Religious traditions arise as attempts to express, through symbols, stories, and metaphors, an experience that is, at its core...ineffable. The problem begins when these symbols start to be taken literally and metaphors turn into dogma. At that moment, religion ceases to be a path toward insight and becomes an ideological system that can be used to legitimize power.
In the Gnostic tradition, Jesus is not primarily a figure from a myth about physical resurrection nor a sacrificial victim for the sins of humanity. Above all, he is a bearer of knowledge, gnosis. The stories of his life, death, and resurrection in this context are not literal historical events, but symbols and archetypes unfolding on the stage of the human soul. The resurrection is not a biological event from the past, but a spiritual awakening that occurs in the present—the awakening of the divine origin within the human being.
This danger is also highlighted by the well-known Zen Buddhist analogy of “the finger pointing to the moon.” The finger is not the moon. Teachings, texts, and religious stories can only be approximate signposts toward a reality that cannot be fully expressed in words. When the finger is mistaken for the moon, the symbol begins to be worshipped as if it were the truth itself.
To a large extent, many conflicts within the Abrahamic religions arise precisely from such processes. Different traditions often circle around the same spiritual principle, but through centuries of misinterpretations and a kind of “broken telephone game,” they drift away from the original experience they once pointed to. Perennial philosophy offers an interesting perspective here: the idea that at the heart of all major spiritual traditions lies a single universal metaphysical experience. This does not mean that all religions are identical, but that through different symbols and myths they attempt to describe the same indescribable reality.
A similar intuition appears in the ancient Indian Upanishads, where it is said that the deepest essence of a human being (ātman) is identical with the universal principle of reality (brahman).
However, the problem of misinterpreting symbols is not limited to a single religion or people; it appears in almost all Abrahamic traditions. One only needs to recall how often phrases like “God and the Croats” echo in the public sphere, implying a special covenant between the divine and a particular community. In such imagery, God is often imagined as a distant, anthropomorphic being—a strict authority who “up there” sets rules and oversees their enforcement.
In many Eastern traditions, we find almost the opposite emphasis. Instead of a God ontologically separate from the world, there is the idea of a divine principle that permeates everything: in me, in you, in all that exists. Such a view emphasizes unity rather than separation. In contrast, Abrahamic religions have often historically developed a strong sense of chosenness or a special relationship with the divine, which can easily slide into a collective sense of privilege.
The irony is that even in early Christian texts—especially in some non-canonical writings—there are motifs that speak precisely about the inner dimension of the divine. In these traditions, the emphasis lies on the idea that the kingdom of God is not somewhere outside the world, but within the human being. This emphasis on inner knowledge resembles certain concepts from Eastern philosophies, such as the idea of a universal principle permeating all reality. Yet as Christianity became institutionalized over the centuries, such interpretations were gradually pushed aside, while the focus increasingly shifted toward doctrine, authority, and social order.
Deviations arise when it is forgotten that religious symbols are merely languages—attempts to point toward an experience that transcends words—not reality itself. When metaphor begins to be understood as literal fact, religion gradually turns into doctrine, and doctrine into ideology.
At that moment, space opens for something far more worldly than spirituality: power.
For once a symbol freezes into dogma, it becomes politically usable. A narrative that once served as a path toward inner transformation can become a means of legitimizing authority, social hierarchy, or even violence. Religious language then ceases to point toward inner knowledge and begins to function as a moral framework through which structures of power are justified.
It is precisely in this context that we should view the crisis we are witnessing today.
It is not merely another political disagreement. It is a deeper crisis of integrity that has affected structures of power on a global level—especially those that present themselves as guardians of tradition, morality, and conservative values. At the center of this power lies a paradox that is difficult to ignore: those who publicly kneel in prayer and preach about chastity and moral order simultaneously close their eyes to some of the gravest crimes of our time.
The cover-up of clerical abuse within the Catholic Church or the silence surrounding networks of power connected to the Epstein affair are not merely isolated cases of corruption; they point to a pattern of institutional hypocrisy.
But the problem is not only moral. It is also ideological. In certain political-religious circles, an almost mythic obsession with eschatology has developed—the expectation of the Second Coming of Christ and the final fulfillment of prophecy. Within such a framework, history ceases to be a space of ethical responsibility and becomes a stage upon which people attempt to accelerate the fulfillment of a supposedly predetermined plan.
When a religious narrative becomes a political instrument, a dangerous dynamic emerges. Ideology then operates not only on the level of belief; it provides people with an emotional framework that allows them to justify what would otherwise be morally unacceptable. Historical events begin to be interpreted as part of a cosmic drama, and any criticism can be portrayed as an attack on the faith itself, while any political decision can be presented as part of a divine plan.
When politics begins to follow the logic of the apocalypse, real people and their suffering become secondary. In such an environment something akin to collective hysteria emerges: ideology and religious narrative serve as a moral cover for the abuse of power. The most vulnerable—children, marginalized communities, and the politically powerless—are left unprotected precisely by those who most loudly invoke morality.
The paradox becomes particularly clear in the secular states of Europe. While in Paris Muslims are banned from praying in the street under the justification of preserving public order, in Croatia public prayers by Christian groups receive implicit protection from the state through appeals to tradition. In this way, religious freedom ceases to be a universal right and becomes a privilege of the majority culture.
And it is precisely here that the true nature of the problem is revealed. This is not only about faith, nor only about politics. It is about power that speaks the language of morality while simultaneously suspending its own moral rules.
For at the moment when morality becomes an instrument of power, the most dangerous people are no longer those who commit crimes, but those who kneel while the crimes are taking place.