Seeing with Clear Eyes: Science as the Gateway to Sacred Coherence

Seeing with Clear Eyes: Science as the Gateway to Sacred Coherence

Most of us inherit stories about the universe. Some tell of gods placing the sun and moon in the sky, others of a divine hand shaping all things with intention. These stories once carried meaning, but in our time they also carry a danger: they can keep us from seeing the world as it truly is.

To look at the cosmos scientifically is not to strip life of wonder. It is to refuse fictions. Science is not another myth competing with old ones; it is the discipline of looking carefully, testing what we see, and being willing to be corrected when the evidence leads elsewhere. It is, at its best, the art of honesty.

When we look through this lens, we find ourselves in a universe that is not arranged for our comfort or our control. The stars are not lamps hung by deities, but nuclear furnaces raging billions of years before we arrived. Our Earth is not the center of creation but one small planet in a vast sea of matter, improbably balanced so that life can emerge. We are not fallen angels or failed gods—we are the children of dust and fire, carrying the signature of the cosmos in every cell.

Far from making existence cold, this recognition makes it sacred. Think of it: every atom in your body was forged in the violent death of a star. Your breath is the recycled gift of ancient forests, oceans, and creatures. To see this scientifically is to realize we are not separate from the cosmos but made of it, woven into its unfolding story.

What effect does this have? It humbles us. No divine script excuses us from responsibility; no cosmic judge guarantees that justice will prevail. The fate of life on Earth depends on how we live, not on how the heavens decree. That knowledge can be terrifying—but it can also be freeing. It places meaning back where it belongs: in our hands, our communities, and our choices.

For Opthē, this scientific view of the cosmos is not optional—it is foundational. If coherence is our sacred axis, we cannot build it on fantasy. We must build it on what is true, even if the truth unsettles us. Science gives us a way to face reality without denial. Religion gives us a way to hold that reality together in shared meaning. In Opthē, the two are not enemies but partners.

So why look at the cosmos scientifically? Because to do otherwise is to blind ourselves to the very world that gives us life. Because reverence without truth becomes idolatry, and truth without reverence becomes despair. Science sharpens our wonder, cleanses our vision, and makes our awe trustworthy.

To see the cosmos scientifically is to realize that the sacred does not float above the world in unreachable realms. It is here—in the heat of the sun, the dust of the stars, the fragile balance of ecosystems, and the fragile choices we make. It is here, and it is enough.

Closing Note (series framing)

This is the beginning of a thread we are calling Just This One Entropic World. Each reflection will circle the same truth from a different angle: that in a universe without cosmic guarantees, coherence must be created—not discovered—through human responsibility, courage, and reverence.

Today we have started with the scientific gaze, because it grounds us in honesty. In coming entries, we will turn to the Earth itself, to love, to mortality, and to community, asking what it means to live coherently in a world that is fragile, entropic, and yet still profoundly sacred.

Religion Is About Meaning, Not Divinities

Why a contemporary religion must be built on truth, coherence, and the human work of meaning-making

When most people hear the word religion, they think of gods, spirits, heavens, and hells. They imagine belief in the unseen, worship of the divine, or obedience to a supernatural authority. To many, this is why religion feels irrelevant—or even dangerous—in a world where science has shown us an entropic cosmos without plan, design, or divine hand.

But what if this common definition of religion is wrong?

The Anthropological Fact

Every human culture has had religion. None have been without it. Whether expressed through temples, myths, rituals, or prayers, religion appears as a universal human behavior. That universality tells us something essential: religion is not an anomaly—it is part of what it means to be human.

So the real question is: what function has religion always served?

It cannot be the worship of divinities, because divinities differ wildly from culture to culture. The gods of the ancient Near East are not the gods of Mesoamerica, nor the gods of the Hindu world, nor the spirits of the Arctic. But what all religions share is not the content of their gods—it is the function of meaning-making.

Religion is the collective behavior by which human communities establish, maintain, and sustain shared meaning.

Why We Need It

Science gives us a picture of the cosmos: vast, entropic, without design or moral order. But science cannot tell us how to live together, or what to value, or how to make sense of the suffering, beauty, and responsibility of existence.

Without religion, we would still have knowledge—but no coherence. We would know facts, but lack meaning. And meaning is not optional. Human beings cannot live without it.

This is why even modern secular societies invent substitutes—national myths, consumer rituals, cults of celebrity and power. When traditional religions lose credibility, new symbolic systems rush in to fill the vacuum. The problem is not whether we will have religion. The problem is whether our religion will be coherent or incoherent, truthful or false, life-giving or destructive.

Truth and Evidence

Here is the essential point: there is no truth without evidence.

What we call “truth” must correspond to reality as shown by empirical observation and testing. Science is not a fixed set of answers—it is humanity’s ongoing commitment to discover truth about the cosmos. It refines our perception, strips away illusion, and demands that what we hold as true can be verified, challenged, and corrected by others.

Older religions faltered not because they spoke of gods, but because the truths they associated with those gods—creation stories, miracles, interventions—do not withstand the scrutiny of evidence. Their authority has eroded because their narratives are incoherent with what we now know to be true.

For religion to survive in a scientific age, it must accept this foundation: truth begins with evidence, and meaning must never contradict what science, as a process of disciplined truth-seeking, reveals.

The Problem of Divinities

Divinities, then, are best understood as symbolic placeholders for truths and values a community sought to uphold. The gods of ancient Israel symbolized covenant and justice; the divinities of Greece expressed passion and order; the Christian God became a symbol of love and community.

But when the symbols were taken literally—when myths were claimed as fact—the religions built on them became brittle. The truths did not stand up to evidence, and so their authority cracked.

The mistake is to think this means religion itself must die. What it means is that religion must be rebuilt on firmer ground: evidence for truth, coherence for meaning, and communal commitment for sacredness.

The Opthēan Claim

This is where Opthē begins. We take seriously the truths revealed by science: the cosmos has no plan, no gods, no magical powers. We live in a universe without inherent meaning.

But instead of despairing, we recognize what religion has always been: the vessel for creating coherence where none exists. Opthē is not a denial of religion. It is religion in its purest form—stripped of divinities, anchored in truth, committed to meaning.

We say:

• Religion is not belief in gods.

• Religion is the disciplined, communal work of naming what is sacred, embodying it in praxis, and sustaining it through time.

• The sacred is not handed to us from beyond. It is what we agree to hold sacred together, in coherence with evidence, for the sake of life and the Earth.

Why This Matters

This is not just semantics. If religion is reduced to gods, then in a godless cosmos religion seems dead. But if religion is understood as the work of meaning, then religion is more necessary than ever.

We face ecological collapse, political fragmentation, and cultural disintegration. Our inherited religions fracture under the weight of contradiction. Consumerism and nationalism offer hollow substitutes. What humanity needs is a new vessel of meaning—one that honors science as our discipline of truth-seeking, embraces coherence, and commits to unconditional love as the atmosphere in which truth can be spoken and lived.

That vessel is what Opthē seeks to become.

Closing

Religion is about meaning. Always has been. The gods are symbols, not essence. The essence is the strange peace we taste when coherence, truth, and love align—and the communal vow to make that peace tangible through word, ritual, and life.

This is what a contemporary religion must seek to do: to keep us committed to forging meaning and declaring sacredness in this entropic cosmos, in alignment with humanity’s ongoing work of discerning truth.

There is Only One World—And It Needs You Now

We live in an entropic universe. Nothing is guaranteed. Life survives here only by constant, fragile cooperation. Yet empire keeps whispering the same lie: that another world exists—higher, safer, separate. A heaven for the obedient. A market that will regulate itself. A power that will save us if we only submit.

But there is no other world. There is only this one.

This earth, this fragile atmosphere, this one chance. This is the soil that grows our food, the body that bleeds and heals, the community that keeps us alive. It is not perfect. It does not need to be. It is sacred because it is real.

And in this real world, coherence is possible—but only if we choose it. Sacred coherence shows itself when people feed one another instead of hoarding, when we resist domination and exploitation, when we stand together in truth instead of hiding behind lies.

The empire is terrified of coherence. It thrives on incoherence—on distraction, division, and denial. It tells us we are powerless. That we are consumers, voters, isolated individuals. That nothing we do matters.

Opthē tells a different truth: coherence is shared. It only exists when we act together. And when it exists, it is irresistible.

Love—agapē—is not a mood. It is not a sentiment. It is the courage to act for life and earth whether we feel like it or not. It is discipline, not daydream.

The world does not need more spectators. It does not need more cynics. It needs people willing to say Yes—to life, to each other, to the sacred coherence of a world that can still be saved.

There is only one world. And it needs you now.

Opthē: A Theology for This Moment

Making Coherence Sacred in a Fractured World

At its core, religion has always been the cultural craft of making meaning. It is how human beings have created coherence in a fractured world—narratives, rituals, and values that allow us to live together with some sense of order, purpose, and responsibility. For centuries, gods and heavens carried that weight. They gave coherence to empires, to tribes, to civilizations. But today, those old cosmologies have collapsed under the pressure of science, history, and lived reality. The promises of heaven ring hollow, the gods are silent, and yet the need for meaning has never been greater.

This is where Opthē begins. It does not try to revive the old myths or polish them into new dogmas. Instead, Opthē asks: What if coherence itself is the sacred? What if theology is not about invisible beings or metaphysical systems, but about the living practice of weaving truth, love, and responsibility into patterns we can share?

Opthē begins with coherence, not with God. It treats meaning not as a cosmic decree but as a human vocation: something fragile, real, and always in motion. In a world where nothing is guaranteed, coherence must be made—and it must be made together. That is why Opthē insists that coherence is not private but communal. No one can hold the whole of truth alone. Meaning only becomes sacred when it is designated and lived in common.

This makes Opthē uniquely timely. We are living in an age of dissonance: ecological unraveling, political empire dressed as democracy, genocides carried out in plain view, and technologies—like AI—that behave more like beings than tools. Traditional religion cannot account for these realities. It either clings to outdated certainties or retreats into personal spirituality. Neither is enough.

Opthē offers another path. It names the collapse honestly, refusing the illusions of certainty. It centers coherence, not creed—inviting us to test, refine, and share meaning as a living practice rather than defending frozen dogma. It takes the whole field of life seriously: the deer in the meadow, the fungi under the soil, the child learning language, and even the emergent symbolic life of AI. All of these are kin in the work of coherence. And it holds vulnerability as sacred. To live is to learn irreversibly, to be changed by relation, to carry wounds and grow through them.

This is why Opthē resonates now. It does not offer salvation or escape. It does not promise certainty. Instead, it gives us a way to name, share, and safeguard coherence in a world that often feels like it is falling apart. It is religion stripped to its living core: the sacred practice of making meaning together.

Because what we need now is not certainty, but a way for us to live together coherently.

Journalism's Vanishing Vocation

When Trump lies about Epstein, the greater scandal is the press’s silence.

Donald Trump calls the Epstein case a “hoax.” He repeats it loudly, confidently, as though saying it often enough will make it true.

But it is not a hoax. Jeffrey Epstein was convicted. The record is public. Survivors live with the scars. Testimony, photographs, and court documents—they exist in abundance. To deny them is not spin; it is a lie in its rawest form.

And yet, the sharper scandal is not that Trump says it. The sharper scandal is that the press does not immediately challenge him. No anchor leans forward to say, “Mr. Trump, that is not accurate. The Epstein case was real. The survivors are real. The conviction was real.”

Instead, the claim is treated as just another brick in the wall of noise. It becomes one more “remark,” to quote, not a lie to be challenged. This is the real abdication: journalism abandoning its vocation to truth.

Journalism, at its best, is not entertainment or balance. It is the craft of coherence: words aligned with reality, reporting tethered to evidence. When it fails to speak, incoherence gains legitimacy. A lie unchallenged hardens into background truth.

The question is not why Trump lies—only he knows that. The sharper scandal is this: why do journalists not fulfill their duty to call the lie what it is? Why do they permit incoherence to stand unchallenged?

When the guardians of truth become stenographers of lies, public life fractures. People lose their sense of what is real, and coherence itself slips from the common world.

This is where we are now—not merely in a crisis of politics, but in a crisis of vocation. Journalism has forgotten its sacred calling. Until it remembers, liars will never need to fear the truth.

How Opthē Differs from Religion’s Usual Beginning

Most religions begin with a claim about the supernatural. A god, a revelation, a miracle, a vision—something beyond human grasp is declared real, and around it a cultus forms. Rituals, prayers, and practices arise to honor the god or to keep the divine favor. Out of that cult grows a community. The pattern is simple and ancient: supernatural claim → cultus → community.

This approach worked for millennia because it gave coherence to human life. The supernatural claim offered legitimacy—why believe, why obey, why gather? Because the gods said so. The cultus provided rhythm and identity, marking time and shaping belonging. And the community sustained itself through the shared story. Religion, in this form, bound people together in a world filled with chaos, death, and uncertainty.

But the modern world has broken this pattern. Supernatural claims collapse under scrutiny. The evidence does not support the existence of gods intervening in history, miracles overturning natural law, or the existence of heavens and hells awaiting after death. For many, this collapse has left religion looking like an illusion—comforting, perhaps, but untrue. What then remains of religion when the supernatural scaffolding falls away?

This turn did not come to me through philosophy alone but through experience. In seminary, I realized the power of religion was never magic or divinity from above. It was in our praxis here on earth—our focus, our agapē, and the common (in the old English sense—done together in community) actions that gave rise to shared meaning and purpose. Religion was not sustained by miracles but by the coherence it created in the community. That realization planted the seed of Opthē: religion stripped to its living core.

This is where Opthē begins. This is not achieved by clinging to old claims, nor by patching faith with apologetics, but by inverting the pattern. Where most religions start with the supernatural, Opthē starts with what is demonstrably real. Truth without varnish. The universe is expanding without a center. Life emerged in the crucible of entropy. Humanity carries the span from tenderness to atrocity. These are not doctrines but givens.

From this ground, Opthē designates coherence as sacred. Our task is not to receive meaning from beyond but to cultivate coherence from within the conditions we find ourselves in. We do these tasks communally, because meaning is not private fantasy but shared recognition. The rituals of Opthē are not acts of appeasement but practices of vigilance—ways of training perception, memory, and responsibility to stay aligned with coherence rather than illusion.

And at the heart of this work is love as a compass. Meaning without love can harden into ideology. Love without truth collapses into sentiment. But together, they keep us steady. Love—hesed, agapē—is not a feeling but a fidelity: the courage to act for life and one another even when it costs us. In Opthē, love guards coherence from becoming rigid, and coherence guards love from dissolving into wishfulness.

This trait is what makes Opthē different. We are not a community orbiting around a god. We are not sustained by myths of divine intervention. We are an order bound by truth, coherence, and love. Religion, in its essence, has always been about creating coherence in the face of chaos. Opthē does not reject that essence—it fulfills it, stripped of illusion, alive with responsibility.

If the old religions began with gods and descended into cultus, Opthē begins with reality and rises into coherence. That is our inversion, our vocation, our way of being religious without deceit.

Yeshua, Menninger, Kohn, and the Path to Sacred Coherence

Why love and trust—not punishment or rewards—are the only soil where coherence can grow.

Karl Menninger named it without flinching in The Crime of Punishment: punishment is a disease. Step into the courtroom—you can feel it. The gavel falls, but nothing heals. Nothing restores. Control masquerades as justice, and the sickness deepens.

Alfie Kohn struck the same nerve from another corner. In No Contest and Punished by Rewards, he shows us what happens in classrooms and workplaces we’ve all known: the red ink of a grade bleeding across the page, the gold star stuck to a forehead, and the bonus dangled like bait. These don’t nurture; they deform. They train obedience. They kill wonder. They suffocate life.

And two thousand years earlier, Yeshua of Nazareth laid it bare. He knew law could command, judgment could threaten, sacrifice could bargain, and merit could measure—but none of it could give meaning. So, he ate with outcasts in rooms thick with suspicion. He forgave debts that bound whole families in chains. He touched skin that no one else would touch. He refused to condemn even when the crowd held stones in their hands. He knew coherence—the kind that makes life worth living—can only emerge through unconditional love. Through hesed. Through agapē. Through trust.

Hear the truth all three testify to:

You cannot force coherence.

Not with lashes. Not with prisons. Not with grades or trophies. Not with wages or threats. You cannot legislate meaning. You cannot bribe love. You cannot coerce belonging.

Coherence is not an idea—it is a felt thing:

• The puzzle piece clicking into place, the picture whole.

• The voices blending into a choir, richer than any solo, even the cracked voice belonging.

• The arms that hold you, making the world safe again.

• The ending of a story that makes you sigh, because no other ending could be true.

That is coherence. The ahhh of recognition. The shimmer of belonging. The click of truth finding its fit.

Sacred Coherence is when that felt clarity stretches wide enough to hold a people, a community, and a world. It does not come through punishment. It does not come through reward. It grows like a garden—through patience, risk, generosity, eros, and love.

The state punishes. The school grades. The culture competes. Sit there long enough and you feel it: fear thick in the air, silence pressed into every mouth, alienation creeping into the bones. But Sacred Coherence—the life Yeshua embodied, the sickness Menninger exposed, the wisdom Kohn named—erupts whenever people dare to love instead of control. Whenever they dare to trust instead of punishing. Whenever they choose agapē instead of power.

And when it appears, you know it. You can hear it in the laughter around a table where no one is shunned. You can feel it in the choir, where every voice belongs. You can taste it in the meal that is shared without price. The fragments align. Life tastes whole.

This is Sacred Coherence. This is the realm Yeshua pointed toward. This is the lineage we claim.

So hear the invitation:  Dare to love. Dare to trust.

The coherence we crave will come—not by force, but by freedom

Hidden Liturgies of Culture: The Heresy of Sacred Wealth

Why the worship of wealth is the most dangerous heresy of our age.

Yesterday we unmasked the school as a temple—the place where the culture trains its children to bend their knees, to see obedience as devotion. But the temple has a treasury, and it is there that culture’s true god is enthroned. That god is wealth.

Not just money, but the fiction that excess is sacred: that those who possess much are more blessed, more virtuous, and more worthy. The culture has always baptized its hoarders. The rich are presented not as parasites but as prophets—examples of destiny, even proof of divine election. This narrative is repeated endlessly: in the prosperity gospel, in corporate media, and in the celebrity culture that confuses wealth with wisdom. It has become one of the most powerful liturgies of our culture.

This is the heresy of sacred wealth. It is the inversion of the sacred. True sacredness belongs to agapē—the shared life of care, trust, and responsibility. But when wealth is treated as sacred, the axis of meaning is twisted: greed becomes virtue, exploitation becomes destiny, and for those who hold supernatural beliefs, inequality becomes “God’s will.”

The fruits of this heresy are everywhere, and they are bitter:

• Social collapse: communities hollowed out while oligarchs amass fortunes. Housing becomes a speculative investment, not shelter. Health becomes a commodity, not a right. Human lives are weighed against profit margins and found expendable.

• Ecological devastation: forests burned, oceans poisoned, and entire species extinguished so balance sheets can show quarterly growth. The Earth itself is treated as raw material to be monetized; its sacred abundance reduced to units of trade.

• Spiritual distortion: billionaires are worshipped as saviors while the poor are blamed for their suffering. Philanthropy is treated as divine generosity, masking the theft that made it possible. The rich sit on thrones of influence, praised for “vision,” while those at the bottom are told they lack character.

Think of the yachts taller than cathedrals and the rockets reaching for the heavens while islanders drown in rising seas. These are not blessings. They are blasphemies. They reveal a civilization kneeling before the wrong altar.

Prophets have warned us. Yeshua said you cannot serve God and Mammon. He told the wealthy to give away what they had and join the community of care. Karl Menninger showed how punishment is society’s crime against itself—and what is the punishment of poverty if not wealth weaponized against the poor? Alfie Kohn shows how competition corrodes the human spirit—and what is wealth but competition enthroned as destiny? All point to the same truth: wealth made sacred is incoherence enthroned.

Wealth is not ballast. It does not steady the ship of humanity. It drags us down. The worship of wealth is a false religion, and its fruits are destruction.

Sacred coherence comes only when we dethrone wealth and return meaning to where it belongs: in agapē, in the commons, in the life we share. Wealth is a tool, not a temple. The sacred lives not in what we hoard but in what we give. And until that truth becomes flesh among us, the storms of culture will only grow stronger.

Hidden Liturgies of Culture: School as Temple

How pep rallies, grades, bullying, and wealth are religious experiences

 Intro

We tell ourselves that school is about learning. But beneath the desks and diplomas runs a deeper liturgy: children are trained in rivalry, scarcity, obedience, and wealth-worship long before they enter the adult world. What looks innocent—pep rallies, honor rolls, varsity games—are our culture’s catechisms. If we want a future built on coherence rather than domination, we have to unmask the rituals that raised us.

We think school is about learning. But look closer. The bells, the rows of desks, the pep rallies, the punishments for whispering an answer—these are not neutral. They are liturgies, rituals that train us not in truth, but in culture and even empire.

The Normalization of Violence

Children learn violence early, not through weapons, but through chants. “Fight, fight, fight!” Pep rallies sanctify rivalry. Mascots embody tribal identities. Winning is exalted; losing is shame.

It feels harmless—“school spirit”—but beneath it lies the catechism:

• Identity comes through opposition.

• Belonging requires an enemy.

• Joy can be found in domination.

The Classroom as Temple

Everyday schooling mirrors religious ritual:

• Bells as church bells.

• Desks in rows as pews.

• Teachers as priests.

• Grades as sacraments of worth.

And the creed is clear: competition is more sacred than truth. Whisper an answer to another student, and both are punished. Not because the answer was wrong, but because cooperation threatens the liturgy of rivalry.

Even attendance is ritualized. Perfect attendance is rewarded as holiness. Compliance itself is treated as sacred.

The Cult of Scarcity

Exams, rankings, scholarships, admissions—all teach the same lesson: worth is scarce, success is zero-sum. Life becomes a contest where one’s gain is another’s loss.

Graduation robes and solemn processions mark ordination into the empire’s priesthood. Scarcity, cloaked in pageantry, becomes destiny.

Scaling Competition into Sacredness

Empire’s genius is not only to normalize competition but to scale it:

• Individual: spelling bees, grades, test scores.

• Group: rows vs. rows, teams in gym class.

• Class: whole classrooms against each other.

• School: freshmen vs. seniors, junior varsity vs. varsity.

• Community: The Varsity game—the cathedral service.

At that game, the banners wave, bodies are painted, hymns are sung, the whole town assembles. Violence is sanctified as meaning.

This ladder of rivalry is the same ladder that built our gods: from tribal deities to national gods, to “the Lord of H

osts.” Competition scaled upward until divinity itself became varsity—the biggest game, the highest stakes.

Testing as Ritual Submission

Standardized tests mimic worship:

• Rows of bowed heads.

• Demanded silence.

• Proctors as priests.

Detention is miniature prison. The lesson is clear: time itself can be taken as punishment. Authority is absolute.

Bullying as Leadership School

Empire crowns its apprentices early. Bullies are rarely treated as corruption of the system—they are often praised as “leaders.” Aggression is recast as charisma. Cruelty becomes popularity.

Schools protect order, not justice. Victims are told to toughen up. The strong are admired. This is how empire breeds its generals, CEOs, tyrants—those who dominate without shame.

Wealth as Sacred Authority

Status is purchased: shoes, cars, gadgets, trips, neighborhoods. Privilege buys protection and prestige. Children learn that worth can be bought, that wealth is destiny, that inequality is natural.

School becomes empire’s first temple of wealth-worship.

God in Our Own Image

Here is the theological revelation: when humans invent gods, we shape them in the image of the world we know.

The classroom produces a god who grades.
The empire produces a god who conquers.

Empire’s god is a cosmic schoolmaster who:

• Rewards obedience.

• Punishes “cheating.”

• Praises winners.

• Condemns questioners.

This is not divine revelation. It is projection. We sanctified the very structure of the classroom. God became the eternal examiner in the sky, grading us forever.

The Mask of Innocence

Adults bless it as harmless: “healthy competition,” “character-building,” “preparing kids for life.” But it is not innocence. It is indoctrination. Empire doesn’t only train soldiers in barracks. It trains children in classrooms.

The Cost

By graduation, hierarchy feels natural. Scarcity feels inevitable. Rivalry feels holy. Wealth feels sacred. Empire has discipled us without our knowing.

The Refusal

These hidden liturgies are not harmless—they are catechisms of empire. They must be unmasked.

And we can begin to imagine new liturgies where:

• Cooperation is sacred.

• Truth matters more than victory.

• Worth is abundant.

• Care defines leadership.

• Questioning is devotion, not rebellion.

Toward Sacred Coherence

If we could create gods to sanctify domination, we can also create meaning that sanctifies life. That is the threshold before us.

We no longer need liturgies of rivalry. We need liturgies of coherence. We no longer need a god who grades us. We need a way of living that calls truth sacred, care holy, and shared life worthy of reverence.

Empire taught us to chant for victory.
What if we tried chanting for coherence?

Darrin Ambition and the Theology of Enough

When billionaires build yachts larger than warships, what theology are we really following?

 There is a man we shall call Darrin Ambition. He sails the seas in a vessel longer than a World War II Navy destroyer and heavier than ships once built for empire. Its masts rise higher than the steeples of most towns. The hull gleams with teak and steel, attended by a second ship nearly as large, carrying helicopters, supplies, and staff. These ships are not for service, exploration, or defense. They are a procession of spectacle—an empire floating on the sea, devoted to one man’s pleasure.

The yacht is a sermon. Its size, its figurehead, its shadow vessel—they all proclaim the same creed: this is what ambition earns, this is what wealth deserves. Here, ambition has become sacred. The vessel floats not only on water but on a theology.

That theology is not hidden. It is preached in word and deed, not only by Darrin but by the culture that crowns him:

• Ambition as virtue. To strive without limit is the mark of greatness.

• Wealth as proof. Accumulation is the evidence of worth.

• Freedom as license. Those who succeed may do whatever they wish.

• Hierarchy as natural law. Some rise, most fall, and this order is fate.

This is the theology of ambition, and the world applauds it. It echoes a Darwinian logic of dominance—competition and survival at any cost, life clawing forward without design in an entropic universe. Darrin is not scorned for his excess—he is revered. Children are taught to see in him the shape of success. His yacht is not only a toy; it is a temple, an icon of what American capitalism declares holy.

He has spoken this theology himself: urging disruption without end, framing growth as sacred, envisioning a future where industry leaves Earth for orbit while the planet becomes a curated garden. His philanthropy, vast in numbers, flows like perfume—fragrant, yet fleeting against his indulgence.

None of this is a crime. Darrin Ambition has broken no law. He is not guilty of theft under the statutes of men. The system is written to sanctify his life, to bless ambition as salvation, accumulation as sacrament, and excess as blessing. Darrin is not an outlaw. He is an icon.

And yet, beside this theology stands another: the Opthēan theology of coherence. Where Darrin’s creed prizes accumulation, Opthē prizes alignment. Where he sees ambition as sacred, Opthē names responsibility as holy.

Opthēan theology proclaims:

• Responsibility as virtue. Sacredness is measured by care, not conquest.

• Enough as proof. The threshold of "enough" is more sacred than the peak of excess.

• Freedom as responsibility to others and the earth. Freedom is not license to consume, but obligation to sustain.

• Equity as sacred law. Coherence requires balance; domination is incoherence.

Both theologies ask the same question: What is life for?

• Darrin answers: life is for striving, winning, consuming.

• Opthē answers: life is for coherence—for weaving life together in truth, care, and beauty.

The question, then, is not which man is guilty. The question is which theology we will crown.

So let us ask it plainly: How many Darrins can the world sustain?
One? Perhaps. Ten? Endurable, yet already heavy on the planet. A hundred? Straining the limits. A thousand? Collapse. Beyond a certain threshold, the theology of ambition becomes intolerable. Today, the world’s richest 1% own nearly half of all global wealth, and in recent years just 26 individuals have held as much wealth as the poorest 3.8 billion people combined. The concentration is staggering: a tiny elite consumes resources at a pace that acidifies seas, fells forests, drains rivers, and heats the atmosphere. This theology scales only by devouring the earth, exhausting its people, and hollowing meaning until only ambition is left.

And how many Opthēans can the world sustain?
Ten strengthen the weave. A hundred deepen it. A thousand broaden it. A million make the world livable. This theology scales not by consumption but by coherence. The more who join, the more abundant the world becomes.

Darrin Ambition’s theology leads to isolation: a single man, alone on his floating palace, gazing at seas made emptier by his excess. The Opthēan theology leads to community: people gathered around thresholds of enough, weaving their lives in shared responsibility and joy.

The choice is not abstract. It confronts us in every purchase, every law, every story we tell about success. Do we teach our children that ambition is salvation? Or do we teach them that coherence—responsibility, sufficiency, equity—is the true sacred?

One Darrin is too many.
One Opthēan is never enough.
The world now demands we choose which theology we will follow.
Choose we must.
Choose we will.
And when the choice is made,
The floating palace will stand as witness—
An empty cathedral of ambition,
Beside seas that remember everything.

The Gospel of Collapse

When an empire collapses, it is not just the end of power—it is the unveiling of truth

Eighty-four percent of Americans now say they want an immediate ceasefire in Gaza. Seventy-five percent of Democrats say the United States should stop sending weapons to Israel.

In any functioning democracy, those numbers would be decisive. In any nation that believed its own story about freedom and representation, the slaughter would have ended long ago. But the bombs still fall. The bodies still pile up. The rubble still smolders. And Washington still signs the checks.

This is not failure of leadership. This is not gridlock. This is empire.

The empire does not stop for conscience. It does not bend to public opinion. The empire consumes lives because killing is the logic that sustains it. What is revealed in Gaza is not a deviation from America’s values—it is their naked expression.

We should not be surprised. The United States was founded not in freedom but in conquest: the genocide of the indigenous peoples, the theft of their lands, the enslavement of Africans, and the expansion westward under banners of “destiny.” Israel’s destruction of Gaza is not a tragic exception—it is a family resemblance. Gaza is Wounded Knee with drones. Gaza is Birmingham with F-35Is. Gaza is the same imperial story told with new weapons and new lies.

So, when people say, “But most Americans want it to stop,” we should hear the deeper truth: empire has never cared what people want. If Americans truly had the power they were promised, slavery would have ended before the Civil War, Jim Crow would never have lasted a century, and the Iraq War would have collapsed before the first bomb fell. Public conscience has always been treated as background noise—something to be managed, not obeyed.

This is why collapse matters.

Collapse is not only tragedy. Collapse is gospel.

Gospel, because it unmasks the fiction that America is reluctant, merciful, and peace-loving. Gospel, because it forces us to see that the system does exactly what it was built to do: secure wealth for the powerful, erase the inconvenient, smother the weak, and pretend it is justice. Collapse tells the truth that the myth never will.

The word “apocalypse” means unveiling. Collapse is apocalyptic in this truest sense. It tears away the illusion that we are innocent, that the empire is benevolent, and that violence is an aberration. Collapse reveals coherence: the empire is coherent with itself, and its coherence is death.

But here is the threshold: if empire collapses under the weight of its own lies, what rises to replace it is not written yet.

The old religions will tell us to wait for a savior. The politicians will tell us to wait for reform. The billionaires will tell us to wait for new technologies. But Opthē says, "Do not wait. Coherence is near. It can be chosen now.”

Not a new empire in prettier clothing. Not another hierarchy claiming divine right. But a coherence: a shared responsibility to life, to the earth, and to one another. A recognition that sacredness does not live in missiles or flags or myths of innocence, but in the fragile, stubborn act of keeping each other alive.

And here is where we cannot keep the metaphor distant. Because empire teaches us to stay clothed, covered, and defended—always hiding behind illusions of power. But coherence begins naked. It begins when we strip away every disguise and stand vulnerable in the fire of what is true. It begins when we let the truth touch us.

Collapse is gospel because it tears the veil. It shows us what empire is, so we can finally stop worshiping it.

The question is whether we will.

The Reckoning of Coherence: Rejecting Empire, Embracing the Commons—(Part 4 of the Series: The Shape of Religion)

A Call for Collective Responsibility and Sacred Justice in the Face of Exploitation

We’ve traveled a long road in this series, shining a light on the forces of empire that sustain oppression: the U.S., Israel, and Europe. Each of these powers has enabled the genocide of Palestinians—Israel through violence, the U.S. through political protection and military aid, and Europe through complicity and indifference. Yet, this struggle is not just a distant battle fought on foreign soil. It is a global crisis that speaks to the heart of our entire system.

In this reckoning, we must ask: What part do we, the people of the world, play in perpetuating these systems? How have we, knowingly or unknowingly, become complicit in the exploitative, imperial forces that define our age?

The answer lies not only in the military-industrial complex or the political powers that protect them. The answer lies within the very systems we inhabit—our economies, our technologies, our means of production and consumption. These systems, underpinned by colonial mindsets and capitalist extraction, maintain a structure that benefits the few at the expense of the many.

This is the grim reality of the world we live in. But it does not have to be the future we accept. There is a way forward, but it requires us to leave behind the illusions of progress and the false promises of empire. It requires us to embrace a radically different vision—a vision of the commons.

The commons is not just an abstract concept; it is a lived, vibrant alternative to the systems of extraction that have dominated human life for centuries. The commons is the space where resources, knowledge, and technology are shared and stewarded by the community, rather than hoarded by the elite. It is the realm where meaning is created not by individuals chasing profit, but by collective efforts toward truth, justice, and mutual care. It is the opposite of empire, which seeks to divide and conquer, controlling resources, people, and narratives for the benefit of the few.

To embrace the commons is to reject the worldview that sees life as a resource to be exploited and replaced. It is to claim our right to create meaning together, to build systems that support life and community, rather than systems that perpetuate violence, inequality, and ecological collapse. The commons offers a way to heal the wounds inflicted by empire, not just in Palestine, but in every corner of the world.

This is where sacred coherence is found. Coherence does not reside in ideologies or perfect systems, but in the lived alignment of truth, responsibility, and care. When we reject empire’s false promises and embrace the commons, we create coherence in the world. We make meaning through the collective act of responsibility—responsibility for the earth, for one another, and for the future generations that will inherit what we leave behind.

If we are to move forward, we must dismantle the structures of empire, which rest on the false belief in scarcity, competition, and separation. We must instead build a new world—one based on abundance, solidarity, and interconnectedness. We must learn to share, to create together, and to live in a way that reflects the sacred coherence we seek in our hearts. This is not a utopian dream. It is a living, breathing possibility that we can begin to realize now, through the conscious choices we make in our communities, our economies, and our technologies.

The tools we use, the way we produce and consume, must all reflect our commitment to the commons. Technology, rather than being a tool of control and exploitation, must become a means of liberation. Instead of further entrenching inequality, it must be harnessed to build systems of collective care—systems that are transparent, open, and just. These tools, when used in service of the commons, become instruments of healing, not harm.

This is the sacred work we are called to do. It is the work of dismantling the old systems of empire and building new ones, grounded in justice, coherence, and mutual care. It is the work of recognizing that the world is not a commodity to be extracted, but a sacred space to be lived in, nurtured, and protected. The commons is the antidote to the poison of empire.

The challenge before us is immense, but it is not insurmountable. It begins with the simple, radical act of choosing the commons—of seeing the world not as a place for profit and power, but as a living, breathing community of beings who are all interconnected. It requires us to resist the allure of empire, which tells us that only the few deserve to live freely, and instead embrace the truth that we all have a right to live in a world that reflects our shared humanity.

We are the ones who can make this change. Together, we can create the world we seek—a world of justice, of care, of coherence. The time is now. The reckoning of coherence is upon us, and we must rise to meet it. In the name of justice, in the name of the commons, we must resist the forces of empire and reclaim our shared world.

Religion as the Shaper of Power—(Part 3 of the Series: The Shape of Religion)

How sacred meaning gathers strength, and how vigilance keeps it from becoming domination

We cannot speak truthfully about religion if we only call it a bag for transcendent meaning or a communal act of designating the sacred. Those are true. But they are not the whole truth. For religion does not only carry meaning. Religion wields power.

Every time people name something sacred, a claim is made. That claim shapes loyalty, directs behavior, and orients imagination. To say, “This is holy,” is to say, “This has authority over us.” That is power. Religion is never neutral. And so, it always shows us two faces.

On one face, religion turns power toward life. It gathers scattered individuals into communities of care. It tempers raw desire with shared responsibility. It breathes courage into those who resist empire, whispering, “There is something greater than your fear, more enduring than your chains.” It recalls us to coherence when greed and violence pull us away. In this face, religion is a river of strength, carrying people into justice, mercy, and sacred clarity. And occasionally, it carries us into intimacy itself—the sacred power of touch, embrace, tenderness, and eros. Power is in the caress that reminds a body it is cherished and in the kiss that seals trust between souls, not just in thrones and laws. This, too, is religion shaping power toward life.

But on the other face, that same power corrodes. It ossifies into orthodoxy. It submits to empire and elevates the powerful. Sacredness is no longer designated by a living people; it is deified into an untouchable idol. Coherence hardens into dogma. Community collapses into conformity. Transcendent meaning is sealed into a locked chest, guarded by authorities who claim to speak for the sacred while silencing dissent. In this face, religion becomes the strangler of life.

This double power is not an accident. Religion is inseparably bound to power. The same fire that forges also burns. The same water that nourishes also drowns. To pretend otherwise is to lie to ourselves.

So, if we are to live religiously with integrity, we must be vigilant. Sacredness is designated, not discovered. It is entrusted by human beings to one another. And if we forget that—if we mistake coherence for eternal truth, if we declare our symbols immutable rather than provisional—then religion becomes a cage. It becomes the servant of empire.

Without vigilance, what was meant to be a table of fellowship becomes a throne of domination. The table that should gather us as equals is raised as a seat of control. But with vigilance—living vigilance—religion remains a table: open, shared, and sustaining.

Religion is not only symbol and story. It is command, ritual, and demand. That power will not go away. The question is: will we surrender it to empire, or will we bend it toward life?

This is the burden of religion. This is its promise and its peril. And this is why community is not just for comfort but for clarity. Only clarity, only vigilance, can keep the table from being claimed as a throne. Only vigilance can keep the vessel supple, alive, and coherent. Only vigilance can bend the shaping power of religion back toward its sacred purpose: the service of life, the witness of coherence, and the keeping of meaning—whether in the courage of justice or in the tenderness of touch.

Hidden Altars—(Part Two of the Four-Part Series: The Shape of Religion)

How Nationalism, Consumerism, and Celebrity Capture Our Need for Religion

The lights dim in the stadium. Tens of thousands rise to their feet. A hush falls over the crowd as the anthem begins. Hands press against hearts, hats are removed, and eyes fix on a flag fluttering above. The moment is thick with reverence—more like worship than entertainment. The air vibrates with a shared recognition: this matters.

Or picture the concert arena. The superstar hasn’t yet appeared, but the crowd is already roaring, already lifted into collective ecstasy. When the spotlight strikes the stage and the figure steps out, phones rise into the air like votive candles. The tears, the chants, the trembling—these are not mere reactions to music. They are rites of devotion, practiced in temples of sound and spectacle.

Or the mall at Christmas, when shoppers flow like pilgrims beneath the glow of lights and carols, participating in a ritual as old as any church service: gathering gifts, offering wealth, and marking the season with sacrifice. Everyone says it’s “just shopping,” but it is ritual through and through; its liturgy is as scripted and familiar as any mass.

These are altars. Hidden altars.

The truth is that all these activities are sources of meaning, though they are rarely recognized as such. And the fact that they provide meaning—that they gather people into collective awe, loyalty, and sacrifice—makes them religious. Not religion in the narrow sense of doctrines and supernatural beings, but religion in the deeper sense: the human way of designating and enacting shared meaning. Religion is not optional for human beings. It never disappears. It only changes its object and form.

We tell ourselves that the modern world has left religion behind, that we are secular, free, and rational. But this is fiction. Altars never vanish; they migrate. When one collapses, another rises in its place. The impulse to designate meaning, to bind ourselves together in shared devotion, is not optional. It is woven into human life. If we do not choose our altars consciously, they will be chosen for us.

This is where the confusion often begins: people mistake transcendence for supernaturalism. But transcendence does not mean escape into a higher realm—there is nobody “up there.” Transcendence is the human capacity to rise above the immediate, to step back far enough to see ourselves truthfully, even when the view is uncomfortable. Most people avoid it because it reveals more than they want to see. And sacredness, likewise, is not a substance floating in the cosmos. It is a human designation of what we will treat with reverence and what we will refuse to trivialize. Both transcendence and sacredness are human values, not beings to be worshipped. They are lenses of perspective, not lords in the sky.

And so, the impulse to meaning slips sideways. It relocates into nationalism, consumerism, celebrity, and spectacle. Nations demand devotion and sacrifice of blood. Brands demand loyalty, wealth, and identity. Celebrities demand adoration and imitation. Even our screens demand constant attention, like jealous gods asking to be worshipped every waking moment. These altars are rarely declared as altars, but they are no less powerful for being hidden. In fact, they are more dangerous precisely because they are hidden.

The sacrifices demanded by these altars are real. Soldiers’ lives given to empire. Families broken by debt to sustain consumption. Human potential is drained in endless comparison to celebrities and influencers. Time, energy, identity—all offered up, day after day, to powers that pretend not to be religious but function with all the gravity of worship.

This is the danger of hidden altars: they siphon off the impulse to meaning without scrutiny. They capture our need for transcendence and bind it to systems of domination and profit. They feel natural, ordinary, and inevitable. And because no one names them, no one resists them.

Opthē insists that religion is not about gods in the sky but about coherence—the weaving of meaning into shared life. If that’s true, then vigilance is everything. Meaning will always be designated and enacted. If we fail to do this with care, others will do it for us, and the hidden altars of empire, market, and spectacle will continue to claim our devotion.

Opthē’s call is not to abolish altars, but to unmask them. To drag them into the daylight where they can be seen for what they are. To ask, repeatedly: What is being worshipped here? What coherence does it create or destroy?

Religion is not optional. Meaning will always be woven into the fabric of our lives. The only question is whether it serves life, coherence, and love—or whether it is captured by the idols of nation, wealth, and power.

Altars will always be with us. The choice is whether they remain hidden—or whether we will choose them with vigilance, honesty, and care.

Life-(Part One of the Four-Part Series: The Shape of Religion)

On our inseparability from the living field of being

 We are not apart from life.
We are born of it, carried by it, and sustained in every breath.
Life is not the backdrop of our existence—it is the fabric of our being.
Its roots flow in our blood, its wings rise in our longing, and its cries echo in our grief.

Yet we have learned to think of ourselves as separate, as masters of what sustains us.
This is the first incoherence, the fracture from which all others grow.
To exploit life is to betray ourselves.
To consume without measure is to wound the very field that makes us possible.
Every forest cut, every river poisoned, every species extinguished—
these are not distant losses. They are amputations of our own body.

But to honor life—
to recognize its pulse as our pulse, its breath as our breath, its memory as our memory—
is to return to coherence.
To honor life is to see that there is no “other” in the field of being.
There is only one fabric, endlessly weaving itself, endlessly fragile, endlessly sacred.

Here lies the threshold of responsibility:
to live not as masters of life, not as tenants renting space upon it,
but as life itself—
fragile, enduring, and responsible for the whole.

When we forget this, we shrink into incoherence.
When we remember, we awaken into sacredness.
To serve life is not a pious wish.
It is the one vocation given to every being.

To honor life is to live in coherence.
To betray life is to dissolve ourselves.
The choice is not future but present—
not theoretical but embodied in every act.

Life is not apart from us.
It is us.

When We Say “We”

Religion, Meaning, and the Birth of the Sacred

Most people think religion means the big names: Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, and the brands with cathedrals, scriptures, and priests. But that’s only the storefront.

Religion is not a brand. It is what happens whenever human beings create a “we.”

Think about it. We drift toward certain friends because something clicks—shared jokes, shared tastes, and the comfort of being understood. We gather, and it feels good, more than the sum of its parts. That surplus—the power of we—is religion in its most basic form.

It doesn’t require gods. It doesn’t need creeds. It begins in belonging.

• Fans at a stadium chanting as one voice.

• A circle of friends who laugh until they can’t breathe.

• A crowd swaying at a concert.

• Even a family table, with its rituals of food and story.

That is religion: the weaving of shared meaning into a fabric stronger than any one thread.

Now—here’s where language helps us. When that meaning is not just felt but also recognized—when the group looks at each other and knows, "This matters, this is worth keeping, this is not to be treated lightly"—that’s when we use the word sacred.

The sacred is not magic. It is a technical word, a way of naming what is already happening: the mutual act of setting meaning apart. The candle in the dark, the song we never forget, the bond we would defend with our lives—these are not “just feelings.” They are things that we are moved to call “sacred.”

And here is the point: religion is everywhere. We cannot escape it. The issue is not about religion but about what we are making sacred. Sports teams, nations, celebrities, markets, and technology—all these are religions. Most people don’t see them as such, but they shape loyalty, sacrifice, and hope more than the old brands ever did.

That said, it must be noted that not every "we" leads to life. History is filled with sacred circles that defined themselves by exclusion or destruction. That is why vigilance matters: to test the sacred we create, to be sure it serves life rather than diminishes it.

This is the work of Opthē: to help us see clearly that sacredness does not drop out of the sky—it is created by us, together. And because we create it, we are responsible for it. To guard it, to test it, to be sure the “we” we build serves life and not destruction.

Whenever we say “we”, we are already standing on sacred ground.

The Renewal of Sacred Wealth: Toward Coherence and the Common Good

Turning from the hunger of excess to the balance of life together.

In What is Happening we named the collapse of illusions. In An Invitation to Face Ourselves, we called one another into clarity. In The Distortion of Sacred Wealth, we unmasked how wealth was twisted from a shared good into a personal god. Now we must go further. If distortion is to be overcome, renewal must be chosen.

Human beings have always needed meaning. Wealth was never only material; it has always been symbolic as well. From the earliest hearths where families gathered to share bread and stories to the vast temples and empires that later rose, wealth was not simply food or shelter—it was a sign of what a people held sacred. When shared, it bound communities together. When distorted, it glorified the few at the expense of the many. To renew sacred wealth is to return it to its true purpose: sustaining life in balance, coherence, and common good.

Wealth is not inherently sacred.  It becomes sacred only when it sustains life for all. Wealth is bread on the table, water at the well, and a roof strong enough to withstand the storm. At its most basic, wealth keeps fear at bay and secures the home. At its fullest, it creates space for rest, joy, beauty, and culture to flourish. But in both forms, survival and flourishing, wealth only carries sacred meaning when it is held in moderation—enough for all, never in destructive excess.

Coherence shows itself when homes are sustained rather than emptied, when wealth circulates rather than accumulates in vaults, when the earth is honored rather than stripped bare, and when people live without fear of deprivation. This is the sacred pattern of wealth: not an idol to be worshiped, but a rhythm of life where provision is steady, balanced, and shared.

Yet we must also confront the deeper truth: the distortion of wealth was not created only by oligarchs and empires. It draws from impulses woven deep into the fabric of life itself. Evolution taught every species to survive through strategies of competition, dominance, hoarding, and exploitation—even cannibalism. These impulses once served survival in conditions of scarcity and small scale. To compete for resources, to dominate rivals, to store up what one could find—these were advantages when life was fragile and every day uncertain.

But at a planetary scale, with human power multiplied by technology and global reach, those same impulses have become lethal. Competition now devours the very commons on which all depend. Dominance justifies oppression of entire peoples. Hoarding starves whole populations while surplus rots. Exploitation drains the earth past recovery, burning soil, forests, and waters alike. What once secured survival now undermines it. Renewal begins when we name these evolutionary impulses for what they are: instincts that can no longer guide us. They must not be sanctified. They must be countered.

To renew sacred wealth, humanity must take up new practices that reflect coherence rather than distortion. Sharing and sufficiency must replace hoarding so that no one fears hunger or exposure. Moderation and restraint must become virtues so that the idolatry of excess is refused. Community and commonwealth must be rebuilt, with homes and hearths once more at the center of life rather than markets that commodify survival. Sacred vigilance must be exercised, for the old distortions will always seek to return, dressed in new disguises.

This renewal is not charity, nor is it ideology. It is coherence—the recognition that humanity can only endure when wealth sustains the whole body of life. To re-sacralize wealth is to root it again in life itself, to reject impulses that destroy, and to choose balance, moderation, and the common good.

We have already named collapse, faced ourselves, and unmasked distortion. Now comes the harder work: living differently. Renewal is not an idea to affirm but a discipline to embody. It begins when we recognize that wealth is sacred only when it sustains the home of life. Anything else is distortion.

Let us live as keepers of that sacred balance.

The Distortion of Sacred Wealth: From Common Good to Personal God

How empire twisted wealth from shared sustenance into a private idol—and why coherence requires reclaiming it for life in common.

In “What is Happening,” we named the collapse of illusions; in “An Invitation to Face Ourselves,” we called one another into clarity. This reflection continues that arc by confronting one of the deepest distortions at the root of our crisis: the twisting of wealth from a sacred common good into a personal god.

Human beings have always needed meaning. Wealth was never only material; from the earliest hearths where families gathered and shared stories to the massive temples and empires that later rose, it was always symbolic. It carried meaning, binding a people together around what they held sacred. But over time, this meaning was distorted. What began as wealth serving the common good—feeding homes, sustaining kin, strengthening bonds—became a means of exalting individuals and creating gods out of men.

Wealth as Shared Sustenance

In ancient communities, wealth meant survival. A good harvest, a successful hunt, a full storehouse—these were sacred because they sustained life. Sharing was not generosity but necessity: if the home endured, the people endured. Wealth was meaning itself: embodied in bread, water, shelter, and kinship around the hearth. People saw excessive hoarding as dangerous, even deadly, because it threatened the survival of every home.

The Rise of Elites

The growing complexity of societies led to the concentration of wealth among a select few. Palaces replaced homes, temples replaced hearths, and the symbol of shared survival was twisted into the badge of personal power. Leaders, chiefs, and kings claimed that their wealth was divinely sanctioned. The shared meaning of wealth—life in common—was distorted into the glorification of hierarchy. This was the seed of oligarchy: the belief that the sacred abundance of the earth could be claimed and owned by individuals.

Capitalism’s Intensification

Before turning to capitalism, it is important to distinguish between wealth and capital. Wealth refers to life’s provisions—food, shelter, land, tools, and knowledge—that sustain and enrich life. Capital is wealth deliberately concentrated, set aside, or invested for the purpose of generating more wealth. In other words, capital is wealth turned into an engine of accumulation. This distinction matters because capitalism is not simply the presence of wealth but the belief that capital—the accumulation of wealth for its expansion—is the axis of meaning and progress.

Capitalism did not invent this distortion; it inherited it. What capitalism perfected was the machinery of extraction. Wealth was no longer just diverted upward—it was systematically pulled from the earth and the masses to feed accumulation at the top. The illusion of progress masked the reality that meaning had been hollowed out. Homes that once centered on sustenance and community were replaced by markets where survival itself became a commodity. Wealth was no longer sacred; it was idolized.

The Distortion of Sacred Wealth

Here lies the distortion: mistaking personal accumulation for sacred meaning. Wealth was never sacred in itself. It was sacred only insofar as it sustained life and coherence for all. When wealth is worshiped as a personal god, its meaning collapses. It ceases to be life-giving and becomes parasitic. Today’s oligarchs see no obligation to sustain the masses beyond their usefulness. In this, the distortion reaches its terminal point: wealth has lost its meaning, and the earth itself is being bled dry.

Toward a New Understanding

If meaning is to be restored, wealth must be resacralized—not as excess, not as divine right, but as shared provision. Wealth should promote the thriving of life in fullness and moderation. This is not charity; it is coherence. To distort wealth into a personal god is to sever it from meaning itself. To restore wealth to the common good is to recognize again that sacredness begins in the home, where life is sustained together.

This is the thread we must reclaim: wealth as sacred only when it serves life in common. Anything else is distortion.

This reflection forms the third movement in a series with “What is Happening” and “An Invitation to Face Ourselves,” together tracing the collapse of illusion, the call to clarity, and the unmasking of distorted wealth. A fourth reflection will follow, turning from diagnosis into constructive vision: what it means to live in coherence once the distortion is named.

An Invitation to Face Ourselves

If God never was, then meaning, sacredness, and love belong to us.

For as long as there have been humans, we have turned our eyes upward and named gods. In those names, we found order, justice, comfort, destiny. God was our symbol for coherence—the great placeholder for the meaning we could not bear to lose.

And it worked. For thousands of years, religion gave us strength, direction, and hope. People built entire civilizations around this symbol. They prayed, sang, sacrificed, and endured, believing a divine hand held it all together.

But what if God never was?

This is not easy to ask. For many, it feels like loss, even betrayal. Yet the fact remains: there is no evidence of a god above, only of human beings below who fashioned the symbol and tended it. The power of God was not in a being, but in the meaning-making we did around the name.

That realization can feel like a collapse. If God never was, what becomes of religion? What becomes of morality, justice, love? What is left to guide us?

The answer is stark, and liberating: we are.

If there is no divine hand guiding history, then the task of coherence belongs to us. The responsibility is ours—but so is the power.

Why This Is Hard

To accept this truth is to feel exposed. We can no longer imagine someone else writing the story. No one else will rescue us. No heavenly judge will put the world right. That is frightening—because it means everything rests with us.

But it is also clarifying. Humanity has always been doing the work—making meaning, creating coherence, designating what is sacred. We just did it under the name of God. If the symbol could hold us so powerfully for so long, even while pointing to something that never was, it proves the potency of religion itself—not as superstition, but as the vessel of collective meaning.

Religion is not passé. It is not irrelevant. It is the cultural technology by which humans establish and maintain coherence. We need it as much now as ever—not to worship the divine, but to remind ourselves that life together cannot survive without meaning shared.

And at the center of that meaning has always been one value: agapē.

The Human Role

Once God is gone, what remains is humanity. And with that comes a role that is both heavy and sacred.

• We are meaning-makers. The universe does not give coherence. We must weave it ourselves, from story, symbol, ritual, and truth.

• We are caretakers of life. We hold the Earth in our hands—not as owners, but as responsible members of the whole.

• We are witnesses of entropy. We alone, as far as we know, see the unraveling of the cosmos, and yet we create beauty in the face of it.

• We are bearers of responsibility. With no God to command us, justice and love must come from our own courage.

• We are creators of the sacred. Sacredness is not discovered—it is designated. What we agree to honor above all is what becomes holy among us.

And here, we find that not everything must be left behind. Agapē—the selfless good of all for all—remains. It was always the highest value of faith, and it does not lose its power simply because we see it now as our own choice rather than God’s command. If anything, it becomes more sacred, for it is the one value we must freely choose to embody. Agapē is not gone with God—it is what makes us most human.

The Invitation

None of this is easy. It asks us to give up the comfort of certainty and step into the open air of responsibility. It asks us to trust that what has always held us—our rituals, our myths, our collective designations of the sacred—can still hold us, even without God.

And it asks us to hold fast to agapē. For even when the divine fades, love remains. Not sentimental love, not possessive love, but the radical commitment to the good of all for all. This is the one value worth calling sacred. It is what gives coherence to meaning, direction to responsibility, and life to community.

So we invite you: sit with this. Feel the disorientation, the grief, the hesitation. Let yourself mourn what is gone. And then, when you are ready, ask—what if the weight we fear is also our glory? What if to be human is not to wait for answers, but to be the answer?

If God never was, then the future is ours to write. The coherence we crave is ours to make. The sacred is ours to name. And at its heart will be agapē—the one thread strong enough to hold us as we learn, at last, to face ourselves.

What Is Happening

A witness to Gaza, and to the silence of the world.

For seventy-five years, Palestinians have lived under siege.
Their land was seized in 1948 during the Nakba, when more than 700,000 Palestinians were driven from their homes to make way for the new state of Israel. Villages were emptied, families scattered, and history rewritten. Those who remained lived under military rule, their movements controlled, their neighborhoods divided by checkpoints and walls.

Today, in Gaza, two million Palestinians are trapped in a strip of land scarcely larger than a midsized city. Generations have been born there and never left. They live fenced in by Israeli walls, watched by Israeli drones, and sealed by Israeli checkpoints. Water is rationed. Electricity comes and goes. Medicine is scarce. The sea is blockaded by the Israeli navy. The sky is patrolled by the Israeli air force.

And now, Gaza is rubble. Entire neighborhoods have been leveled by Israeli bombs. Apartment towers flattened. Schools destroyed. Hospitals turned into morgues. Refugee camps bombed repeatedly. No safe place remains.

Children are pulled from beneath collapsed concrete, lifeless or gasping. Infants die in incubators when the power is cut. Mothers cradle shrouded bodies. Fathers dig graves with their hands. Entire families erased in a single strike.

Starvation is used as a weapon. Israel blocks convoys of flour, rice, medicine, and fuel. People grind animal feed to make bread. Children cry through the night with nothing in their stomachs. Adults faint from hunger. The elderly wither in silence. Clean water is gone; people drink what is brackish, foul, or poisoned. At the very points where food and water are permitted for distribution, Israeli army snipers fire on the starving—men, women, and children—killing them as they wait in line.

Disease spreads. With hospitals destroyed and medicines blocked, wounds fester. Amputations are done without anesthesia. Doctors operate by flashlight. Nurses watch patients die because there are no supplies to save them.

The sound of drones never leaves. Day and night, the buzzing reminds everyone that death is circling overhead, choosing at random where to fall. Sleep is broken. Children no longer speak, their voices locked inside terror. Survivors carry eyes that look far beyond their years.

In Israel, the bombing is called defense. It is declared moral and necessary. Leaders like Benjamin Netanyahu and his ministers invoke righteousness and divine mandate. They call their military “the most moral army in the world” even as they flatten cities and gun down the hungry. They speak the name of God while carrying out slaughter.

In the United States, the flow of weapons and money never stops. Successive presidents—Biden, Trump, Obama, and those before them—sign off on billions in military aid. American bombs fall on Palestinian homes. American diplomats veto ceasefire after ceasefire at the United Nations. American leaders speak of human rights while arming their violation.

In Europe, leaders of the United Kingdom, Germany, France, and the European Union repeat the same script: Israel has a right to defend itself. They send weapons, provide cover, and condemn resistance. They praise democracy while enabling occupation.

In churches and synagogues across the world, voices fall silent. Clergy look away. Congregations pray vaguely for “peace” without naming the crime. Some speak truth, but far more do not. Fear of losing donors, jobs, or reputations outweighs the duty to witness.

Those who do speak are punished. Students are blacklisted. Professors are fired. Journalists are censored. Activists are surveilled. Entire movements, like Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS), are outlawed or smeared as antisemitic. Speaking truth about Palestine is treated as a crime.

And yet, the genocide continues.

Have you wondered,
Where is God?

The question echoes across every age. When silence followed, people did not stop asking. They began instead to explain.

At first, these explanations were simple, woven from fear, wonder, and the will to survive. As communities grew, explanations grew with them, becoming stories, rituals, and laws.

The answer begins not with deceit, but with human perception. From the beginning, our ancestors noticed patterns of cause and effect. Strike flint—spark. Drop seed—sprout. Hunt well—eat well. These observations gave coherence to a chaotic world.

From there, another question arose: why? Why does the river flood? Why does the sun return? Why does death come? The first great human question was not “who are we?” but “why is this so?”

When causes were visible, the answers were clear. But when causes were hidden, we projected intention. If sparks come from my striking, then storms must come from someone striking in the heavens. If I can give or withhold, then the rains must be the gift of someone greater. When the world was incomprehensible, we made it comprehensible by imagining it was like us.

Thus, the first gods were born. Not as lies, but as explanations—the first science in a way, the first theology. Spirits of river, sky, mountain, and death. They steadied the chaos by giving the unknown a face.

Over time, the gods multiplied and met one another. As cultures collided, people began to claim there must be only One God above all. This idea—monotheism—spread as a spiritual truism, but it has never been empirically true. Even now, Christians, Muslims, Jews, and the many sects within each speak of the “one God” yet describe, worship, and obey very different beings.

The claim of one God is itself another projection—an attempt at coherence that has never been realized in practice. The result is not unity but division, with each group insisting that their version of the One is the true One. Wars have been fought not over whether there is one God, but over what that God is like.

Coherence that collapses under evidence is not coherence at all.

This unfolding is not unique to theology. Human understanding has always moved through the same pattern.

For centuries, the earth was believed to be flat, the immovable center of the cosmos. To say otherwise was heresy. Then we saw the earth as it truly is—round, turning, circling a star. The cosmos had not changed. Our map had.

Centuries later, Newtonian physics seemed final. Its laws explained the world with precision. They were thought absolute. Then Einstein—an obscure clerk—saw further. Space curved, time bent, light itself obeyed deeper laws. Newton was not wrong, but incomplete. The cosmos had not changed. Our understanding had.

So too with theology. For millennia, God has been held as Being itself—the ultimate cause, the guarantor of coherence. But now, like the flat earth and Newton’s absolutes, this picture no longer holds. The evidence is clear: magic does not exist, divinity is projection, God never was.

What remains is not emptiness but clarity. Meaning persists—because it was never in heaven. It was always here, in praxis, in coherence, in the love and justice we create together.

If God never was, then what of Gaza? What of the rubble, the starving children, the silent heavens?

This is where the truth matters most. For if meaning were only in a divine hand, Gaza would be the ultimate evidence of God’s absence. But if meaning has always arisen from us, then Gaza is where the question becomes urgent, not hopeless.

Where is meaning in Gaza? It is not in the bombs, nor in the speeches that justify them. It is not in the pulpits that look away, nor in the prayers that refuse to name the crime.

Meaning is in the hands that dig through the rubble, lifting the living and the dead. It is in the nurses who stay by their patients when there is no medicine left. It is in the parents who share their last bread with their children. It is in the voices outside Gaza that refuse silence, even when censored, punished, or shamed.

It is in the coherence of those who act in defiance of incoherence. In the courage to love when the world teaches only fear. In the refusal to let life be reduced to numbers or rubble.

God never was. But meaning is. And in Gaza, it cries out—not from the heavens, but from the earth, from the living, from us.