Ladder of Divine Ascent, Emmanuel Tzanes (1663)
“What I really need is to get clear about what I must do, not what I must know, except insofar as knowledge must precede every act. What matters is to find a purpose, to see what it really is that God wills that I shall do; the crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me, to find the idea for which I am willing to live and die. (...) I certainly do not deny that I still accept an imperative of knowledge and that through it men may be influenced, but then it must come alive in me, and this is what I now recognize as the most important of all.”
-Søren Kierkegaard
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
-Friedrich Nietzsche
Volume 4
Chapter 1: The Return
It has been a long time, by my standards, since my last LSD trip. That was in 2021, and I am currently writing in 2024. My original plan had been to have one session per year, but that plan has failed for various reasons. The biggest was that I strayed from the path I should have stayed on—a path focused on reflection, philosophical exploration, and religious inquiry. These have always been core parts of my life, as documented throughout this book. But after that trip, my pace slowed considerably. I continued studying, but it became a much smaller priority as I started caring far more about my finances. This shift was largely driven by the fact that I managed to secure a few opportunities that were both well-respected and well-paid. I convinced myself that they were too good to pass up. However, that came at a cost. I became busier than I had ever been, and I found myself in a headspace that I didn’t consider suitable for psychedelic exploration. I wasn’t prepared or ready, for the most part, and I had slipped into a life of complacency and material concerns. What’s strange is that I was fully aware of this happening, and I dreaded it. Yet I justified it—and I’m still justifying it to some degree—by telling myself that this money will bring me exponentially greater financial security, which will pay off later. I’ve reassured myself that I’ll be able to return to more intense study later in life. There’s a pragmatic, even conservative, argument for this. Money, while limited in value, is nevertheless useful for obvious reasons, especially as children might be involved in the next few years. Nevertheless, I can’t shake the feeling that, ever since, my soul has been slowly rotting.
There were a couple of other reasons as well. First, I was honestly scared. While fear was never an official reason for not continuing my LSD explorations, it lingered in the back of my mind, quietly influencing my decision at a subconscious level. My last few sessions had been particularly difficult, marked by severe anxiety, and I wasn’t eager to go through that again. Lastly, there were practical considerations—most notably, the fact that I was living with my partner’s parents for the most part.
I am turning 30 this year, and this was the year I had promised myself I would try either DMT or 5-MeO-DMT. My goal was to create a ritualistic and symbolic passage, marking the culmination of my years of study. However, for the reasons I mentioned earlier, that plan did not come to fruition. Not only did I feel unprepared to take on a journey with a stronger psychedelic, but I also failed to continue my regular sessions altogether. As the milestone of my 30th birthday loomed closer, though, I felt an increasing urge to push forward and, at the very least, resume my regular LSD sessions as I had done in the past. With that in mind, I took some much-needed vacation time and booked a quiet, beautiful Airbnb in the mountains—a perfect setting for such an experience. The space was serene and ideal for introspection, far removed from the distractions of everyday life. When the moment arrived and I placed the LSD paper on my tongue, I immediately felt the familiar buildup of anxiety. Memories of my last few trips, with their intense and barely manageable anxiety and moments of existential terror, loomed large in my mind. Still, I was determined to persevere. My intention was to approach the experience courageously, focusing not only on the pursuit of philosophical insight but also on finding mental clarity after a long period of overwork and stress.
The onset was, as expected, somewhat challenging. There was anxiety, but it remained relatively mild—more of a lingering, background unease about what the experience could become rather than an immediate and overwhelming dread. Music, as always, proved to be my anchor. It helped shift my focus and brought me into a better headspace, allowing the experience to take its course naturally. In a departure from my usual approach, I decided against watching a movie this time. While I had spent a considerable amount of time planning and structuring the session to include one, I abandoned the idea at the last moment. Watching a movie felt like an artificial imposition on the experience, forcing it to address a particular topic rather than allowing it to unfold organically. Instead, I let go of those plans and allowed the trip to develop on its own terms, as it was meant to.
One problem I’ve always struggled with is a deep, almost instinctive guilt over my flaws—guilt that feels rooted in a distinctly Christian sense of morality. I’m perpetually aware of how far I fall short of the ideal, of the inescapable call to strive toward the Good, and of my seemingly permanent, pathetic, and utter failure to answer that call. Since I was young and first began contemplating these matters, this awareness has weighed heavily on me, fostering a profound sense of guilt that has troubled my life in countless ways. At its core, it manifests as an ongoing discomfort with my own being, a sense of alienation from myself that I cannot shake. Yet its reach goes deeper, bleeding into my moral life and shaping how I interact with the world.
This guilt often feels like a black hole, dragging everything into its orbit. The more guilt I feel, the worse my self-esteem becomes, and the more depressed I grow. These effects compound, creating a vicious cycle: as my self-perception worsens, I become a less virtuous person—a more flawed and broken human being—which only generates more guilt. This spiral can feel impossible to escape. Adding to this, I’ve come to suspect that guilt itself might carry its own form of sin. Though I’ve only lightly read about this idea and haven’t fully grasped it, I sense it intuitively. There’s something twisted about guilt, almost indulgent. Sometimes it seems connected to pride, as though wallowing in guilt is a perverse way of centering oneself. Other times, it feels like sloth—a kind of despair that extinguishes hope and provides an excuse for my fallen state, a justification for no longer trying. This pattern often surfaces during conflicts in my relationship. When it gets bad enough, it feels like my soul shuts down entirely. In those moments, I’m so overwhelmed by my sense of failure that I feel incapable of moving forward. While I don’t believe this is consciously guided by any single thought, there’s an underlying assumption driving it: that my flaws are intrinsic and unchangeable because I’m inherently a horrible human being. Of course, this mindset only worsens the situation, creating an environment where my flaws grow more pronounced and my energy to confront them diminishes further. It’s a self-perpetuating cycle that leaves little room for growth, connection, or hope.
Recently, as I dived deeper into the explorations outlined in this book, I came to realize that much of my struggle stemmed from inheriting a flawed framework. In a traditional worldview, guilt is unavoidable, but it is meant to be accompanied by grace. Grace is a peculiar concept that I still don’t fully comprehend, yet I’ve come to understand it, however loosely, as a gift from God to humanity—a manifestation of His eternal and boundless love. While it is particularly central to the Christian tradition, echoes of it can also be found in other Abrahamic faiths and even in Hinduism and Buddhism. What makes grace so important as a counterbalance to guilt is that it offers divine love and acceptance despite one’s imperfections. It is an act of recognition—an acknowledgment of the inherent goodness within, even when that goodness is entangled with the most wretched parts of the soul. In this way, grace functions as a form of forgiveness, not merely erasing one’s flaws but also offering divine assistance in overcoming them. Together, guilt and grace seem to form the foundation of a religious life: an awareness of one’s shortcomings intertwined with the assurance of forgiveness and the strength to rise above them. My difficulty, however, lies in the fact that I have never thought of God in personal terms. I’ve always understood the concept of God as something far beyond my comprehension—more complex than any human mind could fully grasp. Yet, inevitably, I’ve had to frame God in a way that feels coherent within my own understanding. In this model, God has always been an abstract entity, never personified in the way typical of most Abrahamic traditions.
Even though I firmly reject the idea that religion is reducible to superstition or fantastical supernatural beliefs—a view that often stems from ignorance or cynicism—there remains a small part of me where this skepticism lingers. This is especially true when it comes to the notion of God as a person. Even in the most religious dimensions of my worldview, God has always been something more abstract, never resembling the personal deity so often described in scripture. What makes this so challenging—and it’s something I continue to wrestle with—is that God seems like an incredibly complex term with a variety of functions depending on the context. Sometimes these functions feel interconnected, such as the relationship between Goodness and Beauty. Other times, they feel disparate and harder to reconcile, like the connections between God and ideas from game theory or evolutionary sociology. Because of this, grace feels fundamentally unreachable within my worldview. While it is meant to serve as a counterbalance to religious guilt, it relies on a foundation that remains inaccessible to me—its underlying axiom is profoundly incomprehensible. To me, this incomprehensibility is somewhat akin to how some people guide their lives based on astrology.
I’m not suggesting that the two are entirely meaningless or equivalent, nor am I dismissing the possibility that there may be hidden complexities within them. For instance, I can accept that a personified view of divinity may contain layers of meaning, some of which may even hold deeply positive or “true” elements. Similarly, astrology may harbor cultural or psychological insights, despite its core claims being unscientific and senseless. The broader issue, however, is that neither of these frameworks—neither the personification of divinity nor the practice of astrology—is something I can fully embrace. I cannot bring myself to believe in them, no matter how earnestly I try to approach them or how many layers of complexity they may possess.
During the early stages of the trip, I found myself meditating deeply on these questions of guilt and grace, trying to untangle their complexities. Then, as if out of nowhere, a flash of insight struck me: the resolution to this dilemma lies in compassion for others. I am undeniably flawed, but so is every other human being. Yet, despite their flaws, I recognize that all people need compassion and forgiveness to some degree. Isn’t that, at its core, what I’m searching for as well—compassion and forgiveness for my own limitations? And yet, where am I seeking it? In some divine aspect that is utterly unintelligible to me. Isn’t that an incoherent position—to demand transcendent forgiveness for myself while considering mortal, human forgiveness sufficient for others?
Some might argue that human forgiveness is inherently insufficient, but that doesn’t feel right. Compassion for others—particularly for those I don’t feel an affinity toward or who have wronged me—is incredibly difficult to achieve. Yet, on the rare occasions when I do manage it, it doesn’t feel lacking. In fact, it feels profoundly complete, almost like a glimpse of the infinite within the finite. It carries the weight of authenticity, a rare immanence of divinity that arises in the mortal world. This authenticity, I realized, applies in both directions—not only in my capacity to forgive but also in the forgiveness I receive from others. To claim that my forgiveness is inadequate would logically extend to the forgiveness of others, and that feels unfair, even ungrateful. If mortal forgiveness—whether from myself or others—is both sufficient and legitimate, why do I insist that my own need for forgiveness must rest on a metaphysical foundation that I cannot accept? Why should I be held to a different, unreachable standard?
When I discussed this insight with my partner, who is generally skeptical of such matters, she asked me a straightforward question: would this realization solve my problem with guilt? My answer, honestly, was that I didn’t know. The beauty of these kinds of experiences is that they often reveal answers, but the disappointing truth is that those answers are rarely straightforward or easy to integrate into everyday life. I’ve had many insights in the past that felt revolutionary in the moment but failed to bring about the profound transformation I had hoped for. Still, even when they fall short of grand expectations, these insights remain undeniably useful.
For one, I now have something resembling a theoretical answer to my problem. What made this issue so profoundly depressing for me in the past, particularly after I gained a clearer understanding of the role of grace, was the realization that there seemed to be no solution. The guilt is unavoidable because it is intertwined with the very nature of consciousness. Once a moral framework exists, I cannot help but evaluate my behavior, measure it against that framework, and recognize where it falls short. This naturally leads to guilt because those flaws are not inherently avoidable. I could have acted differently, but I didn’t. This is, of course, a deeply strange and paradoxical condition. If I believe a certain way of acting is better and I truly want to act in that way, then why don’t I? That relatively simple question may well be the foundation of all religion. By unpacking its layers of complexity, one eventually encounters the full spectrum of moral and existential problems—and perhaps, too, their corresponding solutions.
In this sense, guilt cannot be eliminated, nor, it seems, can my lack of belief in grace. I cannot force myself to accept a concept of divinity that feels absurd to me, and thus the problem has always appeared hopeless. However, this recent realization offers a potential theoretical exit. The idea that mortal compassion and forgiveness might be enough provides at least a glimmer of relief. The honest answer to whether this realization will truly solve my problem is an unsettling “I don’t know.” It might not change anything at all. Even so, there is some comfort in knowing that my mind has formulated a response to the dilemma, however tentative. Now, the real challenge lies in whether my soul can follow through with that understanding and turn it into something more than just a theoretical resolution.
I had a vision of meeting and being with a “spiritual father.” For those unfamiliar with the term, it refers to someone who guides you on your spiritual and religious journey—a mentor and role model who helps you navigate the complexities of faith and moral growth. What struck me most about this vision was how unexpected it felt. I’ve never been drawn to concepts like this, especially given their hierarchical nature. In fact, quite the opposite—I’ve long been skeptical of such structures, particularly in the realms of religion and spirituality. My suspicion has likely been shaped by the historical misuse of power and the oppression often tied to these hierarchies. Over time, though, this antagonism has softened somewhat. Exposure to the lives and writings of saints and a growing understanding of my own life as a journey of spiritual and moral improvement have contributed to this change. I’ve been particularly influenced by the Orthodox Christian concept of theosis, the process of becoming one with God, which has helped me view these ideas with greater openness and nuance. Even so, I’ve never fully embraced the symbolism of father and son in Christianity. It has always seemed forced and unnatural to me in a way I struggle to articulate. That’s why I was so surprised when, in the depths of my being, the concept and wording of a “spiritual father” emerged. It felt deeply alien, almost as if it had been implanted in me by someone else—or as though it were some kind of mistake. The idea feels awkward and unfamiliar, at odds with how I’ve historically related to these concepts.
This vision manifested as an unknown spiritual father standing close to me. He was an older man, with an appearance that seemed to blend a monk’s simplicity with the formal bearing of an Orthodox priest. At first, I interpreted his presence as that of a trip sitter—someone to guide me through the journey and ensure my well-being. I found this amusing, given how unconventional and unexpected such a combination felt. However, this initial framing soon dissolved, and his role shifted into something deeper: an environment of confession and guidance began to emerge.
At the time, I was trying to center my thoughts on compassion, influenced by my reflections on guilt earlier in the experience. I reframed this idea as compassion for the spiritual journey—both my own and others’. Intellectually, I had always understood the importance of compassion, but I had never applied it inwardly. My focus was always on extending kindness to others. But during this moment, I confronted a simple yet profound question: how can one be truly kind to others without first being kind to oneself?
In this vision, I felt exposed—naked in an allegorical sense—before the spiritual father, as if my entire soul was laid bare. I was as vulnerable as I could be. Yet, even though I initially didn’t say anything, he seemed to know exactly what to say. He told me that I was doing all right, that despite my faults, I was still trying. When I admitted that I was struggling, he acknowledged it with compassion. There was no judgment, only understanding, as though my vulnerability was expected and entirely normal. It was as if he were telling me: you are not alone in this. You are on your journey, just as everyone else is on theirs. What struck me most was the sense of protection and acceptance I felt. My struggles, though deeply personal, were reframed as a shared experience—part of the universal human condition. Even the spiritual father himself seemed to acknowledge that he, too, had his own struggles. This realization brought a powerful sense of belonging, not just with mankind but with the path itself. It illuminated the idea that this is what it means to be human: to walk this path, to wrestle with the journey, and to fulfill the ultimate telos of existence. I felt deeply connected to the countless human beings who had walked this same path before me and to those who would continue to walk it long after me.
At some point, I experienced an intuition that, eventually, everything would make sense. The “answers” to the questions of existence—what reality is, what God is, what life is truly about—would become clear. Yet this understanding would not arrive as a concrete articulation but as an abstract, high-level awareness, as though I would one day simply “get it.” This realization brought some consolation. Still, I remember asking the spiritual father a question that lingered in my mind: what if I wanted to know, not just at a high level, but to truly and completely understand? He told me that the divine essence is not something that can be fully grasped in all its glory. Nevertheless, it is intelligible, and countless people over millennia have come to understand it in some way. Achieving this understanding, he explained, requires seeking it authentically, with a pure heart. It also demands a sense of being chosen to receive such knowledge. I interpreted this not as arbitrary favoritism but as a reflection of worthiness—an inherent moral element where one must be sufficiently cleansed and purified to comprehend the divine. Still, I sensed that there might also be an element of randomness to it. Not everyone can access this understanding, just as not everyone is suited to grasp the highest levels of philosophy or theoretical physics. Surprisingly, reflecting on this wasn’t a negative experience. I didn’t feel judgment or pity toward those who might not attain such understanding. It didn’t feel personal, either. I didn’t know whether I was capable of understanding or not, but ultimately, it didn’t seem to matter much.
As the vision was coming to an end, I found myself preparing to ask another question. I wanted guidance—something to help me in my journey and advice to aid my moral struggles. Specifically, I was ready to ask what I could do to improve myself, to make my journey easier. Yet, before I could utter the words, the answer came to me, as though he had spoken directly to my soul without saying anything aloud. The answer was clear: there is a long and rich tradition surrounding everything sacred and the journey toward the One. It provides guidance on what to do, what to read, and how to think about God. The tools are already there, waiting to be used.
Initially, this idea may feel malicious or unauthentic, fueled by a natural distrust of those who claim to possess knowledge and prescribe worldviews designed to control. While it’s true that such elements exist—inevitable in a world shaped by flawed, and occasionally corrupt or even evil, human beings—I mean this in a positive sense. It’s analogous to attempting to develop a scientific understanding entirely from scratch. Imagine trying to master theoretical astrophysics without first learning basic cosmology, astronomy, relativity theory, Newtonian physics, or even foundational mathematics like arithmetic and algebra. The history and cultural inheritance of knowledge is indispensable, and it’s only logical to learn from those who have already laid down the path. In the same vein, it seems absurd to think I could—or should—forge an entirely new cultural and theological framework out of suspicion of established norms and hierarchies. This approach, which I strongly identified with in the past, now strikes me as deeply cynical and naive. Over time, as I’ve grown older, gained knowledge, and hopefully become wiser, this perspective has begun to seem childish. The obvious truth is that I should embrace the tradition—a tradition that spans thousands of years, followed by millions of people and enriched by hundreds of mystics. This doesn’t mean following it blindly, but at the very least, I should approach it as a foundation, accepting it in good faith and allowing it to guide me.
Reflecting on this, I realized how senseless my question to the spiritual father had been. The answer was obvious: I needed to follow what the tradition teaches. It wasn’t some unsolvable mystery. The entire purpose of the tradition is to guide one toward God, to provide a clear path for getting closer to the divine. The struggle I felt, the hopelessness about my journey, suddenly seemed hollow in light of this realization. And then, in a flash, it hit me with embarrassing clarity. I was lamenting my struggles and my feelings of despair about my journey, but what was I actually doing to help myself along the way? The answer was brutally simple: nothing. Quite literally, nothing.
It was as if I were a philosophy tutor, and a pupil asked me how to improve his understanding of philosophy while doing no reading or engagement whatsoever—just expecting to magically grasp its essence. That, it seemed, was my position. The difference, of course, is that philosophy is largely propositional and intellectual, while a spiritual journey encompasses such elements but goes far beyond them. Spirituality is a deeply embodied reality. It demands not only study but also practice—a practice enriched by imagery, ritual, and active engagement. And yet, what was I practicing? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. How, then, could I view my struggles as anything but expected? The absurdity became even more glaring when I envisioned the gap between myself and an imagined monk. It was comically unreasonable to wonder how I might become more like the monk when I shared almost no overlap with the life he was leading.
Another aspect of my vision that struck me was the relative absence of Christ as a figure. Christianity itself was certainly relevant, but not because of its distinct theological claims or how it diverges from other traditions. Instead, it was relevant for its creed, its community, and its tradition—foundational elements that provide guidance and structure. Theological specifics felt less significant compared to the broader, shared effort of grappling with God as the ground of all being—a concept inherently tied to the world and consciousness. This perspective seemed to transcend Christianity in a certain way, aligning with how I felt about my experience. It wasn’t that Christianity was wrong, but rather that it was part of a larger, universal struggle to understand the divine. This same struggle is present in Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and countless other traditions, all wrestling with the same fundamental questions of existence. It stretches back to ancient Greece and perhaps even to the earliest civilizations—a shared human effort to grapple with the infinite. What makes this so universal is precisely that it connects to something fundamental: being itself. Yet, what’s curious about this line of thought is the vast surplus of “tradition” that has been built on top of that core. For much of my life, I’ve thought of tradition as the primary element that matters. The metaphysical foundation, by contrast, often seemed nonsensical or irrelevant—almost a distraction from the practical aspects of morality and living a meaningful life. I’ve never been comfortable thinking of God as the “creator.” That particular connotation has always been one of the most difficult for me to accept, tied as it is to a framework I found unappealing. The associations that come with the term—literal interpretations of creationism, for instance—felt alien to me. These associations often made discussing religion with friends nearly impossible because they’d immediately project those ideas onto the conversation. For this reason, I distanced myself from the “creator” narrative, avoiding it when expressing any sympathy for religion. However, this vision has made me feel as though my previous perspective was entirely backward. The fundamental aspect I had been trying to bypass—the metaphysical core of God as the creator—is not peripheral or dispensable. It is, in fact, the very foundation that gives religion its legitimacy and meaning.
I have always felt a deep reluctance to use the word “God.” Whenever possible, I’ve tried to naturalize it, framing it in terms that feel more neutral or accessible. Although I’ve become more comfortable with the term recently, I still often feel a lingering discomfort. In certain contexts, I find myself substituting more secular terms to suit the audience or make the concept seem more intelligible—terms like “the Good,” for example. But maybe that very reluctance is holding me back. Perhaps my refusal to frame it the way countless others throughout history have done is precisely what prevents me from seeing the full picture. I constantly find myself trying to exist in two worlds at once. I want to understand and live the religious life, to embrace its depth and richness. Yet, at the same time, I am shackled by chains of my own making, dragging behind me a heavy demand for perfect intelligibility and rationality at every step. I never allow myself to become fully immersed. Instead, I am constantly slowing myself down—if not entirely paralyzing myself—because I’ve made those chains so tight, and I refuse to let them go.
I was deeply immersed in the chants of Hildegard von Bingen, and I felt compelled to ask my partner what she thought this music meant. My curiosity stemmed from the contrast between her worldview and mine—she is an atheist with a fairly typical materialistic perspective, yet also deeply connected to music as a musician. For me, listening to Hildegard’s chants in that moment was an utterly undeniable and vivid experience of worship, an obvious and indisputable expression of God. It felt as true as anything could possibly feel. With a genuine and pure-hearted curiosity, I wanted to know what someone for whom this language of the sacred was unintelligible might think the music conveyed. Surely, this sacredness cannot be accounted for purely through a materialistic or physical description. While the music undoubtedly has a physical instantiation—vibrations, frequencies, and the mechanics of sound production—these are merely outcomes. What truly makes the music what it is lies elsewhere: in the composer’s intent, an act of will, and an expression of their understanding of divinity. Technical descriptions of the music—its notes, chords, and structures—are accurate, but they miss the essence. They cannot explain the experience of the music or its reflection of something beyond. This is akin to interpreting the sacred intimations in Tolkien’s work. To attribute that sense of the transcendent to narrative techniques or stylistic devices might be technically correct, but it fundamentally misses the point. The materialistic aspect is merely the vehicle, the instantiation of a higher meaning into physical reality according to the laws of nature. What truly produces the outcome is meaning—it is consciousness.
In this way, it’s like the reason I am typing these words right now. The immediate cause is a series of neurobiological processes that move my hands, but the ultimate cause is my intent, my will as a conscious, meaning-making being. The causal chain ends with the physical, but it begins with me. As I reflected on this, I began to see aspects of Greek philosophy in a new light, though I find myself too intoxicated to articulate them properly now. I had a profound intimation that consciousness imposes order upon the chaos of reality by inheriting the logos of reason and structure. Without consciousness, being itself could not exist as we understand it. What amuses me most is that I’m fully aware of how vague all of this sounds. I cannot yet articulate it in a rigorous or satisfying way, nor formulate it as a proper philosophical argument. And yet, the insight feels undeniable, even if its precise meaning remains elusive.
She couldn’t provide me with a straightforward or satisfying answer, and our conversation wandered. Yet, this prompted me to reflect on the deeper nature of music and meaning. The mystical quality of music cannot be reduced to specific chords or technical implementations, even though these material elements are essential for its existence. The technical, materialistic explanation accurately describes how the music manifests, but the true cause lies in the conscious intent of the composer.
This idea mirrors the experience of someone exploring the sacred elements in Tolkien’s work. They will not find genuine satisfaction in explanations focused solely on narrative techniques, even if those analyses are technically correct. The materialistic aspect serves as the mechanism by which higher meaning is instantiated into physical reality according to the existing laws of nature. However, what truly brings about the outcome is meaning itself—consciousness. In much the same way, I am typing these words because I want to, not merely because of the neurobiological processes governing my hand movements. While there is a causal chain that culminates in physical actions, the chain begins with consciousness and intention. The material implementation follows meaning—it does not precede it.
Because the vision of the spiritual father was explicitly Christian, and because my discussions of the divine realm aligned naturally with an Abrahamic framework, I became curious about how these experiences might translate within a Buddhist context. There is a particular chant with which I have a deeply personal relationship—one that has consistently evoked a profound sense of the sacred, in the most utterly metaphysical and theological sense. This feeling was so vast that I often felt incapable of fully apprehending or containing it.
There is a theological position in Abrahamic traditions that God is somehow constantly necessary for reality to exist. Why does being require an anchor? I don’t pose this question with any metaphysical presupposition or resistance to the idea; I simply find myself unable to fully grasp it. I can, hypothetically, understand the notion of a God initiating creation—an event that establishes being as its effect. But the theology in which God serves as the continuous “source” of being, not just its initial cause, remains elusive to me. And yet, in certain mystical moments, I seem to catch glimpses of this idea—intimations of it that defy my ability to articulate them. One such moment occurred while listening to this Buddhist chant. One peculiar aspect of my experience with Buddhism is that I’ve never encountered the sense of a “ladder-like” progression toward divinity that I often feel in Christianity. I say this with the utmost respect for Buddhist traditions and fully aware that this observation reflects my own limitations—both as someone with only minor training in Buddhist thought and as an outsider to its cultural contexts.
In my mystical states, I tend to feel a kind of union with the divine, a connection to the source of being itself. While listening to this chant, I again felt that profound state of the divine. However, as my mind began to wander, indulging in fantasies as it so often does, I noticed an arrogance creeping into my experience. I felt “enlightened,” but at some point, that sensation felt wrong. I missed the humility I had cultivated in my explorations of Christianity and in the visions of a spiritual father. Christianity’s approach had felt more like an ongoing struggle—an eternal effort to improve oneself—whereas this experience seemed more binary, like flipping a switch.
I am fully aware that these reflections oversimplify the nuances of both traditions and are deeply rooted in my own biases and personal experiences. Buddhism does, of course, incorporate notions of progress and a ladder-like journey toward enlightenment—whether this is understood as union with the One, realization of Nothingness, or awakening to Buddha-nature, depending on the branch and tradition. Similarly, Christianity also contains elements of binary states, such as the transition from sin to grace. I do not mean to imply that Buddhism lacks an emphasis on humility; in fact, it emphasizes humility profoundly. Rather, I am simply describing my limited experience with both traditions, especially in mystical states where feelings and intuitions often outweigh scholarly considerations.
It is curious to contemplate why I feel a stronger affinity toward Christianity. In some ways, there seems to be no definitive answer to this question. My inclination might be tied to the particular materials I’ve studied—the specific content I’ve consumed about Christianity and Buddhism. There is always an inherent imbalance in what one studies; I have read certain texts while inevitably overlooking others, each offering its own unique perspective. No matter how diligently we attempt to broaden our understanding, we inevitably confine ourselves within a box of interpretation shaped by the choices we make. Beyond the limitations of my studies, this affinity might also arise from personal resonance. Perhaps the imagery and language of Christianity feel more coherent to me because of my personal history, cultural background, or even aspects of my personality. These elements form a lens through which I perceive the sacred, making certain traditions feel more accessible or meaningful than others.
This raises a deeper and more troubling question: given my acute awareness of these limitations, how can anyone confidently claim allegiance to a particular creed or belief system? If I were to discuss these topics with a Christian monk or scholar, they would undoubtedly identify countless gaps, oversights, or misinterpretations in my understanding of Christianity—and they would be right. The same would hold true for Buddhism, Islam, or any other tradition. In every case, their critiques would be justified.
Faced with this reality, how can I possibly make claims about one tradition or another? How can I speak of concepts like grace when my understanding of it is so incomplete? How many texts have I truly engaged with that explore this idea in depth? What is my grasp of the historical context in which the notion of grace emerged? And how does this concept differ across religious figures, denominations, and traditions? Viewed through such a lens, my knowledge feels woefully inadequate, to the point that making any definitive claim seems almost absurd.
This limitation of knowledge, however, does not provide a practical solution for how to live. One cannot become an expert in everything—our knowledge will always remain incomplete and deficient. Yet we must still navigate our lives based on this imperfect understanding. Even expertise introduces its own paradox: an expert on the Christian concept of grace will quickly encounter the boundaries of their knowledge when engaging with related fields in which they lack proficiency. For instance, even if someone were to master all of Christian theology, their comprehension would still depend on insights from domains they haven’t mastered, such as history, linguistics, or cultural anthropology. Furthermore, achieving a truly holistic understanding requires even broader knowledge. For example, someone familiar with both Buddhism and Christianity will likely grasp Christianity with greater depth than someone studying it in isolation.
This dynamic applies not only to religious studies but to any field of knowledge. The interconnected nature of disciplines means that true expertise is always contingent on an awareness of what lies beyond one’s own specialization. I find myself resonating deeply with much of Heidegger’s philosophy, though I openly acknowledge that my understanding of his work is limited. Yet, it would be difficult to argue that I cannot adopt a Heideggerian stance despite these limitations. This consideration bears directly on my reflections about Buddhism. While I am uneasy with some of my earlier claims, I cannot simply discard the impressions they are based on. I feel somewhat justified in expressing these impressions—provided I remain acutely aware of the inherent limitations in my perspective. This principle extends beyond Buddhism to my thoughts on Christianity and, indeed, to all areas of inquiry. It points to an unavoidable problem of epistemology: how do we justify our claims or beliefs within the constraints of incomplete knowledge? Through this discussion, I aim to clarify my personal standards for what constitutes a justifiable claim, particularly when navigating the complexities of our inevitable intellectual limitations.
Language functions as a cognitive technology, a tool that enables the expression and refinement of human thought. All writing demands a specific set of skills and knowledge developed over years—an endless pursuit of clearer thought and more effective expression tailored to specific purposes. Viewed through this lens, religions can be understood as meta-cognitive technologies, systems that extend human capacity for meaning-making and understanding the sacred. This operates on two interconnected levels. First, there is the individual level, where one actively develops the skills to articulate particular ideas, as I am doing now. Second, there is the collective level, where individuals draw on a vast reservoir of shared language, analogies, and concepts developed by others. In this collaborative process, the creativity and intellectual contributions of countless individuals are absorbed and repurposed for new contexts. This represents a form of progress, though its scope and trajectory are often imperceptible within the span of years or even decades. Over centuries, however, the cumulative effect becomes unmistakable.
Consider the extraordinary cognitive advancement between a contemporary individual and one living 10,000 years ago—or further back, when language itself was nascent and rudimentary. Language, as a system, exemplifies collective progress: it grows richer and more versatile over time, even as no single individual can fully master its intricacies. Religions, similarly, demonstrate collective progress in understanding and engaging with the sacred. Learning a religion parallels learning a language; mastery provides the tools to better articulate and comprehend one’s existential experiences. While religious concepts and symbols form only a subset of human expression, religions as systems are wholly devoted to this purpose, having cultivated their own intricate languages, images, and metaphors over millennia.
The difficulty of grasping religious cosmology and language is unsurprising, given its complexity and the cumulative nature of its development. Much like mastering English—or any other language—requires navigating centuries of inherited linguistic evolution, engaging deeply with religious frameworks demands grappling with layers of historical and cultural context. The challenge can be compounded by one’s starting point. For instance, as a Portuguese speaker, English might feel more accessible to me due to shared Latin roots, whereas someone from a vastly different linguistic tradition, such as Chinese, might face greater initial obstacles. Similarly, the ability to engage with religious ideas often depends on one’s familiarity with analogous cultural or philosophical frameworks.
In our increasingly scientific, materialistic, and nihilistic age, the task of understanding and valuing religious language grows more difficult. However, this difficulty does not diminish the value of such systems. Instead, it highlights a cultural condition—one that might have evolved differently under alternate historical trajectories. The persistence of religious language and practice does not depend on ease of comprehension or alignment with contemporary trends. So long as individuals continue to engage with it, the language of religion endures. External challenges, whether in the form of cultural contradictions or societal distractions, do not alter the core essence of these systems. Religions are not entirely isolated from cultural influences, but their enduring foundation speaks to something real: the sacredness intrinsic to human experience. This sacredness persists even in the face of materialism, nihilism, or attempts to erase metaphysical thought. The language of religion, like all great linguistic traditions, continues to offer a means of connecting with truths that transcend individual and historical contingencies, remaining relevant even in an era that struggles to reconcile itself with the sacred.
Describing these visions is a peculiar exercise—they occupy an ambiguous space that is neither entirely external nor fully internal to me. This ambiguity persists even when I set aside ontological or metaphysical questions and focus solely on the phenomenological aspects of the experience. The boundary between what we might label as “authentic” and “inauthentic” experiences often becomes indistinct. There are moments when I consciously try to summon these visions, such as conjuring the image of a spiritual father. While this might seem like a deliberate, even artificial act, it nonetheless feels necessary and profoundly “right.” Why would that be the case? If we apply a skeptical lens to the idea of an independent force behind creative acts, we must be consistent and apply this scrutiny universally. If we dismiss certain visions as inauthentic simply because they arise from deliberate thought, we are left with the question: where did that initial thought originate? This line of reasoning leads us into an endless temporal chain of causation and into inquiries about more primordial forms of thought. But where do these primordial thoughts reside? What, if anything, lies behind them? The recursive nature of this questioning becomes almost absurd in its relentless search for an ultimate, “true” cause.
It seems more reasonable—and more practical—to accept my thoughts as my own, at least provisionally, while setting aside broader concerns about bias, influence, and free will. Similarly, these visions retain their reality as visions, existing in some externalized form, regardless of their origin. They may be divinely inspired, manifestations of a Jungian collective unconscious, or abstract representations of processes within my own mind. Yet none of these possibilities renders them inauthentic. Even if they emerge solely from the recesses of my psyche, they embody something that transcends my ego—something more primordial, and perhaps more fundamentally real. The precise location or source of these experiences may not be the most critical consideration. Their significance lies in their existence and the meaning they convey. By engaging with them as they are—whether as expressions of divine influence, collective archetypes, or inner psychological realities—I affirm their authenticity. They speak to something greater than the narrow confines of conscious deliberation, pointing toward a deeper dimension of reality that defies easy categorization.
Perhaps the most common trope in both new-age spirituality and psychedelic experiences is the feeling of oneness. I encountered this intensely during my experience with the Buddhist chants I described earlier. However, there’s an aspect of this oneness that, based on my experience, diverges slightly from how others often describe it. Many people speak of losing themselves in an undifferentiated “one” that encompasses all existence, a dissolution of individuality into everything. My own experiences, however, have been different. This difference could be due to dosage and might change in future, higher-dose experiences, but it’s worth noting. For me, the sense of oneness has always been specific—a oneness of humanity directed toward the divine.
One type of vision or imagery that I’ve encountered repeatedly over the years, across numerous experiences, revolves around this unity of humanity toward God. This has appeared in different forms. At times, I perceive it as a cultural lineage of theologians contemplating and articulating the divine essence over centuries. At other times, it manifests in prayer or meditation, where I feel as though I am observing humanity from a detached, elevated vantage point, watching the collective act of prayer unfold across the world. Paradoxically, despite this detached perspective, I also experience myself as part of this collective. This shared activity combines the specific—individuals praying in their homes, churches, mosques, temples, or sanctuaries—with something universal that transcends any particular instance. It embodies the act of prayer and divine contemplation itself, stretching across time from the earliest primitive humans to future civilizations navigating interplanetary travel and advanced artificial intelligence.
No matter how technologically advanced we become, as long as we remain human, we will retain the capacity to contemplate the divine essence. Of course, defining what it means to be “human” is a fraught and deeply complex endeavor. For the purposes of this discussion, I align humanity with the capacity for intelligibility—a concept that, in earlier philosophical contexts, might have been framed as “rationality.” However, in contemporary discourse, “rationality” is heavily colored by associations with cognitive science and psychology, invoking ideas of cognitive biases, fallacies, and the mechanical underpinnings of intelligence. These modern connotations feel at odds with the term’s original philosophical intent, which conveyed a more encompassing and metaphysical sense of reason and understanding.
This tension underscores one of the most significant challenges in engaging with ancient philosophical and theological texts. The language used in these works has often undergone such profound shifts in meaning that fully grasping their original intent can feel nearly insurmountable. Yet, this is not a failing on the part of the original authors. They could not have anticipated the cultural and linguistic transformations that would emerge over centuries, shaping how later generations understand their words. Bridging this gap requires a process of immersion: engaging deeply with the body of work as a whole, reconstructing meanings based on how terms functioned in their original context, rather than how we might instinctively interpret them today. This immersion is further enriched by historical knowledge and familiarity with the broader intellectual and cultural milieu of the time. Such knowledge serves as a framework, allowing us to situate these texts within the web of ideas and assumptions that informed their creation. Through this approach, we can strive not only to interpret the words themselves but to resonate with the deeper truths they sought to convey.
I attempted to contemplate Christ through the lens of my experience with a spiritual father, noting his remarkable absence in this context. This absence was not negative; rather, it struck me as peculiar given the distinctly Christian nature of the experience overall. As I’ve previously mentioned, I have often distanced myself from Christianity—and from religion more broadly—due to its emphasis on a ‘creator.’ I’ve similarly struggled with its relationship to Christ, never fully embracing the notion of Christ as the literal God. This resistance was partly because the concept of ‘God’ itself lacked coherence for me. In the past, I conceptualized Messiahs as individuals uniquely capable of articulating what others could not. In my earlier writings, I referred to this capacity as ‘Truth,’ using the term expansively to include theological, philosophical, psychological, and other dimensions. Today, however, the concept of ‘divine essence’ feels unexpectedly fitting—a development influenced in part by my recent readings of David Bentley Hart. I find this shift intriguing because, despite having written extensively on religion, God, and mysticism, I never previously felt inclined to employ such terminology. The phrase ‘divine essence’ feels more limited in scope, focusing explicitly on theological aspects, and yet it resonates deeply.
In my earlier framework, a messiah was someone who could understand and articulate this divine essence. At the time, I placed great emphasis on the act of expression, but my perspective has since evolved. I now lean more toward the idea of embodiment: a messiah does not merely articulate Truth but embodies it. I recognize how broad, vague, and ultimately elusive this concept remains. Part of the difficulty lies in determining the appropriate scope for such an understanding. Focusing narrowly on theology renders it more manageable, which explains my recent preference for ‘divine essence.’ Yet, this understanding inevitably spills over into other domains, such as philosophy and psychology, where its implications feel equally valid. This broader applicability arguably justifies the use of the term ‘Truth,’ though it comes at the cost of greater ambiguity.
Religious traditions often perceive their messiahs as God incarnate. For example, Jesus Christ is not merely seen as an exceptionally wise or kind individual, nor as someone particularly skilled in theology. He is understood as God incarnate—literally. This concept has always troubled me, raising numerous philosophical challenges that I find deeply problematic. My resistance to this view stems, in part, from a worldview in which God is not a literal being but rather an abstraction of goodness and beauty elevated to their highest ideal. Within this framework, Jesus is simply an extraordinary human being—a figure of profound insight and capability, but not God in any metaphysical sense. My perspective began to shift when I moved from focusing on articulation to embodiment. Through this lens, the concept of ‘being’ God becomes more comprehensible. To put it simply: if we conceptualize God as love and wisdom, framing this within the terminology of divine essence while setting aside other associations, embodiment takes on a profound new meaning. When one embodies divine essence, we enter a realm of ambiguous ontological boundaries. What happens when a human being embodies this divine essence not just partially but to an extraordinary degree? And if such extensive embodiment is possible, what are its limits? More provocatively, what if someone could embody it completely? Wouldn’t that being, by definition, be God? This line of reasoning leads to an extraordinary conclusion: a human being becomes God. Yet this also raises deeply challenging questions—would such a being still be human? It seems insufficient, even incorrect, to deny their humanity; despite fully embodying divine essence, they remain a being of ‘flesh and blood.’ They would not be some disembodied spirit or abstract principle. Conversely, if they truly embodied divine essence in its entirety, denying their divinity seems equally wrong. The only coherent resolution is to accept both states simultaneously—being both fully human and fully divine.
I find a certain irony, even humor, in arriving at this conclusion. Years ago, when I first encountered the idea that Christ was both fully human and fully divine, I dismissed it as nonsensical. I assumed it must be a mistake, a misunderstanding, or an impossible theological assertion. Even if considered purely as a philosophical puzzle, separate from metaphysical claims and more akin to a violation of the law of non-contradiction, I could not reconcile the idea of a being who was both human and divine. My concept of God at the time was so abstract and impersonal that I categorized Christ as merely human. This felt, at the time, like a significant theological breakthrough—as if I had unearthed the true understanding of Christ’s role, one that overturned traditional Christianity. I believed I was taking a stance that was both heretical and undeniably correct. Yet, years later, I find myself embracing the very orthodox view I once dismissed with such certainty. What once struck me as an impossible paradox has emerged as the most luminous and profound truth—a truth that echoes through centuries of theological wisdom. This journey has humbled me, revealing that the limits of my understanding are not the limits of reality. The contradiction I once scorned as absurd now unfolds like a mystery, its depth unfathomable yet undeniably real. It is a testament to the strange and beautiful nature of truth: that what appears, at first glance, to be irreconcilable may, in the light of reflection, hold the key to the infinite.
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