What is sacred? Is it the image in the temple, the symbol, the word? Where does sacredness lie? In that tree, or in that woman carrying a heavy load? You invest sacredness in things you consider holy, worthwhile, meaningful, but what value has the image, carved by the hand or by the mind? That woman, that tree, that bird, the living things, seem to have but a passing importance for you. You divide life into that which is sacred and that which is not, that which is immoral and that which is moral. This division begets misery and violence. Either everything is sacred, or nothing is sacred. Either what you say, your words, your thoughts, your chants are serious, or they are there to beguile the mind into some kind of enchantment, which becomes illusion, and therefore not serious at all. There is something sacred, but it is not in the word, not in the statue or the image that thought has built.

From The Only Revolution

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