Introduction
Every human being seeks meaning. Across cultures and eras, people have turned to religion, philosophy, art, and ritual to answer the question of why life matters. For those who believe in transcendence, meaning is secured by gods or eternal truths. For me, as an atheist who is nonetheless religious but not spiritual, meaning arises in other ways. It is constructed through reflection, sustained by memory, and made real in community. It is fragile, shifting with time and circumstance, yet it is no less profound for that fragility. To live meaningfully is not to discover hidden cosmic purpose, but to participate in the ongoing human work of constructing significance together.
Meaning as Human Construction
Meaning is not given; it is made. For me, meaning arises through relationships, interactions, and the stories we share. It is never a solitary invention but always a shared construction, shaped by the presence of others and by the heritage of those who came before. In this way, I approach meaning much like constructivist research: it is generated in the space between people, not discovered in isolation. As a historian, I find meaning in reading the classics, engaging with the great minds of the past, and entering into the human conversation across time. Through texts, stories, and memories, I participate in a meaning-making process that began long before me and will continue long after.
To see meaning as constructed is to recognize its fragility. Unlike divine commandments or cosmic absolutes, human meanings are provisional, negotiated, and revisable. They are born out of culture, memory, and need, and as such, they shift with time and circumstance. This does not weaken meaning but makes it more human. The very fact that we build meaning together — around tables, in classrooms, through rituals of family and society — grounds it in lived experience. It is not carved into stone tablets but written in memory, practice, and narrative.
Mystery plays an essential role in this process. To me, mystery is not a puzzle to be solved but a reality to be lived with. The greatest mystery is the future, the second is the past. Both are places we cannot see directly but can only approach with imagination, memory, and hope. Mystery reminds us of our limits, humbling us and deepening the meanings we construct. To acknowledge mystery is to accept that meaning is never complete, always unfolding. This humility does not empty life of value; it infuses it with wonder.
I often return here to the teaching of Thích Nhất Hạnh, who spoke of roses and garbage. The two are interdependent: roses inevitably decay into garbage, and garbage, when composted, becomes the soil for roses. Beauty and loss, life and death, are inseparable. To live with this truth is to see that meaning cannot be extracted from fragility — it exists because of fragility. Just as garbage and roses define one another, so do our moments of joy and grief, creation and decay. In embracing impermanence, we find meaning not beyond life but within it.
This recognition also shapes how I approach mortality. Following the Stoic practice of memento mori, I accept death not as an interruption of meaning but as part of it. To remember that life is finite sharpens the value of the present. Meaning is not guaranteed in eternity but enacted in each day, each act, each relationship. When I accept the cycle of roses and garbage, of memory and forgetting, of life and death, I find that meaning is always close at hand — not transcendent, but deeply human, woven from fragility and reflection.
Reflection as Personal Practice
If meaning is a shared construction, reflection is the practice through which it is discovered, deepened, and renewed. Reflection is how I return to my life with attention, allowing ordinary routines to become occasions for meaning. Sometimes this happens in writing: words on a page help me sort through experience, shaping fleeting thoughts into lasting form. Other times it happens in silence, through meditation, when the absence of words clears space for clarity. Reflection is not a single act but a habit of being, a readiness to pause, reconsider, and inhabit my life with intention.
For me, reflection takes many forms depending on the needs of the moment. In one season, I leaned on prayer, repeating the words of the Psalms or the Jesus Prayer as grounding practices. In another, I discovered meditation, sitting quietly with the mantra so’hum to settle my thoughts. More recently, writing has become central, allowing me to revisit memory and explore meaning in a way that earlier practices did not. What I need changes as I change. The past me did not write, but I write now; the future me may discover other practices altogether. Reflection, then, is not fixed but adaptive — it grows with the self it seeks to understand.
This adaptability reflects the fragility of meaning itself. Just as society must constantly redefine its values, so too must the individual find new ways to practice reflection. A ritual that once provided clarity can become hollow, just as a prayer once cherished can lose its resonance. In these moments, I have learned not to despair but to seek renewal. Reflection teaches me that meaning is not static, but something alive, responsive to time and circumstance. The loss of one practice can become the discovery of another.
Even the smallest routines of daily life can become sites of reflection. The act of making coffee, for instance, has shifted meaning for me over time. When I was married, it was a ritual for two. After divorce, it became a ritual for one. Yet the act itself endured, providing continuity through change. Reflection allowed me to see the practice differently, to understand that meaning does not vanish with circumstance but adjusts alongside it. In this way, ritual and reflection intertwine: both are ways of keeping life attentive and intentional in the midst of uncertainty.
At its heart, reflection is a form of devotion. It does not invoke the supernatural, nor does it guarantee final answers. Instead, it creates the conditions in which meaning can appear. To reflect is to sit with mystery, to acknowledge change, and to practice presence. Through writing, meditation, prayer, and daily ritual, I open myself to the possibility that meaning is not something found once for all, but something continually practiced. Reflection is how I keep alive the fragile thread of meaning, weaving it anew each day as I grow into the self I am becoming.
Memory and Narrative
If reflection helps me interpret my own life, memory and narrative connect me to the wider human story. Meaning is never only about the present moment; it stretches backward into the past and forward into the future. As a historian, I find that memory is both a resource and a responsibility. When I read old texts or trace genealogies, I am not just gathering information; I am participating in the construction of meaning that transcends my individual life. Memory links me to those who came before, while narrative allows me to weave their stories into my own.
One of the most impactful experiences of this kind came when I visited the grave of John Christopher Armstrong with my brother. We left coins on the stone, an act both simple and symbolic. That gesture was not about superstition but about acknowledgment: we were part of a story larger than ourselves. In visiting graves — whether of ancestors, presidents, authors, or cultural figures like James Dean or Johnny Appleseed — my brother and I transform travel into something more than sightseeing. These pilgrimages connect us not just to places, but to people. They make history tangible, reminding us that behind every name lies a life, and behind every life a story that still resonates.
In this sense, memory is not only preservation but creation. Every time I tell the story of visiting John Christopher Armstrong’s grave, I am not simply recalling an event; I am reshaping its meaning. Memory is active, not passive. Philosopher Paul Ricoeur (1984) called this narrative identity: we come to know ourselves through the stories we tell, weaving memory into narrative to create coherence in the midst of change. Family stories, classroom anecdotes, even the shared myths of nations all serve this function. They provide continuity, but they also reimagine the past in light of present needs.
Museums and historical sites amplify this process at the communal level. Walking through galleries or battlefield memorials, I see how societies curate memory into narrative, choosing what to preserve and what to forget. These choices are never neutral; they shape collective meaning, much as my personal choices shape individual meaning. The act of leaving coins at a grave mirrors the act of a museum curator arranging an exhibit: both transform memory into ritual, making the past present and significant for the living.
Ultimately, memory and narrative are the ways we wrestle with the mystery of time. The past is irretrievable, the future unknowable, but through story we bridge the gap. To tell a story is to make meaning of what cannot be fully seen. Whether in family genealogy, graveside rituals, or historical study, I find that meaning is made not by escaping time but by inhabiting it. Memory gives weight to reflection, reminding me that I stand within a lineage of lives, each fragile, each finite, yet all part of the ongoing construction of human meaning.
Communal Meaning
While reflection and memory help me make meaning at a personal level, it is in community that meaning takes on its fullest weight. Meaning is never just mine; it is forged in shared practices, collective stories, and communal rituals. Around the family table, during Sunday meals at my grandparents’ house, I experienced this directly. When my grandfather died in 2002, we did not abandon the ritual. We rearranged the seats, and I took his place. Later, my wife joined me there for a season, until her departure rearranged the table once more. Yet the meal went on. That table became a communal altar, reminding me that meaning is sustained not by certainty but by continuity and presence.
These communal rituals extend far beyond the home. Sports fandom, for example, has been as formative in my life as church ever was. Growing up a Royals and Chiefs fan taught me that stadiums can function like cathedrals: spaces of belonging, rhythm, and collective hope. The chants, the colors, the rituals of game day are not unlike liturgies, uniting thousands in a shared narrative of triumph and loss. These moments illustrate that meaning can be found in the most ordinary of human practices. They are not trivial; they are the rituals by which communities enact loyalty, endurance, and joy.
Literature, art, and music likewise provide communal meaning. When I read Baldwin, Rilke, or Solzhenitsyn, I enter into a conversation that stretches across cultures and centuries. Their words, though personal, speak into a collective human condition, giving voice to struggles and longings I recognize as my own. Museums and concerts extend this experience, drawing strangers into common spaces where meaning is not dictated but discovered together. These shared encounters remind me that meaning is not only reflective but participatory: it is created as we gather around the “tables” of culture.
At the same time, communal meaning is fragile. Just as nations cherry-pick their history, communities can distort meaning into ideology or control. My caution toward societal meaning stems from this: while family rituals and cultural gatherings bind us, political or religious institutions often manipulate shared meaning to serve power. The same stories that inspire solidarity can justify conquest; the same rituals that unify can exclude. Communal meaning must therefore be approached with discernment, cherished when it binds us in care, resisted when it is used to dominate.
Nevertheless, I cannot imagine meaning apart from community. Whether around the dinner table, in the stadium, in the museum, or in the classroom, it is in these shared practices that life feels most significant. Communal meaning reminds me that I am not alone in my search, that others, too, are building stories, rituals, and practices to make sense of life. To be religious but not spiritual, for me, is to honor these communal forms of meaning without requiring them to be absolute. They are human, fragile, and constructed — but that is precisely what makes them real.
Living Meaningfully Without Transcendence
If meaning is constructed through reflection, memory, and community, then it must also be lived without appeal to transcendence. I do not believe in a supernatural realm where meaning is secured beyond the fragility of human life. For me, the value of existence lies in its impermanence. To know that life is finite is not to despair but to take responsibility for how I live now. The Stoic practice of memento mori reminds me that death is certain, and this certainty sharpens the urgency of each day. I do not live for eternity; I live for this moment, and in this moment, I find meaning in the choices I make.
Viktor Frankl (1946/2006), reflecting on his time in concentration camps, argued that “those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear with almost any ‘how.’” His insight resonates with me, though I do not share his metaphysical assumptions. Meaning does not emerge from transcendent purpose but from the ways we respond to suffering, joy, and responsibility. To create meaning is to cultivate a “why” through love, memory, art, teaching, and ritual. It is fragile, always at risk of fading, but it is also renewable, discovered again in each act of reflection and care.
This renewal is possible precisely because meaning is not fixed. My practices have shifted over time — from prayer to meditation, from silence to writing — yet each has carried significance in its season. Likewise, my sense of meaning has changed with life’s transitions: marriage and divorce, teaching and loss, the death of my grandfather, and the continuing ritual of the family table. Each event has reshaped what meaning looks like, but the underlying practice remains the same: to reflect, to remember, and to engage with life attentively.
Communal meaning strengthens this effort. When I visit graves with my brother, when I sit in a stadium with fellow fans, when I stand in a museum before a painting, I am reminded that I am not alone in seeking meaning. These experiences confirm that the human search for significance is collective as well as personal. We tell stories, build rituals, and create culture because life without meaning is unbearable. We do not find meaning hidden in the universe; we create it in the fragile fabric of our shared lives.
To live meaningfully without transcendence is, therefore, to embrace fragility. It is to acknowledge that the roses of our lives will one day become garbage, but also that the garbage, when tended, will nurture roses anew. It is to live with mystery, not as a problem to be solved but as a reality to be inhabited. And it is to honor the responsibility of each moment, knowing that meaning is not guaranteed by eternity but made real by practice. To be religious but not spiritual is to live as if reflection itself is sacred, to find in memory and community the fragile but enduring threads of meaning that make life worth living.
In Closing
Meaning does not wait for us in eternity; it is made here, in the fragile fabric of daily life. It is constructed in the practices of reflection that shape the self, in the memories and stories that connect us to the past, and in the rituals and communities that remind us we are not alone. Mystery does not undermine this process; it enriches it, teaching us to live with humility before what we cannot fully know. Mortality does not nullify meaning; it sharpens it, urging us to treat each act and each relationship as precious. To live religious but not spiritual is to treat reflection, memory, and community as sacred in their own right, even without transcendence. In the absence of cosmic guarantees, meaning becomes more urgent, more human, and ultimately, more real.
References
Camus, A. (1991). The myth of Sisyphus (J. O’Brien, Trans.). Vintage International. (Original work published 1942)
Frankl, V. E. (2006). Man’s search for meaning. Beacon Press. (Original work published 1946)
Hạnh, T. N. (1975). The miracle of mindfulness: An introduction to the practice of meditation (M. Ho, Trans.). Beacon Press.
Marcus Aurelius. (2003). Meditations (G. Hays, Trans.). Modern Library. (Original work published ca. 180 CE)
Ricoeur, P. (1984). Time and narrative, Volume 1 (K. McLaughlin & D. Pellauer, Trans.). University of Chicago Press.
Sartre, J.-P. (1993). Being and nothingness (H. E. Barnes, Trans.). Washington Square Press. (Original work published 1943)
Seneca. (2010). On the shortness of life (C. D. N. Costa, Trans.). Penguin Classics. (Original work published ca. 49 CE)