A short reflection on the present moment as the place where life is actually lived. Drawing on the phrase “I am Alpha and Omega” and the recovery saying “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery — just for today,” this piece considers God not as a remote idea, but as the living depth of now: the point at which memory, hope, responsibility, and freedom meet.
There are certain words in religious speech which are used so often that their meaning is easily assumed rather than examined: God, Spirit, light, grace, glory, kingdom, eternal life. They carry great emotional weight, but they are not always used with precision.
Some truths cannot be taught as information. They can only be pointed to, lived, and inwardly recognised. Drawing on Ecclesiastes, Paul, Eckhart, Tolstoy, and the teaching of Jesus, this reflection explores the possibility that the divine is encountered not as doctrine but as experience: a depth within consciousness that upholds, illumines, and transforms. Whether that experience comes from beyond us, from within the brain, or from some mystery joining the two, the practical question remains the same: whether we live in contact with that depth or merely skim the surface of life.
From Augustine to Eckhart, from Teresa to Tolstoy and beyond, the same lesson returns: the deepest truth cannot simply be taught from outside but must be realised inwardly. This essay follows that long mystical trajectory through childhood faith, doubt, animism, Jesus’ inward law of love, and the betrayal of his message by empire and institution.
Daniel Daddeh’s reading of the Lord’s Prayer is rhetorically clever, but spiritually false. What begins in the Gospels with “Thy” — thy name, thy kingdom, thy will — is quietly transformed into “My”: my desired state, my manifestation, my fulfilment. The result is not a recovery of Christian prayer, but a modern spirituality of acquisition dressed in biblical language.
Prayer is often understood as asking for things, but in the Gospels it appears as something quite different. It is not a means of control, but a moment of release — a stepping back from the self and a return to what is real. In prayer, one lets go, sees more clearly, and, however briefly, is set in the right direction.
Meditation is not an escape from life, nor a technique for manufacturing insight, but a way of learning when consciousness can safely let go. Human beings live through rhythms of attention, rest, and drift, and change unfolds over time rather than through heroic effort. What sustains a life is not constant awareness, but the capacity to return—again and again—to meaning, structure, and relation as life moves on.
Behind the vast theological edifice of later Christianity lies a very different figure: a Galilean teacher whose sayings in the Synoptic Gospels preserve a startling moral clarity largely absent from the metaphysical Jesus of John and the cosmic Christ of Paul. Recovering the historical Jesus requires peeling away these later layers and listening again for the radical ethical voice that once challenged his hearers to transform the inner life rather than speculate on the nature of the universe.
Giordano Bruno saw, more than 500 years ago, that human beings project their inner life onto the cosmos. His “infinite universe” was not astronomy but a vision of the human psyche speaking through myth — a truth that echoes across my own work. In an age that has lost its spiritual depth, Bruno’s voice returns with renewed urgency.
A sweeping reflection on humanity’s struggle to reconcile instinct and intellect, from the ancient gods of Mesopotamia to the teachings of Jesus. This essay argues that true transcendence lies not in power but in inner integration, and that mortality presses us toward completion. Through myth, psychology, memory, and personal experience, it shows that the only moment for wholeness is now.