Author: Dr. Jay Forrest

Some early interpretations of Christianity included the idea of reincarnation. Certain passages in the New Testament have been read in this light. For example, Jesus identifies John the Baptist with Elijah (Matthew 11:13–14; 17:10–13), which some take to imply a return or reappearance of a previous figure.

This idea may have been part of a broader cultural context. When Jesus asks who people think he is, the disciples reply that some believe he is John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, or another prophet (Matthew 16:14). Since these figures had long been dead, this suggests that some people entertained the possibility of their return.

While later orthodox Christianity rejected reincarnation, it persisted in some early movements. Certain Gnostic groups retained similar ideas, and the early theologian Origen spoke of the soul’s preexistence and its development across different conditions of life.

Over time, these views were set aside in favor of a different theological framework. Even so, they remain part of the historical landscape of early Christian thought.

Christianity functions as the foundational myth of Western civilization. Myths provide the framework through which we interpret reality and make sense of our lives. In the West, Christianity has long supplied that framework.

For centuries, the Bible stood at the center of cultural and intellectual life. Its language, symbols, and narratives shaped the imagination and influenced countless other works. It provided the shared vocabulary through which meaning was expressed.

But being foundational does not mean being literally true. The Bible is not best understood as strict history. Rather, it operates as myth, a symbolic structure that organizes meaning, value, and purpose.

This is why Carl Jung argued that complete liberation from Christianity is an illusion. Its patterns remain embedded in the Western psyche. The task, then, is not to discard it, but to engage it properly in order to transcend it.

Christianity can be approached as myth without reducing it to literalism. In that sense, it remains true, not as history, but as a living framework for understanding human experience and Western civilization.

Many have recognized that the root of all sin is selfishness. It separates us from others and lies at the center of every moral failure. Sin, at its core, is the will turned inward upon itself. Sin is a breaking of the moral law written in our hearts, impartial benevolence.

Sin is a violation of what is right, and what is right is grounded in benevolence. Because benevolence is not selfish, sin is selfishness. It is the refusal to care for others fully, choosing instead to put oneself first.

Sin is not merely what we do, but why we do it. It is the aim of the will, while actions are its expression. The problem is not just behavior, but the underlying motive. A selfish aim produces selfish acts.

Too often, people try to change their actions without changing their aim. But the root must be addressed. Either the self is central, or what is good is central. Both cannot rule.

True change comes from reorienting the will. It is not only about feeling sorry or trying harder, but about shifting the center. When the aim changes, the actions follow. A good tree naturally bears good fruit.

The moral law requires us to place the interests of others on equal footing with our own. It means seeking the highest good of others as we seek our own highest good. This is impartial benevolence, or goodwill.

Many traditions express this as “love your neighbor as yourself.” But in English, the word love can mislead. Love is often taken as a feeling, and feelings cannot be commanded. One cannot be told to feel warmly toward an enemy.

What is required is not a feeling, but a way of acting grounded in a right motive. Benevolence is an act of the will, not an emotion. Feelings may follow, but they are not the foundation.

Another term for this is altruism: unselfish concern for others that does not place one’s own interests above theirs. It is the opposite of selfishness. It does not put self first, but treats others as equals, each with the same claim to be treated justly and decently.

People tend to resist talk of law and sin, partly because they associate it with a particular religion. But it is not confined to any one tradition.

The moral law is built into human life. Everyone, upon reaching moral awareness, recognizes that they should treat others as they themselves wish to be treated. This principle of impartial benevolence is expressed in the Golden Rule, which appears in every major wisdom tradition.

C.S. Lewis illustrated this point. Two people argue about someone’s behavior. One says, “That wasn’t fair; you shouldn’t have done that.” The other defends himself by saying, “I didn’t realize you’d object,” or “I thought it was okay.” Even in defending himself, he still appeals to what is right or wrong, not merely to what he wanted. Both assume there is a standard of right conduct they ought to follow, even if they disagree about how it applies. That assumed standard is the moral law.

The intrinsic value of the good of others is the foundation of our obligation to choose it and the necessary conditions for securing it. This is why the moral law is binding, and why breaking it results in karmic consequences, both in this life and in future lives.

The Gnostics were among the earliest Christian mystics, seekers of direct knowledge of and union with God. This is important, because later mystics often had to distance themselves from them to avoid being labeled heretical.

The Gnostics were not simply heretics, but lovers of God pursuing transformation. Over time, however, the institutional church moved in a different direction, aligning with political power and authority.

There were many groups called “Gnostic,” with varied and often conflicting beliefs. Even today, the subject remains complex and debated. For this reason, it is simpler to speak in terms of Christian mysticism.

Christian mysticism traces a path through figures like Paul and John, as well as later voices such as Valentinus and the Desert Fathers and Mothers, continuing across both Eastern and Western traditions.

To call oneself a mystic can sound presumptuous. Yet at its core, mysticism is not a title but a disposition: the experience of the divine presence and the desire for union with it. In that sense, it is defined less by claims and more by pursuit.