Tag: Spiritual deception

The Trojan Horse of Tibetan Buddhism

mim

This whole emptiness thing is ultimately a red herring. It’s a smokescreen nudging us toward mediumship. The religion of the future is a religion of possession. It’s this neo-shamanic, pagan paradigm centered on emptying oneself. That’s where all this nihilism, all this narcissism, and all the psychedelic nonsense leads. It’s getting people to a place where they feel logically prepared to become comfortable with letting entities in.” (1)

Thomas Millary, Psyop Cinema

The story of Troy offers one of the clearest images of deception ever given to the West. After failing to conquer the city by force, the Greeks constructed an enormous wooden horse, concealed armed men inside it, and left it outside the walls as an apparent offering. The Trojans brought the object into their own city. What appeared peaceful, sacred, and worthy of reverence carried an invading force within it.

Strictly speaking, the horse does not appear in Homer’s Iliad, which ends before Troy falls. It belongs to the wider Trojan cycle and is recalled in Homer’s Odyssey. Yet the metaphor grows directly from the Homeric world: what cannot enter openly enters through deception and misplaced reverence.

This is how I have come to understand the spread of Tibetan Buddhism and related occult religions in the West.

They did not arrive announcing themselves as systems of spirit invocation, ritual transformation, deity possession, and total submission to unseen beings and their human minions. They entered through a much more attractive gateway, one of compassion, mindfulness, and methods for dealing with psychological disorders like anxiety. The public was shown an attractive wooden horse. Few people thought to ask what might be concealed inside it.

The outer presentation is as follows: newcomers learn basic Buddhist ethics, calm-abiding meditation, (shamatha), and insight meditation (vipassana). They learn about compassion, non-attachment, loving-kindness, emptiness, and the Middle Way. They may be introduced to Chenrezig meditation practice–a white, four-armed deity who embodies compassion. The language sounds philosophical and therapeutic. It promises greater self-knowledge, freedom from destructive emotions, and a kinder relationship with the world.

What remains out of view is the destination toward which the system leads. Adjacent to the public meditation halls are advanced teachings restricted by initiation, vows, and secrecy. At some centers there are retreat buildings where selected practitioners undertake the traditional three-year retreat. The curriculum usually includes Vajrayana sadhanas, subtle-body exercises, guru yoga, deity visualization, mantra recitation, and practices in which the practitioner is taught to dissolve ordinary identity and arise as a tantric deity. Such practices are presented internally as sacred methods for attaining realization. I eventually came to see them differently: as training in demonic spirit channeling, concealed beneath theological euphemisms that make the entities and rituals sound safe and beneficent.

This distinction between the outer presentation and inner practice is the heart of the Trojan Horse metaphor. The problem is not that every person teaching awareness of the breath knows what lies at the end of the initiatory road. Many Western instructors may have encountered only the public teachings themselves. Some may sincerely believe that they are offering neutral psychological exercises. A Trojan Horse does not require every person pulling it through the gate to know what it contains.

The Tibetan Buddhist Center Above, The Magickal Childe Below

I first encountered Tibetan Buddhist practices at a center on West 19th Street in New York City. On the ground floor of the building was an infamous occult shop called The Magickal Childe. The Buddhist center was on the fifth floor.

The Magickal Childe was one of New York’s best-known occult shops. Its shelves carried ritual implements, esoteric books, herbs, incense, candles, and magical material drawn from several occult traditions. We were warned to stay away from it because it sold hardcore Satanic literature and paraphernalia.

Upstairs, everything was different, or so it appeared. We learned about buddhas and bodhisattvas, compassion and enlightenment. We were taught practices that seemed morally elevated and spiritually clean. Whatever might have been happening in the shop below appeared to have nothing to do with the meditation and philosophy offered several floors above.

Looking back, I see the arrangement as an almost perfect symbol. The obvious occultism was downstairs, where it could be recognized by its black candles, grimoires, and sinister reputation. The respectable spiritual system was upstairs, wrapped in the language of wisdom and compassion. We assumed that the difference in appearance proved a difference in kind.

What we could not see was the possibility that we, too, were being prepared for spirit channeling, though perhaps involving a different class of demons from those summoned through the grimoires and ritual objects sold downstairs. The preparation was slower, more sophisticated, and protected by an elaborate philosophical structure. What appeared to be a path far removed from overt Satanism eventually led toward identification with beings presented as tantric deities, protectors, and dakinis, all described as enlightened manifestations but ultimately demonic in nature.

The overt occultist seeks an entity. The tantric initiate is taught to visualize one, invoke it, identify with it, and allow it to displace one’s ordinary sense of self. The vocabulary differs, but from a Christian perspective, the spiritual danger does not.

The Empty Man and the Two Faces of Initiation

The film The Empty Man helped me see this pattern more clearly. I found much of the film difficult to sit through, although it has its moments. More rewarding was the discussion of the film by Thomas Millary, his Psyop Cinema co-host Brett Carollo, and Jay Dyer. Millary is a scholar of religion, philosophy, and theology whose conversion to Orthodox Christianity changed his understanding of his earlier interests in paranormal phenomena, mysticism, occultism, psychedelia, and popular culture. His work now examines the spiritual and psychological messages concealed in film.

One sequence in The Empty Man particularly stayed with me. At the Pontifex Institute, ordinary people receive abstract teachings about meditation, identity, and emptiness. In the bowels of the building, secluded initiates participate in a collective ritual centered upon transmitting or incarnating an inhuman entity. The respectable institute and the occult rite are parts of one system. The public teaching creates the intellectual and psychological container necessary for the hidden operation.

That juxtaposition reminded me immediately of the Tibetan Buddhist centers where I lived and studied. The newcomers learn that the self lacks inherent existence and that all phenomena are empty. These teachings initially seem like a superior form of philosophy combined with methods for calming the mind.

Nearby, but largely invisible to the newcomer, are initiates undertaking practices that bear little resemblance to a secular mindfulness class. They make vows with non-human entities whose natures may not have been well understood by the initiates when they first entered.

In The Empty Man, the institute needs an empty vessel. The film’s horror depends on the possibility that a human personality can be weakened, reconstructed, or displaced so that something else can speak and act through it.

That is why Millary’s warning about emptiness deserves serious attention. Emptiness can be presented as an abstract philosophical claim about dependent origination and the absence of inherent existence. It can also function psychologically as a program of self-erasure. When combined with submission to a guru, repetitive ritual, sensory isolation, visualization, breath manipulation, and invocation, the practical question becomes unavoidable: What is expected to occupy the space once the person has been trained to empty himself?

The “Gift” Brought Through the Gates

The people of Troy were not conquered because they lacked intelligence. They were conquered because they misidentified a weapon as a gift.

The Western fascination with Buddhism has been shaped by a similar misidentification. What came from the East was frequently treated as a superior philosophy rather than a religion containing pagan gods and evil spirits, rituals, initiations, demonic hierarchies, indelible vows, and dangerous esoteric practices. Western converts were encouraged to contrast Buddhist rationality with supposedly primitive Christian beliefs about a Creator God, heaven and hell, and the outdated concepts of good and evil.

That contrast made the deception easier. A culture that scoffs at the concept of demons will not recognize an demonic invocation when it is renamed a visualization. A person who would refuse to summon a spirit may agree to “generate” himself as a deity. Someone who would recoil from possession may accept ego dissolution, guru devotion, and the surrender of ordinary identity when those things are presented as advanced methods of awakening.

By the time the nature of the inner system becomes visible, the practitioner may have invested years of diligent work, surrendered moral judgment to a teacher, accepted secrecy vows, and learned to interpret fear or resistance as evidence of spiritual inferiority. The horse is already inside the walls.

The question is therefore much larger than whether meditation can make people feel calmer and more peaceful. It often can. We must judge a religious system by its full initiatory structure, not merely by the introductory practices shown to the public. We must ask where the path ultimately leads, what type of beings are invoked, what vows are demanded, what spiritual realities are concealed, and why the deeper teachings require forms of secrecy that prevent newcomers from giving true informed consent.

The occult did not need to batter down the gates of the post-Christian West. Tibetan monks and lamas entered bearing teachings of compassion and emptiness. Western seekers welcomed the apparent offering with open arms, unaware of what was concealed within.

(1) Thomas Millary, quoted and lightly edited for clarity: “Luciferian Pop Culture: Empty Man, La Femme Nikita & Hardware – PsyOP Cinema + Jay Dyer” discussion with Brett Carollo and Jay Dyer, YouTube video, accessed July 27, 2026, @1:56:48: https://youtu.be/u7CMHjtskXw?si=W86oMv0jDizk_FWP.

Reincarnation or Spiritual Counterfeit?

mim

One of the most difficult beliefs for me to relinquish when leaving Tibetan Buddhism was reincarnation.

Unlike many other Buddhist teachings that gradually fell away as I examined them through a lived Christian lens, reincarnation presented a unique challenge. It seemed to be supported not only by doctrine but also by personal testimony, stories of remembered past lives, and the long tradition of reincarnated lamas recognized within Tibetan Buddhism. For years, I had accepted it as an unquestioned fact about reality.

Yet as I moved toward Christianity, I encountered a problem that could not be ignored. Christianity and the doctrine of reincarnation cannot both be true.

The Christian understanding of the human person is fundamentally incompatible with the Buddhist doctrine of repeated rebirth. Christianity teaches that each human being is uniquely created by God, lives one earthly life, dies, and then faces judgment. Reincarnation teaches an ongoing cycle of repeated births and deaths extending across countless lifetimes. The two views are mutually exclusive.

As I began to heal through Christianity, I became convinced that the faith was true. If Christianity is true, then reincarnation cannot be. But what, then, should I make of all the evidence that seemed to support it? This question stayed with me for years.

Early in my conversion, a Catholic priest suggested a possible answer. More recently, I heard a similar explanation discussed during an online group conversation. The idea was simple, yet it provided a framework that resolved many of the difficulties I had struggled with.

What if the memories are real, but they do not belong to the person experiencing them?

From a Christian perspective, demonic spirits are intelligent beings whose existence extends far beyond the lifespan of any individual human being. They observe human lives, accumulate knowledge, and seek to deceive. If such entities can influence human consciousness, as the Catholic Church teaches and exorcists regularly attest, then apparent memories of previous lives need not originate from a former incarnation. They may instead originate from the spirit influencing or possessing the person.

In that framework, what people interpret as reincarnation is not the return of a deceased human soul to earthly life. Rather, it is a demonic spirit carrying memories, experiences, and knowledge accumulated through previous individuals it has influenced or possessed over time. The continuity exists within the demonic spirit itself. The same entity carries memories from one person to another, presenting them as evidence of reincarnation. The recipient naturally concludes that he has lived before because he is experiencing memories that seem personal and immediate. In reality, the memories originate from another source.

This possibility becomes particularly interesting when examining traditions that identify certain individuals as the reincarnations of previous spiritual masters. In Tibetan Buddhism, reincarnated lamas are often recognized through a combination of signs, including unusual knowledge, recognition of objects belonging to a deceased teacher, personality traits, reported memories of a previous life, and other indications of continuity with an earlier lama. The standard explanation is that the lama’s consciousness has returned in a new body. From the perspective I am describing, however, the phenomenon could be understood differently. What appears to be continuity between human souls may instead reflect the activity of the same spiritual entity manifesting through successive individuals.

Viewed in this light, reincarnation becomes a profound deception. The individual concludes that he has lived many lives when he is actually encountering memories that belong to a spiritual entity rather than to himself.

Looking back, stories about the past lives of lineage masters were among the most persuasive arguments for adopting the beliefs of Tibetan Buddhism. They convinced me that the religion possessed evidence that Christianity could not explain.

This interpretation also sheds light on why reincarnation narratives so often reinforce particular spiritual systems. The memories do not merely provide information about a supposed former life. They frequently validate larger theological claims about karma, lineage, enlightenment, and the authority of certain teachers and traditions. They make it easier to dismiss the Christian account of creation, human nature, and salvation. The experience of past lives itself becomes a powerful mechanism for persuading individuals that the worldview surrounding it must be true.

From a Christian perspective, this possibility should not be dismissed lightly. Scripture repeatedly warns that spiritual deception is real. The serpent’s temptation in Eden was not an invitation to obvious evil. It was an invitation to hidden knowledge. The promise was that human beings could gain wisdom through an alternative source rather than trusting the revelation God had already provided.

The Church has not formally taught this specific explanation for apparent past-life memories, and I therefore present it as theological speculation rather than established doctrine. Nevertheless, it remains the most coherent explanation I have encountered, one that preserves both the Christian rejection of reincarnation and the reality of spiritual deception.

The insight that finally resolved this issue for me was remarkably simple: the memories may be real, but they do not belong to the person experiencing them. If that is true, then some of the strongest evidence offered for reincarnation may not point to previous human lives at all. Instead, it may reveal the activity of deceptive spiritual entities that exploit the appearance of past lives in order to draw human beings away from the truth revealed in Jesus Christ.

Serpent Guardians: Gold, Secrets, and Esoteric Knowledge

mim

A recent conversation led me down an interesting rabbit hole involving snakes, hidden treasure, and religious mythology.

I was told about the famous Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple in Kerala, India, one of the wealthiest temples in the world. The temple is said to contain underground vaults filled with immense quantities of gold, jewels, and priceless artifacts accumulated over centuries.

One vault in particular, known as Vault B, has become the center of extraordinary legends. According to local traditions, the vault is protected by divine serpents called Nagas. Some believe the door is sealed through a mystical process known as Nagabandham, a serpent binding that can only be undone through the correct sacred mantra. Stories claim that previous attempts to enter the vault were thwarted by swarms of snakes or supernatural forces.

One important distinction should be made. The immense wealth of the Sree Padmanabhaswamy Temple is well documented. Inventories conducted in recent years did indeed reveal vast wealth. Reports of snakes inhabiting areas beneath and around the temple are unsurprising in Kerala’s tropical environment. The claim that divine serpent beings guard Vault B, however, belongs to the realm of local belief rather than established historical fact. Yet whether actual divine snakes ever protected the vault is not really the point. What matters is the symbolism. Why are serpents so often imagined as guardians of hidden treasure and restricted access?

The story immediately reminded me of a well-known tradition within Mahayana Buddhism. According to Buddhist legend, certain advanced teachings of the Buddha were hidden away and entrusted to the Nagas, divine serpent beings who preserved them beneath the waters until humanity was ready to receive them. Centuries later, the philosopher Nagarjuna is said to have recovered these teachings from the realm of the Nagas, revealing what became an important portion of the Mahayana sutra corpus.

Here we find the same pattern. The serpent stands between ordinary people and something valuable. Whether the treasure is gold or wisdom, access is restricted and guarded by serpents.

The motif also appears at another temple in Kerala, the Mannarasala Sree Nagaraja Temple. This is one of the most famous centers of serpent worship in India. Thousands of serpent images cover the grounds, and the Nagas are revered as powerful spiritual beings associated with fertility, protection, and prosperity.

To many Westerners, the idea of worshipping snakes sounds strange, even heretical. Yet serpent veneration is remarkably widespread throughout human history. In ancient Egypt, the cobra symbolized royal power. In Greece, serpents were associated with healing and divine wisdom. In Mesoamerica, the feathered serpent was a major deity. In Hindu traditions, Nagas appear as guardians of rivers, treasures, temples, and sacred knowledge.

From Hidden Treasure to Hidden Revelation

The serpent motif becomes even more interesting when viewed through the lens of esoteric traditions. In many forms of Tantra, practitioners are told that the highest teachings are secret. They are said to be too powerful, too dangerous, or too profound for ordinary people. Access requires initiation and a proper guru capable of imparting an authentic transmission. The disciple must also be deemed worthy to receive it.

The tantric teachings of Tibetan Buddhism are among the most advanced and esoteric in the Buddhist world, but Vajrayana Buddhism incorporates the Mahayana corpus as well. According to traditional accounts both the Mahayana and Vajrayana texts appear centuries after the Buddha’s death.

The Mahayana story of the Nagas preserving hidden sutras raises obvious questions. How can anyone verify that teachings supposedly hidden by supernatural beings for centuries actually originated with the Buddha? The narrative places the evidence beyond examination. There is a circular logic to it: the teachings are authentic because they were hidden, and they were hidden because they were authentic.

Revelation alone, however, is not evidence of authenticity. A hidden teaching is not necessarily profound, and a secret lineage is not necessarily legitimate. Once knowledge is declared inaccessible to outsiders or protected by supernatural forces, verification becomes difficult and trust in the gatekeepers takes its place.

From a Christian perspective, the symbolism becomes even more striking. Throughout the Bible, the serpent is rarely a guardian of divine truth. It is the serpent in Eden who introduces hidden knowledge and promises secret wisdom that God has supposedly withheld. The pattern is familiar: access to a higher truth is offered through an alternative source, apart from the revelation God has openly given.

This stands in sharp contrast to Christianity itself. The Gospel was not hidden in underground vaults, guarded by serpents, or reserved for a spiritual elite. Christ taught publicly. His apostles preached openly. The faith was handed down through public witness, not secret initiations. While Christianity contains mysteries that challenge human understanding, it does not claim that salvation depends upon access to concealed doctrines available only to a select few.

Seen through this lens, traditions that portray serpents as guardians of occult wisdom raise an important question. If truth requires secret initiations, hidden transmissions, or teachings protected from scrutiny, how can its claims be tested? For Christians, the measure of a teaching is not its secrecy, antiquity, or mystical origin story. It is whether it conforms to the revelation God has given through Scripture and Sacred Tradition. The recurring image of serpents guarding hidden knowledge may therefore serve as more than a mythological motif. It can also be seen as a warning about the perennial temptation to seek secret wisdom apart from the truth God has already revealed. In that sense, the serpent remains what it was in Eden: a symbol not of divine revelation but of spiritual deception, enticing humanity with promises of hidden knowledge while leading it away from God and into error.

Enlightenment or Inversion? A “What If” Reflection on Lucifer’s Original Role

mim

There was a moment in a recent interview with the Catholic exorcist Fr. Chad Ripperger that struck me. [1]

While speaking about Satan he said,

“Lucifer was his originally assigned name. “Lucifer” comes from a root meaning “to bear light.” He was supposed to enlighten our minds, that was his originally assigned task, and he refused to do so.”

That line intrigued me because if Lucifer’s original function was to enlighten, and he rejected that role in rebellion against God, then a natural question follows: What would a fallen angel do with that original mandate?

The Inversion Principle

Later in the same interview, Fr. Ripperger describes something even more striking:

“Beelzebub is the inversion of the Holy Spirit. Lucifer is the inversion of [Christ] the Second Person of the Trinity… And Satan is the ‘Father of Lies,’ so the inversion of God the Father. So you basically have this unholy trinity.”

If that’s true, then inversion isn’t incidental but structural and Lucifer’s rebellion becomes a mirroring, a distortion, and a counterfeit. What if Lucifer didn’t abandon his original assigned task of enlightening, but instead inverted it? What if instead of leading minds toward truth, he developed systems that simulate enlightenment while directing souls away from God?

A Familiar Word: Enlightenment

The word itself appears across a wide range of esoteric and mystical traditions such as Buddhist tantra, certain strands of Freemasonry, occult systems, and various Eastern philosophies.

But what does “enlightenment” mean in each context?

In Christianity, truth is revealed by God and received through grace, but in many esoteric systems, enlightenment is something achieved, often through hidden knowledge, ritual, and disciplined technique. In tantric traditions, enlightenment involves engagement with spiritual forces or entities other than the Biblical God.

If a being like Lucifer wanted to draw souls away from God, not by force, but by deception, what would be the most effective strategy? Probably not obvious evil, but something that resembles truth while subtly redirecting it in a parallel system that is a convincing alternative. Wouldn’t he create a spiritual landscape that feels ancient and profound, but is ultimately oriented away from the Creator?

From that perspective, several contrasts begin to stand out:

1. Creator vs. Non-Creator Frameworks

Biblical Christianity affirms a personal God who created all things. Many non-theistic or differently structured systems do not center reality on a personal Creator, and may instead describe it as arising through interdependent processes or consciousness.

2. One Life vs. Many Lives

Christianity teaches that we live once and then face judgment. Traditions such as Tibetan Buddhism describe cycles of rebirth (samsara) across many lifetimes.

3. Grace vs. Technique

In Christianity, salvation is not earned but given. In esoteric systems, advancement is often tied to occult knowledge, initiation, and disciplined practice.

4. Prohibition of Magic vs. Ritual Use

The Bible consistently forbids sorcery and magical practice. Tantric traditions incorporate rituals, mandalas, invocations, and even practices described as subjugation or destruction of enemies.

That last point raises a difficult question: how do such practices relate to broader Buddhist teachings on compassion and non-harm?

5. Apostolic Succession vs. Spiritual Lineage

In Catholic Christianity, spiritual authority is understood to flow through apostolic succession: a historical, traceable line from Christ to the apostles and through the bishops of the Church. This succession is not merely symbolic; it is understood as a transmission of authority grounded in Christ Himself, preserved through sacrament and doctrine.

In Tibetan Buddhism and related traditions, there is also a strong emphasis on lineage. Spiritual authority and teaching are passed from guru to disciple in an unbroken chain, often tracing back to an enlightened master. In Tibetan Buddhist lineages it traces back to the Buddha himself. Initiation into practices, especially in tantric contexts, typically requires empowerment from someone within that lineage.

At a structural level, the resemblance is striking. Both systems emphasize continuity, transmission, and authorized access to deeper spiritual realities. But within the framework of inversion, the similarity itself becomes significant.

If Lucifer’s rebellion operates through mirroring and distortion rather than outright opposition, then a counterfeit system would not discard the idea of transmission but it would replicate it in altered form. Instead of a lineage grounded in divine revelation and safeguarded by the Church, one might expect a lineage grounded in esoteric knowledge, initiation, and experiential realization.

In that sense, what appears to be parallel structure could be interpreted as inversion: a system that retains the form of authorized transmission while redirecting its source and purpose.

Which leads to a deeper conclusion: if both claim lineage, continuity, and authority, you must discern the true source of that transmission, whether it originates from the Most High God or from something that imitates Him.

Are These Just Different Paths?

At this point, some might object: what if these are simply two different paths to the same ultimate reality? What if “God” in Christianity and “enlightenment” in other systems are just different expressions of the same truth? But that idea becomes difficult to sustain when the core claims directly contradict one another. A personal Creator who judges the soul is not the same as an impersonal reality with no creator. A single earthly life followed by judgment is not the same as endless cycles of rebirth. Grace given by God is not the same as enlightenment achieved through occult techniques. These are not minor differences but fundamentally opposed descriptions of reality. Within the framework of inversion, this matters. If one system is true, then a parallel system that contradicts it cannot simply be an alternative route to the same destination, it must lead somewhere else entirely.

The Question of Power

Another detail from the interview adds an important layer. Fr. Ripperger describes cases in which individuals gained accurate hidden knowledge through demonic influence:

“The demons would tell her, ‘This is what your husband’s doing,’ etc. And it was accurate… that’s how you know it’s true—it’s actually accurate.”

Accuracy, in itself, is not proof of goodness. Many systems, ancient and modern, promise access to hidden knowledge, insight, or power. But the deeper question is: what is the source of that knowledge?

A Counterfeit System?

If we follow this line of thought, a possibility emerges. A fallen angel, originally designed to enlighten, could create entire systems that:

  • Mimic divine structure
  • Offer real spiritual experiences
  • Provide accurate, but limited or misleading, knowledge
  • Encourage self-deification (“you will be like gods”)
  • And ultimately redirect worship, trust, and dependence away from the Biblical God

In that light, the serpent’s words in Genesis begin to look less like a one-time event and more like a recurring pattern:

“You will be like God.”

Not through obedience, but hidden knowledge, technique, and transformation.

Final Thought

If Lucifer’s original role was to enlighten, and he rejected God, then the question is not whether enlightenment exists. The question is where each path promising “enlightenment” ultimately leads.

Footnote:

  1. Interview with Tucker Carlson and Fr. Chad Ripperger:
    https://youtu.be/Of3ys0dmyYc?si=U630YmXL0sF0-C2-

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

mim

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

mim

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.