I came across a story recently about a man grieving his father’s death. He was heartbroken because his father hadn’t been “saved” as a Christian, and he believed that meant he wouldn’t see his dad in heaven. When I read that, I had to stop for a moment. Something in me bristled. There it is again, I thought, the country club version of religion where only a select few get in. I felt that familiar anger rising in me.
But I also knew the story wasn’t about me. For this son, his father’s “salvation” was the difference between despair and hope. And when he learned that, just before his father died, his father had “accepted Jesus into his heart,” the grief lifted. He was joyful, believing he would see his father again in heaven.
That’s the paradox of belief. What comforts one person can land like a dagger for someone else. I’ve spoken with hundreds of people about their personal spirituality and seen the diversity of beliefs, religions, and spiritual practices firsthand. In my Spiritual Geography workshops, I encourage people to talk to each other. Talking about belief is tricky, and yet deeply enriching. In my workshops, participants have to put aside assumptions, both in sharing and in listening. That’s not something we often do in daily life. But when we do, we discover something essential: diversity is woven into the fabric of faith itself. I remind people that you can sit in the same pew with someone for decades, week after week, and assume you believe the same things. But scratch just beneath the surface, and you’ll find your experiences of the Infinite are often very different.
Despite all this infinite diversity of religion, spirituality, beliefs, and experiences, we still try to enforce sameness as if we don’t even see difference at all. Or difference doesn’t matter because “my way is the only way.” So we’re seeing efforts to legislate what faith belief should look like. Ten Commandments in classrooms. Christian prayers at government meetings. Have we forgotten that faith has never been uniform? Not in families, not in churches, and not in history.
This struggle isn’t new. Five hundred years ago, Martin Luther faced it in his own way. In 1517, he nailed his 95 Theses to the church door in Wittenberg. His sharpest critique was about indulgences – the idea that forgiveness could be bought. Salvation arranged like a financial transaction. But underneath, Luther was really challenging the assumption that one institution could control access to God.
Luther insisted: no church, no priest, no system could stand between you and the Divine. His ideas shook Europe, split Christianity wide open, and set off the Protestant Reformation. He didn’t intend to fracture the church, but once you break open the myth of one uniform faith, diversity spills out everywhere.
Take communion, for example. For Catholics, the bread and wine become the body and blood of Christ. For Protestants, they’re symbols – a reminder of Christ’s sacrifice. Both groups hold centuries of theology and scripture behind their stance. And yet here we are, five centuries later, still disagreeing on what really happens in that moment of ritual.
This is where history collides with today. Sincere, devoted Christians can’t agree after 500 years, yet state governments (and increasingly the federal government) are attempting to legislate a uniform faith, with whatever form of Christianity is in practice by those proposing.
On the surface, this may seem comforting to those who share that tradition. But is it really helpful, even for those who agree? When we hold these laws up against the two questions I ask about spirituality, the cracks show:
Does this belief help in some way – is it life-giving?
Does this belief hurt anyone?
Let’s look at Texas, where we’re seeing this play out right now. A new law requires the King James version of the Ten Commandments to be posted in every public-school classroom. Parents of all faiths and no faith quickly challenged it, arguing it overrides their responsibility to guide their children’s upbringing. Even traditions that include the Ten Commandments often don’t use the King James version. So which version gets declared the truth? The state’s? The majority’s? And why is the state directing religious education in lieu of parents anyway?
This is where the divide between the personal and the public becomes highlighted. A belief can be deeply meaningful for a person, even for many. Yet when we try to make a single belief system the law of the land, it crosses into harm. It tells others – neighbors, classmates, coworkers – that their way of experiencing the Infinite isn’t valid. It diminishes spiritual diversity to enforce spiritual sameness.
The Infinite Mystery gets reduced to a bite-sized nugget that enforces control. Control is not life-giving – neither for those being controlled nor for those doing the controlling. Control whispers: stay in your box, stay in your lane, or something bad will happen. But fear doesn’t heal grief, or build community, or grow more love.
But spirituality that is life-giving does. It doesn’t shrink us; it expands us. It increases compassion for ourselves instead of shaming us. It nurtures respect for others instead of treating others with suspicion. And it awakens awe of – and connection to – the Infinite Mystery, rather than fearing we’re somehow missing the boat. Life-giving spirituality grows a core of forgiveness, empathy, and wonder.
We only ever see in part – because the Infinite is, by definition, infinite. That means my experience of God will never look exactly like yours. Even if we’ve shared the same pew for decades, even if we’ve sung the same hymns or read the same scriptures. God, Source, the Universe – that which is Transcendent – meets each of us in ways as unique as our fingerprints.
Speaking about our views of spirituality can be challenging. But we can grow in our understanding and begin to heal the divide between us by listening, by being curious, and by honoring the ways belief helps others without assuming it must help in the same way for everyone.
For the grieving son, certainty brought relief. Learning that his father had “accepted Jesus into his heart” eased his distress and gave him hope for reunion. In that moment, his belief helped him. But here’s the paradox: the very same belief that brought comfort could just as easily have added anguish. If his father had not been “saved,” this son’s theology would have left him in despair, convinced of eternal separation. That’s the danger of certainty – it draws a hard line between comfort and devastation, depending on which side you land.
So I come back to my two questions: does this belief help? Sometimes. Does it hurt? Often. When a belief with that much power over hope or despair gets legislated into public life, the harm multiplies.
What if, instead of demanding others walk through our doorway, we celebrated the Infinite variety of paths? What if we learned to say: This belief gives me comfort. It may or may not be yours. But I honor how the Infinite meets you, too.
That’s the kind of humility that makes space for love to grow – love that heals grief, builds community, and keeps us open to the Infinite Mystery. Loving ourselves enough to cherish our experience of Divine Love. Loving others enough to honor their way, even when it isn’t ours. And loving the Infinite enough to stand in wonder, knowing we only ever see in part.
Joni Miller, Ph.D., is a writer, researcher, spiritual coach, and speaker who uses her knowledge, education, and love of all things spiritual to help spiritual wanderers find a place they can call home, navigating by the light of Love. www.SpiritualGeography.net
Photo by Harrison Haines: https://www.pexels.com/photo/brown-wooden-opened-door-shed-2869565/
