The House We Built

We live in an age where freedom is abundant. We can choose how we speak, what we believe, who we become. Technology has broken down barriers. Societies have relaxed their norms. Institutions no longer dictate how we must live. In theory, it should feel like a golden era.

Yet a strange emptiness shadows the air. Younger generations, especially those who grew up entirely within the culture of openness and self-expression, often feel not liberated, but burdened. They were promised that with enough choices, with enough autonomy, happiness would follow. But the opposite seems to have taken hold. Anxiety, alienation, and a gnawing sense of unreality have settled in.

Many are beginning to suspect that what we celebrated as progress may have also come with unseen costs. They are not rejecting freedom itself, but asking what it’s for. And behind that question is a deeper one still: What does it mean to live a life that matters?

Postmodernism and the End of the Grand Stories

For much of the twentieth century, Western societies were gradually pulling apart the moral and cultural frameworks that had guided them for centuries. The movement called postmodernism gave this trend a philosophical name. It questioned everything; truth, history, authority, morality. It taught us to see every value as constructed, every tradition as a mask for power.

This was not done maliciously. It came from a desire to free people from oppressive systems, to widen the space in which individuals could breathe. And to a certain extent, it worked. People felt more seen. Marginalized voices were amplified. Artistic and intellectual creativity flourished in ways that previous generations could scarcely imagine.

But what remained after the great deconstruction? When every grand story was taken apart, what was left to live for? When every claim to truth was met with suspicion, how could we still believe in anything at all? Slowly, a new kind of exhaustion set in. It wasn’t political or intellectual; it was spiritual. The body of modern culture still moved, but the soul had quietly slipped away.

The Burden of the Self

One of the strange consequences of modern freedom is that it places the entire weight of life on the individual. In the absence of shared truths or inherited identities, we are expected to define ourselves from scratch. We choose who we are. We brand ourselves. We curate our own meaning. Every decision becomes a statement about our essence.

At first, this seems empowering. But it turns quickly into pressure. If I must invent my own identity, then I must constantly perform it. If my worth depends on my unique expression, then I am never allowed to rest. I must remain visible. I must keep choosing. I must constantly explain myself to the world.

Many young people now feel this burden without knowing how to name it. They grow up being told they can be anything, but are given no compass to say what is good, or true, or beautiful. They are surrounded by endless voices, yet starved for guidance. The pressure to be original leaves them longing to belong. In the age of total freedom, many feel most trapped.

Solomon’s Voice Across Time

In the Bible, the book of Ecclesiastes opens with a shocking cry: “Meaningless, meaningless, everything is meaningless.” These words come from Solomon, who was said to be the wisest and wealthiest king of his time. He had access to every kind of experience, pleasure, power, knowledge, beauty, and found it all lacking.

His words ring strangely familiar now. Not because our lives mirror his exactly, but because his condition, having everything, yet feeling empty, has become a shared mood. We are surrounded by more comfort, information, and entertainment than any generation before us. And yet, beneath it all, something feels hollow.

Solomon’s wisdom was not just intellectual. It was existential. He reached the top and found the view uninspiring. His voice is a reminder that the human soul is not satisfied by novelty, or wealth, or even knowledge alone. It longs for something deeper. And in that longing, today’s generation seems to recognize itself.

When Freedom Fails to Satisfy

Secularism was supposed to liberate. It unshackled people from religious dogma, allowed belief to become a personal matter, and gave space for diversity. For many, especially in the twentieth century, it was experienced as a great release. Societies grew more tolerant. Rights expanded. Old taboos disappeared.

But as the decades passed, the emptiness that came with secularization began to show. Not all at once, but slowly. A general feeling of groundlessness took hold. As people stepped away from religion, they did not always find something to replace it. Science offered explanations, but not meaning. Politics gave causes, but not peace. The market offered goods, but not good.

Today, we see a generation coming of age in this secular order, and beginning to question it. They were born into a world where God was no longer needed. Yet many now feel His absence more acutely than their parents ever did. The loss is not just theological; it is personal. It is felt in the loneliness of social media, in the exhaustion of constant self-expression, in the quiet yearning for something stable and sacred.

The Children of the New Apartment

A useful metaphor might be the housing we build. Previous generations constructed sleek, modern apartments; open, efficient, and free of the clutter of tradition. These were the structures of a liberated society. They were praised for their openness and minimalism, just like the new cultural norms.

But the children who grew up in these homes began to notice something was missing. The walls were clean, but cold. The spaces were open, but impersonal. There were no heirlooms, no family altars, no stories in the walls. And so, they began to ask questions their parents had long forgotten. What is this space for? Where are we going? Who are we, really?

It is not that modern life has failed entirely. But it has succeeded in a narrow way. It gave us more room but left us with no roots. It gave us voice but not wisdom. And now, those raised in its structures are wondering if something essential was left behind.

The Quiet Turn to Tradition

It would be easy to assume that the modern world has moved past religion entirely. And in some ways, institutional religion has indeed declined. Fewer people attend services. Fewer identify with a specific faith. But this is not the whole story.

There is a quiet movement among young people; a return, not always to faith in the doctrinal sense, but to tradition, ritual, and rootedness. Some are drawn to Orthodox liturgy, Catholic sacraments, or Islamic prayers. Others turn to ancient philosophies or local spiritual practices. What they seek is not just belief, but belonging. Not just morality, but meaning.

This movement is not loud. It does not always show up in surveys. But it is real. It is seen in the sudden popularity of monastic retreats, in online communities discussing theology, in the rising interest in sacred texts and structured practices. People are not rejecting freedom, but looking for something to hold onto in the midst of it.

Longing for a Sacred Order

What unites these quiet seekers is a longing for order, not control, but coherence. A way to live that does not have to be invented every morning. A story that stretches beyond the self. A sense that life is not just a series of choices, but a gift with purpose.

This is not a call to roll back modern progress. It is not about returning to some imagined golden age. It is a recognition that progress alone is not enough. That without a sense of what is sacred, we drift. That a society without worship will always find something else to idolize; whether it is the self, the state, or success.

Perhaps what we are seeing now is not regression, but correction. A quiet instinct that the soul needs more than novelty. That we are not just thinking machines or economic units, but creatures of wonder, made for meaning.

The Beginning of Wisdom

Solomon’s final words in Ecclesiastes are often overlooked: “Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man.” To modern ears, this may sound restrictive. But to a generation weighed down by choice, it may feel like relief.

To fear God, in this sense, is not to cower but to recognize. To acknowledge that there is something higher than the self, something not made in our image. And in that recognition lies peace, because it means we do not have to be everything. We do not have to invent meaning from scratch. We can receive it. We can rest in it.

Maybe that is what this generation is learning. That freedom is good, but meaning is better. That choice is powerful, but truth is necessary. And that sometimes, the oldest words speak most clearly.

Image by yyouhz