So, We Were Created in Whose Image?

From the unpublished book–

The Electrician’s Guide To Our Galaxy–Living On Life’s Widest Frequency

Definition– tulpa – a sentient imaginary companion created through meditative practice: 

Exploring the Intersection of Voluntary and Involuntary Psychological Processes

What if the voices we hear—whether from a place of trauma or devotion—carry messages we ought to honor, not just diagnose? What if the phenomenon of tulpas and the internalized concepts of  God, Jesus Christ, or spirit guides are not anomalies of the psyche but profound expressions of self-help, spirituality, and identity?

The concept of a Tulpa, originating from Tibetan Buddhism, describes a seeming externalized emanation created through focused meditation and thought. Similarly, the belief that spirit guides or angels, or the Western Christian practice of internalizing the personality of Jesus Christ or the voice for God, provides believers with a moral compass, resilience, and solace through crises. These voluntary practices involve constructing a “presence” that provides guidance and insight, though many believe in their hearts that these are actual objective presences.

Such volitional processes, however, are sometimes compared to dissociative personality disorders, such as Multiple Personality Disorder (MPD) or Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID), which typically arise involuntarily in response to trauma. The latter conditions are viewed as fragmented coping mechanisms rather than intentional spiritual practices. Yet, the parallels—multiplicity of identity, creation of distinct “personas,” and their tangible impact on behavior—are striking.

The primary difference lies in agency. Voluntary processes, such as creating a Tulpa or internalizing Christ, stem from healing intent and self-guided spiritual exploration. Individuals consciously manifest these entities as tools for personal growth, morality, or strength. Trauma-induced dissociation, conversely, is involuntary and painful, characterized by a loss of control over the personas that emerge.

Mental health professionals face a nuanced challenge in navigating this distinction. Though these practices often mask intense loneliness and isolation by the practitioner, failing to recognize the intent behind certain psychological phenomena risks misdiagnosing deeply rooted spiritual practices as pathological conditions. At the same time, conflating trauma-induced dissociation with intentional practices may invalidate the genuine mental health needs of those suffering.

The narratives surrounding psychological wellness often prioritize regulatory frameworks that strip experiences of cultural, spiritual, or personal context. However, both tulpamancy and discipleship represent ways individuals process existence, morality, and belonging. For a therapist to dismiss a deeply devout individual’s connection to Christ as just “neurosi”, or “religious fanaticism” or to reduce the Tulpa to “hallucination” is to stifle the profound richness of human consciousness.

Consider the ethical implications. If Tulpas or internalized Christ-like personas provide resilience, offer a moral compass, or foster emotional growth, should they not be accommodated, perhaps even celebrated, within therapeutic frameworks as long as the client feels a need for them? Here lies an opportunity to explore significant intersections of spirituality and psychology that could redefine mental health care.

Take, for instance, an anecdote of spiritual dissociation interwoven with trauma. A visit to my first wife, Donelle, amidst a long-term psychological crisis revealed the presence of multiple personas—one embodying a six-year-old child reflecting trauma’s echo and another embodying “God,” dispensing profound, loving wisdom. The juxtaposition of these personas underscores the dual realities of spirituality and psychological fragmentation—one born from pain, another seemingly from divine inspiration.

This experience prompts key questions for mental health professionals, spirituality practitioners, and theologians alike. Is the “God persona” an active coping mechanism akin to a Tulpa, or did it emerge involuntarily as a byproduct of suffering? And how do we, as family members, friends, or professionals, honor both narratives without invalidating their significance to the individual?

Toward a More Holistic Approach

1. Distinction Through Dialogue

Family members, friends, and mental health professionals must learn to differentiate voluntary spiritual practices from symptoms of psychological illness. Open dialogue, devoid of judgment, is essential in understanding the intent and context behind these experiences.

2. Cultural Competence

The intersection of mental health and spirituality demands cultural literacy. Practitioners, family members, and friends must educate themselves on the spiritual traditions while providing care, friendship, and family support that respects these practices.

3. Collaborative Research

An open dialogue between theologians, spiritual leaders, and mental health experts can foster deeper understanding of how cultural and personal beliefs interact with psychology. Joint case studies and interdisciplinary seminars could be a good starting point.

4. Reimagining Spirituality in Therapy

Spirituality should not be classified as mere coping but as a legitimate aspect of psychological resilience and growth. Tulpas, internalized beliefs, and even “divine” personas, including angels and disembodied spirit guides, can serve as allies in therapeutic settings, guiding clients toward healing and empowerment.

The current frameworks for mental health care offer tools for recognizing disorders but often fall short in understanding the complexities of volitional spiritual practices. The phenomenon of Tulpas and the internalization of spirit guides or Christ-like personas challenges us to rethink diagnostic criteria, therapeutic approaches, and the narratives we uphold.

Mental health professionals must move beyond reductive categorizations. They must view spirituality not as a set of abstract beliefs but as a tangible, integral part of the human experience—a dimension as real and impactful as trauma itself.

We are faced with a profound opportunity. By bridging the gap between spirituality, religion, and psychology, mental health care can evolve into a discipline that truly honors the entirety of the human condition. Families and friends of those who practice forms of tulpamancy, those who internalize Jesus as an interactive image, and those who are sufferers of disassociative  personality disorder can enhance their understanding and not feel threatened by these manifestations of conscious, or unconscious, expressions of the multiple identities that are present

Now is the time to ask ourselves profound questions, to explore and expand our understanding of faith, spirituality, thought, and identity. It is time to explore the intersection of spirituality and mental health further—our insights could transform how we approach the human mind.

In a world where the lines between mind, soul, and spirit blur constantly, understanding is not just a personal or professional responsibility—it’s an act of profound humanity.  Who can say with certainty what reality truly is? Those who cling too tightly to what they think that they know can unintentionally exclude a “whisper from God” that might be experienced and revealed in the newness of each moment, no matter what or who the source may be.

So, We Were Created in Whose Image?

What does it truly mean to follow a teacher and to hang on to their words, their guidance, and their image as we seek clarity on our spiritual and personal paths? For centuries, the seeker-guide relationship—whether in therapy, spiritual teachings, or religion—has been a double-edged sword. A delicate thread connecting profound healing and transformation with the lurking danger of manipulation and dependency. It is both a bridge to liberation and, at times, a shackle that binds.

But here’s the question we dare to ask today:

Are you ready to free yourself from every image you have created—of others, of teachings, of “truth,” and of yourself?

The answer to this question characterizes the rest of this section of the book.

Therapy, at its best, relies on the creation of internal bridges. An effective therapist acts as both a mirror and a guide, carefully forming what some might call a tulpa—an inner representation of the therapist’s teachings that the client internalizes. This internal guide supports healing, allowing patients to retain the wisdom of the sessions even when the therapist is no longer present by bringing the therapist’s image back to mind.

Yet, these relationships are not without risks. A therapist who has not addressed their own wounds—who is swayed by financial reliance or emotional manipulation—can create a bond that hinders growth rather than fosters it. The patient, tangled in dependency, becomes stuck, unable to take independent steps forward.

This same dynamic exists in spiritual relationships, where the bond between guru and student mirrors that of therapist and patient. The guru’s image, reinforced through photographs, rituals, and teachings, often comforts the student. Seeing their teacher’s face can trigger warmth, a sense of safety, and even surges of awakening. But here lies the trap—the guru’s image, like the therapist’s, can become a psychological crutch rather than a gateway to self-realization. Some gurus cultivate this attachment, exploiting followers in exchange for money, devotion, and power. The spark of liberation is dimmed, buried beneath layers of worship and dependence.

Spiritual guidance must never become a business of selling healing. And yet, it all too often does. Whether it’s through the billion-dollar industries of self-help moguls (see Tony Robbins, Deepak Chopra, Eckart Tolle, and multitudes of their colleagues) or the sprawling wealth of religious institutions, the modern spiritual path has often diverged from its true intention. Instead of seeking wholeness, we create idols and fragmented images of safety—turning away from the essential teaching that lies within.

Christian doctrine, for instance, is filled with imagery and ritual meant to connect the faithful with the divine. Statues of Mary, stained glass depictions of Jesus, and reverence for the crucifix become conduits for devotion. Yet these symbols run the risk of becoming barriers rather than guides. They embody fragmented teachings—bits and pieces of interpretations that are shaped and reshaped through time, culture, and institution.

To be blunt, churches—and their leaders—often profit from perpetuating dependence. Tithing, prosperity theology, and fear-based doctrines funnel financial and emotional resources into systems that convert faith into currency. “The more you give, the more grace you’ll receive” is the mantra of unhealed greed dressed in spiritual robes.

Once a tool of inner transformation, religion often becomes an industry of power, diminishing the very essence of the teachings it emerged from. Jesus never asked His followers to worship wealth, yet prosperity gospel leaders twist His name into justification for their material excess. They have turned the question, “What would Jesus do?” into “What can I get away with?” transforming sacred teachings into tools of control.

But this isn’t only about Christianity; it is about the universal human tendency to idolize images—teachers, symbols, or beliefs—rather than embody the essence of their teachings.

If the image becomes the end goal, we reduce spirituality to mere worship. We fail to internalize the teachings and grow into our own wholeness. True spiritual awakening comes when we discard the crutches of idols and symbols, allowing the profound light of awareness within us to shine unobscured.

The human mind thrives on duality—the constant oscillation between “me” and “you,” “good” and “bad,” “teacher” and “student”, “God” and “man.” It fractures our wholeness, creating countless internal selves, archetypes, and shadow images. These fragmented selves—our inner child, the rebel, the perfectionist, the wounded protector, the devil, Buddha, Jesus, or God within—float beneath the surface of our everyday awareness. They speak to us in whispers and judgments, coloring our relationships, thoughts, and actions.

True healing is impossible until we acknowledge and integrate these fragments. Every voice, every image—the echoes of past relationships, societal roles, and neglected identities—must be woven into the conscious fabric of our being. Only then can we experience freedom from the endless projections that dictate our lives.

Religious and therapeutic images, when left unprocessed, perpetuate duality. They keep us looking outward instead of inward, seeking “someone else” to save us. But salvation—healing, wholeness—is not something to be granted. It is something to reclaim.

The path forward requires courage. It requires the willingness to question everything—every symbol, teaching, teacher, and belief you’ve held onto for comfort. The tulpa you’ve created, whether of a therapist, a guru, or a religious image, must eventually be released.

When you internalize the teaching rather than the teacher, you are no longer bound by external figures or institutions. The wisdom you seek resides fully within you. Your healing no longer depends on priests, pastors, or pricey self-help seminars. Your faith no longer relies on stained glass and sermons. You liberate yourself from the weight of duality, stepping into the boundless reality of wholeness.

This is not an easy path. But it is the only path to true freedom.

To all spiritual seekers, therapists, and healers:

• Free yourself from idols and images. Begin to see beyond the confines of symbols and external validation.
• Cultivate self-awareness. Notice where you depend on others’ teachings or approvals for your sense of worth.
• Reject manipulation and conformity. Whether in therapy, religion, or relationships, commit to standing firmly in your own truth.
• Know that you are enough. The teacher, the teaching, the student—all reside within you. You are the guide and the guided.

The industry of spirituality is booming, brimming with offerings that claim enlightenment at a cost. But true spiritual growth cannot be purchased, only cultivated within. Support education and awareness initiatives that strip away these layers of control. Empower others to recognize manipulation and reclaim their autonomy.

As seekers, advocates, and awakened beings in progress, we must prioritize education and awareness in this space to protect the vulnerable and uplift ethical guiding practices. Support awareness initiatives that empower individuals to recognize manipulation, question dependence, and demand ethical guidance.

The time has come to ask yourself, boldly and honestly:

Who are you, without the teacher?

Who are you, without the image?

The answer has been waiting all along—within you.

Free yourself.

Be Whole.

How Do We Reclaim Wholeness?

1. Awareness of Power Dynamics

Whether in therapy, spiritual guidance, or religion, examine the dynamics of power. Is your guru or therapist fostering your independence, or tying you closer to dependency under the guise of growth? Recognize when the scales of authority and financial motivation tip toward exploitation.

2. Relinquish External Idols

Question your relationship with external images, teachings, and leaders. Are they tools for your growth or crutches for comfort? Begin to internalize principles rather than idolize personalities.

3. Tend to the Inner Self

True liberation begins inward. Integrate the fragmented parts of your unconscious self through inner work—be it therapy, meditation, or quiet reflection. Look at your relationships with others and the emotions they trigger in you. 

     4.  Walk an Independent Path

No therapist, saint, guru, or prophet can walk your path for you. Their teachings may guide, but your autonomy, intuition, and spirit must lead the way. Allow their wisdom to echo, not overshadow, your truth.

Do you have the courage to dismantle the societal constructs and illusions that have shaped your identity? The teachings, the tulpas, the idols—they are all just bridges, meant only to be crossed, not carried. True liberation lies on the other side.

This is not a call to abandon learning or the bonds that uplift us. It is an urgent reminder to tread lightly in religious fundamentalist, guru-led, or therapist-driven paths, taking what serves your growth and leaving the rest. Instead of an image shaped by external molds, create an inner reality that reflects your wholeness. You are the teacher, the teaching, and the taught. Everything you seek outwardly already resides within.

When you internalize the teaching rather than the teacher, you are no longer bound by external figures or institutions. The wisdom you seek resides fully within you. Your healing no longer depends on priests, pastors, or pricey self-help seminars. Your faith no longer relies on stained glass and sermons. You liberate yourself from the weight of duality, stepping into the boundless reality of wholeness.

This is not an easy path. But it is the only path to true freedom.

You are enough.

Always have been.

Always will be.

Insights on Consciousness: Voices, Silence, and the Evolution of Inner Awareness

What does it mean to hear a voice from within? To feel the presence of something greater—sometimes comforting, sometimes unsettling—emanating from the silent corners of the mind?

My own experience has taken me from the softened threads of childhood imagination, tethered to a beloved doll, to the overwhelming and fractured lens of psychosis, and finally to a profound silence that feels, paradoxically, alive with insight. For anyone exploring the intersection of spirituality, neuroscience, and mental health, this personal narrative offers fertile ground for discovery.

When I was a child, I believed my doll, Perci, spoke to me over the telephone. It wasn’t so outlandish at the time—children often assign personalities and voices to their cherished objects. But this early phenomenon speaks to something more universal and primal within the human mind, reminiscent of reports where young children claim to hear the voice of God. Is this the byproduct of an evolving consciousness? Or is it the unfiltered access to the imagination and intuition that adulthood slowly numbs as our rational mind takes precedent?

Years later, in 1986, after using toxic street drugs I experienced a schizophrenic break. The voices I heard during this time weren’t malevolent but observers of my reality, narrating my environment. Occasionally, I even convinced myself that I could hear others’ thoughts. For anyone who has faced something similar, such moments of perception blur the line between reality and distortion, creating a crack through which profound insight or crushing fear might emerge.

Later, I experienced something that felt akin to both a spiritual awakening and neurological healing. The voices softened and then dissolved into something else—a profound internal silence. Yet, this silence was not an absence or void. It became a source of clarity, the place where intuition and spontaneous insights arise. It took me years to understand that this personal evolution mirrored aspects of Julian Jaynes’s theories on human consciousness and the bicameral mind.

Jaynes’s controversial theory proposed that early human consciousness lacked the introspective, self-aware qualities we now possess. Instead, humans heard “voices”—the commands of gods or ancestors—as auditory hallucinations stemming from the right hemisphere of the brain. Over time, as societal complexity demanded a more flexible and cohesive self-awareness, the “bicameral mind”—with its auditory hallucinated directives—evolved into our modern brain configuration of introspection and independent thought.

Does my story align with that progression? My childhood experience of a voice speaking through Perci, my schizophrenic break filled with narrated observations, and the eventual arrival at an inner silence provide a deeply personal lens through which to consider Jaynes’s work. Whether spiritual or neurological in origin, these “voices” might unlock valuable insights about our brain’s structure and its evolution.

Stepping into the nexus of spirituality, neuroscience, and mental health demands a surrender of the binaries we often lean on—consider, for example, the dichotomy of “symptom” versus “spiritual experience.” What if hearing voices, while disruptive, isn’t merely a malfunction of the brain? What if it’s also an invitation—though perhaps not a welcome one—into the landscape of the mind, an unmasking of layers of thought and perception often hidden from ordinary consciousness?

Therapists, clinicians, and spiritual seekers alike could benefit from questioning these boundaries. The modern push toward de-stigmatizing mental illness encourages us to explore how individuals can move through moments of neural or psychological disruption toward healing. My eventual inner silence might symbolize what healing looks like for some—a restoration of balance that creates space for intuition and insight to thrive. But each person’s evolution is unique; not all paths will lead to silence. Some may find their healing in active dialogue with these inner “voices,” just as others may find peace within solitude.

Consciousness, I’ve found, is more ephemeral and layered than I once imagined. It has a self-organizing principle often guided by both conscious and unconscious factors, shifting and reconfiguring, while adapting to the unfolding needs of the mind and spirit. For thought leaders,  professionals, scientists, or meditators, the implications of this fluid nature of awareness are immense.

Neuroscientists may explore the brain’s capacity to adapt following trauma or psychosis while meditation practitioners refine techniques to access internal silence—adding nuance to practices thought to “quieten the mind.” Therapists must wrestle with the construct of normalcy and whether the diffuse boundaries labeled as hallucinations and “God-experiences” might dislodge valuable insights into both trauma and transcendence.

For so much of my life, I had thought I was departing further from normalcy, flying into great distances of disconnection or delusion. What I have learned instead is this—the mind and spirit are resilient explorers. Even if they wander too close to chaos, there is always the potential for them to return, bearing treasures of insight and transformation.

Whether hearing voices, connecting to intuition, or dwelling in inner silence, we as humans are products of an extraordinary evolutionary process. It is the same process that allows us to feel broken and whole, disconnected and connected, silent, and profound.

What treasures might the “voices” or silence reveal to us if we approached them not simply as symptoms, but as part of the ongoing evolution of human consciousness? This is the question I pose to mental health practitioners, spiritual seekers, and neuroscience enthusiasts alike. And perhaps it is through this inquiry that we might all travel closer to understanding the self—and the divine whisper it occasionally hears.

The Power of Expression: A Personal Journey

Words are powerful. They can liberate us, connect us, and bring meaning to the chaos of human experience. But for much of my early life, words—though abundant within me—seemed to exist behind a veil too thick for others to hear, too conflicted for me to share freely. My path to finding and reclaiming my voice is an odyssey of repression, despair, and ultimately, liberation. It is a story that underscores how vital self-expression is not only to one’s emotional health but also to our shared sense of humanity.

By the time I was four years old, I hadn’t spoken a word. My mother, worried and baffled, sought out doctors and audiologists for an explanation, but none could provide a definitive answer. I existed in that liminal space of observation and internalization, one where the world spoke to me, and I quietly responded through imagination rather than words.

Then, suddenly, it was as if my consciousness burst into bloom. Words flowed in torrents, each one carrying vivid details about things unlikely for a child to know—like the mechanisms of a chair’s construction or the forgotten tales of abandoned houses. For me, language was a revelation, a mystical awakening that exposed the alchemy of connection. I shared words and stories with anyone who’d listen, even with my Perci doll, who seemed to whisper secrets back to me.

But school swiftly changed everything. My unrestrained enthusiasm for words and expression earned me not admiration, but isolation. Teachers scolded me for speaking out of turn; classmates found my constant chatter exhausting. The dunce chair became an all-too-familiar perch, where I sat, silenced and shamed. By first grade, even Mrs. Tozier had labeled me as the odd, hyperactive boy who talked to himself. Slowly, like a faucet turned to a trickle, I began to close off.

Self-expression, when denied or stifled, doesn’t go gently into the night. It leaves specters in its wake—shadows that manifest as anxiety, loneliness, and eventually, addiction. I know this because the suppression of my voice pushed me into a spiral of self-doubt so consuming that I sought solace in alcohol and drugs. The energy I once poured into my provisional symphony of words had turned inward, twisting into chaos and self-destruction.

Research by Dr. James Gross, a renowned psychologist, has found that expressive suppression—the act of stifling thoughts or feelings—correlates strongly with anxiety and depression. My life became a vivid case study of this truth. Silencing my voice became silencing my spirit, as though I believed what I had to say wasn’t worth hearing.

It wasn’t until my darkest hour—a failed suicide attempt at 31—that I discovered a spark still lingering within me. Despair had opened a crack wide enough for light to creep through. That moment ignited a search for something more, something meaningful and raw and true.

Through that fragile opening, I began a pilgrimage of rediscovery—a quest that, in many ways, brought me back to who I was before silence had consumed me. I encountered spiritual teachings that stripped away my fear of vulnerability. I faced those early traumas, which had encouraged me to devalue my own voice, and painstakingly worked to heal them.

Surprisingly, or perhaps inevitably, it was through language once again that I learned to rebuild my connection to the world. Words that had seemed burdensome during childhood transformed into tools for liberation. I found joy not only in expressing myself to others but also in listening—truly listening—to their stories, their truths. I saw how letting others into my inner world, and stepping into theirs, dissolved barriers that once seemed insurmountable.

My experience solidified what researchers in developmental psychology already recognize. Voice, in all its forms, shapes our identity. It gives us agency. It allows us to articulate our needs, connect with communities, and step into who we truly are. Without it, we are lost, untethered from the world and ourselves.

I am not the only one who has walked this path. Along the way, I’ve met others—writers, artists, speakers—who have similarly wrestled with the weight of suppressed voice. Their stories affirm the universal nature of this struggle. One friend lived in silence for decades in a stifling relationship before reclaiming her power through poetry. Another, a musician, grew up in a strict household where emotions were taboo, only to finally channel his words through song.

Their stories, like mine, point to a life-altering truth about expression and connection. It is not selfish to share your voice; it is necessary. Necessary for your growth and healing; necessary for the enrichment of the spaces we all share.

I wondered, for some time, if my mystical and spiritual encounters might one day astonish the world as much as they spurred my recovery. Perhaps they could serve as a lens for others to examine their own lives, a mirror that reflects both the pain we carry and the potential for growth that lies beneath it.

What I didn’t initially realize, though, was that the story itself held the power—not to teach or impose morals, but to invite others into conversation. By speaking authentically and vulnerably, I stripped away the layers of shame that once engulfed me. I began to see my voice not just as something I possessed, but as something alive, something that needed to be nurtured and shared.

And so I write not just for myself, but for you—those who have felt silenced, relegated to a metaphorical “dunce chair” in any arena of life. Whether by circumstance, societal expectations, or internal doubt, the loss of voice is a loss of self. But I am here to tell you it can be rediscovered.

Start small. Write a journal entry, even if no one else reads it. Call a friend and share exactly what’s on your mind. Find safe spaces to experiment with your voice, whether in writing groups, therapy sessions, or community discussions. Each word will feel like a droplet, but together they will become the river that carries you toward reconnection.

Expression is the thread that weaves us into the collective fabric of humanity. Without it, we unravel. But with it, we find ourselves and each other.

The question then is not whether you have something worth saying. It’s whether you’re ready to honor what’s been waiting to be said all along.

By some measures I may be the least read writer in the US, based upon my huge volume of work and the extremely limited number of readers. I am not deterred, for I am healed and whole, and becoming willing to express myself is a natural part of that miracle,

I am now a writer, after all.

The Power of the Word and Its Esoteric Significance

Words are more than just symbols that represent objects in our sensory universe. They hold a profound and esoteric power, acting as bridges that connect our subjective and objective worlds. Understanding the real essence of words, particularly in the context of spiritual and emotional realms, can offer unparalleled insights into human consciousness and our connection with the divine. Let’s explores the significance of words, especially the “word of God,” and how our naming nature bridges the gap between the silence of creation and our conscious minds.

Words serve as mediators between the knower and the known, providing a bridge that closes the gap in our consciousness. In the absence of words, there is merely awareness—sensory and bodily feedback that lacks specific delineation. However, words imbue this raw awareness with meaning, transforming it into a comprehensible structure. This process illustrates how words connect us to the world and even to ourselves through non-sensory inputs.

Imagine standing on the shore of a vast ocean. Your senses take in the sights, sounds, and smells, but it is the word “ocean” that encapsulates this experience and connects the physical reality to your conscious mind. Similarly, in the realm of emotions and spirituality, words like “love,” “fear,” and “enlightenment” provide a framework to understand and communicate complex internal experiences.

The concept of the “word of God” introduces a profound question—if God is always connected with us, why are divine words necessary? Assuming God embodies the nameless silence of creation at our core, the necessity of words may seem paradoxical. However, our innate tendency to name and categorize acts as a bridge that connects this divine silence to our conscious minds.

In religious texts, the “word of God” serves as a conduit through which divine wisdom and guidance are conveyed to humanity. These words, though spoken or written, are meant to direct us inward, reflecting the silence and stillness of our divine center. They are not merely commandments or teachings but are symbolic representations pointing back to the source of creation within us.

Our intrinsic nature to name and define is a powerful tool that bridges the silence of creation and our conscious awareness. This naming process transforms abstract, formless experiences into tangible concepts that can be communicated and understood. It is through this act of naming that we can comprehend the ineffable and integrate it into our conscious reality.

Consider the word “Hod” in the Kabbalistic tradition. “Hod” represents splendor and majesty, embodying both the symbolic and esoteric power of words. It signifies the acknowledgment and expression of beauty and glory in the world, linking the divine attributes to human perception. In this way, “Hod” serves as a bridge that connects the spiritual and material realms, enhancing our understanding and appreciation of both.

The power of words extends beyond their literal meanings, serving as bridges in consciousness that connect the subjective and objective worlds. They enable us to understand and convey complex experiences and emotions, linking us to ourselves, each other, and the divine. The “word of God” exemplifies this bridging function, directing us inward to the silent core of creation within us.

In recognizing the esoteric significance of words, we can appreciate their role in shaping our consciousness and enhancing our spiritual growth. By understanding and harnessing the power of words, we can deepen our connection to the world and ourselves, embarking on a path of self-discovery and enlightenment.

If you have insights or thoughts on this topic, I encourage you to engage in the conversation. Let’s explore the profound power of words together.

Creating a Consciousness of the Divine: A Journey of Spiritual Programming

What if reaching for the divine—whether God, Jesus, or a spiritual essence to emulate—was not a matter of blind faith or religious doctrine but a deliberate act of mental programming? Consider this for a moment. The process by which we mold our consciousness to align with a higher ideal often mirrors the methodology found in neuro-linguistic programming (NLP). This isn’t about reducing spirituality to mere psychological manipulation; rather, it’s about drawing a parallel to understand how human cognition can tether itself to something transcendent.

At its core, NLP is a method for shaping thought patterns. It reshapes perception, rewires mental habits, and essentially creates reality as one chooses to see it. Similarly, spiritual pursuits—guided by religious texts, meditative traditions, or personal reflection—seek to reframe how we see the world, ourselves, and the divine presence inhabiting all things. Both converge on transforming thought to achieve profound internal and external change.

Think of prayer, mantras, or any meditative practice. These acts are repetitive by nature and ritualistic in design, much like the affirmations central to NLP. Every whispered “Our Father” or recited sutra is a script—an intentional formation of words meant to reshape the spirit. But why do we repeat these phrases? Not for tradition’s sake alone, but to mold our thought processes, to engrain beliefs, and to sculpt a consciousness that mirrors the divine standards we aspire to.

Take for example the teachings of Jesus. His parables, lessons, and humble actions are consistently heralded as blueprints for living a life of compassion, forgiveness, and service. Followers of Christ are taught not merely to admire these principles but to become them. Over time, through reflection on scripture and deliberate actions, the ideal becomes their compass. Is this not programming? Is this not the rewiring of thought and behavior to achieve an exalted state of being?

NLP works similarly. It suggests that by rewriting our mental scripts—overriding the limiting narratives we internalize—we can transform. Language, visualization, and repetition hold the keys to manifesting this transformation, aligning our “program” with the goals we desire. What NLP refers to as reframing, spirituality might call enlightenment, surrender, or attunement. Different terminology, same path—a shift in perception to align closer to truth.

Herein lies the crux of the matter: to create a consciousness aligned with truth or divinity, one must engage in an intentional reprogramming of the mind. Call it grace; call it focus. The principles remain steady across both psychological and spiritual disciplines.

For the spiritually inclined, the process is both deeply personal and expansive. When you seek to emulate God or envision yourself in alignment with a revered spiritual figure, you shift your energies toward an ideal greater than the self. This looks remarkably similar to the NLP practice of visualization, which urges individuals to mentally “step into” the future version of themselves—the version that acts, thinks, and feels aligned with their goals. Just as one using NLP repeatedly imagines their ideal state until it becomes their truth, a devotee may focus their prayers, meditations, and daily actions to embody divine virtues.

However, it is not merely belief or imagination that solidifies this consciousness of truth. It’s the habitual actions—consistent patterns of kindness, compassion, or contemplation—that reinforce the script. Neuroscience shows us that repetition strengthens synaptic pathways in the brain, hardwiring desired behaviors over time. What we do, we become. Thus, the repetition of spiritual practices crafts a mental and spiritual muscle memory that pulls us closer to divinity in both thought and deed.

Critics might argue that to connect NLP and spirituality risks reducing sacred pursuits to secular mechanics. I would argue the opposite. Recognizing that cognitive science and spirituality align in how we shape our inner lives only serves to enhance the sanctity of the process. It reveals something profound about the human experience—our ability to consciously evolve, constantly reach for something transcendent, and restructure our minds to reflect eternal truth.

If the goal of NLP is to regain cognitive mastery, the goal of spirituality is to return to unity with the divine. But these paths are not mutually exclusive. Both are sacred explorations of what it means to reshape the lens through which we view reality. Whether you are scrolling through affirmations or flipping the pages of religious scripture, you are engaging in the profound human act of self-transformation.

The first step to creating divine consciousness—whether through NLP methods, spiritual practices, or a synthesis of both—is acknowledging that the mind is malleable. The shackles of limiting beliefs, fear, and disconnection are not permanent. They are structures we can reprogram, break apart, and release.

When you commit to aligning with God, Jesus, or your ideal spiritual figure, understand that this path is an ongoing process of neuro-spiritual evolution. You will slip, of course; the human tendency to revert to old habits is universal. But the practices themselves—whether meditative surrender or writing NLP reframes—will always welcome your return, coaxing you back toward the steady creation of divine truth within your mind.

Ultimately, the act of creating divine consciousness invites a profound question. What will your mind be shaped toward? Will it reflect fear or truth, doubt or faith, disconnection or communion? The answer rests within your ability to consciously and consistently choose how you think and who you wish to become.

We are, after all, creatures of programming. But unlike machines, we possess the unparalleled gift of awareness, choice, and love. Whether you call it prayer or practice, NLP or surrender, the path to crafting a version of divine consciousness is one of self-awareness, intentionality, and awe. It is the process of becoming that which we revere.

Yet, that is not the most sacred act of all.

We have one final step to take,

When the Divine Disappears: Facing Truth Without an Image

What happens when every concept you’ve clung to—every image, every practice, and every notion of the Divine—vanishes? What is left when even your most profound understanding of God dissolves into silence?

Mystics and poets across time offer us glimpses into this unsettling yet illuminating juncture. It is not the endpoint of spiritual exploration but the ultimate beginning, the moment when duality ceases, and you stand face to face with the unfiltered reality of Oneness. This experience—the disappearance of the Divine as we know it—is both a loss and a liberation. To see life through a non-image-laden mind is to face the essence of truth itself, stripped of safety nets, identity, and conceptual support.

Throughout our spiritual journeys, we craft relationships with the Divine, often using images, rituals, and ideas as bridges to transcendence. Practices like “Practicing the Presence,” as Joel Goldsmith articulated, guide us into deeper alignment with an unseen truth. Yet, these practices inherently rely on constructs—carefully shaped conceptions of what the Divine might be. Such constructs are powerful tools, but they are ultimately tools nonetheless.

At some point, however, there emerges a call to transcend even these. To achieve alignment with ultimate truth, we must relinquish the scaffolding we’ve so lovingly built. Why? Because any image we hold of the Divine is, in its essence, a reflection of the dualistic mind—a separation of the knower from the known. A mind layered with imagery cannot fully behold truth. To see clearly, we must see without prejudice, without expectation, and without form.

Mystics have long warned us against attachment to images, no matter how sacred they may appear to be. Take the telling words of a mystic who exclaimed upon realization, “Thou hast taken my Lord away from me.” It is a lament and awakening—a simultaneous grieving of perceived loss and a reframing of reality. What disappears is comforting, yes, but what remains is unfiltered Oneness.

In John 16:7 Jesus of Nazareth stated quite clearly “If I go not away, the Comforter will not come to you.”  If you have “ears to hear” it is obvious what the process is that Jesus is referring to.

This transition often feels like abandonment. Without the concepts of God or the Divine, practitioners may describe the experience as being utterly alone. Unlike the reassuring duality of “I and Thou,” this realization leaves no separation to lean on.

For most, this solitude feels like disconnection. But mystics and poets remind us that it is not abandonment—it is union. The perceived aloneness underscores that we are not isolated fragments in a chaotic universe but part of an interconnected, indivisible whole. The pain arises from relinquishing the illusion of duality. And yet, with that relinquishment comes clarity, peace, and an understanding that being “all alone” is the same as being “all-one.”

Rainer Maria Rilke, the German poet, captured this paradox eloquently when he said, “For here there is no place that does not see you. You must change your life.” To stand fully exposed in the face of truth—without an intermediary, without preconceptions—is not to disappear but to be seen completely, to merge with all that is.

At the heart of this profound transformation lies the suspension of duality. Duality—the mind’s tendency to split the world into opposites, to see self and other, subject and object—is the lens through which we operate in the material world. It is also the barrier to understanding spiritual oneness.

When mystics speak of moments of realization, they describe a state where this barrier dissolves. Time and space, self and other, right and wrong—these constructs fall away. What is left is a boundless unity, a state where distinctions cease, and all is intimately interconnected.

Such moments are not limited to mystics. We catch glimpses of this Oneness in moments of deep meditation, profound love, or connection to nature. But sustaining this understanding—living through a non-image-laden mind—is a rare and challenging gift.

Historical accounts of mystics across cultures echo these themes, offering a roadmap for those willing to undertake this spiritual unraveling.

Take Meister Eckhart, the 13th-century Christian mystic, who spoke of the “God beyond God.” For Eckhart, the ultimate truth could not be understood or captured through the images or ideas of God we hold. He urged his followers to “be silent and quiet before the Lord and content your minds with Him alone.”

Similarly, the Sufi poet Rumi often referred to the dissolution of self in the presence of divine truth. “I have put duality away,” he wrote. “I have seen the two worlds as one; one I seek, one I know, one I see, one I call.”

These accounts are not only poetic—they serve as signposts for our own spiritual journeys. They remind us of the inevitability of this transition and the profound liberation that awaits on the other side.

To those on a spiritual path, these ideas may feel both intimidating and inspiring. The prospect of letting go of all preconceived notions—of willingly stepping into the unknown—may feel like a loss. But what is gained is extraordinary.

Through reflective meditation, you can begin to meet this concept firsthand. Question the images you hold of the Divine. What are they rooted in? Who created them? What lies beyond them? Sit with the uncomfortable truth that these images, as beautiful as they may be, are not the ultimate reality.

When you feel the pang of disconnection, reframe it. Remind yourself that this “aloneness” is an invitation to discovery. It is a shedding of old stories, old boundaries, and old fears. Beyond it lies not nothingness, but everything.

The mystics and poets who charted this path before us didn’t do so to hoard wisdom but to guide us. Their words resonate not as commandments but as whispers, urging us to look deeper, think wider, and dare to see the world without filters.

This is your invitation to join them. Take time today to reflect, meditate, and unravel the images that may be holding you back from ultimate truth.

What does your concept of the Divine look like? And who might you become if it disappeared?

The answers, or perhaps the questions, may change everything.

Reflect deeply.

There’s an entire universe waiting to be seen.