In the twilight of an era dominated by scientific pride and materialist triumphalism, spirituality resurfaces as a tormented spectrum, evoking the echo of a lost Eden. Humanity, lost in a maze of circuits and screens, tries to meet meaning through a return to ancestral practices such as mindfulness or transcendental meditation. But let’s not fool ourselves: this sudden spiritual fervor, as sound as a fatto, is nothing more than the withered fruit of a civilization that has torn its root to the soul.
Isn’t it ironic that the human being, having erected a technological Olympus that rivals the most promising fables, is today stripped of what enhances it? As if it were a new tantal, we have bound to an insatiable spiritual thirst, surrounded by digital streams that promise, but never satiate. And so, we give ourselves to a substitute for transcendence that does not intend to connect man with eternity, but barely offer him an immediate consolation for his restlessness.
It is not surprising that this “spiritual resurrection” is impregnated with the miasmas of consumption. It is a private ecstasy ritual, sold in online courses and meditation apps, whose promise of serenity is nothing more than a “chicha calm” – in terms of Kierkegaard – that deafens the deep cry of the soul by redemption. If Plotino ascended to the one through detachment, we descend to triviality through “like”, with a liturgy that confuses inner peace with Zen narcissism.
In the culture of the instantaneous, in which “the now” has been imposed as a tyrant, we have forgotten what Chesterton called “the joy of eternal things.” Paradoxically, our anxiety to reconnect with the eternal is guided by a consumerist eagerness: the divine is packaged in epic weekend offers and merchandise as it would be done with a miraculous diet.
Perhaps in this evil return the most bitter of truths resonates: that modern man, so ufano in his self -sufficiency, fears to face the absolute. In his escape from the God of the Cathedrals, he has sought refuge in aodine deities that do not demand to kneel or pronounce words of atonement. Contemporary spirituality, devoid of theological depth, barely reaches to calm the raging waters of a heart that languishes on the surface.
What do we have left, then, but to look back towards the sacred texts that one day inspired our souls? The modern exodus towards spirituality is, in the best case, a path to the gloom if it is not founded in the thirst for the transcendent. As long as we do not understand that the sacred cannot be manufactured, our search will be an eternal fall towards the abyss of disenchantment.
*Mediator and writer
(tagstotranslate) Alma
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