There is something quietly tragic about watching a person become so devoted to religion that, somewhere along the way, they appear to lose sight of God.
Not God as a name. Not God as a membership card. Not God as the divine CEO of whichever organisation happens to occupy the nicest building in town. I mean God as compassion. Mercy. Humility. Kindness. Forgiveness. Service. Love. Those rather inconvenient things that nearly every great spiritual tradition seems to insist upon.
We have become astonishingly good at studying the road signs while forgetting to travel anywhere.
People can quote chapter, verse, sutra, surah, shloka, teaching and commentary with extraordinary precision. They know which word was translated incorrectly in 1647, what a particular prophet meant in paragraph three, and why somebody else's interpretation is, naturally, completely wrong.
Ask them to forgive someone, however, and suddenly further theological research is required. Ask them to sit beside a lonely person.
To feed someone hungry. To comfort someone frightened. To forgive an enemy. To help someone who cannot possibly repay them. And occasionally the spiritual Wi-Fi seems to go down.
There is a strange arrogance that can creep into religious devotion when we become more fascinated with our path to God than with God. The path becomes the destination. The scripture becomes the trophy. The ritual becomes the identity. And eventually we begin talking considerably more about our religion than about the values our religion was supposed to teach us.
This is not about Christianity. Or Islam. Or Hinduism. Or Buddhism. Or Judaism. Or Sikhism. Or any other faith.
Human beings have demonstrated a remarkable capacity to take almost any beautiful spiritual teaching and turn it into a competitive sport.
"My Messiah. My Prophet. My Saint. My scripture. My tradition. My truth. My God." !!!
Apparently the Creator of an unimaginably vast universe is terribly concerned about which team scarf we are wearing. And perhaps nowhere does this become more visible than when another human being is suffering. Someone comes to us broken.
Their marriage has collapsed. They have lost their job. They are grieving. They are frightened. They are lonely. They may simply be trying to survive another day.
What they desperately need is a chair, a cup of tea, a listening ear and perhaps someone quietly saying: "I'm here."
Instead, occasionally, they receive a religious brochure. "You should come to my church. You need to read this scripture. You must accept this teaching.You should follow this path."
Which is rather like discovering someone drowning and, instead of throwing them a lifebuoy, handing them a swimming-pool membership application. Perhaps the first duty of a spiritual person is not to convert the suffering human being. Perhaps it is simply to love them. Feed them first. Sit with them first. Listen first. Hold their hand first. Help them stand again. There will be plenty of time later for theology.
The great spiritual teachers did not appear particularly obsessed with building personal brands. Jesus washed feet. The Buddha taught compassion and freedom from attachment. Guru Nanak spoke of equality and service. The Prophet Muhammad emphasised charity, mercy and care for those in need.
Hindu traditions repeatedly speak of selfless action, compassion and recognising the divine beyond the ego. Different roads. Different languages. Different histories. Yet remarkably similar invitations to become a better human being.
And that, perhaps, is where religion becomes uncomfortable. Because religion is easy when it asks us to attend something. It becomes considerably more difficult when it asks us to become something. Lighting a candle is easier than forgiving someone. Reciting a prayer is easier than admitting we were wrong. Fasting is easier than controlling our arrogance. Visiting a holy place is easier than visiting a lonely neighbour. Quoting a scripture is considerably easier than living one.
And perhaps that is why we sometimes prefer religion to spirituality. Religion can give us things to do. Spirituality asks us who we are becoming.
There is a remark commonly attributed to Mahatma Gandhi along the lines of admiring Christ while being disappointed by Christians who did not resemble his teachings. Whether Gandhi said those exact words in precisely that form is debated. But the sentiment is worth considering — and applying equally to every tradition.
Imagine someone saying:
"I love the Buddha, but Buddhists made me uncomfortable."
"I admire Krishna's teachings, but Hindus pushed me away."
"I admire the Prophet's compassion, but Muslims made me feel unwelcome."
"I love Christ's message, but Christians made me feel judged."
If someone walks away from our faith feeling smaller, rejected, frightened or inferior, perhaps we should resist immediately blaming their lack of spirituality. Perhaps, occasionally, we were simply poor advertisements. Because the most convincing argument for any faith has never been a theological debate.
It is a human being whose life quietly reflects what they claim to believe. Someone generous when nobody is watching. Someone kind to people who cannot advance their career. Someone who sits beside the unpopular person. Someone who forgives without broadcasting it. Someone who helps without asking which God the recipient prays to. Someone whose spirituality makes them less arrogant, not more certain of their superiority.
Perhaps heaven is not particularly impressed by how accurately we memorised the directions. Perhaps the question is whether we actually walked the road.
And maybe the saddest irony of all is this: We can spend an entire lifetime searching scriptures for God...while God keeps appearing in the hungry man, the frightened woman, the lonely neighbour, the desperate stranger and the person asking us for help.
And we keep walking past them. Because we're late for prayers.
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