Bound

I was sipping on a beer with a friend the other day and the topic shifted to spirituality. He flipped the script on me. He told me that he was “religious not spiritual.” The Latin root of religion means “to be bound.” He told me that he’s bound to his Zen Buddhist practice, a discipline that leads to love and liberation – for himself and others. I really resonate with his reframing. 

In American culture, we are left with some pretty uncompelling options for how we come to terms with the ultimate significance of our place in the world. Unfortunately, “organized religion” is often weighed down with so much traumatic, dramatic and dogmatic baggage. The guilt and obligation can be so oppressive. On the other hand, “spirituality” can feel like a slippery, vague, kind of non-committal concept. 

I love the notion of reclaiming religion. Because it clarifies what we are bound to – and we are all bound to something. Whether we realize it or not. My religion, rooted in the biblical tradition, is not the one right way. It is governed by grief and gratitude, not guilt and judgment. My Buddhist brother and I speak a different dialect, but we are bound by core convictions. Above all else, we both pivot on a love paradox boldly proclaiming that the only thing we get to keep is what we give away.