2.3.7. The Crucifixion

“He said to them, ‘Do you bring out what is within you? That which you have will save you. If you do not have it within you, that which you do not have will kill you.’”

— Gnostic Gospel of Thomas, Logion 70

We come now to the heart of this passage through Albedo, to a chapter clothed in the unmistakable symbols of sacrifice and profound transformation. The Crucifixion, so deeply etched into the collective mind through art and ritual, is more than a historical or religious event. It is a coded map of the initiate’s inner process: the death of old selves, the tearing of veils, and the unsettling stillness that follows. Here, with hesitant reverence, I try to explore this story not as dogma or mere record, but as an alchemical testament to what happens when we surrender every last thread of who we believe we are.

I begin with the scriptural accounts themselves. In Matthew and John we find a tapestry of details — Simon of Cyrene pressed into service to carry the cross; the execution at Golgotha, meaning “place of a skull”; the sour wine mingled with gall, first refused, later accepted; garments divided into four parts, yet a seamless undergarment preserved by casting lots; the charge nailed above Jesus’ head in three languages; two thieves crucified alongside him; a temple veil torn from top to bottom; an earthquake, opened tombs, and the rising of the dead.

As initiates, we read such texts differently. We look for the strange repetitions, the oddly precise measurements, the curious details that seem to cry out for symbolic understanding. Whether these were ever literal or purely allegorical matters less than what they reveal about the path of transformation.

Consider Simon of Cyrene, whose very name means “he who hears God.” Compelled to carry the cross, he embodies that listening heart drawn into mystery, even while Jesus in John’s Gospel carries his own burden. Here I see the dual truth: we must each bear our own cross, yet the divine in us quietly assists. Simon later becomes Peter, meaning “stone,” the philosophical Stone of the alchemists, transformed through successive sacrifices.

The crucifixion takes place at Golgotha, the place of the skull. This death of the self is therefore both literal and deeply psychological. In the secret anatomy of our own consciousness, this event finds a corollary in the brainstem’s crossing fibres beneath the thalamus, where instinctive being is tempered by patience and elevated understanding.

Jesus is offered a numbing draught but refuses. Later, he accepts vinegar on a reed of hyssop — vinegar, the product of fermentation and decay, hyssop a symbol of purification. This is not an escape from pain but an embrace of it, a final bitter cup taken willingly. “It is finished,” he declares, surrendering completely.

Then comes the tearing of the temple veil, from top to bottom. In kabbalistic imagery this may not be the horizontal veil across Daʿath, but rather the vertical separation that divides self from pure being — perhaps the final rending of the Tree of Knowledge to reveal once more the Tree of Life. At that instant darkness falls, the earth quakes, graves open, and the dead rise. So too, within us, the old structures crack, hidden karmic residues stir, and what was once trapped in shadow emerges, perhaps briefly illumined.

Mystically, Jesus dies at the ninth hour, tied to Yesod on the Tree of Life — the foundation, the subtle body that bridges physical existence and inner light. By relinquishing identification with the physical, emotional, and rational bodies — our three modes of being, each a “tree of ten lights” or thirty sephirot in total — the initiate nails these to the cross. This sacrifice redeems them, transmuting base desires into golden, solar qualities. This is the price: thirty pieces of silver, a sum both meagre and immeasurable, the worth of all we mistakenly called “I.”

Meanwhile, two thieves — representing the distracted, self-oriented forces within — are crucified alongside. Like the dual currents in our mind, one rebellious, one remorseful, both must be fixed in stillness. Jesus refuses rescue, chooses instead total surrender. In that act the demonic aspects of our psyche, once turned inward to tempt, now turn outward, as taught in the Pistis Sophia, no longer seducing but standing guard, fierce yet aligned with dharma.

So much of this is mirrored across traditions. The Buddha, seated beneath the Bodhi Tree, vows not to rise until enlightenment, even if it means death — a gentle analogue to the crucifixion, this steadfast stillness before the cross of conditioned existence. Whether one kneels in shadow or sits in serene composure, the truth remains: the path requires the utter relinquishment of what we were. Only then does something entirely new emerge.

The Crucifixion is the profound enactment of the death of our old selves. It is not a call to martyrdom but to the sacrifice of our clinging to form, feeling, and thought. Through this relinquishment, the soul is readied for rebirth, transmuted by the very fires that seemed poised to destroy it. In this, we glimpse the quiet paradox of alchemy: only by dying does the Stone live.

This text is excerpted from the upcoming book Albedo: A Course in Modern Alchemy. The complete volume will include additional study guides, glossaries, and extended teachings. Learn more about the book here.