The Lava of Transformation

A volcanic eruption is terrifying.  
Fire consumes the landscape.  
Ash darkens the sky.  
Everything familiar seems lost.  

And yet—  the same lava that destroys  
cools into fertile soil.  
Forests root in the ash.  
New life rises from the ruin.  

This is the messy middle.  
Not the beginning, not the end,  
but the chaos in between—  
where destruction and creation  
are happening at once.  

The eruption is not just in nature.  
It is in our world.  
Structures are trembling,  
certainties are burning,  
and ash clouds our vision.  

The ash is not only ruin. 
It is also soil.  
Even in the mess,  
life insists on returning.  

And if ash is soil,
then even in the world’s burning,
seeds are being sown.
What looks like ruin today
may be preparing tomorrow’s topsoil.  

Seeds in the Ash

Out of political division, new experiments in listening are emerging. Citizens gather in assemblies, dialogue circles, and community forums, discovering ways of speaking across differences that may prove stronger than the systems that fractured. 

From climate anxiety, innovation and reverence are rising together. The urgency of crisis has accelerated breakthroughs in renewable energy and regenerative farming, while also awakening a deeper respect for creation. Indigenous wisdom and local practices are being rediscovered, reminding us how to walk gently on the earth.  

Economic upheaval, though painful, is clearing space for alternative economies. Cooperatives, local currencies, and solidarity networks are sprouting where old systems collapse. In these places, abundance circulates with dignity, and prosperity is measured not by profit alone, but by mercy shared.  

Even loneliness carries seeds. Isolation has birthed mutual aid groups, online communities of care, and interfaith circles of solidarity. The ache of longing is becoming fertile ground for deeper, more intentional relationships—connections that are chosen, nurtured, and sustained.  

And within our own hearts, the ash carries seeds. Grief, though it feels like ruin, can deepen compassion. Doubt, though it unsettles, can open us to mystery. Fear, though it shakes us, can teach courage. These inner messes are not wasted—they are soil where wisdom takes root, where resilience grows, and where mercy learns to speak with a gentler voice.  

The messy middle 
is not simply destruction. 
It is paradox: 
ruin and renewal, 
fire and fertility. 

Hope is not naïve here. 
It is the seed already breaking through the ash,
reminding us that tomorrow is being prepared 
beneath our feet. 

But seeds do not grow on their own. 
If they are to grow, they ask for our tending.
These are the practices of the middle—
the ways we keep hope alive while the soil is still dark.

Practices for the Middle

The messy middle asks not for perfection, but for patience. It is the place where we stumble together, where mercy becomes more important than certainty. If the ash is soil, then our daily choices are the seeds we plant in it.

We practice patience by trusting that renewal takes time, even when the ground looks barren. 

We practice compassion by remembering that everyone is walking through the same ash, each carrying their own weight of loss and longing. 

We practice perspective by lifting our eyes to see that the mess is part of a larger story, one that bends toward healing. 

And we practice communion by refusing isolation, choosing instead to join hands, share meals, and form circles of belonging.

These practices do not erase the chaos. They steady us within it. They remind us that hope is not a distant dream, but a discipline—a way of living that prepares the soil for forests yet to come. When we practice patience, compassion, perspective, and communion, the ash begins to clear, and signs of dawn appear.  

Dawn in the Ash

The eruption does not last forever.  
Ash settles.  
Lava cools.  
And in the silence that follows,  
something new begins.  

A green shoot breaks through the blackened soil.  
A bird sings into the quiet.  
Light returns to the horizon.  

This is hope—not denying the mess,  
but facing the truth within it.  
Hope is the seed already sprouting,  
the dawn already breaking,  
the song already rising.  

The messy middle is holy ground.  
Here, Love is teaching us to walk together.  
Here, mercy is stitching us back into one body.  
Here, Christ-Consciousness whispers: 
“Do not fear the mess. I am with you in it.”

Whispers Through Time 

We are living in a moment that has been whispered through centuries, etched into scripture, sung through mystic poetry, and carried in the bones of prophets and dreamers. This unraveling—this sacred disruption—was foretold. 

Not in the language of fear, but in the language of awakening:

The Book of Revelation speaks of upheaval and unveiling. The Hopi elders warned of a time when the Earth would shake and hearts would be tested. Jesus spoke of wars and rumors of wars—not as punishment, but as birth pangs.

Mystics like Julian of Norwich and Hildegard of Bingen saw visions of collapse and renewal. Modern prophets—from Carl Jung to Thomas Merton—named the ego’s reckoning and the soul’s return.

This is not the end.
It is the turning point.
When illusion begins to crumble,
and the Heart begins to rise.

Sacred Timing, Not Panic

Prophecy is not meant to panic.
It’s meant to prepare the soul.
To remind us that what feels chaotic
may actually be sacred timing.
That what looks like collapse
may be the beginning of clarity.

Divine timing rarely aligns
with our calendars.
It moves in spirals, not schedules.
It waits until the illusion is
thin enough to tear,
until the Heart is ready to rise.

We are not here by accident.
We were born for this moment—
not to fix it,
but to face it.
To walk through it with mercy,
with discernment,
with quiet courage.

Yet even as divine timing unfolds, 
we witness not only prophecy—
but also contrast. 
The kind that leads to discernment.

Contrast as Invitation

In times of great upheaval, certain figures rise to prominence who seem to embody the ego in its purest form—loud, divisive, self-serving. They offer us contrast, not because they are evil, but because they are visible.

And in that visibility, we are given a gift: the chance to see clearly, by contrast, what Christ is not. To see, by negation, Christ’s quiet mercy, radical humility, and healing presence. 

These figures are not the enemy.
They are a mirror.
And in their reflection,
we are invited to choose again.

To appreciate the gift
we must look deeper—
not just at the figures on the stage,
but at the suffering beneath the performance.

The Mirror, Not the Enemy

Not all who inflict harm are evil.
Some are mentally unwell.
Some are spiritually unwell.
Some are driven insane by ego
and suffering far more than we can see.

A leader’s spiritual or mental unwellness
can be more than just personal—
but also cultural.
It can mirror what has been buried,
denied, or glamorized in society. 

When ego rises to power,
it does not invent the illusion.  
It reveals it.  
It amplifies what we’ve refused to name.  

And in that amplification,
we are given a chance—
not to scapegoat, but to see.  
To recognize the shadow
not just in the leader,
but in the culture that created the stage.

When ego reigns unchecked,
suffering multiplies.
And when suffering holds power,
it leaves a trail.

Ego’s Tyranny, Mercy’s Clarity

Ego, when enthroned, becomes a tyrant.
It fears collapse, so it clings to control.
It mistakes domination for safety.
And when such suffering holds power,
it spreads suffering like wildfire.

But the Heart sees through the illusion.
It does not excuse the harm.
It does not deny the damage.
But it understands the source:
a soul lost in fear,
a mind drowning in illusion,
a being severed from mercy.

Seeing clearly is only the beginning.
The Heart must respond—
not with fear,
but with mercy. 
Not with mimicry,
but with courage.

Quiet Courage in a Loud World

Mercy does not mean passivity.
It does not mean silence
in the face of harm.
The Heart sees clearly—
and still chooses love.
It names the suffering,
but refuses to become it.
It discerns the illusion,
but does not mirror its cruelty.

This is the quiet courage
we’re being called into.
To see what’s real.
To speak with mercy.
To act with love—
even when the world is loud with fear.

This courage is not just personal—
it is prophetic.
It is the kind of leadership
the world is aching for,
even if it doesn’t yet know how to ask.

True Leadership in the Age of Spectacle

In a time when ego dominates the stage,
true leadership looks like quiet resistance.
It looks like refusing to mirror the tactics
of those who distort the truth.
It looks like choosing
the long road of integrity
over the shortcut of spectacle.

True leaders must lead—
not by shouting louder,
but by standing firmer.
By having the courage
to lead without becoming
the corruption they oppose.

This is the path of the Heart.
It does not perform.
It does not posture.
It does not seek applause.
It seeks alignment.
It seeks mercy.
It seeks truth.

But even the most courageous leaders
must learn to wait. 
To listen.
To trust the rhythm that does not rush,
but reveals.

The Rhythm of Divine Timing

This kind of leadership cannot be rushed.
It listens for the right moment.
It waits for the Spirit’s nudge.
It does not react—it responds.
Because divine timing is not reactive.
It is rhythmic.
It is wise.

The Heart knows when to speak,
when to move.
when to wait,
It does not seek control.
It seeks alignment.

And when the moment arrives—
when the veil thins
and the illusion cracks—
the Heart does not scramble.
It simply steps forward.

Not because it planned,
but because it was prepared.

Prepared, Not Planned

So if the world feels upside down,
if the headlines echo Revelations,
if the ego seems louder than love—
remember: this was foretold.
Not to frighten you,
but to prepare you.

You are not behind.
You are not late.
You are arriving—
right on time.

Divine timing is not just cosmic.
It’s intimate.
It’s personal.
It’s the whisper that says,
“Wait.”
“Speak.”
“Begin.”

The Heart knows.
Even when the mind doubts.
Even when the path disappears.
Even when the world is loud with fear.

So trust the rhythm.
Trust the pause.
Trust the rising.
You were born for this moment.
And the moment is ready for you.

A Blessing for the Turning

May you trust the rhythm
of your own becoming.
May you listen for the compass,
even when the map disappears.
May you speak when the Spirit nudges,
and rest when the Heart says, “Not yet.”

You were not meant to rush.
You were meant to rise.
In mercy.
In truth.
In divine time. 

Next Post: Navigating the Fog

A Note to the Reader

This reflection is not a historical analysis, though it begins with history. It is a spiritual meditation on the evolution of human consciousness—from the Age of Reason to the Age of the Heart. While it honors the gifts of intellect and inquiry, it invites the reader into a deeper kind of knowing: one rooted in compassion, intuition, and inner guidance.

The Age of Reason

The Age of Reason—also known as the Enlightenment—was a cultural movement in 17th–18th century Europe that emphasized rational thought, scientific inquiry, and individual liberty. 

During this age, humanity gained extraordinary knowledge. We learned to measure, analyze, and explain. It helped humanity challenge superstition, question authority, and build systems of progress. Medicine, democracy, and education all benefited from its clarity.

But in the pursuit of logic and certainty, something quieter was left behind.
Emotion was treated as unreliable.
Intuition was dismissed.
Spiritual wisdom was sidelined.

While we honor the gifts reason gave us,
we must also name what it could not carry:
the wisdom of the Heart.

A Useful but Incomplete Era

In the Age of Reason,
the egoic mind took center stage.  
It thrives on control,  
on being right,  
on knowing without feeling.

It prizes intellect over intuition,  
logic over mercy,  
certainty over mystery.

It helped us to organize,
but not to understand.  
We mastered analysis,
but not how to listen.
We learned how to build empires,  
but not how to hold each other. 

Reason gave us the ability to categorize.  
To sort, to label, to define.  
But then we judged.  
We ranked.  
We assigned worth.

We built hierarchies of value—  
based not on love,  
but on logic distorted by ego.

The Heart asks a different question.  
Not “Is it efficient?”  
Not “Is it profitable?” 
But—“Is it kind?”

Reason taught us to measure.  
We learned to quantify intelligence, productivity, even worth.
But then we mistook numbers for truth.
We valued performance over compassion.  
We called it progress.

The Heart asks, 
“Does it nurture the soul?”

Knowledge doesn’t come with wisdom. 
Wisdom arises from the Heart—
from compassion, intuition, and presence. 

Without it, knowledge is heartless: 
capable of building systems, 
but not relationships; 
capable of explaining life, 
but not cherishing it.

Knowledge was never the problem.  
We weren’t ready to hold it wisely.  
Wisdom asks more of us than intellect.  
It asks us to listen with the Heart.

The Heart remained offstage,  
watching and waiting in the wings.  
Not because it is weak,  
but because it is wise.
Truly, it is Wisdom. 

Now is the Heart’s curtain call.
Not to erase reason’s performance,
but to complete it.
To invite a new kind of Mind—
one that listens, feels, and leads with love. 

The Shift: From Head to Heart

This time has been foretold
by mystics, prophets, and poets.
By those who listened beneath the noise
and heard the rhythm of a new age approaching.

Not an age of destruction,
but of integration.
Not the end of reason,
but the beginning of wisdom.

The Heart doesn’t dismiss reason.  
It enfolds it in compassion.  
It honors its clarity,  
but insists on mercy.
It follows the deeper Law—
the one that holds all creation in Love.

This is the Age of the Heart:
Where wisdom is not just what we know,  
but how we hold what we know.

Christ Consciousness is the union
of clarity and compassion. 
It is the compass that points toward Home
when the map disappears.

The map is disappearing.
The systems no longer fit.
The doctrines feel too small.
The path we were handed
has not led us Home.

What now do we trust? 
We begin to trust the compass.

Compass vs. Map

In the Age of Reason, we trusted the map. 
We wanted clear roads, fixed destinations, and guaranteed outcomes. 
We followed paths drawn by others—systems, doctrines, identities—
believing they would lead us Home.

But the map was never truly ours.
It was borrowed, inherited, imposed.  
It could not show us the terrain of the soul.

Now, in the Age of the Heart,
we are learning to trust the compass.  
It doesn’t offer certainty.  
It doesn’t show the whole route. 
But it always points toward Truth.

The compass is the Christ within.  
It moves in rhythm with grace.  
It doesn’t rush. 
It doesn’t miss turns. 
It simply says, “This way.”

Trusting the Compass

Some still cling to the map.
Like the windshield washer
who trusts it without question—
because it always takes him
to his favorite destination:
the Land of Illusion.

There, he can polish his fantasies—
Power. Prestige. Control. Rightness.
He scrubs the mirror until it gleams,
but never wonders what he’s looking at.
Never questions the reflection.
Never asks, “Is this real?”

The Land of Illusion is seductive.
It flatters the ego.
It rewards performance.
It promises control.

Now it is starting to crumble.
But the ego doesn’t surrender.
It panics.
It grabs the glue and the glitter.

It tries to patch the cracks
with more power,
more dominance,
with louder monologues of certainty—
and more division.

Because division distracts.
It splinters the truth.
It keeps us arguing over fragments
so we never see the Whole.
It protects the illusion
by keeping us apart.

We see it in the world—
leaders clinging to control,
systems tightening their grip,
voices rising not in truth,
but in fear.

The ego mistakes collapse for danger.
It tightens. It resists.
It calls it failure.
It calls it threat.

But the Heart sees it differently.
Not an ending—
but a doorway.
A chance to step out of illusion
and into what’s real.

The ego disappears in the Whole.
Not shattered—but absorbed.
Not erased—but re-membered.
The illusion dissolves,
and what remains
is mercy.

We trusted the map because
it made the world feel predictable.
Letting it go can feel like we’re lost. 
There is grief in releasing the map.
But there is grace in what comes next.

Only the good chauffeur knows
the way to Reality.
Christ doesn’t need the map.
Christ listens to the compass—
because Christ is united with Wisdom.

Trust is not passive.  
It’s not blind.  
It’s not weak.
It’s a quiet courage—  
the kind that moves forward
without needing certainty.

We learn to trust the compass by listening.
You’ve known it.
That quiet pull that doesn’t shout, 
but never leaves.

The whisper that says,
“You don’t have to rush.”
“You don’t have to prove.”
“You don’t have to be anyone
but who you are.”

This is inner knowing. 
This is the compass within.
The more we follow it,  
the more we recognize its voice.  
The more we walk in rhythm with grace,  
the more the road begins to feel like Home.

Closing: The Way Forward

The map is fading.
The compass is stirring.
The Heart is beginning to lead.
This is not the end of knowing.
But the beginning of Wisdom.
Not the loss of direction,
but the birth of discernment.

We are learning to walk without guarantees.
To listen without rushing.
To move in rhythm with grace.

May we trust the whisper
more than the noise.
May we follow the compass
with quiet courage.
May we let the Heart lead us Home.

Next Post: Diving Timing & Prophecy

Adam’s Dream and the Birth of Duality

In the beginning, Adam fell into a deep sleep. The Bible never says he woke up.

He dreamed of Eve. The other. She was not a mistake, but the beginning of duality. The moment Eve appeared, the possibility of “I” and “you” was born—a symbol of humanity evolving from unconscious unity into conscious relationship.

Duality is not a problem. We cannot know anything in the absence of its opposite. We cannot know light without dark, love without hate, eternity without time.

Contrast is the teacher.

The Tree and the Sacred Bite

Then came the tree. The apple wasn’t poisonous. The bite wasn’t a sin. It was a sacred movement—a symbol of humanity reaching self-awareness.

Consciousness evolves like all things. It is not a fall from grace—but a movement toward knowledge—of knowing the Creator, our Self, and our sacred relationship.

Being, Life, and the Shadow of Form

God is Being—pure, radiant Potential. Like the sun, still and eternal.

Christ is Life—Being in motion. Like a sunbeam, flowing from the Source into the world.

When a sunbeam enters a form, it casts a shadow that can be seen only on a surface. When Life enters a form, it casts a shadow—the body. It can be seen only in physical reality. On this stage, the story of awakening is unfolding.

What is seen is not the whole. The body is not the Self just as the shadow is not the sunbeam.

In our early consciousness, we were like infants—newly aware, but not yet able to understand. We saw only the body, and we were frightened and confused. We couldn’t yet perceive the Life animating it, or the Source behind it.

We could only conclude, “I must be this.” We identified with the body, the visible, the form. And from that misidentification, ego developed—a false self with a mind of its own.

It was the perfect contrast.

Ego’s Rise and the Illusion of Separation

Even Christ is revealed through contrast. Without ego—the anti-Christ—we would never be able to know the Christ within.

Ego became our guide, the architect of our lives. We created identities, hierarchies, and systems based on a mistaken identity—the belief that we are separately-existing beings rather than one Life, one Christ, one Self.

From this illusion, we built nations, doctrines, economies, and roles.

We ranked worth.

We defined borders.

We named “us” and “them.”

The more we built around it, the more we forgot the Sun. And worshiped this idol.

The sunbeam still shines, but the vessel is clouded—with fear, pride, and the desperate desire to be seen.

Ego on Parade

The ego loves a parade. 
Loud. Glittering. Hollow.

The ego is like an actor on a dimly-lit stage. It has no identity of its own, so it borrows costumes—beliefs and ideologies.

Religious and political extremism offer certainty, identity, and belonging—thriving on “us vs. them.”

It clings to possessions. Money, status, and power offer the illusory “proof” of its existence. “I am what I own.”

Ego protects its image through judgment, superiority, and victimhood. It is the one who prays, “I thank you, God, that I’m not like that sinner over there.” It is the one constantly asking, “Where is my reward?”

It craves praise and recognition—these are the ego’s fuel. Without them, it feels invisible.

The Windshield Washer and the Still, Small Voice

Like any character on stage, the ego needs an audience, a script, and a spotlight to seem real.

The audience is our attention. The ego’s voice in the head is like the guy on the street who washes our car window at stoplights. But did we really need our windshield washed? No, yet we feel obligated to pay for his “service.”

The script is our conditioning—the rules we’ve learned to play our roles: gender, religion, class, and more. Ego fills us with shame when we forget our lines or act contrary to our roles. It’s always anxious because it can’t see Life’s next scene, so it improvises—badly.

The spotlight is our belief in it. We’ve listened for so long, paid attention for so long, that we mistake its voice for our own. Like the windshield washer, ego convinces us it’s doing us a favor.

The Voice of the Christ within is a still, small voice–a gentle prompting–an urge we get in the moment to do exactly what needs to be done. In the moment when our windshield is truly dirty and needs to be washed, we will know.

We don’t need the windshield washer. We need clarity—and that comes from within.

Without belief, the ego dissolves. 
Without clinging, it has no shape. 
It is not Christ, the True Self—it is simply a mask worn to be seen. 

Who’s Driving?

Not only have we let the window washer clean our windshield— we’ve let him take the driver’s seat. He’s a horrible driver. He has no clue where we are, where we’re going, or how to get us there. He only pretends to know.

His driving fills us with fear and dread. 
He swerves between extremes. 
He speeds when we need stillness. 
He stalls when we need courage. 
He uses a map that will never lead us home.

But we are not powerless passengers. 
We can thank him for his enthusiasm, and kindly ask him to take the back seat.
We can choose a different driver.

The Road of Trust

Christ is the Good Chauffeur.
Christ knows exactly where we are, where we’re going, and how to get us there.

Christ’s driving fills us with peace and joy. 
There are no missed turns. 
No frantic detours. 
Just the quiet unfolding of grace.

We don’t need to know the whole map. 
We don’t need to control the route. 
We need only to trust the Driver.

Christ doesn’t rush. 
Doesn’t miss turns. 
Doesn’t need GPS.

Christ is the Way.

When we let go of the wheel, 
we begin to feel the rhythm of grace. 
We stop bracing for impact. 
We stop second-guessing every curve. 
We start to breathe.

The ego will protest. 
It’s a back seat driver.
It will insist it knows a shortcut. 
But we don’t have to listen.

We can turn down the volume. 
We can rest in the seat of surrender. 
We can watch the scenery change— 
Without fear.
Without dread.

Peace is not the destination. 
It’s the feeling of being driven by Love.

Returning to the Light

You are not the mask. You are not the role. 
You are not the voice that shouts from the back seat.

You are the Light behind the form. You are the sunbeam, flowing from the Source. You are the quiet knowing that doesn’t need applause.

The ego will keep performing. It will keep washing the windshield, offering advice,  asking for payment.

But you don’t have to believe it. 
You don’t have to let it drive.

You can rest. 
You can listen. 
You can trust the Christ within.

There is no rush. 
No test. 
No hierarchy.

Only the gentle unfolding of grace. 
Only the still, small voice saying, 
“This way.”

Next Post: The Age of the Heart

Don’t Worry? Easier Said Than Done.

One of my favorite passages in the New Testament is Matthew 6:25–34, where Jesus tells us not to worry about our life—what we’ll eat or drink, the clothes we’ll wear. After all, the birds have all the food they need, and the lilies of the field are dressed more beautifully than a king in his finest robes.  

“So don’t worry about tomorrow,” he says. “Each day has enough trouble of its own.”

Yeah, right.  

It’s hard not to worry these days, isn’t it?  The birds and the lilies don’t have to worry about inflation, climate change, or whether their health insurance covers spiritual unraveling.

But maybe that’s the point.

Jesus wasn’t dismissing our struggle. He was pointing to something deeper: a Divine Intelligence that lovingly nurtures all of Life—a Peace that doesn’t depend on circumstances.

Birds don’t worry because they’re aligned with it. Lilies don’t strive because they’re held by it. And we are part of it too.

The Loving Intelligence That Nurtures All

The sun shows up every day.
The rain falls without judgment.
The seed splits open in due season.
The fire warms without asking.
And our heart keeps beating.

Not because we earned it.
Not because we deserve it.
But because we’re part of something that never stopped loving us.

This is the Law Jesus taught—this loving Intelligence—the quiet, steady pulse of unconditional support. And—contrary to popular belief—we don’t have to strive for it, prove ourselves worthy of it, or work overtime to keep it.

It’s not a prize.
It’s not a paycheck.
We simply exist.
And that’s enough.

The Illusion of Separation

We are the only species capable of denying the force in which we “live and move and have our being (Acts 17:28).”

Birds don’t wear parachutes.
Fish don’t use snorkeling gear.
Sunbeams don’t doubt the sun.

But we resist what holds us.

We think of ourselves as having a separate identity and a superior intelligence. Thus, we have invented systems that make us think we’re in charge. We have created rules to override relationship and systems of control to reject trust.

They are all illusions.

When Religion Forgets Mercy

Many people today cling to systems created according to man-made laws—external behaviors, rigid traditions, and spiritual elitism—just like the Pharisees in Jesus’ time. Jesus challenged that directly. He said, “You nullify the Word of God for the sake of your tradition” (Matthew 15:6).

The Pharisees accused him of abolishing the Law. No. He was restoring the Law: Love, Mercy, and Truth. These things were painfully absent from their made-up laws, and the result was suffering.

The same is true in today’s world. 

What Happens When We Build On Sand?

If Divine Intelligence is Law—and that Law is Eternal—and if what’s created in harmony with it shares in that Eternity … then what must happen to the illusions man created to deny and reject it?

Imagine a dam built long ago—a dam built by human fear — a dam built to hold back the waters of vulnerability, mystery, and surrender. Brick by brick, we stacked beliefs:

“I must earn love.”
“I must control everything.”
“I must prove my worth.”

For a while, it worked. The dam held. But over time, the pressure kept building, leading to the inevitable collapse.

We all sense the impending deluge. We fear the water behind the dam. We think it’s chaos—but it’s actually grace. It’s the flow of divine rhythm, the current of unconditional support.

The breaking isn’t wrath—it’s mercy.
The collapse isn’t destruction—
it’s restoration.
The flood isn’t meant to drown us—
it’s meant to carry us home.

Not because we’re being punished.
But because we’re being saved.
Saved because we are loved.

The Mercy in the Undoing

Another one of my favorite passages from the New Testament is the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32).

A father has two sons. One day, the younger son demands his share of the inheritance—essentially saying, “I want what’s mine now. I’m done with this family.” The father gives it to him, no questions asked.

The son leaves home and squanders everything—his money, his dignity, his relationships—in reckless living. Eventually, he’s broke, starving, and working in a pigsty, wishing he could eat the pigs’ food.

That’s when he “comes to himself.”

He decides to go home—not as a son, but as a servant. He rehearses his apology, expecting rejection or punishment. But while he’s still far off, his father sees him. And runs.

He doesn’t wait for an apology. He doesn’t demand repentance. He throws his arms around his son, weeps with joy, and throws a feast. “My son was dead and is alive again. He was lost and is found.”

Meanwhile, the older brother—who stayed home, followed the rules, and never asked for anything—is furious. “I’ve been loyal, and you never threw me a party. But this reckless son gets the royal treatment?”

The father gently reminds him: “You are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate—your brother came home.”

The younger son’s undoing—his collapse, his shame, his return—isn’t met with judgment. It’s met with mercy. The father doesn’t say, “You messed up, now earn your way back.”

He says, “You’re mine. You were always mine. Welcome home.”

And the older son? He’s a mirror for those who cling to performance and rewards.  He’s in the house, but not in the heart. Even so, the father loves them both.

The Great Undoing is Collective

If Divine Intelligence is the Law that sustains Life—unifying, loving, and eternal—then anything built in opposition to that Law is unsustainable.

Just as the younger son built a life of unholiness—reckless, defiant, and disconnected from the rhythm of grace— we, too, have built systems that reflect an unholy life:

Caste systems that rank human worth. 
Economic models that reward exploitation. 
Religious hierarchies that gatekeep grace. 
Governments that disguise control as care.

These reflect the illusion
that we are not already held.
They are systems built on sand.
And so, they are crumbling.

This is the Great Undoing.
Not the end of the world,
but the end of the illusion.

The Most Radical Act of Resistance

The most powerful thing we can do—the most radical act of resistance—is to choose alignment. To live in harmony with the Intelligence that sustains Life. To embody the Law Jesus restored: Love, Mercy, and Truth.

Because alignment creates a ripple. One soul in resonance with grace sends waves through the collective. And the more who align, the more who follow. Not because they’re forced— but because they’re drawn to the rhythm.

The rhythm they forgot they belonged to.
The breath they were given but have tried to regulate.

So let the illusions fall.
Let the scaffolding give way.
Let the flood come.

Because what’s rising is not destruction.
It’s the Kingdom Jesus spoke of.
Where the last are first.
Where the poor are blessed.
Where love is the only law.

And if you’re wondering what to do …
Start with alignment.
Start with trust.
Start with the rhythm.
The Love that never stopped holding us.

Benediction for the Great Undoing

May the false foundations fall away.
May the flood of grace rise without fear.
May you remember the rhythm into which you were born—
And rest in the Love
That never asked you to earn it.

Next Post: Ego on Parade