It was supposed to be a simple Sunday—a light, breezy day where life just flows, no plans, no structure. You know the type: the kind where spontaneity is your guide, nudging you in whichever direction the wind blows. After a satisfying run in the rain—my body alive with the rhythm of the droplets—I found myself wandering toward the cathedral. Not because I had to, but because something deep within me craved that connection to something larger than myself. Spiritual, not religious—that’s the badge I wear.
I just wanted to pray. Just wanted to whisper my thoughts into the vastness, to reach out to that elusive spirit that weaves through everything, binding us all.
But when I arrived, I was greeted by a tarp—a drab banner of rules pretending to be divine law. "Dress codes," it proclaimed, like some sartorial decree. “No shorts, no sleeveless tops,” it warned, as if God had suddenly developed a taste for high fashion. Seriously?
Instead of communion with the divine, I turned on my heel, walking away—back to my sanctuary, where the air is thick with the aroma of coffee and the cool embrace of a cold beer. It’s peculiar how the constructs we create—especially those we label religious—can scratch at a deep, nagging itch within. The kind of itch that begs for a rant, really. If I had someone to discuss this with, I wouldn’t be pouring it all out here, would I? But here we are.
So, what’s wrong with my clothes? Did my shorts and singlet suddenly become a crime against the Almighty? Last I checked, I was still human. God—omniscient, omnipresent—saw me drenched from my run, breathing hard, and I doubt He batted an eye. Clothes? Just fabric. Masks we wear to cover what we think we should hide. But God? He sees through it all. If we’re sticking to the creation story, weren’t we all born naked, anyway? No designer labels, no status symbols—just us, stripped bare.
Shouldn’t they celebrate the fact that people show up to pray? Religion, in its essence, is supposed to unite us, to gift us faith, hope, and love. Yet here we are, fracturing over something as trivial as attire, clinging to the illusion that one belief is somehow better than another. Have we forgotten what really matters?
Then there’s smoking. I once asked a friend, a priest, about this. What if I’m praying and suddenly want to light up? “It’s disrespectful,” he said, citing the need to honor God. But what if I’m already smoking and suddenly feel the urge to pray? Is that wrong too? He didn’t answer. Maybe the cigarette was too offended to speak.
Here’s my point: Why do we try to confine an infinite, universal being to the boundaries of our finite minds? It’s like attempting to pour the ocean into a teacup. God, Allah, Jehovah—whatever name you choose—they’re beyond our comprehension. To try to define them, to box them in, is utterly absurd. It’s like calling someone insane because they have a moment of madness—a gross injustice of definition.
We inhabit a world teeming with questions, and seeking answers often feels like chasing shadows. Take this beer, for example. To a chemist, it’s a blend of elements. To a psychologist, it’s a social lubricant. To a philosopher, it embodies existential reflection. But no matter how you dissect it, the truth remains elusive. We could argue over it for a lifetime, or we could just drink it—let it flow through us, become part of us.
So why not do the same with God? Instead of fitting the infinite into our limited understanding, why not dive into the infinite? Toss the teacup into the ocean and let the waves carry us.
“Phenomenologize, pare.”
And with that, I called for another round. What more is there to say?
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