Study of classics likewise provides fertile ground for experiencing some of man's most religious tendencies. These are sometimes strange, sometimes elaborate, sometimes stark manifestations. At times we shudder at the ceremonies, so distant in the type and purpose of their observance; other instances arouse in us a sense of wonder at the expressive power classical writers exhibit in language yearning toward the ineffable.
Oedipus at Colonus of Sophocles and Euripides's Bacchae both resonate with divine power. The former embraces a tragic hero's apotheosis, while the latter dominates a mortal's sense of reason with divine inscrutability. And who would fail to mention Aeschylus, whose thunderous sublimity shows us the directness of divine grace across a spectrum of mayhem and retribution?
Mutability, the eternal, suffering, and grace—each of these ideas finds champions in classical Greek and Latin literature. In poets, historians, philosophers—and over a span of more than a 2,500 years—classical literature provides us an evolving picture of how mortal man stands under, at odds, outside, and as part of the divine.
But all of this power and variety hardly means the student of antiquity and its tradition must himself be religious; a man can have a personal, orthodox, or nonexistent relationship with god and still be moved by the past. Not all enthusiasm has holy origins.
This fact is not necessarily a point that study of classics makes, but it certainly makes it. Classics can live outside of canonical orders and still register a person on the ledgers of good, loyal, law-abiding, and generous citizens: ἀγαθός, εὐσεβής, νομομαθής, μεγαλόψυχος. This is often overlooked, especially in the United States, whose classical education movement has grown more intimate with Christian themes. Nothing wrong with this, as it appears to be a direction set by an evolution of pedagogical standards.
But I do hope to lodge an alternative voice: to say that man can be a lover of all things bright without necessarily making a proclamation to an unmoved mover. In the shift and shake of life, none of us has a “greater portion of tomorrow”  than another. We must believe, and whether our belief lives in heaven or in our own thumping mortal hearts, we must find inspiration in the inscrutable.
 Aristotle, Metaphysics XII, 1072a: ἔστι τι ὃ οὐ κινούμενον κινεῖ…
 Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonos, 568: οὐδὲν πλέον μοι σοῦ μέτεστιν ἡμέρας