Shun toxic mix of religion, politics

I am getting increasingly afraid of what is generally being perceived as religion. Whenever there is a religious festival, be it Eid or Ram Navami, I become terribly nervous. I begin to fear that this festive moment might be turned into its opposite with communal violence, hate speech, cleverly designed political engineering and stimulation of toxic/militant identities. Likewise, I fear whenever some politicians remind us that ‘our religion is in danger’, and it must be protected from our ‘enemies’.

In fact, I fear that what we perceive as religion, far from broadening our horizons and making us kind and compassionate, might spread hatred, division and violence. Am I then anti-religion? Or, don’t I have any religiosity of life? I assume that there are many who are asking these questions. Let us, therefore, go deeper.

To begin with, it is important to accept the fact that, for most of us, the way we practise religion is essentially an imitative group behaviour. Because of the ‘accident’ of birth in a particular community, most of us are socialised in a way that we are conditioned to think and act like Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians, Jains, Buddhists, etc.

We hardly choose our religion. The acceptance of this conditioning as something ‘natural’ leads us to imitate what other members of our religious community do. We follow the diktats of priestcraft almost blindly; we quote the scriptures mechanically; we become ritualistic; and we think that ours is the only way.

This conditioning has two dangers. First, it is inherently divisive and violent. I am a ‘Hindu’; you are a ‘Muslim’; and hence, our paths can never meet! Second, we tend to surrender our own quest, or our own creative agency. We tend to accept — almost blindly and mechanically — what our community members regard as ‘normal’. In a way, we are compelled to follow the same rituals, quote the same scriptures and visit the same ‘holy’ sites!

Well, religion as some sort of imitative mass behaviour gives us a sense of psychic security — the pleasure of a “we feeling”. However, it also creates the ground for communal violence: the hatred towards the ‘other’.

It is, therefore, not surprising that the mass sentiment associated with this sort of religion can easily be used and manipulated for what we are witnessing in our times —the politics of hyper-nationalism and religious fundamentalism. If we think deeply, we realise that there is no deeper quest in this sort of heavily politicised religion; there is no peace or warmth. Instead, this sort of religion asks us to be perpetually angry, find our ‘enemies’ everywhere and erect huge walls of separation.

Isn’t it sad that in the land of Buddha, Kabir and Guru Nanak, we are witnessing the ugly manifestation of this sort of politicised and toxic religion? While a group of politicians promotes it, there are self-proclaimed babas and gurus who legitimise it. And this sort of unholy alliance between religion and politics creates an environment conducive to the growth of potentially authoritarian or fascist personalities.

We tend to believe that kindness or cross-religious conversation is a sort of weakness; and it is only a hyper-masculine or authoritarian leader who can ‘protect’ the ‘purity’ of our religion, and save us from the ‘enemies’ we have constructed.

It is equally important to realise that this discomfort with what is being perceived or practised as religion in our times does not mean that our existence has to be merely a dry, technical or mathematical enterprise. Yes, there is mystery; there is wonder; there is uncertainty; and there is a longing for something that transcends our embodied existence.

Isn’t it a matter of wonder that a tiny blue flower blooms in silence, or the sun’s rays illumine the amazingly beautiful Himalayan peak? Possibly, our religiosity is about this poetic wonder — this realisation that we find ourselves amid this beauty. Possibly, with this wonder and gratitude, a poet like Walt Whitman wrote: “To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle.”

Or, think of what we, irrespective of our social/economic position, experience every day — the transitory nature of everything. There is sunrise, and there is sunset. There is youthfulness, and there is ageing. There is life, and there is death. Nothing remains the same forever. If we truly realise and internalise it, how is it possible to retain our egotistic pride?

Possibly, the realisation of impermanence leads to the lightness of being. This is humility or humbleness. In a way, our existence is teaching us that the religiosity of life is about wonder, mystery, gratitude, humility, love and compassion. And from this realisation, I assume, emanates our finest prayers: the prayers that inspire us to overcome the trap of the egotistic pride, acknowledge that not everything is under our control, and we are not the masters of the universe.

Call it whatever you like — poetic, divine or spiritual. The fact is that this sort of experiential religiosity is refreshingly free from the diktats of priestcraft, or the boundaries of organised religions. One need not be a ‘Hindu’ or a ‘Muslim’ to experience it. One just needs to decondition one’s mind and look at the universe with openness.

As a teacher/educator, I have always felt that we need to initiate a meaningful conversation with young minds so that they can cultivate their critical faculty, see through the politics of organised religions as well as soulless scientism, and experience the rhythm of life and death with love, humility and gratitude.

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