As a kid growing up in a Christian environment, I was dutiful in my study of Scripture and in accepting the theology handed to me. But I had two questions that kept circling in my head like a fly caught in a room:

“Once we come to the end, how will all the people who have ever lived fit on the ‘New Earth’? What will we all do?”

“If infinity stretches forever behind and forever ahead, why would God choose to create the world at a single, teeny tiny point on that timeline? Are we really that important that nothing existed before, and nothing will exist after the ‘New Earth’?”

Kids ask good questions. I won’t claim mine were profound, but looking back, I can see how much was packed into the theological boxes I had been given and how quickly I began to notice what didn’t quite fit inside them.

I didn’t know it at the time, but both questions were really about the nature of time and both God’s and our purpose within a timeline. This stock linear model of time that came with my education seems straightforward, but it contains tensions that even an 11-year-old can sense.

When I was first introduced to the idea of time as a circle or a spiral, I was struck by how many questions it answered, including ones I didn’t yet know how to ask. The challenge, then and now, is how to navigate inherited traditions and mindsets while breaking into a new way of understanding reality—that is, a new mode of consciousness.

The desire to understand what it takes to shift a collective mindset is what led me to look backward and ask what past shifts in consciousness might reveal about the questions we should be asking in the present.

Across Part One and Part Two of this series, I argue that consciousness evolves in a cyclical or spiral pattern rather than a linear one, and that enduring human practices—especially astrology—make this pattern visible. However, I also argue that an old mindset doesn’t make it all bad. There are elements that might still reflect reality in ways we hadn’t realized because our mindset wasn’t geared to see them.

When reinterpreted through this cyclical model of time, I suggest that the concept of redemption not only fits within this structure but also reflects an element of reality perhaps we hadn’t considered. This shift in awareness could also begin to resolve some of the theological tensions that my younger self was grappling with.

Enduring Orientations toward Reality

When we look across recorded and archaeological history, we see multiple iterations or evolutions of consciousness. Religions, political systems, and innovations have come and gone, while others linger in fragments. However fleeting, they are pieces of larger patterns of thought, and in some cases, they have helped shift paradigms.

For that reason, I approach traditions like Christian theology, Greek and Indian philosophy, and esoteric systems not as competing truth claims, but as different expressions of an underlying thread—one that continues to weave through human history.

However, what fascinates me most are the ideas and practices that have endured across all of history and what they might reveal about human nature and the structure of reality itself. But these enduring elements are not always what we expect.

Lascaux Cave painting of aurochs, horses and deer

For example, we have not always been farmers. Agriculture emerged during the Neolithic period, when hunter-gatherer societies began to settle. But we do find prehistoric art (such as the cave paintings at Lascaux Cave, France and Ubirr, Australia) that points to a much older and more persistent human impulse: the need to externalize experience into symbolic form. In that sense, art may be more fundamental to the human experience than agriculture.

Similarly, while hierarchical social structures developed after global climate change, humans appear to have always maintained some form of relationship to the invisible or transcendent—whether through spirits, ancestors, gods, or even abstract forces like Pythagorean numbers or the collective unconscious.

A small handful of practices and ideas like art and the transcendent have journeyed with us the whole way, like the one or two best friends or family members you keep for your whole life. By observing these relationships, we can see more tangibly what we might call an enduring human orientation toward reality. For the purpose of this article, I’m framing those ‘orientations toward reality’ as our most consistent data points of how our consciousness has evolved throughout time.

While art has helped us express the experience of human life, and our relationship to the invisible has helped us reach beyond the five senses, the practice I want to focus on throughout this series is astrology—or celestial meaning-making, if you prefer. This “lifelong friend” in particular helps situate us within the nature of time and reflects our worldview throughout. For this reason, astrology is one of the most stable external reference systems humans have ever used.

Thus, astrology might also give us a clue as to where our collective consciousness is headed today and what our task at hand is.

Rethinking Consciousness

Consciousness can be understood as our awareness of reality—shaped through sensation, environment, ideas, and lived experience. It includes both our worldview and our perceived relationship to the world itself. For example, when I became conscious of the potential for a non-linear model of time, my perception of how history works changed.

The development of consciousness is often uncomfortable though. It requires the repeated dissolution of what we thought was true, each time we encounter the limits of our understanding. Yet this process is also generative. It is how we become more attuned to what it means to be human and to whatever we might call purpose.

As my 11-year-old self illustrates, we are wired to ask questions that stretch the boundaries of the frameworks we’ve been given.

I mentioned in previous articles that we develop an awareness of beingness or who “I am” and who “we are” through our creativity and relationships: within oneself, to the Earth, and between each other and the Divine. While these are the catalysts of awareness-making, it doesn’t address how or why this awareness has developed over time.

For example, do we begin as a tabula rasa—a blank slate—gradually becoming more knowledgeable over time? Sir Edward Tylor proposed what is often called the “primitive error hypothesis,” suggesting that human intellectual development progressed from magic, to religion, to science—each stage representing a more “correct” understanding of reality.1

While this neat and tidy linear trajectory of consciousness serves our collective ego, it does not adequately account for the contradictions of a species that is destroying its habitat and each other. Therefore, I’d like to suggest that like time, the process of becoming conscious isn’t linear — it’s a spiral or a circle depending on your point of view.

As Sir Tylor so aptly demonstrated for us, a linear model suggests an ultimate culmination point which is what Persian Zoroastrianism and the major monotheistic religions of our day ascribe to.2

Using the religious framework I was handed as a kid, this linear idea of culmination is easily seen in Christianity’s concept of conquering death and the eventual New Earth at Christ’s second coming.3 This culmination idea which I’ll generally call ‘Heaven’ has numerous names in other religions and paradigms of thought: Elysium, Valhalla, Zion, Utopia, or a future state of unified consciousness.

However, culmination still exists as one point within a cyclical system, such as the number 12 on a clock. The difference is that after reaching this culmination point, the cycle restarts. There are some cyclical concepts like Nirvana where escape from the cycle is the point, again culminating in a separate and final end point. This separate end point is necessary in this type of model because there is pain attached to the cycle which must be overcome.

However, if the cycle includes freedom from and over darkness and pain, then there is no need to “escape” the cycle. The freedom from pain leads to rebirth so that it can be transmuted again. In this model, death (for example) does not need to be feared and escaped. Death is part of the process because it brings regeneration and rebirth.

Ruptures, collapses, breakthroughs, and repair are all built into a cyclical idea of both time and consciousness, as well as the basic astrological paradigm which I’ll outline in Part Two. 

But this realization led me to wonder, did Christianity get it all wrong? Is the entire paradigm built on linear time headed towards an Edenic cliff?

Redemption Reconsidered

I’d like to start by infusing another concept 11-year-old Christina was handed within the Christian linear paradigmatic box that spawned her questions: redemption.

In addition to Creationism and Heaven, the concept of Redemption serves as a sort-of middle point between these two beginning and culmination points: the Earth was created by an omnipotent Creator (Creationism); we humans messed it up, so that Creator offered a way to fix it (Redemption); which enables us to rejoin the Creator after death (Heaven). While this concept serves a linear model, I don’t think it should be exclusively tied to it.

Redemption, at its core, is the act of regaining something that was lost—often through some form of exchange or payment. The original Greek word used in the New Testament, apolytrōsis (ἀπολύτρωσις), is a compound of two parts: ‘separation of a part from the whole’ and ‘ransom’ or payment.4 A modern day equivalent could be thought of as buying something back from a pawn shop that you sold.

In Christianity, redemption is framed as the restoration of a relationship with God through Christ’s sacrifice. The familiar line from Amazing Grace, “I once was lost but now am found,” captures this arc succinctly: an implied original state of union, followed by loss, and then recovery.

But this raises a deeper question: what exactly was lost?

If the soul is newly created5 and born already separated from God, can it truly be said to have lost anything? Because to lose something is to have had it in the first place. Was there ever an original union that newly created souls held before losing it?

To answer that question, we need to return to the beginning.

The Creation of Adam, a detail of the fresco Sistine Chapel ceiling by Michelangelo

Breath as the Conduit of Consciousness

The Hebrew word נְשָׁמָה or nᵉshâmâh appears in the Genesis creation account, describing the “breath” of life imparted by God. Yet its meaning extends beyond physical respiration.6 Consider this single conversation from Job:

In one instance, it refers to literal breath:

“The Spirit of God hath made me, and the breath (נְשָׁמָה nᵉshâmâh) of the Almighty hath given me life.” (NIV, Job 33:4)

In another, it signifies inspiration or understanding — a spiritual consciousness:

“Days should speak, and multitude of years should teach wisdom. But there is a spirit in man: and the inspiration (נְשָׁמָה nᵉshâmâh) of the Almighty giveth them understanding.” (NIV, Job 32:7-8)

This dual meaning suggests that shamah functions as a bridge between physical existence and conscious awareness.

This concept is also found outside the Judeo-Christian tradition in concepts like meditation and yoga which connect the practice of focusing on one’s breath and the experience of enlightenment. It is no accident that spiritual health has been connected to physical health, such as reduced cortisol, lower blood pressure, and stronger immunity.7

If this is the case, then we are not blank slates, but beings equipped with an innate capacity for transcendent perception—what might be described as a latent conduit for awareness. Whether or not we choose to use it or “lose” it, is up to us, but attaining wisdom depends on our connection to that inborn conduit.

This is also a great example of why astrology is understood as a conduit of divination or divine inspiration. As Job 32:7-8 points out, “days” (יוֹם yôwm, meaning “time”) and a “multitude of years” should enlighten us but it is God’s inspiration that actually imparts understanding. The ‘days and years’ that make up the measurement and passing of time should speak to us — and I would argue that they do, archetypally. But it is the connection to Spirit or the transcendent which gives us the exact inspiration needed to interpret that passage of time meaningfully and in a more particular way.

Redemption, therefore, is a reconnection to that conduit — like a lost path through the woods that is found again and cleared of debris, reconnecting us to the other side.

The important concept to take away here is that our “beginning” is neither a blank slate, nor a deficit. We begin in a state of wholeness and full potentiality. Some would say this explains why young children appear to exhibit extra-sensory abilities and spiritual gifts that are later lost and disregarded as made-up.

While I realize this concept sounds heretical within a Christian paradigm where we are born totally depraved, I will point out the uncomfortable theological problem of the death of a child. How the Church has dealt with this issue illuminates the concept of shamah.

In the Middle Ages, the belief that all humans were born sinful meant that infants who died before baptism were believed to be stuck in limbo.8 This created a whole system of superstitious formulas to save the child’s soul. One of these necessary steps was exorcism which included insufflatio or ritual breathing over the child which was believed to drive out evil spirits.9 Breath redeemed them.

Today, most people believe in ‘the age of accountability’ as a solution to that uncomfortable hard line. Despite the fact that the Bible never explicitly states this, the belief is that those who cannot distinguish between right and wrong (such as children) are not held accountable for sin, suggesting that we are born into a form of innocence or wholeness that is “lost” as the child grows and begins to understand right from wrong.

Whether this breath is external or inborn, I would argue that we begin in a state of wholeness but lose touch with that connection to the Divine. Our redemptive task, then, is to find what was lost and reconnect. This story arc can be seen outside of theology too. Within literature, The Hero’s Journey is another more elaborate model of this cycle, as is Lifespan Development theories in psychology.

But we are still left with a problem: regardless if we start from a place of wholeness or deficit, this does not necessitate a cycle. Or does it?

The Problem of ‘The End’

Returning to the questions my 11-year-old self posed, the “end” of that story arc offers us some clarity on why the cyclical model is more appropriate. Once we reach this culmination point called Heaven and we are all redeemed, having regained that Edenic union in the New Earth,

“Where do 118 billion individual souls go and what do we do then?”10

“Doesn’t God still want to make other stuff?”

In other words, what’s next? ‘The End’ has come and gone across the screen, the credits have rolled, and now we sit for eternity?

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

I previously talked about our creative nature as a unique human attribute. Why do we not stop creating after we’ve achieved a goal? Why do we eventually get bored and restless after achieving success? There is a primordial drive to continually create towards an experience of fulfillment or satisfaction.

So, if we were to achieve Heaven, would we cease the desire to create? And if we are made in the image of God, then doesn’t this suggest that God’s nature would also want to continue to create?

Another brief textual exegesis might be helpful to understand why the creative cycle must continue — both to meet this question within the paradigm kid-Christina asked and to inform how our ‘enduring human orientation toward reality’ (i.e. astrology) parallels it.

Why the Cycle Must Continue

Genesis tells us that on the seventh day of creation, God “rested.” What does this mean that God “rested”?11

In Hebrew, the word used is Šāḇaṯ (שָׁבַת) which is where the word “Sabbath” comes from.12 This word is used in the Old Testament 47 times to mean “cease,” as in God’s promise that as long as the earth endures, time will never “cease”.13

However, within the context of the Genesis creation story (and 8 other instances in the Old Testament), Šāḇaṯ actually means “rest”. However, we are told in the Exodus account that to rest is more than stopping. It is an action of regeneration and enjoyment which enables the continuation of creation. The purpose of resting is to become “refreshed” so that work or creativity can be resumed.14

Even if we have “finished” creating something (just as God did in Genesis 2:2), the purpose of resting is to enable new growth. This is the same reason God commanded that fields needed to “rest” so that they might regenerate and produce again. This is the scientific purpose behind the farming practice of ‘crop rotation’.15 This is also the theological reason why on Saturdays, the Sabbath, Jews and Seventh-Day Adventist Christians rest from all work, so that they might resume on the first day, refreshed.

Thus, if God both demonstrated and commanded “resting” on the seventh day so that work and creativity could continue on the first day, then it follows that God will continue to create as well — even after “finishing” the New Earth.

An artist will tell you that to create is to enter into a dialogue or a relationship with the thing that is being created. It doesn’t go one-way. You may go in with an idea or image in your mind, but the words or the clay do not bend as you thought they would, so you must adjust in order to listen and hear the inspiration that desires to come through.

In the Judeo-Christian tradition, God created the world and humans with free will, meaning: God entered into the creative act in a dialogue or a relationship with His creation, knowing that humans might push back against the Potter. 

Every relationship includes the inevitability of rupture and repair as a process of strengthening and recreating that relationship. Thus, to reach the culmination point of the New Earth is not “the end.” It is a resting point that affords the time and space to refresh so that the creative process can continue.

The Flaw in Perfection

Creativity and the evolution of consciousness are parallel processes, or perhaps even the same. Even after paradigm-shifting discoveries like the Copernican Revolution, we did not cease asking questions. Perhaps there was a “rest” as we marveled at this new reunification with a small element of reality and all the ramifications that went with it. But then we started asking more questions, and off we went.

As you can see, we are now pushing up against this linear endpoint of consciousness and looking over the edge of the cliff. Not only do time and consciousness appear to be cyclical, but there appears to be cycles within cycles of rupture and repair. If both time and consciousness are a circle or a spiral, it affords a continual process of both being and continual becoming.

It is also the point at which the concept of Redemption doesn’t need to be discarded but re-situated in that new shape of consciousness: while we may begin in a state of union, there is rupture and loss, but then also recovery and reunification, with the relationship strengthening through each reforging.

The Japanese art and philosophical concept of kintsugi (金継ぎ), or “golden joinery,” offers a striking visual metaphor. Broken pottery is repaired using lacquer mixed with gold, highlighting rather than concealing the fractures. In essence, it celebrates its history rather than trying to disguise it as something “perfect”.16

Photo by Riho Kitagawa on Unsplash

The psychological-scientific community agrees with this art and philosophy. Drs. John and Julie Gottman have studied intimate relationships for decades and have found that a couple’s ability to engage in repair after rupture is one of the strongest predictors of long-term relationship success and satisfaction — not the absence of conflict.17 In fact, relationships without conflict tend to lack the glue needed to keep it together, leading to a slow and gradual drift apart.18

“Redemption,” therefore, becomes a key strengthening point — the “golden joinery” of the evolution of consciousness. Think about the renewed gratitude, appreciation, and joy you feel when you’ve finally found something you lost or fixed what had been broken. The investment of effort and time alone increases its value more than if you had been carrying it in your pocket the whole time.

If this cyclical model of time and consciousness is more than a compelling metaphor and reflects something structurally true about human experience, then we should be able to see it play out across history. Not just in theology or philosophy, but in the practices that have endured alongside us.

In Part Two, I turn to one such practice—astrology—and to one of its oldest organizing frameworks: the elements. With the help of a preSocratic philosopher, we can begin to trace how this cycle of wholeness, rupture, redemption, and repair has unfolded across human consciousness itself.