The search for meaning is one of the defining features of human existence. For those who do not believe in the supernatural, the question becomes more urgent rather than less: how does one live a meaningful life without recourse to transcendence? The answer, I argue, lies in reflection. Through reflection we recognize our freedom, construct shared frameworks of value, and connect our lives to those who came before us and those who will follow after. This reflective orientation is not only personal but also communal, for meaning emerges in dialogue, ritual, teaching, and legacy. To live religiously but not spiritually is to honor this human task of meaning-making: grounded in mystery, oriented toward others, and sustained within the natural order of things.
Meaning as Human Construction
The search for meaning has accompanied humanity since its earliest myths and philosophical reflections. For those who do not appeal to supernatural explanations, meaning cannot be something “out there” waiting to be discovered like a divine decree; it must be forged by human beings themselves. Jean-Paul Sartre expressed this most starkly in his declaration that “existence precedes essence” (Sartre, 1943/1993). Human beings are not born with a fixed destiny but must construct significance through the freedom of their choices. To live authentically is to shoulder this burden of creation. Reflection becomes the primary tool by which one confronts the anxiety of freedom and turns it into the soil for meaning-making. Without pausing to examine one’s life, choices remain arbitrary; with reflection, choices become the ground of one’s identity.
Albert Camus took this further with his notion of the absurd — the clash between humanity’s hunger for coherence and the universe’s silence. His image of Sisyphus, condemned to roll a rock for eternity, insists that dignity comes not from a transcendent justification but from the refusal to despair (Camus, 1942/1991). One must imagine Sisyphus happy, Camus tells us, because meaning is constructed in the conscious act of living. Reflection, then, is not simply self-examination but an embrace of life’s absurdity, an acknowledgement that we inhabit a world where ultimate answers are withheld. It is here that mystery enters the scene. To acknowledge mystery is not to lapse into supernaturalism, but to confess the finitude of human understanding. The unknown does not nullify meaning; it intensifies the urgency of constructing it.
Psychology lends empirical support to these insights. Viktor Frankl, reflecting on his survival in Nazi concentration camps, argued that the human will to meaning is irreducible. He observed that “those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear with almost any ‘how’” (Frankl, 1946/1959, p. 104). In Frankl’s account, meaning is not discovered as an eternal law but made through attitudes, commitments, and reflective awareness of suffering. Modern psychological studies echo this, showing that individuals who frame their lives in coherent narratives report higher levels of resilience and well-being (McAdams, 2013). Reflection, memory, and narrative identity all contribute to this sense of coherence. Yet even here, mystery remains vital. The unexplainable — why one person survives when another does not, why love or loss strikes when it does — becomes a space where meaning is carved out against the backdrop of what cannot be fully understood.
Writers of earlier ages, such as Michel de Montaigne, anticipated this intertwining of reflection and mystery. His Essais were meditations on ordinary experiences, but always with the awareness that life resists final comprehension. “We are all patchwork,” Montaigne confessed (1580/1991, p. 384), recognizing that meaning comes not from absolute truths but from the fragments we stitch together. Mystery was not an enemy to be conquered but a horizon that shaped the contours of reflection. Likewise, the Stoics before him, particularly Marcus Aurelius, encouraged acceptance of the limits of human reason while still urging a life of virtue and mindfulness: “Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together” (Meditations, 5.3). The acknowledgment of fate, or what remains beyond comprehension, becomes part of the reflective process of meaning-making.
In this light, meaning is neither fully constructed nor fully discovered — it emerges in the interplay between reflection and mystery. To be religious but not spiritual in this sense is to treat mystery with reverence, not as an occasion for supernatural speculation but as a recognition of our human limits. Mystery compels humility, and reflection provides the tools to turn humility into wisdom. Meaning is constructed not in spite of mystery but with its help, because mystery forces us to return again and again to the task of interpretation, story, and ritual. Far from rendering life meaningless, the unexplainable becomes the soil from which meaning grows. In embracing both reflection and mystery, we participate in the deeply human project of making significance where none is guaranteed.
Collective Meaning-Making
Human beings are social creatures, and the search for meaning has always taken shape within communities. As Émile Durkheim (1912/1995) observed, religion is less about supernatural encounters than about the collective energy generated when people gather in ritual and symbol. “The idea of society is the soul of religion” (p. 236), he wrote, suggesting that our deepest meanings are inextricably tied to our shared life. Meaning is thus not simply the product of private reflection but a communal achievement, formed and sustained through narratives, rituals, and intentional patterns of living. Mystery, in this light, is not a threat but a common horizon that communities face together, giving rise to shared practices that stabilize and enrich life.
The Rule of St. Benedict, composed in the sixth century, provides a vivid example of how intentional communities embody this collective meaning-making. Benedict’s Rule did not present a theology of cosmic mysteries but instead articulated a daily rhythm of prayer, work, and communal decision-making. Its opening words, “Listen carefully, my child, to the master’s instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart” (Prologue, 1), emphasize reflection in community as a path to wisdom. The Rule gave structure to time through the opus Dei (work of God), creating a framework where mystery was not resolved but lived with discipline and reverence. In the monastery, reflection was never isolated but woven into a communal pattern of chanting psalms, breaking bread, and serving others. For centuries, this intentional way of life has shown how collective meaning flourishes when people consent to inhabit shared rhythms.
This insight extends beyond religious monasticism. Intentional communities throughout history—Shaker villages, Quaker meetings, and even modern cooperative living movements—reveal how shared values and rituals provide anchors of meaning. The Shakers, for instance, turned mystery into embodied practice through their dances and songs, a communal enactment of devotion that resisted the fragmentation of the wider society. Modern intentional communities, such as ecovillages, practice sustainability and shared governance, embodying meaning through their commitment to collective flourishing. These experiments suggest that human beings continually seek to transform uncertainty about the future into shared action. Mystery—whether of death, sustainability, or justice—becomes the impetus for forming structures that embody hope.
The philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre (1981/2007) reminds us that human life is “narrative in form.” Communities provide the overarching narratives within which individuals locate themselves, and rituals serve as enactments of these stories. Weddings, funerals, and communal meals all bear this narrative function: they respond to life’s mysteries—love, loss, continuity—by embedding them within a shared pattern. Likewise, Benedictine monasteries embody the mystery of time and mortality by marking hours with prayer, insisting that each moment, though fleeting, participates in something larger. Reflection here is not an isolated exercise but a communal dialogue between individuals and the narratives they inherit.
In this light, collective meaning-making is best understood as a balance between mystery and structure. Mystery ensures that no community can ever exhaust meaning; there will always be questions unanswered and futures unknown. Structure, whether in the form of Benedict’s Rule, civic rituals, or intentional living arrangements, provides stability that allows individuals to flourish in the face of uncertainty. To live religiously but not spiritually is to recognize the power of these communal forms without requiring supernatural validation. It is to see how rituals, rules, and shared narratives transform mystery into sustainable patterns of life, anchoring meaning in the collective rather than leaving it to the precariousness of individual effort.
Personal Meaning and Reflection
If communities provide the scaffolding for collective meaning, individuals must still undertake the work of reflection to weave those shared narratives into their own lives. Meaning is not absorbed passively; it is shaped through personal acts of interpretation. Psychologist Carl Jung (1961/1995) suggested that reflection is essential to individuation, the process by which one comes to recognize and integrate the self. “Your vision will become clear only when you look into your own heart,” he wrote, emphasizing that reflection is not a withdrawal from the world but a reorientation to it. This suggests that meaning emerges not only in public rituals or social roles but also in the quiet spaces where individuals reckon with their memories, experiences, and mortality.
Journaling provides one of the clearest examples of reflection as meaning-making. The philosopher Marcus Aurelius, in his Meditations (c. 180/2006), never intended his writings for public eyes, yet his reflective practice continues to inspire because it demonstrates how meaning emerges from disciplined self-examination. Modern psychology affirms this as well: expressive writing has been shown to improve mental and emotional health by helping individuals process trauma and create coherent narratives (Pennebaker & Smyth, 2016). Reflection through writing allows the individual to confront mystery—of pain, loss, or uncertainty—without resolving it, transforming it instead into a story that confers dignity and direction.
Meditation, whether in secular mindfulness or in religious traditions, also illustrates how reflection grounds meaning in the present moment. The Buddhist practice of vipassana invites practitioners to see clearly into the nature of experience, cultivating awareness without clinging to certainty. Christian monastic traditions, particularly those shaped by the Rule of St. Benedict, similarly integrate meditation into daily life through lectio divina, the reflective reading of sacred texts. Both practices embody the insight of William James (1902/2002), who noted that “the deepest thing in our nature is this craving to be appreciated.” Reflection, whether silent or written, satisfies this craving by connecting the individual with something larger—whether that is society, tradition, or simply the mysterious flow of consciousness itself.
Personal reflection also occurs in the act of teaching, where meaning is transmitted not as doctrine but as lived experience. As Parker Palmer (1998) observed, “we teach who we are.” The classroom becomes a space where reflection and dialogue are interwoven, and where the meaning found in personal experience is offered to others for interpretation. For an educator, reflection is not merely inward but outward-facing, a continual negotiation between the personal narrative and the collective story of a community of learners. In this way, reflection is never solipsistic; it is a dialogue, one that mirrors the communal reflection of intentional communities but within the intimate space of personal vocation.
Ultimately, personal reflection stands at the intersection of the individual and the collective, mediating between solitude and community. It is the act that transforms the raw material of experience into meaning, confronting mystery without despair. To live “religiously but not spiritually” is to embrace these practices—not as supernatural obligations but as intentional ways of shaping a life. Reflection, in writing, meditation, teaching, or memory, allows the individual to encounter the unknown with honesty, turning mystery into a companion rather than an adversary. It is through reflection that meaning becomes both intensely personal and profoundly connected to the shared human condition.
Meaning Through Teaching, Legacy, and Reflection
The creation of meaning does not end with personal reflection; it finds its fullest expression in how one’s life touches others. Legacy is the outward extension of inward reflection, the way individuals inscribe their meaning into the lives of students, colleagues, family, and community. As the Roman philosopher Seneca (c. 65/2004) wrote, “Life is long, if you know how to use it.” Teaching, in this sense, is the conscious use of life in service of another’s growth, a process by which personal insight becomes collective inheritance. The pursuit of meaning thus shifts from self to others, from reflection alone to reflection shared.
Teaching is uniquely powerful because it enacts the paradox of influence: the teacher shapes others even as the teacher is reshaped by their students. The Jewish sage Hillel asked, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am only for myself, what am I?” (Pirkei Avot 1:14). This tension captures the role of teaching in meaning-making. It requires self-awareness but also a recognition that meaning is incomplete if hoarded. When educators create spaces for dialogue, they participate in a reflective act that transcends the individual. The classroom becomes not merely a site of information transfer but a sacred space where meaning is created in community.
Legacy, however, is not limited to formal education. Artists, writers, and thinkers shape meaning across generations through their reflective works. Augustine’s Confessions (c. 400/2008), for example, is at once deeply personal and enduringly communal: his reflections on sin, longing, and grace became a foundation for Western thought. Similarly, Montaigne’s Essays (1580/1991) model how reflective writing can construct meaning that resonates centuries later. Each illustrates how personal reflection, when shared, becomes legacy—an enduring dialogue between the living and the dead. For the atheist or agnostic, such examples demonstrate how meaning persists without supernatural guarantees. It lives on in influence, in memory, in the echoes of reflective acts.
Psychology supports this view of legacy as a developmental task. Erik Erikson (1950/1993) described “generativity versus stagnation” as the central challenge of midlife, where the individual seeks to nurture the next generation through teaching, mentorship, or creative work. Reflection here becomes the vehicle for generativity: only by examining one’s life can one discern what is worth passing on. A teacher who shares their passion, an artist who reflects on beauty, or a parent who models integrity all enact this generativity. Legacy is thus not a distant abstraction but a daily practice of reflection extended outward into relationship.
In this light, teaching and legacy serve as a bridge between the finite self and the ongoing human story. They embody the truth articulated by poet Rainer Maria Rilke (1903/1993): “The only journey is the one within,” yet that journey, when shared, illuminates paths for others. Reflection becomes not only a tool of personal meaning but also a gift offered to future generations, a way of making life intelligible and rich even in the absence of transcendence. To live religiously but not spiritually is to accept this responsibility: to reflect deeply, to teach openly, and to create meaning that endures beyond one’s lifespan, not through immortality but through influence.
Meaning Without Transcendence
For many, the question of meaning is inseparable from transcendence. Religious traditions have long grounded their narratives in promises of eternal life, divine purpose, or cosmic justice. Yet to live without appeal to transcendence is not to abandon meaning but to reconstruct it on a natural foundation. The philosopher Albert Camus (1942/1991) framed this challenge in terms of the absurd: the confrontation between humanity’s longing for clarity and the universe’s silence. His solution was not despair but defiance, affirming that meaning is created in the act of living authentically. To embrace existence without transcendence is to recognize that meaning is not discovered in heaven but forged on earth, through reflection and action.
Mystery plays a crucial role in this reconstruction. To acknowledge that we are finite beings, limited by mortality and cognition, is to embrace the limits of understanding. The Stoic Epictetus (c. 125/2008) observed, “It is impossible for a man to begin to learn what he thinks he already knows.” Mystery, then, is not a deficiency but an opening, a reminder that reflection is an ongoing process rather than a finished product. For the naturalist, mystery does not point to the supernatural but to the inexhaustible depth of the natural world—a universe 13.8 billion years old, still unfolding, and still beyond complete comprehension. In this sense, mystery sustains meaning without requiring transcendence.
This naturalistic framework aligns with contemporary psychological insights. Viktor Frankl (1946/2006) argued that even in suffering, meaning could be created through attitude, choice, and love. His work in Nazi concentration camps revealed that transcendence of the self, not necessarily of the world, is what sustained human dignity. Reflection becomes the tool by which this meaning is grasped and renewed. Similarly, existential psychologists such as Rollo May (1981) emphasized that meaning is not a fixed endpoint but a dynamic process of engaging with freedom, anxiety, and responsibility. To reject transcendence, therefore, is not to reject depth but to accept that meaning is a task, not a gift.
Living without transcendence also reframes legacy and community. Without eternal guarantees, influence becomes the truest form of continuation: the way one’s words, actions, and teachings ripple into the lives of others. This perspective aligns with Stephen Hawking’s (2010) observation that “we are just an advanced breed of monkeys on a minor planet of a very average star. But we can understand the universe. That makes us very special.” Meaning persists not because it is divinely sanctioned but because it resonates across generations of reflective, meaning-seeking beings. The shared human project itself becomes a kind of immortality, rooted in memory rather than metaphysics.
In this way, the absence of transcendence need not impoverish meaning but can enrich it. It compels the individual to live more fully in the present, to reflect more honestly on the past, and to accept the future as a horizon of mystery rather than certainty. To live religiously but not spiritually is to find value in ritual, reflection, and community without appealing to the supernatural. Meaning is not diminished by its human origins; rather, it is ennobled by the courage it takes to create it in a universe that offers no guarantees.
In Closing
To search for meaning without transcendence is not to embrace emptiness but to participate in the ongoing human work of reflection. Meaning is constructed, shared, and renewed in the ways we live, teach, and remember. Mystery remains, not as evidence of the supernatural, but as a sign of the richness of a universe too vast for any mind to fully comprehend. In the absence of eternal guarantees, life itself becomes the sacred space where meaning is forged: in rituals of reflection, in the bonds of community, and in the legacies we leave behind. To be religious but not spiritual is, at its core, to affirm that meaning does not require heaven to matter—it requires only the courage to live reflectively and the willingness to shape one’s life as part of something larger than the self.
References
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