Beyond the temple
Where religion meets opulence corruption arises. Such is a consequence of human’s frail character: its base desires are amplified by riches. That is because wealth gives the impression of boundlessness, which in turn conditions the person to think they can live beyond the limits. Limits are essential. They keep us in check by forcing us to be mindful of the consequences of our actions. Otherwise we do not stop. In the ecstasy of gold the soul is consumed by darkness as human commits hubris.
Once we are conditioned to the extravagance of wealth, religious symbols are inevitably treated literally because we want them to be of higher production value until their grandeur of application competes for attention with the divine. Practitioners get distracted by the innate qualities of the materials. The shinny marbles of sunny Athens do not symbolise the light of Athena anymore, but usurp her exactly because they draw attention to themselves.
People of all backgrounds have a propensity towards idolatry. By “idolatry” I am referring to the valorisation of the item as such, instead of an appreciation of what it is pointing towards. They value it in its own right and then they want to ascribe to it supernatural powers, so that they can continue to admire it and feed their greed accordingly.
Similarly, people will worship power, manifesting as prestige or political authority, because it strikes fear in their hearts; fear which they mistake for the awe one experiences in realising the oneness of the cosmos.
Poverty is not virtuous per se. The poor man may still be daydreaming of becoming rich. He may be kissing up and punching down and will blithely throw his peers under the bus to get an appreciative look from the lord he both hates and reveres. “The lord” may be a local administrator, a rich businessperson, or a celebrity of some sort. The dynamic is the same. Furthermore, this poor man will take the first opportunity to pull the ladder behind him, in order to reinforce the feeling in his heart that he is not like “them”, like those for whom he harbours only contempt, those who remind him of what he once was.
What is safer is voluntary austerity, else simplicity. It consists in the recognition that God is not flattered by our offerings. One cannot bribe God to gain favours. That is a decadent attitude, for it treats the divine as a business partner. God is nobody’s best man and makes no exceptions.
Simplicity acknowledges that all tokens are meant to perform the function of reminding people to think of the highest and to aspire towards it. When presented with the statue of Apollon, for example, we do not pay attention to the statue but are inspired to appreciate cosmic harmony. We contemplate the muses and the enlightenment one gains from fully opening their conscience to the beauty of art. To this end, the statuette that is mass produced is more appropriate than the oeuvre of the master sculptor.
Temu Apollon is the best Apollon. The cheaper the design, the greater the effect. This is because people will likely not entertain notions of miraculous powers held by the effigy. They will realise that this item is a visual aid and nothing more.
Getting rid of icons in the hope of eliminating idolatry is not a solution, for the same holds true for temples. A basic building to protect the practitioners from the elements is enough. But when the places of worship are admired in their own right they create incentives for competition among the believers and towards others. The temple thus sets the stage for appreciating the materials. Those present will eventually attend the rites with the intent to impress their peers and, by extension, hope to make God notice them, analogous to the poor man’s want of gaining the momentary appreciation of their lord.
Even a modest temple engenders the wrong incentives when it is presented as the house of God, as if it has some kind of exclusivity or special relationship with the divine. There is no such thing. The divine is not containable. It does not need a house, nor can it be limited by walls. It transcends our boundaries. The moment we think that God favours a certain building (or a specific group for that matter), we attribute to it preference and bias and with it the potential for pettiness. Plus, we value the building for something more than what it is.
Religion beyond the temple is one that speaks of the ubiquity of the divine. All it needs is a rock or generic table anywhere to help the priests perform their rituals. Whatever one finds to get on with the task is sufficient. There is no shame therein. The ritual, then, teaches people to let go of their pretences, to show up in plain apparel, and to remember that the offerings they bring is for them to practice the attitude of letting go of the materials that humanity has a propensity to cling on to and to hoard with a burning passion. The ritual thus performs the function of broadening one’s field of view without distractions.