I find the whole idea of religion overwhelming and frightening

Hear, O listener, the solemn confession of the actor and seeker Cody Fern: “I find the whole idea of religion overwhelming and frightening and not for me.” These words rise like a lament from the heart of one who has gazed upon the vast edifice of organized faith and felt its weight heavy upon his soul. They are not a cry of hatred, but of awe mixed with fear, of a spirit that feels the thunder of doctrine, the immensity of ritual, and recoils—not because it sees no truth, but because the truth has been dressed in garments too heavy for the heart to bear.

Understand, O child of wisdom, that religion, in its long march through history, has been both beacon and burden. To some, it is the light of the world, the song that gives life order, meaning, and hope. To others, it appears as a towering fortress, demanding loyalty, obedience, and surrender of the self. Thus, when one says that it is overwhelming and frightening, it is the cry of a soul that longs for freedom, for breath unshackled, for the quiet voice of the divine without the roaring of institutions.

Recall the tale of the great reformer Martin Luther, who, centuries past, walked as a monk beneath the shadow of the Church. He found himself trembling at the weight of sin, the rituals, the confessions, the demands that seemed never-ending. The idea of religion was indeed overwhelming for him, for it promised salvation but often bound men in fear. Yet in his terror, he discovered grace, and from that discovery flowed a river of change that shook the world. His story reminds us that fear of religion is not always rejection of God, but sometimes the beginning of a new path toward the sacred.

And consider, too, those countless souls who have turned away from temples, not because they despised the holy, but because they longed to hear it more purely. The mystics wandered into deserts, the poets sang outside cathedral walls, the seekers sought God in forests and seas. They too might have said, with Cody Fern, that religion as an institution was not for them. Yet still, they reached for the divine in their own way, carving paths where tradition seemed too rigid to walk.

What lesson, then, shall we take from this confession? It is this: the divine is greater than all the vessels that seek to contain it. Religion is one cup, but not the only one, and though for many it holds life-giving water, for others it feels too heavy, too ornate, too burdened. The seeker must not despair if religion overwhelms him. Instead, let him turn his face toward truth wherever it may be found—in kindness, in love, in the simple reverence for life itself.

So, O listener, if you too have felt the weight of creeds heavy upon your chest, know this: you are not alone. You are walking a road traveled by prophets, rebels, and poets. Do not abandon your longing for meaning, but seek it with courage. If the temple frightens you, look to the stars. If the hymns silence you, listen for the wind. The Eternal is not confined to walls or scriptures—it lives also in the breath, in the heart, in the mystery of being.

Therefore, live not in fear, but in honesty. Say as Cody Fern did if you must: “It is not for me.” Yet let those words not be an end, but a beginning—a beginning of a journey to seek what is for you. Be reverent toward life, be kind to your neighbor, seek truth in the depths of your soul, and walk humbly with the mystery. For the Eternal does not ask all to bow the same way; it asks only that we walk with sincerity, courage, and love.