Reflecting on the film; The Age of Disclosure

 

After watching The Age of Disclosure, I found myself sitting in a quiet space, letting the weight of its implications settle over me. The film didn’t just revisit familiar stories of UFOs or resurfaced government programs—it stirred something deeper, something I’ve spent years sensing beneath the surface of this entire subject. What I realized, as the credits rolled, is that the phenomenon we are all trying to name is far larger, older, and more intricate than the modern conversation allows. This piece is my attempt to gather those reflections—shaped by the books I’ve read, the spiritual path I’ve walked, and the worldview I’ve come to embrace—and lay them out in a coherent way. Watching the film didn’t simply inform me; it activated a synthesis of everything I’ve studied about consciousness, spirituality, history, and human experience.

The more I explore the phenomenon—whether we call it UFOs, UAPs, USOs, non-human intelligences, visitors, angels, or something older and stranger—the more I realize that the topic has never been about hardware in the sky. It is, and always has been, about the nature of reality itself. Watching The Age of Disclosure only amplified what years of reading, reflection, and personal intuition have already shown me: the phenomenon is not merely a question of craft and occupants—it is a mirror held up to consciousness, history, spirituality, and the metaphysical fabric of the universe.

I’ve read Skinwalkers at the Pentagon, Super Natural, American Cosmic, Vallee’s Passport to Magonia, and countless others, and what emerges is not a tidy narrative but a mosaic—one that refuses reduction. These books, like puzzle pieces from different centuries and traditions, reveal a multifaceted reality that cannot be understood through any one dogma, institution, or worldview. And perhaps that is why so many systems—military, scientific, religious—have fought so hard against disclosure. It isn’t simply secrecy. It’s existential protection. Because true disclosure does not disrupt only national security—it destabilizes metaphysical security.

As I look at the phenomenon through my own spiritual lens—one shaped by Christian mysticism, Hermeticism, Gnosticism, reincarnation, consciousness studies, and a lifelong awareness that our world is far richer than materialism allows—I see the same pattern repeating across the centuries. Humanity has always brushed up against the veil: shamans stepping into spirit realms; prophets having visions “in the heavens”; medieval encounters with shining beings; ancient stories of gods descending; angels, watchers, sons of God; and yes, biblical “chariots” that look suspiciously like technological metaphors for transcendent contact.

Jacques Vallee understood this decades ago. In Passport to Magonia, he reframed the phenomenon not as extraterrestrial hardware but as a control system interacting with human consciousness across eras—shapeshifting, adapting, evolving. When shamans in Siberia speak of portals and beings of light, when the Navajo describe skinwalkers and reality-bending trickster entities, when medieval Christians wrote of luminous messengers, and when modern pilots see structured craft violating the known laws of physics—we are meeting something that plays at the edges of our perception. Something that may not be literally “from space” but instead from the deeper structure of the cosmic psyche.

This resonates deeply with my understanding of consciousness: that we are fragments of a divine Source, experiencing polarity and incarnation across time, learning, awakening. If reality itself is participatory—if consciousness is not produced by the brain but filters through it—then the phenomenon may be an interface, a crossing point between states of consciousness. A reminder that the universe is layered: physical, subtle, psychic, and transcendental.

The military, for all its intelligence and reach, sees only one layer. Their instinct is control, classification, threat assessment. They can capture radar returns and track anomalous objects, but they cannot penetrate the metaphysics. Vallee himself said the phenomenon will not fit in a Pentagon box. The problem is ontological, not technological.

Evangelical Christianity resists disclosure for similar but doctrinal reasons. Their worldview demands a closed universe with one God, one history, one plan, and one set of spiritual beings—angels and demons. Anything outside that controlled taxonomy threatens the fragile scaffolding they’ve built. To admit that the universe is populated by intelligences with their own histories, cultures, and evolutionary trajectories would blow apart centuries of theological gatekeeping. The irony is that the Bible itself is filled with encounters that modern evangelicals would call “aliens” if they appeared today—fiery craft, beings descending in clouds, voices from the sky, wheels within wheels. But when orthodoxy ossifies, it can no longer see the mystical truths within its own scriptures.

Scientific materialists resist disclosure for the opposite reason. Their dogma isn’t theological—it’s metaphysical. The belief that consciousness is accidental, that life is meaningless, that reality is only matter and energy, is a comfort disguised as skepticism. If the phenomenon forces them to admit that intelligence may precede biology, that space and time may be porous, that consciousness might be fundamental, their entire worldview collapses. Materialism is a religion that masquerades as neutral observation. The phenomenon exposes that illusion.

And so disclosure is resisted not because of national security, but because of the security of worldviews.

But the phenomenon itself refuses to be constrained. It appears to shamans in power spots. It interacts with meditators, mystics, abductees, whistleblowers, and scientists. It adapts to the observer. It plays with our perception of time. It manifests in dreams, visions, and waking encounters. It blurs the line between physical craft and psychic experience. It dissolves the rigid boundary between the inner and outer world.

It is as if the phenomenon is telling us:

“You will not understand me until you understand yourself.”

This is what Super Natural hinted at. This is what American Cosmic explored—how the phenomenon intersects with belief, faith, destiny, and consciousness. This is what Skinwalker Ranch continues to reveal: a trickster intelligence that can mimic, misdirect, or enlighten depending on the observer. Something that knows when you are watching it.

To me, the phenomenon is not alien in the simplistic Hollywood sense. It is cosmic. Interdimensional. Trans-conscious. Perhaps even ancestral. It is part of the same spectrum of reality that produces near-death experiences, mystical visions, poltergeist activity, psychic phenomena, and spiritual awakenings. Not identical, but related—expressions of a deeper field underlying the physical world.

This field is consciousness. The unified divine Source from which all beings emerge.

Humanity is standing at the threshold of a metaphysical awakening. The Age of Disclosure is not about revealing spacecraft—it is about revealing ourselves. Our nature. Our destiny. Our place in a universe alive with intelligence and meaning.

The phenomenon is not telling us that we are small. It is telling us that we are not alone—and never have been.

And if we listen with humility, courage, and openness, we may finally discover what the mystics, shamans, prophets, and experiencers have always known:

Reality is larger, stranger, more conscious, and more divine than we ever imagined.

The Nature of Reality in My View

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Christ of the Logos

From the second century onward, the message of Jesus was misunderstood and misrepresented by orthodoxy, reshaped to fit theological constructs that diverged from the essence of what he proclaimed. To understand Jesus' true message, it is crucial to reconnect with the Jewish context of the Messiah and expand our view beyond the narrow interpretations imposed by later orthodoxy. In Jewish tradition, the Messiah was never confined to the role of a divine savior who rescues humanity from sin in the penal sense but was envisioned as an anointed figure—a king, prophet, or priest—tasked with restoring harmony and leading humanity into alignment with God’s purposes. This broader understanding provides a foundation to revisit Jesus’ teachings through a lens that unveils the universal, transformative nature of his message.

Jesus did not come to establish a religion but to awaken humanity to the divine truth within themselves. His message was one of participation in the divine nature, an idea that resonates profoundly with the Jewish and early Christian understanding of humanity’s relationship with God. The divine nature is the essence of creative consciousness, an eternal flow of life and love emanating from the Source. The Logos, or divine Word, is the way this creative consciousness manifests and interacts with creation. It is the blueprint of existence, the organizing principle that brings order out of chaos and life out of nothingness. Jesus embodied this Logos fully, but his role was not to monopolize it. Instead, he came to reveal that this same Logos is imprinted within all of humanity, making each person a participant in the divine creative process.

The term “Christ” is not exclusive to Jesus; it represents the anointing of the Logos, the activation of divine consciousness within creation. In this sense, Jesus was the Christ not in a singular, exclusionary sense but as the exemplar of what it means to live in full awareness of the Christ within. He came to demonstrate that humanity, collectively, is the Christ of the Logos—the vessel through which divine creativity is expressed in the world. When orthodoxy isolated the term "Christ" to Jesus alone, it inadvertently diminished the scope of his message. Instead of inviting humanity to recognize their shared identity as bearers of the divine anointing, orthodoxy created a chasm, elevating Jesus as uniquely divine while leaving the rest of humanity stranded in sinfulness and separation.

Jesus’ message, properly understood, aligns with the concept of the Cosmic Christ or the Universal Christ—a reality that transcends time, space, and individual identity. The Cosmic Christ is not confined to a single historical figure but represents the eternal presence of the Logos in all creation. It is the unifying force that holds all things together, the light that shines in the darkness, and the love that sustains life. When Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life,” he was not presenting himself as the sole path to God but was speaking as the embodiment of the Logos, the universal principle through which humanity comes to know and experience the divine. His statement was an invitation to recognize the Logos within and to follow the same path of awakening that he exemplified.

The Universal Christ is also intimately tied to the concept of Christ consciousness—a state of being in which one lives in full awareness of their unity with the divine. Christ consciousness is not a distant ideal reserved for the spiritually elite but the natural state of humanity when we transcend the illusions of separation and fear. Jesus demonstrated this consciousness in his life and teachings, showing that it is characterized by love, compassion, humility, and creative power. He taught that the Kingdom of God is within us, emphasizing that the divine reality is not a distant realm but an ever-present truth that can be accessed by anyone who seeks it with an open heart and mind.

When we embrace the idea that humanity collectively bears the Christ of the Logos, it transforms our understanding of ourselves and our purpose. We are not merely passive recipients of grace or salvation but active participants in the divine creative process. The Logos flows through us, inviting us to co-create with God and bring the Kingdom of God into tangible reality. This understanding also redefines the nature of salvation, shifting it from a transactional exchange to a transformative awakening. Salvation is not about escaping judgment or punishment but about realizing our true identity as children of God, made in the divine image and called to reflect the divine nature in our lives.

This realization challenges the hierarchical structures of traditional orthodoxy, which often emphasize authority and control over spiritual exploration and personal transformation. If we are all participants in the divine nature, then no institution or individual can claim exclusive access to the truth. The Christ of the Logos is universal, present in every person, and manifesting uniquely through the diversity of human experience. This perspective fosters a more inclusive and egalitarian approach to spirituality, one that honors the sacredness of all people and seeks to build bridges rather than walls.

The implications of this understanding extend far beyond theology. Recognizing the Christ of the Logos within ourselves and others changes the way we relate to the world. It calls us to live with greater love, creativity, and responsibility. As bearers of the divine anointing, we are called to heal the brokenness around us, to bring light into darkness, and to co-create a world that reflects the beauty and harmony of the divine nature. This is not an abstract or theoretical task but a practical and urgent calling that touches every aspect of life—relationships, work, community, and the environment.

By reclaiming Jesus’ true message, we also reclaim the dignity and potential of humanity. We are not fallen creatures destined for condemnation but divine beings on a journey of awakening and transformation. Jesus came to remind us of who we are and to guide us back to the truth that has always been within us. His life, death, and resurrection are not merely historical events but symbols of the universal process of dying to the illusions of the ego and rising into the fullness of divine consciousness.

The misunderstanding of Jesus’ message by orthodoxy has led to centuries of spiritual alienation and confusion, but the truth of the Logos cannot be silenced or diminished. It continues to speak through creation, through the hearts and minds of those who seek it, and through the life and teachings of Jesus himself. As we open ourselves to this truth, we begin to see the world and ourselves in a new light. We realize that we are not separate from God but intimately connected to the Source of all life. We see that the divine nature is not something to be earned or achieved but something to be embraced and lived.

The Christ of the Logos invites us to step into our true identity and purpose, to awaken to the divine within, and to join in the cosmic dance of creation. This is the message that Jesus came to reveal—a message that transcends the limitations of orthodoxy and speaks directly to the heart of every person. It is a message of hope, love, and infinite possibility, calling us to rise above fear and division and to live as the anointed children of God, co-creators of a world filled with light, love, and joy.

The Implications of the Phrase "God is Love"

The idea that God, the creative source, is love is a profound and central concept in many spiritual traditions, and it finds eloquent expression in the Christian scriptures, particularly in the writings of the Apostle Paul. In 1 Corinthians 13, Paul presents a poetic yet deeply philosophical reflection on the nature of love, enumerating its qualities in a manner that transcends mere human affection. If God is indeed love, then these qualities not only describe how humans should love one another but also offer insight into the very nature of God. Among these qualities, Paul asserts that love "keeps no record of wrongs." This idea leads to a radical and liberating understanding of God: if God is love, and love does not keep a record of wrongs, then God does not keep a record of wrongs. This challenges many traditional notions of divine judgment and punishment, offering instead a vision of a God whose essence is forgiveness, acceptance, and unconditional love.

The concept that God keeps no record of wrongs aligns with the idea of God as an infinite, boundless source of creativity and life. To keep a record of wrongs would imply that God is bound by the same limitations, judgments, and dualities that govern human interactions. It would suggest that God's love is conditional, dependent on human behavior, and subject to change based on our actions. However, if God is truly infinite and unconditional love, then God's love must be free from all conditions, including the condition of being "worthy" or "unworthy" of love based on past actions. This is a revolutionary idea, one that suggests that the divine is not a distant, judgmental figure but an ever-present source of love and support that embraces all beings equally, regardless of their past.

The Hermetic principle of correspondence, particularly the idea of "as above, so below," further supports this understanding of God as love. This principle suggests that the patterns and truths that exist in the macrocosm (the "above") are reflected in the microcosm (the "below"), and vice versa. If we observe that love, joy, and peace are universally preferred states of being among humans, it stands to reason that these qualities are also inherent in the divine nature. Just as humans naturally seek love over hate, peace over strife, and joy over sorrow, so too must these qualities be foundational to the creative source. In this way, the microcosm of human experience reflects the macrocosm of divine reality, and the qualities that we most value in our lives are the same qualities that define the nature of God.

However, the human experience is not one of unbroken love, joy, and peace. We live in a world of duality, where love coexists with hate, peace with strife, and joy with sorrow. This duality is essential to our growth and evolution, as it is through contrast that we come to understand and appreciate the qualities we seek. The Hermetic principle also teaches that everything contains its opposite, and that these opposites are necessary for the existence of each other. Without darkness, we would not appreciate light; without sorrow, we would not fully understand joy. Similarly, our experience of love is deepened and enriched by our encounters with its absence or distortion.

In this context, the challenges and difficulties we face in life are not punishments or signs of divine disfavor, but necessary elements of our spiritual journey. Through many lives and incarnations, we experience a full spectrum of emotions, situations, and relationships, all of which contribute to our growth and understanding. Each life presents us with new opportunities to explore different aspects of love, joy, and peace, as well as their opposites. Over time, these experiences help us to develop a deeper, more nuanced understanding of the divine nature, as well as our own capacity to embody these qualities.

The idea that God does not keep a record of wrongs is especially liberating in this context. It means that our mistakes and failures are not permanent stains on our souls, but simply experiences from which we can learn and grow. The divine love that surrounds and sustains us is not conditional on our perfection, but is always available to us, regardless of our past. This understanding encourages us to approach life with a spirit of forgiveness, both for ourselves and for others. It reminds us that every experience, no matter how difficult, has the potential to bring us closer to the divine, as long as we are willing to learn from it and continue to strive toward love, joy, and peace.

Moreover, this view of God as a source of unconditional love challenges us to reexamine our own attitudes toward others. If God does not keep a record of wrongs, then we are called to do the same. This does not mean ignoring harmful behavior or allowing injustice to go unchecked, but it does mean approaching each situation with a spirit of compassion and understanding. It means recognizing that every person is on their own spiritual journey, and that their actions, like our own, are part of a larger process of growth and learning. By extending forgiveness and love to others, even in the face of wrongdoing, we align ourselves with the divine nature and become instruments of God's love in the world.

The concept that God is love, and that this love keeps no record of wrongs, offers a profound and transformative understanding of the divine. It challenges traditional notions of judgment and punishment, and instead presents a vision of God as an infinite source of forgiveness, acceptance, and unconditional love. The Hermetic principle of correspondence supports this understanding, suggesting that the qualities we most value in our lives—love, joy, and peace—are also foundational to the divine nature. Through our experiences of both these qualities and their opposites, we grow in our understanding of the divine and our ability to embody these qualities in our own lives. Ultimately, this understanding calls us to approach life with a spirit of forgiveness, compassion, and love, recognizing that we are all part of a larger, divine process of growth and evolution.

Reimagining Our View of Scripture

God is Love, a truth that resonates profoundly in the essence of Christian faith. This understanding finds its foundation in the scriptures, particularly in 1 Corinthians 13, where love is exquisitely defined. The passage, often referred to as the "Love Chapter," lays out a comprehensive blueprint of what love truly entails. By examining this biblical definition, we can discern the divine nature of love and distinguish between divine revelation and cultural influences within the scriptures.

1 Corinthians 13, especially verses 4-7 in the New Revised Standard Version Updated Edition (NRSVue), offers a timeless and universal description of love:

"Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing but rejoices in the truth. It keeps no record of wrongs, it bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things."

This passage encapsulates the characteristics of divine love, which is patient, kind, humble, and truthful. Such love reflects the very nature of God, who is Love Himself. This divine love is also closely aligned with the fruit of the Spirit as described in Galatians 5:22-23:

"By contrast, the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against such things."

The correlation between the attributes of love in 1 Corinthians 13 and the fruit of the Spirit is striking. Both passages emphasize patience, kindness, and a selfless, humble nature. They depict a love that is not merely an emotion but a profound and enduring commitment to truth and goodness.

Understanding this correlation allows us to discern divine revelation within scripture. If a passage aligns with the qualities described in 1 Corinthians 13 and the fruit of the Spirit, it reflects the nature of God and is therefore a divine revelation. Conversely, passages that depict actions or attitudes contrary to these qualities may reflect the cultural context and limitations of the human authors rather than the divine nature of God.

Throughout the Bible, we encounter various passages that challenge our understanding of God’s nature. Some depict violence, retribution, and other behaviors that seem inconsistent with the love and fruit of the Spirit. For instance, certain Old Testament passages describe God commanding the Israelites to engage in warfare and even acts of destruction against their enemies. These depictions can be troubling when juxtaposed with the New Testament’s portrayal of God’s unconditional love and mercy.

One way to reconcile these differences is to recognize the cultural and historical contexts in which these scriptures were written. The Old Testament was composed over centuries, during times of great social and political upheaval. The laws and narratives often reflect the norms and values of ancient Near Eastern societies, which were vastly different from the teachings of Jesus in the New Testament.

For example, the commandment in Leviticus 24:19-20, "Anyone who injures a neighbor is to be injured in the same manner: fracture for fracture, eye for eye, tooth for tooth. The one who has inflicted the injury must suffer the same injury," reflects a cultural code of retributive justice prevalent at the time. However, Jesus countered this approach in Matthew 5:38-39: "You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, Do not resist an evildoer. But if anyone strikes you on the right cheek, turn the other also."

Jesus’ teachings emphasize forgiveness, mercy, and love over retribution and vengeance. This shift highlights the transition from cultural norms to divine revelation, focusing on the true nature of God as Love.

Moreover, the Apostle Paul, in his letters, frequently emphasized the primacy of love as the highest virtue. In Romans 13:8-10, he writes:

"Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. The commandments, ‘You shall not commit adultery; You shall not murder; You shall not steal; You shall not covet’; and any other commandment, are summed up in this word, ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law."

Paul’s emphasis on love as the fulfillment of the law underscores the centrality of love in Christian ethics and theology. This perspective helps us to discern the essence of divine revelation within the scriptures, distinguishing it from cultural and historical contexts that might not fully reflect God’s true nature.

In the same vein, the fruit of the Spirit serves as a reliable measure for evaluating the spiritual authenticity of biblical teachings. Any passage or doctrine that promotes love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control can be seen as aligned with the Spirit and, therefore, as a genuine reflection of God’s will. Conversely, passages that promote hatred, violence, intolerance, or other negative traits can be understood as influenced by human culture rather than divine inspiration.

By applying the lens of love as defined in 1 Corinthians 13 and the fruit of the Spirit, we can navigate the complexities of scripture with greater discernment. This approach does not diminish the value of the entire biblical text but rather invites us to seek the heart of God within it. It encourages us to embrace the teachings that reflect God’s love and to critically engage with those that seem inconsistent with His nature.

Ultimately, recognizing that God is Love and that true love is patient, kind, and selfless provides a foundation for understanding divine revelation. It calls us to live out this love in our own lives, embodying the fruit of the Spirit and reflecting the character of God to the world. In doing so, we not only deepen our relationship with God but also contribute to the manifestation of His kingdom on earth, where love reigns supreme.

 

A view some deconstructing Christians may want to consider.

The theological concepts within Christianity have long been marked by diverse interpretations of doctrine and belief systems. Among these, the concept of atonement—the reconciliation of humanity with God through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ—has been a central theme. Traditionally, many Christian denominations have adhered to the doctrine of penal substitutionary atonement, which posits that Jesus died as a substitute for sinners, taking upon himself the punishment for sin. However, alternative views, such as Christus Victor, offer a different perspective on the meaning and implications of Jesus' death and resurrection.

As a Christian Universalist with syncretistic tendencies, my theological stance diverges significantly from the orthodox emphasis on penal substitutionary atonement. Instead, I resonate with the Christus Victor model, which portrays Jesus' mission as overcoming the powers of evil, sin, and death. This view emphasizes liberation from fear and the restoration of humanity's divine nature, concepts that are echoed in the Gospel of Truth.

The Gospel of Truth, an early Christian text associated with Valentinian Gnosticism, presents a narrative that contrasts sharply with the penal substitution framework. It speaks of Jesus as a figure who reveals the truth of our divine origin, dispelling the ignorance and forgetfulness that have led humanity astray. This forgetfulness is not merely an intellectual lapse but a profound spiritual amnesia regarding our true nature as beings created in the image of God.

Valentinus, the early Christian theologian, and his followers proposed that humanity's primary problem is this forgetfulness, and Jesus' role was to remind us of our divine heritage. While I do not adhere to all aspects of Valentinianism, I find this particular teaching deeply insightful. It shifts the focus from a legalistic transaction to a transformative journey of self-discovery and spiritual awakening.

In this light, the death and resurrection of Jesus are not viewed as a penal substitution but as a triumphant victory over the forces that obscure our true identity. Jesus' resurrection is a powerful testament to the triumph of life over death and love over fear. It assures us that the grave is not the end and that our true essence is indestructible.

Moreover, this perspective aligns with a broader, more inclusive understanding of salvation. Traditional doctrines often emphasize the necessity of explicit faith in Jesus for salvation. However, from a Universalist standpoint, salvation is seen as an ultimate reality that transcends individual belief systems. The message of Jesus, while profoundly beneficial for those born into Christianity, is not exclusive in its salvific power. The divine truth he embodied and revealed is accessible to all, regardless of religious affiliation.

This inclusive approach does not diminish the significance of faith in Jesus for Christians. Instead, it acknowledges the richness and diversity of human spiritual experience. For those within the Christian tradition, faith in Jesus can be a powerful catalyst for transformation, offering a direct encounter with divine love and wisdom. For others, different paths may lead to the same ultimate reality of divine union.

The overemphasis on penal substitutionary atonement within orthodox and evangelical circles can obscure this broader vision. It tends to frame the divine-human relationship in terms of guilt and punishment, rather than love and restoration. By shifting the focus to Christus Victor, we reclaim a vision of Jesus' mission that is fundamentally about healing and liberation.

This perspective also resonates with contemporary spiritual seekers who may be disenchanted with traditional doctrines that seem overly rigid or punitive. It offers a vision of Christianity that is both ancient and ever-new, deeply rooted in the early church's mystical insights while speaking powerfully to modern hearts and minds.

In summary, my syncretistic and Universalist approach to Christianity challenges the traditional focus on penal substitutionary atonement by embracing the Christus Victor model. This view celebrates Jesus' victory over the forces of fear and forgetfulness, reminding us of our true divine nature. It offers an inclusive vision of salvation that honors the diversity of human spiritual paths while affirming the transformative power of faith in Jesus for those within the Christian tradition. By doing so, it invites us to see Christianity not as a narrow gate but as a wide embrace, drawing all people into the boundless love and wisdom of the Divine.

 

A Nuanced View of the Name and Blood of Jesus

The distinction between the power in the name of Jesus and the power in the blood of Jesus facilitates a nuanced discussion within Christian theology. Both concepts hold significant places in Christian doctrine, yet their applications and implications differ in crucial ways. The name of Jesus represents a universal principle meant for both Jews and Gentiles, emphasizing a holistic, inclusive approach. In contrast, the concept of the blood of Jesus is deeply rooted in the sacrificial traditions of first-century Judaism, aimed specifically at ending the practice of temple sacrifices and not necessarily applicable to today's context.

The power in the name of Jesus stands as a cornerstone of Christian belief. From the outset of the Christian era, this name encapsulated a universal message of hope, redemption, and authority. For early Christians, invoking the name of Jesus was more than a mere verbal declaration; it symbolized the embodiment of divine power and presence accessible to all believers. This concept transcended ethnic and cultural boundaries, reaching out to both Jews and Gentiles. In the first-century context, where the early church was emerging from a predominantly Jewish milieu and expanding into the Gentile world, the name of Jesus served as a unifying force, bridging diverse communities under a common banner of faith.

In contrast, the power in the blood of Jesus is deeply rooted in Jewish sacrificial traditions. The imagery of blood as a means of atonement is pervasive in the Hebrew Scriptures, where animal sacrifices were integral to the religious life of the Israelites. The letter to the Hebrews in the New Testament particularly emphasizes this theme, drawing a direct connection between the sacrificial system of the Old Testament and the sacrificial death of Jesus. Hebrews presents Jesus as the ultimate high priest who, through his own blood, offers a once-for-all sacrifice, superseding the need for continual animal sacrifices. This theological shift aimed to move believers away from a system of repetitive rituals toward a more profound understanding of their relationship with God.

The focus on the blood of Jesus in the New Testament writings served a specific purpose for the first-century Jewish audience. It addressed the immediate audience of Jews, familiar with the sacrificial language and practices of the temple. By framing Jesus' sacrifice in these terms, the early Christian writers sought to communicate the significance of his death in a way that resonated deeply with Jewish believers. This emphasis on Jesus' blood was particularly relevant in the context of transitioning away from the temple sacrifices, aiming to end the practice of animal atonement rituals.

However, this message about the blood of Jesus was primarily contextualized for the first-century Jewish audience and their specific religious practices. The application of Jesus' blood as a means to end temple sacrifices was a historical and theological necessity of that time. Today, the broader Christian understanding has shifted away from these specific sacrificial contexts. The emphasis now lies more on the relational aspects of faith, centered on the name of Jesus and the personal connection it offers to all believers, regardless of their cultural or religious backgrounds.

This redefinition is crucial to grasping the full theological import of the New Testament message. The sacrificial system of the Old Testament, while addressing sin, often left worshipers feeling distant from God, as their atonement was mediated through animal blood. Jesus' sacrificial death, however, was intended to eradicate this sense of separation, offering believers direct access to God as children to a loving parent. This paradigm shift is evident in Jesus' teachings, particularly his emphasis on worshiping God "in spirit and truth." Jesus consistently pointed his followers towards a more intimate, personal relationship with God, one not confined by ritualistic observance but characterized by genuine, heartfelt devotion.

The interplay between these two concepts—name and blood—illuminates the multifaceted nature of Christian salvation and divine relationship. While the name of Jesus signifies a universal call to all humanity, the blood of Jesus underscores the specific historical and theological transition from the old covenant of sacrificial atonement to the new covenant of grace and sonship. This transition was necessary to move believers beyond a transactional relationship with God to one grounded in identity and belonging.

Understanding the historical context of these concepts helps clarify their distinct yet complementary roles in Christian theology. The early Christian message, while deeply embedded in Jewish tradition, sought to transcend those boundaries and offer a new way of relating to God that was inclusive and transformative. The name of Jesus symbolizes this inclusive call, while the blood of Jesus represents the transformative power that made this new relationship possible at that specific time in history.

Moreover, the emphasis on Jesus' blood as a means to "rid the sin idea" reflects a profound theological insight. Sin, in the Old Testament context, often necessitated repeated sacrifices, creating a cycle of atonement that never fully reconciled humanity with God. Jesus' sacrifice, by contrast, was meant to break this cycle, offering a once-for-all solution that not only addressed sin but also redefined the believer's identity as a son or daughter of God. This shift from sin to sonship is at the heart of the New Testament's message and is pivotal to understanding the full scope of Christian salvation.

In summary, while there is undeniable power in both the name and the blood of Jesus, their applications and implications within Christian theology serve different yet complementary purposes. The name of Jesus represents a universal, inclusive call to all humanity, bridging cultural and ethnic divides. The blood of Jesus, rooted in Jewish sacrificial tradition, signifies a profound theological shift from a sin-centric to a sonship-oriented relationship with God, particularly relevant in its historical context. Together, these concepts encapsulate the essence of the Christian faith: a transformative relationship with the divine that is both universal in its reach and deeply personal in its impact.