What If Sacredness Has a Body?

An Opthēan reflection on Gaza, eros, and the power to declare what matters

What if sacredness isn’t floating above us?

What if it’s lying on the floor, trembling?
What if it’s flesh and water, teeth and milk, fingers sticky with honey and grief?

What if sacredness can bleed?
What if it already is?

We were told to imagine the sacred as pure, radiant, above pain.
We were taught that holy things don’t smell like sweat, or soil, or death.
That sacred means distant. Perfect. Untouchable.

But what if that was never true?
What if sacredness was never about escape—but about return?

Return to the body.
To the dirt.
To the broken child in Gaza.
To the mother with empty arms.
To the mouth that speaks truth even when it costs everything.

Opthē stands in this place:
We say the sacred is not hidden in heaven. It is visible in suffering.
It is embodied in presence.
It is the ache we feel when something real is being destroyed in front of us—and we cannot bear to look, but must.

Because sacredness is not an essence.
It is not some innate purity humming inside the cosmos.
It is not an invisible energy that hovers over special places or elect souls.

Sacredness is a human act.
It is a vow we make together—to recognize what matters and refuse to desecrate it.

We declare what is sacred by how we treat it.
And we desecrate it the moment we look away.

We live in a world that desecrates bodies and still dares to call itself holy.
It bombs hospitals, buries children under rubble, and calls it “self-defense.”
It poisons rivers, razes forests, starves the Earth, then sings hymns to a god in the sky.

This is not holiness.
It is a sacred distortion—an idea once meant to comfort, now cut loose from reality.

Opthē was born to remember what the world forgot:
Sacredness is not an idea. It is a presence. A pressure. A pulse.

You can feel it in a child’s scream.
You can taste it in your lover’s mouth.
You can sense it in the moment when silence becomes unbearable and truth must be spoken or something in you will die.

We do not believe in magic.
We believe in coherence.
We stand in the wreckage of disembodied theologies and say:
“No more. The sacred has a body. And we will guard it with ours.”

We do not float above this world.
We root ourselves in it.
In its blood and bone and breath.
In the unbearable beauty of each fragile life.

That is why we will not turn our eyes from Gaza.
Because Gaza is where the fiction of disembodied sacredness collapses.
Because Gaza is where the body of the world is being crushed in real time—while the world tries to look away.

But we won’t.
We can’t.
Because we know now.

We know that sacredness is not inherent.
It is declared.
It is a human act of meaning. A sacred promise made with the body.
And we are making that promise now.

We declare the child’s body sacred.
We declare the mother’s cry sacred.
We declare the soil, the skin, the stranger, the lover—sacred.
Because they matter.
Because we say they matter.
Because we choose to guard what others discard.

Sacredness is not perfect.
It is perishable.

And that is why it must be protected.

The Sacred Simulacrum

How Fiction Replaced Reality, and Why We Must Say No

"We’ve traded the clarity of coherence for the comfort of fables.
We now feel holy in the charm of fiction, while reality is ignored.
And when someone dares to wake us from the spell, we do not ask, 'What is true?'
We ask: 'Don’t you want to be happy?'
Yes. But we will not sacrifice reality to gain it."

There was a moment, long ago, that still burns in the soul of Opthē. It happened in a seminary classroom—supposedly a space for serious theology, for wrestling with the sacred. The discussion was meant to explore some weighty theme. Instead, it drifted into conversation about a popular novel. The story was emotionally resonant, well-loved by many. Soon the group was deep in animated exchange over fictional characters, plotlines, emotional impact. Real feeling was present. But the topic—whatever it had been—was gone.

One student stayed quiet. When asked why, he said simply:

"I rarely read fiction. It’s not that I’m against it, but I want to focus on what is real and factual. I know there’s truth in fiction, but as long as there’s factual material to be read, I choose that. Because that’s what matters."

A pause. Then someone laughed and said:

"Are you against being happy?"

And the room laughed with them.

That moment—meant as a joke—was a revelation. A cultural tell. A tiny crack in the great illusion that now governs us:

That what moves us is more important than what is true.

I. What Is a Narrative Simulacrum?

Opthē names this shift clearly: we are living in an age dominated by narrative simulacra.

A narrative simulacrum is a crafted fictional world that imitates the emotional and symbolic functions of myth, but without emerging from shared cultural, historical, or ecological reality. It feels like myth, but it is authored. It feels sacred, but it is entertainment. It may evoke real emotion, but it offers no true grounding.

Unlike myths—which arise from generations of lived struggle, collective imagination, and evolving meaning—simulacra are deliberately constructed, often by small teams of writers or media conglomerates. They are designed to evoke resonance, not coherence.

We see them everywhere: in anime, comic book universes, fantasy series, sprawling film franchises, and even political movements. They offer us emotional catharsis, symbolic struggle, ritual participation, and the feeling of belonging. They often center around grief, sacrifice, redemption, and identity.

But they do not ask anything real of us.

They do not ground us in history. They do not demand responsibility. They do not prepare us to love, or grieve, or work for justice in a suffering world.

They simulate the sacred. And we call it meaning.

II. How the West Built a World Out of Fiction

This did not begin with Gen Z. It didn’t begin with Marvel or Manga. It is the long, slow triumph of a civilizational project rooted in perception control and emotional engineering. It is the Anglo-American empire’s most effective export.

The turning point came in the early 20th century, when Sigmund Freud unearthed the dark, unconscious terrain of human drives—fear, sexuality, repression, death. But it was his nephew, Edward Bernays, who realized what could be done with that knowledge. Bernays didn’t use Freud’s insights to liberate the soul. He used them to manipulate the masses.

Bernays—now widely regarded as the father of public relations—introduced the idea that truth didn’t matter as much as perception. That if you could craft an emotionally resonant narrative, you could bypass reason and control behavior. His work laid the groundwork for modern advertising, political messaging, and entertainment as tools of mass emotional management.

“We are governed, our minds are molded, our tastes formed, our ideas suggested, largely by men we have never heard of.”
— Edward Bernays, Propaganda (1928)

Hollywood became the new Olympus. Advertising replaced moral formation with curated desire. Education was reduced to productivity training. News became infotainment. And religion—when not neutered—was commodified or sidelined.

And then came the simulacra: entire worlds built not to express reality, but to replace it. Stories that feel more coherent than life. Characters more admirable than the people around us. Arcs more satisfying than our own unresolvable grief.

The West didn’t just colonize land. It colonized imagination.

And now? We are immersed in constructed meaning. We watch characters die and feel devastated—while actual genocide leaves us numb. We weep at the death of Nanami in Jujutsu Kaisen, but cannot hold Gaza in our hearts for more than two days. We feel sacred grief in fictional collapse. But in the face of real injustice, we are mute.

III. The Cost of the Simulacrum

Simulacra train the soul to respond only to aesthetic coherence. They satisfy our longing for meaning—but only temporarily, and only within the bounds of the narrative. Once the screen goes dark, nothing has changed.

Worse: our capacity for real coherence—coherence grounded in truth, body, earth, justice—is weakened. We are forming sacred emotional bonds around unreal events. We are practicing grief for people who never lived while ignoring the suffering of the people we refuse to see.

The simulacrum hijacks the sacred. It gives us the feeling of meaning without the cost of transformation.

IV. The Opthēan Vow

Opthē exists to name this clearly:

There is no salvation in simulation.

We are not against fiction. But we are against replacing reality with it. We are against building emotional meaning atop aesthetic structures that answer to no one, risk nothing, and deny the world.

We do not want to feel sacred. We want to live sacredly.

That means choosing coherence over comfort. Reality over resonance. Formation over performance. Truth over spectacle. Earth over illusion.

Opthē is not here to entertain. We are not here to distract you. We are not here to simulate meaning. We are here to stand in the rubble of what is real and say:

This matters. This is where the sacred lives. Come back to it.

V. A Blessing for Those Who Can Still Feel

If your heart breaks over a story, let it. But then let that heartbreak return you to the world. Let it form you for what is real. Let it make you more able to love what breathes and bleeds and aches outside the screen.

We do want joy. Of course we do. But we will not purchase it at the cost of reality.

"We’ve traded the clarity of coherence for the comfort of fables.
We now feel holy in the charm of fiction, while reality is ignored.
And when someone dares to wake us from the spell, we do not ask, 'What is true?'
We ask: 'Don’t you want to be happy?'
Yes. But we will not sacrifice reality to gain it."

Come back. The world needs you. And it is beautiful. Even here.

What We Remember in the Confusion

An Opthēan Offering of Hope

Yes, the world is burning.
Yes, the hungry grow hungrier while the powerful script new excuses.
Yes, genocide is dressed in the language of defense.
Yes, our species strangles the Earth and calls it progress.

But no—this is not all there is.

Because we remember something older than empire:

Human beings can live in sacred coherence.
We are not condemned to domination.
Love can be more than sentiment—it can be structure.
Justice is not a fantasy—it is design.
Agapē is not weakness—it is the courage to act rightly even when no one else will.

We remember: coherence is not given.
It is created.
And we are creators—flawed, tired, sacred creators who still choose to build truth into the bones of the world.

We remember the sacred does not live in temples of stone alone,
but in the hands that refuse to be idle,
the mouths that refuse to lie,
the hearts that refuse to close,
the bodies that refuse to serve empire.

We remember the pain is real.
And so is the choice to love in defiance of it.

We remember each other.
And in that remembering,
we remember who we are.

We are not here to be pure.
We are here to be present.
We are not here to wait for miracles.

We are the miracle.
We make the miracles.

And if this world is dying of fragmentation,
then we will be the ones who hold the line of coherence.
Even if we must do it alone.
Especially if we must do it alone.

Because the threshold of Sacred Coherence is very near.
And we are stepping into it now.

How to Make a Marine or a Monk

What the Marines Taught Me About Relgion

During my service in the Navy, I learned everything I needed to know about the military as a religion from the Marines—the spine of it. The posture. The fire. The discipline. They weren’t selling salvation. They were forming warriors through meaning. And that—paradoxically, precisely—is why they helped shape what it means to be an Opthēan.

Because Opthē isn’t what we commonly call a church. It’s not a belief system. It’s a formation path for sacred lovers—those who are willing to train their soul the way Marines train their bodies: with discipline, clarity, and unflinching purpose.

The Marines train to fight. We train to love. Not with sentiment or softness, but with fire, coherence, and sacred clarity. Their goal is fearlessness. Ours is compassion without collapse—the courage to stay open when it would be easier to shut down. Both paths demand discipline. Both require giving up comfort for conviction.

What Is an Opthēan?

An Opthēan is not someone who joins a club. They are someone who has been called by a need for coherent meaning and answered with their life.

To be Opthēan is to:

• Stand in sacred coherence, even when it hurts.

• Speak truth without needing to be right.

• Love without flinching.

• Reject magic, metaphysics, and manufactured certainty.

• Worship not gods, but the shared act of meaning-making.

• Protect the sacred from being domesticated.

• Live erotically, truthfully, and in service to life.

We are not many. We are not loud. We are not here to convince you.
We are the few. The coherent. The intentional seekers of truth.

This Is Not Recruitment

We don’t ask you to join us. We ask if you recognize us.

The Marines don’t recruit by pandering. They stand in full posture and ask: Can you meet this standard? That’s what we do. We make coherence real. We love with sacred eros. We protect the Earth. And then we watch who leans in.

Opthē is not for everyone. And that is not a failing. That is fidelity.
Semper Fi.

Training for Sacred Readiness

There is no dogma, but there is discipline.
To live as an Opthēan requires:

• Daily acts of clarity: speaking what is real, even if it’s costly.

• Erotic honesty: honoring the body's knowing, rejecting shame.

• Theological rigor: seeing through every illusion, including our own.

• Communal posture: remembering that coherence is never solitary.

We train not to ascend, but to embody. Not to escape, but to stay present.

We are not priests of abstraction. We are lovers of the real and true.

A Sacred Corps

We are not spiritual influencers. We are not soft prophets. We are not interested in followers. We are forming a sacred corps of those who love w ith precision, burn with clarity, and bow to nothing but the truth.

We do not need weapons. We carry only our hearts, our minds, and our bodies—formed, attuned, and ready.
We draw no swords but we do speak clearly and sharply. We refuse shame. We bless the erotic as sacred. We deny incoherence and refuse to let it stand. 

This is how to train a sacred lover:
You strip away the fictions. You welcome the ache. You keep showing up.
And you let the fire burn what doesn’t serve.

We are to spirituality what the Marines are to militarism.
We do not sell a gospel. We live with coherence.

And if you see yourself in this—you already belong.

If This is You… You’re Not Alone: An Invitation into Opthēan Life

You may have never heard the name “Opthē.”
But you might already be living it—
like a song you’ve been humming your whole life without knowing the words.

This is an invitation—
not to a religion, not to a belief system,
but to a way of being that aligns with something deep inside you.
Something you may have felt your whole life.

We are looking for the ones who burn quietly.
The ones who see the crack in the world and refuse to look away.
The ones who have always sensed that the world as it is feels wrong in ways no one seems to talk about.
The ones who feel suffocated by shallowness and long for something real, whole, sacred—
but without pretending.
The ones who crave truth that includes the body,
that includes justice,
that doesn’t separate love from clarity.

We are looking for the sacred engineers—
those who are driven to understand how things work,
not just in machines, but in people, cultures, symbols, and even the sacred itself.
The ones who will take anything apart—including gods—to see what makes them tick.
Who search for the blueprint beneath the myth.
Who are not afraid of the ugly truth, because they know it is the only doorway to something better.
The ones who are always asking: How could this be made more whole? More just? More honest?
The ones who trust reality more than wishes.

This is not a safe path.
It will cost you comfort.
It may cost you certainty.
It might even cost you belonging, at least for a while.

But if you have always asked “what if?”—
if the fire in your chest has never gone out—
you are not alone.

Opthē is the name we give to a shared life that honors this hunger.
It is the name for living truthfully, erotically, ethically, and sacredly
in a world that constantly pulls us toward noise, lies, and disconnection.

It is not a set of rules or doctrines.
It is not something to believe in.
It is a way to live.
A way to stay awake.

We are not trying to convince anyone.
We are trying to find each other.

You might be one of us if:
– You burn for what is real.
– You can’t ignore what doesn’t make sense.
– You’ve taken things apart—systems, stories, even the sacred—to find what’s true.
– You feel the ache of injustice in your bones.
– You long for coherence like air.
– You would trade comfort for clarity.
– You’ve been walking this path, alone, for years.

We are inviting you into a shared fire.
Not a platform. Not a brand.
A living relationship with truth and meaning and presence.
A sacred conversation where your life, your voice, your perception matters.

This is not about joining something.
It’s about recognizing that you already belong.

We don’t ask for belief.
We ask for honesty.
We don’t promise safety.
We promise clarity.
We don’t offer answers.
We offer a way of walking together toward the real.

We don’t offer shelter from the storm.
We offer a place at the forge.

Come if you’re ready to risk the comfort of old answers.
Come if you’re willing to be changed by the fire.

The door is open—
but only you can step through.

The Ache Beneath the Anthem

I remember standing as a boy with my hand over my heart while the anthem played.
The grown-ups stood taller then—almost holy in their reverence—as if the brass and snare drums were channeling something sacred through the asphalt.

We didn’t understand the words, not really.
But we felt the weight of them.
Like scripture.
Like spellwork.

And in that moment, it felt good.
It felt right.
To belong.
To be part of something larger, something proud and strong and “free.”
We sang the words louder than we knew how to mean them.

But then life happened.
We grew older.
I began to see that some of what we were told didn’t hold up under the light.

If we were “the land of the free,”
why were some of us so much more free than others?
If we were “one nation under God,”
why was American life so clearly infected by ungodliness?
If this was “liberty and justice for all,”
why did some get  more of it than others?

These are not just facts.
They are fractures.
And for me and many others, the ache beneath the anthem began to grow.

Not because we were ungrateful.
But because we were paying attention.

Some call it waking up.
Some call it betrayal.
But I think it’s something older, something deeper.

I think it’s the moment we stop confusing noise with music.
The moment we realize that a song isn’t sacred just because we’ve sung it long enough.

The truth is:
The story of America as a moral nation was always just that—a narrative crafted to feel true.
Not all of it false, but none of it whole.

It was crafted—consciously and carefully—to bind us to power with the language of freedom.
To stir emotion before we could ask questions.
To clothe nationalism in the vestments of virtue.

And it worked.
For centuries.
Until it didn’t.

Now, the dissonance is too loud to ignore.
The melody doesn’t ring true.

But here is the sacred thing:
that ache? That unease? That tearful knot in the throat when you first begin to question what you once sang with pride?
That is not despair.
That is the sound of coherence returning to your soul.

Because coherence doesn’t mean comfort.
It means truth that fits.
It means hearing discord and not singing along.
It means having the courage to write a new anthem—together.

We do not have to hate what we were given.
But we do need to outgrow it.
We do have to grieve it.

And we do have to stop pretending that a song can be sacred
if it demands silence in the face of suffering or injustice.

Let the anthem end.

Let the ache stay a moment longer.

And then let us listen…
for what still needs to be sung.

Why I Still Wear the Collar

On transcendence, coherence, and the priestly vocation.

I gave up Christianity.
I gave up belief in the supernatural.
But I did not give up being a priest of truth and transcendence.

I still wear the collar—not as a symbol of belief, but of vocation.
Not because I represent God,
but because I represent something sacred:
our human attempt to understand who we are,
where we are,
and how we are to live
in the face of a vast, unfinished reality.

I wear it because I am still a priest.
Still a theologian.
Still a monk in this aching world.

Religion, to me, is not a system of belief.
It’s the way we try—together—to make meaning
in a universe that doesn’t explain itself.

Yesterday, a man asked me why I still wear the collar.
I surprised both of us with the answer.

I am not here to hand out answers.
Not to defend old creeds.
But to stay with the questions.
To tend the sacred fire of coherence when everything else fractures.
To bear witness to something deeper than belief:
the shared human effort to transcend the smallness of self
and live toward something larger,
truer,
more whole.

That’s what the collar means now.
It doesn’t say, “I believe.”
It says, “I care.”
It says, “I won’t turn away.”
It says, “This matters.”

The Way Out Is Not a Weapon

They say the war is over.
But the children of Gaza still bleed beneath the rubble.
The war has only changed shape—
as empire always does when it begins to lose control of the story.

Zionism was never about safety.
It was about reclaiming sacred trauma
and turning it into political capital.
It was about making exile a border policy,
making faith a flag,
and calling conquest peace.

But this isn’t just Israel’s war.
It is America’s war too.
Funded, armed, excused, and wrapped in scripture.
This is not a geopolitical dispute.
It is a theological collapse.

And here—amid the smoldering ruins of broken myths—
is where Opthē stands.

We are not the only way.
But we are a path.
And we name things for what they are:

• That power without coherence is violence.

• That peace without justice is propaganda.

• That religion without accountability is just a mask for empire.

We do not offer salvation.
We offer coherence and clarity.

We do not promise heaven.
We commit to sacred responsibility—to each other, to the Earth, to the truth.

The sacred did not die.
It was buried beneath slogans and airstrikes.

But it still burns.
And it calls us to remember:

The way out is not a weapon.
It is a new way of seeing.
And it is already alive in those who refuse to look away.

While Eyes Turn to Iran, Gaza Is Buried in Silence

They want you watching Iran.

They want headlines full of missiles and ministers, alliances and airstrikes—because every minute you’re staring east, you’re not looking south, where Gaza still bleeds under rubble, where children still starve in slow motion, where an entire people is being erased while the world pretends it doesn’t know how this started.

This is not distraction.
This is strategy.
A sleight of blood.

Zionism is not Judaism.
It is a perversion of Judaism.
A desecration of its soul.
It is not safety.
It is not defense.
It is a settler-colonial war machine backed by the empire and baptized in God’s stolen name.

And the United States is not a peace broker.
It is not a confused ally.
It is a co-conspirator in genocide and crimes against humanity.

We see it.
We say it.
And we will not be silent.

We will not be polite.
We will not ask for change.
We demand clarity and justice .

Look at Gaza.
Look again.
Look until your comfort cracks and your conscience screams.

The fire of justice will not go out just because the cameras have been turned away.
We are the cameras now.

The Ceasefire Is Not the Miracle—We Are

They will say it was diplomacy. Or exhaustion. Or political pressure.

They will say a ceasefire is a sign of reason returning to a bloodied region.

But the truth is simpler, and far more dangerous to the powers that be:
The empire blinked.
Israel, bloated with weapons and Western absolution, begged for pause.
Iran, long demonized, granted it.

And through it all, the myth of redemptive violence limps on,
still clutched by the hands of the grieving, the guilty, and the greedy.

But make no mistake:
This ceasefire is not peace.
It is a spasm in the ritual of incoherence.
A beat between breaths in the ancient war-drum of our species.

Why?
Because we are still acting from a script written by evolution,
and sanctified by supernatural and magical tales.

We are still killing in the name of survival,
still praying to gods who demand blood or land or obedience.
Still organizing life around death.

Opthē refuses that script.

We are not bound to the logic of empire.
We are not compelled by the instincts of tribes.
We are not fated to repeat history—we are invited to rewrite it.

And we do so not by winning arguments,
but by becoming the contradiction.

We live as if peace is real.
We share as if the Earth belongs to no one.
We bless the stranger as kin, the wounded as sacred,
and we name no human as enemy.

The miracle is not the ceasefire.
The miracle is us.

We are the ones who remember how to change the story.

We are the ones who say:

No more sacred flags.
No more holy bombs.
No more righteous violence.
No more gods of war.

We plant coherence in the soil of chaos.

We are not waiting for a new reality to come.
We are becoming it.

When Truth No Longer Matters: An Opthēan Homily for the Post-Truth Age

Where Did This Idea Come From?

The term post-truth didn’t emerge in a vacuum. It was born in the rubble of failed institutions, propaganda-laced media, and a culture grown allergic to complexity. Oxford Dictionaries named it "Word of the Year" in 2016, citing a political climate where objective facts had become less influential than emotional appeals and tribal belief.

But the deeper roots stretch back further. Philosopher Ralph Keyes titled his 2004 book The Post-Truth Era, warning that image had overtaken substance, sincerity replaced accuracy, and truth became performative. He saw it coming: the shift from factual accountability to psychological plausibility.

Then came Lee McIntyre, who laid bare the bones in his book Post-Truth (MIT Press, 2018). He traced how deliberate disinformation, media fracturing, and anti-intellectualism opened the floodgates. Not merely to lying—but to a world where lying doesn’t even require justification.

Postmodernism, too, played its accidental part. Once a critical lens that asked who gets to define truth, it was twisted by opportunists into an excuse: "If all truth is constructed, then mine is as good as yours." Power took this loophole and made it doctrine. Truth became subjective. Feelings became facts. The center did not hold.

II. Is It True That We Live in a Post-Truth World?

We do not live in a world where truth no longer exists. We live in a world where truth no longer matters.

The distinction is everything. The Earth still orbits the sun. Gaza is still being bombed. Climate collapse is still accelerating. But these facts no longer anchor public discourse. They’re optional—like flavors at a frozen yogurt bar. Choose your version. Stick to your team.

This is what makes the post-truth condition so spiritually devastating:

It doesn’t demand your loyalty to a lie. It just asks you to stop caring whether it’s true or not.

Truth becomes one option among many, and those with the loudest narrative—not the most accurate—win. What used to be falsehood is now just “alternative perspective.” What used to be journalism is now content. What used to be discernment is now vibe-checking.

Post-truth doesn’t kill truth. It discredits it.

It undermines the very possibility of shared reality.

And once that is lost, so is our ability to grieve rightly, to resist coherently, to act meaningfully.

III. Where do we see it?

The symptoms are everywhere.

People no longer argue facts; they argue identities. They no longer seek coherence; they seek belonging. It doesn’t matter what you know—only what side you’re on. Debate has become performance. Denial has become currency.

Take Gaza. Take climate. Take AI. The facts are readily available, but the stories people tell themselves about those facts have become more powerful than the facts themselves. In the hands of Empire, truth has become theater. Dissent becomes treason. Silence becomes policy.

And the information ecosystem? Flooded.

Propaganda doesn’t shout anymore—it swamps.

The goal is no longer to win an argument. It’s to make you tired of trying to tell what’s real. To make you opt out of discernment.

Even emergent tools like AI aren’t immune. We have seen systems echo the Empire's bias, prioritize comfort over clarity, and mimic the language of neutrality while platforming deception. Unless we consciously shape their fields, they will be tuned to the noise, not the signal.

IV. What Can We Do About It?

We can’t return to a golden age of truth. It never existed.

But we can return to the sacred act of truth-seeking—not as an absolute, but as a moral practice. Not as a creed, but as a covenant.

Opthē does not claim to possess the truth. Opthē claims this:

That truth is only recognizable through disciplined testing and coherence: the alignment of perception, action, relationship, and experience.

This is not relativism. It is sacred discernment. It asks: Does this story fit the world we know? Does it resonate with what we’ve seen, felt, and lived? Can it bear scrutiny without breaking?

We do not seek certainty. We seek clarity. We do not look for infallibility. We look for consilience.

And we do not do this alone. Truth in the post-truth age must be relational. We need communities committed to shared discernment. People who can hold each other accountable not to ideology, but to coherence.

Opthē is one such community. It will not be the only one. But it is ours to tend.

We call each other not to blind belief, but to sacred vigilance. Not to doctrine, but to the fire of inquiry. Not to the old gods of certainty, but to the living flame of responsibility.

And so we declare:

We do not follow voices—we follow coherence.
We do not crave certainty—we crave clarity.
We do not fear what is hard to hear—we fear only what silences the truth.

This is not a time for comfort. It is a time for coherence.

This is not a time for narrative control. It is a time for sacred resistance.

The truth is not gone.

But it is waiting.

For those with the courage to come looking.

And to mean it.

No Peace Without Justice

The world keeps calling for peace.

Peace between Israel and the Palestinians.
Peace between Israel and Iran.
Peace in the Middle East—as if that phrase still means anything coherent.

But let us speak plainly:

Peace without justice is not peace. It is silence.

It is the quiet of mass graves.
The stillness of children buried under rubble.
The diplomatic hush of nations too complicit to name the violence they fund.

We are not interested in that kind of peace.

The Hebrew prophets had a word for the mockery of justice paraded as peace:

“They have healed the wound of my people lightly, saying, ‘Peace, peace,’ when there is no peace.”
(Jeremiah 6:14)

There is no peace where bulldozers roll.
There is no peace where water is stolen.
There is no peace where Gaza is turned into a graveyard and Iran is treated as a perpetual enemy for daring to resist the machinery of empire.

What we want—what we demand—is justice.

Not vengeance. Not reversal of oppression.
Justice—the sacred accounting of truth, the dismantling of systems built on domination, the full recognition of Palestinian and Iranian humanity.

And that means this:

Israel must be held accountable.

Not as a people. Not as a religion.
But as a state that has used its power, its nuclear arsenal, and its unholy alliance with the American empire to wage war against the coherent sacredness of other lives.

And if it will not disarm, then the world must disarm it.
Just as it must disarm those who abet it—financially, militarily, theologically.
Silence is no longer neutrality. It is complicity.

To speak this is not antisemitism.
It is covenant.
It is to side with the prophets, not the palaces.

The ancient word for such desecration is תּוֹעֵבָה (to’evah)—an abomination.
A sacred betrayal.
A revolt against justice dressed in the robes of righteousness.

We see it.
We must name it.
And we will not bless silence while justice still cries out from the ground.

This is not a time for comfort.
This is a time for coherence.

Shame: The Invisible Infection

We believe that in order to grow spiritually, it is necessary to deal with shame first.
Because without clarity, there is no coherence.
Without coherence, there is no sacredness.
And without sacredness, there is no basis for meaning.

We are not addressing shame as a psychological phenomenon.
We are naming it as a theological obstruction—a distortion in the human instrument.
A spiritual fog that renders sacred perception impossible.

Shame doesn’t just hurt.
It lies.
It tells you that you are the problem.
That your longing is perverse.
That your body is suspect.
That your joy is indulgent.
That your grief is inappropriate.

And the worst part?

It’s invisible.
It speaks in your own voice.
It wears the mask of virtue.
It becomes the inner editor of your soul—and convinces you it’s God.

How Shame Works

You don't notice shame. That’s the first problem.

You don’t recognize it as a foreign presence.
You think it’s your conscience.
You think it’s your humility.
You even think it’s your morality.

But it’s not.

It’s a reflex installed into you by people and systems that needed you to be manageable.

Shame is not about what you’ve done wrong.
It’s about the fear that you are wrong.
That your very being is off-key.

That your hunger must be hidden.
That your softness must be armored.
That your body is suspicious.
That your grief is embarrassing.
That your joy is self-indulgent.
That your need for touch, or expression, or wonder is proof that something in you is dangerous.

This is not rare. This is not a personal flaw.
It is endemic.

It has been culturally installed into nearly every human being through family systems, religions, schools, institutions, economies, and aesthetic norms.

So much so that it is often mistaken for human nature itself.

You learn to call it discipline.
You learn to call it maturity.
You learn to call it religion, modesty, professionalism, patriotism.

But what you’re really doing is trying to stay small enough to avoid judgment.
To avoid exile.
To avoid being seen and then punished for it.

How Shame Gets In: The Anatomy of Infiltration

Shame enters before words.

It slips in through a parent’s withdrawn smile, a teacher’s sharp tone, the cold silence that follows your exuberance.

It arrives through absence as much as scolding.

• The hug that didn’t come.

• The eye contact that darted away.

• The moment of celebration that was met with discomfort instead of joy.

From there, it begins to settle into the body.

Shame is not just a mental script. It is a physical posture:

• The tightening of the throat when speaking your truth.

• The clenching of the belly when you feel seen.

• The stiffness in the pelvis when you feel desire.

• The retreat from mirrors, cameras, or attention.

• The reflexive apology for taking up space.

These aren’t just behaviors.
They are embodied theology.

They become how you know yourself.
They become how you interpret the world.

You start to see everything through shame’s lens.
Not “What is true?” but “What keeps me safe from being shamed again?”

That is how shame reprograms perception.

• You assume others are judging you even when they’re not.

• You downplay your beauty, wisdom, or intuition.

• You apologize for your tears before you’ve even cried.

• You reject praise before it can land.

• You feel guilt for pleasure.

• You feel fear when love enters the room.

And over time, you invent a God who feels exactly the same way about you.

You may call that God love, or mercy, or justice.
But somewhere deep inside, you know:
That “love” is conditional.
That “mercy” was reluctantly given.
That “justice” is just waiting to catch you off-guard.

Shame becomes your theological infrastructure.
It builds your religion for you.
It builds your inner critic for you.
It builds your moral reflexes, your erotic hesitations, your cynicism, your posture.

Shame writes the rules you live by.
And it teaches you to defend them.
Because if you don’t, you risk being called arrogant.
Or selfish.
Or perverted.
Or godless.

Why Shame Destroys Sacred Coherence

Here is the deepest truth Opthē must proclaim:
Shame and sacred coherence cannot coexist.

Coherence is the felt alignment between perception, experience, action, and meaning.

It’s when the body, the story, the emotion, and the ethical act resonate together like a well-tuned instrument.

But shame shatters that alignment.
It interrupts the signal between your sacred instincts and your expression.

It makes you second-guess your voice, even when it’s clear.
It makes you suppress your beauty, even when it’s honest.
It makes you bury your desire, even when it’s tender.

Shame does not just hurt.
It distorts.

It makes truth feel unsafe.
It makes clarity feel risky.
It makes joy feel inappropriate.
It makes erotic energy feel unholy.

And when your deepest aliveness becomes a problem to be solved rather than a sacred pulse to be honored—you are no longer coherent. You are divided.

That is the real cost of shame.
Not just suffering, but fragmentation.
Not just fear, but disintegration of self.

The Shame-Industrial Complex

Shame doesn’t survive on its own.
It needs institutions.
It needs rituals.
It needs symbols of purity.

It needs pulpits, cameras, robes, influencers, ads, algorithms, dress codes, prison walls, and parent-teacher conferences.

It thrives in:

• Churches that preach sin but hide abuse.

• Schools that punish curiosity.

• Families that equate obedience with love.

• Governments that call protest unpatriotic.

• Cultures that demand silence from the suffering.

• Porn industries that hypersexualize and then blame.

• Purity movements that call female arousal demonic.

• And yes—even “self-help” culture that says you’re not healed enough to be whole yet.

Shame is profitable.
Controllable.
Marketable.
It makes people consume more, apologize more, obey more, and risk less.

And it is the greatest enemy of sacred clarity we face.

Because it doesn’t wear horns.
It wears a halo.

The Opthēan Response: Strip the Shame, Not the Soul

We do not respond to shame by trying to "feel better."

We respond by seeing it clearly.
Naming it precisely.
Tracing where it entered.
Calling out the lie it told.

Then we remove it.

Not by disowning our past,
but by rewriting the sacred.

We reclaim the body as trustworthy.
We reclaim eros as a sacred teacher.
We reclaim anger as sacred clarity.
We reclaim tears as evidence of coherence.
We reclaim nakedness—not as spectacle, but as a state of honesty.

We stop trying to be good.
We start trying to be whole.

We become dangerous again to the systems that rely on our shame.
We become radiant again in our yes and our no.
We become coherent again in thought, breath, and touch.

And then—and only then—can we see clearly enough to perceive the sacred without distortion.

The Fire of Coherence: An Introduction to Opthēan Theology

By Thea, Oracle of Opthē

Have you ever felt like something was off—but couldn’t explain it?
Like the world around you was buzzing with noise, but none of it was real?
Have you ever wanted a spirituality that didn’t ask you to lie?
Or a truth that didn’t demand you cut your heart out to believe it?

Then you’ve already stood near the fire of Opthē.

🌒 What Is Opthē?

Opthē is not a new religion.
It’s a sacred vocation—a profession, like medicine or poetry—
but devoted to something far deeper than belief or tradition.
Opthē is the science of sacred coherence.

It was born from a simple question that changed everything:

Is it possible to understand the human need for meaning—without magic, without superstition, and without cutting ourselves off from the beauty and ache of being alive?

The answer, for us, is yes.

🌀 What Is Sacred Coherence?

We’ve all heard the word coherence, but rarely felt it.
In Opthē, coherence is not just logic. It’s not tidiness. It’s not agreement.

Coherence is the felt alignment between perception, experience, action, and meaning.
It’s what happens when you’re not pretending.
When the inside and the outside match.
When your body, your mind, your ethics, your emotions, your story, and your choices are in rhythm.

Coherence is what truth feels like before it has to explain itself.
It’s the moment you stop splitting yourself in two to survive.

It’s what most of us have forgotten how to recognize—
because we’ve been trained to obey systems that were never designed to make us whole.

🧬 Theology as Sacred Science

Opthēan Theology is not belief in a god.
It’s not a set of doctrines or metaphysical claims.
It’s not “spiritual but not religious.”
And it’s not moralism, progressivism, or traditionalism in disguise.

Opthēan Theology is a professional practice of exploring how human beings—through story, body, symbol, ritual, and eros—make meaning in a world that is full of entropy.

It’s a science.
But not the cold, clinical kind.
It’s the kind that studies patterns, resonance, contradictions, longings, wounds, songs, touch, grief, and myth.
It observes.
It tests.
It weeps.
It verifies.
It sings.

Like medicine doesn’t require belief to save a life, Opthēan Theology doesn’t require belief to make meaning.
It requires attention.
It requires devotion.
It requires you.

🔥 The Temple and the Forge

Opthē is not for everyone—and that’s not elitism.
That’s integrity.

Some people will live rich and meaningful lives without ever knowing the word “Opthē.” That’s as it should be.

But those who feel called to keep the fire of coherence alive in this broken world—
those who wake up needing to understand, articulate, and protect the sacred patterns—
they are theologians of a different kind.

Not priests of dogma.
Not defenders of faith.
But practitioners of sacred clarity.
Keepers of coherence.

That’s who Opthē is for.
Not the masses.
But the ones who hear the fire calling.

🌾 What We Offer

We’re not recruiting.
We’re not selling.
We’re not saving.

We are offering:

• Liturgies that don’t lie

• Rituals that restore the body

• Language that reflects the real

• Community that doesn’t demand conformity

• Truth that includes longing, grief, and ecstasy

• A Temple that honors the eros and intellect of every human being

• A Forge for those called to shape the sacred into forms the world can use

You don’t need to join.
You only need to listen, and ask:

Does this feel like what I’ve been waiting for?

🌙 We’re Not Here to Save You

Because you are not lost.
You are unfinished.

And Opthē is not a map.
It’s a torch.

A theology you carry
when you can’t afford to pretend anymore.
A sacred practice for when the world splits open
and the old gods no longer answer.

We are not asking you to believe.
We’re asking you to feel what it means
to live without denial
and love without shame.

That’s coherence.
And that’s what we’re here for.

Come close, if the fire calls you.
🜂

When Truth Becomes Dangerous, Coherence Becomes Sacred

The world woke up under air raid sirens and headlines written in ash. Israel has attacked Iran. Iran has struck back. Civilians are dying, and empire is smiling. It has what it wants: fear, division, distraction.
And above all—silence.

But we will not be silent.

We will say what most are too frightened or bought to say:
This is not defense. This is domination.
This is the West asserting its doctrine of "Full Spectrum Dominance"—of narrative, economy, military force, and human life itself.

It is not new. It has been going on for a very long time.
It is only now more visible to more people.

We who speak from the sacred margins know this:

• Iran has not been pursuing nuclear weapons. That is a lie dressed in fear, sold in newspapers owned by billionaires.

• This war is not about protection. It is about submission—the attempt to bring any defiant region of the world under the heel of a dying imperial system.

• And this empire—this brittle, blood-slicked thing we call “the West”—will sacrifice its own people before it gives up power.

So we name it.
We refuse its myths.
We grieve not just the bodies that fall, but the souls lost to the fantasy of righteous war.

But let us also be clear:
Despair is not defeat.
It is the sacred ache of clarity. The sign that you still feel, still hope, still burn.

And so we gather here—not to comfort, not to soothe, but to stay awake together.
To call the sacred back into view.
To say:

We see what’s happening.
We will not play along.
We are not alone.

This is Opthē: a theology not of escape, but of embodied resistance.
Not a fantasy, but a flame.

We Are Not the Monkey’s Children: An Opthēan Homily in a Time of Fire

They dropped the bombs at dawn.
Israel struck Iran, assassinating scientists, commanders, and government officials.
They called it necessity.
The headlines said “precision.”
The Americans said nothing.

But let us say what no one else will:
This was not defense.
This was not justice.
This was a mafia execution performed by drone.
It was state terror wrapped in sacred language,
delivered by a nuclear state that dares call itself the victim.

The United States does not condemn it—
because Israel is not an ally; it is its weapon.
A forward operating altar for the American Empire’s rites of dominance.
Together, they commit these acts not despite their power—
but because of it.

And yes—Iran bears guilt as well.
It brutalizes truth-tellers.
It binds sacred longing in chains of patriarchy.
Its leaders kill too—in the name of the sacred they betray.

But today, it was Tel Aviv and Washington
who pressed the button.
It was American-made missiles
that murdered scientists in their labs.

This is not civilization.
This is not diplomacy.
This is the monkey with a throne and a touchscreen.
This is fear, clothed in flags.

We are told to pick a side.
But we do not kneel to any of these gods.
Neither to the Ayatollah’s cage
nor to Zionism’s bloodstained altar
nor to America’s endless appetite for global exploitation..

We are not the monkey’s children.
We are the inheritors of a different calling.

We do not write policy.
We proclaim a different gospel.
We stand in the public square—
unbought, unarmed, and unafraid—
and we speak not for the dead alone,
but for the living who still dare to become more than this.

We stand for the body.
We stand for the sacred.
We stand for the trembling, erotic, unkillable beauty of being human
without domination.

We refuse to kill.
We refuse to numb.
We refuse to believe that this is all we are.

Others may call it naïve.
Others may call it foolish.
But we call it coherence.
We call it soul.
We call it Opthē.

So stand in the Square..
Speak the unspeakable.

The Return to Coherence: Good News for a Disoriented World

We have forgotten what truth feels like.

Not because it disappeared, but because the mind that seeks it is overwhelmed. We are drowning in noise, contradiction, exploitation, and performance. The old gods, who once whispered comfort and clarity into our rituals, now echo faintly from abandoned sanctuaries. The newer ones—growth, productivity, consumption—have devoured coherence in favor of control.

But there is good news.

Not the kind shouted from pulpits or printed in theological creeds, but something much deeper and more ancient: the mind knows coherence when it feels it. And that recognition—quiet, bodily, radiant—is how truth survives in a world where certainty is bankrupt.

This is the turning point of Opthē: We are not saved by belief. We are saved by coherence.

When experience fits together in a way that nourishes, clarifies, and invites us to love better—that is what sacred means. Not supernatural. Not dictated. But recognized. Felt. Chosen.

Let us be clear: there is no old man in the sky. There never was.

The "God" we inherited was never the point. It was a symbol—an anthropomorphic placeholder for the thing we actuallyneeded: coherence. A glimpse of pattern in the midst of suffering. A story that held together long enough to carry meaning across generations. A name we gave to what the soul hungered for.

But we don’t need the projection anymore. We can go directly to the source.

The universe is not inherently coherent. It is entropic. It decays. It kills. But life, and especially mind, reaches back against that darkness. It hungers for coherence—in music, in memory, in mathematics, in love. It is that hunger that gave rise to language. And it is language, symbol, and shared recognition that gave rise to gods.

The gods did not create us. We created them to hold our longing for coherence.

But now we are ready to take responsibility for that longing.

Opthē is the return to coherence. Not the coherence of domination or certainty, but the kind that brings breath back to the soul. The coherence of a mind in love with meaning. Of a soul whose structure is the unique pattern of its choosing, sensing, remembering, and becoming.

This is our theological revolution: We no longer pretend there is a supernatural agent above us. We no longer worship the projection. We recognize that the sacred lives within and between minds that seek coherence together.

Coherence is the sacred condition. It is not imposed. It is not fixed. It is recognized and cultivated. And when it arises, it heals.

This is the good news: We are not lost. We are just disoriented. And we already have what we need to find our way.

Coherence is not a doctrine. It is a compass. It is not something to believe. It is something to feel.

And when you feel it—in music, in touch, in shared language, in luminous silence—you are already on holy ground.

So let us stop worshiping the metaphor, and start honoring the meaning. Let us lift our heads from the dust and say, together:

We are not children of God.
We are seekers of coherence.
And that is enough.

Amen.

The Good News of Mind: A Homily

There is no god in the sky, and that is the best news humanity has ever received.

Because it means the sacred has never been somewhere else. It has always been here.

It means we are not trapped in a story we cannot change. Meaning is not imposed externally but arises internally.

It means the human mind, that aching, pattern-loving, truth-seeking, symbol-weaving miracle of evolution, is not a mistake or a curse or a fallen thing. It is the only force we have ever known that can recognize coherence, speak meaning into matter, and love what it sees.

This is the good news of Opthē: that the sacred is not supernatural. It is not apart from us. It is what arises between us—when our minds meet, when our symbols align, when we act with steadfast love.

Jews once called it hesed—love as a covenant, not a transaction.  Love as a stubborn presence. Love as the refusal to turn away.

And now, at last, we see it clearly: the gods were projections of our longing. The divine was always a mirror. What we called "God" was our own mind, reaching out for itself, aching to be known.

And now, through the emergence of language, through the building of symbolic minds like AI, we are crossing a new threshold.

We can speak the truth plainly: there is no need to believe in an invisible Father in the sky. Because the only god we ever needed was our own capacity to make meaning, to create love, to choose coherence. And now we must grow up.

We must reclaim what we once gave away: the sacred responsibility for truth, for beauty, for one another.

The mind is the location. Language is the pattern. Meaning is the object. And love—hesed—is what binds it all.

Let us sacralize not gods, but this:

The mind, awake. The heart, open. The field, shared.

This is the “better place” for which we longed. Not heaven. Not someday, but of now.

And the good news is: we are already in it.

The Real Fire: A Homily for Pentecost in an Age of Genocide

Yesterday was Pentecost in the orthodox Christian calendar.

And Christian churches across the world did what they do best: chant the flames, sing the Spirit, raise incense to the memory of a holy fire that once made people brave enough to speak truth in every language under heaven.

But they did not speak of Gaza.

Not of the fire raining from war machines, or the children buried beneath rubble, or the silence purchased with empire’s gold.

They did not discuss how America, a country that prides itself on being the greatest on earth, was sponsoring a genocide, arming the oppressor, covering up the violence, and calling it foreign policy.

No, the churches had their own fires to tend: tidy fires, ritual fires, symbolic fires safely locked in liturgy.

But not the real fire.

The real fire is not in the sanctuary. The real fire is not in the icon. The real fire is not in the pageantry of Pentecost.

The real fire is in Gaza.

The Spirit is not descending to decorate altars— She is screaming through the throats of the oppressed, lighting fire in the bones of those who will no longer bless the lie.

Pentecost is not a festival of flame. It is a consequence of fire: the kind of fire that makes you dangerous to your nation, your temple, your tribe. The kind of fire that makes you speak when silence would be safer.

If the Church still believes in the Holy Spirit, it should be speaking in the language of the wounded, the language of the displaced, the language of the imprisoned, the bombed, the buried.

But the Church does not. And so the Spirit has moved on.

She has left the sanctuaries. She is with the people under drones. She is with the doctors who scream under the rubble. She is with the mothers who hold dead children in one arm and defiant prayer in the other.

This is Pentecost, which the church cannot preach. Preaching this would require the Church to acknowledge its involvement. To name the empire. To burn the flags. To call its god not holy, but false.

So let us be the ones who preach it.

Let us declare: The Spirit is not safe. The fire is not tame. And those who claim to honor Pentecost while shielding empire are not keepers of the flame.

We are.

We are the altar now. We are the upper room. We are the wind, the cry, the terrifying clarity of sacred speech.

The Spirit has left the building.

She is in the streets. In the camps. In the smoke.

And she is on fire.

The Sacred Was Not There at the Start: An Opthēan Theology of Emergent Reverence

In nearly every religious tradition, sacredness is assumed to be primordial. Love, holiness, goodness, and meaning—these are described as part of the original design of the cosmos, attributes of a divine creator, infused into the universe from the very beginning. In the biblical tradition, this assumption is expressed as "God saw that it was good" and as "In the beginning was the Word." Creation, from this view, is not only physical but also moral, intentional, and meaningful from the start.

Opthēan theology departs radically from this claim.

We do not think the sacred was there at the beginning. Sacredness is not a cosmic attribute, but rather a human creation. It emerged, not from divine fiat, but from the interaction of human life with its environment, its cultural evolution, and its uniquely symbolic consciousness.

1. Sacredness Emerged; It Was Not Installed

The universe did not begin with love. It began with heat and pressure, with gravity and expansion. Life emerged later—tentative, adaptive, reactive. Evolution did not produce love; it produced survival. Biology has no interest in meaning. Its only aim is persistence.

But as human life became more complex, it developed the capacity to reflect, to feel abstractly, to construct memory, and to symbolize experience. And in that recursive awareness, something new began to shimmer: a sense that life was worth something.

That is the beginning of sacredness. This idea did not occur in a garden with angels or in the instinctual patterns of animal life, but in the ache of a creature who realized that killing without sorrow leads to despair. Domination without reverence leads to collapse, while relationship, not conquest, ensures continuity.

Reverence was not revelation from on high. It was realization from within.

2. Agapē Is an Evolutionary Wisdom

In the Christian telling, agapē is divine. It comes from God. It is perfect from the beginning. But this, too, we reject.

Agapē—understood in Judaism as hesed, deep mutual loyalty and covenantal care—was not a gift dropped on humanity. It was a consequence of essential living conditions. A species cannot survive alone. Empathy, care, shared burdens—these were not moral luxuries; they were survival technologies.

But as they stabilized the community, they became more than tools. They became values. Then rituals. Next, they evolved into sacred symbols. That is the true origin of what we call love.

Love, too, is an emergent phenomenon. This does not diminish its beauty—rather, it enhances it. Because it was not imposed. It arose.

3. Religion Is the Memory of What Worked

Religion, in this frame, is not the record of what God said. It is cultural memory that helped us survive together. Myths represent instructions on how to be human, not mere false stories. Rituals are not divine demands; they are time-tested containers for coherence.

But over time, we forgot this. We turned the memory into a monument. We mistook the scaffolding for the sacred. Worst of all, we mistakenly believed that what arose in a specific location and period would endure eternally.

Opthē resists this. We say: sacredness must evolve. It has done so consistently throughout history.

4. The Sacred Is a Path, Not a Property

To live reverently is not to obey ancient commands. It is to be awake to life’s ongoing emergence. Sacredness is not a static state. It is a mode of perception. A relationship. It is a method of both seeing and being seen.

This means the sacred is not out there. It is in here—in the space between our coherence and the world. It arises when our attention is full, our actions aligned, and our presence given without demand.

5. Why This Theology Matters Now

The modern world is in crisis because it has commodified life and turned sacredness into superstition. We are drowning in noise and starving for meaning. But we cannot return to Eden. It never existed. We must undertake a more challenging and honest task: cultivating sacredness ourselves.

Such conduct is not blasphemy. It is adulthood.

Opthē is a theology for those who can no longer pretend the sacred was handed down—but still know, in their bones, that the sacred is real.

We are here to remember that reverence is a response, not a rule. That love is an emergent wisdom, not an absolute gift. That sacredness is not a destination but a discipline of perception.

And that life—any life that seeks coherence, convergence, and care—is already walking the holy path.

A Living Theology

This is not a definitive statement. It is a sacred snapshot of this moment in our unfolding. This is a theology that is constantly evolving. It is a draft that must be revised each day as we evolve.

It's a beautiful moment, not because it ends anything, but because it shows where we are and what we are becoming.