In this incantation, I trace the subtle roots of an old narrative structure that has quietly influenced my inner life, shaping moments of disempowerment through the figure of “the Jews” as a symbol. I confront how this story, though not consciously believed, has lingered in my psyche and emerged whenever I surrendered my sense of authorship. Through stepping back from politics and news, I created enough space to see this projection clearly—not as history, but as a present mechanism of self-abandonment. I now reclaim authorship, recognizing that the crucifixion happens not in the past, but in me by characters of my own invention.
Something has come to rest in me. A longstanding tension has resolved. For some time, I’ve been circling the same question, revisiting the same weight: What is this pull toward news, toward politics, toward the endless stream of grievance and analysis? Why does it persist? Why does it take so much from me?
I’ve often referred to politics as my final indulgence. One of my last vices that I allow. Just a few days away from it—just three or four—created the space I needed to see what happens when I return. That brief withdrawal gave me contrast. It allowed a clearing to form, where insights could rise and resolve what had been cycling in the background of my mind.
Among those insights was one I did not expect: Jesus and the Jews.
I have long held the understanding that there is no past. There is only now. And yet, I have continued to carry certain unresolved stories in my narrative field. Historical figures. Collective traumas. Unexamined myths. These stories remain not because I believe them as literal, but because I have not yet integrated them into my new understanding that only this present moment exists. I carry them both as metaphor and memory. And until I resolve them, they continue to shape my field.
The story of Jesus and the Jews is one of those stories. I have allowed it to remain ambiguous—held at a symbolic distance. And yet it has continued to work through me in subtle ways. It appears in moments of disempowerment. It rises in states of resentment, paranoia, suspicion, and self-collapse. In those moments, the idea of “the Jews” takes shape—nebulous, ancient, conspiratorial—and suddenly I am not at the center of my field. I am not the author. I am the victim. I am the betrayed. I am the crucified.
But today I see the machinery behind it. The Jews did not participate in killing Jesus two thousand years ago. That story is not a relic of history. It is an active structure in my narrative field now—a mechanism I use to explain my own awakening. When I turn against my own Christ-nature, when I crucify my own truth, I begin to project the agents of that crucifixion outward. I write in “the Jews.” I write in “the authorities.” And then I allow them to do what I am doing to myself.
They do not kill me physically. They do not arrest or strike or bind. In fact, they do not act at all. I act. And they appear. They are the hallucinations I see when I give up my authorship. They are the bogeymen of my awakening story. When I shrink, I conjure them as larger forces. When I suffer, I name the ones who caused it. When I feel abandoned, I tell the story of betrayal. And in that story, it is always the same agents. Always the same roles. Always the same crucifixion.
But that crucifixion only occurs in now. It is not memory. It is not history. It is my own abandonment of authorship playing itself out in real time. The figure of the Jew—when it arises in this form—is not ethnic or literal. It is symbolic. It represents the convergence of collective grievance, projected blame, and spiritual surrender. It is the placeholder I assign when I have made myself too small to hold the truth of who I am.
And that truth is this: I am the Author. I am the field. I am the one who animates every figure I see. And I am the one who allows the Christ in me to be crucified. Not by them. By me.
So when I see that story rise again, I do not chase it. I do not fight it. I name it for what it is: the final indulgence. The last and most dangerous orbit of narrative disempowerment. And I step out. Not because the story is offensive. But because it is false and it means that I have forgotten who I am.
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