Reclaiming Faith From the Gods of Grift

Naram-Sin of Akkad - the first king who claimed to be a god.

We are the only species that constructs belief systems; elaborate, invisible scaffolding built to help us make sense of the unknown. Our minds were not just built to think, but to worry about the mystery: What happens when we die? Why are we here? Is there something (or someone) beyond this? Other animals sense danger and seek safety. But we sense mortality, and we seek meaning. 

Before we continue, let’s not quibble about definitions—this isn’t a theology class. In this essay:

Beliefs are structures—systems, stories, ideologies.

Faith is your posture toward the unknown.

Long before kings and temples, when we lived closer to soil and stars, humans practiced a kind of faith rooted in a direct relationship with mystery. Our spiritual expressions were often animistic, polytheistic, and seasonal. We didn’t pretend to control the unknown—we danced with it. Faith meant acknowledging the forces we couldn’t name, not surrendering to those who claimed they could. The “gods” were not deities as much as they were the collective name for everything unknown. 

That began to change when we stopped wandering and started walling in. Agriculture required permanence. Permanence required systems. Systems required hierarchy. And hierarchy, as it always does, needed a story to justify its power. So, kings became chosen. Priests became gatekeepers. Belief became an identity badge. Faith got outsourced to the throne.

Belief, once fluid and experiential, became a tool of social order. To question it was to question the legitimacy of the entire structure. And so belief hardened into identity—something to defend rather than explore. Faith, which had once been an inner stance of reverence toward the mystery, got outsourced to institutions. It was no longer about your relationship with the unknown. It was about your loyalty to a system that claimed to own the truth.

The Death of Doubt

Doubt used to be a virtue—a sign of inner strength and intellectual honesty. But hierarchy—whether political, religious, or cultural—thrives on certainty. Doubt makes things messy. It slows down obedience. It asks inconvenient questions just when the system needs silence.

So doubt was vilified. Not because it was wrong, but because it was dangerous. It could unravel the whole illusion. It could expose who benefits from the belief. It could threaten the control of those in power. So they replaced it with certainty—prepackaged, unquestionable, and conveniently aligned with the status quo. They killed doubt so we would believe the lie—and call it faith.

Without doubt, the human mind was conditioned to accept lies as belief and to confuse loyalty with faith. We stopped seeing belief as a working theory and began treating it like, well, gospel. Faith, once a personal reckoning with the unknown, was replaced by obedience to those who claimed to know. And so we began pledging allegiance to illusions—not because they were true, but because they made us feel safe, chosen, or righteous. In that sleight of mind, power found its favorite tool: a people too proud to say, "I don’t know."

This is why, when a lie becomes our identity, facts, data, and reason don’t stand a chance. We don’t reject them because they’re wrong—we reject them because they threaten the story we’ve fused with our sense of self. Logic becomes treason. Evidence becomes persecution. Once belief is indistinguishable from identity, defending the lie feels like defending your life. And so truth becomes optional, even dangerous, while certainty, no matter how hollow, becomes sacred.

The Certitude Scam

This is the crux of our current spiritual crisis in the US: belief has been hijacked by the need for identity, and identity has been hijacked by the machinery of power. Belief should not require lies. It should demand the courage to say, I don't know. That’s not weakness. That’s spiritual maturity. The moment belief becomes a fortress against doubt, it stops being a tool for meaning and becomes a tool for manipulation.

When a belief demands you lie to yourself, to your neighbor, to reality itself, it is no longer about seeking truth. It’s about preserving belonging. It's about protecting a fragile ego that can't withstand ambiguity. And when those lies become institutional—when entire education systems, media empires, and religious platforms are built to reinforce them—then what you’re witnessing is not belief. It’s brand loyalty masquerading as faith.

At that scale, lies are never neutral. They’re currency. They’re leverage. They are engineered to generate fear, provoke outrage, and manufacture obedience. And behind every systemic lie is always, always, a grift: a pastor in a mansion, a politician on a power trip, an ad man with an addiction to mind-fuckery. 

Look at what’s happening in Oklahoma. The state’s education board approved teaching that the 2020 election was stolen. It wasn’t. That’s not up for debate—it’s a fact. But facts have become irrelevant to those who worship at the altar of MAGA. Why? Because systemic lies create fertile soil for con men. Manufactured persecution fuels the base. Manufactured truth funds the machine. 

This isn’t new. Mega-church pastors have perfected the hustle. They preach prosperity but extract poverty. They claim divine favor while flying private. Their gospel is less about salvation and more about sales. The product? Certitude. In exchange for your doubt, they offer you belonging. All you have to do is stop asking questions.

And then there’s the wellness industry. Alternative health gurus, once rooted in holistic inquiry and embodied wisdom, now peddle conspiracy with their supplements. They say “open your mind,” but demand total loyalty. They claim to question the system, but they’ve just created a new one, with themselves at the center. Same cheat code bullshit, different jar.

Not coincidentally, these two worlds have melded into a power structure that threatens truth, reason, and democracy herself.

The Sacred Practice of Curiosity

The tragedy here isn’t just the lies. It’s the lost opportunity. Because every dogmatic belief was once an open door to mystery. Each one began as a question, a sense of awe, a sacred pause before the unknowable. But when fear demanded control, those open doors slammed shut. And where there was once possibility, there is now prescription.

To embrace the unknown isn’t to abandon discernment; it’s to welcome what lives beyond your current understanding. That’s not just intellectual humility—it’s spiritual bravery. Because the unknown isn’t comfortable. It doesn’t reward ego. It requires curiosity.

Curiosity is not just a mindset—it’s a refusal to be manipulated. In a world built to reward obedience and punish dissent, curiosity is dangerous because it pulls the thread. It asks inconvenient questions: Who profits from this? What are they hiding? Why do they need me to believe this so badly? It doesn’t just disrupt the lie—it exposes the liar.

Curiosity is what makes a student question the textbook, a parishioner challenge the sermon, a citizen investigate the headlines. It’s not rebellious for the sake of rebellion. It’s rebellious because it refuses to accept the pre-approved version of reality. It doesn’t swallow what it’s told—it chews on it. It inspects the ingredients. And when it smells bullshit, it says so. That’s why every authoritarian fears the curious: they’re harder to sell, harder to shame, and impossible to control.

Curiosity, then, becomes the most honest form of devotion. It’s not content with easy answers. It doesn’t pretend to have it all figured out. It leans in, asks more, listens longer. The curious don’t fear the dark. They carry their own light into it.

Ibn Arabi, the great Sufi mystic, said:

“You only know the universe according to the amount that you know the shadows…”

This isn’t just poetic. It’s practical. The unknown isn’t the enemy—it’s the teacher. And curiosity is the vehicle that carries us into its classroom. You want to know God? Start with your blind spots. Start with the questions that make you uncomfortable, the doubts you were taught to suppress, the paradoxes that refuse to resolve. You want to grow? Step into what scares you, not with bravado, but with an open hand and an open mind.

The shadows aren’t where faith ends. They’re where it begins. Because true curiosity doesn’t seek to conquer the dark—it seeks to understand it. It doesn’t demand answers. It invites relationship. Curiosity isn’t the opposite of belief; it’s what keeps belief from hardening into arrogance. It keeps faith alive, dynamic, breathing. It reminds us that the unknown isn’t a threat to be managed, but a mystery to be met with wonder.

Roger Housden expands this beautifully:

“The willingness to let go of what we know you might even call an expression of faith. Faith: not that things will work out as we hope, but faith, simply, in life and its extraordinary intelligence that never fails to surprise. While belief holds on tightly, faith lets go.”

Reclaiming Belief & Faith

The problem is that letting go doesn’t sell well. There’s no tithing model for curiosity. No political campaign for “I don’t know.” So instead, people in power peddle certainty like a wonder drug. And we wonder why society feels so manic, so disembodied, so hostile to nuance.

That's why relentless curiosity is the antidote. It’s not passive. It’s not just wondering. It’s a rigorous, sacred openness. It requires humility. Attention. Courage. It says, I am willing to live in relationship with what I cannot name. That’s a quiet rebellion against the industrialization of belief.

You want to know if a belief is rooted in integrity? Ask yourself:

• Does this belief allow me to say, “I don’t know”?

• Does it require me to lie to myself and others?

• Who profits from my allegiance?

• What does it require me to sacrifice to believe it?

This doesn’t mean faith is wishy-washy. Faith can be fierce. It’s what lets people walk into fire for what they love. But it’s never about domination. It’s not an excuse to abandon discernment. The more faithful you are, the more you question. Because faith isn’t threatened by mystery. It’s built for it.

An Invitation

Reclaim belief as a living theory, not a final answer. Reclaim faith as a way of thinking, not about outcomes, but about orientation. Let your beliefs be flexible, provisional, a reflection of your curiosity, not your fear. Let your faith be marked not by blind loyalty, but by your relationship with the unknown.

To fall in love with the Unknown is to stop expecting it to reassure you. It’s to stop demanding that every mystery resolve in your favor. It’s choosing awe over arrogance. Inquiry over ideology. It’s realizing that meaning doesn’t come from having the right answers—it comes from being present enough to ask better questions.

And if someone (including your own ego) tries to sell you certitude, look for the grift.