Religion is a strange machine. A beautiful, ancient machine that hums like cathedral bells and smells faintly of incense… until you notice the coin slot bolted onto the side.

The place was stunning—undeniably so. Stone and moss and statues carved with the patience of people who believed eternity was a reasonable deadline. Gardens groomed like a royal estate. Trees standing guard like quiet monks who’d taken a vow of silence centuries ago and forgot why.

And the people? Kind. Warm. Genuinely welcoming. No pitchforks. No sermons fired from cannons. Just smiles and quiet reverence and the kind of calm that makes you lower your voice without being told.

Then the donation kiosks appeared.

Not one. Not two. A whole constellation of polite little money vacuums scattered across the landscape like modern shrines to the Almighty Dollar. There was a donation well—an actual well for your spare change, as if God himself had taken up plumbing. The garden required an eleven-dollar tribute at the gate. Holy water came in convenient travel-size bottles for three bucks a pop. Blessings, apparently, now available in bulk pricing.

And of course, the gift shop. You cannot escape the gift shop. You enter through the gift shop. You exit through the gift shop. You exist within the gravitational pull of the gift shop. Every saint imaginable staring back from mugs, magnets, statues, rosaries, lunchboxes. Jesus in every pose, Mary in every mood. Faith packaged neatly between keychains and snack bars.

They know their audience. They cater to them with ruthless efficiency. It’s impressive in the same way a casino buffet is impressive—an industrial-grade operation fueled by devotion and Visa cards.

And that’s when the spell cracked.

Because the quiet reverence I felt in the trees and stone suddenly had a price tag dangling from it like a clearance sticker on salvation. The sacred started to feel… retail. The mystery replaced by merchandising. Eternity brought to you by the gift shop near the exit.

No judgment. These people found something that works for them. A community. A tradition. A place to gather and feel close to whatever they believe waits beyond the clouds.

But me? I’ll take the forests. The mountains. The cold wind and the silent trees that don’t pass a collection plate. My gods don’t sell souvenirs. They just hand you the wilderness and dare you to make sense of it.