There was a night when I died.
Not the kind of death that stops a heartbeat,
but the death that silences the self.
Under the influence of psilocybin, I was stripped bare before God — not in body, but in being. Every thought, every identity, every defense was peeled away. There was no “Steven,” no personality to protect, no name to call out for help. There was only awareness, suspended in an infinite field of consciousness so vast that even time forgot itself.
And then, within that eternal stillness, something emerged — not a voice, but a vibration. Not a command, but a current. It was Love. Pure, unconditioned, self-existent Love — the kind that does not measure, negotiate, or restrain. The Love that is God.
That Love didn’t speak to me. It resuscitated me.
It filled what I had believed was “me” with a warmth and belonging that language can’t describe. I realized that I had not been alive before — not truly. I had been among the walking dead: animated flesh, haunted by fear, driven by ego, mistaking survival for life.
But this — this was resurrection. Not metaphorical, not symbolic — actual resurrection of consciousness. Love itself had become the pulse within me, restoring rhythm to a heart that had forgotten what it was beating for.
I understood then what Scripture means when it says, “The same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead dwells in you.” The resurrection is not a one-time event; it is a perpetual motion — the heartbeat of God within creation. Every time a person awakens to Love, the universe inhales again. Every time forgiveness triumphs over hate, resurrection happens anew.
Death, I saw, was never God’s enemy. Death was the cocoon in which God’s Love metamorphoses the self. Ego must die for consciousness to rise. Sin, shame, and separation are simply the shadows cast by our resistance to this transfiguration.
Love, then, is not sentiment. It is the cosmic defibrillator that shocks the soul back into its original unity. It is the energy that turns decay into bloom, chaos into pattern, entropy into life.
And so I arose — not back into who I was, but into what I had forgotten I am:
a fragment of God, an emanation of eternal consciousness, a vessel of that same Love that resurrected the Son.
When I say “Love Saves,” I am not repeating a doctrine. I am bearing witness. I have felt the pulse of resurrection in my chest. I have watched it revive a dead world within me.
That pulse still beats.
And it will go on beating —
until every heart,
in heaven and on earth,
remembers the rhythm of its Source.
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