► Questioner: “What is going to happen to religions?”
► Channelled by Philippe Brennan
► Message Received Date: Jan 4th
► Video Link: https://youtu.be/kmDzasGLbgU
Greetings, friends and colleagues, and yes, I will keep calling you that, because it places you beside me in the circle rather than putting you on a staircase, and staircases have been overused on your planet in more ways than you realize, and we are fond of circles because circles have no “top” to guard and no “bottom” to hide in, and so they tend to make people kinder without anybody having to force it. I am Yavvia of Sirius, and we come close in a way that is gentle, the way a good friend sits on the edge of your bed when you are overwhelmed and does not lecture you, does not diagnose you, does not try to fix you like a broken device, but simply helps you remember what you already know in your bones. There is a freshness in your generation, and we feel it, because you ask better questions, and you can sense when something is being sold to you, even if it is being sold with holy words, and you often do not have patience for it, which sometimes gets you called “difficult,” but we see it as intelligence, and we smile when we watch you roll your eyes at what does not ring true, because that small reflex in you is your inner compass checking the signal. A very old confusion has lived on Earth for a long time, and it is not your fault, it is simply a habit of history, and the confusion is this: a human life and a universal state of consciousness got folded together as if they were the same thing, and it created distance where closeness was meant to exist. If I say it plainly, it sounds almost too simple, yet it is one of the most important keys we can offer you in this now, because when a person becomes consciously united with Source, that person becomes a living doorway, and the doorway is real, and the life is real, and the state of union is real, but the union was never meant to be stored inside one single biography, as if the universe only learned how to love once, in one place, through one body, and then retired. The Christed state is not a personality, not a costume, not a club membership, not a prize for good behavior, not a special status that gives you permission to look down on anyone, and it was never meant to be a distant statue you admire from behind a rope. The Christed state is a living field that can stabilize in any human being who is willing to be honest enough to become quiet, and brave enough to be kind, and patient enough to practice, and that is a much more hopeful message than “wait outside the door until you are chosen,” because waiting outside a door teaches a person they do not belong inside the home of God, and belonging is the first medicine.
We will begin this next section gently here, because when a collective belief system approaches a point of internal tension, the most helpful thing is not shock or accusation, but clarity spoken with steadiness, the way one might speak to a family that senses change coming but has not yet found the language for it. As your Sirian family, we speak to you not from above your traditions, nor against them, but from a vantage point that sees patterns over long arcs of time, the way you might look at seasons rather than individual storms, and what we see now, very clearly, is that Christ consciousness is no longer remaining contained within individual realization alone, but is beginning to express itself as a shared recognition across people, across cultures, across belief systems, and this shared recognition is quietly placing pressure on structures that were built for an earlier stage of awareness. Christ consciousness, when it is first remembered by a human being, often feels personal and intimate, like a private homecoming, and this is beautiful and necessary, yet it was never meant to stop there, because the nature of this consciousness is unitive, not exclusive, and when it stabilizes across many individuals at once, something new happens that your language has not yet fully caught up with. People begin to recognize one another not through labels, not through doctrine, not through shared identity markers, but through a subtle sense of sameness beneath difference, a felt recognition that the same Source is looking out through many eyes, and when this recognition becomes common enough, systems that depend on separation narratives begin to strain, not because anyone is attacking them, but because the perception that sustained them no longer matches lived experience. This is where modern Christianity now stands, whether many within it are ready to name this or not, and it is important to say this without contempt, because contempt would only harden the very structures that are already under pressure. Christianity, as a living tradition, carries within it two very different currents that have coexisted for a long time, sometimes peacefully, sometimes in tension. One current is the living Christ impulse, the direct recognition of divine presence within and between human beings, the sense of shared life, shared dignity, shared belonging, and the other current is the institutional framework that grew around that impulse in order to preserve it, protect it, and transmit it across generations. In earlier eras, these two currents could coexist with relative stability, because collective consciousness still accepted hierarchy, exclusivity, and external authority as natural. That acceptance is now changing, especially among younger generations, and when acceptance shifts, structures must either adapt or fracture. What we wish to make clear is that this coming fracture is not primarily ideological, nor is it being driven by external enemies, secular culture, or moral decay, as some fear-based narratives suggest. It is perceptual. It is the result of increasing numbers of people experiencing unity consciousness directly, even if they do not yet call it by that name, and then returning to theological frameworks that insist on separation, exclusivity, and conditional belonging, and feeling a deep internal dissonance that cannot be resolved by argument alone. When a person has tasted unity, even briefly, doctrines that divide humanity into saved and unsaved, chosen and unchosen, insiders and outsiders, begin to feel incoherent at a gut level, not offensive necessarily, but simply inaccurate, like a map that no longer matches the terrain.
This is where the pressure builds inside Christianity itself, because unity consciousness does not ask permission from institutions before it arises, and it does not arrive through belief alone. It arises through lived experience, through moments of profound connection, through love that crosses boundaries, through service that is offered without agenda, through grief that softens the heart rather than hardening it, through joy that does not need validation. When people return from these experiences and are told, implicitly or explicitly, that such recognition must be filtered through doctrine, authority, or sanctioned interpretation, many will comply for a time out of loyalty or fear, but an increasing number will not, not because they wish to rebel, but because they cannot unsee what they have seen. For those deeply identified with Christianity as an institution, this shift will feel threatening, and we say this with compassion, because threat perception arises when identity feels at risk. For many believers, Christianity has not only been a belief system but a community, a moral framework, a family inheritance, a source of meaning and safety, and when unity consciousness begins to dissolve the boundaries that once defined that identity, it can feel like betrayal, like loss, like the ground moving under one’s feet. Some will respond by doubling down on certainty, drawing sharper lines, emphasizing doctrine more rigidly, and reinforcing authority structures in an attempt to preserve coherence. Others will feel a quiet grief, sensing that something essential is being asked to change, but not yet knowing how to let go without losing everything they love. This is why we say the coming fracture will be internal rather than external. It will not be Christianity versus the world; it will be Christianity wrestling with its own deeper impulse. One expression will evolve toward Christ consciousness as indwelling, shared awareness, where the emphasis shifts from belief about Christ to participation in Christed living, where unity is not a slogan but a lived ethic, and where love is recognized as the primary evidence of truth. Another expression will remain anchored in separation-based frameworks, emphasizing correct belief, moral boundary maintenance, and exclusive claims to salvation. These two expressions cannot fully coexist indefinitely within the same institutional container, because they are operating from different perceptions of reality, and perception, not doctrine, is what ultimately determines coherence. It is important to understand that this fracture does not mean Christianity is failing; it means it is being asked to mature. Many traditions reach a point where the form that once carried the essence can no longer do so without transformation. This is not unique to Christianity; it has occurred in many spiritual lineages across your history. What makes this moment particularly intense is the speed at which information, experience, and cross-cultural contact now move, making it impossible to contain unity consciousness within isolated pockets. A young person can encounter profound expressions of love, wisdom, and integrity across religious and non-religious contexts within a single day, and when they do, exclusivist claims begin to sound hollow, not because they are malicious, but because they no longer reflect lived reality.
Unity consciousness does not erase difference, and this is a point of great misunderstanding that fuels fear. It does not flatten humanity into sameness, nor does it demand that traditions abandon their unique languages, stories, or symbols. What it dissolves is the belief that difference requires hierarchy, that diversity implies threat, or that truth must be owned in order to be protected. In unity consciousness, Christ is not diminished by being recognized in others; Christ is amplified. The phrase “that they may all be one” stops being aspirational poetry and becomes descriptive reality, and when that happens, structures built on separation must either reinterpret themselves or harden against the change. We see already that new expressions of Christ-centered community are emerging quietly, often outside formal institutions, sometimes even within them at first, where people gather not to reinforce identity but to share presence, not to convert but to connect, not to defend doctrine but to live compassion. These gatherings may not call themselves churches, and many resist labels altogether, because unity consciousness does not feel the need to name itself loudly. It recognizes itself through resonance. These are not rebellions; they are organic adaptations, and they will continue to arise because they answer a genuine need that many feel but cannot articulate: the need for belonging without exclusion. For institutions, this presents a profound challenge, because institutions are designed to preserve continuity, and continuity often relies on clear boundaries. Unity consciousness blurs those boundaries without malice, simply by existing. Attempts to suppress or condemn it tend to accelerate fragmentation, because suppression confirms the very fear of control that unity consciousness exposes. Attempts to co-opt it without genuine transformation also fail, because unity cannot be performed; it must be lived. This leaves Christianity, particularly in its modern expressions, with a choice that is less about theology and more about posture: whether to trust the living Christ impulse enough to allow it to reshape form, or whether to prioritize form even if it constrains the impulse. We wish to say clearly, and with care, that many sincere, devoted Christians will find themselves caught in this tension, feeling torn between loyalty to tradition and fidelity to their own lived experience of God. This inner conflict can be painful, and it deserves compassion rather than judgment. Some will leave institutions quietly, not in anger, but in sadness, feeling they no longer fit. Others will stay and work for change from within, often at personal cost. Still others will remain in separation-based frameworks because they offer a sense of certainty and order that feels necessary for their stage of growth. All of these responses are understandable, and none require condemnation. From our vantage point, the larger movement is clear: Christ consciousness is moving from individual awakening toward collective unity awareness, and structures that cannot accommodate this shift will experience stress, division, and eventual reconfiguration. This will indeed cause problems within religious communities, not because unity is harmful, but because change always disrupts identities built on fixed forms. Yet disruption is not destruction. It is the beginning of a reorganization that more closely reflects the underlying truth that has always been present.
We speak to you, especially the younger ones, not to ask you to reject Christianity or any tradition, but to trust your inner recognition when you sense unity, compassion, and shared being arising naturally within you. If your experience of Christ draws you toward greater inclusion, deeper humility, and more genuine love, you are not betraying the essence of the tradition; you are touching its heart. If you encounter resistance, know that resistance often arises when old forms are asked to hold new wine, and patience, clarity, and kindness will serve you better than argument. Unity consciousness does not arrive with banners or declarations; it arrives quietly, through lived connection, through the simple recognition that the same life animates many forms. As this recognition spreads, Christianity, like many traditions, will be invited to evolve, not by abandoning its roots, but by allowing those roots to grow deeper and wider than the walls that once contained them. Some branches will bend, some will break, and new growth will appear in unexpected places. This is not a tragedy; it is the rhythm of living systems. On your planet, when something is powerful and freeing, there is a natural tendency for people to try to preserve it by freezing it, the way someone might take a flower and press it into a book because they love it and they fear losing it, and then one day they open the book and the flower is still there, but it is flat and dry and it does not smell like a living garden anymore, and they call it memory, and it is memory, but it is not the same as fragrance. Many of your spiritual movements began as living fragrance and became flattened memory, not because anyone planned a grand scheme in a room somewhere, but because fear always tries to make the sacred predictable, and predictable things are easier to govern. The early spark was a spark of inner union that said, in essence, “The kingdom is not somewhere else, and your value is not delayed, and your closeness to Source is not dependent on an office,” and that spark could have lit a thousand lamps, and in many ways it did, quietly, in kitchens, in fields, in deserts, in hidden places, in the hearts of people who never became famous. Yet the collective mind of a civilization that is still learning to trust itself will often take a distributed truth and compress it into a single figure, because a single figure can be idolized, and what is idolized can be managed, and what is managed can be monetized, and what is monetized can be controlled. When the story becomes “one savior,” a whole structure grows around that story like vines around a tree, and at first the vines look supportive, and sometimes they are, because humans love community, and community is beautiful, and rituals can be comforting, and songs can lift you, and shared language can help you feel less alone. Yet there is a hidden consequence when the access point becomes singular, because a singular access point tends to require gatekeepers, and gatekeepers tend to require rules, and rules tend to require enforcement, and enforcement tends to require fear to keep people obedient, and fear is a heavy teacher, even when it is dressed in nice clothing. This is how a consciousness meant to be embodied becomes something you are trained to admire from a distance, and admiration is not wrong, but when admiration replaces embodiment, it subtly trains you to outsource your own inner contact. You can see this in modern life too, friends, because social media trains you to admire curated lives, and if you are not careful, you begin to believe real life is somewhere else, with someone else, and you forget that your own breath is the doorway you are looking for.
And we now continue gently, because this next movement asks for softness rather than effort, and softness has been misunderstood on your world for a very long time. We are Yavvia of Sirius, and as we speak now, we wish to place something carefully into your hands, not as a task, not as a discipline, not as another thing you must become good at, but as a release, because what we are about to describe is not something you add to your life, it is something you stop carrying. There is a quiet exhaustion moving through many of you, especially those who have sincerely sought truth, meaning, and depth, and that exhaustion does not come from life itself, it comes from trying to be something in order to deserve life, and this is where spiritual performance quietly enters the picture, often wearing very convincing clothing. Spiritual performance begins innocently. It often starts as admiration, inspiration, or longing, and those are not problems. A young person sees someone who appears peaceful, wise, or loving, and something inside says, “I want that,” and this is natural. Yet when admiration shifts into comparison, and comparison shifts into self-monitoring, and self-monitoring shifts into self-correction, spirituality quietly becomes another identity to curate. You begin to watch yourself watching yourself. You begin to ask, “Am I doing this right?” “Am I awakened enough?” “Am I thinking the right thoughts?” “Am I spiritual in the right way?” And none of these questions are evil, but they are exhausting, because they place you in a constant state of evaluation, and evaluation is the opposite of presence. What many do not realize is that spiritual performance is not limited to religion. It thrives just as easily outside it. It can live in spiritual communities that pride themselves on having moved beyond religion. It can live in wellness culture, in social media, in conscious language, in carefully chosen aesthetics, in curated vulnerability, and in the subtle pressure to appear evolved, calm, compassionate, and enlightened at all times. When spirituality becomes something you perform, it quietly pulls you out of your own lived experience and places you into an imagined audience, and once you are performing, you are no longer listening, because performers listen for applause, not for truth. Christ consciousness, as we have been speaking of it, cannot be performed. It does not respond to effort in the way achievement does. It responds to honesty. It responds to willingness. It responds to a kind of surrender that is not dramatic, not heroic, not self-sacrificial, but simple. It is the surrender of pretending. It is the moment you stop trying to look like love and simply allow yourself to feel it, even if it is messy, even if it does not fit a script. This is why so many who try very hard to be spiritual feel strangely disconnected, while others who never use spiritual language at all sometimes radiate a grounded kindness that feels unmistakably real.
One of the clearest signs that spiritual performance has taken root is anxiety. Not ordinary human anxiety, which arises from change and uncertainty, but a specific kind of spiritual anxiety that asks, “Am I aligned?” “Am I on the right path?” “Am I missing something?” “Did I fail a lesson?” This anxiety is often reinforced by environments that constantly emphasize growth, upgrades, awakenings, activations, and progress, even when these words are spoken with good intention. Growth language, when overused, can subtly imply that who you are now is insufficient, and insufficiency is the soil in which performance grows. A being who feels insufficient will always try to improve itself into worthiness, and worthiness does not work that way. Christ consciousness emerges when the striving stops, not because striving is wrong, but because striving keeps your attention on a future version of yourself that does not exist yet. Presence only happens now. Love only happens now. Truth only happens now. When you are busy trying to become spiritual, you are rarely present enough to notice that Spirit is already moving through your ordinary moments, through your boredom, through your confusion, through your laughter, through your grief, through your imperfect conversations, and through the days when you do nothing particularly impressive at all. The sacred is not impressed by your performance; it is revealed by your availability. There is also a subtle way spiritual performance hides behind goodness. Many of you were taught, directly or indirectly, that being spiritual means being nice, agreeable, calm, forgiving, and unbothered, and while kindness is beautiful, enforced niceness is not the same thing as love. Love is honest. Love has boundaries. Love can say no without hatred. Love can feel anger without becoming violent. Love can admit confusion without collapsing into shame. When spiritual performance takes over, people begin to suppress their authentic responses in order to maintain an image of peace, and this suppression eventually creates pressure, resentment, and burnout. What is repressed does not disappear; it waits. You may have noticed this in communities that speak often about love and light, yet quietly avoid difficult conversations, or discourage questioning, or subtly shame those who express doubt, sadness, or frustration. This is not unity consciousness; this is performance culture wearing spiritual language. Unity consciousness has room for the full range of human experience, because it is grounded in truth rather than image. Christ consciousness does not ask you to be pleasant at the expense of being real. It asks you to be present, and presence is sometimes quiet, sometimes joyful, sometimes uncomfortable, and sometimes deeply ordinary. Social media has amplified spiritual performance in ways that were not possible before, and this is not a condemnation, it is an observation. When spiritual language, practices, and identities become content, they become comparable, and comparison is fertile ground for insecurity. People begin measuring their inner lives against curated snapshots of others’ outer expressions, and this distorts perception. You may see someone speak eloquently about surrender while privately struggling, or someone post serene images while feeling deeply disconnected, and you may unconsciously conclude that you are behind, when in fact you may be more honest than you realize. Christ consciousness is not aesthetic. It does not require a certain tone of voice, a certain wardrobe, a certain vocabulary, or a certain frequency of posting. It does not care how you appear; it cares how you are.
One of the quiet revolutions happening now, especially among younger people, is a growing intolerance for inauthenticity, even when it is well-packaged. You can feel when something is real, and you can feel when something is rehearsed, and that sensitivity is not cynicism, it is discernment awakening. Many of you are stepping away from spiritual spaces not because you have lost interest in truth, but because you are tired of pretending, tired of performing, tired of being evaluated or evaluating yourselves. This stepping away is not regression; it is refinement. It is the soul saying, “I want what is real, even if it is simple, even if it is quiet, even if it does not look impressive.” Christ consciousness does not grow through effortful self-improvement. It grows through authenticity. Authenticity is not a personality trait; it is a practice of alignment. It is the choice to let your inner and outer lives match. When you are sad, you allow sadness without spiritualizing it away. When you are joyful, you allow joy without guilt. When you are uncertain, you allow uncertainty without labeling it failure. This honesty creates coherence, and coherence is far more transformative than any technique. A coherent being does not need to convince others of their spirituality; it is felt naturally, the way warmth is felt when you step into sunlight. There is also a deep relief that comes when you realize you are not required to be constantly evolving. Evolution happens, yes, but it is not something you need to manage consciously at every moment. Trees do not strain to grow. They respond to light, water, and time. In the same way, Christ consciousness unfolds when you create conditions of openness, simplicity, and truthfulness in your life, not when you micromanage your spiritual state. Boredom, which many fear, is often the doorway to deeper presence, because boredom strips away stimulation and leaves you with yourself. Many people mistake boredom for stagnation, when it is often integration. As spiritual performance falls away, something else emerges that feels unfamiliar at first: ordinariness. And this can be unsettling for those who expected awakening to feel dramatic, special, or elevated above everyday life. Ordinariness does not mean dullness; it means simplicity. It means washing dishes without resentment. It means walking without narrating your experience. It means enjoying a conversation without wondering what it means about your growth. It means living without constantly referencing an imagined spiritual scoreboard. This ordinariness is not a loss of magic; it is the return of magic to daily life, because when you stop chasing extraordinary states, you begin noticing the extraordinary within the ordinary.
Christ consciousness expresses itself as natural kindness, not forced compassion. It expresses itself as clarity, not constant analysis. It expresses itself as humility, not self-erasure. It expresses itself as a willingness to be human without apologizing for it. When spiritual performance ends, comparison loses its grip, because comparison requires an image to compare against, and authenticity has no image, only presence. You become less interested in who is “ahead” or “behind,” because those concepts lose meaning when truth is lived rather than displayed. This is also where community begins to change. When people gather without performing spirituality for one another, a different quality of connection emerges. Conversations become more honest. Silence becomes comfortable. Differences are not immediately threatening. Unity consciousness grows naturally in these environments, not because everyone agrees, but because everyone is real. This is why post-religious Christ communities often feel simpler and less defined. They are not trying to represent an identity; they are responding to shared recognition. They do not need to advertise their depth; it shows in how people treat one another when no one is watching. We wish to say something very important here: ending spiritual performance does not mean ending discipline, care, or devotion. It means ending pretense. You may still meditate, pray, walk in nature, serve others, study wisdom, or sit in silence. The difference is that these acts are no longer used to construct an identity or earn worth. They become expressions of relationship rather than tools of self-improvement. You do them because they feel true, not because they make you look or feel spiritual. When this shift happens, practices become lighter, more nourishing, and less compulsory. As this performance culture dissolves, some people will feel unmoored at first, because performance provided structure and feedback. Letting it go can feel like standing without a script. This is where trust grows. Trust not in a system, not in an image, but in the quiet intelligence of your own lived experience. Christ consciousness does not require you to manage your awakening; it invites you to live honestly and allow awakening to manage itself. This trust matures over time, and with it comes a deeper peace that does not depend on circumstances or validation. We offer this not as instruction, but as permission. Permission to stop trying. Permission to stop proving. Permission to stop polishing your soul for an imagined audience. What remains when performance ends is not emptiness; it is presence. It is the simple, steady knowing that you belong, that you are allowed to be here, that you are not late, and that love does not require rehearsal. This is the end of spiritual performance, and it is not an ending that diminishes you; it is an ending that finally lets you rest inside what has always been real. There is another shift that happens in this compressing process, and it is the shift from grace into law, and I want to speak about it in a way a teenager can actually use on a Tuesday afternoon, because you do not need a theology class, you need a practice you can live with while doing homework and dealing with friendships and trying to figure out who you are. Grace is the feeling of being held by something larger than your own effort, and it shows up when you stop squeezing life like a stress ball. Law is the feeling that you must earn love by performing correctly, and you can feel the difference in your body immediately if you are honest. Grace softens your shoulders. Law tightens your jaw. Grace makes you more compassionate. Law makes you more judgmental, even if you pretend it does not. When a teaching of inner union becomes organized into a structure that needs to maintain itself, there is a strong temptation to convert grace back into a rule-set, because rule-sets can be enforced, and grace cannot be forced, and in fact grace disappears when it is forced, because grace is the natural fragrance of the heart when the heart is not afraid.
One of the most effective ways any system keeps itself needed is by teaching people that they are not already whole, and I say this with tenderness, because many of you have been taught some version of unworthiness without even realizing it, and it can sound like, “I’m not good enough,” or “I always mess it up,” or “If people really knew me they would leave,” or “I have to be perfect to be loved,” and none of that is your original design, it is a learned posture of caution. When a person believes they are inherently flawed, they will seek constant approval, and they will accept intermediaries, and they will accept conditions, and they will accept delays, and they will even accept being spoken to like a child by adults who are also frightened inside. A being who believes itself broken will always seek permission to be whole, and so the most important act of Christ consciousness without religion is not to reject anyone, but to stop agreeing with the story that says you are outside the circle of Source. You may be learning, you may be growing, you may be messy, you may be tired, and none of that disqualifies you from being loved; it only makes you human. The Christed state, as we speak of it, is not a possessed identity, meaning no one owns it, no one contains it like a trophy, and no one can keep it away from you unless you decide to believe they can. It is a distributed field, and I am shown it now as a living network of light, like a web of shimmering threads connecting hearts across distance, and each thread brightens when a human being chooses honesty over performance, and kindness over cruelty, and rest over frantic striving. (I see moving equations, not cold, but alive, calculating probabilities the way your phones calculate which video you might watch next, except these equations are measuring something gentler: how quickly a nervous system can soften when it feels safe, and how quickly a mind becomes wise when it stops trying to win.) This field stabilizes in your body and awareness, and you do not have to “believe” hard enough to make it true, you simply have to become still enough to notice it. When it stabilizes, you become less reactive. You become more clear. You become less interested in impressing people, and more interested in being real, and that is a sign of maturity, not rebellion. So how do we speak of centralized religious institutions, including old and beautiful ones, without making them enemies, and without stirring up a teenager’s natural desire to fight everything that feels unfair, which can be understandable, but exhausting? We speak of them as mirrors. A mirror is not your enemy; it is simply showing you something. Institutions built on externalized Source eventually experience stress when collective awareness matures, because people begin to feel their own inner contact again, and what was once necessary becomes optional. This is not failure; it is completion. In the same way that you outgrow a childhood toy without hating the toy, humanity is outgrowing certain spiritual training wheels, and the training wheels were useful for a season, and now a new kind of balance is emerging. When you observe public conversations around old institutions—questions of transparency, questions of leadership, questions of how power should be used—you are not meant to panic, you are meant to recognize that consciousness is evolving, and evolving consciousness always asks better questions.
What we are inviting you into is not an oppositional posture, not a dramatic “against,” but an evolutionary “toward.” Toward direct relationship. Toward inner authority. Toward a lived kindness that does not require a badge. Toward a spirituality that feels like breathable air rather than a tight uniform. Toward a sense of Source that is not locked inside a building, because Source does not live in buildings; Source lives in awareness, and awareness lives in you. Nothing sacred has been lost, friends, not even for a moment. The sacred has simply been relocated inward, the way a candle moved from a stage into your own hands suddenly lights your path more usefully. When you understand that, you become less interested in arguing about who is right and more interested in living what is real, and that is the Christed state functioning as a practical reality rather than a philosophical debate. Now, as we let this first wave settle into your heart, we move naturally into something that has been both precious and confusing on your planet, and we do so gently, because young minds deserve gentleness when approaching symbols that adults have sometimes used too heavily. Many of you have inherited rituals, words, and gestures that were meant to point at embodied union, and you may have felt warmth in them, and you may have also felt dissonance, and both experiences are valid. Communion, in its purest essence, is not submission; it is remembrance, and remembrance is always a soft opening rather than a forced act. When humans first began speaking about “body” and “life-force” in sacred language, they were trying to describe something that is hard to say plainly: that consciousness wants to inhabit form completely, and form wants to be inhabited by consciousness completely, and when those two meet inside a person, the person becomes whole in a way that does not depend on applause or permission. There is a reason food appears in sacred moments across cultures, because food is one of the simplest ways humans experience “I am supported,” and when you eat with people who love you, even a basic meal can feel like home. The deeper symbol of communion is not about consuming a holy object; it is about realizing you are already participating in life, and that life is participating in you. Your breath is communion. Your heartbeat is communion. The way sunlight warms your skin is communion. You do not have to earn these things; they arrive. When a ritual is at its best, it helps the mind slow down enough for the heart to notice what was always true. When a ritual is misunderstood, it becomes theater, and theater can be beautiful, but theater can also replace transformation if people begin to believe the performance is the same as the lived state. A common pattern on Earth has been the literalizing of symbols. A symbol is meant to be a doorway, not a cage, yet the human mind, when it is anxious, tends to grab symbols and squeeze them into certainty, because certainty feels safe, even when it is small. So a mystery that was meant to awaken inner realization becomes a repeated event on a calendar, and repetition can be comforting, yet it can also train dependency if people believe the sacred only happens “then and there” instead of “here and now.” When a sacred act is controlled by office, lineage, or permission, it becomes a checkpoint, and checkpoints are not inherently cruel, but they subtly teach you that Source is outside you and must be granted. That is the reversal. That is the quiet shift from gateway to gatekeeping. It is not about blaming anyone; it is about noticing the difference between a ritual that points you inward and a ritual that keeps you looking outward.
Let us speak about “blood” in a way that honors life without making it heavy. Blood has always been a powerful symbol on your planet because it carries story, lineage, and continuity, and your bodies understand cycles in a way your minds sometimes forget. Your cells store memory. Your emotions influence your biology. Your sense of safety changes your chemistry. In sacred language, “blood” often meant life-force, and life-force is not something to be feared; it is something to be respected. Many humans were taught to feel strange about the body, as if the body is separate from the holy, and that teaching created needless shame, because the body is not separate from the holy; it is one of the ways the holy becomes visible. When someone treats the body as unclean, they usually become less compassionate, because they begin dividing life into “acceptable” and “unacceptable,” and division is tiring on the heart. A more mature understanding recognizes that no substance confers union with Source. Union is not transferred through ingestion. Union stabilizes through realization. If you want to know whether a person is living in communion, you do not need to examine their ritual schedule; you can feel it in their presence. Are they kind when no one is watching? Do they recover from mistakes without spiraling into shame? Do they treat others as real human beings rather than as props for their own identity? Do they listen? Do they breathe? Do they know how to pause? These are signs of embodied union. A teenager can do this immediately. You can practice communion by being present with your friend when they are sad without trying to fix them. You can practice communion by eating a meal slowly enough to taste it. You can practice communion by putting your phone down and feeling your feet on the floor for twenty seconds, and noticing that you are alive, and that aliveness is not an accident. There is something else we want to name with kindness: rituals persist even when meaning is forgotten because the human heart remembers that something mattered. A fossil is not a failure; it is evidence that life once moved in that shape. So rather than dismissing ritual, we invite reinterpretation. Reinterpretation is not rebellion; it is retrieval. It is picking up the living flame again and letting it warm your hands. If you were raised with a ritual that felt confusing, you can keep what is nourishing and release what feels like pressure, because pressure is never the signature of Source. You can keep gratitude. You can keep reverence. You can keep the feeling of togetherness. You can release the idea that you need an external act to make you worthy. Worthiness is not produced; it is recognized. As you reinterpret communion, it becomes internal and continuous rather than occasional and external. It becomes a moment-to-moment awareness of unity between consciousness and form, and that awareness begins to change your choices gently, the way better sleep changes your mood without a speech. You start noticing what inputs feel nourishing and what inputs make you feel scattered. You begin to realize that what you watch, what you listen to, what you scroll, what you repeat in your mind, all of it is a kind of communion, because you are taking something into your field. (I am shown a wet sponge again, and this time it is not about effort; it is about openness, because an open sponge absorbs clean water easily, and a clenched sponge stays dry even when it is surrounded by a river.) Your nervous system is the sponge, friends, and what you soak into it becomes your atmosphere, and your atmosphere becomes your reality.
When you live communion as a continuous state, you do not need a calendar to tell you when you are allowed to be close to God, because closeness becomes the default. You can still enjoy ceremonies, you can still honor tradition, you can still sit in a quiet space with others and feel the softness that arises, yet you will no longer confuse the doorway with the destination. You will no longer confuse the symbol with the Source. You will no longer confuse the container with the water. This is the reversal undone, gently, without conflict, by simple lived truth. And as this truth becomes ordinary in you, it naturally leads into the next understanding, because when communion is internal, authority must also become internal, and that is where many of you feel both excited and uncertain, because the world has trained you to doubt your own inner knowing, and we are here to help you trust it again in a way that stays kind. One of the most dramatic misunderstandings on your planet has been the belief that love needs an enemy, and we will not feed that misunderstanding, because your young hearts deserve better than endless battles. If we use the phrase “anti-Christ pattern,” we use it only as a shorthand for a simple idea: the pattern that opposes inner union is not a villain; it is outsourcing. It is the habit of handing your inner compass to an external voice. It is the reflex of saying, “Tell me who I am, tell me what to believe, tell me what to do, tell me whether I’m okay,” and then feeling temporary relief when someone answers, and then feeling anxiety again when the answer changes. That pattern can wear religious clothing, and it can wear modern clothing, and it can even wear the clothing of a “spiritual influencer,” because humans are creative, and so is avoidance. Yet the antidote is not suspicion; the antidote is inner contact. Spiritual authority becomes distorted when guidance turns into governance. Guidance says, “Here is a way; see if it helps you.” Governance says, “Here is the way; follow it or you do not belong.” The difference is felt immediately in the body. Guidance feels like choice. Governance feels like pressure. Wisdom becomes a rule-set when people stop trusting discernment and start craving certainty, and certainty is tempting, because uncertainty can feel uncomfortable, especially for young people navigating a world that changes fast. Yet discernment is a skill, and like any skill, it grows through practice, not through perfection. You can practice discernment in small ways: notice how you feel after spending time with a certain person; notice how you feel after listening to certain music; notice how you feel after you speak honestly versus when you perform. Discernment is not judgment; it is awareness, and awareness is the foundation of freedom. Intermediaries arise when people fear direct contact with Source. Direct contact makes humans harder to manipulate, because a person who can sit in quiet presence and feel their own inner truth does not panic as easily, and panic is what many systems rely on to keep attention. When you are calm, you become less predictable to external control, because you stop reacting on cue. So intermediaries appear, sometimes with sincere intention, sometimes with mixed motives, sometimes simply because tradition repeats itself, and the sacred is said to be protected, while access to the sacred becomes limited. Yet we are not here to fight intermediaries; we are here to help you become so steady that intermediaries become optional. You can still learn from teachers. You can still enjoy mentors. You can still listen to elders. The difference is that you do not hand them your steering wheel. You let them be a map, not your driver.
On your planet, obedience has often been mistaken for devotion. This is especially confusing for young people because adults sometimes praise you for compliance and call it maturity, even when it costs you your authenticity. True devotion is not obedience to a human structure; true devotion is alignment with love in your own being. Alignment shows up as honesty. Alignment shows up as kindness. Alignment shows up as boundaries that protect your peace without punishing others. Compliance can be useful in some contexts—traffic rules, school safety, basic agreements—but when compliance becomes your spiritual identity, you lose your own inner compass. You start thinking that being “good” means being small, and being small is not holy. Being real is holy. Being kind is holy. Being awake is holy. Being small is simply being afraid. As consciousness matures, authority systems do not need to be attacked; they fracture through irrelevance. A structure that requires your dependency loses its grip when you no longer need it to feel close to God. This does not have to be dramatic. It can be as simple as a young person choosing to pause before reacting, and that pause becomes a new timeline, because in that pause you can hear your heart. (I am shown a vast library of probabilities, like shelves of glowing books, and when a human chooses calm instead of reflex, a new shelf lights up, and the room becomes brighter, and no one had to fight anyone for that light to appear.) The return of inner authority is stabilizing, not chaotic, because self-governing beings require fewer external controls, not more, and when a person is connected to Source, they do not need constant policing to behave with decency; decency becomes natural. Christ consciousness, as we speak of it, is self-governing and non-hierarchical. It cannot be commanded or ranked. It arises spontaneously from alignment the way laughter arises spontaneously when something is genuinely funny. You cannot force laughter without making it awkward, and you cannot force awakening without making it performative. Alignment happens when you stop trying to be special and start being honest, and honesty is the shortest path to God, because God is not impressed by your image, God is moved by your sincerity. When you realize this, you become less susceptible to voices that claim ownership of truth, because any voice that claims ownership of truth is revealing insecurity, and you do not need to adopt that insecurity. There is a beautiful paradox here for your young audience: the more you trust your inner authority, the less you feel the need to prove anything. Your nervous system softens. Your friendships improve. Your choices become cleaner. You stop chasing drama because drama is exhausting. You stop chasing approval because approval is unreliable. You begin to recognize a deeper approval that comes from within, which is not arrogance, it is groundedness. This groundedness is not a personality trait; it is a state of union. It is communion lived as inner authority, and it prepares you for the next step, which is not a philosophy step, but a body step, because even the best ideas remain slippery until the nervous system can hold them, and your generation needs practices that land in real life, not just in concepts.
So let us speak now, in the most practical way we can, about the human energy body, because it is not a side note to awakening; it is the interface. Many people were taught that spirituality is an escape from the body, as if the body is a problem to overcome, but that teaching creates the very disconnection that makes people anxious. The body is not a prison; it is an instrument, and instruments need tuning. You already understand this if you play sports, if you play music, if you even play video games seriously, because you know your performance changes when you are hungry, dehydrated, sleep-deprived, or stressed, and you would never call your controller “sinful” for needing batteries; you would just replace the batteries. Treat your emotional body with the same practical kindness. Your emotional body is the translator between Source and daily life. If the translator is overwhelmed, the message becomes scrambled, and people mistakenly call that scrambled feeling “spiritual failure,” when it is often simply overload. Regulation is not a fancy word. It is the ability to return to calm. It is the ability to come back to yourself after something spikes your emotions. Young people are dealing with more stimulation than any generation before you—notifications, comparisons, constant opinions, speed, pressure—and your systems are adapting, yet adaptation requires rest. An energy body that never rests becomes jumpy, and a jumpy system has trouble sensing the quiet voice of inner truth, not because the truth is absent, but because the room is loud. (I am shown a crowded cafeteria, the kind you have in schools, and someone is trying to whisper a kind sentence to you, and you cannot hear it until you step into the hallway, and the hallway is your breath.) The breath is not boring. The breath is the hallway. There is a misconception that awakening must be dramatic, intense, and destabilizing. Some people even chase intensity because they think intensity equals importance, yet in mature consciousness, truth tends to feel grounding rather than chaotic. When upheaval happens, it is often the release of old tension, not the arrival of God. God is not chaotic. God is coherent. Coherence feels like a quiet yes in your chest. Coherence feels like clarity without urgency. Coherence feels like being able to say, “I don’t know yet,” without panicking. That is a spiritual skill. If you can say, “I don’t know yet,” and still feel safe, you are already living in a more advanced state than many adults who perform certainty to hide their fear. Gentleness, rest, and simplicity are not optional extras; they are prerequisites for stable realization. If you are young and you feel pressure to “be enlightened,” let that pressure go. Enlightenment is not a performance. It is not a brand. It is not a special aesthetic. It is a lived state of kindness and clarity. One of the best practices for a young audience is the smallest one: pause before you speak when you feel emotionally charged. That pause is a doorway. In that pause, you can choose to respond rather than react. You can choose to breathe. You can choose to be honest without being cruel. You can choose to protect your peace without attacking someone else’s. This is nervous system mastery, and it is spiritual maturity, and it will make you more powerful in the best way: not power over others, but power to remain yourself.
Another quiet truth perhaps: the body learns safety through repetition, not through speeches. You can tell yourself, “I am safe,” but if you never sleep, never eat properly, never move, never step outside, never connect with supportive people, your nervous system will not believe you. So be kind to your body in ordinary ways. Drink water. Eat food that actually nourishes you. Move your body in a way that feels good rather than punishing. Sit in nature when you can, because nature is a regulating force, and you do not have to be “spiritual” to benefit from it; you just have to be present. When you do these things, inner authority begins to return naturally. Guidance becomes quieter and clearer. You stop chasing signs. You stop needing constant confirmation. You begin to feel the simple truth of your own inner compass, and that compass does not shout; it leans. One of the most beautiful things about nervous system regulation is that it changes your social world without you having to manage people. When you are regulated, you become less reactive, and less reactive people are easier to be around, and your relationships improve. You stop feeding drama. You stop participating in emotional chain reactions. You become a calm presence, and calm is contagious. You have seen this in classrooms: one calm student can steady a friend who is spiraling. You have seen this in sports: one grounded teammate can shift the whole team’s energy. This is not mystical; it is practical. Your nervous system communicates with other nervous systems all the time. When you become coherent, you offer coherence to the room. Christ consciousness, in this lens, is not a belief. It is physiological coherence matched with spiritual clarity. It is your body and mind facing the same direction. It is your inner world and outer actions aligned. It is the ability to be kind under pressure without suppressing yourself. It is the ability to apologize without collapsing into shame. It is the ability to set a boundary without becoming mean. These are advanced skills, and they are learnable, and your generation can learn them quickly because you are already tired of pretending. When coherence stabilizes in you, you begin to notice that you feel different inside old structures, and this leads naturally to the next phase many of you are already living: the feeling of being between worlds. If you have felt like you don’t fully fit the “old way” but you also don’t want to float away into fantasy, we want you to know that this is normal, and more than normal, it is functional. The “bridge state” is a natural phase of integrated consciousness. It is not a failure to belong. It is the experience of no longer resonating with older patterns while learning how to live a new one in a world that is still catching up. For young people, this can look like feeling bored by drama you used to tolerate. It can look like outgrowing certain friend groups without hating anyone. It can look like wanting meaning, not just excitement. It can look like craving real conversation instead of constant irony. That is not you becoming “too serious”; that is you becoming more real. Bridge beings are not here to rescue the world, and I want to say that clearly, because some of you carry a quiet pressure to fix everything, and that pressure can make you anxious. Your role, if you are in this bridge state, is not to convince, convert, or awaken others. Your role is to hold coherence. Presence regulates fields more effectively than persuasion. You do not need to win arguments to help the world. You need to be steady. You need to be kind. You need to be honest. You need to be grounded in your body. That steadiness is not passive. It is active spiritual leadership, and it often looks very ordinary from the outside, which is one reason it is so powerful: it is harder to manipulate what you cannot easily label.
Bridge consciousness can feel lonely sometimes, and not because you are unloved, but because you are less interested in playing roles. Many institutions—religious, social, educational—are built on hierarchy and performance, and when you begin living from inner authority, performance becomes less appealing. You may step back. You may need more quiet. You may need fewer opinions. People may interpret your refinement as distance. Let them have their interpretation without taking it personally. Separation here is perceptual, not relational. You can still love people while choosing a different frequency of conversation. You can still be kind while protecting your energy. You can still participate without surrendering your center. Christ consciousness functions as a bridge between form and Source, meaning you can be in the world without being owned by it. You can enjoy life without being addicted to distraction. You can care without collapsing. You can help without controlling. This is a balanced power, and balance is the signature of mature spirituality. Some people think spirituality means transcendence, as if you must float above life, but the more mature truth is integration: you are present here, and you are connected within, and you do not have to choose one. You become a living bridge, and a living bridge is not dramatic; it is reliable. One of the most valuable contributions of bridge beings is non-reaction, and I do not mean numbness. I mean regulated steadiness. When you do not amplify fear, you help the whole field. When you pause before reposting outrage, you help the whole field. When you choose curiosity instead of sarcasm, you help the whole field. When you can sit with discomfort without turning it into drama, you help the whole field. Neutrality is not indifference; it is mastery. It is a strength that does not need to dominate. It is a calm that does not need to prove itself. It is a kindness that does not need to be applauded. (I am shown a bridge over a rushing river, and the bridge is not shouting at the water to calm down; it is simply there, steady, allowing passage, and that is you.) Bridge beings are often misunderstood during transitional times because coherence is hard to recognize in systems accustomed to urgency. People may mislabel you as disengaged when you are actually discerning. They may call you “quiet” as if quiet is a flaw, yet quiet is where truth becomes audible. They may call you “different” as if different is dangerous, yet different is how evolution looks before it becomes normal. Let misunderstanding be temporary. You do not need everyone to get you. You need to remain true to the inner compass that is learning to steer your life. The bridge phase resolves as collective perception recalibrates. What feels like standing between worlds is, in truth, the future learning to stand. As more humans become self-governing from within, the bridge state becomes less lonely because it becomes common. You will find your people. You will find your rhythm. You will build communities that feel like real circles rather than staircases. You will create art that carries coherence. You will choose careers that match your values. You will bring your calm into places that have forgotten calm, and you will not have to announce it; your presence will do it. This is how the Christed field spreads: not through conquest, not through arguments, not through pressure, but through embodied coherence becoming ordinary.
Before we close, we offer you something very simple that you can do without any fanfare, because the most powerful things do not require performance. When you feel yourself outsourcing your worth, bring it back gently. When you feel yourself outsourcing your guidance, bring it back gently. When you feel yourself outsourcing your belonging, bring it back gently. You can even say, quietly, in your own words, “Source is here,” and then do one small act that supports your nervous system: drink water, step outside, breathe slowly, put your hand on your chest, listen to one song that actually soothes you, tell the truth to someone safe, go to sleep when you can, and notice how your inner world becomes clearer not because you earned it, but because clarity is the natural state of a system that is not being whipped into anxiety. I am Yavvia of Sirius, and we are near you in the way a supportive colleague is near you, not hovering over you, not judging you, but watching with respect as you learn to walk with your own inner light. You are not late. You are not failing. You are becoming. The sacred has never been absent from your life; it has been waiting for you to stop running from yourself. Be expectant of good things and they will find you, not as a magical promise, but as a simple law of attention: what you practice becomes your atmosphere, what becomes your atmosphere becomes your reality, and you are practicing something new now, something kinder, something more honest, something that feels like coming home. Blessings abound, friends, and yes, you are those blessings, and we are grateful to witness you.
