The Devout One, the Scholar, and the Sage | A story about Easter and spiritual awakening

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This year, Easter felt different.

Usually, this holiday lights up my world—it’s a time that fills me with energy, joy, and a quiet kind of inner celebration. But this time, something felt... off. I found myself wondering, over and over: what had changed?

My thoughts began to drift—gently, involuntarily—back to my childhood.

I remembered Easter mornings filled with laughter in the yard, running wild with the other kids in the family. We’d race around until thirst and exhaustion caught us, then gulp down cold lemonade like it was the nectar of the gods. I could almost smell the fluffy, home-baked kozunak and see the table set with bright, hand-dyed eggs. I remembered how we proudly showed off our paint-smeared fingers—tiny badges of both creativity and enthusiasm.

The men would talk about topics we, the kids, found terribly dull, while the women moved about the kitchen, where the warm scent of roast lamb and fresh salad filled the air. Carefree. Joyful. Alive.

But does this mean I’m not happy now?

Or that my life has grown too heavy, too full of adult burdens?

No. That’s not it. I realize now—I am happy. Even my worries feel essential somehow, like a natural part of the whole.

And that’s when it hit me. That was the difference.

This Easter, I met the day with a joyful, unburdened mind. Just like I did when I was a child. And in that clarity, I recognized something profound: for most of my adult life, I had been living in a kind of amnesia. A forgetting—not of facts, but of feeling. Of what childlike joy actually feels like. The kind that wells up the moment your eyes open in the morning.

Maybe this forgetting was the very reason I spent so long chasing fleeting highs.

Caught in the ego’s illusion that happiness lives in expensive things, in social status, or in collecting approval—likes, followers, applause. The kind of chase that offers brief hits of satisfaction, only to leave a deeper void behind. A void I’d try to fill with a new pursuit, then another.

Years ago, I probably would’ve typed “how to kill the ego” into Google, not realizing that even that impulse was just another ego-driven desire.

Which brings me to a story.

The story of the Devout One, the Scholar, and the Sage.

Each one of them crossed my path this past year—and I know now that none of those encounters were random. They were synchronicities. Conscious ones.

The story begins with a decision.

I had enrolled in the online academy of Professor Jordan Peterson—an undeniably brilliant man, shaped by deep trials and an unwavering commitment to helping others. One day, I’ll tell you more about him. But not today. Today is about something else.

Even in a virtual setting, the academy connected me with people from all over the world. People who, like me, were hungry for knowledge in areas not often discussed around the dinner table. I met philosophers, ideologues, physicists—and plenty of ordinary souls seeking their own Truth.

I began posting articles in the social platform of the academy.

They explored topics close to my heart: religion, the Bogomils, God, Beinsa Douno… I even wrote about how understanding Love and Fear could be used to heal the mind. In one article, I suggested that sadism may be a manifestation of fear. That one struck a nerve.

Some responses were brutal. One person wrote, “In my 20 years of experience, I’ve never heard anything more absurd.”But I’ve learned something: when you start to uncover the One Truth, the Universe always sends support.

For every harsh critic, there was someone who replied, “This reminds me of a study by a Belgian doctor who found that sadism can stem from fear,” or, “That sounds a lot like something Lao Tzu said in the Tao Te Ching.”

Interestingly enough, those with the “20 years of experience” didn’t reply again.

To my surprise, it was my article on the Bogomils that sparked the most attention.

That piece led me to connect with an ordinary Australian man on an extraordinary journey toward God. He had a sincere, deep curiosity about the Bogomils. In my words, he found confirmation of his own personal reading of the Holy Book. He realized why certain parts of it had never felt true to him before.

We became friends. Sometimes I would share an idea, and he’d respond with a Bible verse before I even finished typing. Other times, he’d ask about the Bogomils, about Douno, or about my personal thoughts on spiritual questions.

No, he wasn’t the Devout One. In fact, he was the most spiritually awake person I met in the entire academy. Together, we often tried to spark deeper reflection and self-awareness in the community. Most times, we failed.

But it became clear to me: meeting him may have been the real reason I was led to that academy.

Over time, though, the initial euphoria faded.

As weeks passed, I grew more disillusioned. New articles kept appearing, but so many of them felt like performances. Virtue-signaling without depth. Righteousness without Truth.

I started to wonder—was the academy just a distraction dressed in noble robes?

And that’s when I met the Devout One.

The Devout One had published a rather pompous post

about the preparations his parish was making for Halloween. It was a large parish in a major Canadian city.

My Australian friend responded immediately. He quoted the Bible condemning pride as a deadly sin and pointed out that Halloween was rooted more in satanic traditions rather than in Christian faith.

The Devout One replied that he didn’t understand the concern about pride and added that he had researched a lot to ensure Halloween was a small compromise with Christian values.

That’s when my friend asked: “Imagine your wife is loving and faithful every day of the year—except for one. Once a year, she sleeps with the neighbor. How would you feel about that?”

Among all the comments, no one dared to answer. The Devout One never posted again. And shortly after that, I left the academy. Not long after that, my Australian friend left, too.

A few weeks ago, I met a Bulgarian professor

who agreed to sit down for an interview—a conversation I plan to share with you soon. I won’t reveal his name just yet, so for now, I’ll simply call him the Professor.

One thing I can tell you: his work has saved dozens of lives, one way or another. And I can also tell you this—he is no stranger to the One Truth.

But more on him later. Let’s get back to the story.

After my meeting with the Professor, I felt a pull

to seek out someone at the opposite end of the spectrum. Someone whose intellect had become a fortress—so fortified, it made them deaf and blind to anything beyond empirical logic.

It didn’t take long. Providence soon brought me face to face with an American physicist and neuroscientist.

Meet the Scientist.

He proudly declared himself a staunch atheist.

“Perfect,” I thought. I asked him, “If you don’t believe in God, do you at least believe in energy?”

With a smirk, he replied that energy isn’t a ‘thing’—it’s a property.

So I asked, “Then how can everything in existence have energy?”

He launched into a thorough, technical explanation. He also took the opportunity to correct my interpretation of mass-energy equivalence.

Then I asked again, more directly, “So what is energy, exactly?”

He answered curtly: “Energy is the potential to do work or cause change.”

I mentioned the Higgs boson and the Higgs field.

I wanted to touch on their connection to energy. He quickly corrected me again, insisting the universe isn’t made of energy, but rather of finely tuned quantum fields that determine how energy behaves.

“Don’t these fields being so perfectly tuned suggest a form of intelligence beyond us?” I asked.

That’s when the lecture began. A long monologue, circling the same arguments—avoiding the question.

I asked again.Same lecture, slightly longer.

I knew a third time would only bring the same. So I changed course and asked about his second area of expertise: neuroscience.

He agreed to shift the conversation to neuroscience,

and I immediately asked, “Do you believe in consciousness?”

“Of course,” he said, before launching into a five-minute lecture. To paraphrase: consciousness, according to him, is the experience the brain produces while processing signals through various neural pathways. He even explained which parts of the brain handle which functions.

I followed up, “If that’s what consciousness is, where does it go when we’re unconscious?”

You guessed it—same lecture, this time drawn out to almost ten minutes.

He explained how electroencephalograms (EEGs) can detect brain activity even in unconscious states. I then asked how he would explain Carl Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious and archetypes, given how varied human brains are in size and structure. Didn’t that imply there should only be a limited number of consciousness types?

He responded by saying that not everyone manifests the same personality traits, and that the archetypes—the Shadow, the Self, the Anima and Animus—appear in infinitely diverse ways.

Then I made the mistake of asking him about gut feelings. “Intuition is a form of consciousness,” I said. “How do you explain that?”

Big mistake. That got me the same lecture, again. Now stretching into a third round—ten minutes long, at least. I tried to interrupt him a few times, to bring him back to the point. No luck.

Once again, I heard about neurons, brain lobes, sensory inputs, and so on.

I was amazed.

How could someone so intelligent be so blind to the disconnect between the question and the answer?

It was as if he was clinging—desperately—to the paradigms that gave his persona structure. I asked him what he thought of philosophies like Buddhism and Daoism—traditions that don’t contradict science, and in some ways even support it.

He asked me what I believed was more real: something proven in practice that explains specific phenomena, or something that explains them subjectively and less reliably.

I replied that we have no definitive evidence that these philosophies are less successful—only that they offer different explanations, ones that don’t oppose scientific thought.

He countered with a question: would I rather trust empirical data, or abstract ideas that can’t be validated?

I said, “Just because something can’t be proven doesn’t make it any more—or less—true than what science confirms.”

Another lecture began.

But I’d stopped listening.

What struck me was his need to prove me wrong.

I wasn’t the one with a wall full of degrees or accolades. Why did it matter so much to him?

What would the Scientist gain from my agreement?

Nothing—except maybe an ego boost. Another opportunity to prove how much he knew.

I wanted to challenge him. To tell him that his lecture was like someone explaining how a computer displays sound and images by describing electromagnetic pulses and circuit functions.

I wanted him to admit that a computer is just a receiver and a converter of information.

Then I caught myself. That urge to provoke—ego again.And I already knew what his answer would be: the same lecture, this time twenty minutes long.

I had no doubt: this man had built such dense walls around his consciousness, even a miracle unfolding before his eyes would be rationalized into irrelevance.

Which brings me to the Sage.

I first heard about him through a Bulgarian woman living in the States. She’d reached out to me after reading some of my blog posts. We became friends and had many deep conversations.

One day, she mentioned the Sage. I had never heard of him before. But over time, I began to notice something extraordinary: this man was not only intellectually awake—but spiritually, too.

I spent a long time trying to get in touch with him, but without success.

Then, during one of my conversations with the Professor, I brought up the Sage's name.

To my surprise, the Professor knew him well. He gave me his direct contact details. Not only that—he even let the Sage know I would be reaching out.

I was elated.

And yet, part of me wasn’t surprised. I knew it was only a matter of time.

Those of you who follow my blog know how the Universe responds to sincere intent. You know about karma. About fate. Some of you have already learned to expect the unexpected. Or better yet—to co-create synchronicity.

In your minds, peace has already settled. A sense of fulfillment has begun to bloom. Not from external success, but from something far deeper—what some call knowledge. Or, more accurately: Knowing. Some might even call it spiritual awakening.

That’s what I saw in the Sage.

When he spoke, I heard the One Truth.

Perhaps that’s why he earned my respect so effortlessly. And why I’ll be sharing more about him with you very soon.

For now, I’ll leave you with a brief moment from our most recent conversation.

I asked him, “If I could answer a question you haven’t yet found the answer to—what would you ask me?”

Without a second’s hesitation, he replied,

“I don’t have such a question.”

I smiled. “True friendship,” I thought, “doesn’t even need words. Sometimes, silence is enough.”

All I said was,

“That’s a happy answer.”

And somehow, that reply lit a quiet spark inside me—the same spark that blossomed into today’s Easter reflection. And gave voice to the story I’ve shared with you.