Throughout human history, there have been numerous discoveries that have changed life in profound ways: fire, the wheel, writing, agriculture, metallurgy, anesthesia, disinfection, microbiology, electricity, and the scientific method. Each of these discoveries carries true weight. They did not merely make life “more beautiful”; they fundamentally altered how humans live, die, eat, heal, travel, preserve knowledge, and organize society.

However, the majority of these discoveries were not pushed into a comprehensive system of sacralization where humans had to prostrate, establish hierarchies, clothe them in ideals of salvation, and then use morality to stratify one another. People learned how to use fire. People passed on agricultural techniques. People taught the methods of disinfection. People corrected errors through experimentation. The value lay in operational efficiency.

Imagine if, after discovering fire, human history had not moved toward learning how to ignite, maintain, and use it correctly, but instead toward establishing a “Religion of Fire.”

Initially, there is a very simple and immense discovery: fire helps provide warmth, cook food, ward off predators, forge materials, and illuminate the darkness. This is a discovery of real value. Its value lies in its practical effectiveness in life. When it is cold, fire warms; when food is raw, fire cooks it; in the darkness, fire provides light. Those who use it correctly see the results; those who use it incorrectly get burned or have their houses catch fire. Everything is very clear.

At this point, if humans remained sober, they would do very ordinary things: show each other how to start a fire, how to preserve embers, how to choose dry firewood, how to prevent it from spreading, and how to use fire for the right tasks. That is, they would teach a useful skill. Perhaps they would even set a few pragmatic conventions within the group, such as who tends the hearth, who extinguishes the fire before sleep, ensuring children do not play near the stove, and keeping the woodpile in a dry place. These conventions are entirely normal because they help make life less chaotic, reduce accidents, and maintain the stable use of fire.

But now, imagine everything beginning to be “religionized.”

Instead of saying “fire is a tool that must be understood correctly to be used correctly,” people start saying “fire is the ultimate truth; anyone who doubts our way of using fire insults the sacred.” From a discoverable and verifiable fact, fire is dragged into becoming an unquestionable symbol. People no longer ask, “Will this method cook the food? Is it safe? Is it effective?” instead, they ask, “Does this method follow the rituals of our lineage?” At that moment, operational truth is pushed behind the sanctity of the system.

Next, instead of respecting those who know how to use fire because of their actual experience, people turn them into objects of worship. The focus is no longer on the fact that this person ignites fire well, maintains it steadily, or teaches others how to avoid house fires. The focus shifts to what they wear when lighting the fire, which side of the stove they stand on, who is allowed to sit near them, who has the right to touch the “orthodox” fire-starting stick, and who is titled the true successor of the primordial flame. From practical skill, the entire community slides into the idolization of personalities and symbols.

Then the system goes one bizarre step further: people do not just revere the fire-starter as someone with a skill, but they also clothe them in a litany of moral standards and salvific duties. From “this person knows how to light fire, maintain it, and teach others to avoid burning,” they are transformed into a model of someone who must always be noble, always self-sacrificing, and always carry the responsibility of illuminating everyone. The fire-starter is suddenly demanded to live according to an ideal role constructed by the crowd—to speak in the right tone, behave according to the right standards, and carry the responsibility of “saving” those who do not yet know fire, even being judged as selfish if they simply teach the correct technique to those who actually want to learn.

This is a very clear act of substitution. The skill of lighting a fire is a practical ability; it does not automatically bring about a special moral status, nor does it automatically generate an obligation to save others. A person who knows fire can teach very skillfully, very accurately, and very usefully without needing to wear the mantle of a saint. When the crowd begins to force the fire-knower to carry additional moral titles and missions of deliverance, they are no longer respecting operational truth; they are using that person to feed their collective ideals and their own emotions.

Then the maintenance of order around the use of fire also becomes distorted. Initially, washing hands before cooking, keeping the kitchen tidy, and extinguishing embers before sleep were pragmatic principles to reduce accidents and improve meals. But in the “Religion of Fire,” these principles begin to be used to rank human beings. Someone who kneels the right way before the hearth is considered superior. Someone who recites the correct prayer before sparking the flame is considered purer. Someone who uses fire without following the ritual is labeled inferior, even if they cook better, more safely, and with fewer accidents. At this point, the principle is no longer a tool for using fire well; it turns into performance morality and a tool for constructing self-worth.

After that, the apparatus appears. This is where the absurdity begins to swell. It is reasonable to determine who actually knows how to use fire to teach others. Those who do not know should not yet teach. But the “Religion of Fire” does not stop at testing competence. It erects countless layers: who has the right to stand before the crowd to light the fire, who is certified as belonging to the correct lineage, who gets to keep the central flame, who has the power to judge those who light fires incorrectly, who is forbidden from teaching despite being an excellent cook simply because they do not belong to the orthodox system, and who is entitled to receive offerings because they are “preserving the fire for humanity.” From protecting the quality of fire usage, the system shifts to protecting power and legitimacy.

Then idealistic language appears. Instead of teaching very simply that “fire helps humans live better if used correctly,” people start draping it in grand slogans: “the sacred mission of protecting the light for all mankind,” “the only path to salvation through the fire ritual,” “sacrificing one’s life to serve the eternal flame.” It sounds magnificent, but if you look closely, most of this language does not help anyone light a fire better, cook better, or avoid house fires more effectively. It mainly serves to increase the sense of nobility, boost loyalty, and elevate the status of the apparatus.

At that point, you will see a very bizarre sight: in the village, there is someone who cooks food thoroughly, keeps the kitchen safe, and knows how to pass on clear techniques to children, but they are viewed as “unorthodox.” Meanwhile, there is someone who has memorized every chant about fire, wears the correct ritual attire, and speaks beautifully about the sacred light, but they constantly let the kitchen catch fire, burn everything they cook, and cannot teach anyone a real skill. If such a society existed, a sober person would immediately see the absurdity: symbols have taken the place of verifiable truth.

This becomes even clearer if we switch to the example of electricity. Electricity is a discovery and a system of inventions that has changed almost the entirety of modern life. People need to learn how to use electricity safely, understand how dangerous electric shocks are, know the circuit breakers, know the hot and neutral wires, and know that overloading will cause a fire. Those with electrical expertise teach the newcomers; a good technician repairs things correctly, and a poor one must learn more. All of this is very normal.

But if there were a “Religion of Electricity,” everything would become a farce. People would no longer prioritize the question, “Is this circuit running correctly? Is it safe?” instead prioritizing, “Do you plug it in with your right hand or left hand according to the ritual?”, “Do you belong to the orthodox 110V or 220V system?”, “Have you been granted the right to touch the central switch?”, “Do you recite a prayer before flipping the breaker?” Electrical accidents would increase, fires and short circuits would still occur, but the system would still praise itself for preserving the “tradition of the sacred light.” This is clearly nonsensical. Because with electricity, everyone can easily see the core: if the circuit is right, it runs; if it’s wrong, it shorts. No ritual can replace the correct wiring, the correct connection, and the correct testing.

It is because the examples of fire and electricity are so clear that they help us see an important principle: in a field with real value, four layers can always be separated. There is the layer of the useful discovery, the layer of practical teaching techniques, the layer of supporting conventions to reduce confusion when learning, and the layer of symbols for quick understanding. When people remain sober, they regard symbols and conventions merely as auxiliary items, used just enough to facilitate learning, and then they return to checking the actual results. When people are obsessed with performance, they do the opposite: they cling to symbols, elevate conventions into “absolute truths,” erect hierarchies and authorities to establish a monopoly, and then speak very beautiful words to cover up the fact that they are manipulating others and demanding loyalty.

Applying this perspective, we see immediately why a “Religion of Fire” or a “Religion of Electricity” sounds ridiculous. It’s not because fire or electricity are unimportant, but because everyone clearly sees that their value lies in their utility and verifiability, not in rituals, titles, or performance morality. And once this is seen in fire and electricity, people have an excellent mirror to reflect upon other fields: where is something useful being taught, and where is a stage being built around that usefulness?

Therefore, when a discovery related to suffering, liberation, and human transformation is elevated into a religion, the right question is not “is that discovery important?” The right question is: in the process of transmission, what have humans added, and what have they substituted?

Why are discoveries about the inner life more easily religionized than technical discoveries?

This question is vital because it explains why fire, electricity, disinfection, mathematics, and the scientific method can maintain their instrumental nature in most cases, while discoveries related to suffering and liberation are often sacralized and deified.

Technical discoveries usually answer questions like: how does this object operate, how can it be used more effectively, what conditions produce results, where do the errors lie?

Humans can argue, deny, and resist, but ultimately they still have to face the practical results. Whether an antiseptic works can be tested. Whether anesthesia is effective can be seen in surgery. Whether electricity is running is known to everyone.

Meanwhile, discoveries related to suffering, the meaning of life, fear, the ego, and death touch directly upon the areas where humans are most attached. Here, the need for control, the need for refuge, the need for validation, the need to belong to a collective, and the need to tell a grand story about oneself easily surface.

Therefore, instead of learning it like a mechanism, many people choose to cling to symbols. Clinging to symbols gives them a sense of safety more quickly. Learning a mechanism requires observation and self-responsibility; clinging to symbols gives them an immediate feeling of being supported.

It is precisely here that deification and sacralization arise.

To be clearer: discoveries about suffering and liberation have a higher probability of being religionized and deified because they touch the part of humans that is most fearful and most strongly attached.

Humans prefer clinging to images over learning the operational truth

If one were to point out a root error, it is that humans prefer to cling to images and feelings rather than learning the operational truth to its conclusion. Learning something thoroughly requires qualities that are not easy: one must look directly at what is happening, accept being wrong, discard old habits, observe consistently, correct bit by bit, not rely on collective aura, and not use beautiful language to replace actual transformation in life.

Meanwhile, clinging to an image provides very fast benefits: having an identity to hold onto, a group to belong to, a role to keep, someone to elevate, someone to put down, and a feeling that one is standing within something grand. Therefore, many systems are erected not to clarify the truth, but to satisfy the psychological needs of the crowd and those holding positions within the crowd. The names may be very beautiful, but the actual operation revolves around fame, power, status, loyalty, and performance morality.

Looking at this, one understands why many things that initially had value, after going in a long circle, end up in cumbersome complexity. The tragedy does not lie in humans forming groups or setting conventions, as those are normal aspects of collective life.

The tragedy lies in the fact that many people, after studying for a time, begin to confuse the means with the end. They forget what is merely a tool to support the process, what the true goal of learning is, what is merely a symbol for mutual identification, and what the results verifiable by reality are. When this confusion occurs, people still imagine they are on the right path, but in truth, they are busy maintaining an image rather than touching the core.

It must also be said in fairness: not every process of religionization begins with bad intentions or intentional manipulation from the start. In many cases, it arises from a very understandable need of collective life.

When a valuable discovery appears, especially one related to suffering and human transformation, those who came before often want to preserve the essence so it is not misunderstood, misapplied, or mistransmitted. From that need, they establish ways of teaching, ways of reminding, ways of maintaining order, and sometimes use symbols or rituals to help the majority remember, follow, and develop respect for what they are learning. At this stage, the initial motive may be preservation, not domination.

The problem arises when the means of preservation are gradually identified with the truth itself. That which initially helped people learn begins to be seen as unquestionable. Conventions intended to maintain quality become absolute standards. Symbols intended to aid memory become signs of the truth. From here, the system easily slides onto a different trajectory: preservation turns into rigid standardization, rigid standardization turns into sacralization, sacralization brings about a monopoly on interpretation, and a monopoly on interpretation gives birth to stratification and power.

In other words, there are systems that do not begin with deception but still end in confusion and manipulation if humans do not continuously return to check: is this thing serving the operational truth, or is it forcing the operational truth to serve the apparatus?

A clear modern example of this pattern appears in the kind of discourse associated with Deepak Chopra. The mistake is not that he speaks about consciousness or inner experience. The mistake is: he often moves from a real or possible subjective experience straight into large conclusions about the universe, the divine, without clearly separating what is observed from what is added by interpretation.

That is the crucial error. A person may genuinely feel stillness, awe, openness, or relief. But when the mind quickly declares, “this is cosmic intelligence” or “I am the universe,” it has already gone beyond observation. It has turned experience into a claim.

The second distortion happens in the audience. Many people then idolize the speaker, repeat the language, and absorb the feeling of profundity without testing the content. They do not ask what is being claimed, what is metaphor, what is literal, what the mechanism is, or how the claim could be examined. In that moment, authority replaces inquiry.

This is exactly the pattern described in this essay: something real may be present, but the mind builds a story around it, and the story is treated as truth. The real discipline is to keep asking: What is directly seen, and what has the mind added? Am I verifying this, or am I admiring it?

Phan Ý Ly
25.02.2026