwavering focus and self-discipline, mirroring Don Juan’s insistence on impeccability. Just as the warrior must guard against frivolous thoughts and actions that drain personal power, Atkinson’s practitioner must maintain mental clarity and purpose to harness the full potential of thought vibration. Both traditions recognize that the mind’s habitual patterns can either empower or enslave the individual, depending on the level of awareness and control applied.

The concept of impeccability as articulated in Ruiz’s The Four Agreements further underscores the importance of aligning one’s thoughts, words, and actions with integrity and purpose. Ruiz describes impeccability as being “impeccable with your word,” which extends beyond mere honesty to encompass the conscious use of language as a tool for creating reality. Words, like thoughts, possess a vibrational quality that influences both the speaker and the surrounding world. To speak with impeccability is to use language in a way that uplifts, empowers, and aligns with one’s highest intentions. This principle closely parallels Atkinson’s emphasis on the power of thought and Don Juan’s insistence on mindful action. In all three systems, the disciplined use of thought and speech serves as a conduit for personal power, enabling the individual to navigate both the physical and metaphysical dimensions of existence.

Despite their cultural differences, these teachings reveal a shared understanding of the unseen world of consciousness as a realm governed by laws that can be understood and harnessed through disciplined practice. Both Mesoamerican shamanism and Western Hermeticism view the universe as a field of interconnected energy, where thought and intent shape the fabric of reality. Don Juan teaches Castaneda that perception is fluid and malleable, allowing the warrior to shift between different “assemblage points” that determine how reality is experienced. This concept finds an echo in Atkinson’s assertion that the mind can attune itself to different vibrational frequencies, thereby altering both perception and circumstance. In both traditions, the ability to navigate these shifts in consciousness is a mark of advanced spiritual development, requiring years of practice, discipline, and unwavering intent.

Furthermore, the emphasis on personal responsibility and self-mastery is central to both systems. Don Juan repeatedly emphasizes that the warrior must take full responsibility for their life, recognizing that every thought and action carries consequences that ripple through both the seen and unseen worlds. Similarly, Atkinson’s philosophy of mental control stresses that individuals are the architects of their own reality, bound only by the limitations of their beliefs and mental habits. This shared emphasis on responsibility reflects a deeper understanding of the interconnected nature of existence, where every action and thought contributes to the greater reality of life. The path to personal power, therefore, lies not in seeking external control or dominance but in mastering one’s inner world, aligning thought, word, and action with a higher purpose.

Another point of convergence is the idea that true power comes from detachment and the ability to act without attachment to outcomes. Don Juan teaches that the warrior must act with impeccable intent, fully committed to their actions yet free from the need for specific results. This detachment allows the warrior to move through life with grace and fluidity, unencumbered by fear or desire. Atkinson similarly emphasizes the importance of maintaining a calm and focused mind, free from the distractions of fear, doubt, and attachment. By cultivating inner peace and mental clarity, the individual becomes a conduit for higher forces, allowing their intentions to manifest with greater ease and precision. This alignment with the flow of the universe is not a passive surrender but an active engagement with life, guided by the understanding that true power arises from harmony with the deeper currents of existence.

Ultimately, the teachings of Castaneda, Atkinson, and Ruiz converge on the understanding that the unseen world of consciousness is not a distant realm accessible only to a select few but an ever-present dimension that can be navigated through disciplined practice and unwavering intent. Personal power is not something to be acquired or possessed but a natural result of aligning one’s thoughts, words, and actions with the deeper laws that govern both the physical and metaphysical realms. Impeccability serves as the key to this process, ensuring that every aspect of one’s life becomes a reflection of their highest purpose. Whether approached through the lens of Mesoamerican shamanism, Western Hermeticism, or modern Toltec wisdom, the path to personal power ultimately leads to the same destination: a life of clarity, purpose, and mastery, where the boundaries between the seen and unseen dissolve, revealing the infinite potential of the human spirit.