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 alone; He was inviting 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 an interior arrival, not a geographic one. What was once spoken in the language of land must now be understood in the language of consciousness.
The promise was never about where humanity would live, but how deeply humanity would know God.
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.
When celestial history, family lineage, tradition, or social belonging become the basis for believing we know God, we have not yet entered the contemplative walk beyond face-value thinking. 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.
Lower earthly energy in the thought system gives rise to ego and satan together. Not as beings, but as structures of 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.
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, or comparison but on depth itself.
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 gives us a way to believe we are near God without asking us to deepen. Depth, by contrast, requires surrender, an inward reorientation that loosens our attachment to form, identity, and inherited meaning.
We never developed the inner muscle to know God as our mother, father, brother, and sister. Instead, we accepted family as a closed idea, mistakenly defined by blood and form, and stopped there. We did not learn to carry Spirit with us beyond what is visible. We were not taught to see the invisible world living alongside this one, shaping us quietly from within.
So we look in the mirror and do not recognize Spirit. What we call faith often protects us from encounter. True knowing asks more: a willingness to loosen our grip on form, to deepen our light in His, and to let Spirit become 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. 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 identities 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, 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 live within.
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
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 was never dependent on religion to exist. 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 often 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 lived God’s will carried 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.
Holiness is not what we declare sacred.
It is what remains when nothing else can be leaned on.