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.
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