In religion, symbols have always played a iconographic and

The words of Trevor Paglen—“In religion, symbols have always played a iconographic and ritualistic role. Different symbols might represent different theological ideas”—are not mere observations of history, but revelations of the human soul. For as long as humanity has sought to reach beyond itself, to grasp the infinite with trembling hands, it has clothed its yearning in symbols. These signs are not idle decorations; they are vessels, bridges, sacred tongues that speak where words falter. Through them, men and women touch the divine, and the unseen takes form before mortal eyes.

From the dawn of civilizations, symbols have been the guardians of mystery. The ancients carved circles and spirals upon stone, painted suns upon cave walls, lifted crosses, crescents, and lotus flowers as banners of eternity. Each was more than a shape: it was a ritualistic act, a prayer pressed into matter, a key to a truth too vast for language. To bow before the cross, to trace the star, to light the lamp—these were not empty gestures, but movements of the soul into the eternal dance of the sacred.

Consider the tale of the ichthys, the simple fish of the early Christians. In a time when they were hunted, when to speak the name of Christ aloud could mean death, they drew this humble figure in the dust. To the unknowing eye, it was nothing but a fish; to the faithful, it was the shield of hope, the sign of fellowship, the whisper of salvation. Thus a symbol became both iconographic and protective, both earthly and divine. It was a theology hidden in plain sight, a ritual of survival that preserved a flame against the storm of persecution.

Symbols, then, are not bound by the stones of temples or the chants of priests; they are the blood of religion itself. They give form to belief, rhythm to worship, and identity to the faithful. Paglen’s words remind us that theology is not always written in books but etched in images, gestures, and signs. To gaze upon a sacred symbol is to be reminded of what lies beyond: the divine, the eternal, the unspoken mystery that cradles all existence.

Yet the ancients also warn us: symbols are double-edged. They inspire unity, but they may also divide. A banner that unites one people may be a banner of war to another. Thus the wisdom lies not in the symbol itself, but in the meaning the heart attaches to it. The wise do not worship the symbol; they see through it, as through a window, into the greater truth it reveals. To cling only to the form is idolatry; to perceive the essence is enlightenment.

Therefore, let the lesson be clear: symbols must be honored, but not mistaken for the divine itself. They are guides, not gods. They point toward the eternal, but they are not the eternal. The seeker must look beyond the carved wood, the woven cloth, the painted image, and glimpse the radiance that cannot be captured by mortal hands.

In practice, let each soul reflect on the symbols that shape their own life—whether religious or personal. Ask: what does this emblem call forth in me? Does it lift me higher, or chain me to division? Seek to understand, not merely to repeat. Learn the history of the sacred signs, meditate on their hidden meanings, and allow them to open your spirit to wisdom. And in turn, create your own symbols—gestures, marks, or rituals—that anchor your heart to truth and to hope.

Thus, Paglen’s words are a reminder from the ages: the language of symbols is eternal, and to understand them is to touch the heart of faith itself. Walk with them as companions, not masters. Let them guide you to unity, to reverence, and to the mystery beyond all names. For in the end, a symbol is a doorway, and blessed is the one who dares to step through.