The dictionary definition of
“atheist”, as a non-believer in God or Gods, isn’t accurate because there appears
to be many people who think that the doctrinal teachings of religious
institutions are cultural-based anachronisms—and so would be labelled “atheist”
for not adhering to definitive religious beliefs about deities—yet believe in
some higher spiritual power that they cannot define.
There are several belief jumps in this sentence: The
universe is a purposeless collection of matter that mindlessly configured
itself by chance out of nothing, existing in time with causes and effects that
had no beginning. A reasonable-minded adherent might be aware of the glaring
uncertainties, but state it is more parsimonious to adopt this materialistic
concept of reality than implant a God belief system as an unnecessary
additional layer. Yet the certainty with which many proponents preach this position
as absolute truth suggests a type of commitment witnessed in doctrinal
religious belief.
An agnostic would state that the ultimate “why” questions
are unanswerable, so from a practical perspective we should just be concerned
with the “how” questions. The ardent atheist’s objections to agnosticism—based
on the burden of proof for God being on the proponent—misses the point to an
agnostic who has already ruled out religious explanations of God, but not
higher spiritual meaning and purpose to reality. A particularly zealous atheist
might overplay the remit of verifiable facts by stating that opinions about
ultimate meaning are irrelevant if they are not scientifically
falsifiable—ignoring the fact that their own conceptual model for reality
contains unfalsifiable conjecture.
I believe that one can value science and also acknowledge,
as philosopher Paul Tillich did, that the word “God” might point to something
far more profound than a cosmic superintendent. Tillich argued that God is not
a being at all, but “being-itself”—the ground or power of being on which all
things exist. This means that petty debates about whether God exists (as if God
were just another object in the universe) miss the point entirely. Tillich’s
insight frees us from the simplistic image of God as an old man in the sky,
suggesting that whatever ultimate reality “God” signifies, it transcends any
single creed or image.
The nuances of religious thought have often been flattened
in modern discourse. Theologian David Bentley Hart observes that the very
concept of God has grown “impoverished” in the modern mind, largely because we
have forgotten the deeper philosophical insights of the past. New atheist
critics often target only the crudest caricatures of faith—a proverbial bearded
deity or literal seven-day creation—and declare victory over superstition. In
doing so, they sometimes miss the more sophisticated understandings of the
divine found in works of thinkers like Tillich, or in the mystical branches of
various faiths.
One can be sceptical of traditional theism and still believe
reality has dimensions that science and language fundamentally struggle to
capture. There is a fertile ground where one can be a spiritual rationalist:
deeply curious about transcendent questions, unwilling to close the door on the
numinous, but also unwilling to accept any claim without scrutiny.
Modern atheism often aligns itself with metaphysical
materialism, the belief that nothing exists except physical matter and energy.
In this view, if something cannot be measured or falsified scientifically, it
is not real (or at least not worth taking seriously). The materialist outlook
carries a bracing simplicity: the universe is a brute fact, life a fortuitous
accident, consciousness an emergent trick of brain chemistry, and any search
for deeper meaning is a nostalgic delusion. However, materialism itself goes
beyond what empirical science can say; it makes a sweeping ontological claim
that is not empirically verifiable (ironically, a metaphysical claim that “only
non-metaphysical claims are valid”). Even secular philosophers like Thomas
Nagel, an avowed atheist, admits that the strictly materialist narrative feels
incomplete. Nagel has been frank about his “cosmic authority problem”—a
personal wish not to have a God—yet he also argues that reductive materialism
fails to account for things like consciousness and reason.
Cutting-edge science has revealed a world far stranger and
less material than we assumed. At the subatomic level, matter dissolves into
energy and probability; solid objects are mostly empty space knit together by
fields and forces. Quantum mechanics famously defies our intuition—particles
that are waves, waves that are particles, influences that seem to leap across
vast distances. As Nobel Prize-winning physicist Eugene Wigner observed, “while
a number of philosophical ideas may be logically consistent with present QM…
materialism is not.” When an observer’s act of measurement can affect whether a
particle manifests as a wave or a particle, the neat separation between
observer (mind) and observed (matter) becomes indistinct. Some interpretations
of quantum mechanics even suggest that consciousness has a role in “collapsing”
quantum possibilities—a controversial idea, but one that underscores how our
epistemology might be entangled with the fabric of reality itself.
Some scientists point to the “fine-tuning” of physical
constants—the way the laws of nature seem precisely calibrated to allow
galaxies, stars, planets, and life—and argue this is just a lucky roll of the
cosmic dice (possibly one of countless rolls if there are infinite universes).
That could be, but note: positing an infinite multiverse where everything
happens by chance is itself a kind of metaphysical speculation, unfalsifiable
and forever beyond empirical reach. It strikes me as ironic that to avoid any
whiff of purpose or design, some are willing to embrace an infinity of
unobservable universes. At that point, one has arguably left the realm of
Ockham’s razor far behind. Even Nagel acknowledges that the “interest of
theism, even to an atheist, is that it tries to explain in another way what
does not seem capable of explanation by physical science”. In other words,
hypotheses of meaning or mind beyond matter arise because strict reductionism
struggles with certain questions: Why is there something rather than nothing?
How did matter become alive, and life become aware of itself? Are we—conscious
agents—merely flukes, or an intended part of the cosmos? Science as a
methodology may not answer such questions (they may be inherently
metaphysical), but human inquiry doesn’t cease at the laboratory’s door. My
rational mind sees the achievements of science and bows to its methodology for
understanding the physical world. Yet my intuition and indeed my personal
experience tell me there is more to reality than can be measured with an
instrument. A truly open-minded scepticism must be sceptical not only of
supernatural claims, but also of the claim that the natural (as presently
understood) is all there is. The boundary between science and metaphysics is
precisely where things get exciting: it’s where our knowledge gives way to
wonder. At that boundary, one can remain rational—weighing evidence, avoiding
logical fallacies—while also entertaining the possibility that the universe
includes dimensions of meaning, value, or consciousness that transcend our
current understanding.
Do I believe in God? That question is loaded with
assumptions about both belief and God. Do I take as fact the doctrines
concerning reality written by people in past civilisations?—No. However, there
shouldn’t be a one-dimensional graded scale for belief that merely gauges the
percentage probability of religious dogma being correct. The metaphysical
understanding that most resonates with me is that there is a soul of the
universe, in which we are all a part. In this definition, God is hope: a hope
that the universe is ultimately love; that all the suffering will be overcome;
that life will be saved from despair; and that despite everything, it will all
be okay.
For any existence after death to be desirable, it would have
to be outside of time and space, and completely beyond our current
comprehension of reality—as even a limitless abundance of joy would become
meaningless within the causes and effects of endless time. I believe that to
thrive at being a good human is the purpose, and tend to subscribe to something
along the lines that: form ends on death, but time is just a perspective from
one vantage point—because the past, present, and future are really one; all
things are a part of each other, connected strands in the great tapestry of
life; and maybe there are other dimensions of reality and incalculable vantage
points. There is no insistence on certainty here; this is a non-falsifiable
interpretation of experience driven by internal feeling, not logical
deduction—and in no way does it affect any commitment to a rigorous
investigation of the world using the scientific method. So, where do I feature
on the belief scale?
For me, God is the name given to the conviction that there
is a source of meaning and goodness at the ground of reality. When I speak to
the divine in moments of anguish or gratitude, I do not imagine a magic
problem-solver; I am communing with that hopeful part of myself that trusts the
universe is not fundamentally indifferent. I resonate with Paul Tillich’s
description of God as the “ground of being”—the substrate of existence and
meaning. In a similar vein, I find truth in the Sufi mystic Rumi’s poetic assertion
that the light is one, even if the lamps are many. “The lamps are different,
but the Light is the same… one Light-mind, endlessly emanating all things,” he
writes. Those lines capture my sense that whatever ultimate reality is—call it
God, call it the One, call it cosmic consciousness—it underlies and shines
through the various religious images and the myriad forms of life. God, in this
vision, is not a dogma but a direction: an orienting ideal of unity, love, and
hope.
I embrace the intuition that everything is deeply
interconnected. This is closely tied to the idea of a universal mind, but it
also extends to matter, energy, and life. Mystical traditions often emphasise
oneness: the notion that “All is One”—whether in the Sufi idea of tawhid,
the Christian mystic idea of the ground where the soul and God are unified, or
the Buddhist metaphor of Indra’s Net in which each being reflects every
other. On the scientific side, ecology illustrates how no organism is truly
separate from its environment, and quantum physics (again) shows that particles
once linked can remain correlated across cosmic distances. My metaphysical view
takes this interconnectedness as a given. I like to imagine reality as an
immense tapestry of relationships rather than a collection of isolated objects.
Each of us is a node where the cosmic web is particularly intense and
self-aware. Our actions reverberate through the tapestry in ways we can’t fully
chart—hence every ethical or unethical act sends out ripples. This vision,
admittedly, has a poetic flavour. It owes a debt to thinkers like Pierre
Teilhard de Chardin, who envisioned all of humanity (and indeed the cosmos)
converging towards a unified point of consciousness he called the Omega Point.
Teilhard, a scientist-mystic, saw evolution as not only a biological process
but a spiritual one, with increasing complexity and consciousness leading
eventually to union with the divine. I find inspiring his idea that we are
co-creators in an ongoing evolutionary story—one that is as much about the
growth of spirit as the propagation of genes.
My own instinctive opinion is that I believe religions share
the same spiritual root, although the core message was often corrupted by the
doctrines and institutions that arose. This is my personal version of
“spiritual but not particularly religious”. As I am most familiar with
Christianity, I could be labelled Christian; however, I do adopt a filter and
select only what resonates with me, mindful that the scriptures were written
and edited by early practitioners of the religion; and that the biblical canon
was decided upon by the politics of powerful men in ecumenical councils, rather
than being the unadulterated teachings of Christ. Looking back at history, the
cruelties that have been perpetrated by professed followers of the religion
represent the antithesis of the message of Christ; for real spirituality—the
root of Christianity—is always inspired by love, joy, and peace.
The moment a spontaneous spiritual insight calcifies into an
official creed, or a transformative mystical poem is reduced to a rigid
scripture, the original life can begin to leach out of it. Religious
institutions compile canons—deciding which texts are holy and which are
heresy—and in doing so often reflect the politics and prejudices of their era.
For example, the formation of the Christian biblical canon in the early
centuries involved councils of bishops choosing certain gospels and epistles
while rejecting others; this was not divine handwriting in the sky, but messy
human process. To note this is not to dismiss those scriptures, but to
contextualise them: they are works filtered through human minds, not infallible
transcripts from God. History shows that many profound spiritual voices were
marginalised or branded heretical because they threatened the authority of the
established clergy. Meister Eckhart, a Christian mystic who taught the soul’s
direct union with God (speaking of a God beyond all images), was tried for
heresy. The Sufi mystic al-Hallaj, who joyfully proclaimed “I am the Truth”
(implying unity with God), was executed as a blasphemer. These examples
highlight the perennial tension between mysticism—personal, unmediated
experience of the divine—and orthodoxy—the sanctioned belief system of a
religious organisation.
One of my core criticisms of religious institutions is how
they often prioritise doctrinal conformity over personal spiritual experience.
Carl Jung once quipped that one of the main functions of formalised religion is
to “protect people against a direct experience of God”. It’s a startling claim,
but I see his point. Institutions develop layers of dogma, ritual, and
hierarchy that can end up substituting for genuine spiritual encounter. As long
as you recite the creed, attend the services, and obey the rules, you’re
considered religious—even if you never actually feel a connection to the
sacred. In fact, if someone in the pews does have a dramatic spiritual
experience outside the approved norms, it may make the clergy nervous. It’s as
if religions say, “Don’t try this at home—leave the God-contact to the
professionals.” My intention is not to disparage all religious authorities;
many are sincere seekers themselves. But the bureaucratisation of spirituality
often leads to the domestication of the divine. God or the Absolute—wild, unbounded
Reality—gets confined to formulas and ceremonies. The result can be hollow:
people go through motions that once had meaning, but over time the symbolism is
forgotten and only habit remains. Karen Armstrong’s research reminds us that
scripture itself was traditionally interpreted with great flexibility. She
notes that for centuries, Jews and Christians “insisted that it was neither
possible nor desirable to read the Bible literally”, and that sacred texts
“demand constant reinterpretation.” Myths were understood as symbolic stories
pointing to truths that reason alone could not convey. This non-literal,
dynamic approach to religious truth resonates with me. However, modern
fundamentalism—a reaction against secular modernity—has hardened many into
treating mythos as logos, insisting on literal truth where none was originally
intended. The tragedy is that this invites an equally simplistic backlash from
sceptics, who correctly point out the contradictions, and the scientific and
historical errors, all the while missing the underlying spiritual insights that
a more fluid reading could reveal.
In carving a path of spirituality without dogma, I retain
many practices and values that religions have cultivated, but I do so by
choice, not by mandate. For instance, I find comfort and insight in meditation
(a practice prominent in Eastern traditions) and in contemplative prayer (drawn
from Western mysticism). I love the beauty of religious music and art—a Bach
cantata, a Rumi poem, a Zen garden—and appreciate their sublimity without
attributing them to a sectarian narrative. In essence, I construct a personal
canon of that which uplifts and edifies. Ethics, too, remain central: any
spirituality worth its salt must show in one’s character and actions. I take
inspiration from the core ethical teachings shared across faiths: compassion,
kindness, humility, and a concern for justice. What I do not do is accept any
moral dictate merely because “it is written” or because an authority claims
infallibility. My conscience and intuition must ultimately resonate with a
teaching for me to embrace it. This approach aligns with the view that religion
is not mainly about believing certain propositions, but about experiencing and
doing. As Armstrong highlighted, religion at its best is about praxis—living in
a way that makes the transcendent real in daily life. Thus, I prize experience
over creed. If a particular ritual or prayer helps open my heart or quiet my
mind, I will use it, regardless of its origin—be it Christian, Buddhist, or
other. Conversely, if a doctrine instils division, fear, hate, violence, or a
sense of futility, I will question or discard it, even if it carries the weight
of centuries.
I embrace an openness to insights from multiple traditions
without feeling the need to formally belong to any. I have been deeply moved by
Sufi literature (the poetry of Rumi and Hafez), by the non-dual teachings of
Advaita Vedānta and contemporary teachers like Rupert Spira, by Christian
mystics like Julian of Norwich (with her radical optimism that “all shall be
well”), and by Daoist and Buddhist perspectives on harmony and impermanence.
Each offers a piece of the puzzle, and each also has its cultural limitations
or excesses. Rather than seeing the plurality of religions as a problem—“they
can’t all be right, so none of it is true”, as a cynic might say—I see it as
evidence that the human encounter with the sacred is real, even if coloured by
culture and language. The lamps are indeed different, but the light is one.
This pluralistic approach does come with challenges. It lacks the tidy certainty
and communal reinforcement that belonging to one religion can provide. There is
a risk of shallowness—skimming the surface of many traditions and mastering
none. But I allow myself to learn from each faith I engage with, letting it
challenge me. For example, Buddhism’s emphasis on mindfulness and releasing
attachment has been a helpful antidote when my hopefulness turns into craving
or clinging. The Christian ideal of grace—unconditional love given
freely—humbles me when I become too prideful. Sufi devotion ignites my heart
when my abstract philosophising grows arid. In this way, I remain grateful to
religions while not confining myself to any single one.
Adopting ritual and reverence without binding belief has
given me a sense of connection and meaning that pure scepticism never did. I do
not need to believe that a certain scripture is the infallible word of God to
find comfort in its verses; I do not need to believe a ritual literally changes
the cosmos to feel it change me internally.
We live amid conflict, injustice, and ignorance. Believing
that all is one and that love is our destiny can seem naively optimistic in the
face of daily news filled with division and hate. However, I see the role of
metaphysical hope not as a blindfold but as a guiding star. It informs how I
respond to the darkness. If I think humanity is nothing more than a cosmic
accident, I might fall into nihilism or selfish hedonism, reasoning that there
is no deeper purpose to strive for. I think of the wisdom of someone like
Viktor Frankl, who in the horrors of the concentration camps found that those
who could find meaning in their suffering were more resilient. While Frankl’s
approach was secular, I complement it with a spiritual trust that even in the
darkest times, the light of meaning hasn’t been extinguished. There is a sense
that every experience, even painful ones, can serve a purpose in the great
tapestry.
In a world riven by cynicism and cruelty, some might argue
that high-minded spiritual ethics make little difference. But spiritual growth,
to me, is largely about enlarging one’s circle of identification: from ego to
family to tribe to nation to all humanity to all sentient beings. It is a
widening of the heart. There may be no finish line, but every step matters. If
enough individuals adopt a spiritually rational outlook—combining clear-eyed
reason with a heartfelt sense of sacred interconnectedness—then perhaps
societies could shift in remarkable ways.
I consider it wise to approach the transcendent with what
Zen Buddhism calls “beginner’s mind”, an attitude of openness and lack of
preconceptions. This is not only epistemological but also spiritual: it means
bowing before the mystery of existence and admitting that a finite mind cannot
grasp it all. Paradoxically, accepting this not-knowing brings a profound
peace. I am content to listen to others and continue refining my understanding.
We are meaning-seeking creatures, and even the triumphs of
science have not quenched that thirst for the numinous. By approaching
metaphysical questions with both an open heart and a critical mind, we can
refuse to settle for sterile nihilism or irrational fideism. Instead, we step
into a middle space—a space of questions, imagination, and conjecture. This may
not fit neatly into any box on a survey, but it is sincerely mine.
As such, I will continue onwards, trusting that in the grand
scheme, these efforts themselves are meaningful; for ultimately, humanity will
survive if we are loving to the world and to each other. And if the spark of
consciousness in us is around for billions of years, then we are currently the
early originals. Maybe we are at the stage where we are just starting to
recognise some shapes.
