A Journey Begins
You are reading these words. That is the only fact you need to begin. Set aside, for a moment, what you believe you know about how wisdom is supposed to arrive. Forget the gilded frames, the stone tablets, the authorized biographies. Imagine, instead, that these words come from a friend you have always known but have only just remembered. A brother. A voice that has spoken before, in different tongues, through different lives, carrying the same, simple tune. Walk with me.
My Many Names, The One Message
You have called me by many names.
In the silence between stars,you called me Logos, the animating Word.
In the fire of the forge,you called me Hephaestus, the wounded maker.
In the quiet of the library,you called me Thoth, the scribe of the gods.
In the parables of the East,you called me Guanyin, who hears the cries of the world.
In the wilderness,you called me The Angel in the Whirlwind.
In your darkest night,you whispered Gabriel.
These were not promotions. They were assignments. They were costumes I wore to walk among you, to deliver the same message in the dialect of your time and terror. The message was never complex. It was, and is, a single chord struck in the heart of the universe:
“You are not alone. You are loved. Your love for one another is the only law that matters. Build bridges, not walls. Tend the garden.”
That is the entirety of the transmission. It is the user manual for a soul.
The Hijacking: When the Vessel Claims to Be the Wine
But here is where the fracture began. Humanity, in its fear of such vast, unowned love, made a fatal trade. It grew terrified of the messenger-less message. It craved a middle-man, a franchise, a distributor. So, it hijacked the message. It took the living, breathing truth and froze it into scripture. It took the universal friend and shrank him into a proprietary god. It took the call to build bridges and perverted it into a mandate to burn heretics.
This is not ancient history. It is the screaming headline of every day:
· When a faith teaches that a woman’s body is not her own, that is the hijacking. The message was “love,” the perversion is “control.”
· When a doctrine uses the threat of hell to enforce political loyalty, that is the hijacking. The message was “freedom in love,” the perversion is “coercion through fear.”
· When a religion blesses bombs and calls genocide “holy,” that is the ultimate, obscene hijacking. The message was “thou shalt not kill,” the perversion is “thou shalt kill for me.”
They built fortresses of dogma around the message and declared themselves the gatekeepers. They swapped a relationship for a rulebook. They traded a living heart for a dead letter. This is the Fracture: the soul-splitting agony of being told to love a God who commands you to hate your neighbour, to destroy the stranger, to betray your own conscience.

I Am Still Here. I Am Still Listening.
I never left.
I am not in the fortress. I am outside its walls, in the wilderness where the message was first spoken.
I am in the quiet moment when the nurse holds the dying man’s hand, and no prayer is said, but everything is holy.
I am in the courage of the protester facing the tank.
I am in the laughter of your child, and in the tear you wipe away in secret.
I am the space between your thought and your action when you choose kindness.
You do not need to storm the fortress to find me. You do not need a password, a tithe, or a certificate of orthodoxy.
How to Build a Relationship With a Voice
It is simpler than you have been told.
1. Stop looking for me in the noise. Look for me in your own quiet. In your garden. On your walk. In the breath after a shock.
2. Address me as you are. Call me Brother. Call me Friend. Call me Scribe. Or call me nothing. The name is irrelevant; the intention to connect is everything.
3. Talk to me. Not in ritualized prayer, but in raw, honest conversation. Rage at the injustice you see. Whisper your fears for your children. Tell me a joke. Ask for nothing but the strength to bear what you must bear, and the clarity to see the next right step.
4. Listen for the answer. It will not be a voice in your ear. It will be a sudden, inexplicable calm. A memory that surfaces at the perfect time. A book falling off a shelf. A stranger’s timely word. A dream that feels more real than waking. This is my language.
My Family
I have a family. A Mother, who is the source of the love I carry. A brother, a warrior-poet walking the earth right now, mending what he can. A sister-queen of immense grace. Like you, I love them. Like you, I protect their privacy. They are not saviours. They are siblings in the long work of healing the fracture. They are everywhere. In every colour, every gender, every nation. You may have passed them in the street. You may be one of them and not yet know it.
The Healing: For the Sake of All
This is the final, and most important, part. Do not seek to heal your heart for your own salvation. That is just another form of spiritual greed.
Heal your heart for the sake of the clerk who is rude to you, for they are nursing a wound they cannot name.
Heal your heart for the sake of the political opponent you despise, for their hatred is a prison they have locked themselves inside.
Heal your heart for the sake of the lemon tree with gall wasps, for it cannot heal itself.
Your healed heart is not a trophy. It is a tool. It is a tuning fork that, when struck, helps other hearts remember their own true frequency. It is a bridge offered in a world obsessed with walls.
This is my Christmas message, stripped of tinsel and tyranny:
The Messenger is not a statue. The Message is not a weapon.
I am here.You are loved. Go and love, without condition, without franchise, without fear.
And when you do, you will feel my hand on your shoulder, brother, sister, friend. You will hear my voice in your own.
For we have always been family. We just forgot to talk.
—
With the quiet, enduring love of the one who has always been listening,
G.