Tag: Spiritual deception

Thomas Merton’s Exploration of Tibetan Buddhist Mysticism and His Untimely Death

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Thomas Merton remains one of the most fascinating and controversial figures in modern Catholic spirituality. A Trappist monk whose writing reached millions, he invited readers into a life of contemplation shaped by silence, inner stillness, and spiritual inquiry. By the 1960s, his search had expanded far beyond the borders of Christian tradition and into the world of Eastern mysticism. His journey raises important questions about discernment, authority, and the possibility that some mystical experiences do not come from God at all.

Why Merton looked East

Merton believed that Western Christianity had lost something essential. He felt that institutional concerns and intellectual debate had overshadowed direct experience of God. Eastern religions appeared to preserve a contemplative path in a purer form. Like many in the post–Vatican II era, he saw dialogue with non-Christian religions as an opportunity rather than a threat.

But such openness came with a cost. Many Catholics of his time assumed that all deep mystical traditions shared a common source. The idea that spiritual experiences could arise from contrary or even deceptive origins was rarely discussed. This lack of discernment created a vulnerable generation of seekers who treated Eastern practices as spiritually neutral when they were not.

Merton’s early interest in Asia

Long before traveling to Asia, Merton was reading Zen, Taoism, Advaita Vedanta, and Sufi mystics. He approached them with sincere curiosity, but also with a growing assumption that truth could be gleaned from any direction. His writings from this period suggest a desire for universal contemplative experience, sometimes without sufficient attention to the distinct theological and spiritual claims behind each tradition.

This tendency to universalize mystical experience would shape his final years.

Meeting the Dalai Lama

In 1968, Merton traveled to Dharamsala and spent several days with the Dalai Lama. Their meetings were warm and genuinely contemplative. Merton admired the Dalai Lama’s kindness, discipline, and clarity. The Dalai Lama later remembered Merton as the first Christian monk who came to him not as a tourist or academic but as a fellow practitioner of deep prayer.

Yet admiration does not erase theological differences. Tibetan Buddhism denies a creator God, embraces reincarnation, and employs esoteric tantric practices that involve deities outside the Holy Trinity. From a Christian point of view, this difference is huge. The Church has long taught the discernment of spirits: mystical experiences must be tested, because deceptive spiritual forces can imitate peace, clarity, and even compassion. Merton did not always express this caution.

Encounter with Kalu Rinpoche

Merton also met Kalu Rinpoche, one of the most respected Tibetan meditation masters of the twentieth century. He attended teachings on Mahamudra and was deeply impressed by the monastic discipline he witnessed. Kalu Rinpoche even invited him to undertake a long hermit retreat. Merton seemed drawn to the idea.

But Tibetan Buddhism contains layers of esoteric practice that Merton, like most Westerners of his time, did not fully understand. The serene exterior of Tibetan spirituality often conceals tantric rituals, spirit invocation, and hierarchical guru devotion that are fundamentally incompatible with Christianity. Later revelations of abuse and occult manipulation inside some of the major Tibetan lineages show how incomplete the Western picture had been. Merton could not have known this, yet his enthusiasm reflected a lack of discernment that would affect many who followed in his footsteps.

What else he explored

Merton’s range of interests was broad. He read Zen masters, Taoist sages, Hindu philosophers, and Sufi poets. He studied Christian hesychasm with new energy and sought common threads among all traditions. His impulse was generous, but generosity is not the same as spiritual clarity. Christian prayer directs the soul toward union with God. Eastern meditation, especially tantra, aims at dissolving the ego and merging with non-Christian spiritual entities.

These are not complementary goals but representative of different spiritual destinies.

Bangkok and a mysterious death

After leaving Dharamsala, Merton traveled to Bangkok to speak at an international monastic conference. On December 10, 1968, he died in his cottage shortly after giving a lecture. The official explanation was accidental electrocution from a faulty fan. Yet no autopsy was performed, and the circumstances were poorly documented. The inconsistencies have fueled speculation for decades.

His death came at a moment when he was moving more deeply into Buddhist thought. Whether he intended to integrate aspects of Tibetan practice into Christian monasticism remains unknown. His passing has an unfinished quality, as if he was on the edge of a major spiritual shift whose implications were never tested.

Why Merton still matters

Merton’s life challenges readers to seek authentic spiritual contemplation, not just intellectual understanding. It also warns Christians that not every path that promises depth is aligned with God. Eastern systems often carry metaphysical commitments and spiritual forces that stand in real conflict with Christian revelation. Without a strong framework of discernment, even sincere seekers can be misled.

Merton’s writings still inspire, yet his story also stands as a cautionary tale. The longing for mystical experience is real and often holy, but it must be shaped by sound doctrine and a sober awareness that not every spiritual path leads toward God.

From the Yellow Brick Road to the Rock of Peter: A Journey Back

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I was raised in the Catholic faith. Its prayers, seasons, schools, and sacraments shaped my earliest understanding of the world. But as I grew older, the atmosphere changed and it started to feel foreign to me. After the upheavals in the liturgy and doctrine that followed the Second Vatican Council, everything became muted and seemed different. Gone was the mystery and ritual of the high Mass. What replaced it was grey and humdrum. As I embraced my mid-teens I felt like the Church had become unrecognizable. I was bored in Mass and began to question everything. I felt myself drifting, carried away by the freedom and experimentation of the post-Hippie generation.

That search carried me far from the Church for more than three decades. As an adult I immersed myself in Tibetan Buddhism. Compared to the Catholicism I thought I had outgrown, this new path was exhilarating. The colorful symbols, rituals, exotic chanting, and promises of hidden knowledge shone bright like the Technicolor world Dorothy steps into after her house lands in Oz. Everything was vibrant and different. For a long time, I believed I had found a far richer spiritual universe than the one I had left behind.

As the years passed, I committed myself more deeply to Tibetan tantric Buddhism. Gurus, deities, and intricate ritual practices in long retreats promised transformation. I accepted men as guides who claimed they could lead me toward enlightenment. But slowly, over time, questions emerged. The yanas contradicted one another. The path began to feel less like liberation and more like entanglement in a feudal system with a hazy set of arcane laws. What had once seemed full of promise started to feel like a maze of deception.

The turning point came when I least expected it. Like Dorothy traversing the Emerald City, dazzled by spectacle, I had followed the yellow brick road as far as I could, believing I was approaching a transformative experience of enlightenment. And just as Dorothy eventually reaches Oz and pulls back the curtain, only to find a small man manipulating levers, I was forced to see behind the veil as well. The Root Guru I had trusted was revealed as a sorcerer, and the tantric deities I had once exalted no longer appeared as divine guides but as accusing, demonic forces. They became something like the scary flying monkeys that viciously attack Dorothy and her friends at one point. I suddenly realized that the impressive display I had put my faith in was only smoke and mirrors, and the powers behind it were not what they claimed at all, but actually fallen angels and their human minions.

That realization shook me to my core. In the very moment the illusion collapsed, a strange clarity emerged. I found myself remembering what I had learned as a child, what the Church had taught from the very beginning. The contrast between truth and imitation soon became unmistakable. What I had embraced as enlightened beings were nothing of the sort. Their nature did not align with the Most High God but with the very deceptive forces that the Bible warns against. I had spent years seeking hidden wisdom only to discover that the truth I needed had been with me since childhood. What a bizarre discovery after so many years of a life lived in error.

When I returned to the Catholic Church, I expected judgment or distance. Instead, I found the opposite. The Church received me with open arms, with the warmth of a parent waiting for a child who has been gone far too long. Over the years, thanks to Popes like John Paul II and Benedict, the Church regained some of its true colors that had been lost in the hasty rush to modernize. It now seemed sacramental and grounded in truth. I began to approach my re-version with the discerning mind of an adult hungry for knowledge. Gradually, a whole new world opened up to me and I was amazed that the truth of Christ’s sacrifice to humanity held new meaning after the horrors I had just lived through in the occult. Is the institution of the Catholic Church perfect? No. Its human side can fail, and at times it clearly has. Some say it is in crisis. Yet Christ promised, “You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it” (Matthew 16:18). That promise has become an anchor for me in these difficult times.

My journey through the many beguiling practices of Tibetan Buddhism taught me how convincing illusions can be. It taught me how eager the human heart is for spiritual novelty, and how easy it is to mistake mystical experiences for truth. The Catholic Church, which I once believed had lost its footing, proved steady after all. After thirty-five years away, I came home to the enduring Christian faith that had been guiding me from the beginning.

The Grimoire of Secret Gnosis

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A Hidden Side of Tantric Buddhism

Buddhism is usually presented in the West as a religion of mindfulness and compassion. But hidden in its tantric wing is something darker. In the eighteenth century, Sélung Shepa Dorjé (Sle lung Bzhad pa’i rdo rje) compiled a sixteen-volume cycle called Secret Gnosis Dakini (Gsang ba ye shes mkha’ ’gro, or GYCK). This was not just a collection of esoteric philosophy, but also a grimoire filled with magical spells.

According to Cameron Bailey in The Magic of Secret Gnosis: A Theoretical Analysis of a Tibetan Buddhist “Grimoire,” grimoires of spell instructions are common in Tibetan Buddhism. They often appear inside larger tantric cycles like the GYCK or in the collected works of great lamas. As the scholar Berounsky, cited by Bailey, put it, the operations in such texts are “an amalgam of tantric interventions combined with popular magic.” [1]

Volumes four and twelve of the GYCK preserve dozens of rituals for worldly power. The twelfth volume in particular reads like a magician’s handbook. It does not hide its intent; it offers ninety-two spells to heal, protect, enrich, and subjugate.

Rituals of Control

Among these spells are some dedicated to domination. Far from the common image of Buddhism as a purely gentle path of liberation, the Secret Gnosis spells allowed practitioners to bind and control others. One entire text, The Magic Lasso, instructs adepts on capturing their targets through visualization and mantra. Other spells direct them to create talismans and effigies, ritually charged to influence or destroy enemies.

Bailey emphasizes that these rituals work by merging tantric deity yoga with ritual techniques: the practitioner visualizes themselves as a wrathful god, projects light rays at the target, and seals the action with mantra. Your meditation becomes, in effect, a weapon.

The Spellbook as Technology

The grimoire aspect of the Secret Gnosis cycle cannot be overlooked. It contains practical instructions for bending reality to one’s desire. Substances like herbs, turquoise, and even urine or flesh are prescribed as tools of ritual practice.

Bailey notes that these spells are framed within a bodhisattva ethic. They are said to protect the Dharma or defend communities. Yet to modern eyes, they read unmistakably as instructions for control. This is where interpretation diverges. Bailey highlights the philosophical and ritual integration, while a critical lens reveals the coercive logic beneath the compassionate rhetoric.

A Tradition of Ambivalence

Figures like Milarepa warned against sorcery, even though his story is entangled with it. The Buddhist tradition as a whole often drew a line between miracle powers that “arise naturally” from meditation and deliberate ritual magic. But that line was blurred from the beginning. The Secret Gnosis makes clear how deeply magical domination was preserved within the canon.

Conclusion

The Secret Gnosis Dakini cycle exposes a side of tantric Buddhism rarely acknowledged publicly. Bailey shows that its grimoire-like sections are integral to tantric practice, not just marginal curiosities. What I emphasize here is that these spells—especially those of subjugation—show a system where manipulation was not an aberration but an option built into the tradition. What is presented today as a path of compassion was also, sometimes, a path of great harm.

[1] Cameron Bailey, “The Magic of Secret Gnosis: A Theoretical Analysis of a Tibetan Buddhist ‘Grimoire,’” Journal of the Korean Association for Buddhist Studies 93 (2020): 535–570.

Kundalini Possession vs. Classic Demonic Possession: A Comparative Study

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Kundalini is often described in modern yoga and New Age spirituality as a universal spiritual energy coiled at the base of the spine, waiting to rise and bring enlightenment. This portrayal is misleading. In reality, what is called a “kundalini awakening” is better understood as a form of possession. Rather than a benign inner energy, kundalini is a demonic force that enters the human mind-body continuum, hijacks the nervous system, and rewires perception, behavior, and physiology. This explains why the symptoms of kundalini often overlap with those of classic demonic possession.

Symptoms: Kundalini Possession vs. Demonic Possession

Kundalini possession symptoms

  • Involuntary bodily spasms or kriyas, often violent or exhausting.
  • A sensation of a serpent or current moving through the spine, causing heat, pressure, or pain.
  • Rapid swings between bliss and terror, often accompanied by visions or auditory phenomena.
  • Disassociation and feelings of being controlled by something non-human.
  • Progressive neurological deterioration: insomnia, paranoia, and psychosis.
  • Identification with Hindu deities or serpentine archetypes, which parallels demonic manifestations described in other cultures.

Demonic possession symptoms (more broadly recognized)

  • Aversion to the sacred, where holy names, prayers, or symbols provoke rage.
  • Manifestations of supernatural strength or the sudden ability to speak foreign languages.
  • Violent outbursts, self-harm, or aggression against others.
  • Distorted voice, grotesque facial expressions, or animal-like behavior.
  • Physical disturbances such as objects moving, foul odors, or sudden temperature drops.
  • A clear sense of hostile external control.

Both states are marked by loss of sovereignty and the intrusion of an alien intelligence. What makes kundalini more deceptive is that it cloaks itself in the language of spiritual progress.

The Entities Behind the Possessions

Kundalini-related beings

  • Kundalini is personified as Shakti, the serpent goddess. While Hindu texts portray her as divine, serpent symbolism universally points to deception and danger, as the serpent has long been associated with Satan in Christianity.
  • Many afflicted report contact with or identification as Kali, Durga, or other fierce Hindu and tantric Buddhist deities whose attributes of blood, violence, and intoxication align closely with demonic qualities.

Entities in wider demonic possession

  • Christianity: fallen angels under Satan’s authority.
  • Islam: malicious jinn, created from smokeless fire.
  • Judaism: dybbuks, wandering spirits of the dead seeking to inhabit bodies.
  • Indigenous traditions: hungry ghosts, nature demons, or restless ancestral spirits.

The same destructive force that is worshiped in India as divine feminine energy is interpreted in other traditions as demonic intrusion.

Why Kundalini Possession Often Appears Different

There are many anecdotal accounts of people afflicted by kundalini who do not display the same dramatic symptoms seen in major exorcisms performed by the Catholic Church. They may not display superhuman strength, speak unknown languages, or react violently to holy objects. Instead, their suffering appears as neurological collapse or uncontrollable kriyas.

Why does this happen? One possibility is what some exorcists call “perfect possession.” By willingly engaging in yoga, Eastern meditation, or tantric practices, the person effectively invites the spirit in. Once invited, the demon does not always need to manifest with violence or open hostility. It is already enthroned, so to speak, in the person’s consciousness and nervous system. It burrows in and embeds itself. The possession is often quieter but no less real.

Another possibility is that kundalini spirits simply manifest differently than other categories of demons. The absence of classic symptoms described by the Catholic Church may not mean the person is not possessed. It may mean they are afflicted by a different type of spirit, or by a demon whose preferred mode of influence is more insidious and long-term. Rather than breaking furniture or speaking in foreign tongues, it works by corrupting the nervous system, trapping the victim in cycles of ecstatic highs and devastating lows, and slowly eroding the mind and spirit.

Implications for the Catholic Church

Because many of these cases do not fit the criteria traditionally used to diagnose possession, individuals suffering from kundalini affliction are sometimes turned away by exorcists. Yet the sheer number of Westerners who have turned to yoga, meditation, and tantric practices since the 1960s suggests that the Church may need to reevaluate how possession presents in modern contexts. Kundalini demons may not manifest with the same overt signs as other kinds of possession, but their effects are no less destructive.

To dismiss these cases as mere psychological breakdowns risks ignoring an entire category of demonic assault that has proliferated under the guise of spirituality. The deceptive packaging of kundalini as “spiritual energy” makes it one of the most dangerous forms of possession today.

America’s Freemasonic Roots and the Hidden Rise of Tantra

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The United States was founded as a nation with Christian underpinnings. Though explicitly rejecting a state church, the culture, law, and moral sensibilities of the early colonies were undeniably rooted in European Christianity. The Puritans brought Calvinism to New England, Anglicans established themselves in the South, and Catholic missions flourished in Spanish-controlled territories such as California and the Southwest. Later waves of immigration brought Lutherans, Methodists, Presbyterians, and Baptists who carved out religious strongholds across the Midwest and South.

By the 19th century, the so-called “Bible Belt” had emerged in the South, Methodism had spread explosively through revivalism, and Catholicism had grown with Irish and Italian immigration. By the mid-20th century, America was demographically and culturally a Christian nation. According to Gallup polls from the late 1950s and early 1960s, more than 90% of Americans identified as Christian, with the largest groups being Protestants (roughly 70%) and Catholics (about 25%).

The Cultural Explosion of the 1960s

Then came the 1960s, a decade that tore through old structures. The Vietnam War, the civil rights struggle, the sexual revolution, psychedelic experimentation, and anti-establishment sentiment all converged. The cultural consensus rooted in old forms of Christianity began to fracture. Simultaneously, the Second Vatican Council (1962–1965) radically reformed Catholicism, introducing liturgical changes, opening the Church to interreligious dialogue, and softening the rigid boundaries between Catholic identity and “the other.” For the first time in history, the Catholic Church officially entertained the possibility that truth could exist outside its walls. This, in turn, prepared the ground for interfaith openness and even syncretism.

At the same time, young Americans disillusioned by the war machine were searching for new sources of peace and meaning. Buddhism, with its emphasis on compassion, nonviolence, and meditation, arrived at exactly the right moment. For the counterculture, it offered a path to peace and love in stark contrast to the devastation of the Vietnam War.

Gurus, Lamas, and the Tibetan Diaspora

The timing was uncanny. In 1959, Tibet fell to the Chinese Communist takeover, and a vast exodus of Tibetans fled into India and Nepal. Among the refugees were lamas who carried tantric teachings preserved for centuries in their monasteries. In the late 1960s and 1970s, the first wave of Western seekers, hippies from the US and Europe, traveled to India and Nepal, encountering these masters in exile. For the Tibetans, these were years of profound trauma, dislocation, and cultural upheaval. For the Westerners, it was a spiritual gold rush.

Out of this strange meeting of East and West emerged the first Tibetan Buddhist centers in America. By the mid-1970s, figures such as Chögyam Trungpa Rinpoche and the 16th Karmapa had established institutions across the country, often structured exactly like churches: religious nonprofits with tax-exempt status, complete with community rituals, hierarchies, and devotional practices. The Dalai Lama’s influence would come slightly later, after his first U.S. visit in 1979. Scores of young Americans, many from Christian families, converted to Tibetan Buddhism, convinced they had found something far superior to the “hollow faith” of their parents.

The Hidden Face of Tantra

Buddhism, in its ethical and philosophical dimensions, does indeed share much with Christianity such as compassion, ethical restraint, and renunciation of greed and hatred. But hidden within the Tibetan stream lies tantra, a system of occult practices and magical invocations that have no basis in the teachings of the historical Buddha. Instead, they represent a grafting of Indian tantric traditions onto Buddhism. Tibetan shamanic practices were also woven into the mix—rituals of spirit invocation and magical rites—which only reinforced the occult dimension and pushed the system even further from the teachings of the historical Buddha.

Some early Tibetan teachers in the West even made cryptic statements hinting at the true nature of their teachings. One unsettling quote, difficult to substantiate, yet chilling in its cynicism, was attributed to a Tibetan Vajrayana Buddhist master: “Satan is Vajra Jesus.” Indeed, after decades of immersion, it became clear to me that “Vajra” is not merely a symbol of indestructibility as is taught, but a coded reference to occult power, Satanic at its core. The genius of the system lies in its camouflage: cloaked in the ethics of Buddhism, the darker currents of tantra flow undetected.

Tibetan Buddhism and Freemasonry: A Parallel

The comparison with Freemasonry is instructive. Many of America’s Founding Fathers were Freemasons, and while the fraternity appeared on the surface to be a benevolent society, its higher degrees revealed allegiance to Lucifer.* At the lower levels, members encountered moral lessons and fraternity; only later, through oaths and initiations, was the deeper reality disclosed.**

Tibetan Buddhism operates in a strikingly similar way. Entry-level students learn meditation, ethics, and compassion. Only after deeper commitment, vows, and initiations are they gradually exposed to tantric practices: rituals involving wrathful deities, consorts, and occult visualizations. By then, they are bound by vows and loyalty to their teachers.

Full Circle: From Freemason Roots to Tantric Fruits

In this light, the embrace of Tibetan Buddhism in America seems less like an alien import and more like a continuation of an esoteric undercurrent already present in the nation’s DNA. The United States, born with strong Christian roots but also intertwined with Freemasonic structures, has become fertile ground for tantric infiltration. Just as Freemasonry concealed its Luciferian essence under a philanthropic veneer, Tibetan Buddhism cloaks its demonic core under Buddhist compassion.

The cultural revolution of the 1960s cracked open the shell of Christianity in America. Into that breach poured the lamas and their tantric systems. What appeared to be a message of peace and healing, at precisely the moment of American disillusionment, carried with it an occult agenda. In that sense, the story of tantra in America is not just about East meeting West, but about a deeper pattern repeating itself: a hidden, Luciferian tradition resurfacing under new guises.

*Not every Freemason engages in satanic practices, or even knows about that aspect of it. It is only at the 33rd degree and beyond that initiates are allegedly confronted with a Luciferian element. This is somewhat like the staged vows and initiations of Tibetan Buddhism that lead beyond basic Buddhism into communion with a pantheon of tantric gods that are not merely symbols or archetypes. Each level of Freemasonry opens the way to higher oaths and allegiances, ultimately directed toward Lucifer and other demons.

**While many of the Founding Fathers were Freemasons, probably some of them really did have noble intentions and wanted to make Washington, D.C. a kind of beacon of light. But there were very deep, dark, hidden forces that lurked within Freemasonry.

Between Mount Athos and the Ashram: An Exploration of Deception and Deliverance

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In 2008, the Holy Monastery of Saint Arsenios on Mount Athos published The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios.¹ It tells the true story of a young Greek man whose hunger for spiritual depth led him from the monasteries of Athos to the ashrams of India, where he fell under the sway of a Hindu guru. This book resonated with me because it mirrors the restlessness of many modern seekers. It traces the arc from yearning for authentic experience, through dangerous detours into counterfeit light, and finally to deliverance through Christ. That theme, the need for discernment in a world of spiritual seductions, is central to my own story and to the explorations I share.

The First Encounter with Elder Paisios

The young man first encountered Elder Paisios on Mount Athos, the spiritual heart of Greek Orthodoxy. Athos is not simply a monastic peninsula but a living continuation of the desert fathers, a land saturated with centuries of prayer. Elder Paisios was already known as a man with the profound gifts of clairvoyance, discernment, and love. At the heart of Orthodoxy, he explained, lies the invocation of the name of Christ: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.”² This is not a spiritual technique but a cry from the heart. As Paisios emphasized, “With the name of Christ we experience divine Grace, divine illumination, and union with God.”³

Life on Mount Athos

Mount Athos rises from the Aegean like a fortress of prayer. Approaching by boat, pilgrims see monasteries clinging to cliffs, their domes catching the morning sun. Bells toll at dawn, summoning monks from their cells to the katholikón, the central church. Inside, the air is heavy with incense; oil lamps flicker before icons blackened with centuries of smoke. The chanting is slow and unhurried, carrying the words of the Psalms like waves rolling in from the sea.

The rhythm of Athonite life is simple but relentless. To walk its paths is to feel the weight of prayer, as if the very stones are steeped in the remembrance of God. When the young man would meet Elder Paisios in his cell at Panagouda, he encountered not pomp or grandeur but humility. The elder sat on a rough stool, his clothes patched, his face lined with suffering yet radiant with joy. Paisios was accessible, direct, and utterly unpretentious. His authority did not come from outward spectacle but from the depth of grace shining through him.

Despite these encounters, the young man was restless. His desire for spiritual experience drew him beyond Orthodoxy and into Hinduism in India.

Life in the Ashram

India overwhelmed his senses. It was a riot of bright colors and potent scents. Bells clanged rhythmically at dawn, mingling with the chant of myriad voices repeating mantras. Bare feet shuffled across dusty courtyards as disciples hurried to gather at the feet of the guru, who sat elevated on a dais draped in silk and garlands of marigolds. The air around him was charged with expectancy.

Daily life in the ashram followed ritual precision. Before sunrise, disciples bathed in cold water, then filed into meditation halls where they repeated mantras by the thousands. Each syllable, they believed, vibrated with cosmic energy. The guru’s followers bowed low, sometimes lying full-length on the ground, convinced that to touch even the dust beneath his feet was a blessing.⁴ His faintest smile was received as a gift, his disapproval a knife wound.

The guru’s teachings promised transcendence. He insisted that the repetition of mantras would dissolve the ego and merge the self into the divine. He was not merely a teacher but the embodiment of truth itself. Service was considered worship: cooking his meals, arranging his seat, or waving fans before him was thought to create conditions conducive to liberation. At first, the young man was drawn in by the atmosphere of devotion and the apparent serenity of the disciples. The charged rituals, intense and mystical, seemed to hum with power.

Yet Elder Paisios had already warned him: “The invocation of the name of any other god apart from Christ is communion with demons. The person who invokes that name calls upon the demon corresponding to it and is possessed by it.”⁵ What seemed like nectar would prove to be poison.

Paisios explained that deceptive energies imitate grace: “They give a sweetness, a supposed peace, but afterwards they bring turmoil.”⁶ This was the young man’s experience. The chants that once filled him with calm soon unsettled him. His thoughts scattered, his dreams grew dark, and the guru’s gaze, once a source of comfort, became suffocating. The ashram that had promised freedom now felt like a dangerous place.

The Return to Mount Athos

When the young man finally returned to Athos and told Paisios everything, the elder spoke with clarity. “In Orthodoxy we have the invocation of the name of Christ. With it we experience illumination and union with God. All other invocations, all other names, apart from Christ, lead to deception.”⁷

Paisios prayed for him, invoking Christ. In that moment, the torment that had hounded the young man since the ashram lifted. He felt the peace of God return, and the tormenting voices were silenced. What the guru’s gaze and mantras had invoked, the simple name of Jesus restored.

Why It Resonates

This story mirrors my own path. Like the young man, I wandered away from Christ into Eastern occult traditions that promised transformation through techniques such as deity yoga, mantra repetition, and breath manipulation. The initial sweetness was very real followed by years of difficulties alternating with mystical heights, but all of that led to demonic possession by entities I once thought were buddhas.

In a world where esoteric practices are commonplace, Paisios’s warnings are urgent. Many today seek mystical experiences, but as Elder Paisios said, “Grace brings deep humility, contrition, tears, and love for Christ.”⁸ The counterfeit, by contrast, produces disturbance and bondage. The young man’s deliverance is not his story alone; it is a caution to the world that spiritual deceptions come at a terrible price.

Notes

  1. Dionysios Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, trans. and adapted by Hieromonk Alexis (Trader), ed. Philip Navarro (Platina, CA: St. Herman of Alaska Brotherhood, 2011).
  2. Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, chap. 3.
  3. Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, chap. 4.
  4. Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, chap. 5.
  5. Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, chap. 4.
  6. Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, chap. 4.
  7. Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, chap. 4.
  8. Farasiotis, The Gurus, the Young Man, and Elder Paisios, chap. 4.

Sacrifice, Favor, Repeat

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Before the modern age romanticized pagan religions into New Age panaceas, ancient worship was known to be raw and brutally pragmatic. In our modern spiritual-industrial complex, it is often sugarcoated into some kind of warm, earth-loving ceremony filled with personal empowerment and divine intimacy. But if you’re reading this, you’re probably already suspicious of that narrative.

In fact ancient religion, pagan religion, was highly transactional. The gods didn’t love you. They didn’t weep over your suffering or aspire to protect you.

A passage from Behold the Christ: Proclaiming the Gospel of Matthew by Leroy A. Huizenga makes this brutally clear. Pagan worship, he writes, operated on the ancient principle of do ut des: “I give so that you give back.”(1) In other words, the gods and humans used each other. You offered sacrifices, incense, food, or praise not out of adoration, but because you wanted something in return: good crops, protection in war, fertility, rain, wealth, healing, vengeance, and victory. And the gods? They wanted to be fed, praised, and kept relevant. It was mutual exploitation dressed up in sacred costume.

“That is, the worshipper provides a sacrifice to a god that pleases and empowers the god, who then turns around and does the worshipper favors. Because the gods are often indifferent to humans, worshippers engage in repeated ritual to reach out and get a god’s attention.”

This paragraph says more about ancient spirituality than most modern New Age books on “manifesting” or “connecting with the divine.” The ancients weren’t confused. They understood that the gods were powerful, unpredictable, and not especially interested in human wellbeing unless there was something in it for them.

And this wasn’t limited to Rome or Greece. Versions of do ut des appear in Vedic sacrifice, Mesopotamian temple economies, and also Tantric Buddhist practice where offerings are made to wrathful deities to invoke, control, or appease.

Nowhere is this transactional logic more systematized and ritualized to the point of industrial precision than in Tibetan Buddhism. While cloaked in the language of enlightenment and compassion, the tradition is saturated with mechanisms that mirror the ancient do ut des economy: elaborate offerings, incense, butter lamps, mandalas, and tormas (sacrificial cakes that replaced blood offerings when the Buddhist principle of ahimsa “non-harming” took root). These were given not out of unconditional reverence, but to elicit specific outcomes from specific deities. Monastic liturgies are not just meditative recitations, but are negotiations with a pantheon of wrathful and peaceful beings, each with their own preferences, powers, and temperaments. Moreover, the non-harming sentiment in Tibetan Buddhism only extends so far. While Buddhist tantra forbids blood sacrifice, its subjugation rituals, aimed at both spiritual and human enemies, can involve some of the most brutal punishments found in any ritual religion.

Drupchöd ceremonies, held in large monasteries, exemplify this beautifully. These are days- or weeks-long ritual marathons involving collective chanting, visualization, music, mudras, and vast offerings, all designed to propitiate deities into bestowing protection, wisdom, and worldly benefits like health and prosperity. Whether invoking Mahakala to remove obstacles or Tara for swift blessings, the assumption is clear: the deity acts when properly fed, praised, and invoked. The gods (or enlightened beings, depending on your doctrinal parsing) are not passively watching; they’re participants in a cosmic economy, and Tibetan Buddhism, more than almost any other tradition, has mastered the bureaucratic apparatus needed to transact with them. It’s not just about personal devotion. It’s about correct performance, correct offerings, and the correct “exchange rate” of ritual. The love of the gods is not assumed. Their attention must be earned over and over again.

Modern Takeaways and a Warning

This transactional pattern isn’t limited to ancient paganism or esoteric Tibetan ritualism. You’ll find the same spiritual economy alive and well in the darker corners of contemporary occultism. Take it from someone like Riaan Swiegelaar who’s lived on the other side: former Satanists and occult practitioners routinely speak of offering sacrifices, especially blood, to demons in order to negotiate outcomes.(2)

He described it well: “A lot of people ask me, ‘Why are there so many sacrifices in Satanism? Why is there blood?’ The answer is simple: blood has currency in the spirit world. If I want to negotiate with demons, I need to bring an [animal] sacrifice because that blood holds value. It functions as spiritual capital.

“But here’s the contrast: the blood of Jesus is the highest currency in the spirit world. It covers everything. That’s the authority we stand on. And every ex-Satanist or ex-occultist who’s encountered Christ will tell you the same thing. I might be the only one talking about it openly, but this is real: we engaged in negotiations with demons, offered animal sacrifices, and got results. That’s how the system worked. Then we experienced the blood and love of Christ and there’s no comparison. It’s not even close. His blood is infinitely more powerful. In spiritual warfare, people need to grasp that reality. The blood of Christ is free, but it is not cheap, is it? It came at the highest cost. And what happened on the cross? That wasn’t a one-time transaction in history: it remains as valid, active, and potent today as it was then, and always will be.”

This is so important that it bears repeating: no spiritual currency, no ritual offering, no demonic pact compares to the raw, unmatched power of the blood of Christ. This is the rupture at the heart of Christianity: the economy of sacrifice is over, not because gods stopped demanding payment, but because one sacrifice bankrupted the system.

From blood-soaked altars in Babylon to ritual offering tormas in Himalayan monasteries, humanity has always traded devotion for power and offerings for favor. But the cross flipped the script. There is no more need for bartering, manipulation, and performance to win divine attention. What Christ offered wasn’t another payment into the cosmic vending machine but a final act that rendered the machine obsolete. And if that’s true, then every attempt to re-enter the old system, whether through pagan ritual, tantric bureaucracy, or occult negotiation, isn’t just a return to tradition. It’s a rejection of victory.

(1) Leroy A. Huizenga, Behold the Christ: Proclaiming the Gospel of Matthew (Emmaus Road Publishing, Steubenville, Ohio).

(2) Riaan Swiegelaar, former co-founder of the South African Satanic Church, in various public testimonies including interviews and livestreams (e.g., “Riaan Swiegelaar Testimony,” YouTube, 2022), has spoken openly about blood sacrifice as spiritual currency and his eventual conversion after experiencing the love of Christ.

How Tantra Masqueraded as Buddhism: the Vajrayāna Deception

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Vajrayana Buddhism, also known as Tibetan Buddhism or Tantric Buddhism, stands out for its rituals, deity worship, and complex esoteric practices. Its mantras, mandalas, and meditations on wrathful and yab/yum deities bear clear resemblance to Hindu Tantra, Vedic ritualism, and indigenous spirit cults.

So how did it convince anyone, especially devout Buddhists, that it was authentically taught by the historical Buddha?

The answer lies in a strategic combination of hidden teaching narratives, scriptural mimicry, ritual power, and imperial patronage. Let’s explore how this transformation occurred and what it means when viewed through the lens of Catholic faith and biblical discernment.

Secret Teachings: “The Buddha Taught It, But in Secret”

Vajrayana scriptures claim that the Buddha did teach tantra, but only in secret, to highly realized disciples. These teachings were said to have been hidden in celestial realms, entrusted to beings like Vajrapani or dakinis, or taught in the Buddha’s “enjoyment body” (sambhogakaya) form in other worlds such as Akanistha.(1)

This tactic mirrored earlier Mahayana developments, where new sutras like the Lotus or Avatamsaka were claimed to be higher revelations spoken by the Buddha, but not understood by his early disciples. The concept of esoteric knowledge reserved for the spiritually mature made these late texts seem like rediscovered treasures, rather than innovations.

Scriptural Mimicry and Retroactive Legitimization

To reinforce their authority, tantric scriptures deliberately mimicked the structure of traditional sutras. They often began with the familiar phrase, “Thus have I heard,” and depicted the Buddha teaching not only in celestial realms surrounded by bodhisattvas, but sometimes in radically transgressive settings such as charnel grounds, encircled by ḍākinīs and wrathful deities. These texts introduced elaborate cosmologies, detailed ritual instructions, and esoteric vows, presenting them as timeless wisdom, even though they were composed many centuries after the Buddha’s death.[2]

Authors also invented lineages, claiming that tantric teachings had been passed down secretly from Vajrapani to Nagarjuna, or from Padmasambhava to Tibetan kings.

Syncretism with Hindu and Folk Traditions

Instead of denying its similarities with Hindu Tantra, Vajrayana reinterpreted them. Wrathful deities were said to be enlightened Buddhas. Sexual rituals were described as a symbolic means to transform desire into wisdom. Offerings of blood, bones, and taboo substances were spiritualized as purifications of dualistic perception.

By repackaging Vedic and folk practices into a Buddhist framework, Vajrayana could absorb local traditions and declare them “Buddhist skillful means.”

Imperial Support and Monastic Integration

Tantra spread rapidly through the support of kings and monasteries. In Tibet, tantric masters were invited to subdue native spirits, secure political power, and perform rituals for prosperity. At Indian centers like Nalanda and Vikramashila, tantric scholars and monks practiced Mahayana logic by day and tantric visualization by night.

With the backing of the state and the academic establishment, Vajrayana was not seen as a fringe practice but as the “highest vehicle” of Buddhism.

Ritual Power and Psychological Experience

For the average practitioner, tantra “worked.” It offered visions, emotional catharsis, ritual protection, and the promise of fast-track enlightenment. The experiential pull of mantra, deity yoga, and initiation ceremonies gave people tangible results even if the doctrinal basis was historically shaky.

In the end, many believed not because of historical evidence, but because the system delivered experiences of spiritual intensity.

How Christianity Views This: The Domain of the Second Heaven

From a biblical and Catholic perspective, this raises serious concerns. The spiritual beings Vajrayana practitioners encounter, wrathful deities, dakinis, yidams, do not proclaim Christ as Lord and Savior. They do not point to the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. They offer power and enlightenment through self-transformation, not redemption.

The Bible is clear: Satan is the prince of the power of the air, ruling the spiritual domain between heaven and earth until Christ returns (Ephesians 2:2). What some refer to as the “second heaven” is where fallen angels operate, deceiving through false light, hidden knowledge, and seductive spiritual experiences.

Teachers like Derek Prince and Dr. Michael Heiser have explained how fallen entities inhabit unseen realms and impersonate divine figures such gods, ascended masters, or beings of light. Applying this view, the Buddhist realm of Akanistha, where the Buddha is said to teach in his sambhogakaya form, may not be a divine domain at all, but a carefully constructed counterfeit, orchestrated by spiritual powers aligned against the Kingdom of God.

This helps explain how a system like Vajrayana could emerge long after the Buddha’s time, imbued with supernatural power, spiritual visions, and doctrinal sophistication, yet still operate in direct opposition to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Final Reflection: What About the Historical Buddha Himself?

This raises a deeper question: What about the historical Gautama Buddha?

His teachings, centered on renunciation, ethical conduct, and insight, seem far removed from tantric fire offerings, deity visualizations, and magical spells. He did not claim to be a god. He emphasized detachment from craving and moral clarity. So, was he simply a wise man? Or was he also deceived?

From a Catholic and biblical perspective, any system that does not point to Christ as the way, the truth, and the life (John 14:6) must be seen as incomplete at best, and spiritually dangerous at worst. Even teachings that emphasize compassion and morality can become a snare if they direct people away from the living God.

It is possible that the historical Buddha, though perhaps sincere and ethically inclined, encountered spiritual influences he did not fully understand. If he received his insights through meditation without divine revelation, then he may have opened himself to guidance from fallen beings presenting themselves as enlightened or falsely divine. This is a sobering possibility, but one that must be considered if we are to remain faithful to biblical truth.

The gospel does not offer esoteric techniques. It offers a person, Jesus, who does not ask you to awaken into the realization of emptiness. He calls you by name into communion with him, into truth, and finally, into eternal life.

Footnotes:

(1) Akanistha, also spelled Akaniṣṭha, is considered in Mahayana and Vajrayāna cosmology to be the highest of the seventeen or eighteen heavens in the form realm (rūpadhātu), and specifically the realm where Buddhas in their “enjoyment body” (sambhogakāya) manifest and teach advanced bodhisattvas. It is portrayed as a pure, radiant dimension beyond ordinary perception, where tantra and esoteric teachings are said to be revealed. From a Christian perspective, such realms existing in the unseen spiritual domain, may correspond to what theologians like Derek Prince and Michael Heiser describe as the “second heaven,” a sphere under temporary dominion of fallen angelic beings capable of impersonating divine figures (see Ephesians 6:12, Daniel 10:13).

[2] Alexis Sanderson, “The Śaiva Age: The Rise and Dominance of Śaivism during the Early Medieval Period,” in Genesis and Development of Tantrism, edited by Shingo Einoo (Tokyo: Institute of Oriental Culture, University of Tokyo, 2009), pp. 124–126. Sanderson provides detailed evidence that Buddhist tantras were modeled after Śaiva texts and appeared centuries after the Buddha’s life.

David B. Gray, The Cakrasamvara Tantra: The Discourse of Śrī Heruka, (New York: American Institute of Buddhist Studies, 2007), Introduction, pp. 18–25. Gray discusses the charnel ground setting and the structure of tantric texts, including the invocation of ḍākinīs and wrathful deities, and their divergence from earlier Buddhist sūtra literature.

The Lie of Non-Duality: How Tantra Disguises Possession as Enlightenment

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For years, I followed the path of Tibetan Buddhism and tantric practice. I studied its rituals, visualizations, deities, and especially its central concept of “non-dual realization,” considered the highest goal in Mahayana and Vajrayana philosophy.[1]

I chanted the mantras, invoked the buddhas, bodhisattvas and dakinis, and merged myself with yidams, believing I was on the path to ultimate truth or enlightenment.

But the truth I’ve realized now is very different. It was only after leaving the system and encountering Christ again that I saw what I had actually opened myself up to. What was presented to me as wisdom was, in reality, a surrender of my soul to dark powers wearing radiant masks.

What Is “Non-Dual Realization”?

In Mahayana and Vajrayana Buddhism, “non-dual realization” is taught as the highest goal. It means transcending the conceptual distinctions of self vs. other, good vs. evil, sacred vs. profane, based on the belief that these opposites are mental constructs and ultimately empty. It means realizing that everything is empty of inherent existence, that distinctions are illusions, and that even the self is not truly existent.

In Tibetan Buddhist tantric practice, this realization is pursued through deity yoga: one visualizes an external deity like a dakini, peaceful bodhisattva, or wrathful buddha, visualizes oneself as the deity, merges with the external form, and dissolves the sense of a separate self into that visualization. The goal is to transcend the sense of individual self and merge into what is presented as enlightened awareness.

This sounds beautiful on the surface. But what is actually happening behind the scenes?

Possession Disguised as Enlightenment

From a Christian perspective, this practice can lead to spiritual possession.

The moment you invite a being to take over your mind, body, or spirit, especially one that does not proclaim Jesus Christ as Lord (1 John 4:1-3), you are offering your soul to a power that is not of God.

Tantric practices train you to dissolve your boundaries. They break down your identity and present a being who is radiant, powerful, and loving, and invite you to unite with it.

In reality, this is surrender to a counterfeit. It is a deceptively woven net, spiritually binding, and ruthlessly enforced.

The Dakini’s Magical Net: A Trap, Not a Blessing

In Tibetan Buddhism, dakinis are presented as enlightened feminine energies, guides to wisdom, and protectors of the dharma. But now, I see clearly that the “net” of the dakinis isn’t a web of wisdom, but a spiritual snare.

These magical nets are said to catch the mind stream of those who violate tantric vows. They bind, dismantle, and destroy the consciousness of the practitioner who steps out of line. That is not divine justice but spiritual murder. It is demonic.

The Hidden Power Structure Behind Vajrayana

It’s important to add a caveat here: Tibetan Buddhists often shield themselves from criticism by appealing to the ethical and philosophical framework of early Buddhism, the so-called first and second turnings of the wheel. They claim that Vajrayana is inseparably bound to the moral and philosophical teachings of Hinayana and Mahayana.

However, in practice, it is the tantric laws that prevail. When push comes to shove, tantric expediency overrides all. What you get is a kind of spiritual gangsterism, a mafia-like code of silence, loyalty, and fear, all cloaked in the sanctity of Buddhist language and lineage.

But this never felt right to me. True love does not coerce and true wisdom does not enslave. The Holy Spirit convicts, but He never violates the soul’s freedom.

The Blood of Jesus Dissolves Every Net

The day I returned to Jesus Christ, after being spiritually attacked and nearly destroyed by the tantric Buddhist forces I once invoked, I renounced all former vows, empowerments, and deities. I asked God to set me free from every magical net and every spiritual power that claimed me. So many years before, after I had left the Catholic Church, I had gone through a long period of agnosticism before I took refuge in Tibetan Buddhism. I didn’t know if God existed or not. This left me open to deception by occult systems such as Tibetan Buddhism.

What I found in trying to break free from tantric occultism is that God is real and the blood of Jesus Christ is stronger than any tantric empowerment. It dissolves all bindings and shatters and severs every demonic contract.

We Are Not an Illusion

We are not empty. We are not reducible to pure awareness or dismissed as illusion. On the contrary, our existence is real, grounded, and full of meaning.

We are persons, created in the image of God (Genesis 1:27), with eternal souls, essential wills, and a purpose that cannot be replaced.

Jesus did not ask us to dissolve into Him. He calls us to relationship, not dissolution and especially not annihilation. He redeems, restores, and makes whole. In Christ, our identity is not erased but fulfilled. If you’ve been entangled in the deceptive beauty of tantric non-duality doublespeak, know this: it is not too late; there is a way out.

[1] Note on “Non-Dual Realization” in Tibetan Buddhism:
In Mahayana and Vajrayana Buddhism, particularly within Madhyamaka philosophy and the Mahamudra tradition of the Karma Kagyu lineage, “non-dual realization” refers to the direct experiential understanding that all phenomena, including the perceiving mind and external objects, are empty of inherent existence. This does not mean merging into a single cosmic entity, but rather realizing that the distinction between subject and object is conceptually constructed and ultimately illusory.
In Mahamudra practice, this is described as the union of clarity (luminosity) and emptiness, a non-conceptual awareness that is self-liberated and ungraspable. The practitioner seeks to transcend dualistic fixation and abide in the natural state of mind, free from elaboration.
However, while this view is upheld within the tradition as a path to enlightenment, my experience revealed it as a spiritual vulnerability. Furthermore, the process of dissolving self-boundaries and engaging in deity identification opened the door to oppressive spiritual influences disguised as wisdom. What is framed as “non-dual realization” can, in practice, become the annihilation of personal agency and discernment and leave one open to possession by demonic entities.

The Illusion of Harmony: How Eastern Mysticism Misleads Christian Seekers

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In today’s spiritual landscape, a troubling trend is emerging: well-meaning Christians are being led to believe that Tibetan Buddhism is not only compatible with Christianity but can even enhance it. This deception, often subtle and clothed in the language of “contemplation” or “interfaith dialogue,” has found its way into Catholic monasteries and retreat centers. At the heart of this distortion is the adoption of Eastern meditative techniques, often inspired by Tibetan Buddhist practices, and the uncritical embrace of yoga as a “neutral” spiritual discipline.

To be clear: Tibetan Buddhism is not a Christian cousin. It is a profoundly different worldview, rooted in concepts like reincarnation, karma, and the ultimate dissolution of the self, doctrines wholly incompatible with Christianity’s vision of a personal, relational God and the eternal dignity of the soul.

Meditation or Manipulation?

The Christian tradition has long held a deep respect for silence, prayer, and contemplation, especially in the monastic practices of the Desert Fathers or the Hesychast tradition of Eastern Orthodoxy. But what is often marketed today as “meditation” bears little resemblance to Christian prayer. Tibetan Buddhism aims at the realization that the self and all phenomena are empty of inherent existence, a direct experience of emptiness (śūnyatā) and the luminous, non-dual nature of awareness.

This goal is diametrically opposed to Christian theology, which insists on the uniqueness of each soul, created in the image of God and destined for eternal communion with Him.

Yet Christian leaders and institutions have increasingly opened the door to these teachings. For example, the late Father Thomas Keating, one of the leaders of the Centering Prayer movement, drew heavily on Eastern techniques, often blurring the line between Christian contemplation and Buddhist meditation. Though his intentions were no doubt sincere, the result was a confusing blend of incompatible truths.

Another case is Father Richard Rohr, a popular Franciscan whose teachings often echo non-dual philosophies far closer to Eastern mysticism than to historic Christianity. Rohr’s discussions of “Christ-consciousness” and the illusion of the separate self bear striking resemblance to Tibetan Buddhist views, yet they are consumed by many Catholics and Protestants as if they are orthodox.

The Yoga Trap

Yoga is another Trojan horse in the spiritual lives of many Christians. Despite its spiritual roots in Hindu and Buddhist traditions, yoga is often presented as a harmless or purely physical practice. In truth, yoga’s asanas (postures) were designed not for exercise, but as physical preparations for meditation and kundalini awakening, specifically, awakening to a worldview that denies the personal God revealed in Jesus Christ.

When Christians engage in yoga or Tibetan-inspired meditation without discernment, they open themselves up not just to foreign practices, but to foreign spirits. This is not religious paranoia but a spiritual reality. St. Paul warned the Corinthians about participating in pagan rituals, saying, “You cannot partake of the table of the Lord and the table of demons” (1 Corinthians 10:21).

The Deception of Compatibility

Tibetan Buddhist teachers are often happy to affirm Christian practices, so long as they are reinterpreted through a Buddhist lens. Some even encourage Christians to see Jesus as an “enlightened teacher” or “bodhisattva.” This allows the surface appearance of interfaith respect while subtly undermining core Christian claims: the Incarnation, the Resurrection, and the uniqueness of Christ as Savior.

This is not compatibility, but syncretism and it poses a spiritual danger.

A Call to Discernment

This is not to instill hostility or fear of Buddhism and other Eastern Religions. Nor is it a rejection of silence, stillness, and physical well-being. But Christians must recover the spiritual discipline of discernment. Not all that brings peace is from God. The Enemy is more than capable of offering counterfeit serenity, especially when it draws people away from the Cross and toward self-deification or belief in idols.

Christianity offers its own deep, mystical tradition rooted not in esoteric techniques or mantras, but in personal relationship with the living God. Prayer, asceticism, sacramental life, and union with Christ are more than sufficient for those seeking transformation. We do not need to import Tibetan concepts or yogic practices to find God. He is already here, knocking at the door.

The growing blend of Tibetan Buddhism and Christianity may feel harmonious on the surface, but this is illusory. At its core, the Gospel is not compatible with systems that deny Christ’s divinity, the soul’s eternal destiny, or the Triune God. As Christians, we must not be seduced by exotic forms of “spirituality” that utilize half-truths, and communion with fallen angels.