After reading What About Those Who Have Never Heard? (ed. John Sanders, IVP, 1995), I found myself thinking that a more honest title might be Clashes of Theology. Though the book claims to explore the fate of those outside the Christian faith, what it really showcases is an intense internal debate between Christian theologians: Sanders (Inclusivism), Fackre (Divine Perseverance), and Nash (Restrictivism).
As a Hindu bhakta, I observe these discussions not as a theologian or scholar, but as someone committed to a spiritual path grounded in bhakti and guided by different scriptural foundations. Yet even from that distance—or perhaps because of it—I find these debates both fascinating and deeply limited.
Theology Without the Other
Such theological clashes seem almost inevitable. Scripture—even within a single tradition—rarely speaks with one voice or offers one coherent dogma. Instead, it holds together multiple voices, tensions, and sometimes outright contradictions. So when theologians attempt to build singular, final answers about salvation from such texts, the result is rarely clarity. More often, it becomes a contest of perspectives—each side trying to prove itself less wrong than the others.
That doesn’t mean holding doctrinal views is wrong. But trouble begins when a private conviction is elevated to universal truth and presented as the only faithful interpretation of Scripture. At that point, theology becomes self-defeating—not because of doubt, but because of its refusal to remain open.
This may sound like skepticism—or even cynicism—and to an extent, I accept that. My concern isn’t that Christian theologians debate questions within their own tradition. The problem arises when they speak about people of other faiths without truly engaging those people, their Scriptures, or their understandings of mukti, bhakti, or even Īśvara. What often passes for interreligious theology ends up being a conversation within Christianity about others, not with them.
To be fair, Nash does acknowledge the need to study other religions, writing:
“I also believe we ought to know everything we can about non-Christian religions, including all the features of those religions that make it so difficult in practice for their followers to satisfy Sanders’ own conditions for inclusivist salvation.”
(Response to Sanders Ronald H. Nash, pp. 62–69, 63 in Never Heard….)
But here lies the deeper issue. Christian theology—especially in missionary and apologetic contexts—has too often approached other religions not as REALITIES in their own right, but as RAW material to fit into Christian categories like “natural revelation,” preparatio evangelica, or “anonymous Christians.” Hinduism, with its radically different metaphysical assumptions and theological goals, resists such easy incorporation. However one tries to fit Christian theology into Hinduism, you won’t find a covenant promise or a saviour sent to fulfill it. The central thread of the Muktiveda is God’s covenant with a historical person—Abraham—and its unfolding through a chosen people. That narrative simply has no parallel in the Hindu imagination.
This one point deserves its own response. Unlike the Abrahamic faiths, which are structured around a single covenantal narrative and authoritative Scripture, Hinduism encompasses a vast and pluralistic scriptural landscape. Even Hindus cannot fully agree on what counts as Scripture, much less on what constitutes salvation. While Nash’s point that Hindus would struggle to meet Sanders’ conditions may seem accurate, it still operates on a mistaken assumption: that Hinduism is somehow aspiring toward a Christ it does not know, or that its soteriology can be measured by Christian metrics.
But I’ll leave such theological system-building to the scholars. As a lay bhakta, I return to my own path—and prefer to let each tradition speak in its own voice, not through borrowed categories.
Faith as Bhakti, Not Doctrine
Among everyday devotees—Christian or Hindu—these theological disputes often go unnoticed. Laypeople rarely concern themselves with mapping the boundaries of salvation or who gets into heaven. For them, faith is not a thesis to defend but a living relationship, often expressed in bhakti rather than dogma.
As a Hindu bhakta, I don’t feel anxious about the spiritual destiny of others—and not even mine, to which I’ll return shortly. That’s not apathy, but trust—that each person must return again and again to their First Love for the Divine. From that relationship flows whatever sharing of bhakti is needed. This sharing is not aimed at converting others but simply witnessing what one has received.
Every sampradāya within Hinduism shares insights this way—not to debate, but to inspire. The faithful do not anxiously wonder whether others are “saved”; they focus on whether their own devotion remains honest and alive. That inner return to the Source of Love is more urgent than any external persuasion.
The Indian Context: Missed Encounters
The Church, in its long history, has employed various strategies—conversion, contextualization, dialogue, inculturation. But in India, it encountered a unique kind of resistance: not political, but spiritual—rooted in centuries of lived bhakti, communal memory, and philosophical openness. This wasn’t a battlefield for argument, but a garden of simultaneous truths. And the Church was often unprepared.
Even when interfaith dialogue is attempted today, it rarely leads to meaningful mutual engagement. Hindus who do participate often do so not to learn, but to highlight Christianity’s theological limitations. Christian participants, for their part, seldom go beyond polite listening. True mutual learning remains rare.
In this context, books like What About Those Who Have Never Heard? feel remote to many Hindu bhaktas. A tradition that claims to offer salvation to the world, yet fails to first listen to the world, renders its internal debates irrelevant—if not disconnected entirely.
Theological Entertainment?
When I first encountered the terms Inclusivism, Restrictivism, and Divine Perseverance, I turned to ChatGPT for a summary. It confirmed what I suspected: that even in a faith which claims exclusivity, pluralism is inevitable. Christianity may say “there is only one Way,” but it still offers many interpretations and models of reaching that one Way—ironically echoing Hinduism’s own gradations of mukti (sālokya, sārūpya, sāyujya, etc.).
Here’s a brief summary I received:
- Restrictivism (Exclusivism): Only those with explicit faith in Christ and knowledge of the Gospel are saved.
- Inclusivism: Christ is the only Savior, but sincere non-Christians may be saved through Him.
- Divine Perseverance: God persistently reaches every person—even beyond death—until they make a final, informed decision.
- Universal Opportunity: God ensures all people receive a genuine opportunity to respond to the Gospel.
- Universalism: Ultimately, all will be saved (often seen as heretical).
- Pluralism: No one religion holds exclusive access to truth or salvation.
These are theological frameworks, mostly developed through doctrinal debates—not from engagement with the lived realities of bhaktas outside the Church.
And to all these theological views, perhaps we can add yet another honest category:
“I don’t know.”
As the Lord Himself once said, even such things were not given to Him—“But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father” (Mark 13:32; also Matthew 24:36).
Perhaps this is not uncertainty, but the beginning of trust.
Though this refers specifically to His Second Coming, I believe it also models for us a posture of humility before the mystery of things not revealed.
Thankfully, most ordinary believers—Christian or otherwise—are not shaped by these discussions. Their faith is not a puzzle to be solved but a joy to be lived. Their witness comes not from strategy or apologetics, but from inner transformation and an abiding relationship with the Lord.
A Bhakta’s Mukti: Here and Now
As I said earlier, “As a Hindu bhakta, I don’t feel anxious about the spiritual destiny of others—and not even mine.” Let me explain.
Even from my youth, I was never troubled by questions about heaven or hell. Both felt childish. I didn’t know much about Hindu philosophy back then, though I was deeply immersed in Tamil bhakti literature. But once I became a bhakta of Muktinath, even these questions faded further. Though some of my poems mention the “Further Shore,” I’ve long believed that mukti begins here—in this very life, in this very body.
If there is life beyond death, as most religions affirm, it will be a deeper, fuller continuation of the relationship I already have with the Lord. If I am assured of mukti now—through this living bhakti—why should I worry about what comes after? The Lord will be with me—wherever I am—because He has promised never to leave or forsake me. He who began this work in me is able to complete it.
So when I live with such a view, I do not speculate about others’ destinies. God has revealed nothing of that to me—or to anyone. That is His domain alone. Let us not run ahead of God. Let us do what He asks of us, and refrain from claiming what only He knows.
To this, someone might ask—as a Christian once did:
“If you don’t mind, or even don’t believe in, an afterlife, how would you respond to those verses in Corinthians where Paul emphatically states, ‘If only for this life we have hope in Christ, we are of all people most to be pitied’ (1 Corinthians 15:19)?”
My response would be this:
Does that mean I must live this present life in constant anxiety about the next? Or is Paul saying something deeper—perhaps that without the resurrection, our faith becomes a tragic delusion because it demands sacrifice without vindication?
Indeed, 1 Corinthians 15 is about resurrection, not merely “heaven.” Paul argues that the resurrection of Muktinath is the foundation of our hope—not only for life after death but also for meaning in the life we live now. Without that hope, the suffering, humility, and cross-bearing the Lord calls us to might seem foolish. But because of that hope, every small act of faith, every daily sacrifice, becomes infused with eternal value.
Every faith tradition—except the Śramaṇic paths—envisions some kind of future or heaven, whether temporary or eternal. Yet all these traditions also urge us to live this life well—as preparation, as pilgrimage, as prayer. And so, for me, the call remains clear: to take full responsibility for the life I’m living now, and to entrust the future into God’s hands.
I live each day seeking to enjoy and embody mukti here and now, without pretending to understand all that lies ahead. If even the Son once said that certain things were not revealed to Him (Mark 13:32), then I too can humbly say, “I don’t know.”
But I do know this: In the Lord, this life matters—and because of Him, the next one will too.
Final Word: The Wisdom of Kempis
Let me close with a favorite story from Thomas à Kempis.
When he approached the Lord with anxiety about his own salvation, the Lord replied:
“What you would do if you knew for certain—do it now.”
That, to me, is enough.
Postscript: A Call for Listening, Not Labeling
If Christian theologians wish to reflect on the fate of those outside their fold, they must begin not by debating abstract categories, but by truly listening—not as missionaries, not as analysts, but as fellow seekers. Without such listening, theology risks becoming entertainment—earnest, intelligent, but ultimately irrelevant to the lives of those who already walk with the Lord, even if they don’t bear a Christian label.
Let us listen more. Let us love more. Let us leave judgment to the One who alone is worthy.
Ashram, July 20, 2025
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