The Kybalion and the “All” as the Father - A Reimagining Christianity Narrative

The anonymous authors of The Kybalion—those early-twentieth-century “Three Initiates”—were neither churchmen nor biblical exegetes, yet their slim volume has proved to be one of the most compelling modern articulations of classical Hermetic wisdom. At its heart lies an audacious assertion: “THE ALL is MIND; the Universe is Mental.” In other words, beneath the surfaces of matter and motion there abides a boundless, intelligent Consciousness in which everything “lives, moves, and has its being.” For readers steeped in traditional Christian language, this “All” can sound impersonal, even abstract. But if we listen closely we discover striking resonance with Jesus’ own name for God—Abba, Father—and with the Johannine vision of the Logos that was “with God and was God” before anything else existed. The “All” of Hermetic lore and the Father of mystical Christianity need not stand opposed; together they unveil a breathtaking portrait of a universe that is simultaneously intimate and infinite, mental and maternal, transcendent and tender.

In classical Christianity, the Father is frequently imagined as a transcendent Creator enthroned beyond the cosmos, commanding angels and decreeing destinies. By contrast, The Kybalion paints the All as the very substrate of existence itself: an omnipresent Mind whose thoughts crystallize into galaxies, atoms, and souls. At first glance these two portraits seem irreconcilable, yet both traditions insist on one crucial insight: nothing is truly separate from its Source. When Jesus tells his disciples that “the Father and I are one,” he is not constructing a doctrinal puzzle; he is giving voice to an experiential reality. Likewise, when the Hermetic sage declares that “the All must be in all, and all in the All,” he emphasizes an ontological union that precedes every creed. Separation, then, is a powerful illusion born of limited perception—a veil that invites our awakening rather than our condemnation.

The Kybalion is organized around seven Hermetic Principles, and none is more relevant to this union than the Principle of Correspondence: “As above, so below; as below, so above.” The Gospels echo this wisdom when Jesus teaches his followers to pray, “Your will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” If heaven is the invisible dimension of the All, and earth its visible expression, then every act of compassionate creativity—feeding the hungry, forgiving a grievance, sowing beauty—becomes a local enactment of a cosmic pattern. We do not imitate a distant deity; we participate in the very mind of God. The Father is not an external judge dispensing favors from on high, but the living intelligence that pulses through synapses, seashells, and starlight. In such a universe, prayer shifts from pleading to alignment, from coaxing a reluctant power to consenting to the current of grace that already courses within.

The Principle of Vibration—“Nothing rests; everything moves; everything vibrates”—offers further insight into the biblical proclamation that “the Spirit blows where it wills.” The All never stagnates; it is ceaseless creativity. When Genesis depicts God speaking worlds into being, it describes sound-waves of divine speech rippling through primordial chaos, coalescing into form—an image that resonates perfectly with Hermetic vibration. The Father’s word, the Logos, is an ever-oscillating frequency of love, calling chaos into cosmos over and over again. To live in conscious harmony with that frequency is to participate in ongoing creation, to become co-creators rather than passive subjects awaiting an external rescue.

Yet The Kybalion also warns of a subtle danger: to mistake the manifested universe for the All itself. Matter is genuinely real, but provisionally so; it is a thought within the Divine Mind, not a rival to it. Christian mystics voiced a similar caution. Meister Eckhart spoke of the Godhead beyond God, an abyss of pure potential out of which the Father continually begets the Son and breathes the Spirit. Gregory of Nyssa described creation as God’s “shadow,” a necessary but partial self-revelation. Both traditions invite contemplative humility: the All/Father is always more than any concept, creed, or cosmic panorama. Our words tremble on the threshold of mystery.

Recognizing the All as the Father also reframes the problem of evil. In punitive theologies, suffering often appears as divine retribution or inscrutable testing. But if every being is a differentiated expression of the Divine Mind, then even our pain signals some distortion in the field of consciousness—a frequency out of tune with love’s harmony. Redemption, therefore, is less about satisfying wrath than about remembering resonance. This is precisely how The Kybalion treats transmutation: lower vibrations are not annihilated but raised, refined, attuned. Likewise, Jesus heals not by condemning darkness but by flooding it with light, touching lepers, restoring dignity to the shamed, and whispering “fear not” into frightened hearts. The Father/All does not punish for the sake of punishment; the Father transmutes for the sake of wholeness.

Moreover, The Kybalion compels us to revisit hierarchy. If the All truly pervades all, then no person, species, or star can claim monopoly. Institutional Christianity has often vested spiritual authority in ordained clergy, apostolic succession, or magisterial decrees. Hermetic wisdom destabilizes such claims by insisting that divine gnosis is universally accessible. This democratizing impulse harmonizes with the prophetic promise that the Spirit will be poured out “on all flesh.” The Father is not the patriarch of a gated community but the generative root of a boundless family tree. The cosmic Christ of Colossians—through whom and for whom all things were made—is another lens on the same reality: the All is incarnate everywhere, yet nowhere exhausted.

This synthesis invites a new posture toward ecological and social crises. If forests, rivers, refugees, and rival nations are expressions of the Father’s own being, then apathy becomes metaphysical blasphemy. Love of God and neighbor merges with love of planet and enemy. The Principle of Cause and Effect reminds us that every thought and action ripples through the Mind-field. To exploit creation is to wound our collective body; to heal creation is to participate in the Father’s ceaseless self-giving.

Finally, the Principle of Gender—“Gender is in everything; everything has its Masculine and Feminine principles”—offers a corrective to patriarchal readings of “Father.” In Hermeticism, these principles interpenetrate; nothing is purely masculine or purely feminine. When Jesus speaks of God as Father, he is not enshrining maleness but evoking intimacy, origin, and care. The All contains and transcends every polarity, nurturing like a mother, guiding like a father, birthing worlds like a womb of light. To rest in the Father is to rest in an embrace that is simultaneously masculine and feminine, transcendent and immanent, powerful and tender.

Thus, The Kybalion does not threaten Christian faith; it deepens it, illuminating the hidden architecture beneath biblical poetry. The All as Father invites us to move beyond childish images of a bearded monarch and into mature communion with the ever-present Mind that dreams galaxies and whispers in our blood. To breathe is to pray, for every inhale draws the All into the sanctuary of the lungs, and every exhale returns our fragmentary awareness to its inexhaustible Source. In that breath we discover that we have never been exiles. We are, and have always been, at home in the Father’s infinite heart—particles of divine awareness, awakening to the wonder that the All is here, now, and forever in all.

The Outpouring of the Spirit on All Flesh: Universal Access --- A Reimagining Christianity Narrative

In the book of Acts, Peter stands before a bewildered crowd during the festival of Pentecost and declares, “This is what was spoken by the prophet Joel: In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.” This proclamation echoes across time as a defining moment in Christian consciousness—a promise not of exclusivity but of universality. The Spirit, once thought to dwell only within prophets, priests, and kings, was now erupting from the hearts of ordinary people—young and old, male and female, slave and free. Something had fundamentally shifted. The divine breath was no longer reserved; it had become a shared inheritance.

Yet, over the centuries, much of Christianity has failed to grasp the radical implications of that moment. The universal outpouring of the Spirit has been restrained by human systems of belief, doctrine, and institutional control. Access to the Spirit was often filtered through sacraments, clergy, or correct theology. Some were deemed worthy vessels, others suspect. And despite the original declaration that the Spirit would fall on “all flesh,” countless communities and individuals were told—explicitly or implicitly—that they stood outside the reach of God’s presence.

But what if Pentecost wasn’t the beginning of a new hierarchy, but the dissolution of all hierarchies? What if it marked the unveiling of a truth that had always been present—that the Spirit is not given selectively, but is the birthright of all beings? What if Joel’s prophecy was not just about a moment in history, but a metaphysical reality that has been unfolding since the foundation of the world?

To reimagine Christianity in this way is to recover the breathtaking scope of what it means for the Spirit to be poured out on all flesh. This is not a conditional promise. It is not a reward for belief or moral compliance. It is a declaration that the divine presence is everywhere and in everyone. The Spirit is not a visitor; the Spirit is a constant companion—whispering, stirring, inviting us to awaken to our divine essence.

This vision resonates powerfully with mystical Christianity and with the teachings found in Gnostic and Hermetic traditions. The Gospel of Truth, attributed to Valentinian Christians, suggests that humanity’s main problem is not guilt, but ignorance—forgetfulness of the Source. The Spirit, then, is not a rescuer sent to correct our sinfulness, but a revealer sent to awaken our remembrance. It is the divine light that penetrates the fog of illusion, reminding us that we are and have always been one with the All.

In this reimagined view, the Spirit is not a doctrinal deposit, nor a reward for joining a particular religion. It is not controlled by any denomination or priesthood. The outpouring is universal because the Source is universal. The Father of All, as described in the Gospel of the Egyptians, is beyond limitation, beyond male or female, beyond race, tribe, or creed. And the Spirit, as the breath of the All, is just as expansive. It does not ask permission to indwell; it simply is—waiting for our awareness to catch up.

This means that the Spirit is at work in every tradition, every people group, every culture. The sacred breath can be found in the silence of a Buddhist monk, in the prayers of a Sufi mystic, in the sweat of a Native American vision quest, in the chants of a Hindu devotee, and in the songs of a Black gospel choir. The outpouring is not limited by language, liturgy, or lineage. It is life itself, animated and animated by divine indwelling.

For those raised in traditions that stress exclusivity, this can feel threatening. If the Spirit is given to all, what becomes of the boundaries we’ve drawn? But the Spirit is not concerned with boundaries. It flows where it wills. And it always has. From the Hebrew prophets to Jesus of Nazareth to the desert mothers and fathers to modern mystics and spiritual seekers, the Spirit keeps disrupting our divisions. It keeps reminding us that we are all temples of the living God.

Pentecost, then, is not about the birth of the Church as an institution. It is about the unveiling of a spiritual reality—that divinity is not somewhere else, but within. It is about the breaking open of heaven not above, but among and within us. The tongues of fire are not signs of elite spiritual status—they are signs that the fire of the divine burns in every soul, regardless of their credentials.

This outpouring also invites a profound redefinition of what it means to be spiritual. In the old paradigm, to be spiritual meant to be separate from the world, to ascend beyond the flesh. But Joel’s prophecy is about the flesh—not as something to be escaped, but as something to be inhabited by the divine. The Spirit doesn’t bypass our humanity; it dwells within it, sanctifying it, transfiguring it.

This also has implications for how we see others. If the Spirit is poured out on all flesh, then no one is devoid of divine potential. No one is beyond the reach of grace. No one is merely material. Every face we see is the face of someone breathing the same Spirit. This awareness breaks down barriers of judgment and exclusion. It compels us to treat each other not as outsiders to the sacred, but as co-bearers of the divine flame.

It also frees us from fear. If the Spirit is within us, we no longer need intermediaries to tell us what God is saying. We no longer need to appease a distant deity. We are invited to trust the still, small voice that rises from within. The Spirit is not just present; it is personal. Not as a doctrine, but as a living presence, constantly reminding us of who we are.

To speak of the Spirit in this way is to move from religion to relationship, from law to life, from control to communion. It is to recognize that the mystery of Pentecost is not about speaking in tongues—it’s about hearing the voice of God in every language, including the language of our own soul.

So let us embrace the outpouring. Let us stop treating the Spirit as a possession to be protected, and instead as a gift to be received—over and over again. Let us stop measuring who is worthy and who is not, and instead stand in awe that the All has chosen to dwell in all. Let us see the Spirit not as a doctrinal badge, but as a universal invitation—to wake up, to breathe deeply, and to live from the center of divine awareness.

The outpouring of the Spirit on all flesh is not a footnote in the Christian story. It is the story. And it is still unfolding. Right now. In you. In me. In the breath between words. In the silence behind thought. All we must do is listen. All we must do is remember.

 

The Gospel of Mary: Healing the Fragmented Soul - A Reimagining Christianity Narrative

June 10, 2016 Pope Francis elevated Mary Magdalene to the "Apostle of the Apostles"

The Gospel of Mary is a brief yet important document, long hidden in the sands of time and ecclesial suppression. Unlike the canonical Gospels, it offers no miracles, no crucifixion narrative, and no resurrection account in the traditional sense. Instead, it offers a luminous dialogue between Jesus and his closest disciples—culminating in a moment where Mary Magdalene emerges not just as a follower, but as a bearer of hidden wisdom and healing insight. In this reimagined vision of Christianity, her voice becomes a sacred balm for the fragmented soul of humanity.

We live in a world where the soul feels divided—split between body and spirit, heaven and earth, shame and longing. Institutional religion has often deepened this fragmentation, teaching us that we are sinners from birth, that our desires are suspect, and that salvation comes from external authority. In contrast, the Gospel of Mary presents a message that does not condemn but reintegrates, calling us back into wholeness. Mary’s gospel is a story of soul retrieval, of returning to the truth that has been buried beneath centuries of dogma and hierarchy.

In this gospel, after Jesus departs, the disciples are left grieving and afraid. It is Mary who steps forward—not in arrogance, but in compassion. She shares a vision she received from the Savior, a message that speaks to the inner journey of the soul. She recounts how the soul must ascend through hostile powers—Fear, Desire, Ignorance, Wrath—and respond with truth at each gate. These powers are not literal demons but inner obstacles, the false selves we construct through trauma, ego, and disconnection. They are the illusions that bind us to suffering.

Mary’s teaching is revolutionary. It offers a path of inward transformation rather than external conformity. There is no blood sacrifice, no divine wrath appeased by death. Instead, there is a soul that remembers. A soul that speaks truth to fear and rises through it. A soul that reclaims its origin in the divine. Salvation, in this light, is not juridical—it is existential. It is awakening, healing, remembering.

What Mary teaches mirrors the great mystical traditions across time: that the soul is a spark of the divine, temporarily veiled by the density of material existence and forgetfulness. But even in this fallen condition—if we dare call it that—it retains the capacity to return. This is not the fall of guilt and punishment; it is the descent into fragmentation. And the path of salvation is not to be acquitted of a crime but to be reunified with one’s truest self.

In the Gospel of Mary, there is no appeal to external authority, no ecclesial hierarchy, and no need for a priesthood. Mary does not derive her legitimacy from Peter or any institutional structure; she speaks from direct gnosis, a personal encounter with the divine presence—what she calls the “Good.” This is a gospel not of fear but of freedom. A gospel where salvation is not imposed, but uncovered.

This has profound implications for our own spiritual lives. It tells us that healing begins not with shame but with self-trust. That we are not broken because of sin, but fragmented because of fear. And it invites us to begin the work of soul integration—not by fleeing the world or punishing the flesh, but by reclaiming every part of ourselves as sacred. Body, mind, emotion, desire—all are to be honored, not condemned.

Mary’s journey through the hostile powers is our journey. Each one—Fear, Desire, Ignorance, and Wrath—represents a gate we must pass through on our way back to the center. But these gates are not to be avoided. They are opportunities for truth to rise. When Fear says, “You cannot ascend,” the soul replies, “I saw you, but you did not see me.” When Ignorance says, “You belong to me,” the soul declares, “You are not real.” This is not denial—it is clarity. The soul defeats illusion by naming it, by reclaiming its divine origin.

This is what it means to heal the fragmented soul. It is not about purging sin; it is about restoring vision. Not about becoming acceptable to God, but about remembering we have never been separate from God. The God Mary describes is not a wrathful judge, but the Good—the Source of being and beauty and truth. This Source is not “out there,” but within. And the path to it is not paved by doctrines, but by inner transformation.

This narrative also re-centers the feminine voice in Christianity—a voice long silenced by institutional power. Mary is not merely a companion or repentant prostitute (a falsehood perpetuated by later tradition); she is the one who sees, who understands, who teaches. She is the archetype of divine insight, the embodiment of Sophia—wisdom. In a patriarchal culture and a male-dominated religious structure, her gospel dares to say that insight trumps hierarchy, and that spiritual authority is born from experience, not office.

In reimagining Christianity, the Gospel of Mary becomes a blueprint for liberation—not just from theological bondage, but from psychological fragmentation. It reminds us that Jesus did not come to start a new religion, but to awaken a new humanity. He entrusted that awakening not just to Peter or Paul, but to Mary—to the voice of the healed, integrated, remembering soul.

This gospel speaks to the deep mystical yearning of our time: to be whole again. It calls to the parts of us that have been exiled—our intuition, our longing, our grief, our joy—and says, “You are welcome here.” It offers us a path not of perfection but of recollection. Not of external salvation, but of inner revelation.

And so the message of the Gospel of Mary remains: Do not be led by fear. Do not bow to the hostile powers of culture, dogma, or inner voices that say you are unworthy. You have the capacity to ascend, to heal, to remember. The Kingdom is not in the sky or the sea. It is within you. It is you.

Let us hear Mary’s words again—not as forbidden scripture, but as sacred medicine. Let us walk her path of inner ascent. Let us face our inner fears and answer them with truth. Let us stop waiting for a mediator to make us right with God and realize that God has never left us, has never needed payment, and has never required us to be anything other than whole.

The fragmented soul is healed not by doctrine, but by divine memory. And Mary is the one who reminds us of what we have always known.

  

Grace Reimagined: The Transformative Gift Completely Non-Transactional

In the Greek language, Gift and Grace are synonymous. 

Erroneously, grace, for many, is the heart of Christianity—God’s unmerited favor, lavished upon undeserving sinners. It is the divine kindness that saves us when we cannot save ourselves. But even this beautiful idea, in traditional theology, has often been distorted by its proximity to the doctrine of guilt and the mechanics of atonement. Grace has been presented as a remedy for a problem we didn’t cause—our inherited depravity—and as a conditional pardon extended only to those who believe the right things, pray the right prayer, or belong to the right group.

In this model, grace becomes a reward for admitting how unworthy we are. It is made available only because Jesus paid a price in our place, satisfying divine justice. We are told that we do not deserve it, that we are hopelessly sinful, and that only by clinging to the cross in faith can we receive God’s mercy. This version of grace may seem generous, but it remains transactional at its core—a divine exchange, dependent on a legal framework of crime and punishment.

But what if grace is something far more profound than forgiveness for wrongs? What if it is not rooted in our unworthiness but in our true identity—our forgotten origin in the divine? What if grace is not a rescue from wrath, but a reawakening to what has always been true: that we are beloved, that we are one with God, and that our very being is saturated with divine presence?

To reimagine grace is to step beyond the courtroom and into the living heart of the cosmos. It is to realize that grace is not a response to sin, but the foundational nature of reality itself. Grace is not God changing His mind about us; it is God revealing that His mind has never changed. We were never unloved. We were never truly separated. The veil of shame and unworthiness was only ever in our perception.

In this reimagined view, grace is transformative, not permissive. It does not merely pardon—it awakens. It is not the suspension of judgment; it is the healing of illusion. Grace is the divine light shining into the fog of forgetfulness, calling us back into alignment with our original nature: children of the divine, carriers of the Logos, bearers of the image of the All.

The early mystical Christians, especially those whose voices resonate through the Gospel of Truth and Gospel of Mary, did not see grace as a legal pardon, but as a liberating truth. The problem was never guilt—it was ignorance. Sin was not rebellion, but error—a forgetting of the divine source. In this context, grace is not God choosing to overlook our sins; it is God restoring our vision, clearing away the fog so we can see ourselves and each other rightly.

This is why Jesus speaks of knowing the truth and being set free. This is why he forgives sins without requiring payment. This is why he eats with outcasts, touches the untouchables, and welcomes the unworthy. His grace is invasive, not reserved. It meets people where they are, without condition. It transforms not through fear, but through recognition—recognition of belovedness, of dignity, of eternal belonging.

The parable of the prodigal son illustrates this reimagined grace with striking clarity. The son returns rehearsing a speech of unworthiness. He expects judgment, perhaps servanthood. But the father interrupts him with a kiss, a robe, and a feast. He never stopped being a son. The father doesn’t say, “Because you repented, I now forgive you.” He says, “You were dead and now you live. You were lost and now you are found.” This is grace: not a reward, but a revelation.

In the older paradigm, grace is limited. It has boundaries: theological, denominational, and often moral. But in the reimagined vision, grace is limitless. It flows through all things, touches all people, and transcends the distinctions we so often use to divide. It is poured out on all flesh, as the prophet Joel foresaw and Pentecost affirmed. The Spirit is not given to the deserving, but to all who breathe. Grace is not something God withholds until we meet the conditions—it is the ever-present gift waiting for us to open our eyes.

This redefinition of grace also changes how we understand transformation. In legalistic systems, we are told to behave because God is watching—or worse, because hell awaits. But in the path of grace, transformation arises from love, not fear. When we see how deeply we are loved, how intimately the divine indwells us, we begin to live differently. Not because we are afraid, but because we are free. True grace liberates the soul, breaks the chains of shame, and sets us on a path of joy.

Jesus the Awakener: Gnosis, Not Atonement - Reimagining Christianity

For centuries, the dominant Christian narrative has cast Jesus as the divine sacrifice sent to die in order to atone for the sins of humanity. His death is seen as the necessary satisfaction of divine justice—an innocent victim absorbing the punishment rightfully belonging to us. But what if this is not the gospel Jesus proclaimed? What if the true meaning of his life, death, and resurrection lies not in atonement but in awakening? What if Jesus came not to die for us in a legal sense, but to live as us in a mystical sense, revealing our own forgotten divinity?

This is the radical shift at the heart of a reimagined Christianity: Jesus is not the appeaser of wrath, but the awakener of consciousness. He is not the sacrificial substitute, but the luminous revealer of the truth that sets us free. The truth is not that we are sinners in the hands of an angry God, but that we are divine beings who have fallen asleep to who we are.

Throughout the canonical Gospels—and especially within the texts of the Nag Hammadi library like the Gospel of Thomas and Gospel of Truth—Jesus is portrayed not as one demanding belief in his blood, but as one inviting people to remember. Over and over again, Jesus speaks in parables, riddles, and metaphors—not to obscure the truth, but to draw it out of those willing to seek. He is the rabbi who does not lecture, but questions. He does not issue creeds, but sparks inner revolutions.

The Gospel of Thomas preserves one of the clearest expressions of this awakening path. In saying 3, Jesus declares: “If your leaders say to you, ‘Look, the Kingdom is in the sky,’ then the birds of the sky will get there first. If they say, ‘It is in the sea,’ then the fish will get there first. Rather, the Kingdom is within you and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will be known, and you will realize you are children of the Living Father.”

This is not penal theology. This is gnosis—not secret knowledge for the elite, but direct, inner knowing. Jesus does not point people to a temple sacrifice or a future judgment. He points inward, to the Kingdom within. He does not say, “I have come to make you acceptable to God.” He says, in essence, “I have come to remind you that you already belong to God—you always have.”

Atonement theology, especially in its penal substitution form, tells us that God’s justice demands satisfaction. Sin must be punished, and Jesus steps in as the sacrificial Lamb. But this theory, developed centuries after Jesus, borrows more from Roman legal systems and pagan appeasement rituals than from anything Jesus taught. It assumes a God whose love is conditioned by payment, a Father who cannot forgive until blood has been shed. This is not the Abba that Jesus revealed.

Jesus’ entire life contradicts the logic of atonement. He forgives sins without sacrifice. He touches the unclean without hesitation. He breaks Sabbath laws to heal. He tells stories of prodigal sons welcomed home with open arms and debtors forgiven without payment. His ministry is built not on transaction, but transformation—not on guilt, but on grace.

So why, then, did Jesus die? If not to satisfy divine wrath, what is the cross about?

The cross is the collision of love with the machinery of fear. It is the place where the world's violence meets the divine refusal to retaliate. Jesus dies because the systems of power—both religious and political—cannot tolerate awakened people. He dies not to appease God, but because he threatened the illusion of control. The cross is not a payment—it is a mirror. It shows us what our delusion and fear can do to love, and it shows us that love endures even through death.

The resurrection, then, is not God's reward for Jesus’ sacrifice, but the cosmic declaration that love cannot die. That the Logos—the divine Word within—transcends even the grave. Jesus’ resurrection is not a singular miracle; it is the firstfruit of a new consciousness, a new humanity. It proclaims that the image of God within us, though buried under layers of fear and forgetfulness, will rise again.

In this reimagined vision, salvation is not being saved from God, but being saved into the truth of God. It is not about avoiding punishment, but about awakening to presence. Jesus is not a legal solution to a cosmic problem; he is the way-shower, the embodied Logos, the one who says, “Follow me”—not to a place, but to a state of being.

This is why early mystical Christians placed such emphasis on the Logos—the divine principle of order, reason, and intelligence that flows through all creation. Jesus is the Logos made flesh, not to monopolize divinity, but to demonstrate it. He is the image of the invisible God so that we might remember the image of God in ourselves.

The Gospel of Truth, attributed to Valentinian circles, says this beautifully: “Ignorance of the Father brought about anguish and terror. And the anguish grew dense like a fog, so that no one could see. Because of this, error grew strong. But the Logos entered into the midst of the error. It went into the fog and dispersed it, revealing the truth.” This is Jesus the Awakener—the one who dispels the fog of error, not the one who satisfies divine vengeance.

When Jesus says, “You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free,” he is not speaking of theological propositions. He is speaking of a direct awakening—a realization of what has always been true. The bondage we experience is not due to a wrathful God, but due to a world built on illusion: separation, shame, and fear. Jesus comes to unveil the truth: we are already one with the Source.

In this light, the Holy Spirit is not the reward for correct belief, but the continuation of Christ’s awakening within us. Pentecost is not the granting of special favor, but the universal outpouring of divine presence. The Spirit leads us not to fear, but to fullness. Not to doctrine, but to direct knowing.

To say Jesus is the Awakener is to say that salvation is not somewhere in the future. It is here. Now. It is the lifting of the veil. It is the remembering of what was known before the foundation of the world. It is the return not to Eden, but to awareness—to the Kingdom that has always been both within and all around us.

This is not the gospel of condemnation. It is the gospel of revelation. Jesus is not the rescuer from God’s wrath, but the revealer of God’s face. And that face is love.

Let us, then, release the need for blood-soaked atonement. Let us no longer see the cross as the price God demanded, but as the extent to which divine love will go to awaken us. Let us embrace Jesus as the Awakener, the mirror, the guide—and let us follow not in fear, but in joy. For the Kingdom is here. And it begins with remembering who we are.

Jesus as the First Born of a New Humanity: Reimagining Christianity Series

To understand Jesus merely as a moral teacher or even as a divine substitute is to miss the revolutionary truth at the heart of his incarnation: Jesus is the firstborn of a new humanity, not because he was uniquely divine and we are not, but because he was the first to fully awaken to who he truly was—and to who we truly are. His life, death, and resurrection are not an exception to our story, but the beginning of a transformation that includes us all.

In traditional Christianity, Jesus’ uniqueness is often used to place him on a pedestal—unreachable, untouchable, different in kind. He is portrayed as a divine being who entered a depraved world to die for our sins, thus saving those who believe in him. In this model, the gulf between Jesus and humanity remains unbridgeable except through belief and legal transaction. But this interpretation contradicts the very message Jesus lived and taught: that the kingdom of God is within us, that we are children of the same Father, and that what he has done, we too can do—and more.

To call Jesus the “firstborn” is to imply that others follow. This is exactly what the apostle Paul writes in Romans 8:29: *“For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the *firstborn among many brothers and sisters.” Paul does not say Jesus is the only child of God, but the first. In Colossians 1:18, Paul again refers to Christ as the “firstborn from the dead,” the beginning of something new—a resurrection life available to all.

This new humanity is not based on bloodline or religion. It is based on awakening. Jesus is the first fully awakened human being—the first to fully embody divine consciousness, to live from the awareness that he and the Father are one. But the liberating truth of the gospel is that what was true for Jesus is true for us. He is not our stand-in, he is our forerunner. He is not just Savior—he is Prototype.

Jesus came not to rescue us from divine wrath, but to reveal our divine origin and potential. He awakens us to the truth we have forgotten: that we are made in the image and likeness of God, that the Logos dwells within us, and that we are not fallen wretches but divine beings in need of remembrance.

This is why the early Christian mystics and Gnostic thinkers referred to salvation not as transaction but as gnosis—knowledge, awareness, illumination. In the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus says, “Whoever drinks from my mouth will become as I am; I myself shall become that person, and the hidden things will be revealed to them.” This is not idolatry; it is intimacy—but not with the person of Jesus as a singular figure to be deified in isolation. It is intimacy with the indwelling Logos—the divine intelligence, the eternal Word, the Christ-consciousness that filled Jesus and fills us.

Our relationship to Jesus as a person, then, is best understood as familial intimacy. He is the elder brother, the firstborn among many siblings. He is the one who has gone before us and now walks beside us—not as a remote deity demanding allegiance, but as a loving brother who invites us into the same knowing he embodied. He does not ask for worship at a distance but for recognition of the same Spirit that is within us.

When Jesus says, “I am the light of the world,” he also says, “You are the light of the world.” This is not contradiction—it is invitation. To be born again, in this reimagined vision, is not to recite a formula or join a religion. It is to awaken to one’s true identity in the Logos. Jesus is the firstborn of that awakening, the first to remember fully what we have collectively forgotten: that we are not separate from God.

The resurrection, then, is not merely a miracle to be marveled at, but a pattern to be followed. Jesus passes through death—not just physical death, but the death of ego, the death of illusion, the death of fear—and emerges into life unbound by those chains. And he does not do this to impress or to stand above us. He does this to show us what is possible.

In this light, the crucifixion becomes the moment when Jesus bears the full weight of humanity’s blindness—not because God demands a sacrifice, but because love cannot help but enter into the suffering of others. On the cross, Jesus absorbs the projections of our fear, our violence, and our guilt—and transforms them. The resurrection is the divine answer: nothing, not even death, can separate us from our source. The grave holds no ultimate power. The ego has no final say. Love endures.

This is why Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 15: “As in Adam all die, so in Christ all will be made alive.” Adam is the archetype of forgetfulness, of separation consciousness. Jesus is the archetype of awakening, of union. The first Adam closes the heart in shame; the second Adam opens it in love. Jesus is the firstborn of a new humanity, one no longer bound by sin, fear, and death.

But this humanity is not something we become by effort—it is something we remember by grace. Grace is not a reward for belief; it is the revelation of our essence. It is the divine spark within, waiting to be fanned into flame. n breathes on his disciples and says, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” He does not reserve the Spirit for the worthy; he offers it to all. Pentecost is not the beginning of a new religion—it is the unveiling of what has always been true: the Spirit has been poured out on all flesh.

In being the firstborn, Jesus opens the door for the rest of humanity to walk through. The veil is torn. The separation is dissolved. What remains is the invitation to awaken, to remember, to embody. The new humanity is not defined by race, creed, or tradition—it is defined by consciousness. It is the community of those who know they are one with the Father, who love not out of duty but out of overflow, who live not in fear of hell but in the joy of divine union.

In this reimagined vision of Christianity, Jesus is no longer the exception. He is the example. His birth, life, death, and resurrection are not the end of the story but the beginning. We are not saved from something as much as we are saved into something—into life, into light, into the cosmic family of those who have awakened to the truth: that we are divine, that we are beloved, that we are one.

So let us no longer speak of salvation as escape. Let us speak of it as emergence. Let us no longer view Jesus as a distant deity but as a fellow traveler, brother, and guide. Let us embrace the truth that the same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead now lives in us. And let us walk boldly in the footsteps of the firstborn—not as worshippers of his uniqueness, but as participants in his new humanity.

 

Gehenna, Hell, and the First Century Jewish Context; Reimagining Christianity

Few doctrines have caused more spiritual harm than that of an eternal hell—a place of unending torment where God, in wrath, punishes sinners without end. For many, this image has defined Christianity itself: a binary religion of heaven for the saved and hell for the damned. But when we peel back the layers of tradition, translation, and theological invention, we discover that the Jesus of history was speaking into a radically different worldview. The word most commonly translated as “hell” in the Gospels—Gehenna—had a very specific meaning in the first-century Jewish context, one that has been profoundly misunderstood.

Gehenna (Greek: γέεννα) is derived from the Hebrew Ge Hinnom, the Valley of Hinnom—a literal valley outside the walls of Jerusalem. This valley had a shameful reputation in ancient Israelite history as the site where some kings of Judah engaged in child sacrifice to the pagan god Molech. Prophets like Jeremiah denounced it as a cursed place, associated with judgment and spiritual corruption. Over time, it came to symbolize a place of defilement and divine disfavor.

But by Jesus’ time, Gehenna was no longer a site of active idol worship or literal flames. Instead, it had become a symbolic reference used by Jewish teachers to speak of judgment, correction, and the consequences of moral failure. The Pharisees, who were one of the dominant religious groups of Jesus' day, did believe in an afterlife that included judgment. But crucially, their belief in Gehenna was not eternal. Most first-century Pharisees taught that the wicked would enter Gehenna for a limited period—typically twelve months to eighteen months—for purification. After this period of refinement or correction, the soul would either enter the World to Come or be annihilated.

In other words, Gehenna was not a place of eternal conscious torment, but a purgatorial process—a fiery cleansing, not a punishment of infinite duration. This understanding was much closer to a metaphor for the soul’s transformation than the infernal pits of medieval imagination. And even this Pharisaic concept may have been among the very things Jesus was challenging.

When Jesus used the term Gehenna, he was not offering detailed metaphysical commentary on the afterlife. He was speaking prophetically, urgently, and symbolically—like the Hebrew prophets before him. For example, in Matthew 5:22, he says, “Whoever says, ‘You fool!’ will be in danger of the fire of Gehenna.” This is clearly not a legal formula for damnation. It’s a dramatic warning about the corrosive nature of contempt and how it leads to destruction—both personal and societal.

Similarly, in Matthew 23:33, Jesus says to the scribes and Pharisees, “You brood of vipers! How will you escape being condemned to Gehenna?” He is not casting them into eternal hellfire. He is denouncing their hypocrisy, their burdening of the people with legalism, and their refusal to embrace the kingdom of God. His rhetoric is not unlike that of Jeremiah or Isaiah—harsh, poetic, deeply rooted in the language of warning, not damnation.

Moreover, when Jesus speaks of Gehenna, he is warning of real, historical consequences. Just a few decades after his death, Jerusalem was destroyed by Rome in 70 CE. The temple was reduced to rubble, thousands perished, and bodies likely filled the valleys—including Gehenna itself. Jesus’ prophecies of doom were not about a postmortem torture chamber. They were about the trajectory of national and spiritual blindness—what happens when a people choose violence, pride, and self-deception over repentance, humility, and peace.

If we place Jesus within this context, it becomes likely that he was not only using the Pharisaic idea of Gehenna, but also critiquing it. Even the notion of a year-long purification still operated within a framework of retribution. Jesus' message, by contrast, was not about managing punishment but awakening to presence—to the kingdom of God that was already at hand. He challenged the whole sacrificial and purgative system, whether it played out in this world or the next.

Instead of Gehenna as an afterlife holding cell, Jesus preached immediate transformation. His call was not, "Repent so you won’t suffer in the next life," but "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand." The Greek word for repent, metanoia, means a change of mind, a turning of perception. He was calling his hearers to wake up—not to behave better out of fear of punishment, but to return to the truth of who they were: children of a loving Father, light of the world, heirs of divine fullness.

As Christianity spread beyond its Jewish roots, the original symbolism of Gehenna began to fade. Greek and Roman converts, shaped by dualistic philosophies and myths of underworld punishment, projected their cultural narratives onto the Gospel. Later, Latin translations replaced “Gehenna” with “infernus” or “infernum,” generic terms for hell. The terrifying descriptions of hell found in later Christian literature—especially in works like Dante’s Inferno—drew more from classical mythology than from anything Jesus ever taught.

This evolution of Gehenna into Hell is a tragic distortion. It has turned the Gospel from good news into a psychological terror. It has painted God not as a healing presence but as a tormentor who punishes eternally for finite mistakes. It has led many to abandon faith altogether, unable to reconcile eternal punishment with the idea of divine love.

But when we recover the first-century Jewish context—when we understand that Gehenna was a symbol of purification, prophetic warning, and historical judgment—we begin to hear Jesus anew. We hear not a threat, but a lament. Not a cosmic ultimatum, but a plea for transformation. Jesus doesn’t want anyone to go to Gehenna—whether literal or symbolic—because it represents what happens when we forget who we are. It is the consequence of living in illusion, ego, and fear.

In this light, salvation is not escape from hell, but awakening to truth. The fire we should fear is not in the next world, but in this one—the fire of hatred, violence, and separation. But even this fire, when seen rightly, is not punitive. It is purgative. It burns away the lie that we are not already loved, already held, already invited into the dance of divine presence.

Jesus does not come to save us from God's wrath. He comes to reveal that there is no wrath—only love misunderstood. He does not come to offer a heavenly bribe or hellish threat, but to show us what it means to be fully human, fully divine, and fully alive.

So let us abandon the myth of eternal torment. Let us reclaim Gehenna as Jesus meant it—a call to awaken, to love, and to turn from fear. Let us remember that the fire that purifies is not meant to destroy, but to illuminate. And let us carry this reimagined vision of Christianity forward, where hell no longer holds power over hearts, and love becomes the final word.

 

Redefining Sin as Error: Awakening from the Myth of Guilt

For too long, Christianity has been built on the premise that something went terribly wrong at the beginning. The standard narrative tells us that humanity fell from perfection through one disobedient act, bringing guilt and death into the world. This event—commonly referred to as “the Fall”—has been treated as the origin of sin and the justification for divine punishment. We were once whole, the story goes, but we broke something, and now we are broken. We are born guilty, deserving wrath, and can only be restored through blood.

It is also important to note that the original languages of Scripture support this redefinition of sin as error and forgetfulness rather than guilt and depravity. In Greek, the word most commonly translated as “sin” is hamartia, which literally means “to miss the mark,” like an archer whose arrow falls short of the target. This conveys the idea of falling short of one’s true aim or purpose—not willful rebellion, but a misalignment with divine intention. In Hebrew, the word often translated as “sin” is chata’, meaning “to miss the way,” suggesting a wandering from the path rather than a moral stain. Both terms imply a journey in which the soul has strayed from its intended course, not a legalistic transgression requiring punishment. When sin is viewed through this lens, it becomes a matter of disorientation rather than condemnation—a spiritual forgetfulness that calls not for judgment, but for awakening.

But what if the premise itself is flawed?

What if humanity did not fall from grace, but fell into forgetfulness? What if sin is not guilt, but error—a distortion of perception, a misunderstanding of our true identity and nature? What if we’ve mistaken the myth for a literal history, and that mistake has shaped not only our theology but our view of ourselves, others, and God?

To reimagine Christianity is to recover the deeper message buried beneath centuries of dogma. It is to see that sin, in its essence, is not about moral failure or cosmic crime—it is about forgetting who we are. In this light, sin is not rebellion against God, but a misalignment with the truth of our being. And the answer to sin is not punishment, but awakening.

The Genesis story has been read as a tale of guilt and punishment: Adam and Eve disobey, God curses them, and all their descendants inherit this sin. But that reading does violence to the richness of the narrative. Look again. Adam and Eve eat of the tree not to mock God, but because they are deceived into thinking they lack something. The serpent offers knowledge they supposedly do not have. The tragedy is not that they want too much—but that they forget they already have enough.

Their “sin” is not defiance—it is an act born from mistrust, from the illusion of separation. When they eat, they do not become evil; they become ashamed. They hide. They cover themselves. Fear enters. But what is God’s response? He does not destroy them. He seeks them: “Where are you?” He clothes them. He protects them from further harm. What if this is not a legal indictment but a symbolic awakening of self-consciousness, a mythic telling of humanity’s entry into dualistic awareness—where we began to perceive ourselves as separate from the divine, from each other, from creation?

This reframing is supported by ancient Christian voices now largely forgotten. The Gospel of Truth, a Valentinian text found at Nag Hammadi, speaks of sin as error. It says humanity went astray not out of wickedness, but out of ignorance. Jesus comes, not as a sacrifice to appease wrath, but as a teacher, a revealer, a light that dispels error. In this vision, the cross is not a payment—it is the moment when the Logos endures the full consequence of our blindness and still responds with love.

To say that sin is error is not to excuse evil or suffering. Rather, it is to understand the root of suffering. Most evil in the world is not the result of diabolical malice but of people acting from fear, shame, pride, trauma, and illusion. When we forget we are divine image-bearers, we act in ways that harm ourselves and others. When we believe we are separate, we grasp, dominate, and destroy. But when we awaken to the truth, we remember love. We return to communion.

Jesus didn’t walk among sinners with condemnation. He didn’t divide people into clean and unclean, righteous and reprobate. He healed, touched, forgave, and restored. His harshest words were for those who thought themselves above sin. His ministry was one of re-membering—literally bringing people back into wholeness, connection, and truth. He proclaimed that the kingdom was within us, not outside. That we are the light of the world, not the shame of it.

Traditional theology says the Fall made us inherently bad and guilty. But that claim not only contradicts the dignity of being made in God's image—it also fails to explain why we are still capable of compassion, joy, beauty, and love. If we were truly fallen in our essence, how could we still reflect the divine? The truth is, we were never separated in God’s eyes. The separation exists only in our minds.

This also redefines the need for salvation. If sin is error, then salvation is clarity. If sin is forgetfulness, then salvation is remembrance. Jesus does not come to absorb our punishment—he comes to awaken us to our original identity. He is the mirror, the revealer, the one who shows us what has always been true: that we are beloved, that the Father has never left us, that the Spirit has been poured out on all flesh.

This has profound implications for how we live. No longer do we see ourselves as wretched sinners trying to earn favor or escape wrath. We live as those already loved, already held in grace. We no longer fear hell as eternal punishment, because we understand Gehenna—Jesus’ metaphor—not as a postmortem torture chamber, but as the consequence of clinging to ego and violence. Jesus warns of it to awaken us, not to threaten us.

When sin is seen as error, grace becomes the great healer—not an undeserved gift reluctantly given, but the ever-present current of divine love restoring us to clarity. And when we are healed of our error, we do not become passive. We become powerful. We love more freely. We forgive more quickly. We become instruments of divine compassion in a hurting world.

There was no guilty fall. There was no cosmic rupture that severed us from the love of God. There was only a veil drawn over the eyes of our consciousness, a forgetting that led to fear. But even in our fear, the Divine has never withdrawn. The voice still calls: “Where are you?” Not as accusation—but as invitation.

The gospel is not that we were lost and then forgiven. The gospel is that we were never truly lost—only mistaken. And now the light shines again, the voice echoes again, the Christ walks among us again, calling us not to guilt, but to remembrance. To awakening. To love.

This is the reimagined message of sin. Not condemnation. Not wrath. But truth that sets us free.

 

From Fear to Freedom: Escaping the Theology of Original Sin

For centuries, Christianity has been filtered through a legalistic narrative: God is holy and just, humanity has fallen into sin, and the only way for reconciliation is for God’s wrath to be satisfied through the death of an innocent substitute. This is the dominant framework behind what is often called the doctrine of Original Sin, the Fall of Man, and the theory of Penal Substitutionary Atonement. While this formulation has deeply shaped Western Christianity, it is time to ask: What if this isn’t the original gospel? What if this system has misunderstood the story, the problem, and the solution?

The traditional doctrine of Original Sin, drawn most heavily from Augustine’s reading of Genesis and Paul, tells us that humanity is born guilty. Not merely flawed or ignorant—but culpable, condemned at birth, bearing the guilt of Adam's disobedience. This is a radical claim. It tells every newborn that they enter the world already alienated from God. It asserts that God, in perfect justice, must punish sin and that every human being deserves eternal torment apart from divine intervention.

But such a view raises deep ethical and theological tensions. Can justice really be satisfied by punishing an innocent in place of the guilty? Can a loving Creator truly require a blood sacrifice to appease divine anger? Would this not reduce God to a cosmic executioner, bound by a system of retribution more akin to pagan deities than the Abba whom Jesus proclaimed?

In reimagining Christianity, we must step back and question the very assumptions of this framework.

First, the notion of a “Fall” must be reassessed. In the Genesis story, Adam and Eve do not fall from perfection into depravity. They awaken prematurely to knowledge without maturity. Their “sin” is not so much rebellion as it is an act driven by desire, curiosity, and the manipulation of fear. It is a mythic portrayal of the human journey—our movement into self-awareness, into the illusion of separation. The serpent promises they will be like God, forgetting they already are made in the divine image. The tragedy of Eden is not disobedience but forgetfulness. They forget their identity, and they hide in shame. And from that forgetfulness emerges a world of fear, domination, and suffering.

This interpretation aligns more closely with Gnostic insights, particularly the Gospel of Truth, which reframes the human problem not as sin inherited from Adam but as ignorance—a forgetting of our divine origin. Salvation, then, is not legal pardon but remembrance. Christ comes not to settle a cosmic debt, but to awaken us from our slumber. The cross is not the payment God demands but the revelation humanity needs. It unveils the fullness of divine love and the emptiness of our egoic illusions.

The concept of Penal Substitution, popularized by Anselm and later by Reformers like Calvin, proposes that God’s justice requires punishment. Jesus steps in as the substitute, absorbing God’s wrath so that believers may be forgiven. But this framework fractures the Trinity—God punishes God to satisfy God? It suggests that forgiveness must be bought through violence, and that divine justice is retributive, not restorative. But Jesus himself taught us to forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven. Are we to believe that the God who tells us to forgive without condition is incapable of doing so Himself?

Moreover, the cross loses its power as a revelation of love and becomes instead a divine necessity for appeasement. This transforms the gospel from good news to cosmic horror. It also raises profound psychological harm: many believers are left feeling unworthy, guilty, and terrified of eternal punishment. They are taught to see themselves not as beloved children awakening to their divine nature, but as worms in need of rescue from God Himself. This is not transformation. It is trauma.

Reimagining Christianity requires that we let go of this punitive scaffolding and recover a Christology of awakening. Jesus did not come to die to satisfy wrath but to show us the depth of divine love—even in the face of hatred, violence, and empire. He was not murdered by God but by the religious and political systems of his day. And in his willing embrace of the cross, he exposed those systems as false and powerless. His resurrection is not the reversal of wrath, but the unveiling of the truth: that love is stronger than death, and that the divine spark within us cannot be extinguished.

In this view, the “problem” Jesus came to solve was not divine offense, but human blindness. We had forgotten who we are, lost in fear and shame, building worlds on illusion and power. Jesus, as the Logos, enters into that darkness to restore sight. As the Gospel of Thomas says, “When you know yourselves, then you will be known, and you will realize that you are the children of the Living Father.” This is not blasphemy. This is the gospel.

And what of grace? In the penal framework, grace is unmerited favor granted after satisfaction has been made. But in the reimagined gospel, grace is the truth of our being. It is the light that shines whether we know it or not. It is the divine current flowing through us, not because we are worthy, but because we are divine in origin. Grace is not conditional. It is not limited to the elect. It is the natural expression of the All, pouring itself out into creation, awaiting only our recognition.

To reimagine Christianity is not to reject Scripture, but to read it again through the lens of Christ-consciousness. It is to see the cross not as a demand for blood, but as the depth of divine solidarity. It is to see sin not as guilt inherited, but as a veil of forgetfulness. And it is to proclaim that redemption is not legal justification but awakening to truth—a truth that was ours before the foundation of the world.

The traditional doctrines of Original Sin and Penal Substitution may have once offered structure to a pre-modern world. But now they hinder the unfolding of a more expansive, inclusive, and transformative gospel. A gospel in which Jesus is not our replacement but our revealer. A gospel that heals rather than condemns. A gospel in which fear is cast out, and only love remains.

 

"The Christ of Consciousness: Beyond Sin, Sacrifice, and Shame" Reimagining Christianity

Christianity is in the throes of transformation. For many, the old paradigms no longer speak life. The theology of fear, guilt, and retribution has choked the voice of Spirit. A new vision is calling—a reimagining of Christianity not as a rigid dogma but as a living path of awakening. This journey is deeply rooted in ancient streams—some hidden, some distorted—but it flows now into a consciousness ready to evolve.

The central impulse of this reimagined Christianity is liberation. Not merely liberation from sin, but liberation from ignorance, from forgetfulness, from fear. The traditional narrative of fall and redemption, with its harsh dichotomies and legalistic atonement theories, served the purposes of empire and control. But at its mystical core, Christianity speaks not of a wrathful God appeased by blood, but of a loving Father drawing all into remembrance of their divine origin.

In this vision, sin is not crime. It is not rebellion. It is forgetfulness. It is ignorance of our true nature. It is mistaking the shadow for the substance, the ego for the self, the temporal for the eternal. The Gospel of Truth, a Gnostic treasure buried for centuries, echoes this: humanity is asleep in error, and Jesus comes not to condemn, but to awaken. He is not the scapegoat absorbing wrath, but the luminous mirror reminding us of who we are and whose we are.

Jesus, then, is the firstborn of a new humanity. He is the pioneer of consciousness, the living Logos made flesh—not in a single instance, but as a pattern and promise of what we all can become. His references to Gehenna are not threats of endless torture but warnings about the consequences of spiritual blindness and political folly. Gehenna was a real place, a smoldering trash heap outside Jerusalem, and in Jesus' time, it symbolized the potential ruin of the nation should it continue in violence and pride. It was prophecy, not eternal punishment.

This shift also reimagines grace. Not as a legal transaction, but as an overflowing, unconditional reality. Grace is the inner radiance of the All—the Father—expressing through human lives not because we are worthy, but because we are loved. Grace is transformative, not permissive. It is the divine flow which, once received, awakens the slumbering potential in all. In this way, it transcends even the most generous Protestant formulations like those of John Barclay. Grace is not a favor granted; it is the truth of our being revealed.

The Nag Hammadi scriptures offer rich insight here. The Gospel of Thomas suggests that the kingdom is not in the sky or in some post-mortem reward—it is within and all around us. The Gospel of Mary offers a profound call to inner integration, revealing how fear fragments the soul and gnosis restores it. Valentinian writings paint a vision where the Logos dwells in every human heart, the divine spark yearning to awaken.

But this is not merely Gnostic revivalism. It is also a Hermetic convergence. The Kybalion, drawing on the ancient Hermetic stream, proclaims the principle of correspondence—“As above, so below.” It reveals the All as mind, as infinite consciousness in which we live and move and have our being. This is the Christian Father reframed, not as an anthropomorphic deity on a throne, but as the source and substance of all. The Logos, then, is the pattern of divine intelligence—a Christ consciousness available to all.

This Logos is not monopolized by one religion or people. It is the light that enlightens every person entering the world. It is divine reason and living Word, echoing in every culture and tradition. The Holy Spirit, poured out on all flesh since Pentecost, is not bound by confession or creed. It moves where it will. It animates dreams, quickens intuition, and awakens souls—even if they do not name it. The Spirit is universally present, yet still waiting to be fully recognized.

So many spiritual seekers feel estranged from Christianity because they have been told that they must first accept a narrative of shame, fear, and unworthiness. But in this reimagined faith, awakening is not about accepting a creed. It is about remembering your essence. It is about listening to the Logos within and aligning with the eternal song of Spirit calling us home.

This reimagined Christianity is not anti-Christian. It is post-dogmatic. It honors the Christ not as an exclusive savior who rescues a few, but as the awakener of all. It sees in the death and resurrection not a cosmic payment, but a revelation: death is not the end, fear is not the master, and the grave holds no final word.

It is also deeply compassionate. It is not elitist gnosis. It knows that awakening happens in stages and that love is patient. It honors the Spirit moving in traditional churches and among those who have never opened a Bible. It seeks not to deconstruct for the sake of demolition, but to clear away rubble so the light may shine.

In the posts that follow, we will explore these themes in depth—delving into the lost gospels, unpacking Hermetic principles, examining the cosmic Christ, and reimagining grace and Spirit. This is not an invitation to believe as I do. It is an invitation to wonder, to question, to awaken. For in the end, Christianity was never meant to be a fortress of certainty. It was meant to be a path of transformation. And now, more than ever, the path opens before us.

Let us walk it together.

"Jesus, Gnosis, and the Mind of the All" My Current Presuppositions

As I keep digging into the Nag Hammadi scriptures, I’m starting to get a clearer picture of who I am spiritually. If I had to sum it up, I’d say I’m a blend—a Christ follower at heart, but also very much aligned with Valentinian Gnosticism and Hermetic thought, all lightly seasoned with a touch of Taoism. It’s not about labeling myself, but rather acknowledging the streams that seem to naturally flow together in my own spiritual journey.

Now, when it comes to Valentinian cosmology—that whole elaborate map of emanations and aeons—I don’t take it as rigid doctrine or some kind of cosmic blueprint we all must swear by. To me, it’s metaphor. It’s a symbolic structure that speaks to deep truths about consciousness and the soul’s journey, but not something I believe literally or follow dogmatically. It’s helpful, not holy writ.

One thing I absolutely reject is the whole idea that humanity is fallen and needs saving through judgment, punishment, or even reward. That’s not how I see existence. I believe we’re eternal beings who continuously choose our own experiences. Whether we want to rest in peace or push into challenge, that choice is always ours. We are autonomous at the deepest level, and that autonomy is possible because the All—the fullness of being, of God, of the cosmos—is infinite. That means potential knowledge is also infinite, and that gives us room to explore, to create, and to simply be.

At the foundation of it all, I still see a triune deity—the first cause, the origin of all things. But I don’t think we’re just passive recipients of divine action. I see us as co-creators, fully capable of participating in the unfolding of reality. We’re not spectators in this universe—we’re active participants, making choices, shaping outcomes, and engaging with all kinds of seen and unseen forces.

Speaking of those unseen forces, I’ve come to see the archons—not as villains or oppressive rulers like some traditions portray them—but more like advisors or conductors in the cosmic orchestra. They’re part of the structure, playing a role. The Pleroma, that fullness or divine realm, to me represents the vast mind of God, and we are all aspects of that mind—dissociative personalities, if you will—residing within it. It’s all consciousness. It’s all divine mind.

When it comes to Hermeticism, the seven principles of the Kybalion ring true to me. They feel like spiritual physics—fundamental truths that govern how things operate. But I think there are a couple more that should be added. First, the cyclic nature of reality—not just a circle repeating endlessly, but a spiral. Life, growth, evolution—they move in cycles, yes, but they can ascend or descend, depending on our awareness. And second, the principle of interconnectedness: the idea that everything and everyone is part of the All, linked together in ways deeper than we can imagine.

Now, as for Jesus—I don’t get too caught up in whether he was one historical figure, a composite of several, or even a complete myth. That debate doesn't matter much to me. What matters is that Jesus, however he came to be, has become a powerful spiritual presence. Even if he began as myth, he's grown into something very real in the collective mind—an egregore, a thought-form with power. That presence influences people profoundly, and I respect that.

I also believe we have spiritual guides and helpers—beings who assist us in our journey. And I believe that sometimes, across different lifetimes, we ourselves step into those roles for others. We experience life from all angles, across countless incarnations, and our understanding, when viewed from the eternal perspective, is far beyond anything we can grasp here in the material world. Good and evil, joy and suffering—it’s all part of the grand plan of learning, experiencing, and evolving, and ultimately, remembering who we truly are. In the annals of eternity, it is an egalitarian experience for every soul. That is only understood when we are in the collective and it is an eternal awareness. It is not particularly helpful to tell people in the thick of trauma or challenge. That in no way diminishes it as truth.

Using the Hermetic principle of correspondence—"as above, so below; and as below, so above"—we can draw a profound comfort from the preferences of the human heart. Since most of us naturally gravitate toward love over hate, peace over conflict, and joy over sorrow, this tells us something important about the nature of the Source itself. These qualities must reflect the higher order of being because we, as emanations of the All, mirror it. That means peace, love, and joy are not just aspirations but the very native state of the divine. And in that light, I hold close this quote from The Kybalion:

“So, do not feel insecure or afraid — we are all HELD FIRMLY IN THE INFINITE MIND OF THE ALL, and there is naught to hurt us or for us to fear. There is no Power outside of THE ALL to affect us. So we may rest calm and secure. There is a world of comfort and security in this realization when once attained. Then ‘calm and peaceful do we sleep, rocked in the Cradle of the Deep’ — resting safely on the bosom of the Ocean of Infinite Mind, which is THE ALL. In THE ALL, indeed, do ‘we live and move and have our being.’”
(The Three Initiates, The Kybalion, p. 43, Kindle Edition)

That image—that we are rocked in the Cradle of the Deep—is something I return to often. It's a reminder that we are never separate from the Source, never beyond its reach, and that fear is only a shadow passing across the face of the infinite.

Remembering Divinity and the Mind of Christ

Many voices in the New Age movement assert that humanity has forgotten its inherent divinity. They speak of a collective amnesia—a veil that descends at birth, cloaking the soul in forgetfulness. This idea resonates deeply with ancient Gnostic texts, particularly The Gospel of Truth, which teaches that ignorance is the root of human suffering. It proclaims that humanity has become lost not through rebellion, but through forgetfulness. The remedy is not punishment or appeasement, but remembrance—awakening to our true identity and origin in the Father.

The Gospel of Truth presents Jesus not primarily as a sacrifice to appease divine wrath, but as a revealer, a teacher sent by the Father to awaken those who had become forgetful of the divine fullness. In this text, salvation is not a legal transaction, but a process of enlightenment. Jesus, the embodied Logos, comes not to condemn but to stir the memory of the soul, to remind it of its divine origin. The Father is not distant, but intimately present, and Jesus' mission is to restore the lost to their original awareness of unity with the Source. It is a message not of guilt, but of healing through recognition.

The apostle Paul, too, in his letters, speaks in terms that suggest something far deeper than the surface doctrines often imposed upon his words. In Philippians 2, he writes what many scholars believe to be an early Christian hymn. He says, “Let this mind be in you which was also in Christ Jesus: who, being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God, but made himself of no reputation, and took upon himself the form of a servant.” The Greek text implies that Christ existed in divine form but chose to empty himself—kenosis—voluntarily laying aside his glory to fully enter the human condition. This was not a loss of divinity, but a deliberate descent into forgetfulness, an identification with the human experience.

Many overlook the depth of Paul’s opening statement: “Let this mind be in you.” He is not merely admiring Christ’s humility; he is calling others to share in Christ’s consciousness. Christ did not regard equality with God as something to be seized because he already possessed it. Yet, he laid it aside to become one of us—not to lord over us, but to show us how to rediscover our own divine likeness. Paul is not suggesting that we mimic Jesus' behavior from a distance, but that we participate in his consciousness. The mind of Christ, then, is the awareness of one's divine origin coupled with the compassion to lower oneself in service to others.

This is a radical message when read through the lens of remembrance rather than mere moral exhortation. What if Paul was calling the early Christians to awaken to who they truly were—not just followers of Jesus, but sharers in his divine inheritance? The traditional interpretation frames Paul’s message as one of moral example, encouraging humility. But beneath the surface is something far more mystical. Paul, after all, speaks often of the mystery “hidden for ages” now being revealed in Christ, “which is Christ in you, the hope of glory” (Col. 1:27). Christ is not only the historical Jesus but the indwelling Logos, the divine seed in every soul.

If we read Paul's theology as participatory rather than merely imitative, we begin to see a profound truth emerge. Jesus becomes the pattern of remembrance, the one who did not forget his connection to the Father, even in the midst of incarnation. He chose to empty himself, to descend into the realm of form and limitation, so that he could show others the way back to the fullness. His death and resurrection are not merely judicial events, but symbolic acts of transcendence—laying down the ego-self and rising again into remembered union with the Source.

In this view, every human soul enters this plane of existence veiled in forgetfulness. The incarnation, while rich with opportunity, is also a descent into amnesia. We forget where we came from. We forget who we are. We take on identities, roles, and stories that slowly become mistaken for our essence. Yet, deep within, a spark remains—the divine breath that animated us from the beginning. Paul’s message and the message of the Gnostic Gospels converge here: we must remember.

To remember is not merely to recall data, but to re-member—to bring the disjointed parts of our being back into unity. Jesus, in this framework, becomes the archetype of remembrance, the living Word sent not to create a new religion, but to unveil an ancient truth long buried under fear, dogma, and forgetfulness. He is not just a savior, but a revealer of the hidden Self. His invitation is not “worship me,” but “follow me into your own remembrance.”

Thus, Paul’s kenosis becomes a cosmic act of solidarity. In Christ, the Divine embraced our human forgetting so that we might, through him, find our way home. Not through striving, but through awakening. Not through sacrifice, but through surrender. The mind of Christ is not far from us. It is the mind within us, waiting to be stirred by the truth we have always known but long forgotten—that we, too, are of the Father, divine in origin, and invited to live as awakened sons and daughters.