The prayer of the heart is not garrulous.
It listens in silence, expectant.
If, as so many of the mystics said,
the creation is the primary revelation,
then it is when we listen
to what is
that we hear the voice of God...

‘The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible,’ said Oscar Wilde. And indeed the smallest insect is more worthy of our astonishment than a thousand choirs of angels. The buzzing business of a single cell is more infused with eternity than any disembodied soul. Even as I write, a flurry of activity is going on in every cell of my body. Tiny protein-based ‘motors’ crawl along the strands of DNA, transcribing the code into single-strand RNA molecules, which in turn provide the templates for building the many proteins that are my body’s warp and weft. Other proteins help pack DNA neatly into the nuclei of cells and maintain the tidy chromosome structures. Still other protein-based ‘motors’ are busily at work untying knots that form in DNA as it is unpacked in the nucleus of a cell and copied during cell division. Others are in charge of quality control, checking for accuracy and repairing errors. Working, spinning, ceaselessly weaving, winding, unwinding, patching repairing – each cell like a bustling factory of a thousand workers. A trillion cells in my body humming with the business of life…

To say that it is all chemistry doesn’t demean life; rather, it suggests that the fabric of the world is charged with potentialities of a most spectacular sort…

Many of us seem to believe that anything we can understand cannot be worth much, and therefore – most especially – we resist the scientific understanding of self. But the ability to know is the measure of our human uniqueness, the thing that distinguishes us from the other animals. Understanding the machinery of the spirit does not mean that we will ever encompass with our science the rich detail of an individual human life, or the infinitude of ways by which a human brain interacts with the world. Science is a map of the world; it is not the world itself. Nature loves to hide, said Heraclitus, those thousands of years ago. He also said, ‘You could not discover the limits of soul, not even if you traveled down every road. Such is the depth of its form.’

— Chet Raymo, When God is Gone, Everything is Holy; The Making of a Religious Naturalist