[cont] Jesus emerges as a disruptor, overturning tables in that very sanctuary, proclaiming the kingdom within rather than in marble and gold. He haunts like Fenrir: a figure born of divine mischief (the virgin birth paralleling Loki's trickster lineage), bound by Roman chains yet breaking free through resurrection, devouring the old order's certainties. To the temple-builders—the Pharisees, the Sadducees, even the Roman imperium—he is the instinctual threat, the intuitive prophet who intuits the soul's eternal thread beyond ritual law. The three I's shine here: *innateness* in his claim to be the "I Am," the inherent divinity mirroring the self's core; *instinct* in his wilderness temptations and parables drawn from nature's raw pulse; *intuition* in his foreknowledge of betrayal and crucifixion, a knowing that transcends scriptural constructs. This "wolf" haunts the Jewish psyche not as destroyer but as mirror—Jesus, emerging from within Judaism itself, challenges the permanence of the Second Temple (destroyed in 70 CE, as if fulfilling his own prophecy), forcing a reckoning with impermanence. Rabbinic Judaism rebuilds not in stone but in text and tradition, yet the specter lingers: Christianity's spread as a devouring force, swallowing pagan worlds while echoing Jewish roots. Across "multiple lifetimes"—the reincarnations of faith through diaspora, inquisitions, and modern dialogues—the three I's prove superior. Materials forfeit: Temples fall (Solomon's, Herod's), empires dissolve (Babylonian, Roman), but the innate spark of self, the instinct to endure, the intuition of renewal persist. One side fears death, hoarding gold for altars and fearing the wolf's bite; the other embraces it, knowing permanence is maya, an illusion shattered by each rebirth.
In this duality, the temple-builders symbolize humanity's egoic grasp: pyramids, cathedrals, skyscrapers—all monuments to defy entropy, born from fear of the final breath. They see death as thief, stealing legacies carved in granite. But the three I's, wolf-like, prowl beyond: innateness as the unchanging essence carried through samsara's wheel; instinct as the gut-pull toward survival and transformation, untaught by scrolls; intuition as the third eye glimpsing patterns across incarnations, where loss is gain. Fenrir and Jesus, as wolves, embody this liberation—devourers of false eternities, harbingers of cycles where death is lover, not foe. To embrace them is to live wildly: forfeit the hoard, dance in the ruins, trust the self's triad to navigate the dark woods.
Yet, is this superiority absolute? The wolves haunt because they need the gods and temples as foil—the unbound defined by the chain, the haunts by the haunted. Perhaps the true muse lies in synthesis: build with awareness that all crumbles, intuit the wolf's wisdom in the architect's hand. In the end, across lifetimes, the three I's whisper that self is the only temple unbroken, where life and death entwine like Odin’s ravens, thought and memory, circling eternal.