Religion is for those who are afraid of going to hell, spirituality is for those who have already been there.
It’s hard to be clearer. Everything is said, and so well said. It would be better to stop there … When the cook dilutes a sauce, he fades it. But a good cook can develop without diluting. The point is to be good. My turn to play. Your turn to read.
Religion = what connects
The word comes from Latin to re-read, to relate. Religion creates a bond between its followers. It also binds. The believer does not have free hands, he is hindered by his tenacious faith. He is not allowed to doubt. Then he swallows round. He acquiesces without understanding and tries to understand when to feel. To relate is to relate. To strengthen the bonds between believers is to further hinder them.
Religion is quick to say. All clubs, all associations, all gangs, all bands can very well adopt the appearance of a religion: that of a faith without the slightest doubt. If you believe it hard, whatever the belief, you have fallen for it. Little by little, you will give up thinking. You will no longer weigh the pros and cons, and all the slackers will have it easy to make you buy their cock-up. Their fake cake.
Faith and doubt
There are more churches than church towers, more mosques than minarets. Religion is any group that imposes its rules on its members. Any excess in this direction is tantamount to a dictatorship. Love of the homeland can become a religion. Like the love of arithmetic or pedal boats. The love of cork fishing or the love of morel mushroom picking. Love of work, politics or butter pastries. Every passion, every immoderate commitment, in a word, every faith of a group without its share of doubt deserves to be called religion.
It is a path where one is not alone. The well marked route is also very busy. We sing in chorus with the choir children. We weave a cocoon in the heat of the band. Seven loaves and seven fish. Never sausage. We know the song. Who laughs and the air rings. Kyrielle is the hedgehog. Curé the prank. Because she is addiction. What? Faith, my faith.
Faith is an addiction like any other. Worse than any other. It takes the head. It can make the heart beat, other drugs do it too. Only doubt protects from addiction. Art, science, ego worship, work, family, homeland — all ideologies can have the sweet name of religion. Or addiction.
Warrior, you will stick to your dilection: believe without believing. Let doubt begin your resolution. Let your faith strengthen your conviction.Let the two together cement the intention. And take action.
Commonalities
Religion or spirituality have in common the attraction for light, truth, clarity, dignity. If religion is for everyone, spirituality is for the warrior. On his lonely way, no warmth of the group, no song, no ritual, no routine. Who returns from hell is the friend of mystery. The ordinary man just prays, the lone warrior acts. No choice. Constantly in action, he fights. But he never expects results. He acts for free. It magically happens.
The average man seeks certainty in the eyes of a spectator and calls it self-confidence. The warrior seeks to be impeccable in his own eyes and calls it humility.
Differences
We are not part of a club when we go solo. When we come out of hell we are alone on earth. We need the outdoors. Adventure and war. We fight against yesterday. We live for the light.
Spirituality consists in developing a new look at the world, which tends to deviate from the usual perceptions and ways of thinking. The goal is to approach the field of the impalpable, to penetrate an invisible reality but everywhere present. It is not a question of describing things, but of finding the common point that exists between them: their single principle, their common source. (source)
Spirituality and Spiritism
It is the unusual, the unpredictable. Do not look for office, or vestment, or priestly ornaments. Walking is a self-help. I remember a friend of mine, Freemason, who told me: I worked on spirituality, a brother told me “I don’t believe in spiritism” !! He’s in the grave and both arms fall out. The worms make the bomb and the rhyme is right. To unreason, no season. In the street as at home, the balls are in tune. In a venison feast, you put your mink coat under your jacket.
Allan Kardec, pseudonym of Hippolyte Léon Denizard Rivail, was born on October 3, 1804 in Lyon and died on March 31, 1869 in Paris. A French pedagogue, he founded Spiritism (source)wiwikedia and gained immense fame far from home in Brazil. In late July under the sleet Kardec hears subtle voices with idiotic speech. And these futile remarks seemed useful to him. Thus goes without peril who triumphs without glory. You must see it to believe it. And believe it without believing.
Legend and superstition
Kardec is buried in the cemetery of Père-Lachaise. Today his grave is known to be the most flowery of all the cemetery. Summer as winter, countless flowers of all kinds and colors are deposited in large quantities. It is shaped like dolmen, but does not vibrate like a megalith, and for good reason. Those who raised it do not know the work on the subtle energies operated by the builders of dolmens and cathedrals. His grave looks like a dolmen, but the real dolmens weren’t originally graves. The upper part of the dolmen is engraved with the motto «To be born, to die, to be reborn again and to progress without ceasing, such is the Law».
An urban legend says that touching the tomb is lucky for the whole year. That’s why the flowers we put in there are supposed to never fade. The legends that come to us from ancient times have a valuable witness value. Their interpretation teaches us the truths of the past. Urban legends have fallen from the last rain. They teach us nothing but the stupidity of superstitions. Father Lachaise’s guardians have an eminent role that must remain in the shadows. Hand-picked, they take an oath under the hood and indulge in flowery masses. I suspect them of catching the fresh flowers so that their decline does not disappoint the followers of Kardec. No one should know that the guru is wrong. Except for the warrior.
The miracle of the rose
Love can do anything, even on flowers. I have picked a rose from the dust of a path under the July hood. I was walking near my lover and I stooped to the ground. The scorching afternoon was drawing to a close. There was nothing on the powdery ground and yet, when my hand touched it, it caught a red rose where still the dew of dawn was beading. I handed it to my beauty who put it in a vase where it remained fresh and fragrant for days. So our love lasted. That miracle never turned my head. I’m not Kardec.
No miracle to Father Lachaise or spirituality in spiritualism. Kardec made one more sect. One faith like another. A religion if you prefer. For those who fear hell. A warrior has nothing to do with it. Impeccable he goes his way, if the rose comes in his hand, he rejoices, knowing very well that such a gift is not of him.
He must believe for the wonders to be accomplished. And not to believe for the madness to remain under his control.
