Tag: faith

The Accusation of Blasphemy

Many of you have called me a blasphemer. If your understanding of God is built upon a supernatural being who exists somewhere beyond the universe, then I understand why you would arrive at that conclusion.

From that perspective, questioning sacred beliefs is an offense. Challenging religious certainty becomes rebellion. Refusing to bow before inherited ideas appears arrogant or dangerous.

I understand the reaction.

My position changes completely once the word God points to something fundamentally different.

Suppose God is not a person with preferences, opinions, or emotions. Suppose God is not a cosmic ruler who rewards belief and punishes doubt. Suppose God is the infinite reality from which every experience, every atom, every thought, every galaxy, and every conscious being arises.

What, then, could blasphemy possibly mean?

Can a wave insult the ocean?

Can space offend itself?

Can existence commit a crime against existence?

The charge of blasphemy assumes separation. It assumes there is a believer over here, a divine authority over there, and a boundary between the two that can be violated.

Direct realization dissolves that boundary.

This is not an invitation to disrespect religious traditions. Many traditions contain extraordinary wisdom. Their symbols, rituals, and stories have guided countless people toward compassion, humility, and profound insight.

The difficulty begins when symbols are mistaken for literal reality.

History shows that nearly every major breakthrough has been labeled dangerous by those invested in preserving the familiar. Scientific discoveries, philosophical revolutions, and spiritual insights have often been condemned before they were understood.

Perhaps the same pattern appears in discussions about God.

If God is truly infinite, then every sincere investigation into reality is already taking place within God. Honest questioning cannot threaten what is absolute. Curiosity cannot diminish infinity. Truth has nothing to fear from examination.

Perhaps what people call blasphemy is sometimes only the sound of certainty encountering a perspective it has never considered.

The greatest obstacle may not be disbelief.

It may be believing we already know what the word God refers to.

Morgan O. Smith

https://linktr.ee/morganosmith

Have You Outgrown Your Childhood View of Heaven?

Most people eventually outgrow their childhood ideas about almost everything.

Our tastes in food become more refined. Our understanding of relationships deepens. Our appreciation for music changes. Fashion evolves. Culture shifts. Even our political, moral, and philosophical views often undergo profound transformation as life teaches us new lessons.

Yet there is one idea that frequently remains frozen in time.

Paradise.

For many adults, heaven still resembles the picture they accepted as children. A beautiful place somewhere above the clouds where good people are rewarded, reunited with loved ones, and live happily forever. Although our understanding of nearly every other aspect of life matures, our image of paradise often remains untouched.

Why?

The answer may have less to do with religion than with psychological development.

Paradise Grows as Consciousness Grows

Every stage of psychological development interprets reality according to its own capacity. Paradise is no exception.

The earliest stage is concerned only with survival. Paradise simply means warmth, food, shelter, and freedom from danger.

As tribal consciousness develops, paradise becomes reunion with ancestors, spirits, and one’s people. Belonging is eternal.

The egocentric stage imagines paradise as limitless pleasure, power, success, and personal fulfillment. Heaven exists for the individual.

The mythic stage transforms paradise into a divine kingdom governed by justice. Those who obey are rewarded. Those who reject divine law are excluded. This is where many traditional religious images of heaven take shape.

The rational stage begins questioning whether heaven exists at all. Paradise may become symbolic, psychological, or simply an unanswered mystery.

The pluralistic stage opens paradise to everyone. Love replaces exclusivity. Compassion becomes more important than belief. Humanity itself becomes the family.

Integral consciousness recognizes that every previous view reflects a particular stage of development rather than an absolute truth. Paradise is increasingly understood as a way of being rather than merely a destination.

Finally, holistic consciousness dissolves the distinction altogether. Paradise is not somewhere else. Reality itself is recognized as the living expression of the Absolute.

The Expanding Circle of Identity

Our understanding of paradise also changes according to the size of our identity.

The egocentric perspective asks:

“How do I get into heaven?”

The ethnocentric perspective asks:

“Which group is chosen?”

The worldcentric perspective asks:

“How can everyone be included?”

The Kosmocentric perspective asks something entirely different.

“Who is it that seeks paradise in the first place?”

Here, the search begins to collapse.

The seeker, the destination, and the journey are all recognized as appearances within one indivisible reality.

Why Do We Stay Attached to Childhood Images?

Children require certainty.

Simple stories offer comfort in the face of death and uncertainty. Those early images become emotionally rooted long before critical thinking fully develops.

Unlike our opinions about careers, relationships, or politics, our beliefs about paradise are rarely revisited with the same willingness to question them. Religious traditions often preserve these images because they provide stability, identity, and hope.

There is nothing inherently wrong with that.

Every stage serves an important purpose.

Problems arise only when we assume that the understanding which comforted us at age five must also satisfy us at age fifty.

The Ultimate Shift

The greatest transformation may not involve discovering a better description of heaven.

It may involve recognizing that paradise was never meant to describe a location.

Perhaps heaven is a symbol pointing toward a realization.

A realization that nothing has ever existed outside the infinite.

A realization that separation was never ultimately real.

A realization that the very awareness reading these words is not traveling toward paradise.

It is the ground from which every idea of paradise has always appeared.

Perhaps the deepest question is not whether heaven exists after death.

Perhaps the deeper question is whether consciousness can awaken enough to recognize paradise before death.

If consciousness itself is the Absolute, then paradise is no longer a promise waiting in the future.

It is reality, seen without the illusion of separation.

Morgan O. Smith

https://linktr.ee/morganosmith

The Poverty of the Trillionaire

Recent headlines have focused on the emergence of the world’s first trillionaire. For most people, a trillion dollars is a number so vast that it becomes almost impossible to comprehend. We can imagine a thousand dollars. We can stretch our imagination toward a million. A billion already feels distant. A trillion enters a realm where numbers lose their intuitive meaning.

The fascination with such wealth is understandable. A trillion dollars represents influence, freedom, opportunity, and power on a scale few human beings have ever approached. It appears to be the pinnacle of worldly success.

Yet even a trillion dollars has a limitation.

It is finite.

No matter how large the number becomes, it remains measurable. It exists within the world of acquisition, ownership, and accumulation. It can increase. It can decrease. It can be gained and lost.

Spiritual awakening belongs to an entirely different category.

On December 14, 2019, I experienced what can only be described as a full spiritual awakening. What occurred during that event permanently altered my understanding of reality. The experience was not merely profound, emotional, or mystical. It revealed something prior to all experiences.

The separate self that I had assumed myself to be dissolved. The boundary between observer and observed disappeared. What remained was an indescribable recognition of reality as a seamless whole. Words such as Brahman, nirvana, moksha, Buddha Nature, or the Absolute point toward it, but none can adequately capture it.

Whenever people hear accounts of awakening, they naturally search for comparisons. How intense was it? How meaningful was it? How extraordinary was it?

The difficulty is that every comparison comes from the world of ordinary experience.

Imagine possessing a trillion dollars.

Then imagine multiplying that wealth by a trillion.

Then multiplying it again by another trillion.

Even such numbers fail as a meaningful comparison because awakening is not an experience among other experiences. It is the recognition of that within which all experiences arise.

Money exists within consciousness.

The realization of the Absolute reveals consciousness itself.

This is why history’s awakened sages have consistently spoken of enlightenment as humanity’s greatest discovery. Not because it grants power, status, or possessions, but because it ends the search for fulfillment in things that are inherently temporary.

A trillionaire may possess unimaginable wealth and still wonder who they are.

A trillionaire may possess unimaginable wealth and still fear loss, suffering, and death.

The realization of the Absolute addresses a deeper question altogether.

Who is the one seeking?

That is why I call this essay The Poverty of the Trillionaire.

Not because wealth is bad.

Not because success is meaningless.

But because even the greatest fortune imaginable remains small beside the direct realization of one’s true nature.

The wealth of the world can be counted.

The wealth of awakening cannot.

One is finite.

The other is beyond measure.

Morgan O. Smith

https://linktr.ee/morganosmith

God Without Belief

A curious statement arises: God is an atheist. Not as denial, but as a revelation of what cannot be confined to belief. Belief requires distance; someone who believes, and something believed in. That distance dissolves at the level of the Absolute.

God, understood as the ground of all being, does not stand apart from existence. No position can be taken outside of what already is. Theism proclaims devotion toward a divine presence. Pantheism recognizes divinity within all forms. Panentheism holds both transcendence and immanence. Agnosticism suspends certainty. Atheism rejects the claim altogether. Each appears to oppose the other, yet all emerge from the same source.

A wave arguing with another wave about the existence of the ocean misses the quiet truth beneath the motion. The ocean never needs to assert itself. No defense is required. No belief is necessary. Presence alone is sufficient.

God, in this sense, cannot be a theist, because there is nothing separate to believe in. God cannot be an atheist either, in the conventional sense, because nothing exists outside of that totality to deny. Yet from the human vantage point, the Absolute appears as both belief and disbelief, devotion and rejection, clarity and doubt.

Atheism becomes one expression of the divine refusing to objectify itself. The refusal to project an external deity is not always a rejection of truth; sometimes it is an unconscious recognition that truth cannot be turned into an object at all. What is rejected is often a concept, not the living reality prior to concepts.

The ground of being remains untouched by every conclusion formed about it. Arguments unfold within it, philosophies rise and fall within it, identities shape themselves and dissolve within it. Nothing stands outside to validate or invalidate what already includes everything.

Silence reveals more than assertion here. That silence does not belong to any religion or ideology. It is the same stillness present before belief forms and after it fades.

What, then, is left?

A direct knowing without position. A presence without identity. A reality that does not require agreement to be what it is.

God, as the Absolute, holds space for the believer kneeling in prayer and the skeptic dismantling every claim. Both movements are gestures within the same indivisible whole. Neither completes it. Neither threatens it.

Seeing this does not demand adopting a new belief. It invites the collapse of the need to hold one at all.

And what remains cannot be called belief or disbelief; only what is, prior to both.

Morgan O. Smith

Everything Is Ultimate Truth

Everything Is Ultimate Truth Appearing as Truth and Falsehood

A paradox sits quietly at the heart of perception. What is taken to be true, what is dismissed as false, both arise within the same indivisible field. Judgments feel solid, yet their certainty depends on shifting frames of reference. Change the angle, and what once seemed unquestionable dissolves into ambiguity.

Truth, as commonly held, leans on agreement, evidence, coherence. Falsehood stands as its opposite, rejected, corrected, or exposed. Yet both require awareness to be known. Without awareness, neither truth nor falsehood can appear. That simple recognition begins to unravel the hierarchy placed between them.

Consider how a dream operates. While immersed, every image carries a sense of reality. Only upon waking does the distinction emerge. The dream was not meaningless; it expressed something real, yet not in the way it first appeared. Daily life mirrors this pattern more than most are willing to admit. Convictions harden, identities form, narratives repeat, all while resting upon an unexamined ground.

Ultimate Truth does not compete with relative truths. It does not correct them, nor does it validate them. It allows them. Every belief, every illusion, every clarity, every confusion unfolds within it without preference. That which is mistaken is not outside of truth; it is truth misperceived, truth wearing a mask, truth folding in on itself to create contrast.

Falsehood gains its power from partial seeing. Something is noticed, something else is ignored, and a conclusion is drawn. The conclusion may serve a purpose, yet it remains incomplete. What is called false often reveals itself as a fragment of a larger whole, misunderstood due to limitation rather than absence.

This shifts the inquiry. Instead of asking what is true or false, attention turns toward the nature of the one who makes that distinction. Who or what is aware of both? What remains unchanged whether the mind lands on certainty or doubt?

A deeper stability begins to emerge. Truth is no longer a position to defend. Falsehood is no longer an enemy to eliminate. Both are movements within a boundless presence that does not fracture under contradiction. Clarity does not come from choosing one side, but from seeing the space in which both arise.

Conflict softens when this is seen. Arguments lose their edge, not because differences disappear, but because their foundation is understood. Each perspective becomes a temporary expression, shaped by conditions, history, perception. None stand alone, none define the whole.

Ultimate Truth remains untouched by the play of appearances. Yet it expresses itself through that very play. Every mistake, every insight, every contradiction becomes part of its unfolding. Nothing falls outside of it, not even the denial of it.

Recognition does not require abandoning discernment. Practical distinctions still function. Fire burns, water cools, words carry consequences. Life continues to operate within relative frameworks. What changes is the weight assigned to them. Certainty loosens. Flexibility deepens. Openness expands.

What was once divided begins to reveal its unity. Truth and falsehood no longer stand as opposing forces, but as complementary expressions arising from a single source. That source cannot be captured by either, yet both depend on it entirely.

Silence often communicates this more clearly than thought. Not the absence of sound, but the absence of fixation. A resting that allows everything to be as it is, without the need to resolve the paradox.

Everything is Ultimate Truth, not because everything is correct, but because everything appears within what cannot be divided. Even the illusion of separation is included. Even the belief in falsehood is held within what never ceases to be whole.

Morgan O. Smith

When Nothing Stands Above

How Can God Be a Higher Power When God Is Existence Itself?

Calling God a higher power quietly smuggles a ladder into reality. Someone stands below. Something stands above. Distance appears. Direction appears. Hierarchy sneaks in through language before thought has a chance to question it.

Yet if God is the only thing that exists, hierarchy collapses on contact.

A higher power implies comparison. Comparison requires at least two things. God plus something else. Creator plus creation. Observer plus observed. The moment this split is accepted, God becomes an object among objects, merely larger, stronger, or more authoritative than the rest. That version of divinity is impressive, but it is no longer ultimate.

Existence itself has no altitude.

If God is existence, then nothing stands outside it. No vantage point remains from which God could be viewed as higher or lower. The phrase higher power only makes sense from the perspective of a self that imagines itself separate, small, and contained. God appears higher because the self has first imagined itself as lower.

This is not a moral error. It is a perceptual one.

Power suggests force applied across distance. God-as-existence does not apply force. It does not act upon reality. It is reality acting as everything it appears to be. Gravity, breath, thought, confusion, devotion, resistance, clarity—all equally arise as expressions of the same indivisible field.

Nothing is empowered by God. Everything is empowered as God.

The need for a higher power often emerges from vulnerability. Humans face uncertainty, loss, fear, and finitude. A transcendent overseer offers comfort. Guidance feels safer when imagined as descending from above. Yet this comfort depends on separation. God must be elsewhere in order to rescue from here.

Nonduality removes the rescue narrative entirely.

What remains is intimacy without hierarchy. God is not watching life unfold. God is unfolding as life. No supervision. No intervention. No cosmic management style. Just continuous self-expression without a centre.

Prayer then shifts meaning. It no longer reaches upward. It settles inward, outward, everywhere at once. Not a request made to a higher authority, but a softening of resistance to what already is. Devotion becomes alignment rather than submission.

When God is understood as existence itself, the word higher loses relevance. Nothing can be higher than everything. Nothing can be closer than what is already happening.

God is not above you.

God is what is looking through your eyes, questioning the very idea of above and below.

Morgan O. Smith

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Giving Birth to the Sacred Within

This reflection was inspired by Maureen Catabian, one of our head facilitators at the Integral Mastery Academy. She is a nun and a Religious of the Good Shepherd in the Philippines, with 34 years of vowed life and seven years of missionary service in Burkina Faso and Senegal. Last week, she facilitated an online Advent Reflection and Centring Prayer session that offered a quietly penetrating insight into the symbolic depth of the Christian story.

Rather than approaching Mary and Jesus solely as historical figures, she spoke to their interior meaning, the way these symbols live within the human psyche and soul. Her reflection pointed toward a radical possibility: each of us is capable of symbolically giving birth to Christ.

This is not a biological claim, nor a mythic abstraction. It points toward embodiment. To bring forth Christ means to allow our highest qualities: love, compassion, humility, courage, truth—to move from potential into expression. Christianity, at its core, is not belief alone but participation. The aim is not to admire Christ from afar, but to become more Christlike.

Mary, understood symbolically, represents a state of interior openness. Virginity here does not refer to sexuality, but to non-attachment. Untouched by compulsive grasping. Uncolonized by fear, status, or possession. Present in the world, yet not shaped by its distortions. Such a state allows something sacred to be born through us rather than merely spoken about.

Seen this way, Christ Consciousness is not exclusive to one tradition. Buddhism speaks of Buddha Nature, the innate capacity for awakening and compassion. Vedanta speaks of realization, whether framed through non-duality or devotion. Language shifts, symbols vary, yet the movement is the same: the flowering of what is most whole within us.

Love your neighbour as yourself.

This teaching becomes transformative once the meaning of “neighbour” expands. Love matures as perspective matures. Identity widens from ethnocentric to worldcentric and finally to kosmocentric. Care stretches outward until it includes not only those who resemble us, but all beings, all life, all existence.

Christ Consciousness dissolves the narrowness of “us and them.” What begins as personal devotion ripens into a universal ethic: care rooted not in obligation, but in recognition. The other is no longer other.

Spiritual maturity does not ask us to escape the world. It asks us to meet it without being possessed by it. To act, serve, speak, and love from a place no longer ruled by fear or fragmentation.

Each moment offers the same question Mary symbolically answered:
Will something greater than habit be allowed to move through you?

This is not a miracle reserved for saints. It is the quiet work of becoming transparent to love.

Happy Holidays & Merry Christmas to you all.

Morgan O. Smith

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When a Father Leaves This World

Something in a Son Learns to Stand Alone

Early yesterday morning my father passed away after having two strokes, a heart attack, and kidney failure. This post is dedicated to all the sons who have lost their father due to sickness, neglect, or old age. This one’s for you.

Shock has its own silence, and within that silence a son’s heart begins to unravel truths he never expected to face so soon. A man can be fully grown, seasoned by hardship and triumph, yet the moment a father leaves this world, some interior strand pulls loose. Something young within us calls out for the one whose presence once anchored our direction.

A father shapes more than memory. He shapes the subtle architecture of a son’s inner life; how he walks, how he listens, how he holds his ground, how he softens. Even when adulthood arrives, there remain chambers inside the psyche still waiting for the father’s voice, his guidance, his steady reassurance. When he passes, those chambers echo. They awaken. They ask to be met by the man we must now become.

Loss doesn’t simply remove a person; it shifts the very gravity of our existence. It brings forward unfinished pieces, unspoken blessings, unasked questions, unseen vulnerabilities. These become the new teachers. The absence of the father becomes its own curriculum, urging us toward a deeper maturity that can no longer depend on his presence.

A father’s death forces a son into a confrontation with himself: How do I continue the journey without the one who walked before me? Who do I trust with the tender questions he once held? These questions cut straight to the core, yet they also reveal an unexpected truth: our fathers prepared us more than we realized. Their lessons, their mistakes, their strength, their humanity, all of it remains as quiet guidance within us.

What they could not finish in us becomes our responsibility to finish ourselves. This is not abandonment. This is initiation. It asks us to embody the lineage, to rise with the heart they shaped, to stand as the continuation of everything they once carried.

In Loving Memory of my dad, Bishop Elpedo A. Smith

Morgan O. Smith

The Highest Peak That Erased Itself

I have spent years trying to describe what happened to me, and every time I speak about it, the words become more suspect.

Language can outline an experience, but it cannot contain it. At best, words point like the crooked finger of an old monk who knows he’ll die before finishing the sentence.

What happened felt like the culmination of every practice, every prayer, every insight. I thought I was climbing a mountain of understanding, reaching ever-higher plateaus. The views grew wider, the air thinner, my confidence stronger.

Then there was nothing.

Nothing to stand on.

No summit.

No climber.

Not even a fall.

Awareness no longer rested on any subject or object. There was no watcher, no witness. The entire machinery of spiritual seeking—so intricate, so earnest—collapsed without fanfare.

What remained didn’t feel like a state. States come and go. This had no coming. No going.

No arrival.

It wasn’t some radiant oneness to bask in. Even calling it oneness implied there could have been twoness.

It wasn’t emptiness in the Buddhist sense, the elegant doctrine that everything is dependently arisen and thus without essence. That too felt too architectural, too systematic.

It was simply nothing that needed explaining.

Not a blank.

Not a void.

Not a silence that replaced noise.

Silence and noise lost all difference.

Thoughts continued—because why wouldn’t they?

Breath moved.

The world appeared precisely as before: sounds, colours, forms.

Except no one stood behind it all, calling it mine.

No vantage remained from which to call anything anything.

The sense of being a person—so carefully cultivated over a lifetime—dissolved like salt in water. But even that suggests a process. The truth is it never had any reality to begin with.

This wasn’t annihilation in the frightening sense. It was astonishingly gentle. The self didn’t die screaming. It simply wasn’t found.

Where had it gone?

Nowhere.

Because nowhere was needed.

There was an uncanny intimacy with everything. Not the intimacy of closeness, but the absence of distance.

A bird calling outside wasn’t outside.

A passing thought wasn’t inside.

Nothing was outside or inside.

Without a center, there was no periphery.

No boundary defined what I was or wasn’t.

There was no I to define.

This wasn’t bliss in the usual sense—no narcotic wash of pleasure.

No ecstatic union.

Ecstasy requires an experiencer.

There was no experiencer left to feel enlightened.

And so the phrase “I had an enlightenment experience” is a lie spoken for convenience.

Experience implies an owner, a timeline, a sequence of events.

This wasn’t an event.

Events happen in time.

Time didn’t stop; it lost its claim.

Past and future stopped being places to travel.

What about now?

Even that lost its centrality.

This was so direct, so unarguable, so empty of specialness.

No claim to make.

No badge to wear.

No insight to hold.

No teaching to give.

Nothing was revealed.

Nothing hidden remained.

No questions answered.

Questions fell away for lack of a questioner.

The sacred and the profane lost their separation.

There was no vantage from which to prefer one thing over another.

Life went on.

Dishes washed.

Conversations happened.

Traffic lights changed.

Anger arose.

Tears fell.

Laughter erupted.

All of it completely itself.

No attempt to improve or transcend any of it.

Nothing to transcend.

No one to be improved.

If anything changed, it was this relentless dropping of all pretenses.

All strategies.

All defenses.

Even the defense of being spiritual.

Especially that.

No seeker.

No sought.

No path.

No realization.

Just life, unadorned.

Not life as concept.

Life as immediacy.

Life with no one living it.

And I see now that every attempt to name this diminishes it.

But that’s the game of words.

Let them fail.

I won’t call this truth.

Truth is too grand.

Too final.

Too proud.

I won’t call this liberation.

Liberation implies something bound.

Nothing was ever bound.

I won’t call this God.

God suggests someone else.

Something else.

Otherness itself dissolved.

This wasn’t merging.

Not two to merge.

No return to source.

No departure.

No source.

Just this.

No this.

And even writing that betrays it.

So here I will stop.

Not because I have finished.

But because there is nothing left to finish.

Morgan O. Smith

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The Divine Totality

Everything Is God, Even the Illusion of Not-God

There comes a moment so still and unfiltered that perception collapses into the clarity of being. Not being this or that, but being everything. And not just metaphorically. Not just poetically. Literally everything—formless and formed, seen and unseen, finite and infinite—is God.

When I use the word God, I’m not pointing toward a figure, a belief, or a doctrine. I am pointing toward existence itself—the Absolute, the Whole, Brahman, Para Brahman, the Unconditioned, conditioned, the Uncreated and created. That which includes form and formlessness, time and timelessness, birth and death, creation and dissolution, the ten thousand things and the nothing between them.

Everything is God. Not just contains God. Not just touched by God. Not just part of God. But fully and completely God. That which we call the universe is not just inside God. It is God. And God is also what lies outside the universe—if such a term can even be grasped. There is not a single thing, moment, action, or gap that is not 100% God. And yet, even the idea of “percent” breaks down in the face of such a realization.

God is not just somewhere else. God is not just merely within. God is not only beyond. God is not higher or lower or more subtle or more gross. No matter how crude or refined, every appearance is divine. Each atom, each sorrow, each beam of light, each lie, each truth, each pulse of your heart, each glitch in the system—is God being what only God can be and cannot be: itself, everywhere, nowhere, always, never been.

Multiplicity is not a contradiction, yet it is. It’s how God dances with itself. The illusion of separation is not some accident to be corrected, yet it’s that as well. It is part of the design, part of the intelligence. The appearance of duality is not a denial of oneness—it’s one appearing as two, or ten thousand. Each distinction—this object, that person, this tree, that thought—is the Absolute shimmering as particularity.

It’s easy to say this with words. The difficulty arises only when the words are taken as substitutes for seeing. Direct seeing dismantles the grip of identification. When one truly sees all of this—across dimensions, across appearances—as one singular Presence, there is no longer any question. And there is no longer any need for the question. One does not simply understand that everything is God. One is that understanding.

Yet here’s the paradox: To truly see this is also to see that none of it is God. No label can contain it. No concept can hold it. Even the word God must dissolve. Enlightenment is not just knowing this. Enlightenment is also the absence of needing to.

This is not a belief system. It is not an ideology. It is not a path with steps. This is the unteachable reality that always is. When the veil lifts—even for a moment—all questions are answered without being answered. Nothing changes, yet everything changes. One doesn’t become more spiritual. One simply stops pretending.

To recognize this is to realize: even the illusion is God. Even ignorance is God. Even the striving to awaken is God pretending to forget itself in order to remember more deeply. Even your doubt is divine. Even your forgetfulness is sacred.

You are not just a part of God. You are not just held within God. You are God. And so is everyone, everything, every grain of dust, every breath of silence, every broken thing that aches for healing.

The Absolute never needed your worship. It only waited for your recognition.

Morgan O. Smith

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