Welcome to the Insane World of TechnoGnosticism
So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom. What man can live and never see death? Psalm 90:12; Psalm 89:48
Picture this: Bryan Johnson, a self-fashioned vampire of the 21st century, stands atop the pinnacle of his techno-fortress, holding aloft a chalice brimming not with the blood of the innocent (let's not get melodramatic), but with matcha-infused green tea laced with a dash of pure virgin olive oil. Frankly, it’s less Dracula and more like a deleted scene from Twilight, where the Cullens traded brooding for biohacking. His mission? To defeat death itself—armed with over 100 daily supplements, medical interventions that border on science fiction, and the sort of unblinking optimism usually reserved for tech startup founders.
Death, he suggests, is no longer inevitable, merely an engineering problem awaiting a Silicon Valley solution—perhaps one that the newly christened super-AI project Stargate might solve, assuming it doesn’t decide to prioritize eradicating humanity for efficiency's sake. His gospel is "Project Blueprint," a $2M-per-year self-optimization crusade that promises, at the very least, a delayed rendezvous with the Grim Reaper. Johnson is a modern prophet for what Tara Isabella Burton aptly dubs the “Remixed,” those who eschew traditional institutions for bespoke spiritual journeys that can be purchased, programmed, and meticulously quantified.
But make no mistake—this isn't about transcendence or enlightenment. This is TechnoGnosticism, a glittering cult of life extension wrapped in the slick, hyper-aesthetic veneer of consumer capitalism.
Dracula 2.0: Eat, Sleep, and Don't Die
Let’s take a moment to marvel at the absurdity. The blueprint for immortality (or at least a really long life) involves:
A vegan diet so puritanical it makes 90s Gwyneth Paltrow look like she’s bingeing on Big Macs and cheese coneys.
Sleep optimized with such religious fervor that even the faintest glimmer of blue light becomes an affront to the sanctity of slumber.
A supplement regime so intricate it could double as a Dungeons & Dragons spell list.
Johnson, with his eerily youthful complexion and fastidiously documented metrics, has become a kind of walking anti-death meme, a biohacked Dracula minus the gothic charm. His critics—and there are many—dismiss his efforts as snake oil science. And yet, his following grows, bolstered by the kind of testimonials that belong more to a televangelist’s miracle hour than a peer-reviewed journal.
Take, for instance, the zealous young man on X (formerly Twitter) who credits Johnson’s program with curing his ADHD, transforming him into a productivity powerhouse, and unlocking a spiritual nirvana previously unattainable with mere Adderall and Red Bull. One can almost hear the infomercial tagline: “Act now, and you too can defy death!”
Death Denial, the Remix
Of course, this all feels eerily familiar. In Strange Rites, Burton describes how modern spirituality has become a choose-your-own-adventure for the chronically online. Traditional religion, with its dusty creeds and uncomfortable moral imperatives, has been supplanted by a mashup of wellness trends, intuitive rituals, and the kind of magical thinking that insists a juice cleanse will unblock your chakras.
TechnoGnosticism is the apex predator of this movement, offering the ultimate prize: not salvation, but indefinite continuation. It is spiritual consumerism dialed up to 11, where the holy trinity is data, discipline, and dollars.
But is this religion or merely capitalism with delusions of grandeur? Johnson’s Blueprint—like the broader anti-death movement—is as much about optics as outcomes. Each Instagram-ready image of his immaculate diet or precisely measured workout routine is less a step toward immortality and more a digital sacrament for his followers to consume and emulate.
The Irony of It All
Let’s pause for a moment of introspection. The whole thing would be comically dystopian if it weren’t so achingly human. After all, isn’t the desire to live forever just a high-tech reboot of the same fear that’s haunted us since we crawled out of the primordial soup? Religion, art, even the midlife crisis convertible—these are all just different flavors of the same existential dread.
Yet, there’s something uniquely hollow about this iteration. Where older traditions promised transcendence through selflessness or divine grace, TechnoGnosticism promises little more than a longer stretch of self-obsession. Immortality, in this context, isn’t about legacy or enlightenment. It’s about logging more hours in the gym, counting more macros, and posting more selfies under the hashtag #LongevityGoals.
And for what? So you can spend your 200th birthday still meticulously avoiding gluten while the rest of us enjoy an occasional Pall Mall Red and Early Times bourbon?
Brave New World, Indeed
The truly frightening thing isn’t Bryan Johnson’s utopian dream; it’s how many people are willing to buy in. In a world where authenticity is measured in likes and optimization is a moral imperative, TechnoGnosticism offers the perfect escape hatch: a way to stave off not just death but the gnawing suspicion that maybe, just maybe, life isn’t meant to be hacked into a series of metrics.
But here’s the kicker: even if Johnson succeeds—if he really does cheat death and becomes the poster boy for a brave new immortal world—what kind of life will he have prolonged? One spent endlessly biohacking, tracking, and perfecting, always chasing a horizon that never arrives.
And so, we circle back to the central irony: the more we pursue immortality, the less we truly live. Maybe there’s a lesson in the ashes of that Pall Mall, the swirl of that cheap Early Times bourbon. Life, messy and finite, is meant to be savored—not optimized into oblivion.
Welcome to the insane world of TechnoGnosticism. Try not to lose your soul while you're saving your body.
PostScript
Here’s the thing: this whole TechnoGnostic obsession isn’t just about living forever; it’s about managing the all-consuming fear of death. And let’s be honest—this fear was on full display during Covid. Remember those frantic months? Vaccines, masks, remote bunkers, hermetically sealed lifestyles, and every biohack imaginable—all tools wielded by the wealthy and amplified online by the elite, as though death could be dodged through sheer ingenuity.
It’s not hard to see what’s driving all this. They’re afraid. Afraid of dying. Afraid of ceasing to exist. Afraid, perhaps, of what comes after. The saints, in their maddeningly simple wisdom, often reminded us to meditate on our mortality. Nothing fancy—just sit with the fact that you’ll die. Turns out, keeping death in view can lead to a richer life, not to mention keeping you out of Hell. But who has time for that when there are supplements to take, metrics to track, and the great cheat code to mortality still to crack?
Disclaimer: The opinions expressed in this post are solely those of the author.
© 2025, Lawain McNeil, Mission Surrender, LLC.