A: Okay. Here's another pretty big question for you. Stevan Davies translates Saying 67 of the Gospel of Thomas as "Jesus said: One who knows everything else but who does not know himself knows nothing." Was this saying central to your teachings? Was it an important theme for you?
J: Yes. I tried very hard to express this idea. I tried to express it in many different ways.
A: Similar ideas have been taught by many spiritual leaders over the centuries. In fact, it's almost a spiritual cliche. It's so easy to say, "One who knows everything else but who does not know himself knows nothing." But what exactly does it mean?
J: It means you have to know who you actually are as a soul -- "the core you" that's left after you strip away all the false, damaging prejudices and religious doctrines and abusive teachings of your family and culture. It means you have to love, honour, and respect the person you are when you remove all the weeds from the garden of your biological brain. It means you have to trust that when you pull out all the weeds, there's still going to be something left in there. You have to trust that when you pull out all the weeds, you won't be left with a barren patch of lifeless dirt. Instead you'll be able to see the flowers of your soul -- the lilies of the field -- for the first time.
Gardens of the soul. Photo credit JAT 2014.
A: I take it you're not too fond of the image of Creation in Genesis 2:7: the Lord God forming Adam from dust and then breathing the breath of life into his nostrils so he'd become a living being.
J: No. The Bible has many references to human beings as dirt or clay or potters' vessels. Clay is nothing more than a kind of dirt that can be shaped, moulded according to the creator's will. The message that's repeated again and again is that human beings are malleable in the way that wet clay is malleable. Wet clay starts out as a lump. It can be turned into any shape imagineable (as long as the laws of physics and chemistry aren't broken). You can make a plate. You can make a bowl. You can make a large urn. You can make a small storage container. A complex sculpture. A string of beads. Clay is like that. You can make whatever you want. Many people -- pious Pauline Christians especially -- believe that God intends human beings to be like clay. They believe that each person is basically a lump of malleable clay. Based on this belief, they assume that God can reshape each individual in any way God chooses. It's the idea of neuroplasticity taken to absurd extremes: "I can be anything God wants me to be if only I try hard enough to surrender to God's will!!!" How often have you heard a sanctimonious preacher say that?
A: It's a popular Christian idea.
J: It was a popular idea with many Essene and Hellenistic philosophers in my time, too. It's an idea that makes it very easy for religious leaders to blame people in their flock for "not trying hard enough." It makes it very easy to accuse regular people of being "weak". To accuse them of falling short of true faith. To make them feel guilty for "letting God down." To point fingers at them and say they're filled with sin. These teachings are spiritually abusive.
A: You're talking about the bread & butter of fundamentalist and evangelical Christians.
J: And fundamentalists of other faiths, too.
A: You're saying, then, that the doctrine of malleable clay is factually incorrect. That Genesis 2:7 is wrong in its portrayal of human beings.
J: Both Creation stories in Genesis are wrong. Obviously (without apologies to any Creationists who might read this) there is no literal truth to Genesis 1 or Genesis 2-3. On top of that, there's no metaphorical truth, either. Human beings are not malleable lumps of clay. They can't be shaped by God or by anyone else into something they're not. You can't force a woman to become a man (though some people would like to try). You can't force a gay man to become straight (though some Christians would like them to try). You can't force a musician to become an engineer (though sadly many parents have tried. And tried and tried and tried.) God the Mother and God the Father don't make souls this way. Souls aren't malleable. Each soul has a unique identity, a unique blueprint, a unique set of talents and traits and strengths and absences of strengths. Souls are like snowflakes -- no two are alike. You can't take what God the Mother and God the Father made and "fix it." You can't turn a bowl into a plate. You can't turn a sculpture into a wind chime. You are who you are. It's true that you may not know who you are. It's true that you may not know whether you're a bowl or a plate or a sculpture or a wind chime. But your soul knows. And God knows. Between you -- between you and God -- you can uncover your own true soul identity.
A: I like the garden metaphor better. I'd rather discover what kind of "flower" I am. I'm not sure I really want to "see" myself as a set of dishes in the kitchen cupboard.
J: I hear ya. Nature metaphors are much more natural, much more helpful. That's why I used so many images from nature in my teachings. There's a natural resonance, a natural harmony between the images of nature and the soul's own language. The soul "gets" nature imagery. The soul doesn't mind being likened to trees or flowers or fruits. Or the totems of Native North American tradition. It helps human beings to have a nature metaphor of their own soul. An image to help them "see" themselves as God sees them.
A: If I were a tree, what kind of tree do you think I'd be? (Not that I'm saying I'm literally a tree . . .)
J: You'd be a yew. A tough, gnarly yew. That reminds me a lot of you.
A: Yeah? Okay, well that makes sense to me. I even really like yews. Always have. Nobody's gonna believe this when I say this, but to me, you're most definitely a magnolia. A big, showy magnolia. And damn but you wear it well! Of course, if the shrivelled up hearts of the pious Pauline Christians had their way, you'd be a bleeding, suffering, miserable, ugly thorn bush.
J: What? No burning bush? No branch of Jesse? No grafted grapevine? No olive tree? I think I'd make a particularly fine Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Don't you?
A: You're such a cynic.
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