Imagine ‘Imagine’

By Herman M. Lagon

Imagine having a soft piano and a few bold lines rattle your worldview. That is what John Lennon’s Imagine did in 1971—and still does. It quietly invites us to dream in just three minutes, not with lullabies, but with questions that unsettle the world as we know it. “Imagine there’s no heaven… it’s easy if you try.” It is not bedtime poetry—more like a wake-up call. For some, this line is poetic. For others, heresy. For most, a nudge to reflect.

What Lennon asked us to imagine is not easy. No heaven? No hell? For a country like the Philippines, where faith and fiesta often share the same calendar, this borders on sacrilege. Yet, beyond the controversial tone, there is a subtle plea—not to erase belief but to rethink how belief is used. Religion, like fire, can warm or destroy. History shows both—the Crusades, terrorism, and colonization. Faith was often the flag waved before the sword struck. Lennon did not deny the divine; he rejected the violence done in its name. In a nation that wears rosaries as car ornaments and elects politicians for their church attendance, it is worth asking whether we live or wear our beliefs.

Then comes the harder ask: “Imagine there’s no countries… nothing to kill or die for.” The Philippines has over 7,700 islands and almost as many boundaries—barangays, provinces, dialects, egos. We fight over land, over votes, over pride. This line stings because it dares us to strip down identity to its core, beyond flags and fences. It is not unpatriotic to imagine a world where nationalism does not lead to war. It is revolutionary. Think of Mindanao, the West Philippine Sea, or even local feuds. Would our need to assert territory soften if we saw each other first as people, not threats?

Lennon follows with a line that has offended pastors and priests alike: “and no religion too.” But again, context matters. Lennon was not launching a war on spirituality. He was pushing back against its weaponization. In a society where people still argue over whether disasters are “acts of God” or punishments for sin, Lennon’s line can be read as a challenge to focus less on doctrine and more on decency. We have enough temples. Maybe what we lack are communities that reflect their values.

“Imagine no possessions… no need for greed or hunger.” Now, that is a line that hits closer to home. In a country where malls rise faster than hospitals and a person’s worth is often measured by their phone model, Lennon’s vision feels painfully utopian. And yet, perhaps that is the point. He invites us to reflect on the madness of a world where some drown in wealth while others beg for rice. He is not asking everyone to be poor; he is asking why we allow hunger to exist when there is enough to go around. That is not socialism. That is sanity.

And then, as if sensing the pushback, Lennon offers a disclaimer: “You may say I’m a dreamer… but I’m not the only one.” He knows he is asking too much. But he also knows that every change started with a dreamer who was mocked before being remembered. Think of Jose Rizal, who dreamed of education as the path to freedom. Or Ninoy Aquino, who imagined a democracy strong enough to withstand dictators. Their visions, like Lennon’s, began with imagining the impossible.

Our culture values community, bayanihan, and utang na loob. These are not far from the song’s appeal for shared humanity. When Lennon says, “I hope someday you’ll join us,” he is not pushing an ideology but extending a hand. The kind you hold when you want to make sense of a broken world. And despite the critiques that the song mirrors communist ideals or rejects Christianity, many of its core values—peace, equity, inclusivity, understanding—are the same ones preached in Sunday homilies and barangay assemblies.

What Lennon offered was not a manual but a mirror. And mirrors are rarely comfortable. They reflect not just our dreams, but our contradictions. He, a wealthy rock star, sang about no possessions. Fair point. But then again, prophets often come flawed. What matters is not his perfection, but the provocation he delivered. In a world where algorithms echo what we already believe, a song that challenges belief is not a threat—it is a gift.

And in a way that aligns with a contemplative tradition known to many educators and community workers—the one that asks us to pause, examine, and act with depth—Lennon’s call to imagine becomes more than artistic. It becomes spiritual. Not religious, but reflective. Not institutional, but deeply human. The kind that makes you look at a hungry child, a jailed activist, or a fellow commuter and wonder, “What if we truly shared this world?”

The real power of “Imagine” is not in its melody or awards but in the silence it breaks. It has been played in funerals, protests, vigils, and Olympic ceremonies. It has survived bans, rewrites, and reinterpretations. And yet, every time it plays, it asks the same thing: What world are we building? If your answer is different from Lennon’s, that is fine. But if it made you think—truly think—then the song did its job.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a “student of and for life” who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.