In medieval times, mathematicians struggled with the holy grail of a problem to "square the circle" which means constructing a square with the same area as a given circle using only a compass and straightedge. For centuries, this challenge represented the seemingly impossible in a similar fashion that finding the holy grail was elusive, until mathematicians finally proved it could not be done with those limited tools. Yet paradoxically, by expanding their toolset and reimagining the problem, later thinkers found ways to create approximations that are minimally different from the impossible ideal solution.

Today we face our own version of this ancient puzzle. Our institutions have become square frames as rigid, structured systems designed for efficiency and scale. Meanwhile, our deeper purposes remain circular as flowing, continuous, and connected to transcendent meanings. The disconnect between these shapes manifests as institutional dysfunction, where our organizations may efficiently perform tasks yet lose sight of their founding purpose.

This essay argues that the Knights of the Squared Circle, through the Code of Absurdity presented herein, provide not only an individual path toward meaning in improving institutional functioning but also a transformative methodology that produces both the people capable of institutional reform and the institutional environments receptive to renewal. By embodying and moving through the different knightly archetypes and acting with the sudo-intellectual methodology, individuals develop the capacity to reconnect members of dysfunctional systems with their founding values while simultaneously creating conditions where institutions can sustainably and effectively act in more and more accordance with those values.

A Check-up with Dr. Kierkegaard

In the midst of 19th-century Denmark's comfortable prosperity, Søren Kierkegaard emerged as a penetrating diagnostician of society's hidden spiritual ailments. While his contemporaries celebrated progress, reason, and social advancement, Kierkegaard detected a profound malaise beneath the surface—a crisis of meaning that technical achievements and material comforts could not address. Like a physician who discerns a life-threatening condition in a seemingly healthy patient, he identified symptoms of cultural decay that others dismissed or failed to recognize. His philosophical works, often written under pseudonyms and employing indirect communication, served as both diagnostic tools and potential remedies for what he saw as the spiritual sickness of his age.

Kierkegaard wrote against the backdrop of Danish society's nominal Christianity—a cultural Christianity that demanded little and offered even less in terms of authentic spiritual engagement. This context allowed him to develop a critical perspective that extends far beyond religious institutions to all human organizations that lose sight of their founding purposes. His insights into how individuals relate to collectives, how reflection can displace action, and how qualitative distinctions become flattened by quantitative measures offer us a framework for understanding our own institutional dysfunctions. By examining Kierkegaard's diagnosis in detail, we can better understand not just the symptoms but the underlying conditions of our modern institutional maladies.

Kierkegaard's Prophetic Diagnosis

Kierkegaard identified three interconnected dysfunctions that plague modern, both his and ours, institutional life, with each revealing a different dimension of how our organizations lose their connection to meaning and purpose.

First, "the sickness unto death" describes a form of existential despair that emerges when individuals surrender their personal responsibility and authentic selfhood to abstract systems and collective identities. Within institutions, this manifests as a pervasive alienation where participants follow procedures and protocols without understanding their deeper purpose. Workers become functionaries rather than agents, going through motions established by distant authorities rather than engaging meaningfully with the work itself. This creates organizations full of people who are present physically but absent spiritually.

Second, "the present age" refers to a cultural condition characterized by endless reflection without decisive action, where everything becomes flattened into spectacle or entertainment. In institutional settings, this appears as an obsession with analysis, reporting, and deliberation that never culminates in meaningful change. Organizations become trapped in cycles of meetings about meetings, studies about studies, and reforms about reforms—consuming enormous resources while postponing indefinitely the substantive work they were created to perform. The institutional capacity for decisive commitment atrophies while the capacity for documentation expands.

Third, "the leveling process" describes how bureaucratic systems reduce qualitative human experiences to quantitative measurements, eliminating the distinctions that give life meaning. Institutionally, this manifests as the tyranny of metrics, where only what can be measured is valued, and only what is valued gets measured. The richness of human experience and the complexity of real-world problems become flattened into dashboards, scorecards, and performance indicators that capture the countable while missing what counts. Quality becomes subordinated to quantity, wisdom to information, and purpose to process.

Our Bleak Prognosis

The prognosis for institutions afflicted by these conditions, without intervention, is grim: increasing disconnect between daily activities and founding missions, spiritual emptiness despite material and technological abundance, and the triumph of what Kierkegaard called "the numerical" where worth is determined by abstractions rather than authentic engagement. These dysfunctions operate cyclically and reinforce each other: despair leads to passivity, passivity enables leveling, and leveling deepens despair.

At their core, these dysfunctions represent a fundamental misalignment between institutional structures (rigid, bounded systems designed for efficiency and scale) and their animating purposes (flowing, continuous connections to deeper meaning and values). Modern institutions have become highly effective at self-perpetuation while forgetting why they exist in the first place.

This creates a paradoxical situation where organizations simultaneously function efficiently and fail completely, not unlike a train that runs perfectly on time while traveling in the wrong direction. This disconnect between means and ends represents a contemporary version of the ancient mathematical puzzle of "squaring the circle"—attempting to unite fundamentally different geometric realities within a single coherent framework.

The Course of Treatment

Kierkegaard's Circle

Kierkegaard's solution centers on personal transformation through his concept of the "knights of faith." These knights make a double movement: first resigning all hope in finite solutions, then paradoxically reclaiming the finite world through an "absurd" faith that acts despite impossibility. This circular journey begins with the Knight Who Says Ni, who recognizes absurdity and rebels against it; progresses to the Knight of Infinite Resignation, who withdraws from immediate action to develop deeper understanding; and culminates in the Knight of Faith, who returns to the world with transformed purpose.

These knightly archetypes represent a spiritual path that allows individuals to maintain meaning and purpose even within dysfunctional systems. They develop the courage to question established frameworks, the resilience to persist through apparent failure, and the wisdom to reconnect action with deeper purpose. Like a circle, this journey has no end point—it continues through cycles of recognition, resignation, and faithful return, each time deepening one's capacity to live authentically amidst absurdity.

Sudo-Intellectual's Square

The Sudo-Intellectual Framework offers a complementary square—a structured methodology for systemic change with clear boundaries and defined processes. This framework moves through three phases: creative disruption (Pseudo), where divergent thinking breaks open closed systems of thought; strategic planning (Meta), where critique evolves into comprehensive design; and faithful implementation (Sudo), where vision becomes concrete reality through disciplined action.

Unlike Kierkegaard's primarily personal and spiritual approach, the Sudo-Intellectual Framework directly addresses institutional structures and processes. It provides practical tools for imagining alternative futures, developing systematic understanding of how systems function and fail, and implementing transformative initiatives with continuous evaluation. This square framework creates boundaries that enable focused action while ensuring that personal transformation translates into tangible institutional impact.

Squaring the Circle of Institutional Dysfunction

When Kierkegaard's circular personal journey integrates with the Sudo-Intellectual's square framework, we discover a profound complementarity that addresses both personal and institutional dimensions of our crisis. The Knight Who Says Ni aligns with the Pseudo phase of creative disruption; the Knight of Infinite Resignation corresponds to the Meta phase of strategic planning; and the Knight of Faith parallels the Sudo phase of purposeful implementation.

This integration creates regenerative cycles—"holy loops"—where personal transformation fuels institutional renewal, which in turn creates environments more conducive to authentic existence. Each iteration doesn't just solve problems but builds capacity for addressing future challenges while strengthening connections to founding purposes. Like the ancient mathematical problem of squaring the circle, this synthesis approximates what is impossible in theory: uniting the flowing, continuous nature of personal meaning with the structured, bounded nature of institutional systems.

The Kierkegaardian-Sudo synthesis offers neither revolutionary destruction nor reactionary retrenchment, but rather a path of radical incremental transformation that honors both the depths of personal faith and the breadths of systemic complexity. It suggests that by embodying the movements between these knightly archetypes, individuals can develop precisely the qualities needed for meaningful reform while simultaneously creating institutional environments receptive to renewal.

The Code of Absurdity for Modern Knighthood

Our modern condition requires a new code - a Code of Absurdity for the Knights of this Squared Circle who engage in the quixotic quest of uniting the secular square and spiritual circle. These knights understand that in a world where institutional purpose has been forgotten, only seemingly absurd actions can break the frame enough to reconnect systems to their founding values. Like Don Quixote charging at windmills, they may appear ridiculous to conventional observers. Yet their apparent madness contains a method that conventional approaches lack - the ability to see beyond established frameworks.

The Knights of the Squared Circle take their name from this paradoxical mission. They seek to unite what appears impossible to unite: the square frame of systematic methodology with the circular lens of existential meaning. They recognize that personal transformation without institutional impact remains incomplete, while institutional reform without spiritual depth becomes another soulless process.

These knights wield both compass and straightedge - both the tools of spiritual orientation and systematic construction. They understand that addressing institutional challenges requires both the absurd courage to see deeper purposes where others see only bureaucratic procedures and the disciplined planning to engage them effectively.

In the sections that follow, we will explore the three archetypes that comprise the Knights of the Squared Circle and discover how their progression offers not just a path for individual meaning-making but a methodology for institutional renewal.

The Personal Movements of a Knight of the Squared Circle

The Knight Who Says Ni: Beginning in the Pseudo Mode

"NI! NI! NI! Bring us... a shrubbery!"

Remember the Knights Who Say Ni from Monty Python? They demanded nonsensical things from travelers passing through their forest. This absurd humor captures the first stance toward broken systems: creative resistance through absurdity.

The Knight Who Says Ni understands that when a system has become so serious that it can no longer solve the problems it was designed to address, only humor can break its spell. This knight operates in "Pseudo Mode"—performing knowledge they don't necessarily possess and authority they don't necessarily claim, making strange demands that expose the arbitrariness of all demands.

Consider James, a public servant in a government agency tasked with innovating service delivery. When he proposes ideas that could genuinely help citizens, he faces endless bureaucratic roadblocks: "That's not how we do things," or "We need seven more committees to approve this."

Rather than rage against the machine or surrender to it, James becomes a Knight Who Says Ni. He begins employing creative absurdity, He creates elaborate, nonsensical acronyms for his proposals that mirror the agency's love of meaningless abbreviations. He organizes meetings about meetings about meetings, highlighting the recursive bureaucracy. He performs governance theater with exaggerated seriousness, making visible the absurdity of empty rituals

James isn't being childish or unprofessional. He's using absurdity strategically—exposing the system's contradictions by taking its logic to extremes. His colleagues might laugh, roll their eyes, or even get annoyed, but some begin to see their work differently. The absurdity creates tiny cracks in the façade of normalcy.

The Knight Who Says Ni doesn't believe in the system but remains somewhat provocatively loud within it. This stage is characterized by the malicious compliance of going through the motions of the work to observe and exemplify the absurdity of its rituals, engaging in meme warfare that communicates deep truths through seemingly shallow jokes, and speaking in tongues by using language, behavior, or jargon that is correct but can’t possibly be understood.

The First Movement: From Ni to Resignation

Eventually, the Knight Who Says Ni realizes that pointing out absurdity isn't enough. The system's dysfunction runs too deep for mere exposure to fix it. This realization leads to the first movement in Kierkegaard's dialectic: the movement of infinite resignation.

For James, this happens when his creative resistance reaches its limits. His absurdist tactics have helped colleagues see problems and think of absurd solutions, but like the bureaucracy in Catch-22, the system remains unchanged. After a particularly frustrating project cancellation, James makes a profound decision: he surrenders his identity as a reformer from within.

This isn't giving up, but rather a strategic withdrawal. James applies to graduate school in public policy, stepping back from daily battles to gain perspective and develop deeper understanding. He resigns himself to the impossibility of changing the system as it currently exists, which paradoxically frees him to understand it more completely in imagine what it could be.

The Knight of Infinite Resignation: The Meta Mode

"I give up," says the Knight of Infinite Resignation. "But I'll keep notes on what could have been."

The Knight of Infinite Resignation withdraws to the mountain—literal or metaphorical—to plan impossible realities. Having given up on immediate transformation, this knight gains the freedom to design better systems without the constraints of "practicality" or "political feasibility." This is the "Meta Mode"—reflection, planning, and design from a position of deliberate exile.

James becomes this knight in graduate school. While his classmates debate minor policy adjustments, he drafts radical reimaginings of the governance from which he came and proposals for where he’d like to be. He studies complex systems theory, organizational psychology, and historical precedents for institutional transformation. He writes papers that his professors find "interesting but impractical" about governance models that don't yet exist snd include concepts from foreign fields.

To outside observers, the Knight of Infinite Resignation appears to have given up and walked away from his sacred mission in favory of fantasy. James works diligently on theoretical frameworks that seem disconnected from real-world application. He attends required networking events but speaks less about immediate policy fixes and more about fundamental system redesign. Some classmates find him overly pessimistic, others naively idealistic.

But internally, this knight is mapping unexplored territories of thought. He engages in prayerful planning, treating theory as theology to develop developing secularly sacred blueprints for a better world. He falls in love with the silence of the mountain, stepping back from daily noise to hear the deeper patterns. He writes constitutions for nations that don't exist and designs systems from first principles, unconstrained by the course of history and current reality.

The Knight of Infinite Resignation accepts the world as it is while refusing to accept that it must remain so. This tension between resignation to current reality and hope for transformation creates a dynamic tension between pseudo-reality, or an idealistic world that could in theory exist, and sudo-reallity, the similarly idealistic world that can be implemented in practice. This tension creates a productive space for imagination and design that enables the innovation and creativity that was stifled as a knight who says ni.

The Second Movement: From Resignation to Faith

While resignation is necessary, it isn't sufficient. After developing a vision for what could be, the knight must make a second movement: the return to the world with a transformed perspective. This is what Kierkegaard calls the "leap of faith"—not a blind jump into irrationality, but a commitment to act in the present world oriented toward a different future.

For James, this happens when he completes his studies and must decide his next step. He could pursue prestigious policy positions or academic roles that would keep him in the realm of theory. Instead, he makes a surprising choice: he returns to public service, but at the local level, in a small community office where he can directly engage with citizens and has more autonomy over what projects and programs do or not reach implementation.

This isn't a regression, a compromise, or a ‘settling’ it's the second movement of faith. James returns to the world he had resigned, but now he carries within him both the creative resistance of the Knight Who Says Ni and the visionary planning of the Knight of Infinite Resignation. Together, they make the leap into faith that by their integration pseudo-utopia and sudo-reality, or in Kierkegaard’s terms the infinite and the finite, might meet within the knight of faith.

The Knight of Faith: The Sudo Mode

"sudo apt-get install utopia"

The Knight of Faith walks back into the world they had abandoned, but with a crucial difference—they have prepared themselves to be worthy of what Kierkegaard calls the "teleological suspension of the ethical." This is the capacity to act beyond conventional morality in service of a higher purpose, just as Abraham was willing to sacrifice Isaac in obedience to God while paradoxically trusting God would fulfill his future promise of abundant progeny through Isaac.

In computing terms, the knight of faith is prepared to operate with "sudo" privileges, which is a command that executes actions with higher authority than normally available. The knight of faith’s transformation is so complete, however, that they rarely, if ever, need to invoke these privileges explicitly. Like Abraham who raised the knife but never had to use it, they work within existing systems with such authenticity and purpose that the systems begin to reform around them. James prepares for radical interventions he may never need to execute because his daily actions which are now infused with transcendent meaning gradually transform the system from within.

In his new role, James becomes this knight. He processes permit applications, organizes community meetings, and manages local services—mundane tasks similar to his previous work. But he approaches them with a transformed consciousness that comes from having completed both movements. He treats each citizen interaction as if it were already happening within the governance model he designed in theory, seeing the seed of his vision in every exchange. He stands ready to implement radical ideas, but discovers that small adjustments made with absolute conviction often accomplish more than dramatic overhauls. And he builds relationships not as strategic alliances for future change, but as expressions of the community and collaboration he knows is already possible.

To outside observers, James seems like a dedicated civil servant with unusual patience and purpose. He doesn't rant about systemic problems or grand theories. He simply serves his community with extraordinary attention and care. But those who work closely with him notice something different—a peculiar quality Kierkegaard called "inwardness," where outward conformity to social norms coexists with an inward commitment to something beyond those norms. They sense his preparedness to transcend conventional boundaries if necessary, while paradoxically observing his perfect comfort within them.

The Knight of Faith lives what Kierkegaard called the "double movement"—having given up all hope in finite solutions (first movement), and immersed themselves in infinite possibility, they paradoxically reclaim the finite world with new significance (second movement). This paradox manifests as "Sudo Mode"—a state of being where one prepares for exceptional action while finding that mere preparation often renders the action unnecessary:

These movements are not of the mass mobilization variety but are rather profound internal changes, or movements, in perspective, orientation, and loyalty. At Sudo-intellectual, we refer to the fruits of this second movement as:

1. Liturgy in motion, or treating mundane tasks as rituals by recognizing them as sacred in a way hidden to others

2. Absurd readiness, or maintaining the capacity for radical action while finding that the very preparation transforms ordinary actions into extraordinary ones

3. The paradox of non-action: Like Abraham who raised the knife but never had to bring it down, discovering that being prepared to transcend the system often allows one to fulfill its true purpose from within

The Unifying Journey From Pseudo-Absurdity to Sudo-Faith

When we integrate Kierkegaard's existential theology with the Sudo-Intellectual Framework, we discover more than a coincidental alignment—we uncover a profound complementarity between sacred personal development and institutional systems thinking. This section explores how these two approaches intertwine like a double helix, each strengthening the other to create a comprehensive approach to both individual and systemic transformation.

The Sacred-Secular Synthesis

Kierkegaard wrote in a 19th-century context of religious decline and institutional Christianity's failure to embody authentic faith. His emphasis on the individual's relationship with the Absolute (God) seems, at first glance, to have little connection to modern systems thinking or institutional reform. Yet his diagnosis of modernity's spiritual crisis parallels contemporary diagnoses of institutional dysfunction.

The Sudo-Intellectual Framework, with its structured approach to imagining, planning, and implementing systemic change, appears similarly distant from Kierkegaard's concerns with faith, absurdity, and transcendence. Yet both address the same fundamental human challenge: how to maintain meaning and purpose in the face of systems that have lost their connection to their founding values.

This synthesis isn't just academic—it addresses a crucial gap in both approaches. Kierkegaard's knights risk becoming isolated spiritual virtuosos without concrete impact on social systems, while system reformers risk becoming efficient technicians of meaningless processes without the spiritual depth to sustain their work. When combined, they create a model that is both deeply personal and broadly systemic, both spiritually grounded and practically effective.

The Cognitive-Spiritual Circuit: Mapping Internal States to External Systems

Kierkegaard's knights embody specific cognitive and spiritual states that align with phases in the Sudo-Intellectual Framework. This alignment creates a circuit where internal transformation drives external reform, which in turn deepens internal transformation.

1. The Absurd Imagination: Knight Who Says Ni <> Pseudo Mode

The Knight Who Says Ni operates primarily in what psychologists call System 1 cognition—intuitive, pattern-breaking, and emotionally charged. This knight's rebellion against absurdity is fueled by immediate recognition of disconnect between what is and what should be. In Kierkegaardian terms, this is the moment of realizing that conventional ethics and social norms have failed to connect humans to the Absolute.

This maps perfectly to the "Pseudo" phase of the Sudo-Intellectual Framework, where divergent thinking breaks open closed systems of thought. Here we find:

• Utopia: Imagining alternative futures that conventional thinking dismisses as impossible

• Advocacy: Articulating demands that establish new horizons of possibility

• Conspirator: Identifying communities of creative dissent wherever they may be that challenge institutional inertia

Both the Knight Who Says Ni and the Pseudo phase serve the same function: they perform a necessary desecration of dysfunctional orthodoxies. Just as Kierkegaard challenged the complacent Christianity of his day, the Pseudo-Intellectual challenges the unquestioned assumptions underlying institutional failure.

This phase is spiritually analogous to the "via negativa" in mystical theology—the path of negation that begins by clearing away false images of God. Both the Knight Who Says Ni and the Pseudo-Intellectual clear away false images of what institutions are and could be.

2. The Sacred Withdrawal: Knight of Infinite Resignation <> Meta Mode

The Knight of Infinite Resignation transitions into a balanced integration of System 1 and System 2 cognition—combining intuitive understanding with analytical reflection. This balance enables the knight to plan comprehensively while maintaining spiritual depth. In Kierkegaard's framework, this represents the movement of resignation where one surrenders attachment to finite outcomes while preserving the infinite passion that drove those attachments.

This corresponds to the "Meta" or Planning phase in the Sudo-Intellectual Framework, where critique evolves into design:

• Frameworks Development: Developing systematic understanding of how systems function and fail

• Strategic Planning: Creating roadmaps for transformation based on comprehensive analysis

• Project Management: Breaking down transcendent purposes into manageable actions

Both the Knight of Infinite Resignation and the Meta phase planners achieve a paradoxical freedom through constraint. The knight gains spiritual freedom by accepting limitation; the planner gains creative freedom by accepting structural requirements. Both withdraw from immediate action to establish the conditions for more meaningful action later.

This phase parallels what contemplative traditions call "recollection" or "gathering"—the practice of stepping back from the world to see it more clearly. The Meta planner, like the monastic scholar, works in temporary isolation to develop frameworks that will eventually reconnect with the world.

3. The Absurd Implementation: Knight of Faith <> Sudo Mode

The Knight of Faith primarily engages System 2 cognition—deliberate, practical, and operational—but with a crucial difference: this analytical thinking is animated by absurd faith that transcends analysis. The knight acts precisely and methodically in the world while maintaining an inner orientation toward the impossible. In Kierkegaard's terms, this is the second movement of faith, where one returns to the finite world after having resigned it, now seeing it transformed through relationship with the Absolute.

This aligns with the "Sudo" phase of implementation in the Framework:

• Controlled Implementation: Testing and implementing transformative initiatives

• Continous Evaluation and Imprvement: Fine-tuning interventions based on feedback

• Participatory Engagement: Building structures that include input from all types and level of stakeholder

Both the Knight of Faith and the Sudo practitioner achieve impact not by revolutionary disruption but by faithful presence within existing systems. They operate from a position of paradoxical authority—commanding reality not through force but through authentic alignment with deeper purposes that the systems themselves have forgotten.

This phase resembles what mystical traditions call "incarnational spirituality"—the practice of manifesting transcendent reality through concrete, embodied action. The Sudo implementer, like the parish priest or the engaged contemplative, brings abstract ideals into practical reality through daily, disciplined service.

The Twin Movements: Leaps of Faith and System Iterations

Kierkegaard described faith as requiring two movements that appear contradictory: infinite resignation (giving up the world) and faith (reclaiming it). These movements find their systemic parallel in the Sudo-Intellectual Framework's iterative cycles:

The First Movement: Breaking and Rebuilding Mental Models

The movement from Ni to Infinite Resignation parallels the movement from Pseudo to Meta phases. Both involve, recognizing the limitations of current frameworks, withdrawing from immediate action to develop deeper understanding, building comprehensive alternatives to failed systems, and accepting the paradox of planning for what seems impossible.

This first iteration establishes what systems thinkers call a "mental model"—a comprehensive understanding of how components interact within a whole. For Kierkegaard, this mental model is profoundly personal and spiritual; for the Sudo-Intellectual, it may be organizational or institutional. But both recognize that transformation begins with reimagining relationships between parts and wholes.

The Second Movement: From Contemplation to Action

The movement from Infinite Resignation to Faith parallels the movement from Meta to Sudo phases. Both involve returning to the world with transformed purpose, translating comprehensive understanding into specific actions, maintaining paradoxical relationship to outcomes (working for results while detached from results), and creating islands of meaning within systems of meaninglessness.

This second iteration creates what systems thinkers call "feedback loops"—cycles of action and response that allow continuous learning and adaptation. For Kierkegaard, this feedback comes through the ongoing relationship with the Absolute; for the Sudo-Intellectual, it comes through measurement and calibration. But both recognize that transformation requires not just implementation but continuous responsiveness to reality.

Transcending the Theory-Practice Divide

Perhaps the most profound alignment between Kierkegaard and the Sudo-Intellectual Framework is their shared rejection of the false dichotomy between theory and practice, between contemplation and action. Both integrate these supposedly opposed elements into a unified approach:

1. Practical Theory: Both Kierkegaard and the Framework insist that theory must be lived to be meaningful. Kierkegaard dismissed abstract philosophical systems that didn't transform the philosopher's life; the Framework rejects planning that doesn't lead to concrete deployment.

2. Theoretical Practice: Both also maintain that practice must be theoretically informed to be transformative. Kierkegaard criticized mindless religious observance; the Framework criticizes reactive interventions without strategic depth.

3. Ongoing Dialectic: Most importantly, both see the relationship between theory and practice as dialectical rather than linear. The Knight of Faith doesn't move beyond theory into practice; they live the unity of both. Similarly, the Sudo-Intellectual doesn't complete planning and then implement; they maintain a continuous cycle where implementation generates new insights that inform ongoing planning.

Institutional Embodiment: From Individual Knights to Organizational Culture

While Kierkegaard focused primarily on individual transformation, his knights offer models for institutional culture as well. When an organization embodies these knightly qualities across its structure, it creates what organizational theorists call a "learning organization"—one capable of continuous adaptation and renewal:

1. Pseudo / Ni Culture: Departments or teams dedicated to questioning assumptions, imagining alternatives, and pushing boundaries. These might be R&D units, skunkworks projects, or dedicated innovation teams.

2. Meta / Resignation Culture: Strategic planning functions that transform critique into comprehensive frameworks. These include not just formal planning departments but any processes that facilitate reflection on purpose and direction.

3. Sudo / Faith Culture: Operational teams that implement with both precision and purpose, maintaining connection to founding values while adapting to changing conditions. These are the frontline workers and managers who translate vision into reality.

The movement between these cultural modes creates what systems theorists call "adaptive capacity"—the ability to respond effectively to changing circumstances while maintaining core identity and purpose. This is the organizational equivalent of the Knight of Faith's capacity to remain true to the Absolute while fully engaged with the relative.

Regenerative Cycles: The Holy Loop

The integration of Kierkegaard's sacred philosophy with the secular Sudo-Intellectual methodology creates not a linear progression but a regenerative cycle—what we might call a "holy loop":

1. The Knight Who Says Ni breaks open dysfunctional patterns through absurd resistance, creating space for new possibilities (Pseudo phase).

2. This space enables the Knight of Infinite Resignation to develop comprehensive alternatives through strategic withdrawal, establishing blueprints for transformation (Meta phase).

3. These blueprints guide the Knight of Faith in implementing targeted interventions that maintain paradoxical relationship to both means and ends (Sudo phase).

4. As these interventions interact with existing systems, they generate new insights that fuel the next cycle of creative disruption, strategic planning, and faithful implementation.

This loop isn't just personally sustaining—it's institutionally regenerative. Each cycle doesn't just solve problems but builds capacity for solving future problems. Each intervention doesn't just fix dysfunction but strengthens the system's connection to its founding purpose.

The Kierkegaardian-Sudo synthesis offers a path that is neither revolutionary nor reactionary, neither purely individual nor blindly collective. It is instead a middle way—a path of radical incremental transformation that honors both the depths of personal faith and the breadths of systemic complexity.

In a world where institutions increasingly lose connection to their founding purposes—where healthcare systems forget healing, educational systems forget learning, governance systems forget justice—this synthesis offers a pathway to institutional renewal rooted in personal transformation. It suggests that the knight and the system, the soul and the structure, the sacred and the secular are not opposed but complementary elements in the ongoing work of aligning finite actions with infinite purposes.

The Quixotic Conclusions to the Quest of the Knights of the Squared Circle

Consider literature's most famous knight, Don Quixote, who saw giants where others saw windmills. Cervantes gave us not just a madman but a profound archetype of the Knight Who Says Ni—someone who refuses to accept the diminished reality others take for granted. His absurd quest creates moments of true nobility in a world that has forgotten what nobility means. He tilts at windmills, fighting myths, shaping meaning through apparent absurdity.

Consider too his faithful companion, Sancho Panza—the reluctant Knight of Infinite Resignation. He carries the bags, documents the delusions, plans for contingencies. He knows his master is mad and the quest impossible—but he resigns himself to it anyway, packing provisions, tending wounds, and keeping track of the story as it unfolds. He is the planner who accepts impossibility while still preparing for it.

Together, they embody not a completed transformation but a quest in progress—one that inspires those who witness it. The innkeepers, priests, barbers, and nobles who encounter Don Quixote and Sancho find themselves changed, often despite themselves. Some begin as mockers and end as believers—not in giants, perhaps, but in the possibility that the world might be more than it appears. These witnesses represent the potential Knights of Faith, those who integrate both the madness of Quixote and the pragmatism of Sancho into a new way of engaging reality.

The synthesis of Kierkegaard's Knights and the Sudo-Intellectual Framework offers a similar path for individuals seeking meaning and effectiveness in dysfunctional times to become Knights of the Squared Circle, wherever they are in their journey. It acknowledges both the absurdity of our current condition and the possibility of transformation through a disciplined progression: from the creative resistance of Quixote, through the strategic resignation of Sancho, to the faithful return of those they inspire.

This path doesn't promise quick fixes or revolutionary change. It offers something more subtle but perhaps more sustainable: a way to maintain human dignity and purpose within broken systems while patiently working toward their transformation. Like Quixote and Sancho, the Knights of the Squared Circle navigate the absurd with both a trembling heart and a steady hand, aligning themselves and their small corner of the world with something larger, one finite step at a time.

In a world where institutions increasingly fail their purposes, perhaps we need fewer revolutionaries promising total transformation and more Knights of Faith enacting partial transformation—creating spaces where broken systems begin to heal from the inside out. Like those who encountered Don Quixote, we might find ourselves wondering: what if those windmills were giants all along? What if our madmen and planners see more clearly than those who mock them?

The question isn't whether the windmills are actually giants—the question is whether treating them as giants, with loyal assistants by our side who see them for the windmills they are, might restore a form of enchantment that our disenchanted institutions desperately need. The Knights of the Squared Circle suggest that meaning emerges precisely where it should not be possible, and that the infinite purpose of human institutions becomes visible again through finite, faithful action—even if that action begins with a seemingly absurd charge at an ordinary windmill.

This leap into faith the Knights of the Squared Circle make is not just a jump into the void, but a leap to the place where the void touches the eternal and reflects it back into reality. It is there, perilously suspended between the finite and infinite, that we discover our capacity to transform both ourselves and the world around us. I am a Knight of Faith who believes in our potential to transform institutional dysfunction into vitality. Whichever stage of knighthood you’re at, I hope you’ll join me in the leap.

The Parable of the Prodigal Son is one of the most moving stories that Jesus told during his ministry. In this story, a young son demands his inheritance early from his father and journeys to a distant land where he squanders everything on wild and hedonistic living. After a severe famine leaves him destitute and feeding pigs for a living he "comes to himself" and decides to return home, hoping to be hired merely as a servant. But while he is still far off, his father spots him, runs to embrace him, and restores his status as a son by giving him a robe, ring, and celebratory feast in his honor. Its central message is that no one is ever too far gone to return home and fully share in the Father's bountiful inheritance.

While I can see how moving a story this is and how cathartic it must have been for both the father and his prodigal son, I could never truly identify with it in my own journey within and away from the restored Gospel of Jesus Christ. After thinking it through, I’ve come to realize that I can’t identify with it because my intent in leaving home to explore abroad was not to squander my inheritance hedonistically but to find the exotic fruits, spices, and treasure that can further enrich the Father’s inheritance, not squander it.

While the phases in this approach look similar from the outside, and often get confused with each other, they differ significantly in their ability to provide meaning, fulfillment, and ultimately, transcendence of the Gospel we have today. Historians and theologians have written plenty has about the prodigal son, so not much more needs to be said. However, I would instead like to add the Parable of The Parsimonious Son and his return to his father’s house to the apocryphal canon.

What’s the Difference Between the Prodigal and Parsimonious Son?

In the biblical context, "prodigal" refers to someone who spends resources wastefully and extravagantly. The term comes directly from the Latin "prodigus," meaning lavish or wasteful. In Jesus's parable, the younger son exemplifies this by quickly depleting his inheritance through "riotous living," suggesting indulgence in pleasures without restraint or consideration for the future. I believe Jesus portrays this behaviour negatively not merely because it leads to material poverty but because it represents spiritual poverty by choosing temporary gratification over a lasting relationship with the father.

However, parsimony in belief is about intellectual honesty and careful discernment. The parsimonious son examines his father's estate with a critical eye – not out of disrespect, but out of reverence for truth itself. He recognizes that some inherited beliefs are superfluous or cannot withstand scrutiny, while other valuable truths may be missing entirely. His journey from home becomes a deliberate process of stripping away unsupported assumptions while gathering robust insights that stand up to careful examination. Unlike the prodigal's wasteful abandonment, the parsimonious approach is selective retention and thoughtful acquisition.

This distinction fundamentally changes how we understand exploration beyond the confines of established doctrine. The prodigal son's departure represents hedonistic escapism, fleeing responsibility for pleasure's sake. By contrast, the parsimonious son's journey embodies rigorous truth-seeking through a sincere effort to distill essential wisdom from both within and outside traditional boundaries. Both may appear to leave the father's house but each have profoundly different intentions and outcomes. One returns humbled by failure, while the other returns bearing refined understanding – truths that withstood testing and new insights that complement the father's wisdom. This parsimonious approach doesn't seek to diminish the inheritance but purify and add to it.

Trying on the Armor of God

I was raised with a straightforward faith, handed down and received without question from goodly parents, and nourished incessantly within carefully drawn lines. The gospel I knew was a sapling tree within a pot in the garden. This garden had clear black-and-white boundaries to delineate between what was vibrant and beautiful. Still, with invisible fences, I was subtly trained never to challenge or cross behind which plants of unknown quality grew. I was taught as a young man that is putting on the armor of god, made entirely from the fruits wwithinthe garden, would always be sufficient for my spiritual needs.

I embraced the metaphor with exuberant naivety, convinced I was assembling an impenetrable spiritual defense. How prepared I thought I was! With my loins girt with truth (though it was merely familiar doctrine), the breastplate of righteousness firmly tightened (though it was simply outward compliance), my feet shod with the gospel of peace (though I'd never truly tested its resilience). I positioned the cardboard helmet of salvation on my head with ceremonial confidence, raised my paper-plate shield of faith, clutched what I imagined was the mighty sword of the spirit and thought myself ready to take on the powers and principalities of the rulers of darkness. I don’t feel too bad about this naivete since, as Paul mentions, when one is a child, one can’t help but think as one as well.

However, once I became a man, I maintained the belief that believing this spiritual disguise would suffice against any doubts or challenges that might come. It served it’s purpose well in in environments where I was insulated from the world, like at Brigham Young Univiersity and on a mission my belief thrived, but both my mission leadership and the people I taight could tell that there was a fire under the surface that just couldn’t find its way to the surface. Finding this spiritual fire I could only describe as the real, “terrible swift sword” of the spirit became a core desire of mine in my spiritual sword, but the more I paid attention to obeying the rules and the orthodox interpretation of doctrine the further that sword felt.

Little did I understand then that Alma's metaphor of planting and nourishing a seed of faith wasn't meant for cultivation in a decorative pot, kept safely indoors away from the elements, but rather for planting in wild, but fertile soil that was in, but not of the world. I realized my tree of faith grew in artificially controlled conditions, thriving only when fed with carefully measured nutrients, sheltered from intellectual storms, and trimmed whenever a branch grew in an unauthorized direction. I had mistaken memorization for understanding, cultural conformity for spiritual depth, and obedience for genuine conviction. The armor I'd so proudly assembled was more ceremonial than battle-tested, adequate for the spiritual parades of my youth but woefully insufficient for the genuine warfare of an examining mind.

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Leaving Home to Find Truth through Parsimony

In the months after my mission, cracks appeared gradually in the carefully tended pot of my faith. They weren’t dramatic fissures, but rather hairline fractures where rigid doctrine met contrary lived experience and didn’t resolve. The superficial answers that had once satisfied me began to feel rehearsed, circular, and insufficient for the complexity of the real questions. I noticed how church lessons recycled the same stories with the same interpretations, year after year, without ever diving deeper into their thornier implications. This intellectual monotony created small but growing spaces where doubt could take root.

Leaving space for good faith doubt and criticism was gradual at first. Doubting that spiritual promptings that ended up being wrong could have come from God, noticing the good the church does for some and not others, and seeing excommunications for people that, as far as I could tell were trying to make the Church better opened the door to alternative voices. Then, a simple philosophy podcast challenging listeners to subject their beliefs to reasonable, good-faith criticism resonated with me more than any General Conference talk I’d ever heard had.

The call to criticize beliefs not with the intent to destroy them but to test if they would grow stronger or reveal themselves as incomplete was powerful for me. This seemingly small idea expanded Alma's seed experiment beyond Church truth to truth in general. After all, if truth is truth, shouldn't it flourish under scrutiny rather than wither? The seed metaphor Alma used to grow belief invited a broader application to testing its opposite. If a the seed of faith when planted grows into a tree of fruth, could planting the seed of doubt through reasonable criticism prune the tree of truth of unnecessary branches? Or even build a tree of truth rooted in doubt, not faith? And most importantly, why confine my experiment to the carefully controlled garden of institutional religion?

And so I set out, my spiritual inheritance in hand, not to waste it in "riotous living" like the prodigal son of old, but to invest it in a search for deeper understanding. The same principled experiment that had strengthened my faith within the Church now led me to test it against what I could find outside. I became not the prodigal but the parsimonious son, carefully examining each belief, retaining what proved valuable, and discarding what could not withstand honest scrutiny. This process wasn't about rebellion against truth but reverence for the truth in all its forms that could stand up to scrutiny. Thinking and speaking as a man now, I made a sincere commitment to seek the truth wherever I could find it. I wouldn't settle for comfortable half-answers or convenient simplifications anymore, so I ventured beyond my father's estate not to escape his wisdom but to discover which parts of it could withstand the winds outside the greenhouse and what other wisdom might be waiting to be gathered and brought home.

Finding Myself in Foreign Fields

The journey beyond my inherited faith didn't follow a single path but unfolded through distinct phases of discovery. I ventured first into epistemology and philosophy of religion to question not just what I knew, but also how I could know what was true at all. The shield of faith I'd once carried transformed into the lens of reason, something to see through rather than hide behind. Critical thinking became my companion, teaching me that the strength of a belief isn't measured by its comfort but by its resilience to scrutiny.

This search led naturally into empirical realms, physics, history, and psychology where I found truth that was testable, verifiable, and often more consistent in its application than what I'd inherited through religious sources. I discovered that religious experiences are psychologically universal rather than exclusive to tradition. The cosmos revealed its elegance through grand cosmology and minute quantum mechanics that made ‘small p’ prophecies by making predictions accurate enough to create technology that heals the sick, blind, and deaf. These insights didn't merely replace my faith; they transformed how I understood truth. Where I once sought certainty, I found beauty in patterns, complexity, and emergent order.

The problem, of course, was isolation. Truth-seeking was intellectually productive but spiritually lonely. Systems thinking and comparative mythology helped me recognize that the Church's narratives weren't necessarily factual but were encoding deeper truths—much like how other wisdom traditions clothe universal principles in culturally specific garments. I discovered what monastics have known for centuries: faith is not just individual revelation but also shared mythos and ritual—the power of community, structure, and purpose that gives meaning to insight.

The parsimony I sought wasn't about reducing everything to its simplest explanation but about finding the essential truths that transcend any single religious or secular framework. These truths didn't contradict my spiritual heritage but illuminated it from angles I'd never considered. The seed of secular exploration I planted when I left the church to seek on my own had blossomed into a fruit-bearing tree, but there was still something missing deep within me that my secular frameworks couldn’t fill.

Kicking Against the Spiritual Pricks

Like Saul, before his experience on the road to Damascus, I had made a name for myself, kicking against the spiritual pricks when interpreting and interacting with society. Yet I wasn't entirely set against spiritual truths either. Unlike Korihor, who likely sparked Alma's sermon on faith a few chapters later, I could embrace the "foolish traditions of my fathers" and accept revelation as the "effect of a frenzied mind" for what I thought they were—manifestations of shared mythology and spiritual experience among humans. I added their branches to my secular fruit tree and tasted them from time to time while remaining on high alert for anything genuinely supernatural.

I was wise to the tactic of "Jesus smuggling," where secular arguments have spiritual implications that make accepting Jesus a logical necessity. I resisted falling into what I saw as a spiritual trap. I observed many fellow wanderers in pursuit of truth find what I thought was a "hole-shaped God"—a version of spirituality tailored to fit within a broader secular paradigm. This approach felt dishonest to me, like paring back the fruit-bearing branches of a tree for the sake of having a parsimonious trunk.

I didn't anticipate how my professional work would create a church-shaped hole in my thinking. As I worked on complex systems and policy questions, I kept encountering situations where the ideal organizational structure mirrored the church: a central coordinating unit with grassroots organization locally, qualitative and quantitative research nestled within personal wise judgment, and networks of people united by a shared vision who contribute beyond expectations. I saw how perfectly positioned the church was to function as an aid and development organization while maintaining its spiritual focus.

Deciding to Stop Kicking

Somewhat related to the most significant and broadest professional thinking I was doing at the time, I experienced three manic episodes of varying intensity that are the closest I’ve been able to come to genuine spiritual experience. I’d hesitate to call them Pauline, but they were highly influential in opening my mind and softening my heart to return to a religious way of life.

Through these manias, I experienced different dimensions of spiritual understanding. First came a wild episode where I felt compelled to save the world from literal destruction, taking on the eschatological role of the savior with neither the patience nor power to fulfill the task. The second one placed me in a passive teaching role, developing my new rituals and speaking cryptically as ifreceiving revelation. However, there was no signal in the noise I spoke in my short time as a rabbi. The third, less delusional than the others but equally invigorating, centered not just on doing what Jesus said throughout his earthly ministry but on being even as he was,or embodying His approach to understanding the will of God, orienting Himself toward it, acting in such a way that His will is manifest, whether that’s the will of a divine being or the top of value hierarchy of secular meaning.

My "aha moment" came while contemplating this perspective of being like Jesus and what it meant to build Zion both secularly and spiritually. I was struck by how I might contribute to spreading the good news and doing the good work even without a traditional belief structure. The overlap between secular and religious approaches to creating a virtuous society became undeniable. I began focusing on what I could do rather than what I couldn't. I went from worrying about whether it was true. Maybe it's not true, to think that it only matters if it's true to me. The longer I’ve thought about it, the more I’m beginning to feel that, at the end of the day, it might not matter very muc,h which it is.

In the end, no one smuggled Jesus to me through clever argumentation or personal exhortation. Still, I realized He had been smuggling me back to his fold the whole time through my continual experiment of planting seeds of faith, cultivating them into trees of truth, and taking stock of the fruit they provide and how it might in some way contribute to building the kingdom of God on Earth. As I begin my return to my Father’s estate and the trees of truth that thrive in his garden, I hope to bring not only a renewed appreciation for the trees that gave me shade as I grew up but also anticipation of the opportunity to plant the new seeds of truth I found on my journey alongside them.

Contributing to the Welcome Feast

Unlike the prodigal who returns empty-handed and humbled by failure, ready to work the lowliest of jobs to repay his debt. The parsimonious son brings carefully curated treasures that complement rather than contradict his heritage and is willing to serve at the pleasure of his Father. As I arrive at my Father's estate, I come both bearing gifts and being willing to serve. It is my hope that the fruits gathered from distant lands might enrich our shared table and that my service planting and pruning in the garden might make thethe fruit, both new and old, born by the trees more delicious and desirable.

When I first read Alma 32, I understood it as instruction for growing faith in church doctrine. Now, I recognize it as a universal method for discerning truth in all its forms. Just as Alma borrowed from agriculture to create a religious metaphor, and now I'm borrowing from science and philosophy to enhance my spiritual understanding. The seed of faith experiment extends beyond church walls to all domains of knowledge such that a good seed produces good fruit if it’s tended and cultivated correctly regardless of where someone plants it.

Understanding the reality of who Jesus was and where His power lay transformed the paper armor of my youth and replaced it with a battle-tested set. The "terrible swift sword" from the Battle Hymn now represents not just some final judgment we’ll face eventually, but the ability to discern truth from error regardless of its source. The power to embody Christ's powerful approach and of understanding truth so intensely and expressing it so simply is in me now more than ever. And I hope to build on it by asking questions that expand limited perspectives, and speaking in ways that convey layers of meaning to different audiences as I continue to interact with people both within and outside the Church.

Standing at the threshold between rigid orthodoxy and heretical exploration, I see my role not as a gatekeeper but as a bridge-builder. This position isn't about compromising one set of values for another, but integrating them into a more complete whole. When I examine complex systems and long-horizon problems professionally, I see patterns that increasingly resemble what the church aspires to be: a community united by a shared vision, contributing toward building something greater than themselves. When I see the body of christ unite toward building something greater themselves, I see the tools of my secular profession ready and able to be used to build up Zion together, not matter whether the truth we hold to is literal or metaphorical.

I’m not expecting the Father to run toward me "while he was yet a great way off," but I am hoping to be met halfway by Him. In return, I’ll commit to meeting anyone halfway that’s making their own trip home. If there is a feast to celebrate my return I hope it will mark the beginning of a new journey to venture out and find my fellow wanderers and offer them a guide back home where their own feast is waiting that’s only missing their own secret ingredients they’ve found a long the way.

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