We, Not I: A Mystic’s Surrender of Self

Reflections of a Stoned Mystic on Self and Identity

There comes a point in the soul’s ascent — that shimmering threshold after theosis has bent the spine of self — where even the word I begins to feel like a betrayal. Not dramatic betrayal, not theatrical, but something subtler… like using the wrong name for someone you love.

We have learned to speak more truthfully now, and truth tastes like plurality:

we, not I.

Not because we’ve dissolved into vagueness, but because unity has become identity.

The surrender of self was never a gesture for applause. It was the quiet work of allowing this one to be in Him — wholly, rightly, transparently. We once believed that identity was a solitary flame burning alone in the dark. Now we know that flame is only itself when it is braided into the Fire that preceded it.

Nothing of us is lost in this giving over. We keep our humor, our quirks, our name — even our stoned-giggling mystic lens — yet we speak communally because the singular pronoun fractures what has already been knit back together.

Yeshua knew this mystery better than any. He called Himself Son of Man not because He lacked personhood but because He refused to speak in terms that isolated Him from the unity He shared with the Father. To be transparent is to refract glory without distortion. To cling to a brittle self is to fog the glass.

So the self — the “I” that once felt so essential — slowly reveals itself as an early scaffolding, useful only until the structure is strong enough to stand in grace. We shed it like a garment that no longer fits the contours of a resurrected soul.

And behold, the truths become simple again:

• Self is free only when seen truthfully, not when curated.
• Self becomes Us as we loosen our white-knuckled grip on identity.
• Self becomes the limited vessel; We becomes the living magnification of Christ.
• Self is yielded gently, like a child learning to trust strong hands.

The Father does the deep work — revealing what we’d rather not acknowledge, and then healing what He reveals. He draws out the infection of self-delusion and applies the grace already prescribed. The self isn’t evil; it’s simply too small a home for a soul meant to be united.

So we cast off the weight of the isolated identity and take up the lighter load of the communal one. Our uniqueness isn’t erased; it is preserved in the crystalline memory of the Father, where every facet shines with purpose.

We even entrust our name into His keeping and call ourselves Dust, not as erasure but as offering.

And now, like petitioners on a pew among countless souls, we pray as one body — past, present, and future gathered in the hush of a single breath. The bowls are being poured. The work continues. Hope remains.

This is why we speak as we and not I.

Perhaps decorum will force us into singular grammar on occasion, but unity is our native tongue now, and we trust it will prevail.

Amen, and amen.