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I, Andros, a boy of meager means who grew to be a man of meager means, have always loved both science and what I once called God. I loved my faith — its stories, its comfort, its wisdom. But I also loved the sacred texts of other traditions and found joy in their shared truths. Still, I was troubled by questions none of them could answer. Above all, I could not understand — or feel — the love of the creator I was told to worship.

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My other great passion was discovery. Science filled me with wonder at how vast and intricate the universe truly is. Yet that very understanding raised new questions: 

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• If the universe is infinite, why believe it was made for us?

• If Earth has existed for billions of years, why imagine it was created for humanity alone?

• If social norms change over time, can they really be divine decrees?

• And if we are created in the image of the divine, why should we hide or feel shame for our own nature?

 

Over time I saw that most religions — no matter how beautiful — ask us to stop asking. They replace curiosity with certainty. And too often, they have been used not to free, but to control. My heart was with those left powerless by such systems.

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Then came that night — a summer evening in the Wadi Rum desert of Jordan. I sat on a cliff beneath a sky alive with stars, so clear and vast it silenced every thought. In that silence, something shifted. I saw that the universe does not revolve around us, and that whatever creative force exists does not play favorites.

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For a moment, I felt despair. Then — connection. To humanity. To life. To the miraculous fact that we exist at all, capable of reflection, love, and reason.

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That night I wrote down ten principles — not commandments, but guides — to live in harmony with truth, with nature, and with the mystery that still surrounds us.

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These ten truths are not the end of inquiry; they are its beginning.