The Good Samaritan before, Théodule-Augustin Ribot (1870)
“My speech is imperfect. Not because I want to shine with words, but out of the impossibility of finding those words, I speak in images. With nothing else can I express the words from the depths.”
-C.G. Jung
“I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.”
-C.S. Lewis
Volume 4
Chapter 2: Love as Ontology
The Tree of Life
In recent years, my worldview has undergone a profound transformation, driven by a re-conceptualization of what it means for something to be real. While I’ve long resisted a purely scientific and materialistic perspective, I continue to grapple with the surprising breadth of its scope. This struggle has recently led me to contemplate the idea of subtle bodies—entities or dimensions of being that may exist beyond the visible and tangible. What interests me most is how to properly conceptualize a “body” of a “higher” order, akin to the way I “command” my hand to write these words through conscious will. In this sense, my physical body acts as a vessel for intentionality—an invisible force exerting influence on the visible. But this materiality of will is not confined to my own physical form. My actions are not solely an expression of my personal intentionality; they are also shaped by the will of others. I serve, in a very real sense, as the body of my partner, my friends, and even the organizations to which I belong. This interplay suggests that behavior can be understood as an outcome of will—a force that need not always be conscious. For example, I may act according to the will of my partner, but I may also act under the influence of an ideology I have embraced. Significantly, this adoption of ideology can occur unconsciously, and the ideology itself may lack any intrinsic consciousness. Still, I serve as its body, enacting its influence in the world.
This evolving understanding of wills and intentionality has also deepened my appreciation for religious thought. The concept of the soul, for instance, becomes more tangible and less a mere metaphysical abstraction when viewed through this lens. The soul begins to emerge as a unifying principle, a force that organizes and integrates disparate “bodies” into cohesive wholes. Just as my physical body serves as a vehicle for my own intentionality, a similar mechanism appears to operate on a collective level. The soul, then, can be seen as the gathering force that harmonizes individual bodies, extending the scope of intentionality beyond the self and into the larger systems of which we are a part.
Death has a way of imposing the right perspective. Consider the moment when a father, confronted with the death of his son, feels an immediate and profound regret for certain recent actions. In that instant, those actions take on an acute significance, and a stark, unambiguous truth emerges about the right way to have acted. This stands in sharp contrast to the pervasive ambiguity of everyday life, where decisions are clouded by uncertainty and the overwhelming complexity of trade-offs: balancing my desires with the desires of others, weighing judgment against forgiveness, navigating between flexibility and structure, and so forth. In such moments, we either act impulsively, driven by instinct, or we make considered choices, often accompanied by the gnawing sense that no option is unequivocally correct. And yet, when the stakes are high enough, all that ambiguity seems to dissolve. The infinite array of possibilities collapses into a single, glaringly obvious truth: this is what I should have done. I’ve experienced this clarity firsthand in the wake of losing both my mother and grandmother, and the accompanying guilt is nearly unbearable. It raises a haunting question: why can’t we hold on to this perspective permanently? Why must it take the weight of loss and the reality of irreversible outcomes to reveal the right course of action? It feels like a cruel paradox—a curse of perfect moral clarity that only manifests when it is too late to act on it.
I have always struggled with the concept of tradition, particularly within Christianity. It’s something I yearn to follow—but not blindly. The typical view of tradition as solely negative dogma is both misguided and reductive. Yet, it is equally undeniable that not every aspect of tradition is valid or useful. Traditions are, after all, created and upheld by flawed human beings. Still, tradition contains a unique power: it holds the key to certain forms of understanding and ways of being that are otherwise inaccessible. Despite my efforts over the past few years, I’ve found it nearly impossible to utilize tradition from the outside. I initially hoped to understand it through study and analysis, attempting to extract its essence without fully committing to it. But it has become increasingly clear that the true benefits of tradition are reserved for those who actively live within it. Tradition isn’t something you can comprehend merely as an observer; it demands participation. I’ve longed to embrace this reality, yet I find myself hesitating—unable, or perhaps unwilling, to fully commit.
Christianity, in particular, offers a profound vision, but it is one you must choose to follow. To truly grasp this vision, certain axioms must be accepted, and preconceptions about what is possible must be relaxed. In essence, it requires a leap of faith—an act of surrender that enables you to “see” what the tradition seeks to reveal. Without this leap, the deeper truths within the tradition remain hidden, like a locked door you cannot open from the outside. Interestingly, this same dynamic plagues atheist culture, though it often goes unnoticed. Unlike my own struggle, which stems from a reluctance to fully embrace tradition, many atheists reject it outright. They actively push against it, viewing tradition as inherently limiting or oppressive. What they fail to recognize is that this rejection blinds them to the possibility of seeing the world differently. A shift in perspective would be transformative, but it is inaccessible without a leap of faith—an acknowledgment that there is value in adopting, or even entertaining, a perspective different from their own. Ironically, their resistance mirrors the very faith they deny; they must believe it is not worth leaping to reject the leap itself.
This is perhaps where psychedelics offer their greatest benefit: they force you to take that leap of faith. Psychedelics provide a glimpse into a different worldview, regardless of your initial perspective or reluctance. They bypass the apprehension that often accompanies the unknown, propelling you into uncharted territory without your conscious consent. While the experience may be disorienting, it unveils new realities—an immersion into the depths of being where you cannot drown. Psychedelics compel you to engage with a world that, by its nature, elevates everything that enters back to the surface. Through psychedelics, you are offered a glimpse into mysteries that tradition often seeks to protect. You emerge from the experience with wisdom, not as a result of sacrifice but as a gift—grace granted for your willingness to surrender to the process. While you may lack the courage to dive into the sea yourself, the act of submitting to an experience that thrusts you into its depths reveals a truth: even when you cannot muster the will to leap, there is value in the leap itself.
There is an indescribable sacredness in every human being—something I am deeply aware of on an intellectual level but struggle to fully embody in action. The truth that each of us is a child of God feels undeniably clear, a reality so obvious that it almost escapes notice. Yet, when I reflect on it, I’m struck by how foreign this language once was to me. Using such explicitly theological Christian terms reveals a transformation within me—one I cannot ignore. It serves as a quiet reminder of an ongoing journey of change, the full meaning of which I have yet to grasp. Why, then, do I feel drawn to this language? Perhaps it is the limitation of my cognitive machinery, unable to articulate the ineffable in any other way. The father-child relationship seems to be the closest analogy my mind can conjure to express this sacred truth. But what lies beneath this analogy? What is it pointing toward? The only answer that resonates is love. Perhaps this intuition—that love is at the heart of everything—aligns with what Christianity has long proclaimed.
The love we receive, particularly the love of God, mirrors the love of a parent for a child: an unconditional, unyielding love—agape—that transcends all other bonds. This is not the kind of love often trivialized as a preference or attachment; it is something deeper, something structural. It suggests a world united together by love itself—a love that flows from God to humanity and invites humanity to return it in kind. And yet, the idea of “God loving human beings” both illuminates and eludes me. It points to a profound truth, but one that slips through the grasp of my intellect. It seems to encompass everything—infinitely vast, yet ungraspable. When I contemplate it, my heart fills with a sense of light and warmth, while my mind wrestles with its apparent opacity. It is a paradox: an idea that feels simultaneously self-evident and unknowable, radiant and obscure, as if the truth it conveys lies just beyond the reach of human understanding.
I’ve had this feeling that different gods came into being at the beginning of time. I can’t fully understand how or why, but their existence and power seem to be inherently limited. Their temporality reminds me of Tolkien’s depiction of divine spirits created by Eru Ilúvatar, from the Valar to the Maiar—ancient beings older than time itself. These gods, however, seem to draw their ability to affect the physical world from the worship they receive. Gods that are forgotten or neglected gradually fade, their influence over the material world dissipating. Yet, I wonder if they ever truly disappear or simply enter a state of dormancy. This idea might seem like nonsensical, magical thinking, and perhaps it is. But framed differently, it could be less metaphysical than it first appears. What helped me conceptualize these minor gods—while distinguishing them from the ultimate concept of creation itself—was thinking of them as ideas. Ideas, after all, seem to function in ways similar to these gods, particularly in their ability to shape the world. Conceiving of them as gods emphasizes their agency and their capacity to act upon reality.
This agency doesn’t necessarily imply consciousness, though. Thinking of them as agents is useful because they tend to do something, whatever that “god” represents. For instance, I might act as the body for the “god” of jealousy, manifesting its agency and acting in its name. In this context, it feels more akin to a demon than a god, but the broader point remains: to delineate a kind of spiritual ontology. Their timelessness may be understood as a consequence of their eternal relevance. There has never been, nor will there ever be, a human world without jealousy. Some of these gods might be understood as desires, tendencies, or ideologies, while others could be seen as more complex—bundles of these forces, representing entire cultural systems. Such gods could be considered “meta-gods,” symbolic embodiments of broader societal constructs. The more influential these gods become, whether for good or ill, the more they are worshipped, and the more power they wield in shaping the world.
This reminds me of the Day of the Dead tradition in Mexico, where the act of remembrance and celebration is said to keep the spirit of the deceased alive. This mode of thinking, of course, is not unique to Mexico. It is a universal human impulse. I used to dismiss it, especially when it was used as an argument for life after death, often with attempts to reconcile it with a scientific worldview. I, like many others, found such efforts absurd—a transparent attempt to preserve religious belief in the face of its lack of scientific credibility. But there’s a deeper layer to this. The argument fails because what we truly care about when someone dies is not just the memory of them but their consciousness—their first-person experience. For a long time, I believed that even thinking of someone as a memory didn’t address the core of what was lost. Or so I thought. Now, I’m not so certain. While there’s some validity to this critique, my perspective has shifted. There is a significant gap between consciousness persisting after death and being remembered, but I’ve come to see the latter as far more significant than I once believed. The memory of someone or something often has a greater and more enduring impact on the world than their life alone ever could. Memory extends their influence, often for generations. Perhaps our insistence on the primacy of first-person experience is a reflection of a worldview overly centered on the self—a cultural bias that prioritizes personal experience above all else. It assumes that I am what matters, and that without me, nothing else is significant. But perhaps this perspective is flawed, shaped by a modern culture steeped in narcissism.
At this moment, it feels undeniable to me that God exists—not merely as Goodness, not merely as Beauty, but as something far more encompassing. Not that God is separate from these qualities, but rather that God transcends and encapsulates them, holding all within a boundless unity. I am reminded of Paul Tillich’s concept of the “ground of being,” which I encountered years ago. At the time, it seemed utterly unintelligible to me, a phrase veiled in abstraction. But now, for the first time, I feel a glimmer of understanding. This realization comes with a profound and peaceful sense that there is no need to rush toward understanding. Perhaps there is a finish line, but it does not demand that we cross it hastily, nor does it insist upon urgency. The door to divine truth remains perpetually open, stretching from the beginning of time to its end. This timelessness assures me that the essence of the divine resides within us, always present, always accessible to those who sincerely seek it.
I feel as though God is calling me, drawing me deeper into Himself. This sense of calling is profound, making the experience feel undeniably real—more real than anything else I have ever encountered. Paradoxically, it completely undermines my entire ontology and epistemology. In the presence of this calling, nothing else seems to matter. Yet, an inevitable question arises: to what extent has this experience been “crafted” by my past—by the cultural Christianity I have inherited? I have glimpsed something of the divine essence, but how can I be certain that my understanding or perception of it is accurate? I cannot help but interpret these experiences through a Christian framework, as it is the best lens I possess. It renders the experience intelligible, allowing me to grasp something that might otherwise feel beyond comprehension. And yet, this very framework, with its inherent biases, limitations, and the constraints of its human origins, also shapes my experience in significant ways. How, then, can a balance be found? How can I remain open to the divine while recognizing the boundaries imposed by my context? These are questions that drive me insane, trying to discern what is truly real from what is merely socially constructed.
I’m beginning to realize that it’s far easier to speak of God simply as “God” than to endlessly secularize my language in an attempt to make it more palatable or intelligible to an audience—an audience that, in reality, doesn’t actually exist. This imagined readership is, for the most part, a fabrication—a writing device I’ve conjured. And at the end of the day, it’s entirely possible that no one will ever read this at all. If that’s the case, then it should be perfectly fine. This aligns with the promise I made to myself when I began writing this book seven years ago: to be honest, to write for myself, and to let the process unfold without the need for external validation. But if I’ve held true to that promise, why am I still so preoccupied with my writing style? Why do I fear judgment? It feels as though my earlier, deeply ingrained anti-religious sentiments have taken root so firmly within me that even now, I struggle to shed them. They persist, like echoes of an older self, shaping my concerns and inhibitions, even as I try to speak freely about the divine.
Love is the foundation of everything. In a vast sea of endless possibilities, we construct our realities by defining identities. Yet, this process leads us to confront a profound question: how do we anchor truth? Why should one identity be prioritized over another? The answer lies in the inherent fragility of what we create, for our carefully crafted identities are all destined to crumble. What, then, can withstand this inevitable decay? The answer is love. Love is not merely an option among many; it is the bedrock of reality itself. It forms the base layer that binds identities together, granting them endurance over time. This insight resonates with a theological perspective wherein God is often understood as both Love and the One sustaining all existence. In this view, the divine is not a remote entity but the living reality of love that makes all else possible. Love, therefore, is not confined to an emotional experience; rather, it points us toward an ontological foundation upon which all being rests, underscoring the sacred character of true communion.
The ultimate mystery remains why something exists rather than nothing. In the boundless sea of potentialities, anything could arise—and yet, everything also decays. Everything, that is, except love. Unlike the transient and impermanent, love does not deteriorate; instead, it propels creation forward and holds it together. This transcendent quality of love illuminates it as more than a fleeting emotion; it is a fundamental structure of reality that continually renews and sustains. Love naturally seeks unity, drawing all toward the “One,” yet its beauty lies in its capacity to preserve multiplicity. The many are greater than the one, provided all parts adhere to a unifying principle—an alignment that gives rise to the proper way of being, both philosophically and spiritually.
Thus, love is far more than a fleeting feeling or sentimental notion. It is a binding force, aiming at shared purpose without erasing individuality. Indeed, love represents the ultimate and most radical expression of non-duality—a harmony where unity and difference coexist without contradiction. Herein lies its theological significance: love bridges the finite and the infinite, the temporal and the eternal, guiding us toward the mysterious source that holds all things in being. By grounding our identities in love, we anchor ourselves to the only truth that endures, allowing our diverse expressions to flourish without succumbing to the impermanence that defines all else.
I found myself drawn into a peculiar state—somewhere between vision and trance. It felt as though I was immersed in the primordial void where reality is forged. In this space, I seemed to witness both the beginning of time and the fundamental structure that sustains reality in every moment, extending across past and future. Within this “sea of nothingness,” the potential for anything to exist was palpable, and indeed, everything seemed to strive for existence. Yet, I perceived that genuine identity required a unifying purpose to prevent its inevitable collapse. It became clear that love was the force underpinning this unity. Without love, all things would eventually disintegrate. In this state, it felt as if I were observing eons of creation and destruction unfolding simultaneously. This was not a physical vision of the Big Bang or any scientific origin of the universe. Rather, it was a glimpse into the foundational layer of existence—how conscious beings encounter reality itself. The experience revealed a profound truth: love is not merely an emotion or abstraction but a structural necessity, a binding force that sustains identity and prevents dissolution.
This revelation cast new light on why Christianity occupies a unique position among spiritual traditions. Its “truth” lies in being explicitly and fundamentally grounded in love. Love, as the essence of reality, serves as the ultimate benchmark for truth. If love is the core, then authenticity can be measured by the degree to which something radiates love. The truer something is, the more it aligns with and embodies love. What sets Christianity apart is its unrelenting focus on love as the heart of all things. Other faiths, while rich in wisdom and insight, emphasize different aspects of existence. While of course being simplifications, Islam centers on submission and mercy; Hinduism highlights duty and devotion; Buddhism focuses on wisdom and the cessation of suffering, and so forth. These qualities are undoubtedly valuable and profound, yet Christianity uniquely elevates love as the central, animating principle. It asserts that love is not merely an important virtue but the very essence of being itself, the unifying purpose that sustains creation.
In a deep vision within an infinite void, I found myself trapped in what felt like an eternal loop, endlessly creating and destroying identities. This loop was not a mere act of imagination or experimentation—it was a relentless, almost compulsive search for something solid to anchor reality. It was a process that defied easy description, as if I were caught in an intricate web of thought that pulled me in deeper with every attempt to escape. I searched desperately for possibilities to anchor reality without Christ, testing every conceivable framework, every potential truth. Yet, no matter how far I wandered or how many constructs I built, I always ended up back at Christ. He seemed to set the standard, not by force, but as a kind of unavoidable gravitational center—a conclusion etched into existence itself. It felt like I was trapped in another dimension, removed from ordinary reality, searching for the ultimate truth that could serve as a foundation. I was consumed by a need for a Cartesian certainty, something so self-evident that it could not be doubted. But every answer I generated was inevitably dismantled by an unstoppable tide of skepticism. No construct, no framework, could stand up to the relentless scrutiny of my mind. It became an unending cycle of creation and destruction, where each fleeting moment of resolution dissolved as quickly as it appeared. This process continued endlessly, until finally, the solution revealed itself: Christ.
But even with this revelation, the questions did not cease. I found myself asking: How can I trust that this is true love? How do I even judge truth itself? These questions plunged me into yet another loop, one far more complex and difficult to escape. It was as though I were trapped in an epistemological labyrinth, forever needing truth to justify truth, endlessly questioning the very mechanisms of judgment and verification. At some point, the cycle had to break, and the only way out was for an absolute standard to reveal itself. It was at this critical juncture that Christ emerged—not as an abstract concept or philosophical idea, but as the definitive embodiment of truth within history. Christ anchored reality in a way nothing else could, becoming the immovable center around which everything turned.
Only after this realization did I find what felt like an escape from the existential loop. Yet even then, my doubts did not entirely vanish. I couldn’t help but revisit the conclusion, compelled to start the questioning anew. It was as if I were incapable of trusting my own answer, as though the solution could not truly satisfy unless it withstood the test of endless scrutiny. It was like solving a complex mathematical problem and doubting the result, forcing yourself to rework it again and again. Each time I re-entered the void, the same process played out—the cycle repeated itself, the loop continued.
This cyclical existence felt eternal, stretching across what seemed like hundreds, perhaps thousands of iterations. Each one brought me back to the same place, the same conclusion. In my desperation, I began to write down my findings, scribbling feverishly in my notes: The solution is Christ. It was an effort to create a lifeline for myself, to leave a marker that could guide me back to the truth. Yet even these notes could not prevent the cycle from beginning again. Surely that can’t be right, I’d say to myself. I would dismantle everything yet again, as if driven by a childish stubbornness, a refusal to accept what was both obvious and undeniable. I didn’t exit the loop willingly. Instead, I became so mentally exhausted that I had no choice but to stop. Seeking refuge in the living room, I sank onto the couch beside my partner, overwhelmed by fatigue unlike anything I had ever experienced. It was as if I had been solving the most complex problem imaginable, endlessly, for weeks on end without rest or sleep.
But what exactly is this “Christianity” I am referring to? The name itself provides a clue. Its identity is rooted in Christ—a title that means “the anointed one.” People recognize and feel an affinity for Christianity because Christ reveals the ultimate pattern. He provides the foundation for reality, offering a framework in which things can exist meaningfully, particularly in terms of identity. And since identity inherently requires love, we are brought back to the same essential question: What sort of love? Inevitably, the answer is “the love of Christ,” which must be the case if Christ is at the core. Moreover, Christianity addresses the deeper question of how we discern truth. It posits that love is the ultimate standard for truth, with Christ as its perfect embodiment. In the fullness of time, when the conditions were ripe for His appearance, Christ emerged. He represented the culmination of history—the kairos, the opportune moment where love reached its greatest intensity. The Incarnation was not only transformative but also necessary, for it unites and anchors reality in ways that defy easy articulation. If Christ was, in fact, God in the flesh, then this truth could only be demonstrated by defying the ultimate boundary of human experience: death. He conquered death through life, thereby proving His divinity.
But even with this profound claim, doubt can creep in, pulling us back to square one. How, then, do we break this relentless cycle of skepticism? The answer lies in recognizing that God literally entered history, proving Himself by defeating death. This act establishes a fixed axis for reality, a definitive point of reference. You can, of course, adopt the skeptic’s stance and reject this claim, but even then, you are left needing some other standard to guide your understanding. And if anything can serve as your standard, why not choose the highest and most complete? That standard is Christ. The answer, ultimately, is to embody Christ, living as He lived.
As the effects of the psychedelics gradually fade, I find myself reflecting on how profoundly mystical this session has been—perhaps surpassing any prior experience. This very quality makes it extraordinarily elusive, almost impossible to fully grasp. Even now, in this liminal state between altered consciousness and the sobriety of ordinary perception, I remain unsure if I truly understand what I have just written. What I perceive are intimations of truth, resonating deeply within me, yet I struggle to articulate them in any meaningful way. But perhaps that difficulty itself is the point. Perhaps this ineffability is exactly what I needed. For so long, my rationality has held me back, confining me within its rigid framework. Only by surrendering to this mystical state have I been able to explore deeper into something more profound. For the first time, it feels as though I am truly piercing through reality, viewing it through the lens of theology rather than merely philosophy. This distinction feels critical. To borrow a metaphor—though it is necessarily imperfect—philosophy seems preoccupied with discussing the stylistic choices of buildings in a city, while theology grapples with the physics of engineering itself, the fundamental constraints that dictate what kinds of structures can exist and how they come to be.
I had longed to explore Christianity with a fresh perspective, free from the weight of prior assumptions, and that is precisely what this experience has offered me. I had sensed that there were places beyond reason—symbols and realms that I either feared to enter or simply did not know how to access. Now, that door has been opened. The brilliance of the light within is overwhelming; I cannot yet discern the shapes it illuminates with any clarity. Yet, even this fleeting glimpse has already shaken my understanding of the world. In this revelation, I feel as though I have been given everything I could ever seek. The question that remains is whether my soul possesses the strength and resolve to follow the light that has been revealed to me.
I am utterly astonished that I ever, even for a fleeting moment, believed in a physical resurrection. This belief has been a significant obstacle in my journey with Christianity. For years, I have studied and recognized Christianity’s importance as a representation of and path to wisdom. Yet, I never conceived of God as a person or will, as the creator of everything, or as having a literal embodiment in material reality. Despite my deep reverence for Christianity’s sacredness, that sacredness always seemed to reside within the domains of philosophy, psychology, and ethics. It never clashed with physical laws, nor did I feel it needed to. To some degree, I ignored aspects of Christianity that felt superstitious or rooted in magical thinking. Yet, I now see that such thinking is an unavoidable feature not just of every religion, but of human nature itself. It surfaces in new-age spirituality and in secular life, manifesting as general superstitions or unscientific patterns of thought that seem endemic to human cultures. This tendency to invoke the magical appears to be deeply entrenched in us, emerging wherever belief systems take root. And yet, for the first time, I experienced something different—a moment where physical laws seemed irrelevant, where they could be broken. In that instant, a higher epistemological power allowed me to believe in a way that felt entirely beyond reason. What struck me most was the suddenness of it, a binary shift: I went from believing that a physical resurrection was impossible to knowing, with complete certainty, that it was true. Typically, belief builds gradually, as evidence and assumptions accumulate like bricks in a wall. But this moment was different.
There was some intellectual groundwork leading up to it. I had been stuck in what felt like an endless loop, restarting the argument over and over. I kept trying to build my position on unshakable foundations, constructing it like Euclid building geometry, axiom by axiom. Each step seemed logical, as though I were compelled to this conclusion by the sheer force of reason. I could find no way to view the problem differently, no way to reach a different conclusion. Just as a squared circle cannot exist, it seemed equally impossible for Christianity to be untrue or for the resurrection to be anything but real in its deepest sense. Christ had to conquer death for all mankind.
Now that the experience has begun to fade, I find myself confused by the argumentation that led me there. I no longer believe it is philosophically valid in a rigorous, technical sense. If I were evaluating this reasoning in an academic paper, I would dissect its logical structure with a sharp criticism. And yet, the certainty I felt in that moment still lingers. I cannot shake the feeling that I experienced something fundamentally true. This was not a case of arriving at a true conclusion through faulty premises, like the kind of accidentally justified belief explored in Gettier’s problem.¹ Instead, every step in the process felt sound and internally coherent.
If someone were to ask me now whether I believe in a literal, physical resurrection, I wouldn’t know how to answer. It feels wrong to say I do, because I don’t—not in the conventional sense. Yet, it also feels wrong to say I don’t, because I experienced its reality in the deepest, most visceral way. Agnosticism doesn’t feel like the right label either. It’s not that I’m unsure; I simply don’t know how to think about it or even what “belief” in this context means anymore. The closest concept I can compare this to is the Four Negations in the teachings of Nagarjuna within Madhyamaka Buddhism. Avoiding all absolute or fixed positions, it has a unique logical structure that paradoxically asserts its grasp of truth by undermining traditional logical coherence. It suggests that reality is neither simply existent nor non-existent, neither both nor neither. Not real. Not unreal. Not both real and unreal. Not neither real nor unreal. Not one. Not many. Not both one and many. Not neither one nor many.
Many mystics with profound religious experiences lacked an immediate theological framework to comprehend them. They were often left deeply confused, unable to construct a coherent interpretation of what they had encountered. Some took years and years to articulate their experiences, not because they lacked conviction but because they struggled to find the words to convey such ineffable moments. Julian of Norwich took 20 to 40 years to finally have a theological system to ground her experiences in. Similarly, I must strive to accept my own experience, despite its paradoxical nature and my difficulty in situating it within a larger framework of understanding. It brings me back to analogy of the Platypus from Aldous Huxley, mentioned in the very first words of this book, written many years ago.
I hesitate to compare myself to mystics, as their experiences seem more authentic by virtue of not being intentionally induced. In my case, these experiences are induced with psychedelics. Yet, I would argue that a certain degree of inauthenticity might persist even if I were to seek mystical experiences through other means—sensory deprivation, prayer, meditation, fasting, or religious rituals. The boundaries of legitimacy are not as clear-cut as they may initially appear simply because a substance is involved. Nonetheless, I still contend that using psychedelics can feel more forced compared to traditional methods, even if the distinctions are not as straightforward as they seem.
Despite this hesitation, the comparison is not entirely without merit. I genuinely believe that these are, at their core, the same kinds of experiences. While I humbly acknowledge the differences between myself and the mystics of history—and accept that I may not fully belong in their ranks—I feel that we are traversing the same path, albeit by different means. The use of psychedelics in this context seems more acceptable when considering that many mystics lived in cultures where such states of consciousness were deeply integrated into their worldview and often facilitated by communal or ritualistic frameworks. My use of psychedelics, while unconventional by modern standards, aligns with the broader human pursuit of transcendence and understanding. Still, I cannot ignore that my identity and thoughts are shaped by the conditions of modern society, which is deeply technological and materialistic. This context is, if not outright hostile to, then at least fundamentally disconnected from philosophical or theological exploration. Rather than opposing such inquiries outright, it often renders them incomprehensible or irrelevant. I have inherited this cultural burden, and I strive to confront it using the tools available to me. My ultimate goal remains the same: a transformation oriented toward the ultimate Good, even if the path I take is unconventional or at odds with traditional norms.
Once again, I find myself wrestling with the problem of identity. I want to call myself a Christian, but I am unsure if I can or should. It’s reasonable to question why this matters so much in the first place. I’ve often been perplexed by the weight people place on identity. Why do individuals feel such a strong need to label their groups? What makes these labels so significant? Why not simply reject them altogether—reject the concept of identity itself? When I was younger, unconsciously, I had embraced individualism to an almost extreme degree. This outlook extended into various political and cultural areas as well. For instance, while I have always been supportive of LGBT rights, I struggled to understand why sexuality needed to be such a central aspect of one’s identity. I believed it was more productive to simply be oneself and to confront injustice only when it specifically targeted a group or individual.
Over time, however, my perspective has shifted. I’ve come to recognize the importance of identity and labels, even though I still think they can sometimes be taken too far and risk becoming counterproductive. I now see the value in a group identity that highlights a specific aspect of what makes someone who they are. For example, in the case of LGBT identity, it serves an important social function: it validates authentic selves that have historically been marginalized and stigmatized. This visibility is essential in driving political and social change. Furthermore, such identity allows individuals to find connection and solidarity with others who share their perspectives and values. It creates spaces where people can experience a sense of belonging, support, and mutual understanding. These communal bonds can provide strength in the face of societal hostility, reinforcing both personal and collective resilience. While I may not fully align with all aspects of identity-focused movements, I can now appreciate their role in shaping lives, challenging injustice, and fostering meaningful community.
It also seems that identity performs a somewhat contrarian function. In the individualistic worldview I’ve described—one that aligns, more or less, with the cultural norm—identity appears to be something added to individuality, a kind of optional accessory. However, this perspective now strikes me as naive. There is no such thing as an individual without identity. Everyone inevitably acquires various identities, some embraced perhaps without fully grasping their function, and others imposed by society. Returning to my LGBT example, this identity isn’t merely an additional label; it represents a rejection and replacement of the societal identities of heteronormativity and cisnormativity. It is an act of rebellion against a world that seeks to categorize and constrain their sexual orientation or gender identity.
While I use the LGBT example, I am not particularly focused on its political dimensions here; it simply serves as a convenient reference for exploring the role and mechanics of identity—a topic applicable to any context. Despite the accuracy of everything I’ve described, it raises a further question: What kinds of things are worthy of forming one’s central identity? This doesn’t deny the reality or even the utility of any identity, no matter how trivial it may seem. But it does prompt the deeper inquiry: If one can construct their identity, what should be prioritized in that construction? Here, I sometimes feel that the LGBT movement might be somewhat misguided—not in the validity of its identity, but in the prioritization of sexuality or gender as one’s most central value. From my perspective, these aspects don’t seem like the ultimate components of a meaningful life. However, I also recognize that I am not positioned to fully appreciate the pull of that identity, nor do I share the experience of the stigma and oppression that often accompany it. If I did, I might find it easier to empathize with why such an identity feels so central to those who embrace it.
Nevertheless, religion seems to me to be the ultimate expression of identity. I have often described religion as the pursuit, expression, and embodiment of the ultimate Good. If that is true, and one must choose the most important identity around which to construct oneself, religion stands out. While it is true that identities are often multiple—it is nearly impossible not to have several—they can easily become diluted. For instance, if I claim to be a Heideggerian, that identity will significantly shape how I see myself and how others perceive me. However, if I simultaneously identify as a Platonist, a Heideggerian, and a Kantian, the impact of each identity diminishes. This underscores the importance of carefully prioritizing identities, as no one has infinite capacity to hold and embody them all.
If religion is fundamentally concerned with the highest Good, and if every other identity derives some aspect of its meaning and function from others, a compelling case emerges for making religion one’s central identity. That said, this reasoning applies only to those drawn to such an identity; I am not suggesting that it must or should resonate with everyone. Still, for those who pursue it, religion has the potential to unify and transcend other aspects of identity, grounding the individual in a pursuit of ultimate meaning.
Identity can indeed be complex, shaped by a multitude of factors and considerations. Yet, in another sense, it can also appear remarkably straightforward and binary: do you identify as this, yes or no? For instance, I do not identify as LGBT. However, I do identify as someone who enjoys philosophy, someone who runs, and someone who engages in various other interests. But this leads to an important question about boundaries: what exactly grants someone the right to claim a particular identity? While it might be personally clear whether I identify with something, it is far less clear whether I should, or whether others should recognize and accept that identity.
Take philosophy as an example. I love philosophy, hold a degree in it, and am even writing a book that is deeply rooted in philosophical thought. Yet, I identify as someone who enjoys philosophy, not as a philosopher. The label of “philosopher” comes with assumptions and implications that I find difficult to apply to myself. For one, I don’t view my work as particularly groundbreaking within the broader tradition of philosophical thought. When I measure my efforts against the vast canon of philosophy, they seem modest at best. My formal education in the subject is also limited. While I hold an undergraduate degree with a dual major in philosophy and psychology, this equates to only half a degree in philosophy by itself. I don’t possess a master’s or a PhD in the field, qualifications that often serve as markers of a “true” philosopher.
Outside of formal education, I’ve read dozens of books on philosophy, but I’m acutely aware that those widely regarded as philosophers have often engaged with hundreds, if not more. Additionally, I don’t teach philosophy, nor am I formally recognized by peers in the field as a philosopher. These factors complicate the question of whether I can—or should—claim the identity of a philosopher, even if philosophy is central to how I think, what I read, and what I write.
These considerations extend beyond philosophy to virtually any field. What defines a true musician or a true photographer? A reasonable, pragmatic standard might be that one can claim such an identity if peers within the field recognize them as such, or if they are compensated for their work—implying a skill valuable enough to merit payment. However, this standard is far from absolute and is best seen as a useful heuristic rather than a definitive rule. Exceptions abound, and the boundaries of identity remain porous and subject to interpretation.
This broader discussion of identity serves to contextualize a more personal question: should I call myself a Christian? This question has lingered with me for some time, particularly since two key insights converged in my thinking: the recognition of religion’s profound significance and my specific affinity for Christianity compared to other faiths. My realization of religion’s importance initially arose from a perennialist perspective, which posits that all wisdom traditions share a universal, underlying truth. However, this perspective is not without its challenges, as two substantial criticisms reveal.
The first, milder criticism, which I encountered early on, highlights the impracticality of being a perennialist. One can only learn so much about the breadth of wisdom traditions, necessitating some degree of specialization. Attempting to fully grasp every tradition is an impossible task, leaving even the most earnest perennialist with an inevitably limited perspective. The second criticism strikes deeper and is more difficult to refute: even if a universal truth can, in theory, be understood from any tradition, individuals are fundamentally shaped by the tradition they are born into and the culture in which they live.This cultural grounding is inescapable. The worldview of any person is shaped by their environment, and in the West, that environment is steeped in Christianity, whether acknowledged or not. Despite its superficial secularism, Western culture carries with it a deeply ingrained Christian grammar—a framework that shapes how we understand morality, meaning, and the world itself. This influence, pervasive yet often unspoken, cannot be easily set aside, even by those who might claim to reject it.
In one sense, the cultural influence of Christianity is like wearing a specific pair of glasses—it frames how you see the world. In another sense, it goes far deeper than glasses, which can be removed or replaced. It is more akin to the eyes themselves. Just as mammals perceive the world through lenses shaped by their evolutionary adaptations—perspectives they cannot escape—so too has my culture evolved a Christian perspective that I cannot simply discard or exchange. This perspective is deeply embedded in how I, and others raised in the West, interpret the world. For instance, adopting a Buddhist worldview while living a traditional European life in Europe feels almost unattainable. Such a transformation might only be feasible under exceptional circumstances: if one’s parents were Buddhists, or if one were immersed in Buddhist study and practice from an early age within a genuine Buddhist community. Absent such foundations, the cultural and psychological grounding in Christianity remains dominant, even if unacknowledged.
Beyond these practical challenges lies a harsher criticism of perennialism: while several religions may share common truths, this does not necessarily imply that all are equally true. In fact, it seems almost impossible that they could be. Religions, in their attempts to access or represent an ultimate reality, do so through distinct stories, symbols, and rituals—each shaped by the particularities of their cultural contexts. It is unlikely that all these frameworks can guide practitioners toward ultimate reality with the same degree of effectiveness. This conclusion might seem unsettling in the context of modern culture, which tends toward anti-hierarchical thinking. Contemporary ideals of fairness and non-judgment promote the notion that all beliefs, practices, and traditions are of equal value. While this perspective has its merits—particularly in challenging historical biases and prejudices—it can also foster its own form of bias. By insisting on a uniform value across all things, it risks obscuring the genuine distinctions and hierarchies that may exist between different systems of thought.
My attitude towards Christianity has largely followed the patterns described earlier. At first, I viewed Christianity as a valuable framework for accessing the “divine,” which I understood to mean the highest Good. This perspective did not lead me to identify as a Christian, as I considered it equally plausible to pursue the same path within the context of any other major religion. The universality of religious traditions, in my mind, suggested that no single faith had a monopoly on the pursuit of divine truth. Over time, however, I began to recognize the distinct pull of Christianity. This was not merely a matter of personal preference but a realization shaped by two powerful forces: the necessity of specialization and my deep cultural immersion in the Christian tradition. It became clear that my upbringing and environment had already provided a foundation in this faith, and this groundwork gave Christianity a unique resonance for me. During this period, I hesitated to fully identify myself as a Christian, even as I began to embrace certain aspects of the faith more openly. I started wearing a cross around my neck, which held profound personal significance. On the surface, this was a distinctly Christian act. Yet, the cross symbolized more than just religion for me—it was imbued with a deeply personal connection, as it had belonged to my mother before her passing. Wearing it was as much a tribute to her memory as it was an expression of my developing relationship with Christianity.
I also wrestled with an uneasy feeling about calling myself a Christian. On one hand, I felt a certain obligation to adopt the label; on the other, I doubted whether doing so was warranted. This ambivalence was fueled by the broader considerations of identity that I had previously explored. My uncertainty became even more acute in social contexts, where proclaiming my Christianity felt particularly fraught. One source of discomfort was a persistent question: did I truly deserve to be called a Christian? This doubt, however, was compounded by a more immediate fear of judgment. As soon as I identified myself as a Christian, I knew it would trigger a cascade of assumptions in others about what that label entailed. These assumptions were often at odds with my actual beliefs and values, which only deepened my hesitation. I despised how the label seemed to summon a caricature of Christianity in the minds of others—one I vehemently rejected.
Most of the people I engaged with were atheists, and I was acutely aware of their typical interpretations of religion. They might envision a belief in a bearded deity in the sky, a literal interpretation of the Bible, a credulous embrace of miracles, or an alignment with the moral and cultural norms of the stereotypical Christian they imagined. These assumptions were sometimes subtle, other times explicit, but they were always alien to my actual worldview. Occasionally, this misunderstanding prompted questions: “So, you believe in X?” or “Do you really believe in Y?” While often polite and sometimes genuinely curious, these inquiries were rarely pleasant. They highlighted a chasm between the identity I was trying to articulate and the one others imposed upon me. It was an experience I came to dread and sought to avoid whenever possible. The discomfort stemmed from how these misperceptions misrepresented my beliefs. Worse, they carried an air of condescension. Though difficult to articulate, I often felt demeaned by such labeling. The assumptions others made about my faith struck me as shallow, poorly considered, and entirely removed from the complexity of my actual views.
This sense of misrepresentation led to another internal clash: the tension between my identity as a “smart” person and the assumptions others made about Christians. It often seemed that, upon learning of my faith, people immediately revised their opinions of me—and almost always in a negative direction. What was even more troubling was that this shift in their perception appeared to elevate their own estimation of their intellect. I sensed an implicit judgment: How could someone who seems intelligent believe in something so obviously nonsensical? While I am expressing this judgment more forcefully here for clarity, its subtler forms were no less grating. This was particularly irksome because I had considered every argument they might pose—often since childhood—and had done so with far more depth and logical rigor than they could likely imagine. This dynamic is somewhat ironic, given that I am typically the kind of person who cares very little about what others think of me—often to a degree that surprises friends and family. Yet, in this particular area, I found myself deeply offended by others’ judgments and assumptions. Why did I care so much? Once again, the answer boiled down to identity. I felt as though my identity as an intellectual—a respected, thoughtful, and smart person—was threatened and fractured by these interactions.
As I write this, I recognize how childish and trivial it may sound. And yet, this tension has consistently exerted a powerful pull on my life. For the most part, it operated as an invisible force, something I embodied with almost no awareness of its existence. Over time, and aided by my psychedelic sessions, I began to see this force more clearly. Not only did I come to recognize its presence, but I also began to grasp its counterproductive nature and the countless ways it had harmed me. I often tried to combat it, yet I never seemed to prevail. I remained, time and again, the victim of an identity I had created so long ago that it no longer felt like a creation but a fixed part of who I am. It was like a chronic condition—a disease I had contracted and could not cure. I could treat it, and sometimes those treatments brought marginal improvement, but it always returned. Even now, as I write about my reactions to others’ judgments, I detect subtle hints of defensiveness in my own words. There is, perhaps, an overzealousness in my attempts to explain myself, and maybe even a trace of sinful pride.
The final stage of grappling with my Christian identity and perspective would require me to embrace Christianity as true in the deepest and most profound sense—as an ontological and metaphysical reality. This stage is one I had long avoided but have only recently begun to approach. As I have described, I initially viewed Christianity through the lens of philosophy and symbolism. I did not, for instance, believe that Jesus Christ was literally God, the creator of existence itself, with the ability to transcend the laws of nature. Accepting such beliefs would represent a monumental shift, and this remains one of the most significant challenges I have faced with identity.
The struggle extends beyond the social implications of being identified as a Christian. There is also the deeply personal question: should I call myself a Christian? I have longed to embrace this identity, but several issues make it difficult. The central tension lies in the nature of identity itself. I resist being labeled with traits and assumptions typically associated with Christians, yet to identify as anything at all is to invite such labels. This, I realize, is the very essence of identity.
This does not mean that every aspect of an identity must be completely uniform, but there are certainly core elements that cannot be disregarded. For instance, I would find it questionable if someone claimed to be a Buddhist simply because they thought it was “cool,” without subscribing to any of its major principles. So, where is the boundary? Who defines it, and how? Once again, we return to the problem of defining identity itself. As I’ve suggested, a generally reasonable guideline is whether the people within a given identity recognize certain characteristics as essential to claiming that identity. If it were up to me to define Christian identity, I would frame it as follows: being a Christian means choosing Christianity as the guiding framework for one’s life and striving continuously toward the highest Good as defined by Christian doctrine. I would feel comfortable accepting someone’s claim to a Christian identity as valid, provided they meet this criterion.
The challenge, however, is that this is not how many Christians approach the question. Christianity is a tradition spanning over two millennia, and for a significant portion of its adherents, belief in the resurrection of Jesus Christ is a non-negotiable cornerstone of both faith and identity. Here lies the crux of the tension between my perspective on Christianity and the traditional understanding of it. I want to call myself a Christian, but I do not affirm what most Christians would consider an essential belief: the resurrection. This tension is precisely why the topic of the resurrection has been on my mind so persistently and why it surfaced during my recent contemplative sessions. While the effects of those sessions were still potent, the issue seemed resolved. In that state, I found myself more open to embracing the resurrection as part of my belief system. But as the effects have faded, I find that I cannot sustain that belief. I don’t reject the resurrection outright, but I cannot fully embrace it either. I am caught in this liminal space, uncertain of where I stand. And so, the question inevitably arises again: am I a Christian?
There was an occasion not long ago—though well before this writing session—that profoundly influenced my understanding of Christian identity. It occurred during a casual social gathering at a pool. As the day was hot, people began changing into swimwear to cool off in the water. Though I hadn’t planned to swim immediately, I decided to follow suit. Around my neck, hidden beneath my shirt as always, hung a small Calvary Cross—beautifully handmade by a Serbian carver. I had gifted it to my mother during her battle with cancer, hoping it would provide her with spiritual strength and deepen her faith in those difficult times. Since her passing four years ago, I’ve worn it as both a memory of her and a daily reminder of the profound impact she had on my life. Yet, I also recognize that wearing it serves another purpose—one I’m less comfortable admitting. It allows me to justify having something so explicitly religious in my life, which feels at odds with my natural inclinations and personality. In a way, it is both a connection to her and a quiet rebellion against my own skepticism and unease with overt religious symbols.
I usually keep the cross concealed under my shirt, largely because it feels out of place in the secular circles I frequent and might draw unwanted attention. But another layer to this concealment has always been an undercurrent of unease about openly identifying as Christian, something I’ve grappled with at length and reflected on deeply. As I prepared to join the others, I found myself at a crossroads. Should I wear the cross openly, letting it be visible, or follow my usual habit of tucking it away? Typically, I would have removed it entirely to avoid the scrutiny it might invite. But on this occasion, that choice felt wrong. What caused this shift, I’m not entirely certain. Perhaps it was because this group of acquaintances wasn’t part of my regular social network, making it feel like a safer environment to experiment with a more public Christian identity. Or perhaps some unconscious motivation was at play: I had engaged in philosophical discussions with several of them before, and the opportunity to subtly steer these conversations toward the Way may have been an unspoken factor.
When I finally stepped out wearing the cross, a few people noticed. Several offered casual remarks, and one asked directly: “Are you a Christian?” It was a straightforward question, yet it felt impossibly complex to answer. In a way, this book—seven years in the making—is, at its core, my response to that question. What I managed to say in the moment was something like, “It depends on what you mean by Christian—or by God.” For many, this answer is unsatisfying, as it refuses to place me neatly within a defined category. People often seek clarity, a definitive label, and my response resists that simplicity. But this refusal is not just pragmatic; it is intentional. I do not wish to fully embrace either the label of Christian or the label of atheist, and my response reflects a deep truth about my worldview. The meaning of “Christian” and the nature of “God” depend profoundly on one’s perspective—neither concept is as straightforward as many would like to believe.
The conversation unfolded further with other questions, most of which I can no longer recall. However, I do remember that the exchanges were polite and presented me with opportunities to offer glimpses of my worldview. I tried to convey that faith, identity, and belief are far more nuanced than merely assenting to a list of propositions—such as the acceptance of a historical event as fact. In doing so, I often draw on a framework that is religious in tone yet deliberately avoids explicit declarations of belief, framing concepts like God as the ultimate Good. This approach allows me to share something meaningful without alienating those who might be resistant to overt religiosity.
One particular dimension of the experience stood out to me. This social circle consisted of people who knew me well, all of whom are fairly intelligent and thoughtful individuals. Despite the biases I’ve previously discussed—those negative associations often triggered when someone identifies with Christianity—there was an unexpected reaction to my wearing the cross. My lack of a straightforward answer about being a Christian seemed to confuse them. It disrupted their assumptions about what someone who identifies with Christianity might look like or how they think. That disruption, in turn, challenged their expectations. I found this experience gratifying. It felt as though I had managed to subtly shift their perception of Christianity, suggesting that faith need not conform to simplistic stereotypes. It offered me a chance to demonstrate that there are ways of approaching religion that transcend the caricatures of superstition and blind belief so often associated with modern critiques of faith.
Another way of considering Christian identity focuses on the life one leads. A straightforward method of analysis might suggest that a person is Christian if they live a Christian life. But what does that entail? Turning to Christian doctrine for guidance seems like a logical starting point, though it is far from simple. Doctrine requires interpretation, and interpretations vary widely across traditions and denominations. At the very least, one might propose aiming for the life Christ himself exemplified. Yet, when measured against that ideal, how many of us can truly claim to live it? I certainly cannot. And neither, it seems, can anyone else—except, perhaps, the saints. This is why Nietzsche famously asserted that Christ himself was the only true Christian. Under this line of reasoning, his statement holds a certain validity, though it doesn’t offer much in the way of practical application.
An alternative approach might shift the focus away from strictly adhering to the Way or perfectly embodying Christ’s life, toward the effort of trying to follow it. This aligns with how I’ve defined my own Christian identity: not as someone who perfectly embodies Christ’s teachings, but as someone who is genuinely attempting to live in alignment with them. By this measure, I would consider myself Christian, as I am certainly trying. However, this raises a new question: how do we define “trying”? How much effort is enough to warrant the identity? I often feel that I don’t try as hard as I could or as hard as I know I should.
There’s another perspective to consider here—acknowledging the inherent difficulty of leading such a life. Not only is the life of Christ challenging to replicate, but even the attempt to live by it can feel nearly impossible. This difficulty suggests that any definition of Christian identity must take into account the arduous nature of the journey. Perhaps the standard should be relaxed to allow for imperfection while still valuing the effort. For instance, I might call someone a football player even if they weren’t exceptionally skilled, so long as they were committed to improving. By this analogy, one could still deserve the Christian identity if they are making a sincere effort, even if that effort falls short of perfection. However, this raises the issue of what constitutes “a good effort.” If we were to set an unrealistic standard—expecting someone to train every day, maintain a perfect diet, and dedicate their entire existence to improvement—we would exclude nearly everyone. Instead, we tend to recognize some level of effort as sufficient. The comparison isn’t perfect because the identity of a football player is relatively static, whereas Christian identity is inherently dynamic, tied to the ongoing nature of the journey. Still, the analogy provides a helpful framework for basic analysis.
When evaluating personal effort toward an ideal, three key factors often come into play: how closely one aligns with the ideal, how much effort one could theoretically dedicate to achieving it, and how much effort is actually being made. The difficulty arises in determining what constitutes an acceptable level of effort. For example, consider a football player: what if they attend training regularly but skip a session every week? Or if they show up to every session but are distracted, unfocused, or fail to bring the intensity required to improve? The same questions can be applied to the Christian life. I want to approach my shortcomings with some compassion, acknowledging the challenges involved, but I constantly struggle with where to draw the line. At some point, falling short of the ideal demands judgment, even if some effort is being made. The effort might simply not be enough. And truthfully, I’m not confident that I consistently place myself above that threshold, wherever it might lie.
One peculiarity of the religious life, which makes comparisons to other pursuits less precise, is that while religions often emphasize the immense difficulty of the ultimate goal, they also involve actions that, while not directly contributing to the goal itself, support adherence to intermediate steps along the way. Take the example of the football player again: their primary aim might be to improve on the field, but they also engage in auxiliary activities that indirectly support this goal—such as maintaining good nutrition, prioritizing recovery, and cultivating a disciplined training regimen. Beyond that, they might surround themselves with other high-performing players or engage with inspiring football content, which could motivate them to stick more consistently to their habits and routines. In the religious context, similar dynamics are at play. The effort is not solely about striving toward the ultimate spiritual ideal but also about embracing practices that foster commitment to the incremental steps along the way. These intermediate practices might seem removed from the final goal but are integral to sustaining the effort required for progress. The challenge lies in discerning what those supporting activities should look like and how much emphasis they deserve. In both cases—whether football or faith—the line between direct effort and supportive effort blurs, and the effectiveness of either depends heavily on the intentionality behind them.
In much the same way, religions utilize symbols and rituals to serve a higher purpose. The tradition of Christianity, for instance, not only calls for following God and striving toward Theosis but also incorporates specific symbols and rituals designed to aid believers in achieving this spiritual goal. Christians engage in various forms of prayer—adoration, confession, thanksgiving, and supplication—all with the intent of deepening their connection with God. They are encouraged to read and study the Bible, attend church regularly, and become part of a community that shares their goals and values. Central to this practice are confession and the commemoration of the Last Supper through the Eucharist, alongside worship in diverse forms, such as reading scripture and singing hymns, all within a communal setting. Additional practices like fasting and abstinence are meant to ritually purify both body and spirit. In some traditions, icons serve as both symbols and tools for worship. Furthermore, Christians are called to serve others through acts of charity and volunteering, to observe a liturgical calendar that marks holy days and seasons reflecting the life of Christ, and in some cases, to undertake pilgrimages as part of their spiritual journey.
These practices are not ends in themselves but are intended to cultivate the believer’s ability to embody Christ more fully and to live as a better Christian. And yet, within this extensive body of tradition, what am I doing? Absolutely nothing. These practices, rich with meaning and purpose, are tools for growth, but I neglect them entirely. How, then, can I claim an identity centered on an ideal way of living while justifying my distance from that ideal? Worse, how can I justify doing nothing to bridge the gap? I am failing the ideal. I am failing in my attempts to reach it. I am failing to adhere to the traditions that could guide me there. Somehow, I manage to fail at everything. Why do I continue to reject action? Why don’t I engage with the tradition that I profess to value? The reasons are painfully banal: laziness, logistical concerns, and social awkwardness. It’s disheartening. Perhaps this is worse than the state of those who are indifferent to living a moral life. At least they might claim innocence through ignorance. I cannot. I am painfully aware of my flaws and fully conscious of the path I need to take to overcome them. And yet, I stubbornly refuse to walk it.
When I spoke about those Christian practices earlier, I framed them within a deeply religious context, a perspective I believe is entirely appropriate and warranted. However, I also recognize that these practices are not strictly bound to metaphysical or supernatural interpretations. With some simplification, one can translate them into more naturalistic, cognitive terms that maintain their functional essence while shifting the framing. In a secular framework, these practices can be understood as part of an ecology of psychotechnologies—a system of interrelated practices designed to cultivate wisdom and foster insight.² A psychotechnology is any practice, tool, or method that enhances cognitive abilities, enabling us to think more effectively, solve problems, and make sense of the world. These psychotechnologies extend our biological cognition by providing external tools, internal disciplines, or socially mediated systems.
Take reading and writing, for instance, as foundational psychotechnologies. These practices allow us to externalize and refine our thoughts, share ideas across time and space, and engage in abstract reasoning that transcends the immediacy of direct experience. Writing, in particular, functions as a form of externalized memory, expanding the limits of what we can hold and process mentally. Similarly, meditation exemplifies a psychotechnology that trains attention and emotional regulation, empowering individuals to manage stress, develop self-awareness, and attain greater clarity of thought. Other examples of psychotechnologies include mathematics, logic, rhetoric, mindfulness practices, and even rituals that provide structure to time and behavior.
An ecology of psychotechnologies arises when these diverse tools and practices are integrated into a coherent and interdependent system. Rather than relying on a single psychotechnology in isolation, a network of practices works synergistically, each reinforcing and complementing the others to support personal growth and transformation. The effectiveness of such an ecology lies in its ability to create synergies that amplify the benefits of its individual components. For example, in the Buddhist tradition, Vipassana meditation—a practice of focused attention and insight—can be paired with contemplative reflection on impermanence and dependent origination. Vipassana trains the practitioner to observe the arising and passing of sensations with equanimity, cultivating deep self-awareness, while contemplation broadens this awareness into an existential realization of the interconnected and transient nature of reality. Together, these practices enhance cognitive flexibility, self-transcendence, and the capacity for wisdom.
A Christian counterpart to this synergy can be found in the practice of Lectio Divina.³ This meditative reading of scripture integrates focused attention with reflection, prayer, and contemplation. It is meant to cultivate self-awareness, insight, and a profound sense of connection to God and the Christian community. In both examples, the integration of attentional training with reflection and relational practices demonstrates the power of an ecology of psychotechnologies to support wisdom, self-transcendence, and meaningful transformation. All major religious traditions possess such ecologies of psychotechnologies. These practices are applied within the framework of the tradition’s specific values and overarching worldview. For Christianity, the ultimate goal might be expressed in terms of Theosis (becoming one with God or attaining Christ-like virtues), and the practices are tailored to this pursuit. The system of prayer, confession, fasting, communal worship, acts of charity, and scriptural meditation work together to address various facets of human cognition, emotion, and behavior, cultivating wisdom and insight as defined by the Christian understanding of what it means to live a good and meaningful life.
A helpful way to understand this concept is through Jean Piaget’s research on the evolution of human cognition. Piaget observed that children’s ability to solve problems is frequently constrained by their framing—the foundational assumptions, perspectives, and strategies they apply to a situation. A child may fail to solve a problem not because of a lack of intelligence, but because their mental model of the problem is either insufficient or too rigid to accommodate a solution. However, as children grow and develop, their capacity to adapt and refine their framing improves, enabling them to overcome these limitations and engage with problems more effectively. Piaget illustrated this dynamic in his experiments on egocentrism, which highlighted young children’s difficulty in adopting perspectives other than their own. One of his most famous studies, the Three Mountain Task, vividly demonstrates this phenomenon. In this experiment, a child is shown a model of three mountains and asked to describe what someone standing at a different vantage point would see. Young children, typically under the age of seven, often struggle with this task. They assume that the other person sees exactly what they see, reflecting an egocentric framing. At this stage, they lack the cognitive flexibility to decenter—to shift their perspective and recognize that others might view the same scene differently. As children mature, however, they develop the ability to decenter, which allows them to appreciate that others possess distinct viewpoints. This cognitive flexibility marks a significant milestone in their ability to frame problems and understand the world in more nuanced ways. Another key example of Piaget’s work is his experiments on conservation tasks, such as the conservation of volume. In one such task, children are shown two identical glasses containing the same amount of liquid. When the liquid from one glass is poured into a taller, thinner glass, younger children often conclude that the taller glass holds “more liquid.” This error occurs because they focus on the height of the liquid while ignoring its width. Their reasoning is grounded in immediate perceptual cues rather than abstract properties like volume. Over time, however, children develop the ability to step back from these superficial perceptions and recognize the underlying invariance: the quantity of liquid remains constant, regardless of the container it occupies.
What Piaget discovered is that these errors are not random but systematic. A child’s failure to solve one problem—such as understanding another person’s perspective or grasping the conservation of volume—reflects a broader limitation in their cognitive framework. These types of challenges are what we might call meta-problems: problems that arise not from the specific content of a task but from the way we frame and approach problems themselves. Meta-problems are particularly significant because solving them does more than address an isolated issue—it transforms how we engage with an entire class of problems. For instance, when a child overcomes egocentrism, they gain the ability to navigate not only the Three Mountain Task but also any situation requiring perspective-taking. Whether it’s playing a game, resolving a conflict, or practicing empathy, the same cognitive flexibility applies. Similarly, when a child grasps the principle of conservation, they unlock the ability to reason about quantities across a wide range of scenarios. These meta-problems reveal the importance of deeper cognitive and developmental transformations. They point to the limitations of our frames of relevance—the ways we prioritize information, define problems, and determine what matters in a given situation. Addressing these limitations requires us to fundamentally reshape the frameworks through which we perceive and interact with the world.
Religious practices can be understood as tools for addressing meta-problems. They are not merely rituals or traditions serving isolated purposes; rather, they represent an ecology of psychotechnologies—systems designed to cultivate cognitive and existential adaptability. These practices aim to reframe our experience of the world, enabling us to transcend rigid perspectives and develop greater wisdom and insight. By engaging with these practices, we restructure the frameworks through which we interpret and act in the world, enhancing our ability to discern what truly matters in any given situation and to respond wisely. However, translating these religious systems into secular or philosophical language can be problematic. Such translations often miss the depth and nuance inherent in religious terminology and meaning. This is why I have largely chosen to stay within the bounds of religious language and traditional terms—they form a coherent internal system of meaning. The wisdom embedded in these systems often surpasses the explanatory power of contemporary philosophical, psychological, or cognitive frameworks. In the act of translation, some essential meanings are inevitably lost. Yet, translation remains an important task: it enables those unfamiliar with religious systems to recognize that these practices are not merely arbitrary beliefs or superstitious rituals, but sophisticated tools for human growth and understanding.
When I find myself in a state of clarity about anything connected to the divine, I am most at ease operating entirely within a religious framework. In such moments, stepping outside this framework feels not only reductive but utterly pointless. I find that religious terms and perspectives are uniquely suited to capturing and communicating these experiences in their fullness. Admittedly, I have attempted to translate these ideas into more secular language, but partially because I am writing a book, and thus addressing an audience beyond myself. I realized that framing my thoughts exclusively within a religious context might alienate or antagonize some readers. Right now, this awareness prompted me to reverse-engineer these concepts into a more secular understanding, to ensure accessibility. Still, I believe that once one has matured enough to grasp the depth and value of these systems, it becomes far more beneficial to operate within the religious framework itself, rather than analyzing it from the outside. Religious language, with its coherence and richness, is not simply a lens—it is the very medium through which the divine and existential truths are most effectively engaged and understood.
When one witnesses the truth of God and becomes utterly convinced of a divine reality in a mystical state, it often leads to a profound transformation. In my case, it marked a transition from an atheist worldview to a theistic one. The definitions and boundaries of such terms—atheist, theist, mystical—are not entirely binary or traditional, yet the shift raises a compelling question central to this conversion: why Christianity specifically? The revelation of God does not inherently point toward any one religious tradition. Following such an experience, I could have pursued Islam, Judaism, or any number of other faiths. Why, then, Christianity? What distinguishes it from the rest? To some extent, my path was shaped by cultural factors, including the bias toward equality that I’ve discussed previously. Yet this cultural context can introduce its own complications. For instance, my partner has expressed skepticism and unease about my commitment to Christianity, given its historical baggage—atrocities committed in its name, dogmatic rigidity, and associations with superstition. Her concerns are valid and deserve thoughtful consideration.
To address these concerns, I have attempted, in this and prior reflections, to articulate why Christianity resonates so deeply with me. It’s true that no singular “proof” definitively establishes Christianity as the way, but I do believe that multiple signs, patterns, and experiences point me in its direction. Rather than revisiting points I’ve already explored, I want to share an additional insight—something that emerged in a moment of stillness and clarity. At one point during the recent event of writing and reflection, I found myself utterly exhausted. Resting on the couch, I took a break from what felt like an endless loop of thoughts. My girlfriend was nearby, lying on the floor and playing her guitar. Despite it being winter, the day was bright and unexpectedly warm. Sunlight streamed through the living room window, bathing the space in a soft glow. She sat partially in shadow, partially illuminated by the golden light. As I watched her, I was overcome by an overwhelming sense of life’s preciousness—of ultimate meaning and ultimate love.
I experienced a similar feeling some time later, this time in the kitchen, while watching her eat. There was nothing remarkable about the situation—no dramatic lighting, no conditions that might conventionally heighten its aesthetic appeal. Yet, simply by observing her, I felt that same intimation of something profound. While I most certainly love my partner in the straightforward, romantic sense and find her beautiful, this experience transcended those feelings. It was less about personal affection and more about perceiving the ultimate sacredness of humanity, embodied in her at that moment but radiating outward to encompass all of mankind. It was as though I glimpsed a truth about the world’s beauty—a beauty that was neither superficial nor merely aesthetic, like the appreciation of an intricate carpet or a well-crafted object. This beauty carried a sense of ultimacy. Dostoevsky’s assertion that “beauty will save the world” has always struck me as profound, but in that moment, it felt even more expansive. The beauty I sensed seemed to justify existence itself, with all its inherent flaws and suffering. It was as though the world had been created for this beauty to exist—a beauty that demands not just acknowledgment but an awakened capacity to truly contemplate and receive it.
This ultimate beauty was not merely one value among others; it was the ultimate value—perhaps surpassing or even encapsulating beauty itself. It brought to mind the Christian concept of the Trinity, where the unity of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit constitutes one divine essence, yet each person remains distinct. The sharp ontological distinction within the Trinity—the fact that you cannot simply discuss the essence without considering its distinct persons—seems analogous, in a way, to how ultimate values might function. In the Neoplatonic tradition, three transcendentals—beauty, goodness, and truth—are regarded as core expressions of the ultimate. While I’m not suggesting a direct analogy between the Trinity and these transcendentals, there is something compelling about their ontological interrelation. Perhaps, like the Trinity, beauty, goodness, and truth are inseparable—distinct yet unified—and together they offer a glimpse of the Ultimate. They serve as portals to a greater reality, expressions of a singular source. This could explain why I sense that there is one ultimate value to which all others point. Though many values appear distinct on the surface, they converge in a single origin, traditionally associated with God Himself. According to Christianity, that essence—the ultimate source of beauty, goodness, and truth—is Love.
To answer why Christianity specifically, in addition to everything else I’ve described throughout this session, it is because this feels like an ultimate truth—one that I see reflected in the world through a Christian lens. When I observed my partner, whether in the living room or the kitchen, and felt as though I was witnessing absolute beauty and absolute love, it was accompanied by a profound sense of sacredness. I felt that every human being is a child of God, imbued with inherent worth and meaning. This experience aligns naturally with the Christian framework. Although I hold a degree of sympathy toward perennialism—except in its more radical expressions, which claim an inevitable sameness between all traditions—I cannot reconcile this particular experience with any other religion. It resists interpretation outside of Christianity in a way that does justice to its depth and implications. That said, I must acknowledge a limitation: I have not studied other traditions in great depth. However, my understanding of Christianity is also relatively superficial, something I aim to remedy in the coming year. One might argue that my perspective stems from ignorance, and I accept this as a possibility. Yet even in this limited state of knowledge, Christianity offers me a lens through which such experiences make the most sense.
I repeatedly find myself trapped in a cycle during my psychedelic experiences—repeating the same mistakes, confronting the same problems, and applying the same solutions. Yet, despite my efforts, I fail to adhere to these solutions and continue to struggle with the same issues. Reflecting on my journey, I am overwhelmed by the depressing realization of my failures and lack of progress. This brings to mind a traditional Christian plea: “Oh Lord, save me” or “God, give me the wisdom to act according to Your will.” I’ve noticed that my use of religious language has increased, and this is a prime example. The perspective of utter desperation, seeking help from something greater, encapsulates precisely how I feel. These expressions, which once seemed completely alien or irrelevant to me, now resonate deeply and feel profoundly true.
This isn’t simply a matter of despairing over my shortcomings or straying from a perceived moral path. It also involves elements of spiritual language that resist easy translation into secular terms. For instance, I now find it not only natural but necessary to seek help from God. At this moment, the act of kneeling and praying towards Heaven—a powerful image within Abrahamic traditions—feels unexpectedly relevant to me, even though I had never envisioned it would. While I don’t conceive of God in a personal or anthropomorphic sense, it seems logical to request grace from a higher Good, a transcendent source of wisdom and virtue. Of course, with the act of praying towards Heaven, I don’t believe that God literally resides in heaven, as though it were a specific spatial location in the atmosphere. Yet, the symbolism inherent in such gestures supports these actions. Reaching toward Heaven signifies striving for something higher, something beyond the self, and serves as a reminder to transform abstract principles into tangible realities. This is the process of making the invisible visible, a kind of divine emanation from God to the individual. Through this transformation, one is invited to embody ‘heavenly virtues’ or fulfill a ‘divine purpose.’ However, such blessings are not granted passively; they must be actively sought. This is akin to shaping one’s hands to catch water from a flowing river. The water is always present, but only a prepared and receptive container can capture it.
Likewise, the soul must be cultivated and prepared—through humility, submission, and worship—to receive this divine grace. Such a state is essential for achieving kenosis, the emptying of oneself, to become a vessel capable of holding and channeling the ultimate Good. This spiritual posture is not merely a passive waiting but an active alignment, a deliberate act of openness to the grace that flows from above. The act of kneeling and praying towards something invisible may, at first glance, appear insane or nonsensical. This impression, however, arises only because we often fail to grasp its deeper meaning. Consider how an individual from an ancient village, unfamiliar with the nuances of modern life, might misunderstand many aspects of contemporary behavior. The sense of oddity and awkwardness surrounding such spiritual acts emerges primarily when one becomes overly concerned with translating them into strictly “rational” terms. In doing so, we overlook the primordial symbolism that consciousness relies on for sense-making and for recognizing the sacred.
Take, for example, the term “Lord.” Initially, it sparked in me a profound sense of alienation and confusion. Why “Lord”? It seemed a peculiar, almost antiquated, way to conceptualize God and religious life, and it barely made sense to me. Yet over time, these expressions have become far more intelligible. Within the framework of Abrahamic religions, terms such as “power,” “greatness,” “glory,” and “awe” are very often used to describe God. Although even in Buddhism the term “Lord Buddha” is utilized. These terms do not merely serve a descriptive purpose; they are evocative. They point beyond themselves to experiences that transcend ordinary human understanding, opening us to the sacred and the ultimate.
When scripture speaks of the “glory of God,” it is not simply referring to beauty or majesty in the conventional sense. Rather, it gestures toward a reality that is overwhelming, transformative, and utterly vast—an encounter that demands reverence and fundamentally reshapes our understanding of ourselves. “Glory” encapsulates the radiant, ineffable goodness of the divine, a goodness so profound that it can only be hinted at, never fully described. Similarly, the concept of power in a religious context transcends notions of control or dominance. It instead signifies the capacity of the sacred to renew, heal, and create coherence where fragmentation once existed. This power replaces despair with meaning, offering a sense of participation in a higher order that aligns us with what is ultimate. No amount of entertainment, wealth, status, or even the care of friends, therapists, or partners can resolve the deep spiritual malaise that comes from disconnection with the ultimate. The chasm between the finite and the infinite can only be bridged by a relationship with the ultimate itself—a force greater than all else. In recognizing and engaging with this divine glory and power, we begin to see that our identity is not merely a construct formed from below. Instead, it is revealed, shaped, and transformed through our participation in what is above, in what is sacred. This is why these religious terms resonate so deeply in expressing the religious experience. They are attempts to articulate the awe-inspiring process of aligning oneself with the ultimate Good, a process that challenges and fulfills the deepest longings of the human spirit.
¹ Edmund Gettier in his 1963 paper, challenges the traditional definition of knowledge as “justified true belief.” Gettier demonstrated that it is possible to have a belief that is both true and justified but still fails to constitute genuine knowledge. These cases, known as Gettier cases, arise when a belief happens to be true due to luck or coincidence rather than through sound reasoning or evidence.
² The concept of ‘ecology of psychotechnologies’ originates from John Vervaeke’s work. He defines psychotechnologies as cognitive practices, tools, or systems that enhance human cognition and meaning-making by training attention, improving problem-solving, and fostering insight. He argues that religious practices—such as prayer, meditation, fasting, and rituals—form an interdependent system of psychotechnologies designed to cultivate wisdom, address self-deception, and enhance an individual’s sense of purpose and connectedness. These practices are integrated within an overarching worldview, making religious traditions highly sophisticated systems for addressing cognitive and existential challenges.
³ Lectio Divina involves slowly and prayerfully reading scripture, allowing individuals to ‘listen’ to the text with their hearts rather than just their minds. This meditative reading is structured into four stages: reading (lectio), meditation (meditatio), prayer (oratio), and contemplation (contemplatio). They are meant to be synergistic.
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