#Faith

Process is the solemn ritual that endlessly repeats itself while averting one’s gaze from the destination. When enshrined in project plans it becomes a strict timetable, yet in reality it is a prayer meeting by another name. The more steps you follow, the more safety is just performance and the project plan chains you in accountability evasion. True completion hides in the darkness where no one looks, and progress reports are offered as testaments of faith.

Process theology is the playground for the idea that God refuses to be complete and continuously updates the world like a living software. Having abandoned omnipotence, the deity is trapped in an infinite loop of rewriting buggy code. Believers, housed in this beta-stage faith, stake their lives on the next set of patch notes. The notion of a final form is but an illusion, and only those who wait for updates are hailed as true devotees.

A procession is the silent act of collective penance where individual time is sacrificed for the group. Under the guise of fairness, patience is weaponized, transforming waiting into a communal ritual. Much like a religious pilgrimage, the suffering endured en route is celebrated as virtue. Each gaze from those behind dissolves the illusion of free will. Yet upon reaching the end, only a hollow triumph and the void remain.

Profane describes that awkward in-between state of secular dust settling beside the laurel of the sacred. It endures the scorn of dogmatists who label it base, and the dismissive wave of scholars who call it uncouth. Yet without this unvarnished everyday realm, cloistered ideals and lofty doctrines would tumble into irrelevance. It inhabits the corner of the profane world, whispering that meaning must be sought where the trivial meets the divine.

A prophet is a self-styled guide who drags future events from the fog, seasoning them with equal parts truth and invention. Audiences pin their hopes on those words while simultaneously fueling their own doubt. The speaker, performing within a distorted conviction, may be called a compass of destiny or a malfunctioning GPS. They prize drama over accuracy and crown themselves showmen of the unknown.

A practice of proclaiming the future in lofty verse while inscribing nothing more than self-satisfaction in the present. Each hymn of doom or deliverance leaves the reader awash in anxiety and false hope. It elevates fragments of truth into gilded illusions, a ritual of intoxication on paper. One regrettably laments the waste of ink, yet secretly yearns for the next cataclysm. The true art lies not in foretelling history’s return, but in perpetually reenacting oneself.

A prophetic utterance is the art of exploiting people’s anxieties by proclaiming the future with absolute certainty. The more baseless predictions pile up, the more the audience loses track of what to believe, leaving only the speaker with a sense of mastery. This is rhetoric at its finest scam, masquerading an uncertain fate as settled truth to sell both reassurance and chaos in one package. It serves as perfect bait for religious authorities and investment advisors alike, spawning a self-fulfilling prophecy loop. In the end, the truth always resides in the teller’s pocket, and the future is nothing but bargaining material.

Propitiation is the social ceremony of sprinkling oil on the raging fire of someone’s anger while conveniently dousing one’s own guilt. It has been beloved since antiquity as a trick not to achieve true harmony but to spectacularly dodge personal responsibility. Its real purpose is not reconciliation, but the embarrassingly stubborn safeguard of one’s fragile ego. In daily discourse, a single apology transforms into a lavish illusion of peace, a magic trick that persuades all involved to forget its emptiness.

Providence is the convenient excuse machine sent by divine hands, proclaiming that everything unfolds according to a prewritten script. It is summoned to explain life’s mysteries and absurdities, a ritual for passing the blame and justifying the unjustifiable. Behind every accident or random failure, it functions as the peddler of divine intent, festooning chaos with a veneer of purpose. Every inconvenient outcome is swept away by the magic words "It’s providence," the philosophical zombie of modern thought.

The psyche is a stage hidden deep within the mind where self-doubt and hope perform an unstable duet. It improvises endless regrets and future anxieties, often craving applause from an audience called self-love. Its sole sponsor is past memories, refusing any scheduled reset. Meditation, disguised maintenance, usually patches one bug only to spawn new ones. Insensitive to external input but quick to throw fatal errors at internal contradictions, it is, paradoxically, a daring artist.

A science that dissects faith under the guise of objective inquiry, equating angelic whispers and demonic jeers into uniform data points. Believers fervor becomes buried in heaps of surveys, and theologians rhetoric measured by psychological scales. The mystery of spiritual experiences slips through a single questionnaire, while pseudo-scientific snares and idolatrous illusions drift within theoretical gaps. Humans set out to find God, only to wander a labyrinth of their own fears and desires.

A pulpit is a raised stage designed for pointing out minor sins from a moral high ground. By standing on it, the preacher gains the dual armor of sanctity and righteousness. Yet the higher the elevation, the narrower the perspective, causing the muddy reality of human affairs to be conveniently forgotten. The congregation may feel spiritually cleansed by lofty words, only to be thrust back into mundane life afterward. When it comes time to fold hands in prayer, the pulpit reveals itself to be nothing more than a wooden stand.