#15: Let the Old Man Die

Let the Old Man Die

A Lecture in the Voice and Spirit of Neville Goddard

You must let the old man die.

You who sit here tonight, perhaps heavy with a life that repeats the same disappointments, the same lacks, the same unfulfilled longings—you already know the weight of that old self you carry. It clings to you like a garment grown too tight, a conception of yourself you have worn so long that it feels like skin. Yet until you let that old man die, nothing in your world can truly change. For your world is nothing but the outpicturing of the self you are conscious of being. Change the self, and the world must follow. Refuse to change it, and the old will continue to solidify around you as though it were the only reality.

The old man is your former identity—the sum total of all you have accepted about yourself up to this moment. It is the bundle of beliefs, memories, fears, and limitations you have clothed yourself in. It is the “I” that says, “I am this kind of person,” “I have always been this way,” “This is just how things are for me.” That self is not your true being. It is only a conception, a garment. And garments can be put off. The Scriptures cry it plainly: put off the old man, which is corrupt according to its deceitful lusts, and be renewed in the spirit of your mind. Put on the new man. This is no mere poetic phrase. It is the law of your being. You cannot pour new wine into old bottles. You cannot patch new cloth onto old garments. You cannot carry any fragment of the old man into the new consciousness and expect the new to appear.

Hear this with the ear of the spirit. Consciousness is the only reality. Your present world, in every detail, is your consciousness made visible. You are forever outpicturing that which you are conscious of being. As long as you remain conscious of being the old man—burdened, limited, unworthy, stuck—so long will that same old man walk the earth in your shoes and meet the same old circumstances. The giants in the land will still tower over you, and you will still see yourself as a grasshopper in your own sight. But the moment you let the old man die—really die, by withdrawing every scrap of attention from him—the new man is born, and the giants shrink to nothing.

How, then, do you let him die? Not by fighting him. Not by arguing with him. Not by trying to improve him or patch him up. You let him die by simply taking your attention away from him entirely. You withdraw the life-giving sap of your awareness from that old conception. You become absent from the body—the old body of belief—and present with the Lord, which is your awareness of being, pure and faceless and free. You say silently, yet with feeling, “I AM.” Not “I am this” or “I am that” yet. Just I AM. You dwell in the formless deep of yourself until the old garment slips away like a discarded skin. Only then, in that clear space, do you give form to the new conception by feeling yourself to be the very thing you desire to express.

This is the mystery of rebirth. “Except a man be born again he cannot see the kingdom of Heaven.” The kingdom is not some far-off place. It is your own consciousness when it has been cleansed of the old man. To be born again is not a future event after death. It is this moment, when you drop the old self and assume the nature of the new. Jesus spoke to Nicodemus of this very thing, yet Nicodemus could not grasp it because he looked for signs outside himself. The new birth is an inner act. It happens in the quiet of your own mind when you leave behind your present conception of yourself and assume the feeling of the wish fulfilled.

You who feel stuck tonight, listen closely. The old man dies not through effort but through neglect. You starve him of attention. You refuse to feed him with the old inner conversations that have sustained him all these years. Those inner words—the endless rehearsal of your troubles, your lacks, your failures—are the former conversation of the old man. Put them off. Let them go. Be renewed in the spirit of your mind. Let your inner speech become the language of the new man, the man you are now choosing to be. For inner speech is the womb in which tomorrow’s facts are conceived. Change the conversation within, and the outer world must rearrange itself to match.

Tonight, before you sleep, practice this death and this birth. Go within. Feel the weight of the old man—whatever name he bears in your life: the sick one, the poor one, the unsuccessful one, the unloved one. Recognize it fully, then deliberately withdraw. Do not fight it. Do not resist it. Simply turn your back upon it in consciousness. Let your attention rest in the pure awareness of I AM. Rest there until every trace of the old feeling dissolves. Then, in that same deep, give yourself the new feeling. Feel yourself to be the healthy one, the wealthy one, the successful one, the beloved one. Do not merely think about it. Feel it as natural, as normal, as already so. Lose yourself in that feeling until the new man is more real to you than the old ever was. Sleep in that assumption. Let it sink into the depths of your being like seed into fertile soil. This is how the old man dies and the new is born.

You may object that the evidence of your senses still shouts the reality of the old man. The body still aches. The bank account still shows lack. The relationships still reflect the old pattern. Of course they do. The outer world is only the dead image of what you were conscious of being yesterday and the day before. It is a shadow, not the substance. Do not look at it. Do not argue with it. Do not try to change it directly. That is the old man’s way, and the old man is dying. Turn your eyes inward. Keep your attention fixed on the new feeling of yourself. Persist in this until the new consciousness becomes natural. Then, and only then, will the outer world be compelled to reflect the change. Signs follow, they do not precede. The new man appears when the old has been completely put off.

This dying is not once and for all. Life is endless growth. Like the serpent, you must learn to shed each skin as you outgrow it. Every time you reach a new level of desire, the old self that corresponds to the former level must die. You must loose him and let him go. This is the wisdom of the serpent and the harmlessness of the dove. You die to the lesser without struggle, and you rise to the greater without harm. Man is immortal; therefore he must die endlessly. For life is a creative idea; it can only find itself in changing forms. The form you now wear—the old man—has served its purpose. Let it go. Do not clutch it. Do not mourn it. It was never the real you. The real you is the awareness of being, faceless, formless, free—capable of assuming any form you choose.

You are not improving the old man. You are not reforming him. You are letting him die so that the new man, created in righteousness and true holiness, can be born. This is not a gradual process of self-improvement. It is a radical act of self-rebirth. The moment you fully accept the new conception and feel it to be natural, the old is as though it never existed. Your world will bear witness. The evidence will come. Not because you forced it, but because consciousness is the only reality and it must objectify itself. What you are conscious of being, you must express.

Doubts will come. They always do at first. The old man, though dying, will whisper from the grave: “But look at the facts. Remember who you have always been.” Ignore those whispers. They are the last echoes of a corpse. Do not answer them. Do not reason with them. Simply return to the feeling of the new man. Persist. The doubts themselves will die when they receive no attention. For attention is the food of every state. Starve the old. Feed the new. This is the law.

Tonight, in the privacy of your own mind, let the old man die. Do it thoroughly. Do it without reservation. Feel the relief of laying down a burden you were never meant to carry forever. Feel the lightness of the new man rising within you. Sleep in that new identity. Wake tomorrow morning as that new man. Walk through your day as that new man. Speak, think, and feel from that new center. Do not wait for the outer world to change first. The change begins and ends within. The outer is only the echo.

You have the power right now. No one can do this for you. No external savior is coming. The savior is your own awareness of being when it assumes the new form. “I and my Father are one,” said the one who knew this law. Your awareness of being is the Father. The new conception you assume is the Son. They are one. When you feel yourself to be the new man, the Father within you does the work. You need do nothing but remain in that feeling.

Let this sink deeply into you tonight. You are not the old man. You never truly were. You are the eternal awareness that has been wearing many garments. The time has come to put off the old and put on the new. Do it now. Do it completely. Let the old man die, and watch the new man live and move and have his being in a world made new.

This is the great secret. This is the pearl of great price. This is the kingdom of Heaven taken by force—the force of your own determined assumption. You who have carried the old man long enough, lay him down tonight. Rise in the new. And as you rise, your world will rise with you. For you are the operant power. You are the cause. Let the old man die, and the new man—radiant, free, fulfilled—will be born in you this very night.

You must let the old man die. There is no other way. And when you do, you will know, with a knowing that cannot be shaken, that you have always been the new man waiting to be claimed. The old was only a dream from which you have now awakened. The new is reality. Claim it. Live it. Be it. And the world will have no choice but to confirm what you have done in the secret place of your own consciousness.

This is the truth. This is the law. This is your freedom. Let the old man die—completely, joyfully, finally—and enter into the life you were born to live.