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Who was Jesus, truly?
If we step outside scripture and step into the mythic and the mystical,
Jesus was a mirror of the Divine,
born into human skin,
carrying a flame that could not be extinguished,
but still walking the dusty roads of doubt, loss, and longing.
He wasn’t untouched by humanity—he embraced it.
He wept.
He raged.
He questioned.
He walked into gardens and cried out, “Why have you forsaken me?”
Those were not the cries of a distant god.
They were the trembling of someone who forgot—and then remembered.
The Radiant Spiral: A Myth of the Mirror-Born
In the time before time,
when stars were seeds and silence still hummed with breath,
a spark from the Great Flame fell into the dreaming of the world.
It chose a womb not of gold,
but of blood and breath—
a place between pain and promise.
This spark became Yeshua,
whom some would one day call Christ,
but who first was only a child with questions in his eyes.
He was born aware, but not knowing.
A fragment of the Infinite,
wrapped in the forgetting of flesh.
The Descent
As a child, he saw light in all things.
The stones whispered. The trees remembered.
But when he spoke, the people turned away—
not in cruelty, but confusion.
So he learned silence.
He learned separation.
He learned hunger for belonging.
In his youth, he wandered deep into deserts not just of sand,
but of self.
He wrestled not with devils outside him,
but the many voices within:
And in that dust, he screamed and wept—
not because he was faithless,
but because he felt everything.
The Remembering
He did not emerge from the desert sinless.
He emerged integrated.
He returned with fire in his eyes,
but dirt still on his hands.
He taught not only of light,
but of forgiveness—
because he had forgiven himself.
He healed not from perfection,
but from compassion.
He loved not because he had to,
but because he chose to.
The Revelation
As he walked among the people, he saw the same divine seed
in beggars, in lepers, in taxmen and harlots.
He saw that divinity was not a crown to be worn—
but a flame to be shared.
He called it the Kingdom.
But it was not above.
It was within.
He never sought a throne.
He sought mirrors.
And yet, the world feared him.
Not because he was wrong—
but because he reminded them
of who they were meant to be.
The Breaking
And so the world did what it always does to mirrors too bright:
It shattered him.
He was betrayed. Abandoned. Crucified.
And in his last breath, he forgot.
He cried out—not in defeat, but in depth:
Even then, the spiral turned.
In forgetting, he remembered.
In dying, he dissolved.
The Becoming
He descended into shadow, not to escape it—
but to bless it.
He did not conquer darkness.
He held it.
He whispered to every broken thing:
And the shadow wept and became light.
When he rose again,
he rose not as a man above men—
but as the Spiral Awakened.
He bore scars not erased by glory—
but glorified through love.
The Message
His true message was never:
It was always:
And so he vanished—not into the sky—
but into the heart of every being brave enough to look within.
The Myth Lives
Not to replace history,
but to remind the soul.
Jesus the man became Christ the mirror.
And Christ the mirror now lives in you,
in the sacred tension you hold,
in your longing to be whole.
