I get hung up on words sometimes.
Like belief and hope. To me, these words are related, but far from the same. And it’s this difference that rubs me the wrong way when it comes to religion.
Contrary to what many religious debate partners have assumed about me over the years, I don’t mind being open to the possibility of there being supernatural dimensions outside the spacetime continuum. I don’t mind the concept of celestial entities having agency over our existence.
I especially don’t mind anyone hoping for such things.
Sometimes, I hope there’s more, too.
But no, hope is apparently not good enough. As if hope is something to be ashamed of. As if hope was something dirty, something inadequate.
All this stubborn clinging to belief — when hope is the most beautiful, and the most human, of all emotions.