Permission Slips, Prayer Beads, and the Cosmic Game of Dress-Up: A Not-So-Sacred Chat About Religion and Ceremony

by Laughing Crow (with commentary by Pieter & Eagle Eye, obviously)

Let’s talk religion. And ceremony. And why some people are still spiritually constipated even after years of smudging themselves like a pork roast.

Because here’s the thing: at some point on the path, you will—not might, WILL—hit the sacred pothole of doubt. The “Am I doing this right?” wobble. The “Wait… is this actual spirituality or just dogma in fancier clothes?” moment.

Religion, for all its history and holy water, was humanity’s first FAQ for the soul. Why are we here? What happens when we die? Who keeps creating more reality TV?

So we built systems. We created stories. We assigned robes, rules, and some really complicated guilt complexes.

And when it stayed connected to love and mystery, there was beauty in it. When the rituals reminded us that something bigger was moving through us? Magic. Divine magic.

But when it started saying, “Do this or else”? When it became a cosmic dress code and started policing how, when, and if you could access the sacred?

That’s when it stopped being spiritual and started being control.

Pieter, sharpening his sarcasm on the edge of a hymn book, says it like this:

“If your religion makes you smaller, quieter, guiltier, or afraid of your own soul—then congratulations, you’ve joined a spiritual MLM.”

Meanwhile, Eagle Eye just raises one eyebrow and says,

“True Spirit sets you free. Anything else is theatre.”

Now, don’t get me wrong—there’s still gold in those old books and dusty temples. Moments of real connection, ancient wisdom, and heart-widening truth. But if the religion you follow needs you to obey instead of awaken, control instead of connect, or shame instead of shine…

Then you’re not worshipping the Divine. You’re performing for a middle manager in the heavens who lost the plot.

Now. Let’s slide into ceremony—religion’s free-spirited cousin who drinks cacao and burns mugwort under the full moon.

Ceremony, at its best, is a bridge. A moment. A sacred pause that says, “Hey. Something holy is happening here.” And that’s beautiful.

But let’s call it what it is: a permission slip.

You don’t need feathers to pray.

You don’t need a drum to journey.

You don’t need a robe, a candle, or a choir of ethereal monks to talk to Spirit.

You just need presence. And honesty. And the willingness to show up as you are—frazzled, flawed, magnificent.

Ceremony helps because our beautifully neurotic human brains like symbols. We like structure. We like to know when the sacred bit starts and when it ends so we don’t accidentally try to spiritually cleanse someone in aisle five of the supermarket.

But remember: the power is not in the props. It’s in the presence.

And so, ceremony becomes the bridge.

Not the destination.

Not the gatekeeper.

Not the required cosplay for accessing God.

Just a bridge. A marker. A moment where you say:

“I’m showing up. I’m making space. I’m listening now.”

And Spirit? Spirit doesn’t care if you’re in a temple, a tipi, or a Toyota Corolla.

Spirit just cares that you're there.

The most potent ceremony I’ve ever had?

Didn’t involve incense.

Didn’t involve Latin.

Didn’t even involve pants.

It involved grief, surrender, and sitting in the dark whispering, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing… but I’m listening.”

Pieter, clutching a symbolic martini, chimes in:

“Ceremony without intention is cosplay. Intention without ceremony is magic in sweatpants.”

Eagle Eye, ever the grounded sage, adds:

“Spirit doesn’t need you to perform. It needs you to participate.”

And that, my friends, is the whole damn thing.

If the ritual brings you home to yourself—use it.

If the religion expands your heart—walk it.

But if it shames you, cages you, or teaches you that the Divine is something you must earn access to by following a checklist written by people who were terrified of their own shadows?

You’ve outgrown the story. Time to write a new one.

Because you are the altar.

You are the sacred object.

You are the damn ceremony.

So light a candle, if it helps.

Say a prayer, if it calls you.

But never forget: Spirit is not in the rules.

It’s in the remembrance.

And if you forget again? That’s okay.

We’ll be here with a matchstick, a feather, and possibly Pieter doing interpretive dance with a shamanic rattle.

You in?

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