The Promise Land
The idea of the Promised Land arose thousands of years ago, in a period of human consciousness vastly different from our own. It emerged in a world that did not yet understand consciousness as the ground of life, nor God as living presence rather than distant authority. That idea carried a story appropriate to its time, not to ours.
Humanity moves through consciousness in epochs. Trillions of human beings will walk the earth across different levels of awareness, each living only what their mind is capable of carrying as life. No one lives outside their level of consciousness; reality itself is scaled to what can be received.
The Promised Land, as history remembers it, became an ideology, one that sought to honor God, yet narrowed Him. It placed divine fulfillment into territory, inheritance, and separation, missing the deeper truth that God created every human being to know Him directly. God was never promising land; He was embedding a deeper knowing of Him. He was giving depth.
The true Promised Land is not a parcel of earth, nor a boundary drawn in matter. It is the depth of the Soul lived in God. It is our knowing Him. The interior is the arrival, not a geographic one. What was once spoken in the language of land must now be understood in the language of consciousness. The golden calf is the same as what Jerusalem is now.
Holiness does not exist in places, titles, or belief systems, but in the depth of consciousness willing to surrender identity and listen beyond the narrator.
The promise was never about where humanity would live, but how deeply humanity would know God. We don’t go deeper with God the more ritualistic we live towards Him. Light isn’t living through our traditions, ideas, and ways. It lies beyond them.
When celestial history, family lineage, tradition, or social belonging become the basis for believing we know God, we have not yet entered the walk towards Him. We are still relating to God through inheritance rather than encounter, through story rather than depth.
The devil’s level of life is not a distant hell or a pit of fire. It is a way of thinking formed by meaning and attachment placed in matter. The more we anchor identity in form, body, role, belief, status, righteousness, the more consciousness descends into lower earthly energy. We’re placing our self-identity in matter-making clothing, religions, and culture, knowing God.
It’s the little person’s way of trying to believe they know God because they want to know Him.
Lower earthly energy in the thought system gives rise to the ego and satan. Not as beings, but as structures in the mind. As we construct a “someone” in the world, thinking becomes relationally opposed: attack and defense, comparison and judgment. We need contrast to sustain identity, opponents to validate goodness, and narratives that position us as right, chosen, or superior.
Every religion has shaped what makes everyone else believe they are doing something with God beyond the norms of life. When in reality, every human being, regardless of the mind’s narrative, is with God. Even the atheist and the most devout polytheistic human being is deeply living through God’s light.
When we make our self identity as branded with God, we live in satan’s dream. In this state, morality becomes competitive, and righteousness becomes relative. God is no longer lived as presence, but used as justification. What appears spiritual is often only identity refined.
The contemplative walk begins when meaning is loosened from matter, when self is no longer defended, and when knowing God no longer depends on story, lineage, family, community, or comparison but on depth alone.
It was recorded while filming the 2024 Eclipse.
Hear God say, “Give Love, Love.”
The Arc of Depth vs. Idealogy
Ideology offers comfort without transformation. It allows us to believe we are near God while remaining structurally unchanged. It soothes the conscience without refining the interior. It gives language in place of surrender, agreement in place of alteration.
Depth is not interested in agreement. Depth requires reconstitution.
It demands an inward reorientation that loosens attachment to form, identity, and inherited meaning. It dismantles the scaffolding of the familiar. It asks that what we have called “self” yield its claim to permanence.
There is no social acceptance for the individual who walks out of the world toward God. The call is solitary. It does not move by family approval, cultural reinforcement, or institutional affirmation. The one who walks toward God walks beyond the definitions that once secured them.
We have refined our knowledge of God into systems and institutions, but we have not cultivated the inner muscle required to know Him as living presence. We do not develop the capacity to know God as mother, father, brother, and sister, as the living field of relationship itself. Instead, we preserve family as a closed structure, defined by blood and form, and we stop there.
We are not taught to see beyond the visible. We are not trained to recognize the invisible world that lives alongside this one, shaping us quietly from within. And so we look in the mirror and fail to recognize Spirit.
What we call faith often protects us from encounter. It shields us from dissolution. It allows devotion without surrender.
True knowing asks more.
It asks that we loosen our grip on form. That we allow identity to soften. That we let our light deepen in His until Spirit becomes more real than the world we see.
We want God to answer on demand, yet we have not cultivated the depth required to live near Him. We want revelation without reordering. We want nearness without refinement.
It is easier to build the idea of living with God than to acquire the substance of it.
Ideology asks only for agreement.
Depth asks for transformation.
This is how the golden calf persists, not as an ancient idol, but as a pattern of consciousness. We construct beliefs, rituals, traditions, and moral positions that reassure us we are aligned with God, while leaving our inner structure untouched. The golden calf allows us to feel faithful without becoming different.
Ideology preserves the self.
Depth dissolves it.
Where ideology organizes meaning around form, family, lineage, doctrine, and moral positioning, depth draws meaning out of the invisible. It shifts knowing away from story and into presence. In depth, God is no longer something we explain, defend, or invoke, but Someone we inhabit.
The contemplative walk begins when we stop mistaking familiarity for faith. When we loosen meaning from matter. When we allow our light to deepen rather than our identity to harden. Only then does God cease to be an idea we manage and become the living Presence we are willing to approach.
Holy
Holy is a word placed for meaning by the observer. We harvested many ideas of “holy” to soothe the ego and satan’s wish of being something good with God. We’re developing satan the more self-identity is near it.
Jerusalem does not live outside the narrator. It carries nothing beyond the perspective of the one who beholds it. No place is holy apart from the consciousness that encounters it. Meaning does not reside in geography, history, or symbol; it lives where awareness receives it.
God does not walk in religion, nor does He confine Himself to one department of life. He moves through all of it, every culture, every psyche, every condition of belief. He is present in the devout and the doubtful, in the polytheistic and the atheist alike. God is not withheld by ideology, nor granted by correctness.
People live largely by mainstream ideas, by inherited stories, roles, and structures that shape what they believe life to be. But beneath these surface frameworks, what lives in the Soul is divine. That divinity is not earned, taught, or approved. It is already placed.
The contemplative walk does not begin by adopting better beliefs, but by turning inward toward what is already alive. When the noise of identity and ideology quiets, the Soul reveals a knowing that never knew a religion. God does not need to be found; He needs to be listened to.
What changes is not God’s presence, but our willingness to let it speak beyond the narrator.
Holy, as the world understands it, is an idea, an identity formed by placing God into matter through meaning, status, and self-definition. It becomes something we are rather than a life we surrender to.
Holiness is not a location, a title, or a condition bestowed by another. It is not felt as elevation or specialness. If it has any felt quality, it is surrender the quiet walk no one else sees, where every idea of self and society is slowly unraveled for God’s will to move freely.
Moses was not holy because he stood above others. He was tethered bound inwardly to God, living arduously with his own shadows, acquiring substance through obedience. His life was not easier for it. It was heavier, lonelier, and more demanding. Those around him did not feel comfort; they felt disruption.
No one who truly lives God’s will carries a sense of being “holy.” Not Moses. Not the prophets. Not the Apostles. They lived obedience, not identity. And obedience made them misunderstood, resisted, and often rejected. Holiness, when lived, does not flatter the world; it unsettles it.
God’s way is not ours. In every period of human consciousness, those who walk closest with Him tend to live opposite the prevailing order, quietly moving humanity into new directions with God often without recognition, and always with depth.
Golden Calf
When the Israelites grew impatient waiting for Moses to return from the mountain, they asked Aaron to build a golden calf. They wanted something tangible, something they could see, touch, and worship through the senses. They wanted reassurance without depth, presence without surrender.
The golden calf was never about idolatry alone. It was about impatience with the invisible. An unwillingness to stay with God when He could not be managed, seen, or controlled. That pattern has never left us.
We still call things holy that make us feel secure. We still bless what can be touched, named, inherited, or defended. But God does not live where holiness is claimed. He lives where the seeker is willing to lose identity, comfort, and certainty to walk with Him unseen.
The golden calf was never merely a statue. It was consciousness demanding something visible to worship something graspable, defensible, ownable. It was the impulse to localize God into form so the self could remain intact.
That pattern has not disappeared.
Jerusalem, too, is the golden calf.
We’re shaping anything we can to claim God by instead of the individual losing their lives to gain them in God, and that’s not martyrdom. It is the transcendence of consciousness beyond every boundary we have mistaken for truth, beyond walls, doctrines, inherited definitions, and the human need to secure God inside matter. It is the cleansing of the mind from its attachment to self-identity in form.
The belief that holiness is concentrated in a particular place is satan. The conviction that territory secures divine favor. The golden calf has simply taken architectural form.
All three major religions born of Abraham carry this idea. Each proclaims one God beyond form, yet each has, at times, anchored holiness into particular land, lineage, or doctrine. Each has guarded territory as if proximity to soil could guarantee proximity to God.
But God was never promising land. He was offering depth.
No place is holy apart from the consciousness that encounters it. Jerusalem does not live outside the narrator. It carries nothing beyond the awareness that beholds it. Meaning does not reside in geography, history, or symbol; it lives where perception deepens.
The adversarial impulse, what has been called satan, is not merely rebellion against God. It is the preservation of self through sacred form. It is the desire to be righteous without being dissolved. It is identity enthroned beneath the banner of holiness.
God does not dwell in religion as an institution. He is not housed in a temple, mosque, or church. He is not secured by doctrinal precision, nor withheld by doubt. He moves through every culture, every psyche, every condition of belief.
He is present in the devout and the doubtful.
In the believer and the skeptic.
In the one who prays and the one who refuses prayer.
God is not granted by correctness.
He is not confined by territory.
He is not defended by inheritance.
Holiness is not a place we defend.
It is a depth we enter.
The land was never the promise.
Consciousness was.
And what is holy is not where God lives
but where consciousness has yielded enough for Him to be known.