The general assumption is that while religion emphasizes ‘unquestioning’ faith, science is based on asking questions. However, the reality is that questioning is fundamental to both. In fact, questions came first, and religion followed. The famous line from Thomas McEvilley’s Shape of Ancient Thought: Comparative Studies in Greek and Indian Philosophies summarizes this beautifully:
Fish gotta swim
Bird gotta fly
Man gotta sit and say
Why why why1
Almost every major Hindu scripture is full of questions and answers. The famous Nasadiya Sukta from the Rig Veda (X.129) is one example. This hymn raises several questions about creation, and the last two stanzas are particularly worth quoting:
Who really knows? And who can say?
Whence did it all come? And how did creation happen?
The gods themselves are later than creation,
So who knows truly whence this great creation sprang?
Who knows whence this creation had its origin?
He, whether He fashioned it or whether he did not,
He, who surveys it all from the highest heaven,
He knows—or maybe even He does not know.
In the Samhita portion of the Veda, many questions are raised about the correct performance of Yajna (ritual sacrifice).
Upanishads:
The Upanishads, which form a central part of Hindu philosophy, are fundamentally structured around questions and answers. For instance, the Kena Upanishad opens with a profound inquiry: “By whom commanded and directed does the mind go toward its object?” (Kena Upanishad 1.1). The word Kena itself means “by whom?” Similarly, the very title of the Prashna Upanishad (Prashna meaning “question”) highlights its format — an Upanishad built entirely around a series of questions.
In general, questions related to life or faith were not asked openly in public. This was because not everyone was ready—either to understand the depth of the question or to grasp the subtlety of the answer. Even when such questions were asked, the answers were often given in private, as we see in the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad about the dialogue between Arthabhaga and Yajnavalkiya [3.2.1]
There is also a gentle warning in the tradition—not to ask too many questions at once. This is not meant to discourage genuine curiosity, but to remind us that we should not bite off more than we can chew. Understanding takes time, and wisdom unfolds gradually.
This idea is vividly illustrated in the story of Yājñavalkya and Gārgī. When Gārgī begins to press further with her probing questions, Yājñavalkya warns her that if she asks more, her head might shatter [Brihadaranyaka Upanishad 3.6.6.]. The warning is symbolic—it means that before asking deeper questions, one must fully digest the answers already given.
At the same time, for many questions silence alone would be the answer—both from God, Scripture, human and even science.
These passages (Br.Up.IV.5.15; III.9.26=IV.4.22 and IV.5.15; III.8.8; IV.4.19; Chaan.Up.VII.24.1; Sv.Up.VI.19; Katha Up.IV.10-11) emphasize that it is impossible to describe what brahman is and that we can only say what it is not. Sankaracarya on V.S.III.2.17 refers to the dialogue of Baaskali and Baadhva declared the characteristic of brahman by his silence. Baaskali said, `Sir, tell me about brahma’; then Baadhva remained silent; when Baaskali asked a second and a third time Baadhva replied `we have been telling you indeed; but you don’t understand; this self is still (without any activity)’. J. Royce in `The world and the individual’ vol.I.p.148 is just like this episode of Baaskali and Baadhva “Believe not those prattlers’ says one often quoted mystical work `who boast that they know God.’ Who knows Him is silent”….2
Epic
Both the Mahabharata and Ramayana are full of questions. In the Anushasana Parvana of the Mahabharata, Bhishma answers many of Yudhishthira’s questions about the duties of a king. The Bhagavad Gita itself is a book of questions and answers.
Muktiveda
As everyone is already familiar with the Muktiveda, I won’t quote extensively from it here—what was shared in previous messages should suffice. But I want to highlight two key incidents.
When Pilate asked Muktinath, “What is truth?” (John 18:38), there was no reply. The silence is striking. Muktinath, who had earlier declared, “I am the truth,” (John 14:6) now offers no explanation, no defense, and no definition. Unlike Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita, who engaged in a deep philosophical dialogue with Arjuna, Muktinath chose not to respond to Pilate at all.
The contrast is profound: Arjuna asked the right question at the wrong time and place—on a battlefield—but with a heart ready to listen. Pilate, on the other hand, asked the wrong question to the right person, at the right time—but without any real intention of hearing the answer. His question may not have been inquiry, but irony—or even mockery. Truth stood before him, and he turned away.
When His disciples asked Him, “Lord, will you at this time restore the kingdom to Israel?” (Acts 1:6), Muktinath replied, “It is not for you to know the times or seasons that the Father has fixed by His own authority” (Acts 1:7).
This doesn’t imply that He was unaware or merely subordinate to the Father. Rather, His response gently redirected their expectations: You go and preach, and through that, you will come to understand what My kingdom truly is. It was not about restoring a political kingdom to Israel, as they had assumed, but about ushering in the Kingdom of God on earth—a kingdom they would soon witness expanding beyond the boundaries of Israel, as non-Jews were welcomed into it. Ironically, they understood less while living with Him and more after He had left. His departure became an invitation: to learn through obedience, experience, and the unfolding of His promise.
My experience:
In my own life, I’ve often asked questions—not to discover the answers, but already knowing them. Often, we don’t get answers—not because they don’t exist, but because we’re not truly asking anything new. We’re merely rephrasing old questions asked by many before us. Back in 1992, I wrote Secular Song 5 reflecting on this: in life, questions often recur, and the answers we seek seem elusive—until the questions themselves return to us as the answers. When the question becomes the answer, what more is needed? For a satirical take on this theme, see Secular Song 28. It’s worth recalling what philosopher J. Krishnamurti observed: true questions must be one’s own, not rooted in the search for confirmation or accumulation of knowledge.3 In another song, Secular Song 575, I teasingly reflect on how, at the end of all our life’s calculations—adding, subtracting, multiplying, and dividing—the result often turns out to be the same: Zero. It’s worth reading here, as it echoes my response to the futility of asking questions merely to arrive at answers.
Secular Song 575 – Life’s Arithmetic
After adding, subtracting,/ Multiplying and dividing,/ After living life that way,/ No one told me/ What answer/ They got in the end.–1
I tried adding,/ Then subtracting./ I multiplied,/ Then divided./ When I saw/ The result I got,/ My head spun—/ I stood confused.–2
As I sat wondering,/ Saying I couldn’t/ Understand/ This life’s arithmetic,/ Someone who had lived/ Came to me and said,/ “I know the answer.”–3
“You must subtract/ Before or while adding./You must divide/ Before or while multiplying./ You have to/Do this life’s arithmetic/In a totally/Different way.”-4
After they said this,/ I tried doing/ Exactly the same./ When I saw/The result I got,/I went back/And asked them again:–5
“Other than/This answer/No other/Will ever come./Even God/Can’t change/The result/That already came.”–6
After he said that,/I realized—/There’s no use/In asking for the answer./Unless each person/Does the math themselves,/There’s no other way
To truly know it.–7
When someone read this song in Tamil, they asked, “How can one add while subtracting, or divide while multiplying?” The Tamil phrasing is a bit different from the English version, but I answered the riddle this way: income and expenditure are like adding and subtracting; earning and saving are like multiplying and dividing.
As for the final result, I said, “It’s zero.” But even zero can be changed—by placing another number either to its right or to its left. If you place it on the right, you belong to the Right wing; if on the left, to the Left wing.
Meaningless question
The same can be said of many major religious scriptures. Although we don’t need to go into specific references, it’s clear that questions are central to religious inquiry. The key difference between religion and science is that, while no question in science is considered meaningless, in religion, there is a place for meaningless questions, as one would never receive answer for such questions. In the Tamil film Thiruvilayadal, there’s a dialogue between Tharumi and Lord Shiva where Tharumi asks, “What should not be asked?” and Shiva answers, “Meaningless questions and answers given to them.”
There’s also a Tamil proverb that sums this up: Vadatuhukku marundu irukku; yedirvaadathukku marundu illa, which means, “There’s a cure for argument, but not for counterarguments made just for the sake of skepticism.” For example, if someone asks, “Who started the first karma?” or “How did sin or the serpent enter God’s good creation?”, there might not be a clear answer.
Faith and Science
Religion acknowledges the limits of reason. Science, by contrast, relentlessly pushes forward; each answer leads to new questions, further research, and often, revisions. Yet science rarely, if ever, provides final answers. A simple example: years ago, studies warned against coffee and tea, but today, when consumed in moderation, they are considered beneficial. Science evolves—and so does religion, though in a different way.
In religion, once a seeker finds an answer that satisfies the soul, that answer becomes a foundation. From this point, one may delve deeper—with faith and commitment—rather than constantly shifting the goalposts by asking unproductive questions. The goal is not to avoid inquiry, but to allow initial insights to anchor the journey, allowing understanding to grow organically over time. Unlike science, which seeks verifiable proof, religious truth often remains elusive—beyond the full grasp of language, thought, or emotion. It must be lived, not merely understood.
This reflection began with the relationship between science and faith. In the end, science quietly stepped aside, and faith remained—not because science failed, but because science is part of life, not the entirety of it. Faith, on the other hand, engages the whole of our existence. When we try to answer life’s deepest questions using only a fragment of life, imbalance is inevitable.
I would put it this way: faith is the foundation, and science is like the blueprint—a plan for constructing the superstructure. The structure may change, be modified, or even torn down to make room for something new, but the foundation remains, guiding us so we don’t get lost in the wilderness of life, unsure of where to go.
So, my philosophy in life is this:
Truth is more important than the event.
Principle is more important than the person.
Who said it matters less than what was said.
When it was said matters less than why it was said.
Since Truth and Principle are always relative to our context, we must choose the event through which we understand Truth, and the person through whom we grasp the Principle—such as an incarnation, an avatara, a particular philosophy (like Advaita), or a personal deity, as many followers do.
I choose the event of Incarnation to understand Truth, and I choose Muktinath to understand the Principle.
And He says, “Walk in my Way to understand both.”
April 25, 2025
Ashram
Notes
1 – Thomas McEvilley, Shape of Ancient Thought: Comparative Studies in Greek and Indian Philosophies, Delhi, Motilal Banarsidass Publishers, 2002.
2 P. V. Kane. History of Dharmasastra, vol. V. part. II. p. 1505
Second revision Extra copy
3 There is another thing I want to stress: all the questions you come out with must be your own questions — then there is meaning in carrying on a dialogue. It has to be your question. So, do you have a question to call your own, a question which nobody else has asked before? ( p.117)….The questioner has to come to an end. It is the questioner that creates the answer; and the questioner comes into being from the answer, otherwise there is no questioner. I am not trying to play with words. You know the answer, and you want a confirmation from me, or you want some kind of light to be thrown on your problem, or you’re curious — if for any of these reasons you want to carry on a dialogue with me, you are just wasting your time;….( p.118)….You are not satisfied with the answers given by others. You come to me — you think I am a realized man. Answers have been given to those questions, but still you put this question. You want confirmation of what you know, but this man says something which does not fit into your framework, so you don’t agree with me. You have to find out the answer to that question. ( p.125)….A question is born out of the answers that you already know. You want to know what my state is and make it part of knowledge, your knowledge, i.e. the tradition; but knowledge must come to an end. How can you understand this simple thing? Your wanting to know only adds momentum to your knowledge. It is not possible to know what this is, because knowledge is still there and is gathering momentum. The continuity of knowledge is all you are interested in.( p.127).—Remembering U.G. Krishnamurti, Compiled from conversations in India and Switzerland, 1973 to 1976 (author name, publisher, year is not mentioned. This is from website I think. As I read in the Computer, the page number is based on the format in the Computer.),
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