What It Means to Be—or to Become
I’m scrolling through X/Twitter when I land on this video of a woman from the ‘60s. She’s dancing in black boots, shaking her butt with that curious mix of purity and provocation that only pre-Britney pop culture seemed to pull off. She sings—“You keep lying, when you oughta be truthing…”—and somehow, it hits me. Not just the rhythm, but the reminder of something deeper: that God is real—not in the static sense we often reduce Him to—but as part of a living metaphysical process. A process of becoming.
This “becoming” is a process of change. It requires something added, something that moves us, say, an idea. And Plato knew: not all movement is upward. Not all ideas lead to the Good. There are infinite ideas—some true, some false, some seductive, some hollow. What interrupts our ascent, our actual becoming, among many things, is when we become transfixed by only objects and their shadow. Like the woman shaking her hips: if I focus only on her surface—on the exotic shimmer of shadow play—I forget to ask what’s behind her. What inspired her? What is she an image of?
In Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, prisoners are trapped watching shadows of objects flicker on the wall, mistaking them for reality. The real world—the source of those shadows—is behind them, and only by turning around can they begin to escape. Today, the shadows dance on our screens, our timelines, our cravings. But the logic is the same. If you’re distracted by the shadows of objects—by the representation—you’re not engaged in the inner process of developing the idea within yourself. You’re not becoming.
Plato takes us further in The Sophist. He describes existence as made of two forces: the active and the passive. The active is what initiates, what moves—like the idea, the source of transformation. The passive is what receives, what responds. In us, the soul becomes the meeting ground. The true idea—when it enters—is not inert. It stirs, it questions, it awakens. Sometimes we call it the daemon, the divine spirit within that draws us upward. In Christian language, it is like Christ—the Logos—entering the world, entering us. Without the active, there is no change. Without the receptive, no transformation. But together—when what is higher meets what is willing to receive—a new life begins. This is the very shape of becoming.
In Christianity, this is symbolically enacted in the Eucharist. When we receive the bread, we are not just remembering Christ—we are taking him into ourselves. And because the Father lives in Him, that divine life enters us too. The active enters the passive. The eternal touches the temporal. This is not symbolic alone; it is metaphysical. Christ—the divine Logos—is the active principle. We, in receiving Him, become the receptive soul. And through this union, transformation begins. The soul is moved by something higher, it conceives, it gives birth to new life. This is becoming—not a change of appearance, but a change of being. We are no longer merely ourselves. We become vessels of what lives beyond us.
Plato, in The Sophist, gives this inner transformation a metaphysical frame. He speaks of a cosmic conflict between the “giants,” who believe only what they can touch is real, and the “gods,” who hold that only eternal, intangible Forms truly exist. But the true philosopher, he says, must reject both extremes. Reality is not confined to matter, nor is it locked in abstraction. Being, rather, is power—the capacity to act or to be acted upon by something higher, something real. This isn’t mere mechanics; it’s a relationship, a dynamic exchange. Motion and rest. Soul and spirit. The active and the passive. This mirrors the Christian mystery: Christ, the divine Logos, acts upon the receptive soul, and through that union, we are not merely changed—we are reborn. When the soul, moved by the light of ideas, opens itself through dialectic—through questioning, receiving, and striving—it becomes fertile. It conceives. It gives birth. It becomes powerful. It is.
So when I say becoming is real, I mean this: not just living, but awakening—slowly, painfully, beautifully—by facing what isn’t obvious. By refusing the shadows of objects and seeking their source. If there is a hierarchy of beings (and I suspect there is), those nearer the top would be very interested in what kind of ideas you give birth to. Some may even seek to kill off idea-creation in those who don’t support harmony. So the stakes are high. We don’t escape the cave by merely obeying a hierarchy—we begin to rise when we turn inward, focusing on the ideas taking shape within us, and give birth to what is beautiful and good in harmony with the greater order—the cosmos, the divine hierarchy of Being. With what truly is.
Not by staring at the dancer’s shadow, but by asking: What is this dance trying to tell me? What is goodness, and how can I shape my soul to reflect it? We become not by chasing shadows, but by turning toward the light behind them—and letting it transform us from within.
