There is a quiet irony in the human story of God. The sacred, which by its very nature should be boundless and unpossessable, has so often been given walls, price tags, uniforms, and hierarchies. The divine, which many traditions described as closer to us than our own breath, has been placed behind altars, gates, institutions and governments and kings that claim stewardship over what was never theirs to own.
If one surveys the broad arc of spiritual history, a pattern emerges. The earliest spiritual impulses were intimate: a person beneath the sky, a whisper of awe before nature, a trembling moral insight, a moment of gratitude, a cry for meaning. These were interior experiences, unmediated, personal, transformative. They required no membership, no donation, no architecture. They asked only for awareness, humility, and a heart attuned to something greater than the self.
Yet as communities formed, as power structures crystallized, the language of transcendence became a language of administration. The mystery of God was gradually translated into rules, dues, ranks, and rituals. None of these are inherently wrong; humans are social creatures and institutions can preserve wisdom. But the drift occurs when the container begins to replace the content, when the symbol claims to be the source.
This is where the quiet hijacking I often discuss, can occur. Not always through malice, but through gradual misalignment. A temple meant to inspire awe becomes a monument to donors. A ceremony meant to cultivate inner transformation becomes a performance to display authority. A contribution meant to sustain a community becomes a revenue stream and often misappropriated. Over generations, the narrative subtly shifts: access to divine favor is implied to be facilitated by compliance, participation, and giving.
The tragedy is not merely financial; it is psychological and spiritual. When people are taught that their standing with the divine is mediated by institutions, they may outsource their conscience. They may measure devotion by visibility rather than sincerity. They may seek reassurance from ritual while neglecting inner work. The spiritual journey, which should be deeply personal and often uncomfortable, is replaced by a checklist.
And yet, across traditions, the most profound spiritual teachers consistently pointed inward. These spiritual teachers such as Jesus Christ, Rumi, Ibn Arabi and Ibn Hallaj, spoke of the heart, of intention, of love, of awareness and forgiveness. They warned against hypocrisy, against public displays of piety without private integrity. They reminded listeners that the sacred is not impressed by spectacle. These voices appear again and again in history, often at odds with the establishments of their time.
Why, then, are people so easily drawn into material expressions of faith like mass praying in streets and squares that disrupt daily life? Part of the answer lies in human cognition. Tangible acts feel reassuring. A building can be seen. A donation can be counted. A ritual can be completed. Inner transformation, by contrast, is ambiguous, slow, and invisible. The material world offers measurable proxies for immeasurable aspirations.
There is also a social dimension. Belonging is powerful. Shared rituals bond communities. Identity forms around collective practice. Institutions provide structure, charity, education, and continuity. Many do genuine good. The problem arises not from organization itself, but from conflating the organization with the divine it claims to represent.
A divine reality, if it is truly divine, cannot be owned, franchised, or monopolized. It cannot require payment plans or architectural grandeur. It would not need marketing. It would not depend on human defense. It would, by most theological definitions, be concerned with the orientation of the heart and the ethical life of the individual.
The gentle reclaiming of spirituality, then, is not rebellion but return. A return to sincerity over spectacle. To contemplation over consumption. To compassion over compliance. It is the recognition that no intermediary can feel your remorse, your gratitude, your love, or your wonder on your behalf.
This does not require abandoning community or tradition. It requires seeing them clearly, as tools, not masters; as maps, not destinations. The moment a structure claims exclusive access to God, it has already reduced the infinite to a possession.
Perhaps the deeper invitation is this: to approach the divine as a relationship rather than a transaction. To ask not “What must I give to be accepted?” but “How shall I live to be aligned?” To understand that reverence may be shown in kindness, honesty, and awareness as much as in any sanctuary.
In the end, the spiritual journey has always been quieter than the institutions surrounding it. It happens in conscience, in reflection, in how one treats the vulnerable, in how one confronts one’s own ego. No one can do that work for another. No ceremony nor no book can substitute for it.
If God has been hijacked in the public square, the path back may simply be this: to rediscover the sacred where it first spoke to humanity, in the interior life, in love without audience, and in the humility to seek truth beyond what is sold in Gods name.
The Gentile!
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