Soft Religion: Searching for the Sacred in the Age of the Self

I didn’t go to church growing up. I didn’t go to Sunday school. My parents weren’t religious by any means. We celebrated Pagan holidays like Christmas and Easter with my Mom’s family, and Jewish holidays like Passover and Rosh Hashanah with my Dad’s family. These celebrations were very relaxed, though, and I never really thought about religion too seriously. Until, however, I attended a Christian youth Summer camp a couple of Summers in a row, from ages 9-11 – not because I was religious, but because all my friends at the time were doing it. I had to buy a Bible and participate in Bible studies with my cabin, sing Christian songs with the rest of the camp, and wear a t-shirt over my swimsuit. But still, I didn’t feel religion was a part of my identity and it didn’t follow me back home when the session was over.

Then when I was sixteen, I was diagnosed with epilepsy and a benign tumor in my brainstem. This is around when I entered what my best friend calls my “trad Cath” phase – maybe a little inspired by Friday Night Lights, I started to identify with Christianity more as I was looking for something to help me through my diagnoses and my only real experience with religion was what I had learned at summer camp. This quickly ended when I realized the Catholic Church had a long history of homophobia, among other things. But my search for the sacred didn’t end there.

Over the years I have explored Buddhism, Hinduism, Paganism, and Judaism, even teaching Sunday school at a local temple in Seattle. However, I never strictly adhered to one denomination.

This is the concept of “soft religion” – diffuse, hybrid forms of spirituality that prioritize intuition over doctrine, ritual over rules, and experience over orthodoxy.

Historically, religion has provided not only moral frameworks but also communal belonging and symbolic meaning. As sociologist Zygmunt Bauman argues, traditional institutions once served as “anchor points” in people’s lives — offering stable identity in a rapidly shifting world. As trust in those institutions erodes, many have begun to look inward.

What fills that gap is often a blend of self-help, psychology, mindfulness, and mystical thought. Meditation apps now feature guided visualizations alongside moon cycle updates. Instagram is home to astrologer-influencers with hundreds of thousands of followers. Crystals, tarot, sound baths, breathwork, and ancestral rituals are increasingly integrated into everyday wellness routines.

This eclectic, pick-and-choose model of belief is sometimes referred to as “DIY spirituality,” but the term fails to capture its emotional and cultural weight. “We’re seeing a shift away from institutional authority toward lived experience,” explains Elizabeth Pérez, a professor of religious studies at the University of California, Santa Barbara. “The sacred isn’t gone — It’s just migrating.”

Critics have pointed out that soft religion often blurs uncomfortably with consumerism. Spirituality has become a lucrative industry, from chakra-themed yoga mats to full-moon manifestation journals. The global wellness market — estimated at $5.6 trillion in 2023 — relies heavily on products and services that promise spiritual healing (McKinsey & Company, 2024).

Kathryn Lofton, author of Consuming Religion, argues that modern spirituality frequently mirrors capitalist values. “Even the most anti-institutional forms of belief still rely on market logics,” she writes. “We don’t escape systems — we just internalize them.”

Still, many participants in these practices are not merely consuming — they’re seeking. In a world of ecological collapse, political violence, and digital alienation, soft religion offers tools for ritual, reflection, and reorientation. It offers something in a time when traditional frameworks often feel like nothing.

That being said, soft religion is, in many ways, aestheticized. A quick scroll through TikTok’s “spiritual awakening” corner reveals curated altars, incense smoke wafting across camera lenses, and pastel-hued graphics quoting Rumi and Carl Jung.

But the aesthetic should not be mistaken for shallowness. As anthropologist Victor Turner notes, ritual objects have always been sensory. Sacredness is often communicated through smell, texture, light, and sound — whether in a cathedral or a living room meditation space.

What’s different now is the context. These modern rituals are largely private, loosely networked, and often constructed through online subcultures rather than geographic communities. And unlike traditional religions, which emphasize transcendence and moral discipline, soft religion tends to emphasize presence, healing, and emotional regulation.

The decentralization of belief has opened spiritual exploration to groups historically marginalized by mainstream religion: queer and trans people, women of color, trauma survivors, and those harmed by institutional abuse. Soft religion allows for customization and autonomy — features that traditional religions have long resisted.

However, this flexibility also presents challenges. Without shared doctrines or ethical commitments, spiritual practices risk becoming solipsistic or superficial. Philosopher Charles Taylor warns that modern secularism, though rich in pluralism, can also foster “fragile” meaning systems — personal beliefs that are easily shaken in times of crisis (A Secular Age, 2007).

Moreover, when spirituality becomes a solo journey, questions arise about responsibility and accountability. If everyone is their own priest, what happens to communal care, social justice, or shared moral vision?

Soft religion is not a substitute for institutional religion, but it is a mirror to the desires that traditional systems have failed to meet. It reflects a generation yearning for wonder without rigidity, ritual without exclusion, and sacredness without shame.

Its critics are not wrong to point out its contradictions — its entanglement with consumerism, its occasional shallowness, its individualistic lean. But they often underestimate the emotional intelligence at its core: the desire to connect, to mark transitions, to believe that life is more than just a series of notifications.

As writer Meghan O’Gieblyn puts it, “You can be a secular person and still long for transcendence. You can give up on God and still miss Him.” (Interior States, 2018)

Soft religion doesn’t claim to have answers. But it offers language for questions that still matter. In a time of cultural dislocation, it creates small pockets of reverence — fragile, yes, but real.