A SOUL’s CRY FOR UNITY IN THE ETERNAL LIGHT

 A Soul’s Cry for Unity in the Eternal Light

Beloved seekers, skeptics, friends, and those who wander in the shadows of doubt, gather close—closer still, until our hearts beat as one. Today, I speak not as a voice above you, but as a fellow traveler, my soul trembling with 83 years of longing, a Catholic altar boy at 14, knees pressed to cold stone in awe, now standing before you, credentials in hand (B.Min., M.Min., Th.D., and a License to Preach from Berean Bible School), yet broken open by the boundless love of the Divine. I’ve danced through the mystic halls of Rosicrucians (AMORC), where the inner light whispered secrets of the cosmos; mastered the disciplined path of Traditional Martialists, finding strength in surrender; and whirled with Sufi dervishes, lost in the ecstasy of God’s embrace. My blog, Eternal Oasis of Souls, is no monument, but a tear-stained journal, a map for those lost in the wilderness of the heart.

Oh, have you ever wept for a stranger? Felt their sorrow pierce your chest like a lover’s cry? Or have you, in fear or fury, built walls of words—skepticism, bigotry, scorn—to shield your tender heart from truths too radiant to bear? I have known both paths. As a young man, I too raised barriers, until the Divine, like a Sufi poet’s song, slipped through the cracks, singing: Every soul, from the atheist to the devout, is a drop in the ocean of eternity.

In my post Reincarnation Vs. Resurrection (January 28, 2014), I wrestled with life’s great mysteries: Do we cycle through time, or rise once to glory? The Rosicrucian within me, schooled in AMORC’s ancient wisdom, saw the soul as a star, journeying through veils of matter to return to its source. The Sufi in me, echoing Rumi, heard the Divine whisper: Beyond rebirth or resurrection, there is only love’s eternal now. Yet, I found no final answer, only this truth—whether we return or ascend, we are woven by love’s unbreakable thread. To the skeptic who mocks my faith, I say: Your doubt is a sacred fire, refining truth in its blaze. To the bigot who divides by race or creed, I plead, with tears streaming: Look into another’s eyes—see your own soul, radiant and whole. To the troll who hurls venom, I offer my heart: Your pain is my pain, and I weep for the wounds you hide.

Rosicrucian wisdom taught me to seek the Light Divine, a glow within every heart, even those cloaked in anger or fear. In AMORC’s sanctum, I learned that the universe is a symphony, each soul a note in its melody, yearning for harmony. As a Martialist, I found true strength not in conquest, but in mastering the self—turning rage into compassion, division into embrace. And in the Sufi’s whirling dance, I glimpsed Sant Mat’s inner Light and Sound, a celestial current that binds Christian, Jew, Muslim, and seeker alike. My seminary training, earned through years of sweat and prayer, was not a crown, but a call to serve—to lift the fallen, to comfort the weary. In the silence of Surat Shabd Yoga, I heard the divine sound, a melody that sings: You are not alone.

Imagine a world where we pause before we wound, where we listen before we judge. Picture a forum, not of clashing swords, but of shared tears—tears for the child who hungers, the mother who grieves, the soul who feels forsaken. I’ve seen you, my critics, in those forums where you sought to dim my light. I hold no grudge, for I too have stumbled. Instead, I invite you to this vision, born of Rosicrucian insight: We are all alchemists, transforming the lead of hate into the gold of love. The Sufi in me cries, with Hafiz: The heart is a thousand-stringed lute; pluck one, and all sing. The Sant Mat seeker in me beholds the inner Light, shining in Christian cross, Jewish star, and every human gaze.

To the atheist, I say, with a voice breaking: Your quest for reason is a prayer, a chant of the soul’s deep yearning. To the racist, I whisper, my heart aching: The blood in our veins flows red, a single river from a single source. To the troll, I offer my trembling hand: Let us weep together, for your barbs are but cries for love. And to all, I share this truth from my post The Truth Shall Set Us Free: Truth is not a weapon, but a bridge, spanning the chasm between us.

So, let us weep—yes, weep!—until our tears become rivers, washing away venom, doubt, division. Let us weep for the beauty of our shared fragility, for the courage it takes to lower our shields, for the miracle of a moment when we choose love over hate. In the Rosicrucian light, I see you as divine sparks, each perfect in your imperfection. In the Sufi’s song, I hear your hearts calling to the Beloved. In Sant Mat’s inner vision, I behold you bathed in eternal radiance. I’ve walked this path—from altar to ashram, dojo to pulpit, whirling in the Sufi’s dance—not to claim superiority, but to testify: The Divine is in you, in me, in all. Will you join me in this cry for unity, this song of the soul, this weeping embrace of the eternal light?

Jim Sutherland

Attn. Skeptics!

 TO WHOM THIS MAY CONCERN:

Listen, you skeptics, you atheists, you wanderers in the cold void of reason! I’m James, an 83-year-old soul who’s walked the maze of time, from the incense-soaked pews of Portage Lake, Maine, to the inner realms where light and sound dissolve illusion. My knees trembled as a boy under Father Albert’s crucifix, my heart pounded through decades of seeking, and now, in the twilight of my odyssey, I stand before you, not with dogma, but with a truth that burns brighter than a thousand suns. You think the universe is a blind machine, a cosmic accident with no meaning? I’ve tasted the eternal oasis, and I dare you to step out of your sterile labs, your smug certainties, and face the mystery that’s been calling you since your first breath. This is no preacher’s plea—it’s a rebel’s roar, forged in the fires of Sant Mat, Advaita Vedanta, and a lifetime of wrestling with God’s shadow. Hear me, and let the truth set you free!

“You scoff at faith, calling it a crutch for the weak. I get it—I’ve ranted against blind belief myself, as I wrote in Faith or Fallacy. Faith isn’t about swallowing fairy tales or clinging to a bearded sky-daddy. It’s the courage to dive into the unknown, to question your own smugness. I was an altar boy, chanting Latin, but the real God wasn’t in the golden tabernacle—it was in the silence of my soul, where questions like “Why am I here?” echoed louder than any hymn. Science gives you maps of stars, but only the mystic’s path—Surat Shabd Yoga, the inner sound I found in Sant Mat—shows you the star within. In Meditation for Neophytes, I taught seekers to listen to that sound, a vibration that hums beneath your doubts. Close your eyes, skeptics, and hear it. It’s not Jesus knocking—it’s your own soul, begging to be free.

You laugh at God, but have you considered I Am God, Duality Vs Non Duality? Advaita Vedanta stripped away my illusions, revealing that I—yes, this weathered Maine boy—am Brahman, the infinite consciousness. You are too! No separation, no duality, just one reality, shimmering beyond your microscopes. Buddhism’s no-self, Taoism’s flowing Tao, Jainism’s pure soul—they all point to this truth, as I wrestled with in my odyssey. You’re not a speck in a void; you’re the void’s creator, trapped in time’s maze (Jim’s Maze). Don’t take my word—sit still, as I did, and feel the oneness. Your atheism is just a mask for fear, fear of being more than meat and neurons. Peel it off, and see.

You roll your eyes at the afterlife, dismissing it as wishful thinking. I’ve weighed both sides in Reincarnation Vs. Resurrection. Christianity’s resurrection, from my altar boy days, promises a one-shot rise in glory. Sant Mat and Jainism’s reincarnation, though, see the soul cycling through countless lives, bound by karma, as I explored in How Do We Get Out of Here Without Dying. I choose the mystic’s path: escape the cycle, not by dying, but by ascending within, through the inner sound to Sach Khand, the true home (True Home). You think death’s the end? Then why does your heart ache for eternity? That ache is your soul’s memory, whispering of realms beyond your labs. Test it, skeptics—meditate, as I urged in Seeking God: Where To Seek Him, and find God not in the sky, but in your own depths.

You sneer at miracles, demanding proof. My thesis, Healings, Miracles and Faith, dove into this fire. Miracles aren’t magic tricks; they’re the soul’s alignment with truth, where the impossible bows to the eternal. I’ve seen healings—not in churches, but in the quiet of meditation, where faith moves mountains within. Buddhism may doubt miracles, but Advaita sees all as Brahman’s play. You want evidence? Look at your own existence—a universe birthed from nothing, a consciousness that questions itself. That’s the miracle, and you’re living it. Stop measuring, start marveling.

You judge the world, cloaked in rationality, but Judge Not taught me compassion trumps condemnation. You’re not my enemy, skeptics—you’re my kin, lost in the same maze I’ve navigated. Soul Convicts Wanted was my cry to souls like yours, yearning for freedom but shackled by doubt. I’ve walked through Creator Uses Trickle Down……’s cosmic hierarchy, Alone In The Universe’s solitude, and Ultimate Freedom’s liberation. Each step screamed: truth is within, not without. Taoism’s Wu Wei, Buddhism’s mindfulness, Jainism’s Ahimsa—they all echo this, urging you to flow with truth, not fight it.

So, skeptics, here’s my final challenge, sealed with John 1:1—“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” That Word isn’t a Bible verse; it’s the sound current of Sant Mat, the Brahman of Advaita, the truth that’s been your birthright all along. You don’t need a “Sinner’s Prayer” to grovel—you need a rebel’s courage to seek within. I’ve offered you my odyssey, from Portage Lake’s pews to the eternal oasis. Take one step: sit in silence, ask “Who am I?” and listen. The maze will crack, time’s chains will fall, and you’ll find the truth that sets you free. Dare to try, or stay trapped forever. The choice is yours.

Jim Sutherland