Most people relate to God as something external. Powerful, distant, wholly separate. God up there, you down here, and a relationship built out of worship, obedience and hope for intervention.
That framework rests on a misunderstanding, and the misunderstanding is the separation itself.
You aren’t apart from God. You’re God experiencing itself from one particular vantage point. Not as metaphor and not as poetry. As a description of what everything is.
That’s the book in four sentences. It took two hundred and seventy pages to work out what follows from it.
What changes if God is literally everything?
Everything downstream, and this is the part that surprised me when I started following it.
Death becomes transition instead of ending. This is a structural consequence and not a comfort offered in a hospital corridor: if what you’re is God experiencing itself from one vantage point, then the vantage point ending isn’t the same event as the thing experiencing it ending.
Relationships become encounters between different expressions of one consciousness. That sounds abstract until you apply it to an argument with somebody you love, or to the way you treat a stranger who has nothing to offer you.
Suffering becomes exploration of the full range of possible experience, with no punishment in it and no test administered by something outside you keeping score.
None of those are conclusions I went looking for. They’re what the initial claim produces when you refuse to stop halfway.
How long should you wait before writing a book about faith?
Decades.
I have felt this was true for a very long time, and I fought it the entire way. Doubt was never the reason. It isn’t well received, and I knew that before I ever said it out loud.
There’s a particular kind of silence you learn around an idea like this. You notice which rooms it can’t be said in, nearly all of them, and after enough years the not-saying becomes automatic and you stop noticing you’re doing it.
What were you fighting, if not doubt?
Social engineering.
The conditioning that comes with growing up is tremendous, and most of it is invisible because it arrived before you’d any way to evaluate it. We’re taught to believe what our parents believe. We’re taught to believe what our society tells us to believe. None of that is presented as instruction. It’s presented as reality, and that’s why it works so well.
I’ve spent my life breaking social engineering where I find it, and I have written about how little of it survives examination. This one required more than noticing. It required thinking outside the box in a way I hadn’t needed to before, because the box in question is the one every person I knew was standing in.
And this isn’t something I think is true. It’s something I know is true. There’s a large difference between those two states and most writing about belief blurs it deliberately.
Can you be raised Church of Christ and still call yourself a Christian?
It looks like one and it isn’t.
God is everywhere. God is everything. God is every time. God is everyone. And God can take any form God wants to take.
Follow that through and Christianity becomes one of the forms instead of a competitor to the framework. A tradition, a set of practices, a way a very large number of people have organized their relationship with something they correctly perceived as real. The framework doesn’t require me to abandon it, because the framework doesn’t put anything outside itself.
The apparent conflict only exists if you assume the framework is a replacement religion. It isn’t. It’s a description of what the thing being worshipped is, and traditions are among the ways people reach it.
I grew up in that church and I left it at fourteen for reasons that had nothing to do with theology. The questions stayed. This book is what happened to them over the following decades.
Why ask readers to test a theological claim instead of accepting it?
Because what I know is mine.
The book is what I know. Other people have things they know, arrived at through their own experience, and those are theirs. What I’m asking isn’t that anybody accept my certainty. It’s that they look at their own experience and decide what’s true for them.
It’s the only test I offered and the only one that means anything. Read it and see whether it makes better sense of your own life than what you were handed. If it doesn’t, discard it. I’d rather somebody reject the framework after examining it than accept it because a book told them to, since accepting things because a book told you to is the exact habit that produced the misunderstanding in the first place.
There are no articles of faith in it. That’s deliberate, and it’s the line between this and a creed.
How did a short exploration turn into forty-two chapters?
The inkblot method.
I started with a single concept. God is everything. That was the whole of it, one drop on the page, and I began writing from there without any plan for where it would go. I don’t remember what the first sentence was or how I chose it. It started somewhere and then it spread.
That’s what an inkblot does. It moves outward from one point in every direction at once, and you don’t decide the shape.
What I discovered is that redefining the central term forces you to re-examine everything that touches it, and everything touches it. If God is everything, then consciousness needs rethinking. So does time, and free will, and what death is. So does ethics, because ethics between separate beings and ethics between expressions of one consciousness aren’t the same subject. So does raising children, if the children are also divine. So do relationships. So does the existence of life elsewhere in the cosmos.
None of that was planned. Each chapter existed because the previous one made it necessary.
This is one of those books that wrote itself, and I have said elsewhere that I outline almost everything. This was the exception, and it was the exception because the material demanded it. You can’t outline a spread. You can only follow it and see where the edges land.
What was the hardest chapter of God Is Everything to write?
The first one, and the concept was never the difficulty. Getting a thing you’ve held privately for decades into a form somebody else can read is a different act entirely, and the first chapter is where that conversion has to happen or the book fails on page one.
Everything after it was easier, and that tells you the conversion worked.
What does the framework fail to explain?
Nothing, and the section title is worded carefully.
The book has a part called what the framework appears not to explain, and the word appears carries the weight. Mental illness sits there. Evil sits there. Meaningless suffering sits there.
Those are the cases people raise, and they raise them as refutations. The answer is the same shape as the answer traditional theology gives when somebody asks why God allows bad things to happen: free will. The framework doesn’t fail to explain mental illness. Mental illness is part of life. The framework is about life. There’s no outside for it to fail to cover.
I put those chapters in instead of leaving them out because a framework that ducks its hardest cases isn’t a framework, it’s an advertisement. If you’re going to claim a model describes everything, you have to walk it into the places where people expect it to break and show what happens there.
I put those chapters in instead of leaving them out because a framework that ducks its hardest cases isn’t a framework, it’s an advertisement.Share on X
Whether I succeeded is for a reader to judge. That’s what the test is for.
There’s a practical reason to write a thing like this down that’s nothing to do with readers.
An idea you carry privately for decades never has to hold together. It can shift when convenient, avoid its own difficult cases, and stay comfortably vague at exactly the points where vagueness helps. Writing it out removes that shelter. Two hundred and seventy pages won’t let you skip the part where somebody asks about a child dying, and the discipline of having to answer is the whole value of the exercise.
I found several places where what I believed was thinner than I’d assumed, and I’d to go back and think properly about them. That doesn’t happen while an idea lives only in your head.
Who should read a book arguing that God is everything?
People who find the external-deity model incoherent and haven’t been able to say so. People who left religion without losing the questions, a larger group than either the religious or the irreligious like to admit. People who want an argument they can test instead of a creed they must accept.
It isn’t for somebody looking for doctrine from an established tradition, or scholarly comparative religion, or devotional writing, or confirmation of what they already believe. I said all of that on the sales page because there’s no sense selling a book to somebody it’ll annoy.
Why write a book you never intend to promote?
Because I wanted my philosophy written down.
This is another book I did mainly for me. What I think about life, the universe and everything, to borrow a phrase, and how I believe it works. Nobody has said a word about it since it published. Fine, because I haven’t asked anybody to.
I’m not a theologian. I hold no position in any tradition and I’m not seeking one. What I have is thirty-three years in enterprise technology, and it taught me one habit that turned out to matter here: test a model against what it’s to explain, and discard it when it fails.
I applied that habit to the largest question I have and this is the result. It’s a framework offered on its merits, sitting in the philosophy section of my library by itself, and it’ll either make better sense of your experience than what you were given or it won’t.
That’s the offer. There’s nothing else in it.