A Reflection from The Temple of Why
The Church once breathed in rhythm.
Her prayers were not just read, they were sung—
in candlelight, in cloister, in cave.
The saints wrote in fire, in visions, in whispers they barely dared to speak aloud.
And the people believed because they could feel it.
But somewhere along the line, the sacred got systematized.
Doctrine became bullet points.
Beauty was replaced by brochures.
And the language of the holy?
It stayed in the 18th century, wrapped in velvet and dust, no longer touching skin.
The Church is not dying from her teachings.
She is suffering from the absence of poetry.
We do not need to change the truth.
We need to remember how to unveil it.
We need poets again.
Poets who speak mystery into the silence.
Who walk into old stone churches and say: This is still holy. Let me show you why.
Who refuse to let beauty be dismissed as unnecessary.
Who still believe that incense can mean something,
and that darkness is not the enemy—
it’s the place where God still waits.
Because the world doesn’t need more answers.
It needs words that burn gently in the soul.
Let the theologians debate.
Let the priests preach.
But let the poets return to the sanctuary—
to remind us all how to feel the divine.