Abstract: This article examines Albertus Magnus’s insight that the kingdom of God exists primarily
within divine mind, manifesting as both heavenly reality and spiritual presence in human souls. Drawing on
Neoplatonic traditions, it challenges static conceptions of divine Forms, proposing instead that eternal patterns
in God’s consciousness are inherently dynamic and mythological — eternal dramas rather
than frozen blueprints. The paper integrates perspectives from Eriugena, Coleridge, von Balthasar, Aulén, and
Eliade to develop a “kingdom model” locating spiritual beings and mythological narratives within divine
consciousness, preserving both divine aseity and God’s dramatic engagement with creation. This framework
resolves theological tensions: it explains divine violence as mythological rather than material, clarifies
temporal-eternal relationships, and recovers faith’s participatory nature as mythological consciousness.
Jesus’s kingdom proclamation and Paul’s spiritual warfare language reflect this ontological reality
where earthly events participate in, but do not exhaust, eternal mythological patterns in God’s mind. By
distinguishing material causation from mythological participation, this approach offers an alternative to both
literalist fundamentalism and reductive modernism, suggesting that mythology represents not primitive
anthropomorphism but recognition of reality’s narrative structure within divine consciousness.
Keywords: Kingdom of God, Albertus Magnus, divine mind, mythological theology, symbol, Platonic Forms,
participation, Christus Victor, spirit world, nature of evil, theo-drama, divine aseity.
Introduction
“Reason” in medieval philosophy doesn’t mean logical thinking but the inherent pattern that makes
something what it is and determines how it acts. The “eternal reasons” (rationes aeternae) are
God’s own archetypal patterns for all created things — both species and individuals. These
function like Plato’s Forms, but instead of existing in some separate realm, they exist within God’s
own mind as the divine blueprints of reality. Every creature has its defining pattern eternally present in
God’s consciousness, and this pattern is what gives it both its being and its characteristic way of
acting.
However, if the Forms exist in Mind (Nous), why would they be static? Mind is essentially
dynamic — thinking, knowing, understanding are activities, not frozen states. This insistence on
static Forms stems from several philosophical anxieties. Greek philosophical thought inherited from Parmenides the
fundamental dichotomy between immutable Being and mutable Becoming. Plato, trying to save both permanence and
change, located permanence in the Forms. But this created the bizarre notion of “frozen”
perfection — as if dynamism were itself an imperfection.
Augustine inherits this but compounds it with a particular reading of divine eternity as “all at once”
(totum simul). This gets interpreted as static simultaneity rather than what it would mean to human
consciousness — all dramatic movements eternally present in their full vitality.
Boethius’s interminabilis vitae tota simul (the whole simultaneous possession of interminable life)
suggests dynamism, but tradition reads it statically.
Classical theism fears that dynamic Forms would make God temporal or changing. But this conflates two different
things: temporal succession (which God transcends) and eternal dynamism. The Trinity itself is eternal
dynamism — processions, relations, the dance of perichoresis — yet not
temporal change.
This reductionist tendency has diminished Forms to mere concepts, obscuring their nature as living ontological
patterns. A concept of justice might be static, but the Form of Justice as divine knowing would include all the
dramatic movements of justice — conflict with injustice, vindication, restoration. The Form
would be more like an eternal story than a frozen definition. By viewing the Forms as mythological patterns rather
than static concepts, we may recover what divine mind must actually be like. God apprehends not static blueprints
but eternal narratives — creation, fall, redemption, glorification — all
perpetually unfolding within divine consciousness.
This explains why Scripture presents divine knowledge through dramatic narratives rather than philosophical
definitions. The Bible isn’t being primitive; it’s being accurate to how divine mind actually works.
God’s self-knowledge includes all the mythological movements — divine warrior defeating
chaos, shepherd gathering sheep, king establishing kingdom — not as past events but as eternal
activities in divine consciousness.
The mythological reading restores dynamism to divine consciousness. The Forms aren’t frozen statues in
God’s mental museum but living patterns — stories, conflicts, victories,
transformations — eternally enacted in divine awareness. This doesn’t make God temporal
any more than having multiple ideas makes God multiple.
With this insight we recover what ancient philosophy lost when it made the fatal equation: perfection =
stasis. But if God is pure act (as even Thomists insist), then divine consciousness must be pure
activity — not bare motion but patterned activity, mythological activity, dramatic activity. The
Forms aren’t photographs but dramas — eternal dramas playing in divine consciousness,
which we temporal beings experience in sequential fragments.
This theological move can preserve divine aseity while maintaining the biblical narrative structure. It offers a
creative solution to the apparent tension between God’s self-sufficiency and his involvement in conflict and
suffering. This preserves aseity because God still requires nothing external to himself. The entire cosmic drama,
the mythological themes, the conflicts between divine and demonic forces — all of this would be
internal to God’s own mental life. God isn’t dependent on anything outside himself because there is no
“outside” — the heavenly realm where these mythological events unfold, exists within
the divine mind.
Contemporary interpretations of God’s kingdom as an ideal earthly social order find minimal support in
Jesus’s teachings. Thus, the kingdom becomes merely horizontal — human relationships
perfected — rather than humanity participating in divine patterns. This view implies we build
the kingdom through human effort — better politics, economics, activism. The modern
interpretation effectively de-supernaturalizes the kingdom, turning wine back into water. It keeps the ethical
demands while discarding the mystical source, creating a Christianity that’s all imperative and no
indicative — all “ought” with no transforming “is.”
But the kingdom is something we receive and enter, not construct. It descends from above; it doesn’t emerge
from below. The kingdom indeed produces social transformation, but as overflow from transformed consciousness, not
as its primary reality. Justice and peace flow from souls aligned with divine patterns, not from better
organizational structures.
Moreover, situating the kingdom solely in earthly future eliminates the ‘already’
dimension — our present participation in eternal patterns. The kingdom becomes mere hope rather
than present mystical reality with future manifestation. The spirit world in Scripture is about cosmic conflict,
which aren’t metaphors for social reform but eternal patterns being actualized.
Albertus Magnus
Unlike modern theologians, Albert the Great (1206 – 1280) locates the kingdom in the mind of
God, which manifests itself both as the heavenly kingdom and as the kingdom within the human soul. He says:
And this is the kingdom through which God reigns in us. And just as the first kingdom is the soul of the true king, whose illuminations and orders and laws and acts multiplied in the people constitute the kingdom, so this kingdom is first in the mind of God and extends through everything. And the kingdom which is in heaven outside us is similar to this, but is more similar to the kingdom of the divine mind, which is the third and is the exemplar and object and cause of the other two kingdoms. (Albertus, 1987, cap. III, 3, p. 68)
This Neoplatonic framework presents some complexity. After all, heaven needn’t be viewed as a separate
created space but as full immersion in divine mythological consciousness. The saints and angels don’t observe
God’s patterns from outside — they swim in them, participate in them, are them by
participation. The concept of heaven as divine contemplation, populated by angels and demons, is more accessible to
modern thought than the idea of heaven as an independent metaphysical realm.
The heavenly realm, though transcendent, belongs to creation rather than to God’s essence, existing eternally
in divine contemplation. According to tradition, the patterns in God’s mind possess greater reality than
earthly things, which exist only by participating in their heavenly archetypes. The drama unfolding above is more
real than anything in the material world — which, after all, reduces to mere interactions of
molecules, atoms, and quarks.
Albertus Magnus, following in the Neoplatonic and Aristotelian tradition, understood God’s mind as containing
all possible forms and ideas. However, for Albert, the divine intellect wasn’t passive but actively
contemplated all reality. The crucial insight is that God’s self-contemplation isn’t empty or
static — it’s infinitely rich and dynamic. If the kingdom of God with all its mythological
drama exists within God’s mind, then all the conflict, suffering, and narrative development occur within
God’s own self-contemplation.
The kingdom of God in God’s mind might experience narrative time — sequences of before and
after, conflict and resolution — while God himself remains eternal. This isn’t a
contradiction but rather reflects how an eternal mind can contain temporal sequences. God timelessly contemplates a
drama that unfolds in narrative time.
This framework offers a response to the classical problem of how an immutable God can relate to a changing world.
If the kingdom of God in God’s mind contains genuine narrative and conflict, then God can be both unchanging
in his essence while containing infinite change and drama within his self-contemplation. The suffering God
wouldn’t compromise divine perfection because this suffering occurs within God’s own infinite mental
life. God can suffer without compromising divine perfection. As a novelist’s excellence remains undiminished
through imagining tragic events, God’s perfection persists intact while encompassing suffering within divine
narrative consciousness — indeed, a story without conflict and suffering might be seen as
imperfect, lacking depth and meaning.
Augustine and Aquinas held that God knows all things by knowing himself — that the divine ideas
are God’s knowledge of the ways his essence can be imitated. In De diversis quæstionibus (46),
Augustine locates all eternal forms within the divine mind. The dynamic view of divine forms, however, expands
beyond the Platonic concept: God knows not merely static forms but entire mythological narratives, complete with
conflict and resolution. The divine ideas are not blueprints but living stories, more real than their worldly
manifestations.
This provides a metaphysical foundation for the reality of myth. If mythological themes exist in God’s mind
with the same ontological status as the kingdom of God, then mythology isn’t merely human invention but
participation in divine thought. The great myths across cultures might be understood as fragmentary glimpses into
the vast mythological drama playing out in God’s consciousness.
Just as the Egyptian Duat existed in a liminal space — neither purely physical nor purely
spiritual — the kingdom of God in God’s mind occupies a unique ontological position.
It’s more real than physical reality (being directly in God’s mind) yet it operates according to
narrative rather than physical laws.
The synthesis of mythological theology with divine aseity through Albert’s understanding of God’s mind
offers a profound way forward. It suggests that taking seriously both God’s transcendence and his
mythological engagement doesn’t require choosing between them. Instead, the mythological drama is the very
content of God’s eternal self-contemplation, preserving divine self-sufficiency while affirming the reality
of divine involvement in conflict and suffering.
Eriugena
While various theological traditions hint at this insight, Albert’s explicit articulation remains
distinctive. John Scotus Eriugena (815 – 877) develops the crucial concept of
primordial causes existing eternally in the Word. He uses the Greek term ‘proorismata’
(predeterminations) to describe how all reality preexists in divine consciousness before temporal manifestation. He
states:
All things that are made in him, in him are life and are one. All things were — subsist — in him as causes before they are in themselves as effects. For the things that are made through him are beneath him in one way; and the things that he is are in him in another. All things, therefore, that were made by the Word, live in him unchangeably and are life. In him all things exist neither by temporal intervals or places, nor as what is to come; but all are one in him, above all times and places, and subsist in him eternally. Visible, invisible, corporeal, incorporeal, rational, irrational — heaven and earth, the abyss, and whatever is therein — in him all live and are life and subsist eternally. Even what seems to us to be without all vital movement lives in the Word. (Eriugena, 2000, chs. IX-X)
Everything within the Word is both eternal and created. The Word’s content, being both causal and alive,
functions as a dynamic process. The very continuance of the created universe requires the speech of God the Father,
the eternal and unchangeable generation of his Word (ch. XVIII). The Homily emphasizes that the Word
encompasses not merely abstract concepts but living, corporeal realities. This recalls Plato’s
Forms — not abstract universals in the modern sense, but transcendent particulars: perfect,
eternal entities that serve as models for earthly things (cf. Grabowski III, 2008).
In Periphyseon (1987), Eriugena emphasizes that all things exist eternally in the Divine Word, sharing in
God’s Wisdom, yet emerge from nothingness. As he states: “Hence it is concluded that in the Wisdom of
the Father all things are eternal, but are not coeternal with it” (636A). He further maintains that Paradise
exists as a spiritual realm inhabited by “celestial and spiritual bodies as they will be after the
resurrection” (571C).
Christ existed simultaneously in paradise and in the world, since his movement was not a physical relocation from
one place to another (538C). The Son of God’s descent from heaven, therefore, did not diminish his continued
presence there. This aligns with my earlier argument: spiritual bodies, existing in the divine mind, transcend the
constraints of space and time.
Although both Eriugena and Albert present ideas that could lead to a new understanding of the kingdom of God,
neither philosopher fully develops these implications. The Epistle to the Hebrews, however, provides compelling
support for this argument by presenting heavenly realities as dynamic, liturgical events rather than static states.
The letter depicts heaven not as a place but as an ongoing liturgical drama, with Christ as the eternal high priest
“always living to make intercession” (7:25). The heavenly sanctuary functions not as a building but as
an eternal liturgical event, in which earthly worship participates while remaining only its shadow. Christ’s
continuous appearance before God (9:24) suggests that events in divine consciousness are not past occurrences but
eternal activities. Through worship, believers participate in this eternal event — partially
now, fully in the eschaton.
Von Balthasar
Hans Urs von Balthasar’s massive five-volume “Theo-Drama” portrays an ideal picture of history as
divine drama, where humans are actors playing roles in God’s theatrical production. While he maintains
traditional metaphysical language and doesn’t explicitly frame divine consciousness in mythological terms, he
avoids dividing mythological and material realms, instead placing the theo-drama entirely within the earthly
sphere. However, according to classical theological thought, any divine manifestation on earth must necessarily
reflect its heavenly counterpart through the principle of participation.
Although von Balthasar emphasizes the single Christian theo-drama rather than multiple mythological patterns,
it’s evident this moves beyond static metaphysics towards dynamic mythology. When he sees the world as a
stage which God has set up for the enactment of his divine-human drama, he is approaching the notion of creation as
actualization of mythological patterns in divine consciousness.
Thus, von Balthasar argues that existence itself has dramatic rather than merely conceptual structure. God
doesn’t simply have ideas but performs an eternal drama. However, this perspective implies that
God is directly involved in earthly events, actively guiding human actions: “On the human stage he
‘plays’ through human beings and ultimately as a human being” (von Balthasar, 1988,
p. 19). This view aligns with the Reformers’ strict determinism, exemplified by Luther’s
assertion that humans are inevitably controlled either by God or the devil.
The kingdom model, in contrast, grants autonomy to spiritual beings such as angels and demons. Through
participation in divine patterns, the drama of earthly history becomes an imperfect reflection of its heavenly
counterpart.
Theo-drama provides crucial theoretical foundations for mythological participation, although von Balthasar
never extends this to view divine consciousness itself as mythologically structured in the ontological Platonic
sense. Nevertheless, his insights about role-consciousness, dramatic participation, and the theatrical nature of
reality offer essential support. His theo-dramatic theory suggests ways humans can consciously embody typological
roles while maintaining practical rationality.
According to von Balthasar, ontological being is not static but is continually constituted through dramatic action:
agere sequitur esse (action follows being) and esse sequitur agere (being follows action). The divine
idea is not a fixed, eternally predetermined schema but a “moving idea.” However, as a Catholic
thinker, he remains constrained by Aristotelian metaphysics, which asserts that the Ideal is inherently bound to
material existence: the eidos does not exist as such — it exists always only in
particulars. Therefore, each individual form (morphē) contributes the entirety of what constitutes the
ideal form (eidos) (cf. Schindler, 2004, pp. 76-90).
Von Balthasar argues that drama inherently requires tension and conflict, through which synthesis emerges.
Consequently, he embraces Gustaf Aulén’s Christus Victor theory, which portrays Christ’s triumph
over Satan, evil, sin, and death through cosmic struggle. Accordingly, he says that “Aulén calls for new
forms so that the abiding, fundamental conflict between God and the hostile powers can be expressed, not purely
monistically nor purely dualistically, but dramatically” (von Balthasar, 1990, p. 163).
Von Balthasar’s immanentist theology, which echoes Hegelian thought, fundamentally conflicts with an
ontological kingdom model. However, if his Aristotelian framework were replaced with a Platonic one, his theology
could align more closely with biblical testimony.
Coleridge
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1834), English poet and philosopher, reformulated Platonism by
defining an Idea as God’s creative act — one that participates in infinity. Rather than a
static abstraction or an ideal that things merely approximate, an Idea functions as an internal, dynamic force that
is living, productive and contains an endless power of self-propagation (cf. Coleridge, 1884, p. 433).
Through participatory symbolism, Coleridge shows how God becomes present to humanity in everyday experience. The
symbol enables participation in both historical reality and representational meaning, uniting history and myth (cf.
Swiatecka, 1980, ch. 2). Thus, a symbol is “not a metaphor or allegory or any other figure of speech or
form of fancy, but an actual and essential part of that, the whole of which it represents” (Coleridge, 1884,
p. 465).
Mary Jadwiga Swiatecka distinguishes between Coleridge’s symbols and Plato’s cave
analogy — while Plato’s analogy illustrates static Ideals, Coleridge’s symbols
function as visible manifestations of a deeper ontological reality:
According to Plato, it is only those who have ‘painfully’ averted their gaze from the shadow world to look at the Reality itself who will eventually be able to discern the true meaning of the shadows on the cave wall. But in Coleridge’s lines there is no hint that such a turning away is necessary. The suggestion is, rather, that it is by continuing to sit “with our backs to bright Reality,” continuing, therefore, to look at the shadows before us, that, nevertheless, we learn to distinguish “the substance from the shadow.” What, then, can such a “substance” be? What can be better seen by looking at shadows than can be seen by turning away from them, even if (eventually) to return?
I suggest that this is that aspect of “Reality” which is its pattern, its movement, its developing process. We have seen that in this passage the “Reality” is God, who is seen both as the “latence” and “plenitude of all,” and is revealed in “powers” as well as “things.” What is still missing, if we compare this with Coleridge’s concept of God in relation to the universe as previously sketched, is the notion of the universe as a developing pattern, whose movement, as well as that movement’s ultimate resolution, is God. It is this lack which is made good in Coleridge’s (as distinct from Plato’s) image here.
For in fact it is easier for us to discern a pattern of movement, to see things in close interrelation, in a two-dimensional shadow projection, than it is if we look at a multitude of detailed things in a coloured and three-dimensional perspective. In other words, the “shadow” in Coleridge’s image may be predominantly a modification, a simplification, of Reality, in which we discern Reality in this particular way, namely as pattern. It is not “shadow” in the sense of being a pale reflection, a ghostlike anticipation, an ‘adumbration’ of something ‘more real,’ ‘more substantial.’ It is attached to Reality not simply at one (invisible) point, as the shadow of a tree is linked to it only at its base, and part of it in that sense. The Reality, as pattern, transfuses the shadow and is made visible in it. (Swiatecka, 1980, pp. 62-63)
According to Coleridge, the Bible exemplifies this symbolic language’s participatory power: as a symbol,
it functions not merely metaphorically but actually as “the Word of God” through its unity with divine
reality. Like Christ’s activity, the Bible operates creatively — not just recording truth
but actively enabling perception of it. This symbolic quality extends to all language that achieves symbolic
status. Such symbolic language transcends mere representation of human thoughts, instead participating in ongoing
divine-human creative thinking. When language functions symbolically, it enables direct experience of
transcendental reality, moving beyond description of natura naturata (created nature) to participation in
natura naturans (creative force).
Through symbols, the inner light of Christ connects with external divine power. However, this creative illumination
requires both the symbol’s inherent potential and the reader’s active engagement with divine Reason.
Thus symbolic language, like the Bible and Nature itself, becomes transparent to divine wisdom through
participatory understanding rather than mere metaphorical interpretation (cf. Swiatecka, 1980,
pp. 57-58).
Although often mischaracterized as a romantic idealist philosopher, Coleridge belongs to the
Platonic/
Paul of Tarsus
Paul mentions the kingdom of God sparingly, likely due to its political connotations in the Roman Empire (cf. Acts
17:6-7). However, as Guy Williams demonstrates in his thorough study (2011), the spirit world, though often
neglected in modern scholarship, was integral to Paul’s religious and cultural heritage. Spiritual beings are
thus integral to Paul’s writings. Modern theology has largely ignored this dimension, fearing it implies a
rigid dualism between spiritual and material realms. However, as previously argued, belief in God necessarily
entails belief in the divine mind, which in Augustinian theology contains ontologically real forms. These forms
could be reinterpreted as dynamic entities — spiritual beings.
Ancient consciousness perceived spiritual powers directly manipulating physical objects — a
paradigm foreign to modern scientific thought. However, this doesn’t preclude the existence of spiritual
beings in the heavenly realm whose activities are reflected in the earthly domain through participation. This
allows us to maintain a biblical worldview while locating spiritual beings exclusively in the spiritual realm.
Natural laws govern the material sphere, while mythological drama and conflict characterize the spiritual
realm.
The relationship between spiritual and material realms unfolds not through causation but through participation
(mēthexis), where lower realities share in higher ones — what Plato designates as
divine archetypes or Forms. This concept explains how the finite can relate to the infinite, bridging the divide
between the transcendent and the immanent, and offering a framework for understanding the divine-human
relationship.
Crucially, participation implies an incomplete sharing or reflection; the lower does not fully contain the higher,
but mirrors it in part. Christianity transformed the concept of participation into a foundational theological
principle: while remaining distinct from God, creation derives its being through participation in divine life. This
makes possible the promise of 2 Peter 1:4 — that humans may become “partakers of the
divine nature.” This finds tangible expression in sacramental participation, most especially in the
Eucharist. By recognizing the interplay between spiritual and material domains, participation avoids rigid dualism
yet preserves the distinct levels of reality in their proper hierarchical relationship.
The late antique world existed as a realm where spiritual and material realities constantly intersected. Divine
powers, angels, demons, and other spiritual beings were understood to permeate everyday life. The boundaries
between natural and supernatural remained fluid, with spiritual forces believed to inhabit the air, influence human
affairs, and manifest in physical phenomena. On the other hand, Old Testament scribes attributed all phenomena to
Yahweh’s direct action, including evil and destruction, which they understood as either divine punishment or
tests of faith, reflecting their radical monotheistic worldview. As Aulén says:
Whereas in the Old Testament there are cases where the power symbols have been taken to mean that not only goodness but also evil have their origin in the divine will, in the New Testament God’s power is set in radical opposition to every kind of evil — and evil is linked with a power that is at an enmity with God. (Aulén, 1970b, p. 122)
The New Testament era witnessed a proliferation of spiritual beings and forces, leading to two contrasting
outcomes: widespread superstitious practices on one hand, and a more sophisticated Platonic cosmology on the other.
Philo of Alexandria, a Jewish-Platonic philosopher contemporary with Paul, developed an elaborate
angelology. The texts familiar to Paul, such as the Book of Daniel, portrayed world conflicts as battles between
angelic princes (10:13). The Book of 1 Enoch focused on the world’s corruption by fallen angels and
their divine punishment. R. H. Charles (1913) proposed that Paul used the “Testaments of the Twelve
Patriarchs” as a reference text, which features angels, Satan, and the dark deity Beliar.
Paul was deeply embedded in this spiritually charged culture, as evidenced in both his authentic letters and the
deutero-Pauline and Pastoral Epistles: “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the
rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in
the heavenly realms” (Eph. 6:12). First Timothy presents a complex spiritual cosmology populated by God,
Christ, angels, Satan, and demons as active forces.
This led to the articulation of a new soteriology through the lens of cosmic conflict. The early Christian
understanding of salvation centered on Christ’s cosmic victory over demonic powers. In this dramatic
narrative, Christ’s death and resurrection represented not merely an atoning sacrifice, but a decisive
military triumph over Satan and his fallen angels. This “Christus Victor” theme appears throughout
early Christian texts.
Through his death, Christ shattered Satan’s legal authority over humanity, while the resurrection
demonstrated divine supremacy over death and evil forces. The ascension marked Christ’s triumph over the
hostile “powers and principalities,” and his enthronement established sovereignty over all spiritual
beings. Though the final eradication of evil and the ultimate defeat of death awaits the Parousia (1 Cor.
15:24), Christ’s victory has already secured its ultimate outcome.
The “kingdom of God” refers to the spiritual realm under Christ’s eternal sovereignty.
Paul’s writings reveal not merely metaphorical references to spirits, but a comprehensive kingdom theology.
Biblical narratives present Paul as one who performed exorcisms, undertook heavenly journeys, and possessed
extraordinary insight into spiritual realities. For Paul, events in the material world derived their true
significance from spiritual realities.
In Second Corinthians 11:13-14, Paul denounces the “super-apostles” from Jerusalem: “Such people
are false apostles, deceitful workers, masquerading as apostles of Christ. And no wonder, for Satan himself
masquerades as an angel of light.” This reflects Paul’s understanding that Satan, operating in the
spiritual realm, was the true force behind these false apostles’ attempts to undermine his ministry.
Dummling
The kingdom of God exists in the realm of myth and fairy tale. The fairy tale dimension holds particular
significance, as Marie-Louise von Franz observes:
Fairy tales are the purest and simplest expression of collective unconscious psychic processes. Therefore their value for the scientific investigation of the unconscious exceeds that of all other material. They represent the archetypes in their simplest, barest, and most concise form. In this pure form, the archetypal images afford us the best clues to the understanding of the processes going on in the collective psyche. In myths or legends, or any other more elaborate mythological material, we get at the basic patterns of the human psyche through an overlay of cultural material. But in fairy tales there is much less specific conscious cultural material, and therefore they mirror the basic patterns of the psyche more clearly. (Von Franz, 1996, p. 15)
While von Franz conceptualizes these patterns through the lens of a “collective unconscious”
populated by autonomous archetypes — a framework that cognitive science has since challenged
(cf. Winther, 2022) — the kingdom model locates these archetypal forces in the spiritual realm
itself, the kingdom of God. Interestingly, Eriugena extensively uses archetypus in his translations of
Pseudo-Dionysius and in his own theological works, particularly Periphyseon, where he discusses
“archetypal ideas” (ideæ archetypæ) in God’s mind.
Dummling is a particularly important archetype. He is typically the third and youngest son, dismissed by his family
and society as simple-minded, foolish, or incapable. His name literally means “little fool” or
“simpleton” in German. While appearing foolish to others, Dummling possesses a different kind of
intelligence — often intuitive, spiritual, or emotional rather than conventional cleverness. He
succeeds precisely because he doesn’t overthink situations.
Unlike his supposedly smarter brothers, Dummling consistently shows kindness to strangers, animals, and those in
need. This generosity becomes the key to his eventual success. Rather than using cunning or force like his
brothers, Dummling approaches challenges with simplicity, honesty, and often accidental wisdom that reveals deeper
truths.
Dummling represents the archetype of the “wise fool” who reveals the folly of conventional wisdom. His
apparent simplicity masks profound insight. In many tales, Dummling’s journey represents a spiritual path
where humility, compassion, and faith lead to enlightenment or reward. In “The Golden Goose,” Dummling
shares his meager meal with a strange old man and receives magical help. In “The Three Feathers,” his
apparent randomness in following a feather leads him to the right path while his calculating brothers fail.
Dummling typically transforms from social outcast to hero, often winning a princess or kingdom, but the victory
comes through moral rather than intellectual superiority. The Dummling represents the triumph of heart over head,
suggesting that authenticity and compassion are more valuable than cunning or book learning. Von Franz says
that the Dummling story “compensates the conscious attitude of a society in which patriarchal schemes and
oughts and shoulds dominate. It is ruled by rigid principles because of which the irrational, spontaneous
adaptation to events is lost” (von Franz, 1996, p. 64).
Hubertus Halbfas (referencing Günter Lange, 1982) highlights two parallels between fairy tales and Christian
faith:
First, the fairy tale hero who, while dependent on help, is blessed with gifts and acts through the power of their charisma. Second, redemption as a central theme in both fairy tales and Christian faith. However, just as Lange introduces this concept, he withdraws it, noting that ‘redemption’ has become an empty phrase in modern discourse. Yet it might be valuable to revisit the theological concept through the lens of how redemption is understood in certain fairy tales. Further connections between fairy tales and Christianity appear in the theme of the lowly being elevated. The Dummling figure can also be seen as parallel to Gospel narratives. And as Chesterton observes, Cinderella’s truth mirrors that of the Magnificat: exaltavit humiles (He has exalted the humble).
[…]
Dummling, when recognized through his many manifestations, emerges as an especially complex character who shares characteristics with the holy fool found in the Gospel and, subsequently, in the tradition of Fools for Christ. Through the figure of Dummling, fairy tales teach “purity of heart”; his seeming unworldliness ultimately reveals itself as a higher wisdom — one that is “hidden from the wise and learned, and revealed to little children” (Luke 10:21). (Halbfas, 2012, ch. II:2)
Thus, Jesus’s otherworldly teachings merit examination through the lens of Dummling foolishness. Some
scholars see a development in Jesus’s understanding of his mission, marked by the shift from an initially
triumphant messianic ministry in Galilee to the recognition that he must suffer in Jerusalem. According to this
interpretation, Jesus had expected that the disciples’ successful exorcisms and healings would herald the
imminent arrival of the kingdom (Mark 6:30; Luke 9:10, 10:17-24). When the kingdom failed to materialize as
anticipated, Jesus reconsidered his approach and realized he must pursue a radical alternative strategy. This
realization prompted his decisive departure from Caesarea Philippi towards Jerusalem. Through his death and
resurrection, he would accomplish the definitive defeat of Satan, since death — the ultimate
consequence of sin under Satan’s dominion — would thereby be conquered (Matthew 16:21;
Mark 8:31; Luke 9:22).
The notion of death as both conquerable and a result of sin represents a transcendent, kingdom-based truth rather
than an earthly reality. Biologically, death is essential for life on Earth to exist. Pagan religions, by contrast,
forge a stronger connection between earthly and divine realms. Their concept of the Mother of Life and Death
embodies this natural cycle, making paganism more aligned with biological reality.
Christianity departed from earth-centered religions by embracing transcendent truths that defied natural reality.
The philosophers at the Areopagus (Acts 17:16-34) found several Christian doctrines inconceivable: a perfect,
deathless original state that fell into corruption, God taking human form, physical resurrection of the body, death
as unnatural rather than part of nature’s cycle, and creation ex nihilo. Their derision of
Paul’s teaching would later prompt him to write:
The natural person does not accept the things of the Spirit of God, for they are folly to him. (1 Cor. 2:14)
For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. (1:18)
Let no one deceive himself. If any of you thinks he is wise in this age, he should become a fool, so that he may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness in God’s sight. As it is written: “He catches the wise in their craftiness.” And again, “The Lord knows that the thoughts of the wise are futile.” (3:18-20)
For since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not know him, God was pleased through the foolishness of what was preached to save those who believe. (1:21)
But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. (1:27)
And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel that displays the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. (2 Cor. 4:3-4)
Jesus’s understanding that his death, resurrection, and ascension to the heavenly throne would defeat
Satan reflects divine truth. These events belong to the eternal reality of God’s kingdom, transcending
earthly logic. Their meaning becomes accessible only through the framework of myth and fairy tale, where Dummling
wisdom prevails. Like Dummling’s skeptical brothers in fairy tales, the disciples dismissed Jesus’s
plan as foolishness, unable to take his words seriously. Yet, just as Dummling triumphs in folk stories, Jesus
emerged victorious, transforming world history. What explains this paradoxical success?
While theological understanding illuminates the heavenly events, historical details remain less certain. Following
the principle of participation, earthly events partially reflected the mythic realities of God’s kingdom. On
the road to Emmaus (Luke 24:13-35), two disciples walked with a stranger who bore no resemblance to Jesus in
appearance, gait, or speech. Yet in the familiar gesture of breaking bread, their eyes were opened, and they
recognized him as the risen Christ. Like Dummling in fairy tales, Jesus had taught them to see beyond appearances
and embrace a deeper faith.
The power of the spiritual realm acts like a magnet beneath a sheet of paper, where iron filings above align
themselves with invisible magnetic forces, creating a pattern that imperfectly mirrors transcendent reality.
Gustaf Aulén
Gustaf Aulén (Swedish bishop, 1879 – 1977) revived the Christus Victor
view — which had dominated early Christianity for over a millennium — in his
landmark work “Christus Victor” (1931). The idea of a transaction with the devil has faced strong
criticism among modern theologians; yet it was firmly established in the early Church, and consistently appears in
the Fathers, such as Irenaeus, Origen, Ambrose, Augustine, and Gregory the Great.
This perspective sees Christ’s death and resurrection primarily as a cosmic victory over evil
powers — death, sin, and the devil — rather than as a legal transaction or
moral example. In this understanding, humanity was held captive by hostile spiritual forces until Christ’s
triumph liberated it (Aulén, 1970a). Thus, it represents not a rational theory but a mythological drama
encompassing both atonement and salvation. While Aulén himself considered it all-sufficient, it requires
complementary rational frameworks. This explains why both Paul and Luther, though emphasizing Christus Victor, also
employed substitutionary atonement.
Aulén emphasizes that “symbol language is the mother tongue of faith” (1970b, p. 89). Whatever we
say about God must be said in the form of symbols. He concludes that “There are dimensions, there are
spiritual realities which cannot be referred to and explained except through symbols” (p. 117). This
intimate connection between faith and symbolic expression explains faith’s central role in Christian
religion. Addressing the dramatic context of the Bible, Aulén writes:
To regard what the Bible says about heaven – God “who is in heaven,” Christ “sitting at the right hand of God” — as just nothing but meaningless mythology, reveals the same high degree of incomprehension of the mother tongue of faith, symbol language, as trying to take these expressions in a literal and localized sense. (p. 151)
While Aulén interprets religious symbols existentially — seeing resurrection, for example, as
transition to authentic life — this approach proves unconvincing (p. 175). A Platonic
realist interpretation better accounts for the phenomena: Christ’s continued existence in God’s kingdom
serves as the basis for his existential impact on believers.
Aulén sharply criticizes theologians who reject the notion of God as a distinct being. These theologians instead
claim God is not merely the highest being but rather “Being itself” and “the ground of
Being.” This formulation appears obscure and contradictory, using the word “being” in two
incompatible senses. Moreover, this concept of God as “Being itself” — regardless of
how one interprets the phrase — finds little support in the Christian message
(pp. 93-94).
The kingdom model resolves this theological dilemma by showing how God can both exist as a being in the heavenly
realm and transcend heaven and earth as Being itself. Yet the crucial focus remains on God’s dramatic
involvement within heaven, not on abstract concepts of divine transcendence.
Aulén discusses the conundrum that the classic view of atonement exhibits a crucial double aspect, an inherent
tension which makes a fully rational theory of atonement difficult (1970a, pp. 55ff). On one level, it
presents a dualistic conflict between God and evil powers. However, these hostile powers paradoxically serve as
agents of God’s judgment on sin. They are both enemies and instruments of punishing divine justice.
This double aspect appears in several ways. God both authors and receives reconciliation. Christ’s suffering
fulfills both divine punishment and liberation. The Law itself exemplifies this duality in Paul’s thought: it
is both “holy and righteous” yet also a “hostile power” from which Christ redeems us:
“The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law” (1 Cor. 15:56).
This double aspect becomes clearer through kingdom theology, as the divine drama functions as the necessary means
for accomplishing redemption. The Law operates as a demonic and oppressive power within the kingdom, destined for
defeat by Christ in the drama orchestrated by the transcendent Godhead for humanity’s salvation. Thus, the
tyrants embody God’s judgment on sin, yet are overcome through Christ’s sacrifice. Though this cosmic
drama appears dualistic, ultimate authority resides with God as its sovereign author.
By viewing God’s engagement with the world as a mythological and transformative narrative, this approach
addresses the problem of evil not by eliminating its existence, but by redefining its role within the cosmic story.
Evil becomes part of a larger process of conflict, suffering, and ultimately, transformation — a
process in which God, as a suffering and conflicted presence, shares in the efforts to overcome darkness and foster
renewal.
While modern rationalistic theology has severely damaged Christianity, Aulén’s work uniquely preserves the
kingdom perspective central to Jesus and Paul.
Eliade
Mircea Eliade (Romanian historian of religion, 1907 – 1986) observes that traditional societies
derive all significant acts from mythical prototypes — whether building, hunting, healing, or
suffering. Archaic man “acknowledges no act which has not been previously posited and lived by someone else,
some other being who was not a man. What he does has been done before. His life is the ceaseless repetition of
gestures initiated by others” (Eliade, 1959a, p. 5).
This suggests humans naturally orient themselves through narrative patterns rather than abstract principles.
Eliade’s insight that traditional societies experience myths as more real than everyday
existence — because myths reveal eternal patterns while daily life merely repeats and
decays — parallels the Platonic framework of kingdom theology, where divine patterns in
God’s mind possess greater reality than their material manifestations. Indeed, Eliade explicitly recognizes
the fundamentally Platonic structure of the primitive or archaic worldview (p. 34).
Significantly, Eliade resists any psychologization of the divine and aligns his use of ‘archetype’ with
Augustine’s understanding – as ‘exemplary model’ or ‘paradigm’
(p. ix). Eliade’s vast documentation of humanity’s mythological consciousness across cultures and
millennia suggests that the kingdom model recovers something essential that modern theology has forgotten: the
sacred is known through mythological participation, not rational analysis.
Eliade’s concept of sacred time — the time of primordial plenitude (in illo
tempore, illud tempus; “those days”) — parallels the distinction between
linear temporal reality and the kingdom’s circular, mythological time. This parallel extends to his
observation that religious rituals enable participants to transcend profane time and enter eternal primordial time
(pp. 20-22, 112, 121).
The notion that myths are neither static blueprints nor mere past events, but eternally recurring patterns that
remain dynamically present, supports reconceptualizing Platonic Forms as living narratives rather than frozen
concepts. The cosmic cycles Eliade documents across cultures — creation, destruction,
renewal — emerge not as primitive misunderstandings but as authentic glimpses into the circular
time of God’s kingdom.
The kingdom model finds crucial support in Eliade’s distinction between cosmic Christianity, which emphasizes
nature’s sanctification and mythological consciousness, and historical Christianity, which prioritizes linear
time and historical events. His analysis of how western Christianity abandoned cosmic for historical consciousness
illuminates modern theology’s difficulty in grasping the kingdom as mythological reality.
Early Christianity, as Eliade demonstrates, originally maintained both historical and mythological dimensions in
creative tension. In documenting the “cosmic Christ” of Eastern Orthodoxy and folk Christianity, Eliade
reveals the very paradigm we seek to recover — Christ as eternal mythological pattern actively
present in divine consciousness, transcending mere historical manifestation. Eliade writes:
In a summary formula we might say that for the nonreligious men of the modern age, the cosmos has become opaque, inert, mute; it transmits no message, it holds no cipher. The feeling of the sanctity of nature survives today in Europe chiefly among rural populations, for it is among them that a Christianity lived as a cosmic liturgy still exists.
As for the Christianity of the industrial societies and especially the Christianity of intellectuals, it has long since lost the cosmic values that it still possessed in the Middle Ages. We must add that this does not necessarily imply that urban Christianity is deteriorated or inferior, but only that the religious sense of urban populations is gravely impoverished. The cosmic liturgy, the mystery of nature’s participation in the Christological drama, have become inaccessible to Christians living in a modern city. Their religious experience is no longer open to the cosmos. In the last analysis, it is a strictly private experience; salvation is a problem that concerns man and his god; at most, man recognizes that he is responsible not only to God but also to history. But in these man-God-history relationships there is no place for the cosmos. From this it would appear that, even for a genuine Christian, the world is no longer felt as the work of God. (Eliade, 1959b, pp. 178-79)
Eliade’s analysis illuminates Jesus’s own mission: through his kingdom concept, Jesus sought to
restore the cosmic dimension of traditional religion, countering the spiritual aridity of his era’s religious
institutions — a pattern that parallels our modern challenge.
Divine Guidance
What purpose underlies God’s creation of a celestial realm — where angelic forces engage
in perpetual conflict? The spiritual world serves as a dynamic pattern shaping physical reality, like a
choreographer’s vision guiding dancers. This divine template operates actively, establishing principles that
material existence follows, though imperfectly.
Worldly events manifest as expressions of spiritual forces, as waves reveal underlying currents. Nothing in
physical reality remains static; all matter follows patterns reflecting spiritual movements. Reality thus unfolds
hierarchically, with worldly events expressing spiritual principles. The material realm doesn’t merely
replicate the spiritual — it participates in and manifests these patterns, though always with
natural limitations.
This dynamic nature becomes evident in moral decisions. It would be misguided to view God’s divine Law as a
set of rigid, unchanging rules for conduct. Right and wrong often depend on context, which explains why both Jesus
and Paul emphasized the Law’s secondary importance. While the Law remains valid, it allows for exceptions
based on circumstances. Divine guidance emerges not as doctrinal dictation but as an invitation into God’s
narrative imagination. Narrative transcends legalism — Heaven offers guidance through drama
rather than rules.
Jesus exemplifies this through Sabbath healing (Mark 3:1-6), affirming that “the Sabbath was made for man,
not man for the Sabbath.” Paul develops this theme, proclaiming that, through Christ, we have freedom from
slavery under the Law (Gal. 5:1-6). Thus, he reveals love as the Law’s fulfillment (Romans 13:8-10) and his
wisdom continues to shine: “The letter kills, but the Spirit gives life” (2 Cor. 3:6).
If God exists in complete self-sufficiency, divine guidance reduces to mere unilateral decrees from an unaffected
source. Yet this view falters when confronted with the mythological kingdom. We cannot reason purely in terms of
divine self-sufficiency, as this isolates God from the very conflicts that define his narrative themes. Rather, we
must envision God as a suffering deity, intimately engaged in the kingdom’s strife. Within the kingdom
narrative, God’s power operates not as absolute omnipotence.
God’s essential nature — wholly good, self-sufficient, independent, and
self-existent — would have remained separate from our dynamic world. Therefore, God created
through the Son a dynamic spiritual realm that bridges this gap, enabling material creation to participate in
divine life. The universe’s dynamic character requires opposing forces in tension with each other, accounting
for the presence of malevolent spiritual powers. As a spiritual principle, chaos serves divine purpose rather than
equating to divine power.
However, the moral status of any particular angel isn’t fixed absolutely, but depends on context. Even the
devil can serve good purposes, as traditional fairy tales demonstrate. Though fundamentally malevolent, the devil
occasionally helps humans, either through binding contracts or by unwittingly advancing good outcomes. His strict
adherence to rules and agreements often allows clever heroes to outwit him.
The crucial insight is that good and evil lack absolute definitions in our world. Actions that seem beneficial can
yield harmful results, and apparent evils sometimes produce good. Moreover, success doesn’t always come
through rationality, cunning, or principled thinking alone. Instead, we must remain open to divine
inspiration — the kind of spiritual wisdom that Dummling embodies through his simple but
powerful faith.
Coleridge defines sin as allowing our practical intellect (Understanding) to operate without the guidance of our
higher wisdom (Reason), which is ultimately divine (cf. Swiatecka, 1980, p. 49). Had pure reason been
sufficient to guide humanity, the world’s intellectuals would have established Utopia centuries ago. The
Enlightenment’s brightest minds couldn’t reason their way to perfect solutions. Rational utopian
experiments have ended in disaster.
Divine guidance emerges not as a detached, aseitic process but as one anchored in God’s creative deployment
of mythological themes within a dynamic, conflicted kingdom, akin to the ancient Egyptian Duat. Within divine
consciousness, God generates and orchestrates mythological themes that constitute the very fabric of the kingdom.
This kingdom is not a static paradise but a dynamic realm of conflict and trial, strikingly similar to the
Duat — the spirit world where souls navigated perils, gods clashed, and cosmic order was forged
through struggle.
Divine guidance is not imposed from on high but woven from the mythological narratives God creates to engage with
creation. Invented themes are not mere metaphors but equal to the kingdom itself, demanding that we reimagine God
not as an impassive sovereign but as a participant in the very battles that shape reality. This accords with the
biblical witness.
Mythology and fairy tale, far from being a human fabrication, originates in the divine intellect. God, as the
ultimate storyteller, conjures archetypes, narratives, and symbols — heroes’ journeys,
cosmic battles, redemptive sacrifices — that serve as the building blocks of guidance. These are
not arbitrary; they are invented in God’s mind, emerging from divine creativity to bridge the gap between the
infinite and the finite.
Biblical themes, such as Expulsion from Paradise, Flood, Exodus, Wilderness wandering, Conquest of Canaan, Passion
of Christ, are not historical accidents but mythological themes God employs to guide humanity. These events mirror
universal patterns — death and rebirth, exile and return — that God invents
to communicate purpose. In this view, divine guidance is mythological at its core: God reveals Himself through
stories that invite participation, not passive reception. Crucially, there is no opposition between history and
symbol, as Coleridge argues: “Why not at once symbol and history?” (Coleridge, 1884, p. 270). As
Swiatecka explains:
There are at least some instances where the terms ‘history’ and ‘symbol’ are not opposed in this way. Thus D. G. James, interpreting Coleridge, says: “Not only is the symbol not a ‘mere symbol’; it is also event. If the symbol is ‘consubstantial with the truth of which it is the conductor,’ it is also embedded in, or rather is a part of, history.” (Swiatecka, 1980, p. 21)
History can embody divine meaning, which explains how the kingdom of God intersects with actual historical
events. However, the conflict takes place within the kingdom of God, which is the mythological realm of
God’s mind. Here, God contends with chaos — symbolized by sin, doubt, or cosmic
disorder — not as an external foe but as an internal dynamic.
In this way God reveals himself through stories of struggle and suffering, like those of the prodigal son and Job.
These narratives show that God is not detached from creation but deeply connected to it, experiencing conflict
alongside us. His guidance comes not from remote authority but from shared experience, making theology more
meaningful than mere abstract doctrine. It humanizes the divine without diminishing it, urging us to participate in
the kingdom’s myths, where even destruction is a divine pattern. The anthropocentric biblical stories regain
their authority. Taking mythology seriously isn’t a primitive anthropomorphism but rather recognition of the
fundamentally narrative structure of divine reality itself.
In this sense, divine guidance is less about providing clear answers and more about equipping humanity to engage in
the cosmic drama alongside God. In traditional theology, God’s aseity is often emphasized, depicting God as a
self-sufficient, all-powerful being who exists independently of human experience. However, this perspective
overlooks the complexities of divine guidance, where God’s involvement in human affairs implies a more
nuanced and dynamic relationship.
Theological Considerations
1.
The kingdom model allows us to reinterpret seemingly implausible biblical events as occurrences in the heavenly
realm. For instance, the apocalyptic visions in Revelation and the Flood narrative may represent celestial rather
than terrestrial events. Though earthly catastrophes may reflect heavenly dramas, literal interpretations of these
accounts generate both scientific skepticism and profound theological questions regarding divine nature, as such
interpretations conflict with the concept of divine mercy.
These cataclysmic events unfold within divine consciousness as actual occurrences with metaphorical dimensions,
resolving cosmic drama and enabling new creation. By locating divine violence exclusively within mythological
reality rather than material history, we may resolve one of theology’s most agonizing problems while
preserving the biblical witness to God as divine warrior.
In the material world, violence emerges from sin, disorder, and creaturely rebellion, but never from God’s
direct will or nature. God operates within creation through providence, natural law, and human agency, whereas
violence manifests as a disruption of the created order — shaped by evolutionary processes, not
divine action. When humans commit violence, even claiming divine sanction, they act from their fallen nature rather
than as instruments of divine will. This does not preclude that violence may be necessary in a fallen world.
In the kingdom’s mythological reality, divine action against chaos operates by entirely different principles.
This force differs fundamentally from violence as we experience it, representing instead the eternal divine
ordering of chaos, defeat of evil, and establishment of cosmos. It functions as a structural element of reality
itself, analogous to light dispelling darkness or form organizing matter. Such mythological power generates rather
than destroys, creating space for life rather than dealing death.
This explains why biblical descriptions of divine violence often feel mythological rather than historical even when
attached to historical events. The conquest of Canaan, the Flood, the Egyptian plagues — as
historical events, these involve human violence and natural disaster within fallen creation. But as mythological
patterns, they narrate God’s eternal victory over chaos, the establishment of sacred order, the liberation
from oppressive powers. Yahweh’s battle against Leviathan, Marduk’s defeat of Tiamat, Christ’s
harrowing of hell — these mythological victories reveal God’s eternal nature as
chaos-defeater.
Mythologically, the cross manifests as God’s definitive conquest of chaos — death
vanquished, Satan subdued, cosmic powers disarmed. The resurrection reveals divine violence as life-generating
rather than destructive. Thus, historical events serve as revelatory vehicles for eternal patterns without implying
direct divine causation of temporal violence.
The principle of divine participation suggests these accounts contain historical truth, as conflict inheres in
nature itself. Christ’s life, however, achieved the perfect synthesis of divine myth and human
history — where eternal and temporal realms fully converge.
Theodicy need not justify divine participation in historic atrocities or natural disasters. There is no need to
defend divine involvement in historical violence or natural evil. Earthquakes, diseases, and human atrocities
emerge from creation’s material conditions and creaturely freedom rather than divine will. While God permits
these events within creation’s autonomy, divine agency does not cause them. Simultaneously, at the eternal
level, God wages perpetual war against the chaos these evils represent — establishing order
against disorder, life against death, and meaning against absurdity.
The distinction helps address religious violence. When believers commit violence claiming divine mandate, they
catastrophically confuse mythological and material realities. They attempt to enact through historical violence
what God accomplishes through mythological victory. This category confusion underlies religious terrorism,
crusades, and holy wars. True participation in divine victory occurs through prayer, virtue, and
self-sacrifice — not through wielding weapons.
2.
The kingdom’s circular narrative time enables divine renewal through cosmic purgation. The distinction
between sacred and linear time is essential for understanding the cosmos. The material realm’s linear
temporality facilitates authentic history, moral development, and the irreversible progression essential for
meaningful redemption. In this temporal realm, past sins necessitate future salvation, causation flows
unidirectionally, and both progress and regress remain possible. In contrast, circular time in the kingdom
manifests eternal recurrence of mythological patterns — the Lamb slain from the foundation of
the world, the perpetual victory over chaos, the ever-present ‘once upon a time’ of divine drama.
This temporal duality explains the dual function of biblical narrative as both historical record and mythological
pattern. The Exodus occurred once in linear time yet exists eternally in divine consciousness. Christ’s
resurrection, singular in historical time, represents perpetual victory over death in mythological reality.
Similarly, the Church progresses through linear history while simultaneously reigning with Christ in circular
eternity.
The mythic world reveals suffering as inherently woven into cycles of death, transformation, and renewal, rather
than as isolated, purposeless experience. The Phoenix myth and Inanna’s descent exemplify how decay and
adversity catalyze the emergence of new life and insight. This cyclical understanding continues to shape modern
thought, suggesting periods of hardship serve as crucibles for personal and societal regeneration rather than
markers of ultimate failure or divine punishment.
Mythological narratives frame suffering through archetypal patterns and cyclical transformation, placing individual
hardships within a cosmic narrative. This reframing imbues painful struggles with transcendent purpose,
transforming existential angst into catalysts for renewal. Thus the temporal and divine realms interweave,
dissolving their apparent separation.
3.
The temporal distinction reveals a deeper metaphysical truth: the temporal world exhibits monistic unity, while
the divine realm manifests essential duality. Mythologies often present dualities — light and
dark, life and death, order and chaos — as interconnected forces.
The interplay of unity and duality forms a fundamental cosmic principle. Material reality’s monistic nature
manifests in the created order emanating from divine will — where evil exists as privation,
chaos as derivative, and all existence participates in divine goodness. Yet the kingdom’s dualism reveals
that opposition manifests as both authentic and essential within divine consciousness. This represents not a
Manichaean dualism of equal forces, but rather a “dramatic dualism” in which divine nature reveals
itself through necessary opposition.
This paradigm resolves apparent paradoxes in sacred texts: Isaiah’s declaration of God creating evil (Isaiah
45:7), Job’s Satan among the divine council (Job 1:6), and Revelation’s celestial warfare. These
manifestations express the kingdom’s dualistic mythological patterns rather than creation’s unified
order. The divine consciousness thus encompasses the complete dramatic spectrum necessary for its
self-revelation.
Divine impassibility and passibility no longer conflict — God is impassible regarding created
reality but passible within mythological drama. Sovereignty and openness both hold — absolute in
relation to creation, dynamic in relation to chaos. Transcendence and immanence coincide — God
transcends material reality while the kingdom’s mythological patterns influence all existence.
God’s relationship to violence fundamentally differs across these realms. In material creation, God opposes
all violence as disorder and sin. In mythological reality, God eternally ‘violates’ chaos to establish
cosmos. This distinction preserves both divine goodness and biblical realism about divine warfare. The God who
commands “thou shalt not kill” in history is the same God who slays the dragon in
eternity — different realms, different rules, same divine nature expressed appropriately to
each.
This framework achieves what centuries of theodicy could not: affirming God as warrior while denying divine
complicity in historical violence, preserving biblical narrative while maintaining divine morality, enabling
spiritual warfare while promoting material peacemaking. The price is accepting a fundamental dualism between
material and mythological reality — but this price purchases theological coherence previously
unattainable.
4.
The kingdom paradigm reveals how mythic consciousness, properly understood, serves as the cure for superstition
rather than its cause — a profound reversal of Enlightenment assumptions. By distinguishing
between temporal and divine realities, mythological thinking enhances rather than diminishes practical
rationality.
Superstition fundamentally involves category confusion — applying mythological causation to
material events or expecting material causation to operate in mythological realms. One who attributes illness to
divine punishment conflates judicial mythological frameworks with natural causation, failing to differentiate
between these distinct realities.
Mythic consciousness, far from encouraging superstition, offers its only cure. Superstition thrives in the twilight
zone between realms, generating category errors that produce both bad religion and bad science. Clear mythological
thinking banishes this twilight, illuminating each realm with its proper light. In daily life, we can be utterly
practical about worldly matters precisely because we remain utterly convinced of mythological truths.
Contemporary reduction of God’s kingdom to mere social phenomena epitomizes this superstitious conflation of
ontological levels. The world progresses not towards a temporal kingdom of God but towards the perpetual unfolding
of creation. The goal is not earthly Utopia but sustained creation. Fulfillment belongs to God’s kingdom
alone, not to the temporal domain.
Superstition either attributes all suffering to divine punishment or expects faith to eliminate suffering entirely.
Mythic consciousness, however, recognizes suffering as inherent to material reality while simultaneously
participating in divine victory over suffering. We use medicine for disease while praying for
healing — not because prayer magically enhances medicine, but because healing manifests through
distinct patterns at different levels of reality.
Without mythological consciousness, religion degenerates into mere morality or philosophy, forfeiting its
transformative power. The divine kingdom, stripped of its mythological imagery, diminishes to an ethical ideal
rather than remaining a living reality into which one might enter. While Satan and the angels warrant
demythologization as metaphysical entities in temporal reality, they retain their mythological authenticity within
the divine kingdom, where the tripartite cosmic structure endures.
5.
The sacred-material dialectic illuminates sacramental theology by bridging divine and physical realms without
conflating them. The Eucharist manifests bread’s participation in divine self-giving patterns, transcending
mere molecular transformation, while Baptism initiates one into death-resurrection mythology rather than
mechanically cleansing. This preserves both sacramental power and ontological distinction, avoiding both
materialist superstition and rationalist reduction.
In Christological terms, the Incarnation manifests as the divine narrative’s protagonist entering temporal
reality. Christ thus embodies both the eternal drama and its historical actuality — fully divine
myth and fully human history — without compromising either.
The kingdom paradigm, introduced by Jesus, has been impoverished by modern theology. In its original form, it
revitalizes faith, transforming it from propositional assent into dynamic consciousness. Faith evolves from passive
acceptance into imaginative engagement, awakening to myths as vessels of truth. It becomes humanity’s living
response to divine mythological creation, enabling authentic participation in the kingdom’s drama.
Divine knowledge emerges through narrative immersion rather than abstraction. Faith requires engaging these
narratives as participatory realities — experiencing the kingdom’s struggles between
justice and oppression as immediate, present actualities. Faith thus manifests as a perceptual mode, viewing
reality through mythological rather than merely empirical or rational lenses. Unlike modern consciousness, which
privileges literal fact and logical proposition, mythological consciousness finds true meaning only in divine
narrative patterns.
Faith development entails cultivating the capacity to perceive and participate in reality’s mythological
dimensions. This explains why rational apologetics often fails to spark genuine conversion — if
faith is mythological consciousness, it transcends mere logical acceptance. Authentic conversion requires
consciousness transformation: learning to see through mythological eyes. Such transformation occurs through sacred
story encounters, ritual participation, or mystical experience — all engaging mythological
imagination beyond rational intellect. Doubt, on the other hand, manifests not primarily as questioning historical
facts or logical coherence, but as the dimming of mythological consciousness — the waning
ability to perceive reality’s mythological dimensions.
6.
Satan and chaos operate distinctly across different ontological levels. In material existence, Satan manifests
as corruption — a privation of good demanding juridical remedy. In the kingdom’s
mythological reality, however, chaos emerges as something more primordial: the necessary ‘other’
against which divine order defines itself, darkness rendering light visible, resistance enabling divine victory.
This dualism maintains asymmetry — chaos serves divine purpose rather than presenting genuine
rivalry to divine power. God remains the sovereign author.
Kingdom theology reveals multiple theological dimensions operating simultaneously. Linear history demands concepts
of divine aseity, sovereignty, and substitutional atonement in addressing sin, suffering, and salvation. Myth,
ritual, and vision reveal to us the cosmic battle, divine vulnerability, and eternal triumph. Arguably, this
perspective reshapes our understanding of eschatology. The end of linear time suggests not static eternity but full
participation in cyclical time’s eternal drama. The new creation represents not chaos’s absence but its
perpetual defeat — the dragon bound yet preserved, enabling endless divine triumph.
7.
In the spirit world, Christ’s victory over the devil reveals how worldly sinfulness stems from
participation in diabolic evil. The concept of divine participation finds its perfect analogy in magnetic
induction:
Consider two magnets under paper, one representing Christ and the other the devil. Iron filings, influenced by the
magnetic field, acquire their own polarity and become induced magnets. These magnetized particles align into chains
and clusters, revealing the invisible field’s pattern.
Similarly, humans become participants in either divine or diabolic nature: those united with Christ reflect His
character, while those aligned with the devil mirror diabolic qualities. As Irenaeus notes: “And those who do
not believe, and do not obey His will, are sons and angels of the devil, because they do the works of the
devil” (“Against Heresies”, IV, 41:2).
When the Christ-magnet appears, it draws filings away from the devil-magnet’s influence, realigning them to
truth’s pattern. Augustine wisely termed this realignment the “City of God” rather than the
“kingdom of God,” thus avoiding secular misinterpretation.
8.
The Holy Spirit is not an abstract third person or mere divine energy, but rather the dynamic divine presence that makes the kingdom’s mythological reality accessible to creation. Beyond simply applying Christ’s benefits or conveying divine grace generally, the Spirit specifically enables consciousness to perceive and enter mythological reality.I have wandered deep into a concrete shaft and reached a level that feels like the underworld. The way down is a cave passage, but down here everything is raw, gray concrete and eerily empty. The walls rise high. From the corner of this concrete platform, a broad metal staircase descends into compact darkness. The atmosphere is ominous. High above, I can still see a square glimmer of light from the entrance, like a pale memory of the world above. Unlike many who went before me, I know there exists a path back, while they faced no alternative but to descend further into the consuming darkness. A supernatural darkness wells up from the stairs below, deeper than any I’ve ever experienced. The darkness has unfolded like black petals that reach into the room. A fateful feeling grips me.
The dream evokes Plato’s cave allegory, yet departs from it through its emphasis on descent. I felt peace
knowing the upward “narrow path” that was unknown to most. The thought of generations descending into
darkness, unaware of the saving path, haunted me. What gave them courage to descend? Analyzing the dream, I
realized the descent appeared as the obvious route, marked by industrial stairs. The fact that they went together
gave them courage.
Swiatecka’s work illuminated why I felt comfortable in this threshold space: echoing Plato’s cave, the
concrete wall served as a screen for divine drama. Most striking was the darkness that entered from
below — not mere absence but a tangible, predatory force. Though I accept Augustine’s view
of evil as privation, this dream revealed a realm where darkness possesses autonomous substance, challenging my
monistic assumptions.
The mythological perspective, with its embrace of archetypal patterns, transcends both Augustine’s view of
evil as privation and the argument that evil exists for free will. Instead, it grants evil positive reality within
the divine dramatic imagination — aligning with Jung’s concept that the psyche generates
both light and shadow as essential structure.
Evil serves as necessary antagonist in the cosmic drama. The kingdom of God requires authentic dramatic tension,
with evil providing structural necessity rather than mere error. Although cosmic evil serves only dramatic purpose,
it remains genuinely evil, as its participatory manifestations in the world create concrete harm.
© Mats Winther, 2025
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