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.