Denmark is technically and officially still a Christian nation. Lutheranism is written into the constitution. The government has a ministry for the church. Most Danes pay 1% of their earnings directly to fund the State religion. But God is as dead here as anywhere in the Western world. Less than 2% attend church service on a weekly basis. So one way to fill the void is through climate panic and piety.

I mean, these days, you can scarcely stroll past stores in the swankier parts of Copenhagen without being met by an endless parade of ads carrying incantations towards sustainability, conservation, and recycling. It's everywhere.

Hilariously, sometimes this even includes recommending that customers don’t buy the product. I went to a pita place for lunch the other day. The menu had a meat shawarma option, and alongside it was a plea not to order it too often because it’d be better for the planet if you picked the falafel instead.

But the hysteria peaks with the trash situation. It’s now common for garbage rooms across Copenhagen to feature seven or more bins for sorting disposals. Despite trash-sorting robots being able to do this job far better than humans in most cases, you see Danes dutifully sorting and subdividing their waste with a pious obligation worthy of the new climate deity.

Yet it’s not even the sorting that gets me — it’s the washing. You can’t put plastic containers with food residue into the recycling bucket, so you have to rinse them first. This leads to the grotesque daily ritual of washing trash (and wasting water galore in the process!).

Plus, most people in Copenhagen live in small apartments, and all that separated trash has to be stored separately until the daily pilgrimage to the trash room. So it piles up all over the place.

This is exactly what Nietzsche meant by “God is dead” — his warning that we’d need to fill the void with another centering orientation toward the world. And clearly, climatism is stepping up as a suitable alternative for the Danes. It’s got guilt, repentance, and plenty of rituals to spare. Oh, and its heretics too.

Look, I'd like a clean planet as much as the next sentient being. I'm not crying any tears over the fact that gas-powered cars are quickly disappearing from the inner-city of Copenhagen. I love biking! I wish we'd get a move on with nuclear for consistent, green energy. But washing or sorting my trash when a robot could do a better job just to feel like "I'm doing my part"? No.

It’s like those damn paper straws that crumble halfway through your smoothie. The point of it all seems to be self-inflicted, symbolic suffering — solely to remind you of your good standing with the sacred lord of recycling, refuting the plastic devil.

And worse, these small, meaningless acts of pious climate service end up working as catholic indulgences. We buy a good conscience washing trash so we don't have to feel guilty setting new records flying for fun.

I’m not religious, but I’m starting to think it’d be nicer to spend a Sunday morning in the presence of the Almighty than to keep washing trash as pagan replacement therapy.