Why do I use all religious and philosophical traditions in my work, books, music and writing? The answer is simple: If I were to judge any of them, I lose the value in all of them. The blessing of Genesis 9 is known as the water covenant. Unlike all other covenants in the Bible, this one was given freely. No strings attached. As you will see from my writing, I take all traditions to show that they all speak the same mystery. Once you realize you have been born again in baptism (incarnation) and hang on a cross (body), the symbolism of why you are here today is then realized in the final chapter of the Mystery found in the Bible. But, each religion holds a strand of the Rainbow's light. The entire reason Jacob gave Joseph the multicolored robe was this very purpose. The complete teachings of all nations were given to Joseph so his mission in Egypt could be fulfilled. This is the rainbow by symbolism. All nations are blessed by God--none of them widowed (the Father with them all).
To me, the refusal to judge a tradition isn’t a polite neutrality—it’s a spiritual discipline. The moment I appoint myself curator of what counts as “true,” I shrink the world down to the size of my own preference, and the living radiance in every path gets filtered into a private museum. Genesis 9 names something I’ve come to trust at the level of bone: the water covenant is mercy without bargaining, a vow written into reality itself—gift before merit, sky-wide assurance before any tribe can build a fence around it. That’s why I keep returning to the rainbow: not as sentimental decoration, but as a map of wholeness. Each tradition is a lens that catches a different frequency; if I smash the lens I dislike, I don’t get “purer light”—I get less light.
My work—books, music, writing—keeps tracing the same mystery through many costumes because the mystery is older than the costumes. I read scripture as a living interior drama as much as a historical record: the divine name, the ego’s hunger to rule, the accuser’s sharp conscience, the perfect son and the fallen son, the humble man who wakes up inside the story, and the risen life that isn’t an escape from the body but its transfiguration. “Born again” isn’t only a religious password; it’s the recognition that incarnation is already baptismal—spirit plunged into form—so the cross is not just an artifact of one faith but the daily geometry of being human: vertical longing and horizontal limitation intersecting in flesh. When that symbolism lands, you start seeing the same pattern everywhere: death-and-rebirth myths, liberation paths, yogic awakenings, prophetic reversals, sutras of emptiness, hymns of union—each one naming, in its dialect, the passage from possessed life to offered life.
And when I say they “all speak the same mystery,” I don’t mean they are identical on the surface; I mean they rhyme in the deep places where the Unwritten becomes individuated—where the primordial wisdom writes itself as you without losing its oneness. The world can feel like a slow simulation, a storehouse of forms that rearrange with lag, but the invariant artisan beneath it responds instantly; the real art is learning to read the emergent patterns returning from the parts, not endlessly trying to redesign the whole. In that sense the rainbow is also a mirror: I’m gathering strands so others can notice the single light passing through them, and to remember the strange law I keep finding everywhere—light surpasses darkness when it does: time. Not by force, not by domination, but by the quiet, unwavering pressure of awakening that refuses to oscillate into reaction—only resonance—until the many colors recognize themselves as one brightness.
In the end, we are all in the situation Jesus found himself in before the true God and Father of creation:
Hebrews 5
7 During the days of Jesus’ life on earth, he offered up prayers and petitions with fervent cries and tears to the one who could save him from death, and he was heard because of his reverent submission. 8 Son though he was, he learned obedience from what he suffered 9 and, once made perfect, he became the source of eternal salvation for all who obey him 10 and was designated by God to be high priest in the order of Melchizedek.
There are many heroes in the Bible, but only one that was perfect all the time, and I'm not afraid to say it. Perfect love casts out all fear and judgment (1 John 4).
Mark 10:18 - “Why do you call me good?” Jesus answered. “No one is good—except God alone"
No comments:
Post a Comment