For the record, I don't worship the devil. I just hate religion.

“For the record, I don’t worship the devil. I just hate religion.” Thus spoke Tyler, The Creator, the poet of rebellion and reflection, whose words strike with the rawness of truth and the confusion of an age wrestling with its faith. In this declaration, he does not speak as a blasphemer, but as a soul weary of hypocrisy — a voice crying out against the walls men have built around God. His words are not a rejection of the divine, but a protest against the chains of religion — the rituals, judgments, and hierarchies that too often imprison the human spirit instead of freeing it.

To understand Tyler’s words, one must understand the world from which they rise. He is an artist of the modern age — a time when religion, once the sanctuary of hope, has become for many a symbol of division and control. In his rebellion, he echoes the cry of countless generations who have watched men use faith as a weapon — to condemn, to exclude, to enslave. Tyler, like the prophets before him, is not attacking the eternal; he is attacking the institutions that claim to own it. His hatred of religion is not hatred of God, but of the pretense of holiness that hides corruption. He is a seeker, not a destroyer — a restless heart yearning for truth beyond doctrine.

The ancients too spoke in such ways, though in different tongues. Jesus of Nazareth, whom religion would later crown as its symbol, was Himself condemned by the religious authorities of His time. He walked among the poor and the outcast, speaking not of ritual, but of love and mercy, not of judgment, but of forgiveness. “Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees,” He said, “for you are like whitewashed tombs — beautiful on the outside, but inside full of decay.” Tyler’s voice, though rough and modern, carries the same cry — a plea for authenticity, for a faith that breathes and loves rather than condemns and controls.

History, too, bears witness to this struggle between spirit and structure. Consider Giordano Bruno, the philosopher who dared to believe that the universe was infinite, that God was not confined to the heavens but present in all creation. For this belief — for thinking too freely — he was burned alive by the Church. His death was not the death of faith, but of religious tyranny. It is men like him that Tyler unconsciously joins in spirit: those who reject religion not because they despise the sacred, but because they cannot bear to see it corrupted. For when religion becomes a throne of power rather than a path to truth, it ceases to serve the divine it claims to honor.

Yet, one must not mistake Tyler’s declaration for wisdom untempered by humility. To “hate religion” may free the soul from hypocrisy, but it can also risk losing reverence altogether. The wise understand that while religion can be flawed, it also carries the memory of faith — the stories, prayers, and moral roots that have guided humanity through darkness. To discard religion entirely is to discard a part of our collective soul. The challenge, therefore, is not to hate religion blindly, but to transform it — to strip away its arrogance and rediscover the spirit that lives beneath its ruins.

Tyler’s words, in their raw honesty, call us to that transformation. He reminds us that faith should not be blind obedience but personal discovery. God, or truth, or whatever name one gives to the sacred, does not belong to the institutions of men. It belongs to the heart — to the conscience that knows compassion, to the mind that seeks understanding. True spirituality is not kneeling because one must, but standing in awe because one feels. To love the divine is not to worship in fear, but to live in authentic connection — to do good, to create, to love without judgment.

So, my child, learn from this fierce confession. Do not fear those who question; the questioner is closer to truth than the hypocrite who pretends certainty. Seek the divine beyond the veil of religion, but do not let your seeking turn to scorn. Honor what is good in faith — the compassion, the forgiveness, the community — but reject what enslaves or divides. Let your spirit remain open, your heart humble, your mind clear. For the divine does not dwell in temples alone, but in every act of kindness, every spark of creation, every soul brave enough to be honest.

In the end, Tyler’s cry is not of hatred, but of hunger — a hunger for realness in a world of masks. His rebellion is the rebellion of the spirit that refuses to bow before false idols, whether of gold or of dogma. Thus, take his words not as blasphemy, but as a reminder: that the highest faith is not in religion, but in truth itself. Live by that truth. Love without pretense. And let your reverence be not for institutions, but for life — wild, mysterious, and sacred beyond all human words.