There is no particular reason you should know the name Alan Watts. Watts was a 20th-century British philosopher known for popularizing the Eastern religions of Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism for Western audiences. After training in Zen Buddhism, he became an Episcopal priest, but left that to join the Asian religions more deeply and even experiment with psychedelic drugs. He gained a wide audience because of the ways his rich and witty British intellect described exotic topics unfamiliar to most in America. He did not refer to “God” or “Christ” or “prayer” or “the Eucharist” as traditional Christians understand them, but he did speak and write about inner peace, interior stillness, and the full realization not of God within the self, but of the self as god.

Watts became popular. He helped a lot of people wean off of material things and wake to material things. But as time passed and his career took off, he grew increasingly dark with a behavior increasingly carnal. He married three times, smoked constantly, drank a lot. Even when doctors told him he must give up alcohol or his liver would explode, he refused. As his life moved toward the end, he depended on his need to perform and to receive approval from an audience. This intellectual, this philosopher, this popular public guru spoke of enlightenment, awakening, spirituality, peace, worshiping the God-self, but until his dying days, he was never able to shake the deepest tragedy of his core. Not long before he died, Alan Watts admitted to a friend, “I don’t like myself when I am sober.”

What precisely did the remarkable Mary of Egypt go into the desert to find? What did this extraordinary woman enter the wilderness to see? Sure, she was directed there by nothing less than the voice of Christ’s Mother, “Cross the Jordan and there you will find rest,” but what did that rest look like? A comfortable stretch of grass, propping up her feet, eating figs and contemplating the passing clouds? What did Mary go into the desert to find?

In an age that tells us we should be ashamed or apologetic of who God created us to be, it is good to know that every Christian Divine Liturgy we attend gives us clues about who we are, about our identity, about what lies inside. Here are some of them.

O holy God, who hast created man after thine own image and likeness and hast adorned him with thine every gift.

Thou it was who didst bring us from non-existence into being, and when we had fallen away didst raise us up again and didst not cease to do all things until thou hadst brought us back to heaven and hadst endowed us with thy kingdom which is to come.

Having delivered us and all thy faithful people from every impurity, sanctify all our souls and bodies with the sanctification which cannot be taken away.

What did you notice about those phrases? Did you notice that they were all in the past tense, as if it had already happened? “Who adorned man with thy every gift”—not “will adorn,” but “has adorned.” “When we had fallen away, didst raise us up again”—not “will raise,” but “has raised.” “Didst not cease to do all things until thou hadst brought us back to heaven”—not “will bring us back,” but already “brought us back.” “And hadst endowed us with thy kingdom which is to come”—not “will endow,” but already has. “Having delivered us and all thy faithful people from every purity”—already has delivered us from every impurity.

When the Son and Word of God assumed flesh by the Holy Spirit and the Virgin Mary, he became human. When his sinless perfection touched our human nature, he was not tainted; we were uplifted. He was not dirtied; we were cleansed. He was not defiled; we were deified.

Stay with this just a moment. Because of Christ, human nature is pure, transformed, bright. Because of Christ, human nature has been seated at the right hand of the Father, an expression that means nothing short than equality with God. Not “will be seated” but already has. That is what hovers within you even at this moment.

This glow is not ours by nature, but only by grace. This glow is not some personal creation but pure gift, not ours by right or entitlement, but only because of Christ alone, who is the light of the world. This is why we answer the big question, “Who am I?” not firstly with an examination of the self but with the discovery of Jesus Christ.

How does the great St. Porphyrios describe this?

Sin makes a person exceedingly psychologically confused, and nothing makes the confusion go away, nothing except the light of Christ. Christ makes the first move. […] Then we accept this light with our good will, which we express through our love for him: through our prayer, through our participation in the life of the Church, and through the sacraments.

What precisely did Mary of Egypt go into the desert to find? Her deep heart. What did this extraordinary woman enter the wilderness to see? The image of God within. St. Mary of Egypt spent 47 years in the desert doing what? Stripping layers of sin and its consequence so that the glow of Christ could shine.

Our journey in this Christian experience is not to become something we aren’t, but to transform into who we truly are, to strip away sin and its consequence, to discover what Christ called the kingdom of heaven that is within you. Gradually and over time we will learn to celebrate who God made us to be. We don’t mean a self-love that is selfish or prideful or arrogant, not a worldly or celebrity self-love, but a self-love that happily decreases so that he may increase. He made us, not we ourselves. He redeemed us, so we love him for his work.

What is the good news the Church has for the world? You are not rotten to the core. You are redeemed at the core. Don’t hurt yourself; find yourself.

Even when doctors told Alan Watts he must give up alcohol or his liver would explode, he refused. As his life moved toward the end, he depended on his need to perform and to receive approval from an audience. This intellectual, this philosopher, this popular public guru spoke of enlightenment, awakening, spirituality, peace, worshiping the God-self, but until his dying days, he was not quite able to shake the deepest tragedy. Not long before he died, Alan Watts admitted to a friend, “I don’t like myself when I am sober.”

We might say that to be Christian is to enter a journey of learning how to accept who we are, even when sober. Not a self-absorption, not a stubborn refusal to change or grow, not an apathy toward sin, just an acceptance that God loved me into being and has redeemed human nature with his own sinless perfection. Maybe I can’t find it yet, maybe I don’t feel it, maybe it seems so far away and unattainable—but that is who I am, and discovering it is why I am here.

So here’s what we have to look forward to. As we mature in Christ, we will be able to say: I accept myself when I am sober. I accept myself without the red wine. I accept myself without the addiction to pleasure or distraction. Because of Christ, I accept myself without the approval of others. I accept myself without winning every argument. I accept myself without having to get the big laugh. Because of Christ, I accept myself without getting picked first. I accept myself without the highest IQ. I accept myself without having to get everything right. Because of Christ, I accept myself without the perfect figure. I accept myself without the distraction of technology. I accept myself without the perfect life.

The holy services refer to Christ as the Lover of mankind. The more we rest in that, the more we love him in return.