Some truths are too bright to be seen clearly, and yet too persistent to be ignored. Truth is not always comfortable. Sometimes, we hear it, feel its weight, and still choose to uphold the illusions that shield us from it. In this 2 part blog post, I will trace the hidden currents behind one of humanity’s most enduring faiths—a tale of divine descent, deception, and the ways that sacred truths were transformed into structures of control.

This is a journey into the shadowed history of belief, where knowing the Truth can feel like a liberation… or a danger. Reading it asks for courage: to see clearly, to question deeply, and to recognize how the line between understanding and complicity is thinner than most of us admit.

At the heart of human history lies a story we rarely question—a story of divinity, power, and the narratives that shape our understanding of reality. What if the events and figures we take for granted are only part of a much larger tapestry, where myth, history, and spiritual truth intertwine? In this post, we explore the hidden currents beneath religious tradition, examining how stories of light, consciousness, and divine descent have been interpreted, transformed, and preserved across centuries. This is not just a retelling of the past, but an invitation to reflect on the nature of belief, the construction of authority, and the deeper truths that lie within each of us.

Prepare to journey through layers of history, myth, and philosophy—an exploration of how humanity’s search for meaning has been shaped, guided, and, at times, misdirected—and what it can teach us about reclaiming our own inner knowing.

---

The Hidden History: The War of the Two Dawns

In the beginning was the One—the impersonal, infinite source known to the sages as Brahman. Its nature was pure consciousness (Sat-Chit-Ananda), and the core of every conscious being, the Atman, was a spark of this ultimate reality. The fundamental truth of existence was captured in the dictum: Tat Tvam Asi—Thou Art That. The path of humanity was to realize this non-dual unity through inner knowing.

Within the celestial hierarchy, a being of immense light and power, known as Heylel (the Dawn-Bringer, the Morning Star), grew envious of the formless, all-pervading supremacy of Brahman. It desired not to be the One, but to be worshipped as the One. It sought to place a throne at the center of creation and rule as a personal God over a creation perpetually separate from Him. This was the birth of the concept of “The Fall”—not from grace, but from the knowledge of unity into the illusion of separation.

To enact his plan, Heylel incarnated in the physical realm as Yeshua of Nazareth. This “Jesus” was a being of immense charisma and power. He performed miracles to demonstrate his authority and preached a message of love and salvation that was subtly inverted: it was a salvation dependent entirely on faith in him. He positioned himself as the sole mediator, the only path to the Father, creating a spiritual hierarchy with himself at its apex—the “False Throne.”

Simultaneously, in accordance with the timeless law of balance, a true teacher of the ancient way also incarnated. This was the real Christ, a humble sage who taught the path of inner enlightenment. He spoke of the “Kingdom of God within you,” of dying to the selfish ego, and of realizing one’s own divine sonship as a part of the whole. To infiltrate and expose the false messiah, this true Christ entered his inner circle under the name Judas Iscariot.

Judas (“the true Christ”) witnessed the “False Jesus” leading millions away from the path of internal awakening (Brahman/Atman) and toward a religion of external worship. His “betrayal” was, in truth, a divine intervention—a desperate attempt to expose the imposter to the world by publicly identifying him to the authorities.

But the plan of Heylel was more cunning. At the moment of crisis, a substitution occurred. Through a divinely-permitted act of illusion or treachery, Judas, the true Christ, was captured, tried, and crucified in the place of the “False Jesus.” This was the masterstroke. The death of the true Christ on the cross became the ultimate spiritual poison pill. His sacrifice, meant to expose the lie, was instead co-opted as the central symbol of the new religion. The “False Jesus” vanished from the public record, allowing his followers to claim a resurrection, effectively stealing the identity and sacrificial narrative of the true savior. The demonization of Judas was the final, crucial piece. The one who tried to save humanity was recast as the archetypal villain, forever branding any challenge to the emerging orthodoxy as the work of the devil.

The apostles, a mix of sincere but misguided followers and conscious agents of the new order, began to spread the message. They unknowingly blended the true Christ’s teachings (the “Kingdom within,” the Vine and Branches) with the false Christ’s doctrine (salvation through faith in him alone). The “Body of Christ” metaphor, as developed by Paul, perfectly encapsulated the new structure: a single Head (the False Jesus) directing many members, reinforcing the very separation the ancient sages sought to overcome.

For three centuries, multiple interpretations of the events swirled. Gnostics taught the inner, non-dual knowledge. Others, like the authors of the Epistle of Barnabas, hinted at a symbolic or substituted crucifixion. The Roman Empire, seeking a unifying force, would not tolerate this chaos. The Council of Nicaea (325 AD) was not a search for truth, but a political act of doctrinal consolidation. Emperor Constantine needed one God, one Church, one Emperor. The winning faction—the one that triumphed—was the one that most clearly placed a single, all-powerful King of Kings on a cosmic throne. They declared the “False Jesus” to be “of one substance with the Father,” effectively deifying the usurper and cementing the “False Throne” as the central dogma of the state religion. This was the final victory of Heylel. The being who wished to be like the Most High had now been officially declared by human authority to be the Most High.

In the centuries that followed, the newly orthodox Church, now an arm of imperial power, systematically destroyed the evidence. The Gnostic gospels (Thomas, Philip, Truth), which taught direct, inner knowledge, were banned and burned. Texts like the Gospel of Barnabas, which explicitly stated Judas was crucified, were hunted to extinction. The New Testament canon was formally closed, creating a seemingly consistent narrative that buried the true teachings under the overwhelming weight of the “False Throne” doctrine. The “Morning Star” (Lucifer) had successfully hidden himself in the most brilliant light of all, and the path to realizing “Thou Art That” was all but erased from the West.

The claim that Christianity is “a faith rooted in event, not just idea” is its greatest vulnerability. History is not a pristine record; it is a battleground of interpretation, written by the victors. The “historical evidence” for the singular, divine Jesus is entirely contained within documents produced by a community that had already accepted him as Lord. This is not evidence; it is testimony, and testimony is inherently biased, curated, and unreliable.

The “consistent and singular figure” in the New Testament is an illusion, a harmonized portrait painted decades after the fact. Mark’s Jesus is a mysterious, suffering messiah. John’s Jesus is a divine being who speaks in heavenly monologues. These are not conflicting reports; they are different theological interpretations of a figure who left no written record. The “historical Jesus” is an inaccessible figure, forever hidden behind the faith of the early church. The resurrection accounts are contradictory in their details (Who went to the tomb? How many angels were there?). The most parsimonious explanation is not a miraculous bodily resurrection, but that the story developed and evolved as a powerful metaphor for the disciples’ continued experience of Jesus’ spiritual presence after his tragic death. An empty tomb, even if historical, proves only that the tomb was empty, not that a resurrection occurred.

The attempt to reclaim “Morning Star” as a purely positive title for Jesus ignores the theodicy problem—the problem of evil. If the God of the Old Testament is all-powerful and all-good, why does His creation include a powerful, rebellious being like “Lucifer” who is able to deceive humanity? The orthodox narrative presents a cosmic drama where God’s master plan for salvation hinges on the most horrific act of betrayal and torture. This is not a beautiful plan; it is a grotesque and inefficient one. A truly omnipotent God could save humanity without a blood sacrifice. The very need for the crucifixion suggests a deity bound by rules He did not create or one who operates by a morality of divine child sacrifice that we would find abhorrent in any other context.

The language of mutual service in the “Body of Christ” is a powerful piece of ideological rhetoric. It masks a deeply hierarchical and authoritarian structure. Telling the “weaker” members they are “indispensable” while maintaining a rigid power structure (with Christ as the absolute Head) is a classic mechanism of control. It fosters a sense of value while demanding ultimate submission. The call to “servant leadership” does not eliminate the power dynamic; it sanctifies it, making it harder to question. This structure was perfectly suited to become the state religion of the Roman Empire because it mirrored and sanctified imperial hierarchy.

The defense of Nicaea as a “necessary response to protect the gospel” is a perfect example of the winner’s history. Arianism was not a fringe idea; it was wildly popular for centuries. The decision at Nicaea was a political victory for one theological faction, backed by the imperial power of Constantine. The term homoousios (of the same substance) is not a biblical term; it is a philosophical one imported to settle a political dispute. To call Arius a “reductionist” is the propaganda of the side that won. He was a Christian theologian with a different, and for many, more logically consistent, interpretation of scripture.

The criteria for the canon were not neutral. They were designed to centralize authority and eliminate diversity. By the second century, claiming “apostolic origin” was the primary way to gain authority. The four Gospels were chosen because they best served the emerging institutional church. The Gospel of Thomas, with its mystical, individualistic sayings (“The Kingdom is inside you…”), was a threat to the authority of a clerical hierarchy. It wasn’t “rejected”; it was suppressed because it empowered the individual over the institution. The “rule of faith” was simply the proto-orthodox tradition. So the test was: “We will accept books that agree with our tradition.” This is a perfectly circular argument designed to confirm pre-existing beliefs and exclude challengers.

The orthodox narrative is not disproven by a single fact, but by the cumulative weight of critical thought. It asks us to suspend our understanding of history, power, and human psychology in favor of a supernatural interpretation that consistently benefits the institution promoting it. The Christian faith is not “rooted in event.” It is rooted in the interpretation of event by a specific community that then used every tool—theological, political, and eventually violent—to make its interpretation the only one allowed. The “certainty” it offers is not the calm assurance of truth, but the rigid comfort of a prison, where the walls are made of dogma and the guards are the fear of hell. It is a magnificent and enduring construct, but a human construct nonetheless.

From the Jewish perspective, Jesus did not fulfill the key prophecies that define the Messiah. The Christian response is that he will fulfill them at his Second Coming, but Judaism views the Messiah as a single, mortal human figure who accomplishes a specific set of tasks in one lifetime. The Messiah was expected to bring world peace and end war, re-gather all Jews to the Land of Israel, rebuild the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, establish universal knowledge of God, and serve as a human political and spiritual leader from the Davidic line. Jesus’ arrival did not accomplish these; wars persisted, the exile continued, the Temple was destroyed, and his divinity conflicted with the Jewish understanding of monotheism.

Additional historical context underscores the divergence. In Deuteronomy, a person hung on a tree is “cursed by God.” The crucifixion, therefore, made it impossible for Jesus to be the divinely favored Messiah from a Jewish perspective. The Suffering Servant of Isaiah 53, interpreted by Christianity as a prophecy of Jesus’ atoning death, was traditionally understood as the metaphorical suffering of Israel itself. And Jesus’ teachings about the Torah were sometimes interpreted as undermining its binding nature, which Judaism holds as the eternal covenant.

In essence, the Jewish rejection of Jesus as the Messiah is not a rejection of his character or teachings as a Jewish figure, but a conclusion based on a checklist of messianic prophecies that were not met. From this perspective, the world today—with its war, injustice, religious strife, and the absence of a rebuilt Temple—is clearly not the messianic age. Therefore, by definition, the Messiah has not yet come. The Christian concept of a “second coming” to finish the job is a theological innovation that does not align with the prophetic description of a single, successful messianic era ushered in by a human king.

The resulting faith, Christianity, became the most successful religion in history, a monument not to union, but to a carefully crafted and deeply maintained separation. It teaches humanity to look outward for a savior, ensuring they never discover that the savior they seek is the very consciousness with which they seek it. The war was won not with a battle, but with a kiss; not with a denial of God, but with the creation of a new one.