There’s a particular TikTok sound that’s hard to shake. A man muttering to himself—clearly caught in a mental argument. Insults fly back and forth. You can’t always tell who’s speaking, but one of them always says “cunt” like it’s punctuation. It’s crude. It’s unhinged. And it’s painfully honest.
At first, it seems laughable. But keep listening—and it’s haunting. That sound is the inner conversation of a mind at war with itself. It’s the voice of the man in the tombs, the one who says:
My name is Legion, for we are many.
(Mark 5:9)
He cuts himself, cries out, and is ungovernable:
Always, night and day, he was in the mountains and in the tombs, crying out and cutting himself with stones.
(Mark 5:5)
Neville Goddard taught that this man isn’t someone outside of us. He is us—when we let our imagination be possessed by the world’s ideas, labels, traumas, and fears. When we forget the truth of I Am.
That TikTok voice is a modern Legion. The daily stream of inner noise, blaming, looping, swearing at ghosts in our heads—this is what it looks like when we’ve accepted too many names that were never ours to begin with. We don’t just have a problem—we’ve been named by it. And we accept it.
Lazarus and the Death by Forgetfulness
But what happens when you’re not screaming anymore? When you’re too tired to argue, too exhausted to resist, too buried beneath it all?
That’s when we meet Lazarus.
Lazarus is dead. Four days gone. Wrapped in grave clothes. His story is often told as a miracle of Jesus bringing a man back to life—but symbolically, it’s far more intimate than that.
Lazarus is your imagination, buried under the weight of facts, appearances, and the resignation that “this is just how life is.”
Lord, by this time he stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.
(John 11:39)
Neville said death in Scripture means a state where something is no longer active in consciousness. Lazarus has fallen—not with a scream, but with a sigh. He fell on the sword of repetition. Of doubt. Of waiting for proof instead of declaring the unseen as real.
Jesus doesn’t argue with death. He calls it out:
“Lazarus, come forth.”
(John 11:43)
That’s what it takes—an I Am that cuts through everything you’ve believed up to that point.
But Lazarus Wasn’t the First to Fall on a Sword
If the New Testament story of Lazarus is the end of a long chain of symbolic deaths, then Saul in the Old Testament is one of the clearest earlier forms of the same fall.
Saul was chosen. He had a crown. He had a calling. But he couldn’t let go of fear. He couldn’t wait. He couldn’t trust. And when David—his spiritual successor—arrived, Saul began to unravel.
Eventually, in battle, he falls on his sword:
Then said Saul unto his armourbearer, Draw thy sword, and thrust me through... But his armourbearer would not... therefore Saul took a sword, and fell upon it.
(1 Samuel 31:4)
Not by accident. But deliberately. Because he couldn’t surrender the state of ego that says, I must fix this on my own. He couldn't accept that a new way of being was trying to rise up within him.
So he chose death over transformation.
In a way, Saul and Lazarus both fall on swords:
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Saul’s fall is conscious resistance. He kills the part of himself that once responded to Spirit, because he can't handle being replaced by a higher state.
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Lazarus’s fall is unconscious submission. He dies into facts, into appearances, into the belief that things just are the way they are.
Missing the Mark: The Sword in Our Own Hands
In Scripture, the word sin is often misunderstood as moral failure. But in the original Greek, hamartia simply means “missing the mark.”
For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God.
(Romans 3:23)
Neville taught that this “missing” isn’t about guilt—it’s about misdirection. Every time we aim our imagination away from the desire and toward fear, doubt, or limitation, we are committing the real sin: we are wounding ourselves.
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When you imagine failure, you miss the mark.
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When you accept lack, you miss the mark.
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When you speak about “how bad things are” more than what you wish them to be—you fall on your own sword.
Saul missed the mark and fell in the name of pride and control.
Lazarus missed the mark and was buried in forgetfulness.
Both are forms of self-inflicted injury.
The wages of sin is death.
(Romans 6:23)
Not a punishment from God, but the natural result of misusing creative power.
The Resurrection Always Begins with a Voice
Whether you’re screaming in the tombs like Legion, buried in silence like Lazarus, or holding onto your crown like Saul, the pattern is always the same:
You fall on your sword when you forget who you are.
But resurrection begins with a voice. A reminder. A call back to the most powerful sentence in existence:
Before Abraham was, I am.
(John 8:58)
It doesn’t matter how dead your situation looks. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been arguing with yourself. You are not the madness. You are not the tomb. You are not the sword.
You are the one who can hear the call—and come forth.
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