"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.

The Weaponization of the Bible; An honest look at the history of the canon

Here are some thoughts to consider as we begin this larger exploration. The formation of the scriptural canon was a process that took nearly four centuries to reach consensus. During that time—especially in the second century—there existed a diverse range of Christian communities, each with their own texts and theological emphases. The canon as we know it today did not begin to solidify until Christianity gained imperial favor under Constantine.

It’s also essential to understand that the Bible was not written to be read as a literal, surface-level document. It is rich with metaphor, allegory, and a range of literary devices that invite deeper reflection. Origen, an early Church Father, embraced a highly allegorical interpretation of scripture, recognizing its layered meanings. My aim is not to discard the Bible, but to encourage others to engage it on its own terms—not as the rigid idol that evangelical Protestantism has often made it into, but as a living text that points beyond itself. Even the Apostle John reminds believers in his first epistle that the Holy Spirit indwells the saints and teaches them directly. In his gospel, he echoes this, affirming that the Spirit will guide into all truth.

I am not seeking to diminish the Bible. Rather, I am trying to tell the truth plainly and faithfully. The problem lies not with the sacred text itself, but in how it has been used—particularly within Evangelical Christianity. In embracing sola scriptura and rigid frameworks like the Chicago Statement on Biblical Inerrancy, many have unknowingly turned the Bible into an idol. It has been elevated above the living Spirit that gave it breath. The text, once intended as a witness to the Divine and a guide toward deeper communion with the Source, has instead become a tool of dogma, wielded to confine rather than liberate.

This is not to say that the Bible lacks power or depth. Far from it. Within the canon—beneath the layers of doctrine and surface literalism—there lies profound mystical revelation. Woven throughout are echoes of an older, more expansive truth: that we are, and always have been, children of the Creator. Not merely in a metaphorical sense, but as beings imbued with the divine spark from the beginning. The Spirit within us calls us not to blind obedience to the letter, but to a living awareness of our origin, our identity, and our freedom.

Paul writes in Romans that creation groans for the revealing of the children of God. This revealing does not come through doctrinal conformity but through awakening. The Spirit bears witness with our spirit, not with our creeds. The Word became flesh—not a book—and dwelt among us. To reduce the mystery of God to ink on a page is to miss the living fire that burns beneath it. The Bible is not the destination; it is a signpost. When it points us back to the Spirit and to the truth written on our hearts, it fulfills its sacred role.

The development of the biblical canon was a gradual and often contested process in early Christianity, with no single, universally accepted list of scriptures in the first few centuries. The Hebrew Bible, or Tanakh, was largely established by the time of Jesus, though debates over certain books continued, and the Greek Septuagint, which included additional texts, was widely used by early Christians.

One of the earliest proposed Christian canons came from Marcion around 140 CE, who rejected the Old Testament and accepted only a modified version of Luke’s Gospel and ten of Paul’s letters, prompting the early Church to define its own scriptural boundaries. The Muratorian Fragment, dated to the late second century, offered a partial New Testament list that included many of the current books but omitted some, reflecting a developing canon in Rome. Church fathers like Origen and Eusebius in the third and early fourth centuries recognized a core group of texts but noted disputes over books such as Hebrews, James, Revelation, and the smaller epistles.

A major milestone came with Athanasius’ Easter letter in 367 CE, the first known list to match the current 27-book New Testament. Shortly afterward, regional councils in Hippo (393) and Carthage (397 and 419) affirmed the same New Testament along with a broader Old Testament canon that included the Deuterocanonical books. Jerome, in translating the Bible into Latin (the Vulgate), questioned the canonicity of some of these books, but his work nonetheless helped solidify their use in the Western Church. Over time, consensus grew around these texts, shaped by apostolic attribution, theological consistency, and liturgical use, leading to the canon most Christian traditions recognize today.Bottom of Form

The History of the Canon

The formation of the biblical canon was a gradual and often contested process in the early centuries of Christianity. There wasn’t a single, universally agreed-upon “canon” from the beginning. Instead, various early canons emerged in different Christian communities. Here are some key milestones and early canons:

1. The Hebrew Bible (Old Testament Canon)

• The Jewish scriptures (Tanakh) were largely fixed by the time of Jesus, though debates over some books (like Esther, Ecclesiastes, and the Song of Songs) continued.
• The Septuagint, a Greek translation of Hebrew scriptures made in Alexandria, included additional books (now called the Apocrypha or Deuterocanonical books) and was widely used by early Christians.

2. Marcion’s Canon (c. 140 CE)

• One of the first attempts at a Christian canon.
• Marcion, a controversial teacher, rejected the Old Testament entirely and proposed a canon consisting of:
• A heavily edited version of Luke's Gospel
• Ten of Paul’s epistles (also edited)
• His canon forced the early Church to begin clarifying what it did—and did not—accept as Scripture.

3. Muratorian Fragment (late 2nd century, c. 170–200 CE)

• The earliest known list of New Testament books (though the beginning is missing).
• Includes: Four Gospels (implicitly), Acts, 13 Pauline Epistles, Jude, Revelation, and Wisdom of Solomon (possibly), among others.
• Omits Hebrews, James, and 1–2 Peter (though that may be due to the fragmentary nature of the text).
• Reflects a developing canon in the Roman church.

4. Origen (early 3rd century)

• Recognized a wide range of books, including all four Gospels, Acts, Paul's epistles, 1 Peter, 1 John, Revelation, and others.
• But noted disputes about Hebrews, James, 2 Peter, 2–3 John.

5. Eusebius of Caesarea (early 4th century)

• Divided Christian writings into three categories:
• Recognized (homologoumena): Gospels, Acts, Paul’s letters, 1 Peter, 1 John, Revelation
• Disputed (antilegomena): James, 2 Peter, 2–3 John, Jude
• Heretical: Gospel of Thomas, Gospel of Peter, Acts of Paul, etc.

6. Athanasius’ Festal Letter (367 CE)

• First known list to match exactly the 27 books of the current New Testament.
• Highly influential, especially in the Greek-speaking East.
• Also recommended reading other books (like the Shepherd of Hermas) for edification, but not as Scripture.

7. Councils of Hippo (393 CE) and Carthage (397 & 419 CE)

• In North Africa, affirmed a canon of 46 Old Testament books (including Deuterocanonical books) and 27 New Testament books—matching the Roman Catholic canon today.

8. Jerome and the Vulgate (late 4th–early 5th century)

• Jerome translated the Bible into Latin.
• He distinguished between canonical books and ecclesiastical books (e.g., he was skeptical about the Apocrypha).
• However, the Latin Church eventually accepted the full Vulgate as canonical.

Summary of Early Canons:

• No universal canon existed before the 4th century.
• Diversity of opinion existed on books like Hebrews, James, Revelation, and some Catholic epistles.
• Church councils, usage in liturgy, theological coherence, and apostolic attribution eventually shaped the accepted canon.

In short, the early canons were fluid and debated, with significant variation before a more consistent consensus emerged in the late 4th century.

Evangelical Christianity expanded sola scriptura way beyond the original meaning of the reformers and the Chicago Statement of Inerrancy turned the bible into a weapon of control for people who want to maintain a literal understanding of the book. Anyone who honestly looks at this history should readily admit that the bible has been given a perverted purpose that diminishes the spirituality that Jesus taught.

The Hidden Meaning of Christ: Beyond the Man, Into the Light

The term Christ is one of the most loaded and often misunderstood words in spiritual and theological thought. While many equate it strictly with the historical Jesus of Nazareth, others—particularly in mystical, metaphysical, and esoteric traditions—speak of Christ Consciousness or the Cosmic Christ as something far more universal: a state of awakened awareness, a divine template within all, a presence that transcends any single person. This confusion is understandable because the word Christ carries centuries of layered meanings. But when we unravel its historical, linguistic, and spiritual development, we can begin to see how all these meanings—far from being contradictory—actually harmonize in a deeper vision.

The journey begins with the Hebrew word mashiyach (מָשִׁיחַ), a noun meaning “anointed one.” It comes from the root mashach, which means “to anoint.” In ancient Israel, kings, priests, and prophets were anointed with oil to signify their consecration by God. This was not merely a ceremonial act—it was a declaration that the Spirit of God had empowered a person to fulfill a sacred role. The word mashiyach referred to anyone so set apart, and the concept evolved into a longing for a future figure—the Messiah—who would bring justice, renewal, and peace.

When Jewish scriptures were translated into Greek, the term mashiyach became Christos (Χριστός), meaning “anointed one.” Christos, too, is a noun—not an adjective—and was used in the Septuagint to describe the same anointed individuals. In the New Testament, this title became associated with Jesus of Nazareth, believed by his followers to be the anointed one in whom God’s purpose had reached its fullness. Over time, however, Christos shifted from being a title to a name: Jesus Christ. This transition led to the gradual loss of the original significance of “anointed,” replacing it with a personal identification.

But to stop at this linguistic shift is to miss the deeper mystery. In the Gospel of John, we are introduced not simply to Jesus, but to the Logos—the Word, the divine Reason or Wisdom through whom all things were made. “In the beginning was the Logos,” John writes, “and the Logos was with God, and the Logos was God… and the Logos became flesh.” This was not merely a theological formulation; it was a metaphysical insight. The Logos is the divine pattern or blueprint, the animating intelligence behind all reality. Jesus, then, is not merely a man who was anointed, but the embodiment of the Logos itself, anointed by the Spirit in time and space.

It is in this light that Christ becomes more than Jesus—it becomes the anointed Logos, the principle of divine intelligence present in all things. And John makes this universal dimension explicit when he says in his prologue: “That was the true Light, which lighteth every person coming into the world.” This means that the Logos—the Christ—illumines everyone. Not just believers. Not just Jews or Christians. Everyone. The light of Christ is woven into the very structure of being, of consciousness.

This theme continues when Jesus says, “I in them and you in me,” and prays “that they all may be one, as you, Father, are in me and I in you.” This mystical union is not metaphor but metaphysical truth: the same divine presence that empowered Jesus is present in all, waiting to be awakened. In his first epistle, John deepens this thought, saying, “As he is, so are we in this world.” Not will be, not could be, but are. The Christ principle is not only present in Jesus—it is reflected in every human being. It is the divine template within each of us.

Paul echoes this universal message in his letters. He speaks of the “mystery hidden from ages and generations, but now revealed: Christ in you, the hope of glory.” Christ in you—not merely beside you or above you, but within you. He also declares, “If anyone is in Christ, they are a new creation,” suggesting that awakening to this inner anointing is not merely a religious experience but a metaphysical transformation of being. The old self, bound by separation and fear, falls away; the new self, rooted in divine unity, emerges.

These insights lay the foundation for what many now call Christ Consciousness—an awakened state of awareness in which one recognizes the divine indwelling presence and lives in alignment with it. From a philosophical standpoint, this is not only consistent with Christian mystical tradition but is also logically coherent. If the Logos is the source of all creation, and if Christ is the embodied Logos, then Christ Consciousness is the human realization of that divine pattern. It is what happens when the individual ego yields to the divine mind, when we see with the eyes of the Logos.

Moreover, if the Logos is universal, then Christ is not limited to a first-century Galilean rabbi. Jesus uniquely manifested this consciousness, but the consciousness itself transcends time and person. This is the Cosmic Christ—the Christ who was in the beginning with God, who is in all and through all, and who continues to be born in awakened hearts.

Far from being a distortion, Christ Consciousness and the idea of a Cosmic Christ are logical developments of the biblical witness. They fulfill the vision of John and Paul, who both saw the Christ not as a tribal savior or denominational figure, but as the universal presence of God within creation, now made visible in Jesus and awakening in us. The term Christ, then, should not confuse us. When rightly understood, it points not only to Jesus but to the divine essence he revealed—an essence that is also in us, as light, as wisdom, and as love.

 

Leaving the Dance with the One I Came With

 

I’ve come to believe that our life path isn’t some random accident—it’s something we chose. Not just individually, but as part of a soul committee before we ever arrived on this planet. Each life has a purpose, and that too was chosen in advance. We picked our birth time, where we’d be born, the name we’d carry, the family we’d grow up in, and even the belief system we’d be steeped in. All of it carried a built-in lesson and a goal we were meant to reach. So yes, I’m someone who believes there are no accidents.

For me, that meant choosing to be born in rural Michigan in the late 1940s, into a family with a devoutly fundamentalist Baptist mother and a father who quietly supported her faith but rarely went to church. I, on the other hand, was there constantly. If the doors were open, I was inside them. From early on, I had a deep belief that Jesus was real, and I was thoroughly immersed in the doctrines of evangelical fundamentalism. My pastor leaned toward “once saved, always saved,” and that belief was etched into my spiritual framework.

But as I entered adolescence and early adulthood, the world grew bigger. Education expanded my horizons, and the teachings I had absorbed began to unravel in light of science and a broader understanding of humanity. I struggled to believe that people were doomed to hell just for believing differently. It broke my heart to think that kind, loving people—especially Catholics, whom I was told were “lost”—were supposedly beyond salvation. At the time, I didn’t even know other world religions existed. That’s how narrow my upbringing was.

Eventually, I walked away from it all. I threw out Christianity, the whole thing—baby and bathwater. College opened my mind. Quantum theory fascinated me, especially books like The Tao of Physics by Fritjof Capra. I devoured Carlos Castaneda’s works and met people exploring metaphysics, clairvoyance, automatic writing. I experienced enough to become convinced that a spiritual realm transcended the material world. Mysticism became my compass, even though I didn’t yet have that word for it. And in the process, I discarded Jesus as part of a system I thought I had outgrown. I was “spiritual but not religious” before that was even a cultural thing.

During those years, I embraced numerology, conducted readings in Phoenix, and attended meditation groups. We’d do visual walks and sink deep into inner consciousness. I’d always been intuitive, empathic—I could read people and feel what they carried. That sensitivity only sharpened. I didn’t know it then, but I was moving toward what the Gospel of Truth calls a “waking from forgetfulness.” I was beginning to remember.

Then came the 1990s. Everything fell apart. Life unraveled, stress piled up, and I found myself praying again—really praying—on the back porch in Hayward, California. That night became my “Back Porch Prayer,” and it marked the beginning of my return to Jesus.

But the Jesus I was coming back to wasn’t the one from my childhood church. It took decades to untangle the voices of guilt, fear, and judgment. But gradually, new glasses were placed over my spiritual eyes. I started to realize that what we’ve called “orthodoxy” is often a distortion. Evangelicalism had taught me to view the Bible as a set of rules to avoid punishment. But what I began to see was something else: Jesus came not to found a religion, but to awaken us from our forgetfulness of who we truly are.

That’s the message of The Gospel of Truth—that forgetfulness is the root of all error, and Jesus came to bring remembrance. The Valentinian vision of the Christ story is not about appeasing a wrathful deity but about awakening to our divine origin. In that light, I began to understand Paul differently too. The emphasis on justification by faith wasn’t meant to create a legalistic system—it was an answer to a specific cultural and spiritual crisis of the first-century world, where sin-consciousness and guilt dominated. Paul’s deeper mystical message—Christ in you, the hope of glory—resonated far more powerfully.

Eventually, I began receiving impressions from Jesus. Not voices, but streams of inner knowing, especially when I typed in a meditative state. Sometimes it felt like automatic writing. Always peaceful, always loving. His voice reminded me not to fret—just like Psalm 37 says—and he revealed how divine love subtly influences outcomes, especially within systems, without ever violating anyone’s freedom.

So what’s the point of this story? It’s this: we’re here to remember. To work through our life circumstances, not as punishment, but as part of awakening. Our spiritual and mystical growth is as vital as our intellectual or physical development. And for me, Jesus became central again—not the dogmatic Jesus of fear and wrath, but the Logos, the divine consciousness, who reveals the truth that has always been true: we are eternal.

Jesus didn’t come to start a religion. He came to show us that death is a lie, that fear is a veil, and that our origin is divine. He entered a world trapped in false ideas about a violent God and turned it upside down, revealing the loving Father—the true source who sees no separation, no condemnation.

The New Covenant isn’t about earning love. It’s about living from it. Paul, in his best moments, knew this. John the Beloved did too. They saw Jesus not as an exception to humanity, but as the revelation of what is true of all of us. We are not broken wretches to be justified—we are divine children to be awakened.

The old orthodoxy is fading. A more inclusive consciousness is dawning. You don’t have to be Christian to see it, but understanding the Jesus story certainly helps. I’ve found as much light in the Tao Te Ching as in the Gospel of John, and both have pointed me toward the same mystery: the divine within.

So where does that leave me?

Still dancing—with the One I came with.

Shout it from the rooftops Unveiling the Silenced Truth of Early Christianity

There’s something liberating about reading those words from Jesus in Matthew 10:26–27. “So have no fear of them,” he says—not a suggestion but a command. And then he offers this strange assurance: “Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known.” That statement has haunted me in the best way. For me, it’s not just about personal transparency or being honest in a general sense. It’s a cosmic promise. It’s a spiritual unveiling. It’s Jesus looking straight through the centuries and whispering to us that the darkness draped over history, especially over what became of his message, will not last. It’s temporary. And the light will break in. It always does.

When I read, “What I say to you in the dark, tell in the light, and what you hear whispered, proclaim from the housetops,” I don’t think of it as a call to shout modern evangelical slogans. I hear it as a revolutionary instruction. The kind that unsettles empires. It’s a call to remember and recover. To pull back the veil on the machinery of religious control and name what has long been silenced.

What became orthodoxy—what we call Christianity today—didn’t descend pristine from heaven. It wasn’t handed down untouched through the generations like a sacred relic. It was forged, argued over, stamped out, and finally enforced with blood and fire. I’m convinced that if Jesus walked the dusty roads of Galilee with a message of awakening, love, and divine union, that message was hijacked. Maybe not all at once. But beginning somewhere around the middle of the second century, a narrowing began. The streams of belief, once so diverse and free-flowing, were redirected. And many were damned as heretical—simply for not echoing the voice of the rising institution.

I think often about the burning of books. Not metaphorically—literally. The words and insights of countless thinkers, mystics, philosophers, and seekers turned to ash because they threatened a theological monopoly. The Church didn’t merely disagree with people like Valentinus, Basilides, or Marcion. It anathematized them. It labeled them enemies of truth, while crafting a version of truth that had more to do with uniformity than illumination. Heretics weren’t just mistaken; they were hunted. Banished. Killed. The term “heretic” became a curse, a death sentence. And the irony of it all is that the early so-called “orthodox” fathers themselves couldn’t agree on everything. Their letters, arguments, and councils reveal a web of disagreement and disunity. And yet, a final voice was chosen—an approved reading of Jesus—and dissent was declared demonic.

The tragedy that still echoes through time is the destruction of the Library of Alexandria. It's hard to comprehend the magnitude of knowledge, insight, and history that was lost in those flames. That library was a symbol of human curiosity and divine wonder. Its burning wasn’t just an act of war or carelessness—it was part of a larger trend. A purge. A dismantling of ancient wisdom in favor of controlled narratives. A kind of sacred censorship that dared not allow people to think beyond the prescribed limits. We’re not just talking about different doctrines here—we’re talking about different ways of perceiving reality, of encountering the Divine, of understanding who we are. And so much of that was erased. Or at least, they tried.

But history has a strange way of resurrecting what we try to bury.

When the Nag Hammadi Library was discovered in 1945, and the Dead Sea Scrolls just a couple of years later, it was as though the desert itself was crying out. These texts, sealed away for centuries, became like voices shouting from the housetops. The secrets hidden away by the sands were now spilling into the public square. And what did they reveal? Not scandal, as the gatekeepers feared—but depth. Layers of thought. Rich theology. A Christianity that was not singular but plural. Diverse. Deeply mystical. Some of it poetic and philosophical, some of it raw and bold. The Gospel of Thomas, for example, isn’t interested in dogma—it’s interested in awakening. “The kingdom is within you and all around you,” it says. That’s not a creed. That’s a call to remember who we are.

The discovery of those texts wasn’t just archaeological—it was spiritual. For me, it confirmed what I had long suspected: that much had been hidden, suppressed, and forgotten—not by accident, but by design. The early Christian movement wasn’t monolithic. It was bursting with spiritual experimentation, with different interpretations of Jesus, with wildly different views of sin, salvation, and the soul. And many of those views were deliberately erased to make room for one imperial religion. When Constantine aligned the church with the empire, the cross was transformed. No longer a symbol of death-defying love, it became a sword. It became a throne. The religion of the persecuted became the religion of the powerful, and history was rewritten by those who won.

Still, I don’t think truth can stay buried forever.

That’s why I resonate so deeply with those words from Matthew. They remind me that revelation is often inconvenient. It doesn’t ask permission. It crashes through our theological comfort zones and dares us to see things as they are. And Jesus wasn’t afraid of that. He wasn’t in love with institutions. He didn’t seek out creeds. He called people into light—real light. The kind that exposes and heals, that dismantles and rebuilds.

I believe the gnostics weren’t evil mystics as we’ve been told. They were seekers. Explorers of the inner life. They saw salvation not as a legal transaction but as an awakening from forgetfulness. They believed in a divine spark within, buried beneath layers of ignorance and illusion. And yes, that terrified the orthodox leaders. Because if people found God within, they might no longer need priests or popes. If awakening was the goal, not obedience, then control would slip through their fingers. So they called it heresy. And they buried it. Or at least, they tried.

But the whisper still rises. From the caves of Qumran. From the jars in Nag Hammadi. From the pages of Thomas, Philip, Mary. Even from the margins of canonical scripture, if we’re willing to look again with new eyes. It all seems to echo that original call: “Do not be afraid.” Speak the truth. Tell what’s been hidden. Let the secret be shouted from the rooftops.

For me, this isn’t just about history—it’s about spiritual recovery. It’s about honoring the voices that were silenced, the truths that were buried, and the dreams of a Christianity that could have been—and still can be. Jesus didn’t come to start an institution. He came to awaken sons and daughters of the Divine. He came to liberate—not to dominate. To remind us who we are. And I believe that reminder is breaking through again. This time not through councils or crusades, but through rediscovered texts, through open minds, and through hearts that are done with fear.

The real gospel—the good news—isn’t about who’s in and who’s out. It’s about the unveiling. The light. And the courageous ones who dare to proclaim it. From the rooftops. Just like he said.

 

The Logos the Light and the Lost Wisdom of Hermes

Let me walk you through something I’ve been reflecting on—a convergence of ancient wisdom, early Christian mysticism, and today’s rediscovery that consciousness might be the very foundation of reality. It’s a thread that stretches from the pyramids of Egypt to the Gospel of John, through the minds of ancient philosophers and modern physicists.

You may have heard of the Hermetica, also known as the Corpus Hermeticum. These are a collection of writings attributed to Hermes Trismegistus—a legendary figure said to be a synthesis of the Egyptian god Thoth and the Greek god Hermes. The lore says that these teachings were carried into the Greek world by none other than Pythagoras, who traveled through Egypt and Sumer to study the ancient mysteries. What he found there would later seed the philosophical systems of Plato and, indirectly, much of Christian mysticism.

At the heart of the Hermetic teachings lies the concept of the Logos—not just as an abstract ordering principle, but as the very consciousness behind creation itself. In the Hermetic worldview, the Logos and consciousness are one and the same. Everything that exists is the unfolding of divine mind, spoken into form through the Word.

Now, this may sound a lot like the beginning of John’s Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” That’s not coincidence. These ideas were part of the intellectual and spiritual atmosphere of the ancient Mediterranean world, and they didn’t belong to just one tradition.

But somewhere along the way, the origins of these teachings were called into question.

In the 17th century, a philosopher named Isaac Casaubon argued that the Hermetica wasn’t ancient at all. He claimed it was a product of the early Christian era—maybe the 2nd or 3rd century CE—written by Neoplatonists rather than ancient Egyptians. Casaubon’s view carried weight, especially since he was advising King James of England, who had little patience for the more esoteric ideas that had flourished under Queen Elizabeth’s rule.

The damage was done. Hermetic teachings were labeled as fringe, even fraudulent.

But that wasn’t the end of the story.

Modern scholars like Tim Freke and Peter Gandy have argued that Casaubon got it wrong. When the Rosetta Stone was discovered and Egyptian hieroglyphs were finally translated, it turned out that ideas closely aligned with Hermetic thought were ancient. In fact, inscriptions found in the Pyramid of Saqqara—dating as far back as 3,000 BCE—echoed the same themes and language as the Hermetica. These weren’t late inventions; they were echoes from a deep past.

And then came 1945.

That year, in the Egyptian town of Nag Hammadi, a farmer unearthed a sealed jar containing a library of Gnostic Christian texts. Among them was a document titled The Discourse on the Eighth and Ninth—and it was unmistakably Hermetic. Here was proof that early Coptic Christians, particularly Gnostic communities from the third and fourth centuries, were reading and valuing Hermetic wisdom. These weren’t marginal texts. They were part of the early Christian landscape.

The translators of this document—James Brashler, Peter Dirkse, and Douglas Parrott—describe it as “a previously unknown and crucially important Hermetic document.” It appears to be a ritual of initiation into visionary consciousness, complete with vowel-based mantras like IAO, meant to be chanted and intoned, just like sacred names.

And within the text itself, the spiritual intimacy is striking. The disciple says to Hermes:

“I understand Mind, Hermes, who cannot be interpreted, because he keeps within himself… And the universe rejoices. There is no creature that will lack your life… Trismegistus, let not my soul be deprived of the great divine vision.”

This isn’t just metaphysics—it’s mystical union.

Even more revealing is the account of Hermes’ own initiation, found in The Hermetica: The Lost Wisdom of the Pharaohs by Freke and Gandy:

“Suddenly everything changed before me. Reality was opened out in a moment. I saw the boundless view. All became dissolved in Light—united within one joyous Love… And I heard an unspeakable lament… The Light then uttered a Word, which calmed the chaotic waters…”

The vision goes on to describe a trinitarian process—Mind (the Father), Word (the Son), and the creative harmony between them—long before church councils ever formalized such doctrine. The Logos emerges from the Light, brings order to chaos, and then returns to unite with Mind. Creation, it turns out, is not a one-time act, but a continual unfolding of divine consciousness.

As Hermes' guide explains:

“I am that Light—the Mind of God, which exists before the chaotic dark waters of potentiality. My calming Word is the Son of God—the idea of beautiful order… Just as, in your own experience, your human mind gives birth to speech, so too does divine Mind give birth to the Logos.”

This isn’t doctrine. It’s poetry. It’s a visionary framework describing reality not as mechanical, but as conscious, alive, and intimate.

Now, bring that forward into today’s world, and what do you see?

Modern science is starting to catch up. Physics is beginning to suggest that matter may not be fundamental—that behind particles and waves lies something deeper. Some call it a quantum field. Others call it information. And still others, like certain physicists and philosophers of mind, are starting to say the quiet part out loud: Consciousness might be the foundation of everything.

And if that’s true, the Hermetica wasn’t fantasy. It was foresight.

These texts teach us that what is seen comes from what is not seen. That the Word of creation is not a voice booming from the clouds, but the quiet utterance of divine intelligence forming reality itself. The Logos isn’t just a theological term—it’s a description of how consciousness shapes form, how divine Mind becomes the world we live in.

And that changes everything.

We are not strangers in a cold, dead universe. We are expressions of it. Sparks of that same Light. As John wrote, the Logos is the true Light that enlightens everyone coming into the world—not just one person in one time, but all.

The Hermetica reminds us that we’ve always known this, somewhere deep down. The Logos, the Light, the Word—it lives in us. Jesus came to show us that. So did Hermes, in his own way. And now it’s up to us to awaken to that same vision.

To remember what we’ve forgotten.

If this resonates with you, feel free to share, reflect, or ask questions below. The Light we remember together shines brighter for all.