The Voice of Reason - Part 1: Who's Really Speaking?
An Essene Life Mantra
Dr. Kenn McSperitt
What does it really mean when someone says, “God spoke to me”? In the opening installment of The Voice of Reason series, Dr. Kenn explores one of humanity’s oldest and most profound questions—not to challenge faith, but to deepen it through curiosity, discernment, and thoughtful reflection. Blending ancient peace traditions with everyday experience, this Essene Life Mantra invites readers to consider the relationship between intuition, reason, and spiritual insight, while discovering why asking better questions may be one of the highest expressions of wisdom.
Have you ever had someone tell you this?
"God spoke to me."
Maybe you've even said it yourself.
It's one of those phrases that most of us have heard often enough that we rarely stop to think about it.
But I'd like to do exactly that tonight.
Not because I want to challenge anyone's faith.
Far from it.
I simply want us to ask a question.
What do we actually mean when we say God speaks?
It's a fascinating question.
Because if we're honest, every one of us has experienced something that felt bigger than ourselves.
A moment of clarity.
An intuition.
A feeling that we should turn left instead of right.
A sudden realization that changed the course of our lives.
A quiet whisper urging us to call someone...
to forgive someone...
to slow down...
to pay attention.
We've all had moments like that.
The question is...
where did they come from?
Some people immediately say,
"That was God."
Others say,
"That was my intuition."
Still others might call it instinct...
conscience...
or simply the subconscious mind putting pieces together before the conscious mind catches up.
Personally, I find all of those possibilities interesting.
And if you've listened to these communions for very long, you already know something about me.
I'm much more interested in asking good questions than pretending I have every answer.
In one of our previous talks, we explored the Three Paths to Truth.
Nature.
Intuition.
And the fruits- the degree of Beauty - an idea produces in our lives.
I've come back to those three guides over and over again because they keep me grounded.
They remind me that extraordinary claims deserve thoughtful examination.
Not cynical dismissal.
But not blind acceptance either.
That's an important distinction.
You see, I don't think skepticism and faith are enemies.
I think they need each other.
Faith without discernment can become gullibility.
Discernment without openness can become cynicism.
Wisdom lives somewhere between those two extremes.
Now let's imagine something together.
Suppose someone says,
"God told me to do this."
How would we know whether that's true?
Can we measure it?
Can we observe it?
Can we verify it?
Usually...
we can't.
And that's okay.
Not everything meaningful can be placed under a microscope.
Love can't.
Beauty can't.
Joy can't.
Peace can't.
But here's where I think we need to be careful.
Just because something feels profoundly real to me doesn't necessarily mean it came from beyond me.
Our minds are extraordinary.
They can remember things we forgot we ever learned.
They can recognize patterns before we're consciously aware of them.
They can solve problems while we're asleep.
They can create dreams so vivid that we wake up convinced they actually happened.
The human mind is a remarkable thing.
Which means that humility becomes incredibly important.
The older I get, the more comfortable I become saying,
"I don't know exactly where that insight came from."
And strangely enough...
that doesn't weaken my spirituality.
It strengthens it.
Because mystery invites wonder.
Certainty often closes the door.
Think about the greatest moments of insight you've ever experienced.
Did they usually arrive while you were rushing?
While scrolling your phone?
While arguing online?
Probably not.
More often than not, they came during stillness.
A quiet walk.
A drive with the radio off.
Sitting beside a river.
Watching a sunset.
Working in the garden.
Moments when your mind finally became quiet enough to hear...
something.
Maybe that's why every ancient peace tradition placed such value on silence.
Not because silence is magical.
But because constant noise drowns out subtle things.
I've often wondered if what we call "hearing God" has less to do with God becoming louder...
and more to do with us finally becoming quiet.
That's a very different way of thinking about it.
It also places some responsibility back into our own hands.
Instead of constantly asking,
"Why won't God speak to me?"
perhaps we should ask,
"Have I created enough stillness to listen?"
Now notice...
I haven't told you what the voice is.
I'm not trying to.
Because I don't think that's the most important question.
I think the more important question is this:
What kind of person does the voice encourage you to become?
Does it make you more patient?
More compassionate?
More forgiving?
More honest?
More humble?
More peaceful?
Or does it make you fearful?
Angry?
Arrogant?
Divisive?
Self-righteous?
Because I have a hard time believing that the Source of all wisdom would consistently lead us away from wisdom.
That thought has become one of the simplest filters in my own life.
I don't always know where an idea originated.
But I can usually observe what kind of fruit it produces.
And maybe that's where discernment truly begins.
Not by asking,
"Who said this?"
But rather,
"What kind of human being does this help me become?"
One of the things I've noticed over the years is that people often mistake confidence for truth.
Have you noticed that?
Someone speaks with absolute certainty, and we assume they must know what they're talking about.
Someone speaks quietly, cautiously, leaving room for questions, and we sometimes mistake that humility for weakness.
I think we've got that backwards.
The wisest people I've ever met have rarely been the loudest people in the room.
They've been the ones asking thoughtful questions.
Listening carefully.
Considering perspectives they hadn't considered before.
The more someone understands the complexity of life, the less likely they are to reduce it to simple slogans.
Nature has taught me that.
Life is rarely black and white.
Most of the important things exist in the shades between.
That's why I become cautious anytime someone tells me they've got all the answers.
Whether they're wearing a lab coat...
standing behind a pulpit...
sitting in a political office...
or talking into a camera.
We're all human beings trying to understand an extraordinarily mysterious universe.
That ought to make us humble.
One of the greatest gifts the Source has given us isn't certainty.
It's reason.
The ability to think.
To reflect.
To question.
To observe.
To change our minds when new understanding emerges.
I've said before that I don't believe faith and reason are enemies.
I think they're dance partners.
Reason keeps faith from drifting into fantasy.
Faith keeps reason from becoming so rigid that it loses its sense of wonder.
We need both.
Think about a child.
Children ask wonderful questions.
"Why is the sky blue?"
"Where does the wind come from?"
"Why do people die?"
They aren't embarrassed by not knowing.
Somewhere along the way, many adults lose that curiosity.
We begin believing we're supposed to have answers instead of questions.
And sometimes that pressure causes us to accept explanations too quickly.
Not because they're true.
Because they're comforting.
I've certainly done that in my own life.
There have been seasons where I wanted certainty more than I wanted truth.
Looking back, I can see the difference.
Truth usually made me grow.
Certainty simply made me comfortable.
Growth isn't always comfortable.
Personal evolution certainly isn't.
It asks us to hold our beliefs with open hands rather than clenched fists.
To remain teachable.
To allow life itself to become our instructor.
I've often said that Nature is our first scripture.
Before there were books...
before there were doctrines...
before there were denominations...
there was the sunrise.
The seasons.
The stars.
The rivers.
The forests.
And every one of them still has something to teach us.
None of them demand our belief.
They simply invite our observation.
Perhaps that's one of the reasons I find Nature so trustworthy.
It doesn't ask me to suspend reason.
It asks me to use it.
To pay attention.
To notice patterns.
To remain curious.
What if our spiritual lives were more like that?
What if instead of defending what we already believe, we became students again?
Students of Nature.
Students of compassion.
Students of wisdom.
Students of peace.
What if we approached every conversation asking,
"What might this person know that I don't?"
Instead of,
"How can I prove I'm right?"
Imagine how different our families would be.
Our communities.
Our churches.
Our classrooms.
Our world.
The goal isn't to abandon conviction.
It's to anchor conviction in humility.
To recognize that every one of us sees only part of the picture.
And perhaps the Source speaks most clearly...
not to those who claim to know everything...
but to those who remain willing to learn.
That's where I'd like to begin next time.
Because if there truly is a voice worth following...
how do we distinguish it from every other voice competing for our attention?
That's the question we'll explore together.
Dr. Kenn Challenge
Until we meet again, I'd like you to practice one simple habit.
For the next seven days, whenever someone expresses a viewpoint different from your own, resist the urge to correct them immediately.
Instead, ask one sincere question:
"Can you help me understand how you came to that conclusion?"
Don't debate.
Don't prepare your rebuttal.
Just listen.
You may not change your opinion.
They may not change theirs.
But if both of you leave with greater understanding than when you began, then wisdom has already done its work.
These are the teachings of the Ancients.
Timeless in origin.
Endless in application.
Dr. Kenn
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