Abstract: This article examines Albertus Magnus’s
insight that the kingdom of God exists primarily within
God’s mind, manifesting as both heavenly reality and
spiritual presence in human souls. Drawing on Neoplatonic
traditions, it challenges static conceptions of Platonic 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 mythic 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 mythic rather than material,
clarifies temporal-eternal relationships, and recovers
faith’s participatory nature as mythic 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 mythic
patterns in God’s mind. By distinguishing material
causation from symbolic participation (mēthexis),
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 æternæ) 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 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? The mind operates dynamically through activities like
thinking, knowing, and understanding, rather than existing in
static 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 God’s eternity as “all at once”
(totum simul). This gets interpreted as static
simultaneity rather than as 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 manifests eternal dynamism through its processions and
interweaving (perichoresis), while transcending 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, such
as conflict with injustice, vindication, and restoration. The
form would be more like an eternal story than a frozen
definition. By viewing the forms as mythic patterns rather than
static concepts, we may recover what God’s mind must
actually be like. God apprehends not static blueprints but
eternal narratives, such as creation, fall, redemption and
glorification, all perpetually unfolding within divine mind.
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 God’s mind actually works. God’s self-knowledge
includes all the mythic movements (divine warrior defeating
chaos, shepherd gathering sheep, king establishing kingdom), not
as past events but as eternal activities in divine mind.
The mythological reading restores dynamism to divine mind. The
forms aren’t frozen statues in God’s mental museum
but living patterns; stories, conflicts, victories, and
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. Since God is
pure act (as even Thomists insist), God’s consciousness
must be pure activity, not bare motion but activity that is
patterned, mythological, and dramatic. The forms aren’t
photographs but 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, mythic themes, and conflicts
between divine and demonic forces are all 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 mythic events unfold exists within 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, limited
to perfected human relationships rather than humanity
participating in heavenly patterns. This view implies the kingdom
is built through human effort, through better politics,
economics, and social 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 heavenly 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 God’s mythic 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 mythic 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, with 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. As a novelist’s
excellence remains undiminished through imagining tragic events,
God’s perfection persists intact while encompassing
suffering within 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: 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 God’s mind. The dynamic view of forms, however,
expands beyond the Platonic concept: God knows not merely static
forms but entire mythic narratives, complete with conflict and
resolution. The celestial forms are not blueprints but living
stories, more real than their worldly manifestations.
This provides a metaphysical foundation for the reality of myth.
If mythic 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 mythic drama playing out in
God’s mind.
Just as the Egyptian Duat existed in a liminal space, neither
purely physical nor purely spiritual, so 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 mythic 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 mythic
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 God’s mind 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 what has been previously argued: spiritual bodies,
existing in 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 the kingdom of God 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
mind in mythological terms, he avoids dividing mythic and
material realms, instead placing the theo-drama entirely within
the earthly sphere. However, according to classical thought, any
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 mythic 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 mythic patterns in the kingdom of
God.
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
heavenly patterns, the drama of earthly history becomes an
imperfect reflection of its heavenly counterpart.
Theo-drama provides crucial theoretical foundations for symbolic
participation, although von Balthasar never extends this to
view God’s consciousness itself as mythically 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 but 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 heavenly 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 heavenly Reason. Thus symbolic language,
like the Bible and Nature itself, becomes transparent to heavenly
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 God’s mind, which in Augustinian theology
contains ontologically real forms. These forms could be
reinterpreted as dynamic entities, as spiritual beings.
Ancient consciousness perceived spiritual powers directly
manipulating physical objects, a concept foreign to scientific
thought. However, this doesn’t preclude the existence of
spiritual beings in the heavenly realm whose activities are
reflected in the earthly realm 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 drama and conflict characterize the
spirit world.
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 celestial 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 heavenly 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 realms,
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. Heavenly 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 Christ’s
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 spirit world 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 heavenly 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, which is 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 grey 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 heavenly 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 person without the Spirit does not accept the things that come from the Spirit of God but considers them foolishness, and cannot understand them because they are discerned only through the Spirit. (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
otherworldly 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), in
his landmark work “Christus Victor” (1931), revived
the Christus Victor view, which had dominated early Christianity
for over a millennium. 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
mythic 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 divine 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,
where the celestial 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 theo-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
theo-drama appears dualistic, ultimate authority resides with God
as its sovereign author. In the monistic dimension, the law is
holy and righteous; in the dualistic dimension, it is a hostile
power.
By viewing God’s engagement with the world as a mythical
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 it concerns 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 has
found that traditional societies experience myths as more real
than everyday existence, because myths reveal eternal patterns
while daily life merely repeats and decays. This parallels the
Platonic framework of kingdom theology, where mythic 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 mythical consciousness across
cultures and millennia suggests that the kingdom model recovers
something essential that modern theology has forgotten: the
sacred is known through symbolic 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,
mythic 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, which involve creation, destruction
and 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 mythic 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 mythic
reality.
Early Christianity, as Eliade demonstrates, originally maintained
both historical and mythical 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 mythical person actively present in
God’s kingdom, 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 celestial
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 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 mythic 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 heavenly 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 equaling the power of God.
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 heavenly 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 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 mythic themes
within a dynamic, conflicted kingdom, akin to the ancient
Egyptian Duat. Within divine consciousness, God generates and
orchestrates mythic 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
mythical 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 struggles 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 mythic 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 heavenly 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 mythical 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 heavenly 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 the spirit world as actual
occurrences with metaphorical dimensions, resolving cosmic drama
and enabling new creation. By locating divine violence
exclusively within mythic 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 participatory 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 mythical reality, divine action against
chaos operates by entirely different principles. This force
differs fundamentally from violence as we experience it,
representing instead the eternal 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 mythical power generates rather
than destroys, creating space for life rather than dealing
death.
This explains why biblical descriptions of divine violence often
feel mythical 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 mythic 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
mythical victories reveal God’s eternal nature as
chaos-defeater.
Mythically, the cross manifests as God’s definitive
conquest of chaos: death vanquished, Satan subdued, and 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 symbolic participation suggests these accounts
contain historical truth, as conflict inheres in nature itself.
Christ’s life, however, achieved the perfect synthesis of
myth and history, where eternal and temporal realms fully
converge.
Theodicy need not justify God’s participation in historic
atrocities or natural disasters. There is no need to defend
God’s 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 heavenly and material realities. They attempt to enact
through historical violence what God accomplishes through mythic
victory. This category confusion underlies religious terrorism,
crusades, and holy wars. True participation in mythic victory
occurs through prayer, virtue, and self-sacrifice, but not
through wielding weapons.
2.
The kingdom’s circular narrative time enables mythic
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 mythic patterns: the Lamb slain from the foundation
of the world, the perpetual victory over chaos, the ever-present
‘once upon a time’ of mythic drama.
This temporal duality explains the dual function of biblical
narrative as both historical record and mythic pattern. The
Exodus occurred once in linear time yet exists eternally in
God’s kingdom. Christ’s resurrection, singular in
historical time, represents perpetual victory over death in
mythic 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.
Mythical 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 heavenly realms
interweave, temporarily dissolving their apparent separation.
3.
The temporal distinction reveals a deeper metaphysical truth:
the temporal world exhibits monistic unity, while the heavenly
world manifests essential duality. Mythologies often present
dualities as interconnected forces: light and dark, life and
death, order and chaos.
The interplay of unity and duality forms a fundamental cosmic
principle. The monistic nature of material reality manifests in
the created order emanating from divine will. Within this order,
evil exists as privation, chaos as derivative, and all existence
participates in a heavenly goodness that serves to maintain
creation. 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 will 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 mythic patterns rather than
creation’s unified order. The kingdom of God thus
encompasses the complete dramatic spectrum necessary for its
self-revelation.
Divine impassibility and passibility no longer conflict: God is
impassible regarding the totality of creation but passible within
the spirit world. 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 mythic 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 mythic 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 God’s complicity in
historical violence, preserving biblical narrative while
maintaining ethical sophistication, enabling spiritual warfare
while promoting material peacemaking. The price is accepting a
fundamental dualism between material and mythic 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
heavenly realities, mythical thinking enhances rather than
diminishes practical rationality.
Superstition fundamentally involves category confusion; applying
mythical causation to material events or expecting material
causation to operate in mythic realms. One who attributes illness
to divine punishment conflates judicial mythic 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 mythical 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 mythic truth.
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 continued unfolding of creation. The goal is
not earthly Utopia but sustained creation. Fulfillment belongs to
God’s kingdom alone, not to the worldly realm.
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 mythic consciousness, religion degenerates into mere
morality or philosophy, forfeiting its transformative power. The
kingdom of God, stripped of its mythic 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 mythical authenticity within the kingdom of
God, where the tripartite cosmic structure endures.
5.
The sacred-material dialectic illuminates sacramental theology
by bridging heavenly and physical realms without conflating them.
The Eucharist manifests bread’s participation in
Christ’s 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, Christ emerges as the protagonist of the
heavenly narrative through incarnation in temporal reality.
Christ thus embodies both the eternal theo-drama and its
historical actuality, being fully heavenly 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 mythical creation,
enabling authentic participation in the kingdom’s
theo-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 mythical rather than merely empirical or rational
lenses. Unlike modern consciousness, which privileges literal
fact and logical proposition, mythic consciousness finds true
meaning only in mythic narrative.
Faith development entails cultivating the capacity to perceive
and participate in reality’s mythical dimensions. Rational
apologetics often fails to spark genuine conversion since faith,
as mythic consciousness, transcends mere logical acceptance.
Authentic conversion requires consciousness transformation:
learning to see with mythical eyes. Such transformation occurs
through sacred story encounters, ritual participation, or
mystical experience, which all engage symbolic imagination beyond
rational intellect. Doubt, on the other hand, manifests not
primarily as questioning historical facts or logical coherence,
but as the dimming of mythic consciousness, the waning ability to
perceive reality’s mythical 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 of God, however, chaos emerges as something more
primordial: the necessary ‘other’ against which
heavenly order defines itself, darkness rendering light visible,
resistance enabling divine victory. This dualism maintains
asymmetry as chaos serves divine purpose rather than presenting
genuine rivalry to God’s power. God remains the sovereign
author.
Kingdom theology reveals multiple theological dimensions
operating simultaneously. Linear history demands concepts of
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
theo-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 symbolic 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 supernatural energy, but rather the dynamic presence that makes the kingdom’s mythical reality accessible to creation. Beyond simply applying Christ’s benefits or conveying grace generally, the Spirit specifically enables consciousness to perceive and enter the kingdom of God.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 pointed 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. It was
not a godforsaken place. Yet 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 mythic 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 mythical 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 kingdom of
God, which aligns with Jung’s concept that the psyche
generates both light and shadow as essential structure. Although
cosmic evil belongs to the heavenly drama, this evil remains
genuine, as its participatory manifestations in the world create
concrete harm.
© Mats Winther, 2025
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