I hate the word spiritual.
That's probably the wrong word to say. Rather, I detest with every fiber of my being that degenerate word. It is not an adjective, it is not a noun, or an adverb, and it cannot even begin to describe what it is aspiring to. In fact, the only proper meaning for this word is that it gives a proper definition to those who choose to ascribe themselves to such weakness.
The spiritual person is not a person of faith. They are a person "of all faiths," never being held down to one dogma or another. They take freely from all, be it Christianity, Judaism, Hinduism, Islam, even Wicca and Satanism at times. Unfortunately, these spirituals have never studied the works of Paul, or the Torah. They could not define what the Qur'an means to the nations of Islam, or the multitude of gods that reside within the hearts of Hindus. There is no study, there is no deep reflection, in fact there is no true faith.
The spiritual person is one that does not offend. He is not a person of faith, and does not wish to describe himself as atheist or agnostic. Those are negative words, confrontational words, words that by definition are against religion. The spiritual person is not up against religion. The spiritual person merely wants to have nothing to do with it.
They do not see what religion means to an individual. They see conflict, they see problems without solutions, a world blind that does not want to see. But this is not what religion is.
Religion is pushing the mountains into the sea, the will of one joined by the force of millions. There is not a single voice, but a chorus of multitudes. See how the mountains tremble at this force, and the very bones of the earth are shaken from their core.
Religion is the small voice in the corner of a diner, reading texts and asking how ink can cause the mind to reel in joy. Watch that daughter, see her face as she reads. Her face is tightened, inquisitive but not fully comprehending. Then, a moment of clarity, followed by a brief instant of yet more confusion. Then a dawning, and the eyes lift off the page, and are closed in contemplation. She finishes her meal, walks out of the diner, and does not change. There is no revelation, no deep truth revealed that day in a cold diner. But she is closer. Ever closer.
Faith is hard. The mountains will not move alone, nor will the screaming hordes be silenced. But stand in the storm, see the world through a new lens. Watch it whirl without contest, and be moved. Be moved to believe.
