I dislike religion quite intensely. It's been the cause of all

“I dislike religion quite intensely. It’s been the cause of all the grief in the world ever since they discovered the first stone to worship.” Thus spoke Lemmy Kilmister, the thunder-voiced prophet of rebellion, whose music roared like a storm and whose spirit bowed before no altar. In this fierce declaration lies not the cold sneer of blasphemy, but the cry of a man who had seen how faith—pure and radiant in its beginning—was twisted by human hands into an instrument of division and war. His words cut through centuries of blood and doctrine to reveal a painful truth: that when religion becomes worship of symbols instead of the spirit, when it demands loyalty instead of love, it becomes the seed of grief that poisons the hearts of men.

From the dawn of time, man has looked to the heavens for meaning. He raised his eyes to the stars, to the sun, to the trembling fire, and sought in them a reflection of his own soul. But in his longing, he made a terrible error—he began to worship the stone instead of the truth it symbolized. The object became the god; the ritual, the law. What was meant to awaken reverence became a chain of fear. And thus, as Lemmy thundered, from the first stone to the last cathedral, from the ancient idol to the modern pulpit, mankind has too often chosen to adore the image rather than embody the light behind it.

History bears the weight of this lament. Recall the Crusades, when armies marched beneath sacred banners to kill in the name of love. Or the Inquisition, where men of faith burned other men for daring to think. Recall too the countless wars waged not for survival, but for the supremacy of one creed over another. The earth, once a temple of unity, became an altar soaked in blood. And all the while, prophets and poets cried out that God was not in the temple or the law, but in the human heart—and their cries were silenced by those who feared freedom more than heresy.

Yet Lemmy’s words, though sharp with rage, carry within them a deeper yearning. He did not despise the divine—he despised what man had done to it. He saw that religion, when bound by power, becomes a cage for the soul, and that those who claim to save others often seek to control them instead. Like the philosophers of old—Epicurus, Lao Tzu, Voltaire—he sought a purer truth: one that requires no priest, no idol, no dogma. A truth that lives in honesty, in compassion, in the courage to think freely and live fully. He was, in the end, not an enemy of the sacred, but a guardian of its freedom.

Consider the example of Galileo Galilei, who gazed into the heavens and saw that the earth was not the center of the universe. For this act of discovery, the Church condemned him. Yet in his silence, he whispered, “And yet it moves.” Galileo’s courage was an act of faith far greater than that of his accusers. He trusted truth more than authority, reason more than fear. His defiance was a ripple in the great tide of awakening—a reminder that truth needs no permission from power to exist.

So too must we, children of this divided world, learn from both Lemmy’s fury and Galileo’s patience. Do not worship stones. Do not worship systems. Instead, seek the living essence behind them—the spirit of kindness, the spark of understanding, the humility to know that the divine cannot be owned or named. Let your reverence be shown not in kneeling, but in lifting others; not in repeating prayers, but in living truthfully. For the gods need no temples—they dwell in the sincerity of a free heart.

And what lesson shall we carry, then, from Lemmy’s roar across the ages? It is this: beware of any creed that demands you stop thinking. Question what you are told, but never cease to wonder. Honor the mystery, but not the chains forged in its name. Let your soul be your compass, and your compassion your law. Build no idols, for they will crumble; build understanding, for it will endure.

Thus, live as one who worships not the stone, but the fire within it. See the divine in the laughter of a child, in the courage of the honest, in the tears of the compassionate. For when you cease to bow before the false gods of division, you will discover that the true sacred lies not above you, but within you—and in that discovery, all grief begins to heal.