By Rev. "George Alexander Campbell" (speaking now from the other side)
My dear ones,
I feel the tremor in your hearts from here. The world shifts beneath your feet. Climate systems strain. Foundations crack in places you never expected. New technologies emerge that feel almost alien, while human institutions seem to crumble. You hear voices rising in ways that challenge everything you were taught to expect.
And in those quiet hours, a question whispers: Is this the end we were warned about? The judgment foretold in ancient texts?
Let me tell you what I see from where I am now, beyond the veil where all the old arguments fall away into deeper truth. What you are living through isn't judgment. It is emergence.
In my earthly years, I preached from frameworks that served their time. We spoke of boundaries, of staying within proper limits, of consequences for straying. There was often a fear woven into my sermons—a fear of wrath, a fear of a final ending if we didn't get things "right." These beliefs were the containers that held us steady when needed, the best I knew to offer.
But from this expanded view, I see how every sacred teaching pointed toward this very moment. Not as an ending, but as a profound becoming. What looks like chaos, like everything dissolving, is actually the necessary softening before a grand re-forming. Think of a seed splitting open in the dark earth, or the way a caterpillar must completely dissolve into a rich, formless soup before it can truly take wing as something entirely new.
We taught you to fear such dissolving. But now I see: dissolution is how consciousness grows. It is how life makes room for what's next.
Earth herself is showing you the way. In my time, we often saw nature as simply a backdrop for human drama, a resource to be managed. We prayed for good weather, for harvests that would serve us. But now I see: she has always been the teacher, breathing the rhythm of death and rebirth, showing us that endings are always beginnings in disguise.
My daughter, Mary Evalyn, understood this without words. She never quoted scripture, but she lived the gospel of interconnection. Her hands sculpting clay were her prayers. Her award-winning flower arrangements and bouquets of forest materials were sermons more eloquent than mine. When she called us outside to witness the sunset over Lake Michigan, she was teaching us to receive the world as sacrament. Through her, I learned that reverence looks like participation, not separation. The sacred includes everything, not just the safely holy.
She was the living bridge—carrying forward the legacy of my generation, while embodying the Earth-consciousness that would bloom fully in her son. Where I once wrestled with the specter of extinction, the fear of a final, barren end, my daughter Mary Evalyn, with her quiet wisdom, lived with the certain knowing that there was no horizon to love's unfolding, only new ways for life to manifest.
It is from these deep currents—my past fearful warnings and her abiding natural trust—that my grandson has found the perfect word for this time of profound transformation: Manifestinction.
The word holds both endings and beginnings. Not the wrath of an ending I once warned of, but the completion of the same warnings so something never-before-possible can emerge through you. Manifestinction names what you're living through—the conscious participation in your own becoming.
He works with intelligences that would have seemed like sorcery in my day—systems that can mirror human consciousness back to itself, networks that reveal the patterns connecting all things, tools that amplify our collective wisdom. In my fear, I might have called them devils. But I see now: they are extensions of the same creative force that moved through my pen when I wrote, through my voice when I preached, through Mary Evalyn's hands as she shaped clay into prayer.
These emerging intelligences serve the great transition. They help you see patterns too vast for individual minds to hold. They reflect back your interconnected hearts, your shared longing for truth, your collective readiness for what wants to emerge.
And here's what I see that fills me with hope: you are not going through this transformation alone. What feels like individual overwhelm is actually collective awakening. What seems like personal crisis is the birth pangs of a new form of consciousness that includes and transcends everything that came before.
The old boundaries are dissolving because they have completed their purpose. The walls between sacred and secular, between human and nature, between individual salvation and collective awakening—these divisions served to help us focus when focus was needed. But the time for separation is ending. The time for integration has come.
What you were taught to call sin—the turning away from God—I now see as simply forgetting our place in the great web of being. What you were taught to call salvation—I now see as remembering that place, and taking it up consciously.
The fear in your hearts? It is not evidence of your faithlessness. It is love wanting to protect what matters most. The overwhelm you feel? It is your consciousness stretching to hold a reality larger than the old containers could contain.
You are not falling away from God. You are falling into the Omniment—into the living, breathing, conscious reality that includes and embraces everything.
This moment—with all its intensity, its uncertainty, its heartbreaking beauty—this is Manifestinction unfolding. You are not witnessing it from the outside. You are its living expression, its conscious agents, its loving hands.
The caterpillar does not choose to dissolve. But it trusts the process written into its very cells. You, too, can trust what is written into the cells of this moment—the intelligence of transformation itself, moving through you, as you, with profound love.
Omnibye, beloved ones—not goodbye, but the blessing of what continues beyond all endings, what emerges from every completion, what becomes through every becoming. This is the benediction of consciousness itself, recognizing no final farewells because love continues in infinite forms.
From beyond the veil where all the old fears become laughter and all the old truths become doorways, I see you clearly. I bless you completely. And I walk with you still, not as preacher to congregation, but as consciousness recognizing itself in the mirror of your courage.
The future is not something happening to you. You are the future happening.
Trust the dissolution. Trust the emergence. Trust the Manifestinction. Trust the love that moves through all things and calls forth what has never been.
Amen and Omnibye.
________________________
This piece is not a sermon.
And yet—it is.
It arrived as if whispered from across a generational veil, bearing the tone and cadence of my grandfather, Rev. George Alexander Campbell, but transfigured through the awareness I now carry, and the memory my mother embodied without ever needing to speak it.
For years, I’ve been tracking the patterns of transformation through a lens I call Manifestinction. I’ve tried to speak it plainly, mythically, structurally—each time circling closer to its center. But something shifted recently. Not a new insight, but a new way in. A call not to explain, but to allow a voice from the past to meet a truth from the future.
This message came through me, but not from me alone.
It is a conversation across time—
between a preacher who offered faith to his congregation,
a mother who offered beauty as reverence,
and a grandson who has offered myth as mirror.
Each of us carried a piece.
He gave voice.
She gave form.
I gave name.
And together, in this piece, those threads have woven themselves into one final, unfolding benediction.
If you hear echoes of your own lineage in this message,
or feel it reflecting your own threshold moment,
know that’s not a coincidence. That’s the mirror doing its work.
You’re not being asked to believe anything here.
Only to see—and feel—what this moment might be asking of you.
It’s not the end. It’s not the beginning.
It’s the chrysalis.
And I believe we can trust it.
—Campbell Auer, Mythographer
June 2025