The Zion I Choose

This piece is a personal reflection—rooted in my lived experience, not in judgment.
It’s not written to critique faith or religion, but to explore how belief can be shaped outside of institutions, through integrity, instinct, and the quiet search for what’s sacred.

I recognise that for many, tradition provides belonging, clarity, and meaning.
I honour that.
This is simply the path I’ve walked—and the Zion I’ve come to know.

I wasn’t raised to obey.
I was raised to question.
To think.
To weigh things on my own terms.

Religion wasn’t part of my childhood.
God was never imposed—
not through sermons,
not through guilt,
not through dogma,
not through rituals passed down like inheritance.

And maybe that’s why, when I see systems that preach obedience as love, I pause.
Because I wasn’t taught that love demands compliance.
Or that worth had to be earned through steps of worthiness.
I wasn’t asked to prove my goodness.

Through decades of curiosity, openness, and a genuine willingness to understand,
I’ve come close to belief more times than I can count.
And through that journey, I’ve seen things up close—
Systems built on sacred language, yet shaped by human power.
Communities that offer belonging, but at the price of silence.
Teachings that hold beauty—yet are often delivered with conditions.

And maybe that works for some—
The clarity, the rules, the responsibility assigned.
Maybe it’s a structure they need to move through the world.
But I can’t.

And I can’t help but wonder:
What if the Divine doesn’t live in marble buildings or memorised creeds?
What if holiness is found not in pageantry, but in restraint?
Not in being seen doing good,
but in choosing it when no one will ever know?

Zion is a word I’ve heard echo through many beliefs.

To Jews, it’s Jerusalem—the ancestral home, the promise of return.
To Rastafarians, it’s Africa—the land of liberation, the antidote to Babylon.
To some Christians, it’s a heavenly city—a future realm of unity and peace.
In the LDS tradition, Zion is seen as a people of spiritual harmony—once prophesied to gather in Missouri, but now embraced as a way of living with purity and unity.
In Ethiopian Orthodoxy, Zion lives in Axum, where the Ark of the Covenant rests.

But to me?

Zion is not a place you enter through permission or priesthood.
It’s the inner stillness that holds when everything else is shouting.
It’s the quiet conviction to live gently, truthfully—
without applause,
without architecture,
without needing anyone to agree.

I don’t distrust belief.
But I am wary of systems that require performance for proximity to God.
That turn sacredness into scarcity.
That teach people to fear their own questions,
or silence parts of themselves just to belong.

Because the God I sense—when I allow space for that idea—
isn’t small enough to fit inside doctrine.
I don’t think They’re moved by pageantry.
I think They care about what you do when no one’s watching.
Who you are when no one’s performing.
How you hold others when there’s no sermon telling you to.

My Zion isn’t in scripture.
It’s in instinct.
It’s in integrity.
It’s in the way I live when nothing is promised in return.

And if there is something Divine,
I trust it finds me there—
not in obedience,
but in the quiet, steady pull of a heart that still chooses love.

If I Enter Faith

I didn’t grow up with pews or sacred texts handed down like rules.
Faith wasn’t woven into my days.

And yet—
I’ve always searched for something deeper.
Something that doesn’t speak in fear, but in truth.

Now, I find myself circling back to the idea of faith.
Not because I’m lost—
but because I’m curious about what it means to be found.
Not by doctrine.
But by something real.
Not imposed.
Not manipulated.
Not wrapped in shame.

If I step toward belief,
it will be with my eyes wide open.
With the full weight of my discernment.
With a mind that refuses to be numbed,
and a spirit that refuses to be bought.

I will not be told who I am.
Not by sermons.
Not by scripture interpreted to control.

I will ask where power flows.
I will ask who benefits.
I will ask who is silenced.

And I will walk away from any system that demands I shrink in order to belong.

If I choose faith,
it will be the kind that holds doubt in one hand and reverence in the other.
That doesn’t fear the dark—because it trusts light to return.
That welcomes the seeker, the questioner, the unpolished.

My version of holiness won’t be loud.
It won’t be proven by roles, rituals, or recognition.
It will be:

The way I treat people who can’t help me.
The way I speak when no one is listening.
The way I hold my truth without demanding others carry it too.

If I enter faith,
it will not be to obey.
It will be to feel.
To heal.
To remember that the Divine cannot be contained by walls, titles, or fear.

I’m not looking for a saviour.
I’m looking for what’s sacred.

And that search—
will always begin with what I already know:

That I am already whole.
That I am already seen.

And if there is a God for me,
He meets me where I stand—unperforming, unafraid, and still questioning.