Nature, and by extension the human body, is mediocre and deserving of scorn. It is not the product of supernatural design, but rather probability, and therefore merits no intrinsic reverence or devotion.
The schism between ‘natural’ and ‘synthetic’ is artifice. Whether made by the hands of humankind or other beings/forces, all matter is formed of the same fragmentary constituents of our Cosmos.
As a species, humans have developed an impulse to find meaning out of seeming disorder, and from this impulse is born our search for purpose and the transcendental. Such an impulse can be destructive as much as it is powerful, yet it must be cultivated in the search for our own apotheosis.
It is only through the advancement of techne that apotheosis can be attained. For, what is technology but an attempt to ameliorate insufficiency?
The quest for apotheosis merits abhorrence for the ordinary and an aversion to convention. Rather, our deliverance lies in the singular, the aberration, the improbable. Uniformity breeds mundanity, the perdition from which we seek salvation.
Transcendence must be sought in every aspect of our existence—the material, the spiritual, the cerebral, and the emotional—and that which is revered as sacred, sublime and worthy of devotion must abjure a sense of familiarity. Ours is an aesthetic devoted to the exceptional, the irrational, the preposterous.