It might seem quite ridiculous and insolent that I, a trifling artist and child of our postmodern age, should write of such noble and sublime things as gods and faith. That I should judge the faiths which our ancestors once held, when I, and all of us today, stand so far below the heights of their bright spirit and passionate sacrifices.
Yet this is exactly what I must do, precisely because I am a child of our postmodern age. For while these men forever shine with the undying light of Eternity, the ages from which they ascended are gone, and time has forever severed us from the world of Tradition wherein they acted. We are alone, we postmodern children, and Fate has forced us to find a new path to the heights of our ancestors, as all bridges behind us have been swallowed by the dark currents of modernity.
Thus by speaking against the faith of our ancestors, I am not aiming to defile them – how could any mud even be thrown to reach the heights of their heavenly peaks? – but rather to find a path which we can walk, and through which we can honour their deeds by deeds of our own.
So it is not from out of any imagined greatness of my own that I write this confession, but rather it is from my incompleteness as a child of this age. And in this writing, I shall not do as I have previously done and write hidden behind the words of men greater than me, distorting what they have said to fit what I myself feel within our Age. Rather I will plunge into my own heart, and unearth the currents that have flown hidden, undeveloped or denied in my previous writing – thus both destroying and completing what I have written before.
The greatest and most important movement in my writing has been the movement towards Christ – the realization of his greatness, in spite of the Nietzschean and Pagan outlook on life which I previously had. Yet when this movement and image was completed, and I returned to the Bible and the actual words of Christ, I could not recognize what I had painted before me. There was someone else on my canvas, someone I had mistaken for Christ, and whom I had forced into the ill-fitting robes of the noble Nazarene.
Then who was it that I had painted? Is he a God of the future which is to come? Certainly not, for I am no priest, and much less a prophet. I could never achieve the clear vision and exalted sublimity needed to discern the coming of a new God. I am not nearly delusional enough to see in this mere painter a new John who would baptize our people, with the promise of a Messiah and God which we have not known or seen before.
As an artist, I am just a starved and miserable dog, trapped and confined within the strangling vines and dark foliage of our Age. I can do nothing but chase blindly after fleeting images, trying to clench my fangs around the ghostly prey of a Life which has been taken from me. It is an existence among rustling leaves and wailing winds, among rotten trunks far away from the golden steppes of holy priests and warriors. So what is it that I have caught between my fangs?
It can be nothing more than a piece of a long-forgotten past. A blue inch of some old cloak, embroidered with thin golden threads from a Golden Age. A bundle of strands, which once had flowed like an eternal spring from the shoulders of a Father and Lord, but which now have been torn apart by the currents of Time.
By mere luck, my blind hunt had placed upon my swollen tongue the taste of a lost age. And the small golden spark still residing in this cloth spread like flaming gasoline through my meagre body, burning with the stinging, metallic scent of a titanic sword, which had come at the end of Ages to vanquish whatever has become weak and broken. To prepare the soil of our realms for something both new and ancient, by burning everything old into fertilizing ashes.
But who was He I had but glimpsed? It could not be our pagan gods – it could not be that old and ghostly Odin of the fairy-world, who depended on the golden apples of a woman for life, who depended on sons to fight his battles, who depended on a well for knowledge, and who depended on a successor to take his place the day he died. Yes, in the great mishmash of animistic nature worship and all-too-human gods that is Paganism, I could not recognize the unmoved blue of the Sky and flaming gold of the Sun which I had caught in my mouth.
Thus it was only to Christ I could turn. For Christ told of a one and only God, an absolute and self-sufficient perfection, who yet had chosen to create this world – who yet had chosen, through his unfathomable love, to tread upon it with bleeding feet and a noble crown of thorns and suffering. In this absurd and beautiful image, I could recognize both the cold, still blue of the sky, and the scorching flames of loving gold. And I could not think of any greater image known to us – yet I never set foot in a church.
I talked of the reasons why Christianity was a dead Tradition. I said that it had broken its initiation to the original greatness of Christ, or lost its power over our peoples. But no Christian would believe that Christ is not always present, no matter the depths into which his church falls, to welcome those who seek him. And no Christian would express doubt in the victory of his own church – in the victory of Christ’s own body – and instead choose to merely observe the struggle of the church from outside.
I talked of creating new forms which could manifest the Father in tomorrow, but for a Christian, there can be no new forms. Christ is already the complete and definite, and there can only be deviations from him. And who could ever create anything which could reach the heights of God himself? Who could ever repeat the sacrifice of God made Man? The mere thought of such ‘new forms’ must make a man cringe with shame.
So I had to realize, either that I was the worst and most cowardly Christian to ever walk the earth, or that I simply did not believe in Christ – that I made my reservations not because I feared to struggle for him against modernity, but because of a repressed knowledge that I did not see him as my Lord at all.
And I know that I do not fear modernity; that I do not fear the wrath of our despicable enemies or the lies of the filthy polluters – hence it must have been someone other than Christ that I had seen. Someone whom I, in my own ignorance, had fused together with the image of Christ, to the disgrace of them both, and myself.
At the height of my veneration of Christ, I tried to paint him on the cross. But I could not bear myself to paint the noble Nazarene. I could not align with the Christian faith and its spirit the image I felt the need to create – I could only paint Christ through the appearance of a dying Thor, who had both slayed the World-Serpent and sacrificed himself for the world below.
But how could that be, when both my reason and heart know Thor to be such an incomplete idol amongst a pantheon of idols? There must have been something else hidden within Thor, which aligned itself with the forgotten God whose torn cloak I had found a piece of, and the embroideries I wanted to reflect. Something which was not Pagan, but rather the source from which Paganism had fallen, a source which far outshines that of Christianity.
It was not Christ that I had painted, but neither was it Thor – rather it was a spark of that original Fire and Father, of which Thor was but a faint glow. But still, it was of this fire that Thor glowed faintly, and as such, there was still something in him which could make the unintelligible embroideries dance with the sense of a clear vision. Even if it was just with a mere fraction of the Light they once reflected, they still shone.
But it was absolutely not a Pagan painting – no, not at all. For I could as little bear myself to paint this image in the standard bright red and heavy, earthly colours that permeates the Pagan depictions of Thor, as I could to paint it in the lamb-white colours of Christianity.
The final colours came to me in a summer night, in these Northern twilights which never really turn into darkness, but rather linger upon the edge of life and death. I lay among blue bedclothes, which in the solemn light glowed mildly in the same cold and still colours as the sky outside of my window. And I saw upon this blue the skin of my own thigh, in its rosy white, which behind fabrics had been spared the scorching light of a summer sun.
I could see Life tense through the fibre of my muscles, as I flexed my flesh upon the sky-like bed, and I could feel the rising course of an ancient blood, which wished to flow as much in the body I had inherited, as among the rosy clouds which glistered through the glass panes.
And when my eyes moved inwards, to the fatter and softer insides of my thighs, I could almost feel the dark dagger of Fate itself, aimed at the vulnerable veins throbbing beneath an all-too thin skin. And at the infinitely small point where this sharp blade touched my living flesh – luring almost unnoticeable, waiting for a moment to plunge into my body – I could feel the unity of Life and Death. I could see it, in the struggling flow of the blood, and its final, grand gushing through the wounds of Fate.
I saw the colours of the Father, whose love and sacrifice I wanted to paint – the cold blue of the sky, the rosy white of twilight clouds, and a gushing sun of Blood. I saw his Hyperborean spirit and blood, and his choice to flow and pour through a people of war-torn, Northern steppes. And it was this sensation of violent Life lived through Death, of spirit flowing through gushing blood and flowering in total destruction, that I could not find in that heavenly afterlife of the Christian.
For the Christian may speak of being a part of Christ’s body – but this is not a body which tears itself apart for the spiritual fulfillment of struggling blood, but a vessel whose ultimate goal is to dissolve and leave this world behind, carrying with it the Christian. And the Christian may speak of already having faced Death and Life together with Christ, through the rebirth of baptism – but this is a Death for Life, rather than that Hyperborean Life which lives through Death and War.
Christianity is like the Gothic cathedral, with its vertical lines converging in slender towers, almost floating above the earth. It is a solely upwards-striving architecture of elegant beauty, escaping the filth and sin of the horizontal world below. But it is only the Ancient temple that can truly resonate with Hyperborean blood. For in that temple weight and power is the main principle, expressed in the strong and vertical pillars of spirit which carry the pain of a large, horizontal slab upon their shoulders, unto eternity. Yes, where the Gothic spire escapes the world, the Ancient temple stands up to elevate the world – to lift the horizontal slab of marble that was once hidden in the earth, so that it can shine with the purest white, as a part of the sky itself.
Yet when I woke the next morning to paint in the colours I had seen, cowardly reason had again taken place. And only knowing of the Pagan gods and Christ, it had to tell me that it was Christ I painted, bleeding among the scales of the World-Serpent.
But now I’ve realized who I actually wanted to paint – the one and only Sky Father, who is at the origin and centre of Aryan Tradition.
I will never take back anything I have said of Christ’s greatness and beauty, nor will I deny that our ancestors saw some great Truth in Christ, and lived glorious lives in his image. Neither would I ever attempt to ridicule those of my friends who wholeheartedly seek for Christ, and want to live by his light – for they will probably live far more noble and fulfilled lives than I, a dog-like artist, can ever hope for.
Christ was necessary for me, and for Europe as a whole, as a denier and vanquisher of that broken and fallen mess we know as Paganism. But I will say that Christ is not the God whose memory is flowing through our blood, and that I wish, despite the high deeds of Christianity, that Christianity has had its run, and is facing the end of its cycle. This so that our true, original Father can return – he who as of now remains hidden, far beyond the fog of Paganism.
Yes, Paganism is a damp and dead fog obscuring our original peaks, and it is far worse to be a Pagan today than a Christian. I, who dream of the infinite reaches from which Paganism fell, can harbor nothing but disdain for those who worship dead remains of false gods, mixed with the stinking soil of animistic ghosts.
The Pagan gods can be seen as nothing more than distortions and degenerations, only having their value in the fact that they clung to some small spark of the original Sky Father and his eternal Flame. To then cling to the ashes of these clingers can be seen as nothing more than spiritual weakness and idolatry – instead we must kill within us all old Pagan gods, kings and priests, in order to unearth the original Fire with which they once burned, but which they themselves never were.
But how are we to reach this original Father and Fire? Any reconstruction or backward gazing is of course completely impossible – for the original Father of the Aryan Tradition is completely hidden by the past, and even if we knew him, we could not summon him by only sewing back together the tattered remains of his garments.
Instead we must look forwards. But who among us could ever dream of reaching the skies all by himself, to show the Father’s will to us? It is simply unimaginable, and to say otherwise is to forever hide the true Father behind a false and idolatrous faith in our own insignificant power as men.
He is far too high for anyone of the flesh to reach, and this is our great despair. Yet this despair is also our greatest hope, for it means that neither our ancestors, the first Aryans of flesh and blood, could reach the Father on their own, but rather that he must have shown himself to them. Any true knowledge of the Sky Father demands that he treads down, in some way or another, and if he has tread down once, he can do it again, igniting yet another turn of our cycle.
We must not look back to the last and lowest remnants of the previous Hyperborean Tradition – that is, not look back to the mishmash which we know as Paganism. Rather, we must wholly and bravely believe in a coming Ragnarök – in a destruction of everything old which return our realms to their true Origin and Tradition. We must believe as our ancestors did, that the height and beginning of a Cycle paradoxically lies hidden beneath its bottom and end.
We must believe that He will show himself again, through the end of our current civilization and that coming war, which hangs so ominously and inevitable, like a dark blade, above the head of Europa. Believe that He will lay waste to everything which we sad descendants of old Heroes know, yet at the same time bring back everything we’ve forgotten, thus rekindling the European sun.
But unlike the Pagan, we will not hope for a successor of Odin at the end of Ragnarök and the dawn of Tomorrow – rather we will wish for the original Sky Father himself, Him for whom Odin was but a faint retainer.
Thus I am not a Pagan; rather, I have faith in Him who is the source from which Paganism fell. Furthermore, I have complete faith in his Return. But because of that, I am at the same time of a Paganism far greater than that which any actual Pagan knows and professes.
So what am I to do with this faith? As I’ve said, I’m just a man of our age, and I can have no pretensions or delusions of being able to reach the Sky Father anew. And I’ll never take on the role of a charlatan or false prophet, misleading my brethren with empty words – for no words or thought of man can ever show Him to us again. Instead I’ll only live as what I am – a dog-like artist – and I’ll never again pretend that my art is anything more than the craft of such a dog. And I’ll only live as who I am – a man of my people – and carry out such duties as Fate will put upon my shoulders.
Not because any of these things in itself will lead to the return of the Sky Father, but because this is the only way in which I can express my Faith in Him and His Return. The only thing I can do is to face the great and dark struggle that is to come, now at the end of our old Age. I can only throw myself towards the godless and howling Fimbulwinter – but I will do so with the burning Faith that He is at the other side.
And if I amount to nothing more than a dog’s death, if I am never to see our true Father in my lifetime, but only am to disappear in the darkness before the break of dawn – then what of that? A dog lives a dog’s life, and dies a dog’s death – and there’s nothing more to it.
The old gods would chuckle at the judgement of this man. Calling himself nothing more than a dog, lacking all sense of pride and greatness which our pagan ancestors embodied. Surely he must realize the irony of him calling Pagan gods “distortions and degenerations” when he himself acknowledges himself to be thus. To arbitrarily place Christianity’s value higher than that of the Pagans, or worse, to say that Christianity was “necessary” as a “vanquisher” of Paganism is nothing more than a ludicrous self-justification. There is no value in self-deprecation.
You are seeking for the source of the Aryan divinity, yet without having a clue you immediately paint him as a “Sky Father”. How would you know what form “he” takes or where “he” resides? Perhaps it is the Sun you mean? It also was revered by our ancestors, although unbeknownst to me in what fashion. If “he” is the divine source, what of the feminine power?
Instead of looking outwardly, I would argue we can only find that source of Aryan divinity within. In fact, it envelops us and rules our lives as a silent, yet ever present pushing and pulling force. It too was at the source of the image in your mind which you then consciously tried to recreate through language and art. The depths of our subconsciousness hold treasures which are often buried under the muck of modernity and distorted by the various subversive influences we are forced to absorb in today’s society.
Yet it is still there, waiting to be set free, to be rekindled and embraced as the true source. This source of Aryan divinity is found nowhere but in the depths of your own body and soul. Due to our circumstances it will not present itself to you easily, yet if you nourish it and live by the guidance it offers you, slowly but surely it will reveal itself to you, even though its revelation may not be possible to put into words. We must ourselves become the ambassadors of this divinity. To believe it will arise externally is merely to excuse yourself from residing in self-deception and poverty of spirit.
You have given hefty criticisms of my text, and I appreciate this as an opportunity to elaborate and sharpen what I’ve written and, hopefully, to make clear the need and quality of a “dog-like art”.
One can note that the dog as a symbol of warriorly virtues was used by our ancestors, as in the Germanic tribe which called themselves dogs (Hundings). Ironically enough, it was by Christianity that the emblem of a dog became the sign of something low, and not of the “pride and greatness which our pagan ancestors embodied”.
The whole idea of using the dog as a symbol for my artistry was to acknowledge the inescapable fact that our world has fallen from the world of Tradition, thus putting us all in the situation of a lost beast, but to also incorporate the image of the noble hunt – of never ceasing the search for what has been taken from us.
To be “dog-like” is just to affirm the conditions of our time, in order to actually overcome them – the absolute opposite of self-deprecation. Yes, far more shameful than to struggle as what one actually is, is to pretend that one is something which one is not.
It is shameful to pretend that the Pagan gods hasn’t already lost their battle – that they were not vanquished and slain by a God of both greater spiritual and material force. It is shameful to pretend that the Pagan chains of initiation were not broken, and that one can revive gods from “within” oneself. And it is shameful to pretend that all of us (by the inescapable turning of the cycle) are not fallen beings, residing far below the plane in which our ancestors lived, and instead imagining oneself to be one with our since long dead ancestors.
Of course I know that spirit is the core of man, and that man can only know the divine through himself and his own acts. But we are also matter, and we can never dream of reaching true and absolute spirit by ourselves, by the mere fact of our existence as something else than spirit. That I say that the divine must again reveal itself for us is not an “excuse” for passivity, but a presupposition for making our acts into something eternal.
Yes, to pretend that one within oneself has the strength to reach the absolute source of Tradition is in essence calling oneself a God. To not realize that the divine must tread down to us reveals a fundamental insecurity – an insecurity in what it means to be a man of flesh and blood. Only after coming to terms with our limitations can one ever hope of actually seeing and realizing the spirit residing within ourselves.
It’s all in all pretty sad, this bombastic and theatrical belief in one’s own strength which is so prevalent among our Pagans today. For it only manages to sever man from true spirit and true strength, making sure his struggle will be in vain.
And regarding the Sky Father, I mean by him the one and only source of Life and Being – the heavenly, spiritual and patriarchal archetype which all (worthy) forms of paganism has centered around.
The “feminine powers” – that is earth, matter and death – are not a divinity equal to the Father. For if the authority of a God is split in two, then no one is truly a God – rather they become a race of magic men and women, living in a ghostly world between matter and spirit. The feminine powers are rather to be seen as the negation of the Father, which he has brought out of himself, and chosen to love and live through – thus giving rise to the synthesis we know as struggle.
Regarding the degeneration of Paganism, a clear sign is given by the fact that it always adds more gods, and thus diminishes the absolute glory of true Life and Spirit. The Father becomes shattered into many brothers and sons, he unites with gods of a wholly different origin (like the Vanirs), he lets goddesses and nature-ghosts take place and authority within his halls, and sometimes he’s even displaced! For Odin is no true Sky Father, but rather a wandering and occult wizard, being preoccupied with that soothsaying and magic which has always been the realm of witches.
So in summary, the point of this text was to stop looking backwards, to stop dreaming of forgotten times and dead gods, and instead struggle forwards, towards the reappearance of an absolute divinity in Tomorrow. And in order to do this, we must know what we are, and what we wish to become – that is, affirming that we are dogs on a hunt for Life.
I have felt the need comment here but struggle to know what to write. Mr Jonasson, you are the one author on this website (amongst many brilliant writers) who I do not for a second hesitate to read when ever you post a new article.
It has thus far been a pleasure to read your insights regardless of whether I agree with them or not because there is an honesty in your writing and you leave a part of yourself on the page each time.
It is fitting that your last 2 articles, “To Love Death” and this one, have been criticized (in the positive sense of the word as both gentlemen were quite civilized in their criticism) in the comments from both a Christian and Pagan perspective respectively. There is something about both Christianity and Paganism that is not quite ‘it’.
Maybe they were compete traditions once, I’m not sure. But neither seem suited now to fully satiate the men who wander amid the ruins of modernity.
After being raised Christian and becoming disillusioned with it as a young man I eventually came to ‘Germanic Heathenry’ and whilst initially there was a sense of a ‘coming home’ to it, I have realised that although it may be a home coming that somewhat satisfied the blood it still left something wanting in the Spirit. It is a wanting that, like you, I barely know what to do with or how to express except in a inherent faith that the Celestial Father will be revealed once more when the age of darkness comes crashing down.
Unlike Louis I do not believe self-deprecation to be completely of no value. Pride and greatness in their authentic form are devoid of egoism. And it may be that one must be brutally critical of oneself and lay oneself low so that the ego doesn’t cloud the true peak of the mountain. It is a oft expressed neo-pagan reaction to Christian values that humility is somehow weak. It may be absolutely necessary in this age that we humble ourselves to recognize where and how we have been infected by modernity. That does not in any way negate the principles of eternal struggle, of strength and honor.
Regarding Odin as Father there is something “of the age” concerning him as well. Even he wanders as if without a centre. As you made clear he seems at times dependant and desperate as if even he feels the anxiety of an age speeding toward its doom.
Recently I’ve come to see Tyr as closer to being what our Celestial Father might look like. His name even being cognate with Deus, Zeus, Jupiter. He is associated with the North Star, the immovable realm in the heavens.
Though no doubt still just an echo of the true Father.
I wish you well Henrik and look forward to future works from you.
Thank you for your encouraging comment.
I am glad to recognize my own spiritual plights in what you’ve written, as it gives me hope that I am not only writing of mere idiosyncrasies of my own, but that I maybe have managed to sense a current which is growing within the heart of many Europeans.
There is certainly worth in humility, as one must know what one is not in order to become what one is meant to be. The Pagans too (as expressed in the many stories of hubris and fate) knew of humility and the fact that we, in the end, are at the hands of the divine, and not the other way around.
That we can’t become divine through mere struggle of our own, but that the divine must grace our struggle from above, in order to give it worth.
As usual, I am simply intrigued. I find fewer and fewer occasions to debate as much as I do to simply listen and try to understand. I am becoming at ease sitting quietly and taking in the goings on and the commentary on the goings on. The dialectic is shuffled around in my head like submissions to an old editor, rather than battled out in the streets like hot-headed revolutionaries who are likely no more than bribed actors later be disposed of by their handlers.
I relish seeing it from all directions. The act of becoming circumspect is no small feat. There is no passivity here, nor is there avoidance or any turning away from hard realities. I fancy that it is a preparation for something. Maybe that something will be no more than–at some critical moment–nodding “yes” or writing a letter or simply dying privately with grace having done more things correctly and rectifying my original follies and evils. Then again, clarity may necessitate wielding a sword in some great and heroic battle with many fellows in a bond of common courage and purpose. The assignment will not matter. What will matter will be getting it more right than not, as is capable for a man. What will matter will be accepting the assignment stoically and carrying it through to the end of my ability.
I had the advantage of leaving America and moving back to Europe, specifically, to Scandinavia, for some years,. It awoke in me something original in me that had already had show itself as an inchoate longing. So I know precisely what this author and others seem to be speaking of,. And I understand the various criticisms that follow a principal authors groping to say something true. This oppositional mode of speaking is merely a genre. These back and forths could be accomplished differently. No matter. Perhaps we have to allow for boys to be boys. It must be accepted with some amusement and appreciation for the fact that there are signs of a residual, societal testosterony.
What gives me hope is that in expressions such as this author and others, as well as in the efforts of critics to sculpt and correct and smooth a better final image, I find a great–and growing–resonance. This great and growing resonance cannot possibly be insignificant, nor can it be sterile and without inevitable consequence and fruitfulness. I do not know these writers nor do I even know where they are on earth. And that is what is important. There is a genetic fire, a blueprint, an archive of lived experiences encoded however such things are encoded. There is a spirit of the European that is calling us—at least those who can hear and see.
There is a time and place for the human and the universal. This is not incompatible with the devotion to kin, the ethnic and, for us, the European. But we have too long been under siege. We have been duped and infiltrated. It is time for us to regroup and to be a community, a fortress, a league of European ethnonations. It is time for us to be inward and to establish this self-identity first and forever against the deception and absolute evil of other worship for its own unbalanced sake. That I notice this definite European identity in myself, and that others notice it independently as well, means that it is no accident. These awakenings are not unlike the pre-adolescent beginning to experience faint flashes of an oncoming, ineluctable, difficult to interpret, sexuality.
It does not matter whether this European identity and spirit is traditional or futuristic. It is both. It is neither. It is urgently now—it is profoundly eternal. Like life itself it is a powerful, steady becoming. It is vibrant and it ever re-emerges from even death. It is delicious. It is tantalizing. There is so much to be done and there is so much just to observe, and enjoy, and contemplate.
We will need physical proximity among European people once again. That means that others must collect their things and go. This is our place. Proximity is necessary for mutual aid and for finding mates undiluted in numbers, mentality and ill-fittingly adopted habits. We need for culture–our European cultures–to work for us as the nature of culture is intended. Those who dare speak disparagingly of these things, and our needs, must be ostracized, penalized and excluded as we now suffer at the hands of the hostiles among us. Here is you hat, here is your coat–thanks for staying for a while–it is time to leave. Tomorrow is a workday for us Europeans.
Raw, compelling and authentic! This shows that sometimes constructive criticism can bring out the best in a writer. Compliments, Henrik Jonasson!
“Perhaps we have to allow for boys to be boys. It must be accepted with some amusement and appreciation for the fact that there are signs of a residual, societal testosterony.” – Don’t assume just because someone uses a pseudonym, he is automatically male. In this journal, there are also females debating. They just exalt the cause over the exposition of their gender identity.
@Arkadiusz, agreed on all points. The author was indeed authentically raw and it was appreciated.
Like you, Henrik, I found in European paganism something that satisfied the blood; and like you, I met Christ unexpectedly one day, and returned to Christianity, only to find myself in a white-washed tomb. The Bible tells us that this was sure to happen, though; no use for us to act surprised. I, too, am but a poor dog of an artist. The pictures we make, however dim and refracted through our fallen world, still reflect our struggle for truth.
The Old Gods represented the Group Soul of the people and is still a part of the archetypal world. The Gods are not dead. St. Augustine state that Christ was always with us. In that, he meant freedom . St Matthews stated that Now the Gospel of Christ begins. Now something new has entered the picture for the masses- the Ego.