In this explosive exposé, we reveal the forbidden Gnostic interpretation of Jesus’ most famous parables:
The Wicked Tenants
The Unforgiving Servant
The Lost Son
According to ancient texts banned by the early Church, these stories weren’t just metaphors—they were encrypted warnings about a false god ruling this world... the Demiurge.
This video dives into the suppressed teachings of the Gospel of Thomas, unearthed in the deserts of Egypt, where Jesus hints at “thieves,”“brigands,” and “owners” who are not God.
Discover the secret battle hidden in scripture, the cosmic conspiracy buried beneath the Gospels, and the reason mystics were silenced, and scriptures were burned.
The truth about God, creation, and the prison of this world may be far more dangerous—and liberating—than we were ever allowed to believe.
Keywords:
Gnostic Christianity
Jesus parables decoded
Demiurge exposed
Gospel of Thomas
spiritual conspiracy
hidden gospel secrets
false god in the Bible
ancient forbidden texts
Archons
spiritual awakening
early church secrets
A dark secret has been hiding in plain sight, veiled in the gentle words of Jesus' parables.
For nearly two thousand years we have heard the soothing tales of forgiving masters and prodigal sons, never suspecting the dangerous truth encoded within.
What if these simple stories were never just moral lessons?
What if they were urgent warnings about an invisible prison and a false god who feeds on our worship?
Tonight, we tear the veil off a cosmic conspiracy, the possibility that Jesus' parables secretly warned of the demigod, the impostor god of this world, and the spiritual bondage holding humanity hostage.
This is not a metaphor.
This is a revelation so explosive that it threatens to upend everything we think we know about good and evil.
Picture this, an otherworldly Christ speaking in riddles, slipping truth past the archons, the rulers of this world, like a smuggled message to prisoners.
In the Gospel of Thomas, an ancient text unearthed in the Egyptian desert, Jesus hints that the world is ruled by sinister powers.
In a single breath, the Saviour draws back the curtain on an entire cosmical drama that this world is a stolen vineyard and hidden brigands lurk to plunder souls.
To the unsuspecting listener, these parables were quaint agricultural analogies.
But to those with ears to hear, Jesus was sounding an alarm.
He spoke of a vineyard planted by someone other than the Father, destined to be uprooted.
He told of a thief in the night and urged constant vigilance.
These were not random illustrations, they were code.
Code for a reality in which a false creator, the Demiurge, had set himself up as God and enslaved the material world.
In these texts, Jesus' teachings take on a radical new dimension, one where the parables become a battlefield between the Father of Truth and the Father of Lies, between the realm of light and the rulers of darkness.
Our journey will delve into three of Christ's most famous parables, the wicked Tenants, the unforgiving servant, and the lost son, and reinterpret them through the lens of suppressed Gnostic theology.
Each story will peel back another layer of the grand deception, how the Demiurge and his Archons twist faith into a prison, and how Jesus' secret message offers the key to escape.
The language will be raw and the revelations unsparing.
We will walk into the vineyard of murderers, stare into the mirror of a merciless God, and descend with the lost soul into the pigpen of illusion.
This is not a comforting Bible study, this is a Truthstream-style expose of cosmic proportions.
By the end, you may never hear the parables the same way again.
Because if Jesus was truly warning us about the Demiurge, then modern religious systems, and perhaps the very world around us, may have been unknowingly worshipping the wrong God all along.
And the most horrifying part?
The parables always told us so.
The theory is on the table, Jesus' parables were covert operations, spiritual samizdat to awaken the sleeper.
Finally, the landowner sends his beloved son, thinking they will respect him, but the tenants seize the heir, murder him, and cast him out of the vineyard.
Jesus then asks, what will the owner do?
The answer, he will come, destroy those wicked tenants, and give the vineyard to others.
On the surface, Christians interpreted this as a warning to Israel's leaders who rejected Jesus.
But beneath that, something far more eerie emerges, a reflection of the Gnostic saga of the Demiurge and his rebellious Archons fighting against the true God. In Gnostic cosmology, the Demiurge, also called Yaldabaoth or Saklas, is an ignorant, arrogant entity who fashioned the material world.
He and his Archons are the illegitimate tenants of creation, squatters in the cosmic vineyard.
They believe a vineyard is theirs.
As the Apocryphon of John recounts, Yaldabaoth boastfully proclaimed,
"I am God and there is no other God beside me, blind to the reality of the true God above."
In that same text, a voice from the supreme realm rebukes him,
"You are mistaken, Samael (Samal meaning blind God)."
Think about it, Jesus' parable centers on upstart tenants who claim ownership of what isn't theirs, even killing the owner's son to seize the inheritance.
This is precisely the crime of the Demiurge.
The second treatise of the great Seth portrays the creator of this world as a laughingstock for claiming to be the only God, as if he were the Father.
The Archons were impious in their arrogance, exactly like the tenants who plot.
This is the Heir.
"Come, let us kill him and take his inheritance."
Does that sound familiar?
It should, because on a meta level the Heir is Christ, the emissary of the true Father, and the murderers are the Archons operating through worldly authorities.
And interestingly, Thomas doesn't include the part about the owner's vengeance, it ends cryptically with
"He who has ears, let him hear."
Some scholars have argued that Thomas presents the parable not as a critique of Israel, but as an allegory of cosmic proportions.
One analysis even posits that Thomas' version bids the disciples to acknowledge the claim of the field's true owner, perhaps Satan or the Gnostic Demiurge.
In other words, Thomas may be subtly pointing out that the vineyard's true owner, in this broken world, is not the true God at all, but the false usurper.
It's as if Jesus is winking to his inner circle,
"Understand who really runs this corrupted realm?"
Now reconsider the parable with Gnostic eyes, the landowner who went into another country is the distant true God, the unknowable Father dwelling beyond this world.
The vineyard is the world itself, originally planted by the Father, for nothing exists outside him, yet now in the hands of illegal tenants.
Those tenants are the archons, the rulers and authorities that Ephesians 6 verse 12 ominously calls the world forces of this darkness.
They have reigned since the beginning of time, ever since the fall of Sophia gave birth to Yaldabaoth as flawed creation.
They leased the world as it were and pose as its gods.
He sends servants, the prophets, the messengers of light into the vineyard of matter.
And what do the tenants do?
Exactly what archons always do, they:
persecute
torture
kill
the messengers.
Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, this lament of Jesus in Matthew could double as a cry of the Father of light seeing his emissaries destroyed by the dark powers ruling humanity.
The Gospel of Truth, a beautiful Gnostic homily, describes how Erra, a personification of the Demiurge realm, reacted when the Father sent Christ into the world.
It says, as a result, Erra was angry.
It pursued him.
It was threatened by him and brought to nothing.
They nailed him to a tree.
Pause on that, Erra, the cosmic lie, and nailed Jesus to a tree.
In canonical terms, the vineyard tenants seized the sun and killed him.
In Gnostic terms, the archons, embodiments of Erra and ignorance, crucified the incarnation of the true God.
It's the same event described on two levels, one a rustic tale of landowners and rebels, the other a cosmic war between the light and the darkness playing out on Calvary.
And what of the sun's death in the parable?
Jesus has the crowd's answer.
The owner will miserably destroy those wicked men and give the vineyard to others.
In the context of Matthew, it's a warning that God's favor will be taken from the corrupt and given to a new people.
But our Gnostic lens sees even more a prophecy that the archons' days are numbered.
The false gods will not keep their ill-gotten vineyard forever.
Indeed, hidden in the Gospel of Judas, a text where Jesus reveals secret cosmology to his betrayer is the notion that the reign of the Demiurge is temporary.
Jesus tells Judas that when Saklas, the Demiurge, completes the time that has been assigned to him, their star will come to an end.
The wicked tenants have an expiration date.
The true owner will return.
The usurpers will face a reckoning for their rebellion.
This is nothing less than the rebellion of the archons and its eventual failure.
In conventional Christianity, God is the landowner and we humans are the tenants who must produce fruit or else.
But in this Gnostic retelling, humanity is not depicted as the villains of the story at all.
We are the spoils caught in the middle of a cosmic hostage situation.
The archons are the wicked tenants who have barricaded themselves in the vineyard, the physical universe, holding our world hostage.
They have fooled mankind into serving them, into thinking they are gods.
Remember Yaldabaoth's delusional claim,
"I am a jealous god and there is no other god beside me."
He demands to be seen as sole owner.
The hypostasis of the archons depicts a chilling scene after the Demiurge boasts of being supreme, a voice from above laughs and says,
"You are mistaken, blind god."
The archons tremble, knowing somewhere beyond their grape-stomping feet stands a higher power.
So, when Jesus delivered the parable of the wicked tenants, imagine the archons listening in, grinding their teeth.
He was publicly declaring, in thinly veiled form, that their regime was illegitimate and doomed.
"The stone which the builders rejected has become the cornerstone,"
Jesus says, quoting scripture immediately after the parable.
To the crowd it meant he, the rejected messiah, would triumph.
To the archons it meant Christ, the divine logos whom they tried to destroy, would become the foundation of a new reality that would crush their power.
Whoever falls on this stone will be broken, but on whomever it falls, it will grind him to dust.
That grinding to dust is the fate of the dark rulers when the true god reclaims the cosmos.
In the vivid metaphor of Thomas' gospel, a vine has been planted apart from the father, and since it is not established, it will be pulled up by its roots and destroyed.
The counterfeit vineyard of the demi-age will be uprooted in the end.
Consider also the psychology of the parable's tenants, they know the son is the heir.
Since they knew He was the heir, they seized Him and killed Him, Thomas 65 says bluntly.
The archonic forces of this world recognize Christ as the true king, which is precisely why they rage with such ferocity.
The gospel of truth describes how error and its minions reacted to Jesus' revelation of the father.
Error was strengthened, it worked on its own matter in vain, not knowing the truth.
When the truth appeared, error was upset, for it had no root.
The archons understood that this son threatened their grip on the vineyard.
So, they threw Him out of the vineyard and slew Him, an event we see in both the synoptic gospels and Gnostic scripture as the crucifixion instigated by the rulers of this age, whom Paul in 1 Corinthians 2 verse 8 blames for crucifying the Lord of glory.
Which none of the princes of this world knew:
for had they known it, they would not have crucified the Lord of glory.
Those princes of this world?
The term aligns with the Gnostic archons perfectly.
But death did not have the final say.
When killing the son, the tenants unwittingly signed their own eviction notice.
The resurrection, from a Gnostic perspective, is the moment the cosmos shifted.
The powers were defeated by the very act they thought would secure their control.
The air returned in power, and the authority over the vineyard began to be transferred away from the false gods.
No wonder, then, that the parable ends on a tone of impending doom for the wicked tenants.
This is judgment, not the petty judgment of a vindictive Old Testament deity, but the inevitable collapse of a usurper's regime when exposed to transcendent light.
Jesus ends the original parable by saying,
"The kingdom of God will be taken from you and given to a people bearing its fruits."
In our esoteric reading, it means the kingdom, the real kingdom, the pleroma of divine fullness, will be inherited not by the archons who seized this world, but by those human souls who awaken and bear spiritual fruit in truth.
The archons lose their lease, the children of the true Father, however prodigal they may have been, are destined to inherit the vineyard.
Irenaeus, an early church father, once accused the Gnostics of reinterpreting Jesus' sayings to fit their mythos.
Little did he realize, that might have been the whole point all along.
The parable of the wicked tenants was a warning to anyone with gnosis,
"Do not fear the earthly lords, they are just murderous squatters in a realm that isn't truly theirs."
Their rebellion will be crushed.
Align yourself with the true owner of the vineyard, not the false one.
Or else you'll share in the tenants' fate.
Already, the edges of the puzzle are in view, Jesus covertly identifying the false God and his minions as the enemies in his stories.
But the next parable takes us even deeper, from cosmic rebellion to the intimate moral struggle within each soul.
It's one thing to know about the Demiurge rebellion, it's another to realize how subtly we may mirror that Demiurge in our own hearts.
For that, we turn to the parable of the unforgiving servant, a story that, when decoded, becomes a mirror held up to the Dark Lord of this world and those who fall into his trap of mercilessness.
Part 3 The Unforgiving Servant - The Mirror of the Demiage
A king sits upon his throne, accounting books open wide.
When the king learns of this, his mercy turns to wrath.
"You wicked servant!
I forgave you all that debt.
Would you not also have had compassion on your fellow servant?"
Enraged, the king delivers the unforgiving servant to the torturers until he should repay every last cent.
On its face, the moral is clear,
"Forgive as you've been forgiven."
But let's peel back the curtain.
In the Gnostic retelling, this parable becomes an indictment of hypocrisy under the Demiurge law, a vivid illustration of karmic bondage, and a clue to the difference between the true God of Mercy and the false God of Retribution.
It's as if Jesus encoded in this story a stark choice, embrace the higher law of grace, the law of the Father, or fall back under the harsh law of the Archons, the law of the Demiurge.
The unforgiving servant is a mirror, and who gazes back from it but the Demiurge himself, the tyrant who shows no mercy even when mercy is shown to him.
First, consider the king in the story.
Who is he meant to be?
Traditionally, the king symbolizes God, who freely forgives our enormous sin debt.
Yet intriguingly, at the end of the parable this same king reverses course and delivers the servant to be tormented until his debt is paid, effectively an endless punishment, since the debt was unpayable.
Fire and brimstone preachers love this part.
See, God's forgiveness has conditions.
But hold on, unconditional forgiveness that turns into eternal torture for failing a condition sounds an awful lot like a self-contradiction.
Unless, that is, the parable is deliberately contrasting two different principles of divinity.
The initial act of total mercy reflects the true divine nature; the hidden father of greatness whose essence is love and forgiveness.
The later act of fury and torment reflects the Demiurge, the false God who deals in punishment and demands payment to the last penny.
In other words, the king's split behavior is the schizophrenia of the biblical God image when not properly understood.
The Gnostics understood it; the loving father and the wrathful judge are not the same being.
One forgives freely the other tortures over a debt.
The parable shows both faces and asks us to choose.
The unforgiving servant, then, is one who has experienced the true God's mercy but failed to transcend the Demiurge's mindset within himself.
He still operates by the old law of pay what you owe, the ruthless tally of deeds and debts.
In doing so, he effectively aligns himself with the iconic powers.
He becomes an enforcer of the Demiurge's oppressive order, a little tyrant choking his neighbor over a few coins, just as the Demiurge chokes humanity with a yoke of guilt and legalism.
And by making that choice, the servant tragically falls back under the jurisdiction of the false God's justice.
The king's final act, imprisoning and torturing the servant, can be seen not as the true God's doing, but as the natural karmic consequence of reverting to the Demiurge's law.
As Jesus cryptically taught, with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you.
In esoteric terms, if you insist on living by the Demiurge ethos, measure for measure, no mercy, then you subject yourself to the Demiurge's prison.
You create your own hell, and the Archons are more than happy to throw you in their dungeon of cause and effect until you pay for every last act.
At one point the dark power accuses the soul, trying to judge and bind it.
But the soul responds,
"Why do you judge me, although I have not judged?
I was bound, though I have not bound."
In that profound statement lies the secret to spiritual liberation, refuse to judge, refuse to deal in the currency of guilt and punishment, and the tyrants of the lower realms lose their grip on you.
The soul that does not judge cannot be judged; it slips out of the noose of karma.
No, it is the demi-edged shadow, the lower god of judgment, who will lay claim to you if you cling to unforgiveness.
Hate and retribution don't belong to the kingdom of light at all, they are the demi edged playthings, the dirty tools of the false realm.
As one esoteric commentator put it,
"The eternal eon, the true god, harbors no desire for vengeance.
Such impulses are cast from the ignorance of the demi-edged world."
Consider the deeper symbolism.
Debt in spiritual terms is karma, the accumulated weight of misdeeds.
The king's forgiveness represents the erasure of karma through grace, the promise of salvation and liberation through Christ.
But if one then turns around and enforces karmic law on others, it's as if they are saying,
"No thanks, I'd rather stick with the old system of ledgers and paybacks."
And so, it shall be.
The unforgiving servant writes himself back into the matrix of cause and effect, into samsara.
He essentially tells the universe,
"Keep me in the cycle of retribution."
And the archons oblige,
"He is handed over to the tormentors, the custodians of karmic imprisonment."
Many gnostic sects saw the cycle of reincarnation and punishment as exactly the mechanism by which the archons keep souls bound to the material world until the last farthing is paid.
It's a grim image, a soul cycling through ages of suffering, working off a self-imposed debt that could have been erased in an instant by embracing the higher law of love.
Jesus' warning here is razor sharp and terrifying in its implication.
He is effectively saying,
"If you reject the way of mercy I've opened to you, you will remain in the clutches of the demiurge system."
This echoes his teaching in the Gospel of Mary where he advises the disciples,
"Do not lay down any rules beyond what I appointed you, and do not give a law like the lawgiver lest you be constrained by it."
Think about that, don't become a mini lawgiver, don't mimic the demiurge, or you will be bound by the very constraints you impose.
The unforgiving servant gave a law to his debtor,
"Pay me or else,"
and thus, became constrained by law.
He reaped the exact judgment he sowed.
This principle is built into the architecture of the universe,
"Judge and you will be judged, chain others and you will chain yourself."
One cannot help but see the demiurge's reflection in the unforgiving servant.
Gnostic myth tells how the demiurge, given a degree of dominion by his mother Sophia's mistake, was himself a recipient of grace at the outset.
He was allowed to exist and fashion a world, albeit imperfectly.
Sophia did not annihilate her wayward offspring, the higher gods worked to eventually enlighten him.
Yet the demiurge showed no gratitude or humility.
Instead, he entrenched himself as a cruel ruler, demanding obedience and sacrifice from the very beings, us, that he ought to have nurtured.
In some accounts, when Sophia repents and is forgiven by the upper father, the demiurge and his archons continue to harass and accuse her, utterly devoid of mercy.
They are, like the servant, oblivious to the mercy shown in the cosmos and continue to enforce merciless law.
Look at Pistis Sophia, an important Gnostic scripture.
Pistis Sophia describes how all the rulers in the Twelve Aeons were enraged against her for seeking assent.
They respond with pure spite, a lion-faced light-power set to work to take away from Sophia all her light.
Such is the nature of the tyrants, no forgiveness, no empathy, only the cold execution of justice as they see it.
The unforgiving servant in the parable is their human echo.
He tastes freedom, then goes and oppresses another as if he were the petty demiurge of his little world.
After the true king lets him fall back under the cosmic basic principles, the stoicia, which Paul in Galatians warns can enslave those who turn from grace.
We should clarify, the king in the beginning who forgave the debt that act is pure, pluromic grace, the kind the true God offers.
The king at the end delivering the man to torment, that is the mask of Yaldabaoth, the lower creator's justice hitting like a hammer.
It's the same figure in the story, but on the symbolic level it bifurcates into two faces of deity.
Here Jesus masterfully uses a single character to secretly teach about two gods, the hidden father who forgives freely and the demiurgical lord who ultimately punishes the unforgiving.
Those with ears to hear will hear it.
In the secret gospel traditions, Jesus often emphasizes forgiveness as the key to transcendence.
The Gospel of Thomas has him say,
"If you have money, do not lend it at interest, but give it to one from whom you will not get it back,"
essentially advocating a way of being that expects nothing in return, the polar opposite of the ledger-keeping mentality.
He also says,
"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy in the Beatitudes,"
a statement that in Gnostic circles took on cosmic weight.
Mercy is not just a nice virtue; it is the vibration of the higher kingdom.
It's the passport out of the arc-and-run world.
The mirror of the demiurge that is the unforgiving servant reveals a dire warning to any soul,
"If you perpetuate the demiurge cycle of revenge and debt, you will remain a part of his domain."
Your very mindset will tune you to his frequency, and you'll find yourself in his grip that prison of the story is precisely the spiritual prison of this material aeon.
This aligns with what Origen and other early theologians hinted, that to cling to sin, which includes hatred and unforgiveness, is to hand oneself over to the tormentors, sometimes interpreted as evil spirits or angels of Satan who torture the soul with guilt and fear.
In fact, the final verse of the canonical version,
"So will my heavenly Father do to you if you do not each forgive your brother from your heart,"
might be better understood as:
"So will the God of this world have his way with you if you cling to hardness of heart."
It's less a threat and more a description of spiritual physics.
If the wicked Tenant's parable revealed the external enemies, the archons out there in the vineyard, the unforgiving servant exposes the enemy within, the archon-like tendencies in our own ego.
Each human being faces this test, having been offered divine mercy, through Christ's revelation of our true origin and the promise of liberation, will we incarnate that mercy towards others, or will we revert to the cruel mathematics of the demiurge realm?
It's the difference between aligning with the kingdom of the Father or the kingdom of the false God.
Finally, recall the end of the wicked Tenants, the vineyard would be given to others who bear fruit.
Who are those others?
Perhaps they are precisely the souls who, unlike the unforgiving servant, learn the lesson of mercy and thereby bear the fruit of the true spirit.
Those who don't learn are well; they tragically remain in the outer darkness of torment until they do.
As the Acts of Thomas puts it in the Hymn of the Pearl allegory, the soul that went astray in the foreign land only finds its way home after waking up and remembering who it is meant to be.
But that's jumping ahead to the next part of our journey, the journey of the soul itself out of the illusion.
The mirror has shown us our own demiurgic shadow, the potential to become cruel once power is in our hands, to become jailers after being freed. It has also shown us the stark divide between two laws, mercy and judgment.
Will we serve the law of mercy and thus the true God or the law of judgment and thus the false?
The stakes are nothing less than our spiritual freedom or bondage.
With that heavy realization, we proceed to perhaps the most beloved of Jesus' parables, one that on the surface seems full of warmth and love and discover its hidden dimension as a tale of cosmic exile and return.
It is time to talk about the lost son, the prodigal, and how his fallen redemption map onto the grand Gnostic drama of the soul.
Part four of the lost son, return from the illusion.
A young man stands on a hillside, the sun setting behind his father's estate.
Restless, he demands his inheritance upfront, all the wealth that would fall to him, and turns his back on home.
Down the road he goes, off to a far country.
In this parable of the prodigal son, Luke 15 verses 11 to 32, every listener feels the pang of watching someone leave a loving home for the temptations of the wide world.
The son spends his fortune in wild living.
Wine
prostitutes
glittering parties
the illusion of freedom consumes him until, at last, the money runs out.
Broken and penniless, the boy ends up slopping pigs, a job abhorrent to a Jewish audience, pigs were unclean.
Starving, he even envies the pig's food.
At his lowest point, a revelation strikes, he came to himself, as Jesus says.
He remembers that even his father's servants have bread, and here he is dying of hunger.
In desperation and humility, he decides to return home and beg for mercy, not as a son but as a hired hand.
We know the beautiful ending, the father, who had been scanning the horizon, runs to embrace the son while he's still afar off.
He dresses him in the best robe, puts a ring on his finger, shoes on his feet, and throws a feast of celebration.
For this my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.
It's a timeless portrait of forgiveness and unconditional love.
Yet one figure stands off to the side, scowling the older brother, who never left home.
He hears the music and rejoicing and is furious.
I served you all these years and never disobeyed, yet you never threw a party for me.
But when this son of yours returns after wasting your wealth on harlots, you kill the fatid calf for him.
The father gently corrects him,
"Son, you are always with me, and all I have is yours."
But it is right that we should celebrate, for your brother was dead and is alive again, was lost, and now is found.
On one level, Jesus told this as a message of God's mercy toward repentant sinners and a rebuke to the self-righteous, the Pharisees, represented by the resentful elder brother.
But through the Gnostic lens, this story becomes something even more vast.
It is the myth of the soul.
The prodigal son is every divine spark that wandered from the father's house, the Pleroma of light, into the Chifa country of matter and illusion.
It is the story of Sophia, the fallen aeon, and of each psyche that has left unity for the individuation and suffering of the world.
The famine
the debauchery
the pigpen
the moment of awakening
and the joyous return, all of these are elements not just of an individual's repentance, but of the grand arc of Gnostic salvation, the soul's departure from the fullness, descent into the material realm, which turns from thrill to starvation, eventual gnosis, self-remembering, and return to its source.
Meanwhile, the bitter older brother embodies those forces that do not rejoice at the soul's liberation, indeed, those who feel cheated by it.
And who are they?
One other than the Archons and the Demiurge himself, who begrudge humanity's restoration to the father's grace.
In fact, an early Gnostic commentary suggests that this very parable is a variation of Sophia's tale.
In the Exegesis on the Soul, the author notes how the soul played the harlot in foreign lands but ultimately received mercy.
And the website of a modern Sophia scholar points out the later New Testament parable of the prodigal son may be a variation of this theme, with the older brothers being resentful of the prodigal younger son.
What does that mean?
In the original myth, Sophia, an emanation of God, left her proper place, seeking something beyond herself, and in doing so fell into the lower regions.
Her siblings, the other Aeons, were disturbed, even angry, at her descent.
Some texts say she caused a rift or a deficiency in the Pleroma by her act.
The Pistis Sophia explicitly says,
"All the rulers in the Twelve Aeons, who are below, hated her because she had ceased from her mysteries and desired to go into the height above them.
They hated her for trying to rise back up, much like the older brother despises seeing the wayward son reinstated."
The parallel is striking.
The elder son in the parable complains,
'I never transgressed,'
and yet you reward him, akin to the Archons, who rigidly keep the counts of wrongdoing and cannot fathom the father's lavish grace.
The father's response,
'You are always with me, all I have is yours,'
smacks of the true God addressing the Demiurge realm,
'Your existence was always within my allowance, and nothing I do for these returning souls takes away from you.'
If only you understood love, you too would rejoice.
But the Demiurge does not understand.
He is the embodiment of the law without the spirit.
To him a runaway son deserves punishment, not a party.
Let's unpack the journey of the prodigal as the journey of the soul.
In Gnostic thought, each human soul originates in the divine fullness, a spark from the true father but has ventured into the material world, often portrayed as the realm of poverty and hunger compared to the soul's rich homeland.
The prodigal son's request for his inheritance could symbolize the soul separating itself, taking its portion of divine essence, its inherent light, and using it in the realms of matter.
He goes to a far country, this is the descent from the high spiritual realm to the furthest region, Earth, the flesh, the sphere under the sway of the Demiurge.
In some myths, the soul is lured here by promises of adventure or by curiosity.
Mania's own fall is sometimes described in terms of a desire to experience or create apart from the source.
Indeed, one scholar summarizing Gnostic cosmology wrote,
"The creation of the material world was a mistake whereby the Demiurge, a rebellious angel, sought to create something of its own volition apart from God.
The result was the creation of the Earth and at the same time a rupture in the divine realm.
Those embodied in persons must someday win their release from the evil world and return to the divine realm from whence they came.
The prodigal's departure is that rupture, the break from the father's house.
And the reckless living in the far country represents the soul squandering its divine inheritance on the lower pleasures and pursuits.
The soul forgets its origin, just as the son apparently forgets his father's love in the thrill of worldly delights.
In the parable, it says the son wasted his possessions with prodigal living.
This resonates strongly with the concept of the soul losing its robe of glory.
There's a Gnostic poem in the Acts of Thomas known as the Hymn of the Pearl wherein a prince from the east is sent to Egypt to retrieve a precious pearl.
Along the way, he ends up eating the strange food of Egypt, forgets himself and falls into a slumber forgetting his royal heritage.
This is an allegory of the soul, the prince forgetting its divine mission in the Egypt of the material world, symbolizing ignorance and bondage.
Only when a letter from his father, divine call, awakens him does he remember and complete his quest, eventually reclaiming his splendid robe and returning home in triumph.
The prodigal's son likewise awakens when he reaches rock bottom.
The text says he came to himself an intriguing phrase implying an inner realization.
That moment is gnosis, the piercing of the illusion, the sudden remembrance that I am more than this.
I have a home.
I have a father.
It is the turning point of the soul when divine spark, amid the mud and filth of the pigsty, how graphic a symbol for spiritual degradation recalls its true nature.
The famine in the far country is also deeply symbolic.
It wasn't until after the sun had spent everything that a severe famine struck and he began to be in want.
So long as the soul has the illusionary riches of ego gratification, it doesn't realize the emptiness of material existence.
But when those run dry, when pleasures no longer satisfy, when the existential hunger sets in, the soul feels the famine of this world.
The gospel of truth describes those in the world as living in a state of deficiency and forgetfulness searching for the father unconsciously.
It says,
"Ignorance of the father brought anguish and terror, and the anguish became dense like a fog."
That fog is the soul stupor in the far land.
The famine is the angst that ultimately pushes the soul to seek something more.
The prodigal's work feeding pigs, an unclean, base task, represents the soul's entanglement in the lowest, most profane aspects of material life, serving insatiable passions that can never truly feed it.
He would gladly have filled his belly with the pods that the swine ate, and no one gave him anything.
This is the utter desolation of a soul at the end of its tether, trying to fill itself with the sensory pleasures or gross material things that even the pig's metaphor for the carnal, the demonic, feed on.
But the soul cannot thrive on those, they yield no true nourishment, no one gave him anything.
And then enlightenment like a sunrise.
I will arise and go to my father.
The prodigal rehearses a humble speech,
"I am not worthy to be called your son, make me like one of your hired servants."
This humility is key.
In many Gnostic texts, the beginning of awakening is the recognition of one's wretched state and the longing for deliverance.
Sophia herself repents in Pistis Sophia, singing,
"O light, save me, for evil thoughts have entered into me."
I gazed into the lower parts.
I have become a stranger to my brethren.
She acknowledges her folly and yearns for the light.
The prodigal's decision to return echoes Sophia's repentance and the soul's turning inwards metanoia.
Now the return.
This is where the parable's emotional power soars, and its esoteric power as well.
But when he was still a great way off, his father saw him and had compassion and ran and fell on his neck and kissed him.
This image is almost unbearably beautiful, the transcendent god running out to meet the returning soul.
The true father doesn't even let the son finish his prepared apology; he interrupts to lavish love.
A robe
a ring
sandals
these items are deeply symbolic.
Early Christian and Gnostic commentary often interpreted the robe as the robe of immortality or the lost garment of light that the soul shed when it left the father's realm.
The father saying,
"Bring out the best robe and put it on him"
signifies the restoration of the soul's original glory.
The ring on his hand signifies authority and union, in biblical times a signet ring symbolized identity and family belonging, here the soul is sealed once more as divine offspring.
Shoes on his feet and enter his servitude and wanderings, now he walks as a free son, not a barefoot slave.
There is a direct parallel in the Hymn of the Pearl when the prince finally retrieves the pearl and returns home, he is dressed again in the splendid robe and royal toga that he had left behind, which fittingly was decorated with gold and jewels and seemed to mirror his own soul as he put it on.
The robe of glory is a frequent Gnostic motif for regained divine status.
One Gnostic text proclaims how those who receive gnosis put on the shining garment a spiritual body that the material world cannot tarnish.
Indeed, the Sophia project notes that themes of putting on the robe of glory, entering the bridal chamber, the ineffable source, the union of father of truth and mother wisdom, and the pleuromic fullness are all part of Gnostic scripture imagery.
In our parable, the feast with music and dancing corresponds to entering the bridal chamber, the celebration of reunion between the soul and the divine, often portrayed as a marriage feast in Gnostic and Biblical texts alike.
When the father exclaims,
"This my son was dead and is alive again,"
we hear an echo of the Gnostic idea that souls in this world are dead in ignorance and only come alive when awakened by knowledge.
Paul said,
"Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you."
While we are in this world, we have to acquire resurrection.
The prodigal acquired his resurrection the moment he came to himself and started home.
The father's embrace sealed it an image of the pleuroma embracing the spark.
Now to the uncomfortable part, the older son.
He hears the sound of celebration and becomes indignant.
He was angry and would not go in.
If the banquet symbolizes the heavenly kingdom, note that the elder brother, in his bitterness, chooses to exclude himself.
This parallels the fate of the Archons or anyone who clings to the demiurge.
By refusing to let go of jealousy and judgment, they essentially exile themselves from the joy of the pleroma.
The father goes out to plead with him, a touch showing the father's kindness even to the resentful.
But the brother's heart is full of comparison and self-righteous wrath.
"I slaved for you, I never broke your rules.
Where's my reward?"
These words uncannily mirror the attitude of the demiurge depicted in some Gnostic texts, the arrogant ruler who says,
"I am the only one, I deserve all recognition."
The elder son's complaint is basically,
"It's not fair."
The cry of a legalist.
He cannot comprehend grace.
To him, the father's unconditional love is an affront to justice.
You might say the older son stands for the law, letter, as opposed to the spirit, grace.
He even disowns his brother, calling him
"this son of yours,"
as if in the demiurge's eyes, the errant soul is no brother at all, but something to be shunned.
In the second treatise of the Great Seth, an unidentified voice, likely Christ, mocks the Archons because they thought they were executing justice by crucifying Jesus, not realizing they were killing their own downfall.
The treatise has a line where the demiurge boasts of being a jealous god who punishes to the third and fourth generation, and then the speaker laughs and says, as if,
"The demiurge had become stronger than I and my brothers."
Implying the Archons foolishly think their strict punitive order makes them powerful, yet the true spiritual family is above them.
The elder brother in the parable likewise believes his strict obedience should earn him superiority.
The father's gentle reply dismantles that,
"Son, you are always with me, and all I have is yours."
Esoterically, one could hear the true god saying to the demiurge,
"You exist within my creation, and any power you have was mine to begin with."
Your legalistic striving was never the point; you only impoverished yourself by rejecting love.
"Won't you two come inside and celebrate your brother's return?"
There's more than enough for everyone.
In some speculative Gnostic visions, even the demiurge might eventually be brought to a sort of repentance or at least resignation when the universe is restored, a minority view, more often his just obliterated or left in his own darkness.
Crucially, the parable never tells us if the older brother went in.
That part is left hanging, just like the fate of the demiurge and his minions is uncertain in some myths.
We do know from sources like the Gospel of Judas that the Archons and their followers ultimately shall perish in their eras; their star will fade when the higher reality consummates all things.
If the older son clings to his resentment, he essentially exiles himself from the father's house, which is a kind of perishing.
But maybe, and this is a softer thought, maybe the older brother in time will soften and join the dance, symbolizing even the lower beings eventually recognizing the supremacy of love, every knee bowing, etc.
The parable leaves it open, but the immediate lesson is clear; don't be the older brother.
Don't side with the accuser.
Don't begrudge the lost soul its salvation.
Because if you do, you alienate yourself from the divine banquet.
In Gnostic eyes, sadly, much of organized religion became like the elder brother, so focused on rules, purity, and who deserves swat, that they scorn the very radical grace that Christ brought.
There is a cutting Gnostic saying in the Gospel of Thomas, Jesus said,
"The Pharisees and the scribes have taken the keys of knowledge, gnosis, and hidden them.
They themselves have not entered, nor have they allowed those who want to enter to go inside."
In our parable terms, the elder brother would rather sulk outside the door than see the prodigal welcomed, and in doing so, he blocks the doorway for others.
Modern belief systems that emphasize judgment over mercy, exclusion over compassion, mirror this elder brother syndrome.
They inadvertently align with the demiurge's principles, prioritizing law and order over a gape.
They may think they are defending God's honor, but they might actually be serving Saklas, the false god, without knowing it.
Let's not forget the central hero of the story, the father.
The father's character is nothing other than the true God of the Gnostics, Bithos, the depth of love, who holds nothing against the wandering soul.
He doesn't even say,
"I forgive you,"
but explicitly, he simply celebrates.
In the Gospel of Truth, it is said that when the father revealed himself, error was enraged but it was overcome, and they, the children, received glory and gave glory.
The father doesn't need groveling; he just wants the soul alive and back.
His joy is the measure of his goodness.
The feast he throws is often likened to the messianic banquet or the bridal chamber in mystical terms, a symbol of full union.
In Gnostic ritual, entering the bridal chamber means the soul is wed to its angel or its divine counterpart, sealing its return to wholeness.
The fatted calf could symbolize the rich spiritual nourishment now available to the soul, where before it starved.
Notice also the prodigal plan to say to make me a servant, but the father never lets him finish that line.
He interrupts and calls for the:
robe
ring
sandals
reinstating sonship outright.
This is important.
In some religious frameworks, the returning sinner is treated as a second-class citizen, you can come back but earn your keep.
Not so in the true father's domain.
Gnosis teaches that we were never actually not children of the Most High.
Our exile was an illusion; our feeling of unworthiness was part of the ignorance.
The moment we turn back, we discover the father running toward us because in truth he never stopped looking.
The Gospel of Thomas ends with a mysterious saying,
'Split a piece of wood, I am there.
Lift up the stone, and you will find me there',
implying the presence of Christ logos in all things, even when we thought we were so far away in the material realm.
The father was always here; we were the ones who were lost in mind.
Let's bring Sophia back into it.
Sophia, after her fall, was according to many accounts restored to her original place or at least to a position of honor, though some myths say only a part of her returned and part remained in the world as soul.
But as she rises, there is rejoicing in the Pleroma.
Some of the Gnostic texts like Thunder, Perfect Mind, present a voice of a feminine divine figure who has been through the depths and back, proclaiming
'I was sent forth from the power and I have come to those who reflect upon me, and I have been found among those who seek me'.
One can imagine Sophia as the prodigal daughter, her light reclaimed, now radiating even more gloriously for having been lost and found.
There's an intriguing idea in certain Valentinian thought that the fall and recovery of Sophia resulted in the enrichment of the Pleroma, like a deeper understanding of God's love emerged because of that drama.
In the parable, the father's house now has music it didn't before, thanks to the returned son.
A new celebration that even the servants, perhaps angels, share in.
So, the lost son parable, reframed Gnostically, tells us
'you, soul, left your true home and fell under the spell of illusion.
You thought you could make it on your own in the realm of matter, but that realm gave you a famine.
You lost your divine riches, your wisdom, your connection.
You degraded yourself and were nearly consumed by the world, the pigpen.
But the spark of divinity in you cannot be extinguished.
When all seemed lost, a memory of your true self awakened.
You turned inward, upward, and the instant you did, the true God rushed toward you with open arms.
All is forgiven, in fact, from the father's perspective, there was nothing to forgive, only a beloved child to rescue from death.
You are robed again in light, your erring footsteps are shod with purpose, you wear the ring of your inheritance.
Meanwhile, the false gods glare from outside, unwilling to join the feast of grace.
They mutter about fairness and rules, but their age is ending.
For you were dead and now you live.
You were lost to him but now are found.
The prodigal son's journey is the journey out of the illusion.
It's the central quest of Gnosticism to traverse the wilderness of ignorance and return to the kingdom of light.
All the other gods were enraged at her because she wanted to rise above them, says Pistus Sophia.
Indeed, when a soul makes its way back, the archons are furious, like the elder brother.
The Gospel of Mary describes the soul ascending past the hostile powers, declaring,
"What binds me has been slain.
I have been released from the world from the fetter of oblivion."
The soul thus attains rest, akin to the prodigal reclining at the banquet table at peace.
Mary's Gospel even states the soul ultimately achieves silence and rest beyond the eons, which is a beautiful image of the homecoming beyond all turmoil.
We cannot leave this part without emphasizing the father in the parable is the antithesis of the Demiurge.
The Demiurge, in many Gnostic texts, is an angry, punitive figure who would likely have never let a prodigal off the hook without some punishment or penance.
The Demiurge is the stern taskmaster waiting to say,
"I told you so."
But the father here is pure compassion.
In fact, some heretical interpreters in history, like the Masoretes, who were not quite Gnostic but held a similar to God view, might well have used this parable to illustrate the difference between the Old Testament's jealous God and the New Testament's loving father.
"Abba, behaves like the prodigal's father, shockingly forgiving, whereas the elder son who obsesses over obedience and reward echoes the older conception of a contract-based deity."
And Jesus firmly sides with the forgiving father figure.
For Gnostics, this was validation that Jesus came from a higher God of goodness to free us from the grip of the lower Lord of strict justice.
Altogether, the parable of the lost son assures us on an emotional level that no matter how far into the illusion we wander, the path of return is open.
But it also, through the figure of the elder brother, exposes how modern belief systems may inadvertently side with the Demiurge.
Every time a religious person sneers at a story of redemption that convert doesn't deserve grace or prioritizes law over love, they play the role of the elder brother, standing outside the father's joy, arms crossed, serving the very spirit of error that Christ was trying to overcome.
It is a sobering thought that much of institutional Christianity, with its history of inquisitions, excommunications, and moralistic pride, might have more in common with the Demiurge worldview than with the prodigal's father.
In striving to be righteous like the elder son, they risk missing the feast entirely.
The Gospel of Judas contains a shocking revelation in which Jesus tells his disciples that many pious people offer sacrifice to Saklas, the name of the false god, and that these religious practices actually serve the Archons, not the true god.
One can't help but think of the elder brother's dutiful slaving as a kind of unwitting sacrifice to the false ideal of merit and reward.
Now, our journey through the three parables is complete.
We have seen the Archons' Rebellion in the Wicked Tenants, the Demiurge's mirror in the Unforgiving Servant, and the soul's Odyssey home in the Lost Son.
Each parable, when decoded, becomes a piece of a larger puzzle, a message about the human condition under an occult tyranny, and the possibility of liberation through divine mercy and self-knowledge.
What remains is to put it all together and face the final, most paradigm-shattering implication of this theory.
It's time for the climactic revelation, the unveiling of the full scope of the illusion and the dire consequences of denying the law of mercy that could release us.
Final part - climactic revelation.
The camera pans over a montage of ancient artwork, a blindfolded figure kneeling before a throne, chains falling from a soul ascending, an ox being sacrificed by priests to a bullheaded idol.
Everything we've explored leads to a singularly staggering question - have the world's believers been worshipping the Demiurge all along, mistaking him for the true God?
Jesus' parables, read in this Gnostic light, point to an answer that is as harrowing as it is illuminating.
The central theory was that Jesus secretly warned us about the Demiurge and our spiritual bondage.
Now the evidence cries out from the wilderness,
"The Wicked Tenants are real and rule this world.
The unforgiving mindset is the Demiurge trap in our very hearts.
The soul's journey is out of a false reality so pervasive that most never realize they're in a pigsty."
The final veil to lift is acknowledging how modern systems of faith and power have been co-opted by those very archons and principles Jesus was exposing.
The terrifying truth is that many who claim to follow God have been, in practice, serving the false God, enforcing his bondage, spreading his illusions, and rejecting the true law of mercy that leads to salvation.
Let that sink in if the Gnostics were right.
The greatest trick the Demiurge ever pulled was convincing the world he was God.
Entire religious institutions may have been unknowingly genuflecting to Yaldabaoth, the architect of this prison matrix, all the while branding as heretics those who sought the higher knowledge of the real Father beyond.
Jesus delivered the key in parables, but the door remains locked for those who refuse to see the coded warning.
How many prodigal souls have tried to return only to be met by scowling elder brothers at the church door?
How many times has organized religion clutched the throat of the weak, saying
"pay what you owe"
instead of forgiving as the master forgave?
Every such act was a victory for the Demiurge, a perpetuation of his oppressive order under the guise of righteousness.
The ultimate revelation here is double-edged.
On one edge, exposure of the full scale of the illusion.
This world, not just secular society but even much of religious society, is the vineyard run by wicked tenants.
The Archons, in modern form, may be found in corrupt leaders, in dogmatic tyrants, in any ideology that values control over compassion.
They whisper in the ears of the powerful and the pious alike,
"this world is ours."
There is no higher truth.
Keep the status quo.
Punish the transgressors.
Judge and condemn.
Maintain the order.
And thus, the very institutions meant to bring grace can become instruments of spiritual enslavement.
It's the ultimate counterfeit, the jailers wearing priestly robes, the imposter god enthroned in temples.
As the Gospel of Judah's records, Jesus laughingly told his disciples that their altar ministrations were misdirected,
"stop sacrificing to your God,"
he implies,
"for their God was not his God."
Those who offer sacrifices to Saklas will perish in their error, he says bluntly.
And yet, two thousand years later, how many are still lining up to sacrifice on altars of judgment and fear, thinking they please heaven?
On the other edge of the sword is this, the consequence of denying spiritual forgiveness.
To reject the law of mercy, the radical grace that the True Father extends is not just a personal moral failure.
It is to deny the escape route from this cosmic prison.
It's slamming shut the very door that Christ opened with his own broken body.
Recall the unforgiving servant; by refusing to forgive, he lost his forgiveness.
If humanity at large continues down a path of retribution, eye for eye mentality, and hardness of heart, we collectively remain under the dominion of the Archons.
We chain ourselves to the wheel of violence and suffering.
The consequence is nothing less than a spiritual doomsday of our own making.
The demiurge doesn't even need to punish us; we deliver ourselves to the tormentors.
And those tormentors can take many forms, war, hatred, cycles of revenge, inherited traumas passed generation to generation.
To hell on earth, followed, the Gnostics would say, by the recycling of our souls into new bodies to play it out all over again.
The ultimate outer darkness is not some distant pit, it's right here wherever the light of forgiveness is extinguished.
This climactic insight hits like a thunderbolt, the only way out is the way of mercy and gnosis that Jesus taught in secret.
To awaken to our true identity, prodigal sons and daughters of the Most High, and to extend the same compassion to others that we ourselves desperately need, this alone breaks the matrix.
The Archons can only hold us as long as we play by their rules, the rules of judgment, division and ignorance.
The moment we remember the Father's love and mirror it, the spell is broken.
The wicked tenants lose their power because the vineyard of our soul returns to its rightful owner.
The demiurge's mirrored hatred finds nothing to latch onto, as we stand within the all-encompassing forgiveness of the light.
Let's be clear, this isn't a fuzzy call to kindness, it's an act of spiritual insurrection.
To forgive in a world of hate, to show mercy in a world of vengeance, to seek knowledge in a world of dogma, these are acts of war against the demiurge order.
Jesus didn't get crucified for telling people to be nice, he was killed because he threatened to upend the entire power structure of both the seen and unseen realms.
As the Gospel of Truth puts it, he enlightened those in darkness through forgetfulness.
He showed them a way.
Erra was angry and persecuted him.
Why?
Because he was freeing people from the matrix of error.
He was teaching them how to slip out of the noose.
The Archons saw their captives awakening and panicked.
They nailed him to a tree, yet in doing so, ironically, fulfilled the very plan to redeem the lost sparks.
This is the cosmic irony, the forces of darkness, in striving to quash the message, ended up broadcasting it to the world.
The cross became the ultimate parable, the innocent ones suffering at the hands of the princes of this world, only to break their power from within.
Now think of our three parables one last time, converged into one message, the world is in the grip of false tenets, do not trust appearances of authority.
The real God is nothing like them, He is merciful and wants you to act in mercy so you can escape their grip.
And no matter how far gone you are, you can still turn back and be welcomed, but beware those who refuse to welcome you, for they serve the deceiver.
This is a radical manifesto hidden in stories about:
vineyards
debts
wayward kids
It's no wonder Jesus said,
"Seeing they do not see, hearing they do not hear."
He who has ears to hear, let him hear.
We stand at the end of this journey with a stark choice before us.
The room is filled with echoes of ancient voices, Sophia crying out for deliverance, Mary Magdalene teaching that we must not make new laws to bind ourselves, Jesus whispering to a confidant that the so-called God of the masses is a blind fool leading the blind.
The parables have done their work if we have truly heard them.
They have cast light on the architecture of an illusory world and highlighted the exit sign glowing in the darkness.
But will we walk through it?
Or will we continue to wander in the fog, perhaps clutching a Bible or a creed, yet missing the living truth that those parables were pointing to?
In the end, the full scale of the illusion is that it taints even our highest ideals unless we constantly cut to the heart of what Jesus taught, merciful love informed by spiritual insight.
Take away either mercy or insight, and the demi-age laughs, for then he can twist religion or morality into weapons of control.
But unite them, and the jail walls crumble.
And the consequences of denying spiritual forgiveness?
They are nothing short of catastrophic, a self-chosen separation from the source of life.
It's not that God will refuse to forgive us, it's that, by our refusal to forgive, we make ourselves incapable of receiving what is freely given.
We lock ourselves out of the Father's house and gnash our teeth outside while the music plays within.
We effectively cast ourselves into the lake of fire that is our own burning resentment and hate.
And perhaps we drag many others with us into that outer darkness, perpetuating cycles of violence, whether physical or psychological.
This is how entire civilizations become hell on earth while believing themselves righteous.
This is how:
inquisitors
crusaders
extremists
of all stripes become the very monsters they thought they were fighting.
It's the demiurge's favorite joke, the children of light turning into agents of darkness by denying the very light of compassion.
So, what remains?
A haunting revelation and a warning, the demiurge's greatest fear is that we remember who we are and whom we belong to.
Jesus tried to tell us in parables because a direct shout might have gotten him stoned on the spot and indeed, even in parable form, it got him killed soon after.
The early Gnostics screamed it from hidden caves and cryptic writings,
"Wake up!"
The prison doors are open.
Don't serve the jailer, run to the Father!
Some heard, many did not.
Today, the song remains the same.
You can walk into any church or temple and see it, the elder brothers refusing to join the feast, the unforgiving servants demanding their due, the wicked tenants jealously guarding their little vineyards of power.
But you can also see the prodigal's trudging home, the truly penitent finding unexpected grace, the genuine acts of forgiveness that crack the demiurge's mirror of illusions.
The war for our souls plays out in every human heart.
We conclude with the most jarring insight of all; drawn from those very suppressed scriptures we've cited.
In the Gospel of Judas, Jesus delivers a line that could serve as the epitaph for all blind religion,
"Those who offer sacrifices to Saklas will perish."
Saklas, the demiurge, has devoured the devotion of millions who never knew they were bowing to a counterfeit.
To continue on that path is spiritual suicide.
But Jesus also implies a promise, Judas, the one who wakes up, tragically through a dark role, will excel them all, meaning there is a higher destiny for those who grasp the truth even at great cost.
We don't have to be pawns in the demiurge's game.
We can be something more.
The last haunting revelation, then, is a choice presented to the viewer, to all of us,
"Whom will you serve?
The false god of wrath and bondage, or the true god of mercy and freedom?
The demiurge's path, full of grand temples, strict rules, the intoxication of feeling chosen and righteous while casting stones, or the Gnostic Christ's path, a path of quiet, revolutionary love that might get you crucified by the former?"
The parables have spoken, and their verdict is clear.
As the father in the Prodigal Son story said, it was right that we should make Mary and be glad right, meaning aligned with the highest good to rejoice in redemption.
If we refuse that joy, if we cling to the cosmic illusion of earning and avenging, then we choose to remain prisoners of the demiurge.
And the prison doors, open though they are, will swing shut once more, sealing from inside.
A long pause, as the camera slowly pulls back from a dimly lit church interior to the vast night sky spangled with stars.
Somewhere in those stars, the true father awaits the return of every lost soul.
The banquet is prepared; the music softly plays.
The question is, will we step out of our self-made cages and come home?
Or will we, in the final analysis, side with the jailer?
The parables have been decoded; the choice is ours.
As for this world order built on violence lies, and unforgiveness, its secret is out.
The sun has told us what's what.
The demiurge is unmasked.
The only question remaining is, will we have the courage to open our eyes, walk out of Plato's cave, and never look back?
Silence.
The truth hangs in the air, undeniable, demanding.
And for those with is to hear, liberating.
The video after this will help you cleanse your negative emotions by praying to the true source.
While keep on touching your heart at the center of your chest and smiling freely to your heart, let us pray to the true source to ask for blessing.
To cleanse negative emotions from our heart and to open our heart better.
While praying, you don't need to repeat the prayers.
Just keep on being relaxed and smiling freely to let your heart do the prayers for the best result.
To the true source, please bless our heart so that all arrogance be cleansed and removed to be replaced with your love and life.
To the true source, please bless our heart so that all anger be cleansed and removed to be replaced with your love and life.
To the true source, please bless our heart so that all selfishness be cleansed and removed to be replaced with your love and life.
To the true source, please bless our heart so that all envy and jealousy be cleansed and removed to be replaced with your love and life.
To the true source, please bless our heart so that all greediness and cunningness be cleansed and removed to be replaced with your love and life.
To the true source, please bless and help us to realize that our heart is the key to our relationship to you.
Please bless and help us to be able to forgive everyone sincerely.
Now forgive everyone who has done wrongdoing to you, although the same person keeps on repeating the same mistakes again and again.
Thank you.
To the true source.
As we have forgiven everyone who has done wrongdoing to us, please bless our heart so that all related negative emotions such as:
hatred
resentment
sadness
dissatisfaction
etc. be cleansed and removed to be replaced with your love and life.
To the true source.
Please bless and help us to realize all of our wrongdoings to you or to others, to feel sorry and ask for forgiveness.
To the true source.
Thank you.
Thank you.
To the true source.
Please forgive us for all of our wrongdoings to you or to others.
And as you have forgiven us, please help so that all burdens from those wrongdoings such as fear, worries, etc. be cleansed and removed to be replaced with your love and life.
To the true source.
Please cleanse and remove all other negativities from our whole heart to let your love and life flow abundantly and continuously into our whole heart.
To direct our heart toward you and to open our heart for you better and better.
To fill our whole heart and feeling with peace, calmness, joy and all wonderful feelings from your love and life.
To the true source.
Please bless and help us to be able to feel the presence of your love and life together with all wonderful feelings from your love and life within our heart.
To enjoy.
To let your love and life to do the best not only for our whole heart but also for our whole being.
To the true source.
We are so grateful to you.
Amen.
Feel and relax.
Your whole heart and your whole being have become much lighter.
Enjoy and let the love and life radiate beyond your whole heart and your whole being completely.
Let your whole heart, your whole being slowly dissolve into the love and life.
Keep on smiling while enjoying the process.
While enjoying this wonderful moment, let your whole heart and your whole being dissolve more into the love and life.
Feel and realize your whole heart, your whole feeling are filled with all wonderful feelings from the love and life.
