Part I: Distinguishing Dīkṣā from Baptism

Author’s Note

This reflection is not written to challenge Christians, question Christian belief or practice, or argue against Christian baptism. Christians are free to understand and practise their faith according to their convictions and their reading of Scripture.

My concern is with fellow Hindu bhaktas who follow Bhagavān Muktināth and who have questions about Gurudīkṣā, baptism and the relationship between the two. This is not an invitation to Christians to defend their position or to challenge Christian theology. I simply want to clarify for Hindu bhaktas why Gurudīkṣā should remain Gurudīkṣā and baptism should remain baptism, without making one a functional substitute for the other.

Following Muktināth Without Becoming a Christian

A question has increasingly occupied me: if I follow Muktināth as my chosen Lord and Guru, does that mean that I must also become a Christian in the sociological, institutional or cultural sense?

For me, the answer is no.

This is not a rejection of Christianity. It is a description of my own lived journey. Following Muktināth has not required me to abandon the Hindu social and cultural world in which I have lived. I have therefore tried to live my bhakti in a way that is natural to that world.

This conviction lies behind the question of Gurudīkṣā.

The Question of “Biblical” Practice

I have never been comfortable with the idea that everything in Hindu life must first be “contextualised” in the Bible in order to become acceptable to a Christian understanding. Nor do I want to “redeem” everything in Hinduism by interpreting it as an anticipation of Christianity. That approach can place Christianity in the position of the “crown” of Hinduism, with Hindu cultural, social and religious forms valued mainly insofar as they can be accommodated within a Christian theological framework. This tendency is associated with certain approaches to fulfilment theology.

My own approach is different. I have sometimes used the word “incarnational” for it, although I am not claiming that this is a technically precise theological term. Muktināth is encountered within the Hindu world, not outside it. I am trying to understand what it means to follow Him within that world.

Hindu traditions have historically accommodated very different forms of religious life. Śramaṇic traditions developed alongside Vedic traditions, and even the Cārvāka position found a place within the wider history of Hindu thought. I therefore find the principle “Orthodox in the central, flexible in the peripheral, and charitable to all” helpful.

There is also a prior question about the word “biblical” itself. Scripture does not interpret itself without human interpretation. I have elsewhere used the provocative expression Biblically Unbiblical to draw attention to this problem. Scripture has authority for Christians and for the Church, but that does not automatically mean that every element of later Christian ecclesial practice must be reproduced in a Hindu context in the name of being “biblical”.

A Christian may reasonably regard a Hindu practice as unbiblical according to his or her theological convictions. But that does not automatically give the Christian the right to redefine a Hindu practice so that it performs the function required by a Christian institution.

This brings us to the question of contextualisation.

Contextualisation and the Functional Substitute

Contextualisation, in Christian mission and theology, generally concerns expressing the Christian message or practice in culturally understandable forms. There is nothing objectionable about explaining baptism to a Hindu by using concepts familiar to Hindus. If I say that baptism is in some respects comparable to Gurudīkṣā, I am making a comparison that may help someone understand the Christian practice.

But something different happens when we say:

“This Hindu follower of Christ will not receive baptism. Therefore Gurudīkṣā should take the place of baptism.”

That is no longer merely comparison. It is functional substitution.

If a Hindu bhakta says, “I wish to enter into a Guru–śiṣya relationship with Muktināth,” that is one matter. But saying, “Since you cannot or do not want to receive baptism, you must therefore take Gurudīkṣā instead,” begins from the absence of baptism rather than from the meaning of Gurudīkṣā.

The reason for receiving Gurudīkṣā should be the person’s own conviction about Gurudīkṣā. The absence of baptism should not create an obligation to receive it.

Saṃskāra, Dīkṣā and Sacrament

The difficulty becomes clearer when we distinguish some of the terms involved.

The English word “sacrament” is sometimes used rather freely for Hindu practices. Rajbali Pandey’s Hindu Saṃskāras: Socio-Religious Study of the Hindu Sacraments surveys rites extending from conception and birth through education, marriage and death, demonstrating the broad range of practices included under saṃskāra.¹ Axel Michaels similarly treats saṃskāra as a complex Hindu life-cycle ritual, including prenatal, birth, childhood, initiation, marriage, old age, death and ancestor rites, situated within changing social contexts.² Mary McGee’s discussion of saṃskāra in The Hindu World also considers these rites in relation to social status and identity.³

Such comparisons can be useful, but they should not make the categories identical.

Christian sacrament belongs to a particular theological and ecclesial structure. Hindu saṃskāra belongs to the varied Hindu ritual world. Dīkṣā, meanwhile, has its own range of meanings within Hindu traditions, including initiation, consecration, commitment and spiritual discipline. Jan Gonda’s study demonstrates how varied the term has been in Indian religious history.⁴

I am using Gurudīkṣā in a narrower sense: the entering into a Guru–śiṣya relationship, following the Guru, receiving teaching and discipline, and making a personal and reciprocal commitment within a spiritual tradition.

Saṃskāra and dīkṣā can overlap in some circumstances, but they are not interchangeable. Saṃskāras are often embedded in family, social and ritual life and can mark stages or transitions in a person’s place within a community. Klaus Klostermaier describes the saṃskāras in terms of membership in the socio-religious community, while Gavin Flood connects rites of passage with identity and belonging.⁵ Michaels likewise notes that such rites are not merely private events but can constitute and reaffirm socio-religious relationships and groups.⁶

Upanayana and marriage illustrate this broader social dimension.

Dīkṣā, by contrast, is more specifically concerned with entering a spiritual discipline and a Guru–disciple relationship. The disciple consciously enters into the relationship, and the Guru accepts and initiates the disciple. There is therefore a personal and reciprocal element that should not be reduced to a general social rite.

This was one reason I preferred the expression Gurudīkṣā when the question of “Jal-saṃskāra” arose for Hindu bhaktas consciously following Muktināth. But I would not call it “Jal-dīkṣā”. Water is simply a material used in a ceremony; water is not the Guru and does not establish a personal relationship with the disciple. The essential element is the Guru–śiṣya relationship.

A person may consciously seek dīkṣā, but the Guru may also discern whether that person is ready. It is therefore not simply a modern expression of individual choice. It is a reciprocal commitment. The disciple seeks to enter into a relationship of learning, discipline and guidance, while the Guru accepts the responsibility of guiding that person.

When the bhakta understands Bhagavān Muktināth Himself as the Guru, He does not physically tell the bhakta, “You are now ready.” An ācārya or spiritual mentor may therefore help the person discern readiness and facilitate Gurudīkṣā. The human ācārya does not replace Muktināth; rather, the ācārya serves the bhakta in entering more consciously into that relationship.

This also means that Gurudīkṣā cannot be understood in terms of simply increasing the number of people who can be counted as followers of a particular sampradāya. No genuine Guru would initiate someone merely to add another name to the lineage, or rush to bring a person within the fold first and only later teach that person how to become an authentic disciple. There is a very different logic in the saying, “win the winnable while they are winnable.” Such an approach may be effective for gathering people quickly, but it is quite different from the patient discernment involved in accepting someone into a Guru–śiṣya relationship.

This does not mean that only a fully mature or spiritually accomplished person is eligible for initiation. The very purpose of the Guru may be to guide a person towards maturity. But there remains a difference between welcoming someone into a spiritual relationship and seeking to increase numbers. Gurudīkṣā should not be hurried simply to bring another person within a spiritual lineage. It is the beginning—or formal recognition—of a genuine Guru–śiṣya relationship, not a means of producing more adherents.

For this reason, I resist reducing Gurudīkṣā to a ritual mechanism that accomplishes what another religion calls baptism. Gurudīkṣā has its own meaning within the Guru–śiṣya tradition, and that meaning should be allowed to remain intact.

Hindu Traditions Have Different Forms of Initiation

There is another reason to be cautious about assuming that all religious initiations are structurally identical.

In the Śrī Vaiṣṇava tradition, pañca-saṃskāra includes the marking of the body with the symbols of Viṣṇu, the śaṅkha and cakra, and can function as a public sign of belonging. Among Liṅgāyats, receiving the personal liṅga from a Guru or Swamiji is significant. These practices should not simply be described as Hindu equivalents of Christian Confirmation.

The difficulty of one-to-one comparison becomes even clearer within Christianity itself. In Catholic Christianity, Baptism, Confirmation and the Eucharist together form the sacraments of Christian initiation, with Confirmation understood as completing baptismal grace. The fact that Christian initiation itself contains several distinct practices should caution us against assuming that one Hindu initiation can simply be mapped onto one Christian rite.

Religious practices belong to the traditions that give them their meaning. A ritual should not be stripped from its own religious world and assigned the function of another ritual merely because their outward forms appear comparable.

How Did Baptism Itself Become What It Is?

Baptism is sometimes spoken of as though its fully developed form simply appeared from heaven. Its history is more complicated.

The New Testament presents baptism within a developing religious world that included Jewish ritual washing and immersion, the baptism of John associated with repentance, the baptism of Jesus by John, which Christians generally distinguish from baptism as an expression of personal repentance for sin, and the development of baptism as an initiation practice within the early Christian communities. Jewish proselyte immersion is relevant to this history, although scholars caution against reducing Christian baptism to a simple borrowing from Jewish practice.⁷

T. M. Taylor’s study of Jewish proselyte baptism illustrates some of the difficulties involved in dating and identifying the beginnings of these practices.⁸ Other studies of Christian initiation likewise show that baptism developed within the life of the early Christian communities rather than appearing as a completely isolated ritual.⁹

I am not suggesting that Christians simply “borrowed” baptism from the Jews. Baptism acquired its own Christian meaning as the Jesus movement developed. But it did have a history.

The New Testament itself also gives us glimpses of diversity. In 1 Corinthians 1:14–17, Paul says that he is thankful that he personally baptised only a few people and adds, “Christ did not send me to baptise but to preach the gospel.”¹⁰ This does not mean that baptism was unimportant. It does, however, show that the responsibilities associated with preaching and baptising were not necessarily identical.

The difficult passage in 1 Corinthians 15:29, concerning those who were “baptised for the dead”, is another reminder that practices and interpretations existed in the early Christian world that later Christians did not necessarily adopt as universal norms.

I am not arguing that baptism is unnecessary, nor am I defending baptism for the dead as a Christian norm. My point is narrower. The existence of a practice in Scripture does not by itself establish that every later Christian form of that practice must be reproduced in every culture, still less that a Hindu practice should be redesigned to perform its function.

Baptism belongs to the Christian tradition, while Gurudīkṣā belongs to the Guru–śiṣya traditions of Hinduism. They have different histories and meanings. Why, then, should Gurudīkṣā be treated as a substitute for baptism?

From Comparison to Christianising Hinduism

This is where contextualisation can become problematic.

A missionary may ask, “How can I explain Christ to people within their own culture?” That is one question.

A different question is, “How can I take this existing Hindu practice and make it serve the theological function I need?”

The distinction becomes important when a Christian practice is considered indispensable while the Hindu social world is retained.

The temptation is then to say:

“We will not call it baptism. We will call it Gurudīkṣā. But it will perform the same function.”

The name changes, but the function remains.

A Hindu form is retained because it is culturally familiar, while its meaning is redirected towards a Christian requirement. This can happen without bad intentions. A person may sincerely believe that he or she is helping a Hindu follower of Christ. But good intentions do not remove the conceptual problem.

If Gurudīkṣā is genuinely a Hindu Guru–śiṣya relationship, let it have that meaning.

If baptism is understood by Christians as a Christian sacrament or ordinance, let Christians understand and practise it according to their own faith.

There is no need to place the Hindu bhakta between the two and tell the person that one must become the functional equivalent of the other.

A First Conclusion

I am not arguing that baptism and Gurudīkṣā have nothing in common. Comparison can be useful, and contextual explanation can help people understand an unfamiliar religious practice.

What I question is the movement from comparison to substitution.

A similar human need does not necessarily mean an identical religious meaning. The absence of baptism does not create an automatic obligation to receive Gurudīkṣā. Nor does the Christian importance of baptism require a Hindu bhakta to reproduce baptism under another name.

The more fundamental question is: what does it mean for a Hindu bhakta to follow Muktināth?

That question takes us to the second part of this reflection.

Notes

1. Rajbali Pandey, Hindu Saṃskāras: Socio-Religious Study of the Hindu Sacraments, 2nd rev. ed. (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1969), 327.
2. Axel Michaels, “Rites of Passage: Saṃskāra,” in The Oxford History of Hinduism: Hindu Law: A New History of Dharmaśāstra, ed. Patrick Olivelle and Donald R. Davis Jr. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), 86–97.
3. Mary McGee, “Saṃskāra,” in The Hindu World, ed. Sushil Mittal and Gene R. Thursby (New York: Routledge, 2005), 332–356.
4. Jan Gonda, Change and Continuity in Indian Religion (The Hague: Mouton, 1965), 444–482.
5. Klaus K. Klostermaier, A Survey of Hinduism (Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1990), 175; Gavin D. Flood, An Introduction to Hinduism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 200–201.
6. Michaels, “Rites of Passage: Saṃskāra,” 96.
7. Craig S. Keener, The IVP Bible Background Commentary: New Testament (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1993), 135, 208, 329; see also T. M. Taylor, “The Beginnings of Jewish Proselyte Baptism,” New Testament Studies 2, no. 3 (1955–56): 193–198.
8. Taylor, “The Beginnings of Jewish Proselyte Baptism,” 193–198.
9. Everett Ferguson, “Baptism,” Oxford Bibliographies in Biblical Studies (2012); Maxwell E. Johnson, “Christian Initiation,” Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Religion (2015); David F. Wright, “The Apostolic Fathers and Infant Baptism: Any Advance on the Obscurity of the New Testament?” in Trajectories Through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, ed. Andrew F. Gregory and Christopher M. Tuckett (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 123–134.
10. 1 Corinthians 1:14–17, especially v. 17.

Note on “Accepted” and “Received”

I have discussed elsewhere my reservations about the way the words “accepted” and “received” are sometimes used in Christian conversion accounts, particularly in my article “Giving and Feeling”. The issue is not merely one of vocabulary. The image in Revelation 3:20, “Behold, I stand at the door and knock,” does not require us to imagine that Christ’s status depends upon the human being who opens the door and “receives” Him. If the door is not opened, it is the person who misses the fellowship being offered; Christ’s status is not diminished. The Hindu expression atithi devo bhava provides an interesting comparison, since the guest is honoured rather than imagined as acquiring value from being received.

The complete discussion is available in my article “Giving and Feeling”. https://dayanandbharati.in/giving-and-feeling/

Bibliography

Ferguson, Everett. “Baptism.” Oxford Bibliographies in Biblical Studies. 2012.

Flood, Gavin D. An Introduction to Hinduism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996.

Gonda, Jan. Change and Continuity in Indian Religion. The Hague: Mouton, 1965.

Johnson, Maxwell E. “Christian Initiation.” Oxford Research Encyclopedia of Religion. 2015.

Keener, Craig S. The IVP Bible Background Commentary: New Testament. Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1993.

Klostermaier, Klaus K. A Survey of Hinduism. Delhi: Munshiram Manoharlal, 1990.

McGee, Mary. “Saṃskāra.” In The Hindu World, edited by Sushil Mittal and Gene R. Thursby, 332–356. New York: Routledge, 2005.

Michaels, Axel. “Rites of Passage: Saṃskāra.” In The Oxford History of Hinduism: Hindu Law: A New History of Dharmaśāstra, edited by Patrick Olivelle and Donald R. Davis Jr., 86–97. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017.

Pandey, Rajbali. Hindu Saṃskāras: Socio-Religious Study of the Hindu Sacraments. 2nd rev. ed. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1969.

Taylor, T. M. “The Beginnings of Jewish Proselyte Baptism.” New Testament Studies 2, no. 3 (1955–56): 193–198.

Wright, David F. “The Apostolic Fathers and Infant Baptism: Any Advance on the Obscurity of the New Testament?” In Trajectories Through the New Testament and the Apostolic Fathers, edited by Andrew F. Gregory and Christopher M. Tuckett, 123–134. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005.

I have always preferred nature as it is, untouched by human intervention. Whenever I create or buy a work depicting natural scenery, I tend to choose one without buildings, dams, boats, ships, or any other human construction. There is something deeply beautiful, to me, about nature being allowed simply to remain itself.

That is why, when I received this craft work from Chakravarthy, sent by his wife, Sharla, I initially hesitated even to begin it. It is a beautiful lake scene, with mountains, clouds, and water. But the buildings along the lakeside created in me a certain hesitation, even irritation. They seemed to intrude upon what would otherwise have been the untouched beauty of the landscape.

Still, someone had invested money in the craft, and I did not want that effort to go to waste. So I began it on September 9, 2024, and completed it on October 2, 2026.

I can now appreciate the beauty of the mountains, clouds, lake, and the whole composition. Yet the buildings still seem, to me, an intrusion. Perhaps this is because I have always preferred nature not as we improve it or make it useful to ourselves, but simply as it is.

But then I had to confront another thought. When we paint a virgin landscape or reproduce it through cross-stitch, are we not also arresting nature? We take something free and living and fix it within a canvas or a piece of embroidery, preserving it for our own enjoyment. Even our attempt to celebrate nature can therefore become another kind of human intervention.

That is the little self-contradiction of human life. We want nature to remain untouched, yet we also want to capture its beauty and keep it for ourselves.

And that is why I call this work “Arrested Nature.”

For me, doing cross-stitch or any kind of artwork is not merely a way of passing time; it is a kind of sādhanā.

In the traditions of monastic orders, including Buddhist monastic traditions, one can find monks and recluses spending considerable time creating works of art. Among Hindus, however, this seems to be less common. I have always enjoyed it. I learned cross-stitch from my mother, and I continue to do it as part of her legacy.

Ashram, October 2, 2026

All those who even now attack Mahatma Gandhi’s life and mission may sometimes forget something important. Whatever Gandhi stood for was not simply an ideology borrowed from Scripture or copied from the lives of other role models. He certainly learnt from Scripture, from other people and from the traditions around him. But his convictions increasingly emerged through what he called his “Experiments with Truth”—through his own engagement with life, experience and conscience.

This does not mean that Gandhi was always right. A person can be deeply convinced and still be mistaken. Nor is every opinion necessarily shallow. Sometimes a person holds an opinion tentatively because he is still examining the truth. The important distinction, as I see it, is between a borrowed or constantly changing opinion and a conviction that has been personally examined, deeply assimilated and willingly lived out.

This distinction came to my mind while reading Gandhi’s reply to one of his critics, published in Young India in December 1927 under the title “Indictment”.

The critic had challenged Gandhi on several grounds. How, he asked, could Gandhi preach non-violence when the Bhagavad Gītā presents Krishna urging Arjuna to fight? What about the stories of avatāras defeating Bali, Vāli and Jarāsandha? Had Gandhi not repeatedly changed his position on political questions? What had his experience in South Africa to do with India? What had happened to his earlier promise of swaraj within a year? And why was he involving himself in questions ranging from Hindu-Muslim unity to temple entry, widow remarriage, the charkha and even municipal questions?

Gandhi did not answer by claiming that every traditional story or scriptural passage must automatically support his present position. He argued that the Mahābhārata and the Purāṇas could not simply be treated as collections of historical incidents whose actions must be copied. Even great heroes were not necessarily infallible guides in every circumstance.

Then he made a remarkable statement:

“my belief today having become part of my fundamental being is capable of standing independent of these books or any other” (CWMG, 383–387, at 385).

He went even further:

“Surely there must come a time in the life of a very religiously-minded man when his faith must be SELF-SUSTAINED” (385).

This is an important thought. Scripture, tradition, teachers and other people can awaken faith, guide us and nourish our understanding. But unless what we receive eventually becomes our own conviction, it may not withstand the pressures of life. Borrowed authority can begin a journey; it cannot always carry us through the whole journey.

Gandhi also wrote that the world survives because there is more love than hatred and more truth than untruth in it. For him, truth and non-violence were not merely political techniques but fundamental principles by which life had to be lived. He even said that his faith would withstand the strain of the disapproval of friends whose opinions he valued and cherished (385–386).

There is a lesson here beyond Gandhi himself. We can value another person’s opinion without surrendering our own conviction to it. At the same time, conviction should not become stubbornness. Conviction does not mean never changing one’s mind; it means knowing what one cannot abandon while remaining willing to reconsider how that conviction should be lived out.

Gandhi made a similar point when speaking about the danger of blindly imitating great men. We should not simply copy an isolated action without understanding the circumstances in which it occurred. What we should assimilate are qualities such as courage, self-sacrifice, industry, love of country and steady pursuit of ideals. As Gandhi put it, “We make fatal blunders when without relevance or without adequate knowledge we copy their ISOLATED actions” (386).

There is another interesting dimension to this story. Gandhi’s political opponents did not necessarily share his convictions. The Justice Party in South India strongly opposed the Non-Cooperation movement and regarded Gandhi’s political methods as a threat to the existing order. Its newspapers attacked him severely and criticised his methods and political programme.

Yet political opposition did not prevent the Justice Party from recognising something about the man himself. After Gandhi’s imprisonment, the tone changed. The party acknowledged that its political differences had never blinded it to his “moral worth and intellectual capacity” and also recognised his patriotism and self-sacrifice (Eugene F. Irschick, in Politics and Social Conflict in South India: The Non-Brahman Movement and Tamil Separatism, 1916–1929, Los Angeles, University of California, Press, 1969182–184).

That is worth remembering in our own age. We do not have to agree with another person’s political programme in order to recognise sincerity, courage or self-sacrifice. Nor does recognising those qualities require us to accept everything that person believed or did.

A conviction can be genuine and still be mistaken. Therefore, we must examine deeply, listen honestly, test what we believe through experience, distinguish the fundamental from the incidental, and remain willing to correct ourselves. But once something has genuinely become a fundamental conviction, we should not abandon it merely because prevailing opinion has turned against us.

For me, that is where Gandhi’s story becomes more interesting than a simple argument for or against “Gandhism”. Whether Gandhism as a political philosophy remains relevant today is a separate question. The deeper question is how we form our own convictions.

His critics, then and now, may disagree with him, challenge him and even reject his conclusions; but their disagreements need not erase the larger legacy of the man who attempted to make Satya and Ahimsa the principles of his own life. I find it deeply troubling when criticism of Gandhi’s policies and decisions turns into an attempt to degrade the man himself, or even to glorify his assassin Godse as the real hero. One may question Gandhi’s political programme, disagree with his policies, or reject his conclusions; but for me, that does not justify dismissing or degrading a man whose life was so profoundly shaped by his experiments with Satya and Ahimsa. Their criticisms will remain part of the historical record, but they need not become the whole story; in the larger legacy of Gandhi, they can remain only occasional footnotes.

Considering the present-day attacks on Gandhiji—not merely on particular decisions or policies, but sometimes on the very principles for which he lived—I sometimes wonder whether a time could come when even his picture might be removed from Indian currency and, God forbid, when his statues and memorials might be destroyed by radical elements seeking to erase his place from public memory. We have seen elsewhere how political repudiation can turn against the visible symbols associated with a national figure. But Gandhi’s real legacy does not ultimately depend upon a portrait on a banknote, a statue in a public square, or a memorial anywhere in India. Such symbols can be removed, replaced or destroyed. The more important question is whether Satya and Ahimsa themselves will continue to speak to humanity. In a world where the arms race continues and violence increasingly becomes normalised, their relevance cannot be settled merely by deciding whether Gandhi himself should be honoured or rejected. It must be tested by asking whether truth and non-violence still have anything to say to human beings confronted by hatred, fear, power and violence. For me, as long as Satya and Ahimsa remain more than mere words—as principles to be lived and experimented with—the man who tried to make them the substance of his own life will continue to deserve serious remembrance and reflection.

Perhaps the real danger today is not that people have too many convictions, but that many of our convictions are not really our own. We borrow them from our community, our friends, our leaders, our social media feeds and sometimes even from people whom we admire. When the prevailing opinion changes, our convictions change with it.

Gandhi’s life reminds me that a borrowed belief eventually has to become a personally examined belief—or it remains only an opinion.

We do not have to agree with Gandhiji in order to learn from his response to those who disagreed with him. Nor do we have to imitate every action of a great person. What we can learn is the importance of examining what we believe and having the courage to live by it.

Conviction is not the refusal to think again. It is the courage to think deeply enough that, after thinking again, one knows what one can and cannot abandon.

Ashram, October 2, 2026

For those who would like to read the fuller historical account, with the complete discussion and supporting material, please scroll down to the full article below.

Original

Conviction versus Opinion: A tale from Mahatma Gandhiji’s life

All those who even now attack Mahatma Gandhi’s life and mission from which he never wavered may sometimes forget something important: whatever Gandhi stood for was not simply an ideology borrowed from Scripture or copied from the lives of other role models. He certainly learnt from Scripture, from other people and from the traditions around him. But his convictions increasingly emerged through what he called his “Experiments with Truth”—through his own engagement with life, experience and conscience.

Scathing attacks on Gandhiji were therefore nothing new. They came during his lifetime as well as after his death. Some of his strongest critics questioned not merely his political methods but the very principles upon which he based his public life. What remains remarkable to me is not simply the way Gandhiji answered such criticism, but certain isolated points in his response that are worth meditating upon for anyone who wants to live by conviction rather than simply be carried away by the opinion of others.

Someone has well said, “Great people cherish conviction but small people entertain opinion.” The saying is rhetorically attractive, though I would not take it literally. Opinion is not necessarily shallow, and conviction is not necessarily true. A person can be deeply convinced and still be mistaken, while another person may hold an opinion tentatively because he is still examining the truth. The important distinction for me is between a borrowed or constantly changing opinion and a conviction that has been personally examined, deeply assimilated and willingly lived out.

Opinion may cause temporary suffocation; conviction may cost one’s very life. Gandhiji’s life illustrates this distinction in a remarkable way. He endured criticism, disagreement and even the disgust of people whose opinions he valued, but he did not allow such opinions simply to determine what he himself had come to regard as fundamental. He ultimately died without abandoning the convictions that had become integral to his life.

Whether Gandhism is regarded today as outdated or still relevant is a separate question. In 2026, many of Gandhi’s political methods may appear remote from the circumstances of our own time. Yet the question of how a human being develops and lives by conviction is not outdated. Nor should principles such as truth and ahiṃsā be judged merely by whether every historical application of them produced the results that their supporters or critics expected.

For me, therefore, the important question is not whether Gandhism “succeeded” or “failed”. Nor is it whether Gandhi was right in every political decision he made. The more enduring question is: What can we learn from the way he remained committed to a deeply examined conviction while facing the opinions of people who strongly disagreed with him?

That question takes us to a remarkable exchange published by Gandhi in 1927.

An indictment of Gandhiji

In Young India of 15 December 1927, Gandhiji published what he called “Indictment”, a condensed version of a letter sent to him by a correspondent while he was in Berhampur. Gandhi explained that he believed the correspondent had “boldly voiced what many are harbouring in their breasts” and therefore felt that the indictment deserved an answer (383).

The letter was indeed an indictment.

The correspondent questioned how Gandhi’s political philosophy could be reconciled with the duty of an ideal government, or of a “Great Soul”, to suppress the wicked and protect the righteous. Krishna’s teaching to Arjuna at Kurukṣetra was invoked, as were the traditional stories of the avatāras defeating Bali, Vāli and Jarāsandha. How, the correspondent asked, could ordinary people withstand unscrupulous enemies without retaliation?

Gandhi was accused of preaching an impractical and emotional philosophy. His South African experience was dismissed as having been exaggerated by his admirers and as being incapable of serving as a model for a vast country like India. His promise of swaraj “within a year” was challenged. His decision at Bardoli was described as a “somersault”. His participation in the Khilafat agitation was questioned, as was his vision of Hindu-Muslim unity. The correspondent even suggested that communal feuds had increased since Gandhi’s prominence in Congress (383–384).

The criticism then moved into social reform. Gandhi was challenged for advocating temple entry for the Panchamas and widow remarriage. His charkha was dismissed as unsuitable for an age of science. Even his acceptance of municipal addresses from municipalities that maintained slaughter-houses was questioned as inconsistent with ahiṃsā (384).

Gandhi could have answered each question separately. Instead, he moved almost immediately from the political arguments to a deeper question: How does a person actually arrive at conviction?

When faith becomes self-sustained

The correspondent had appealed to Scripture and to the actions of figures described in the Hindu sacred tradition. Gandhi did not accept the assumption that every action attributed to a scriptural hero should automatically become an infallible guide for us.

He argued that the Mahābhārata and Purāṇas should not simply be treated as history or as collections of straightforward religious maxims. In his reading, they illustrate the religious history of humanity in different ways. Their heroes are themselves imperfect mortals, and their alleged actions cannot therefore be treated as infallible guides for imitation (385).

But Gandhi went further.

He said that his belief in truth and non-violence was derived from and based upon the scriptural teaching of the very books from which his correspondent had drawn his objections. Yet, he continued:

“my belief today having become part of my fundamental being is capable of standing independent of these books or any other” (385).

Then comes the sentence that has stayed with me:

“Surely there must come a time in the life of a very religiously-minded man when his faith must be self-sustained” (385).

I strongly agree with this point.

Unless a person develops personal conviction, the mere authority of Scripture or of another person cannot sustain that conviction indefinitely. Scripture may awaken faith. A Guru, teacher or role model may guide us towards it. Tradition may preserve and nourish it. But eventually there must come a point at which what we believe has become personally assimilated.

This does not mean that Scripture or a Guru becomes unnecessary. Gandhi himself did not say that. He explicitly acknowledged the scriptural roots of his belief. His point was that his experience had taken that belief to a stage where it had become part of his fundamental being and could therefore stand independently of external authority (385).

Borrowed conviction depends upon the authority from which it was borrowed. Personal conviction must eventually become one’s own.

That insight extends far beyond religion.

Conviction is not stubbornness

There is, however, an important qualification. Conviction should not be confused with stubbornness. Nor does remaining committed to a conviction prove that the conviction is true. A person can be sincerely and deeply wrong.

What makes Gandhi’s statement interesting is that his conviction did not arise simply from an unwillingness to listen. His own description of his life as an experiment suggests the opposite. He listened, tested, reflected and acted. He could change a particular method or decision while remaining committed to what he regarded as a deeper principle.

This distinction is particularly important in the case of Bardoli, where his correspondent accused him of a “somersault”. Gandhi defended the decision as the only correct and honourable course in accordance with the creed of the Congress (386). One may agree or disagree with that historical judgment. But Gandhi did not understand a change in political application as necessarily a betrayal of fundamental conviction.

This gives us a more useful definition of conviction:

Conviction does not mean never changing one’s mind. It means knowing what one cannot abandon while remaining willing to reconsider how that conviction should be lived out.

That is very different from blindly holding on to every previous opinion.

Truth and non-violence as lived experience

Gandhi then returned to the question of retaliation. Whatever the avatāras may have done or not done, he said, was of little moment to him. His own daily experience, he claimed, was becoming stronger and richer in its confirmation that there could be no peace for individuals or nations without practising truth and non-violence to the utmost extent possible (385).

He did not deny that fraud or force could produce temporary and apparent success. His argument was that we should not mistake isolated examples for the larger truth of human existence.

He wrote:

“The world lives because there is more love than hate, more truth than untruth in it” (385).

And then:

“Fraud and force are diseases, truth and non-violence is health” (385).

One need not accept every part of Gandhi’s philosophy to appreciate what he was doing here. He was not merely citing an authority and demanding obedience. He was appealing to what he regarded as the accumulated experience of life.

His conviction had become experiential.

That is why the word “experiment” in Gandhi’s description of his own life is so important. He was not claiming that he possessed a final formula that nobody could question. He was saying, in effect, that he had tested certain principles in his own life and that experience had deepened rather than weakened his faith in them.

When the opinion of friends becomes a test

Another sentence in his response particularly struck me:

“my faith will stand the strain of the disgust of all the friends whose opinion I have learnt to value and cherish” (386).

This is a beautiful distinction.

Gandhi did not say that the opinions of others were worthless. Quite the contrary: he valued and cherished the opinions of his friends. Yet their possible disgust could not become the final authority over his faith.

We can value another person’s opinion without surrendering our conviction to it.

This is perhaps one of the most difficult disciplines in life.

We all want approval from people whom we respect. We naturally become uncomfortable when people we love or admire disagree with us. Sometimes their criticism should make us reconsider what we believe. But there is a point beyond which changing our conviction merely to retain approval means that the conviction was never really ours.

Gandhi was saying that his faith could withstand even the disapproval of those whose opinions mattered to him.

That is not arrogance. It becomes arrogance only when a person refuses to listen because he assumes that possessing conviction makes him automatically right.

What should we learn from our heroes?

Gandhi’s discussion of Lokamanya Tilak provides another important dimension to the same theme. The correspondent had referred to Tilak and suggested that Gandhi had once recognised his leadership but had subsequently moved into controversial social and religious questions. Gandhi replied that the correspondent misunderstood Tilak and then explained what he believed we should actually learn from our heroes.

We should not slavishly imitate actions whose circumstances we may not understand. Instead, we should assimilate their courage, self-sacrifice, industry, love of country and steady pursuit of their own ideals (386).

Then Gandhi gives a sentence that deserves special attention:

“We make fatal blunders when without relevance or without adequate knowledge we copy their isolated actions” (386).

This is one of the most valuable statements in the whole response.

A great person’s life is a whole. Yet admirers often extract one isolated action from that life and turn it into a universal rule. They imitate the external action without understanding the conviction, circumstances or experience that gave that action its meaning.

The same mistake can be made with Scripture, saints, Gurus, political leaders, reformers and even our own parents. The deeper lesson is not mechanical imitation. It is to understand the principle that animated the person’s life and then discover how, if at all, that principle can be lived meaningfully in our own circumstances.

The Justice Party: opposition without denial

There is a striking historical parallel from Tamil Nadu during this very period.

The Justice Party was strongly opposed to Gandhi and his programme. Eugene F. Irschick, in Politics and Social Conflict in South India: The Non-Brahman Movement and Tamil Separatism, 1916–1929, Los Angeles, University of California, Press, 1969182–184, describes the party’s opposition in detail.

The Justice Party had already distinguished itself from much of the all-India nationalist movement through its political positions, its demand for communal representation for South Indian non-Brahmans, its unwillingness to condemn the Amritsar massacre, and its willingness to participate in the 1920 elections. Its opposition became even stronger through its complete rejection of Gandhi and the programme of non-cooperation (Irschick, 182).

To many Justice Party members, Gandhi’s programme represented a threat to established political authority. His boycott of councils, courts and government schools, together with his advocacy of khadi, was interpreted as a programme under which disorder could be encouraged. The party’s newspapers, particularly Justice and Dravidan, consistently attacked Gandhi and his ideas (Irschick, 182–183).

The language was sometimes extraordinarily severe. Justice described Gandhi in January 1921 as “the least tolerant and most vain of public men” and “a sort of autocrat”. During the Moplah rebellion associated with the Khilafat movement, Dravidan accused Gandhi of preparing to turn the country into a “cremation ground” before it attained Swaraj (Irschick, 183).

Even Gandhi’s withdrawal of non-cooperation after the violence at Chauri Chaura and the Bardoli decisions did little immediately to win the Justice Party over. Justice continued to question Gandhi’s methods and his motives (Irschick, 183).

Yet after Gandhi’s imprisonment, something remarkable appeared in the pages of Justice. Political disagreement had not disappeared. The Justice Party had not suddenly accepted Gandhi’s political philosophy. But it acknowledged something about the man that disagreement could not erase. Irschick records the newspaper as saying:

“This difference in political opinion has, all the same, never blinded us to a full recognition of the high qualities of moral worth and intellectual capacity that have distinguished the Mahatma” (Irschick, 184).

The newspaper went on to acknowledge Gandhi’s patriotism and self-sacrifice in unusually strong terms (Irschick, 184).

For me, this is an important historical lesson.

One can oppose a person’s political philosophy without denying the sincerity, courage or self-sacrifice with which that person lives according to it.

The Justice Party’s acknowledgment did not establish that Gandhi’s political programme was correct. Nor does Gandhi’s steadfastness establish that every decision he made was correct. What it demonstrates is something more modest and more interesting: political disagreement need not prevent us from recognising conviction in an opponent.

Conviction does not guarantee correctness

This is where I would place an important caution about Gandhi himself.

Gandhi’s steadfastness should not be used as proof that he was right about everything. Nor should his death be romanticised as though dying for one’s conviction automatically validates that conviction. A conviction can be genuine and still be mistaken.

What we can learn from Gandhi is therefore not simply, “Hold firmly to whatever you believe.” That would be a dangerous lesson.

The better lesson is:

Examine deeply. Listen honestly. Test through experience. Distinguish the fundamental from the incidental. Be willing to correct an application. But once something has genuinely become a fundamental conviction, do not abandon it merely because the prevailing opinion has turned against you.

This is much closer to what Gandhi himself describes in “Indictment.”

Opinion changes; conviction must be tested

We live in a time when public opinion can change rapidly. What is praised today may be condemned tomorrow. An idea may become fashionable for a while and then disappear. Political circumstances, social pressures, intellectual fashions and collective fears can all influence what people think.

There is nothing wrong with changing an opinion when evidence or experience demands it. Indeed, the refusal to change an opinion in the face of truth is not conviction; it can simply be stubbornness.

But there is a difference between changing one’s opinion because one has discovered that it was mistaken and changing one’s fundamental conviction merely because others have become uncomfortable with it.

This distinction applies to every field of life.

It applies to faith. It applies to family. It applies to community. It applies to society. It applies to politics. It applies to moral commitments and to the way we understand our own life’s purpose. At some point, we must stop living entirely through borrowed convictions.

A person cannot forever say, “My Guru believes this, therefore I believe it.” Or, “My Scripture says this, therefore I believe it,” without ever allowing that teaching to become personally assimilated. Nor can we simply say, “Everybody thinks this, therefore I must think it.”

Authority can guide us. Community can support us. Tradition can nourish us. The opinions of wise people can correct us.

But conviction must eventually become our own.

What remains for me

Whether Gandhism as a political philosophy ultimately succeeded or failed is a question that can be debated through history and political analysis. Individual Gandhian programmes can likewise be examined and criticised according to their particular circumstances and consequences. But that is not what I want to take away from this exchange.

What remains with me is Gandhi’s statement that faith must eventually become self-sustained; his insistence that his experience had made truth and non-violence part of his fundamental being; his willingness to endure even the disgust of people whose opinions he valued; and his warning against copying the isolated actions of great people without understanding the convictions behind them (385–386).

And there is something else.

Gandhi was not living in a world without criticism. His convictions were not protected by universal admiration. Some of his contemporaries thought his political philosophy was impractical, dangerous or even destructive. The Justice Party in Tamil Nadu openly opposed him. Yet even that determined political opponent could acknowledge his moral worth, patriotism and self-sacrifice.

That makes the distinction between opinion and conviction all the more meaningful. We do not have to agree with Gandhiji in order to learn from his response to those who disagreed with him. Nor do we have to imitate every action of a great person.

Perhaps the real lesson is to examine carefully, listen to criticism without fear, learn from experience, remain willing to correct ourselves, and then live according to what we have genuinely come to regard as true—without allowing every passing opinion, however loud or numerous, to dictate the direction of our life.

Conviction is not the refusal to think again. It is the courage to think deeply enough that, after thinking again, one knows what one can and cannot abandon. That, for me, is the enduring lesson I take from Gandhiji’s “Indictment.”

Ashram, October 2, 2026

There comes a time, after active engagement with others for a common cause, when our inner conviction may lead us to withdraw from that shared activity. Such withdrawal need not mean that we have abandoned either the cause or the people with whom we once worked so closely. On the contrary, there may be circumstances in which we can serve both the cause and those people better through our absence than through our continued presence.

This may happen when we find ourselves increasingly out of tune with the prevailing approach, or when our voice becomes a minority voice among those working for the same ideal. But becoming a minority does not necessarily mean that our ideal has lost its validity, nor does it require us to surrender our convictions simply to remain part of a collective effort. There may be a time when the most responsible course is to withdraw from a particular method of cooperation while remaining committed to the common cause and retaining our friendship with those who continue to pursue it differently.

I find this lesson in an open letter by Mahatma Gandhiji on Hindu-Muslim unity. He explains why, despite his continued commitment to unity, he had withdrawn from public meetings and other organised efforts that he had once actively supported. His decision offers an important example of what I would call “service in absence”: not an abandonment of the ideal, but a considered withdrawal from a particular approach when one believes that one’s presence is no longer useful. I also see in it a distinctive form of non-cooperation—not with the people or the ideal, but with a method one can no longer conscientiously support.

Gandhiji’s letter was written in response to reports that he had lost faith in Hindu-Muslim unity and was avoiding Muslim friends, including the Ali Brothers. He made it clear that his commitment had not weakened:

“My interest and faith in Hindu-Muslim unity and unity among all the communities remain as strong as ever. My method of approach has changed.” (352)

The distinction between his faith in the ideal and his change of method is central to understanding the letter. Gandhiji had previously sought to promote unity by addressing meetings, participating in public initiatives and supporting resolutions. But he felt that the prevailing atmosphere of distrust, fear and hopelessness had made such activities less helpful to genuine unity. In those circumstances, he preferred to rely on prayer and individual acts of friendship (352–53).

His decision did not mean that he considered public meetings or organised efforts inherently wrong. He explicitly acknowledged that those who still had faith in such meetings should continue to hold them, and he wished them success. His own judgement was that he could no longer render useful service by taking part. As he explained, “where I cannot serve by my presence I regard it as some service if I abstain” (353).

This is the thought that gives the present reflection its title. Gandhiji did not regard absence as mere inactivity or indifference. In the circumstances he described, abstaining from meetings was itself a form of service. His absence was not intended to obstruct those who continued their efforts, nor to suggest that their commitment to unity was insincere. It was his own response to a situation in which he believed his participation would not be helpful.

Gandhiji was also conscious that his position placed him outside the prevailing temper of both communities. He recognised that, from their standpoint, others could reasonably regard his method as having failed. Among those whose opinions carried weight, he found himself in a hopeless minority. Yet he did not conclude that he should abandon his convictions merely because they were not widely shared. He wrote that, whether he was “in the minority of one” or had a majority, he must follow the course he believed God had shown him (353).

His reflections on non-violence further illuminate this commitment. Gandhiji had come to see that non-violence as a mere policy could fail when people within one’s own camp regarded violence as a creed to be enforced under certain circumstances. For him, this was precisely the moment when the believer in non-violence had to test the strength of that conviction. He did not claim that his own conduct was beyond reproach. Instead, he acknowledged the struggle within himself:

“Both my creed and I are therefore on our trial. And if we do not seem to succeed, let the critic or the onlooker blame not the creed but me. I know I am often obliged to struggle against myself.” (353)

This admission is as important as his steadfastness. Gandhiji did not use his convictions to place himself above criticism or to condemn everyone who differed from him. He acknowledged his own shortcomings and the difficulty of living up to his ideal. His position was not that the person who holds a conviction must always be right, but that a sincere believer must continue to examine and test both the creed and personal conduct.

The relationship with the Ali Brothers provides an equally important illustration of service in absence. Gandhiji explained that, although their methods no longer coincided, they remained dear to him. He was not sorry that he had stood with Muslims in their hour of need, and he would do so again if the occasion arose. Their common cause remained, even though their methods had diverged (353).

He then expressed a principle of friendship that deserves particular attention:

“But friendship that insists upon agreement on all matters is not worth the name. Friendship to be real must ever sustain the weight of honest differences, however sharp they may be.” (354)

Gandhiji was thus able to withdraw from a shared activity without repudiating the people with whom he had once worked. He did not make agreement on every matter a condition of friendship. Nor did he allow differences over methods to erase the history of mutual affection and common endeavour. His absence from meetings was compatible with his continuing friendship with the Ali Brothers and his willingness to stand with them again when circumstances required it.

This example has implications far beyond the particular circumstances of Hindu-Muslim unity in which Gandhiji wrote. In communal, racial, political, caste, ideological or theological divisions, people may share a worthy goal—unity, reconciliation or justice—while disagreeing deeply about how to pursue it. When one person or group can no longer participate in a particular collective effort with a clear conscience, withdrawal need not be interpreted automatically as betrayal, indifference or the abandonment of the ideal.

At times, continued presence may be less useful than a respectful absence. A person who has become a minority voice may find that remaining in a particular forum gives the appearance of agreement with an approach they cannot support. Yet leaving that forum need not mean turning against its members or denying the importance of their common objective. It may simply be an honest recognition that different convictions and methods now require different forms of action.

There is, however, another possibility. One may remain within the group without actively participating in its discussions or activities. Such a quiet presence may sometimes be preferable to leaving altogether, especially when departure could invite interpretations to which one cannot, and need not, immediately respond. To remain without active participation can itself become a kind of “service in absence”—not an endorsement of what is being done, but a way of maintaining goodwill and leaving open the possibility of future fellowship without pretending to agree.

This is not a universal prescription to withdraw whenever we disagree or find ourselves outnumbered. Gandhiji’s example is more demanding than that. He remained committed to the ideal, acknowledged the legitimacy of others continuing their efforts, sustained personal friendships and accepted responsibility for his own limitations. His withdrawal was grounded in his assessment of the circumstances and of the service he could then render. It was not a convenient escape from disagreement or a claim that his own method must prevail.

I would describe this as a distinctive form of non-cooperation: a refusal to continue participating in a method one can no longer support, without withdrawing one’s goodwill from the people involved or one’s commitment to the ideal. It is “non-cooperation” with an approach, not with the common cause itself. And it becomes service in absence only when the withdrawal is accompanied by continuing concern, respect and a willingness to serve in other ways.

Gandhiji’s letter also reminds us that those who withdraw may be misunderstood. Their absence may be taken as evidence that they have lost faith in the ideal, when in fact their conviction remains as strong as before. Gandhiji anticipated such suspicion and used his letter to clarify that his changed method did not signify a weakening of his commitment. He accepted that others might judge his approach unsuccessful, but he did not allow that judgement to compel him to act against his conscience.

For me, this is one of the valuable lessons Gandhiji both taught and attempted to practise. There can be a time when, after active engagement in a common cause, the most faithful service is no longer rendered by remaining at the centre of collective activity. It may instead be rendered through absence—by declining to endorse a method, while continuing to uphold the ideal and cherish those who pursue it differently.

Such an absence is not necessarily a sign of failure. It may be an expression of integrity, humility and continuing friendship. It allows us to disagree without hostility, to withdraw without desertion, and to remain faithful to a common ideal without demanding that everyone follow the same path.

Gandhiji’s example does not promise that such a course will always succeed, or that others will readily understand it. He himself acknowledged that both his creed and he were on trial. But his words offer a principle worth remembering: we need not abandon an ideal because we can no longer cooperate in a particular way, nor abandon our friendship because we differ about the means. Sometimes, the service we can offer is not through our presence, but through an absence that remains faithful to both the cause and the people.

Ashram, September 27, 2026

Source: CWMG, vol. 35, pp, 352-54, mkgandhi.org

We are all familiar with the reverence Mahatma Gandhi gave not only to Christ, but to the great religious figures belonging to each and every religion. But the way he describes the relationship between such great teachers and their followers is worth noticing.

Whenever I hear someone say, “I received Christ” or “I accepted Christ”, I sometimes wonder, and am amused—even teasingly—whether the language unintentionally makes the devotee sound like the giver and Christ the recipient. I used to respond, “Finally, He got some place to dwell, as you magnanimously received Him—as if He had been standing outside waiting for someone to receive Him. Thank God, finally there is someone who accepted Him!”

I know, of course, that this is not what Christians ordinarily mean when they say, “I received Christ” or “I accepted Christ”. It is a devotional expression, and I do not want to caricature it. But my teasing question points to something that has often struck me: who are we to “accept” or “receive” anyone whom we consider greater than ourselves—not merely a great religious figure, but even a person whom we deeply revere, such as Mahatma Gandhi himself?

What, then, can we really do?

Perhaps we can remain humble enough to cherish and nourish the feeling that has been given to us—the grace of being able to recognise someone as our teacher, our guide, or the one to whom we wish to offer ourselves as a follower.

This is where Gandhiji’s words become particularly interesting to me. In a speech at Central College, Jaffna, on 29 November 1927, he was asked what place he would give to Christ among the great world teachers, not as a divine instructor but as a man and a teacher. Gandhiji answered:

“Of course, Christians claim a higher place for Jesus of Nazareth than as a non-Christian and as a Hindu I have been able to feel.

I purposely use the word ‘feel’ instead of ‘give’, because I consider that neither I, nor anybody else can possibly arrogate to himself the claim of giving place to a great man. The great teachers of mankind have had the place not given to them, but the place has belonged to them as a matter of right, as a matter of service that they have rendered, but it is given to the lowest and the humblest amongst us to feel certain things about certain people.” (342)

I find the distinction between “give” and “feel” remarkably precise.

Gandhiji does not say that we create the place of a great teacher by accepting him. He says that the place already belongs to the great teacher, by right and by virtue of the service rendered. What is given to the humble is the capacity to feel certain things about certain people.

He then gives an illustration that makes the point even more vividly:

“The relation between great teachers and ourselves is somewhat after the style of relation between a husband and wife. It would be a most terrible thing, a tragic thing, if I was to argue out intellectually for myself what place I was to give to my wife in my heart. It is not in my giving, but she takes the place that belongs to her as a matter of right in my heart. It is a matter purely for feeling.” (342–43)

This illustration is important. Gandhiji is not constructing an intellectual theory of bhakti. His point is simpler and more intimate: some relationships cannot be established by intellectual calculation. We do not sit down and decide what place we should “give” to someone who already occupies a rightful place in our heart. The relationship is experienced and felt.

And then Gandhiji applies this directly to Jesus:

“Then I can say that Jesus occupies in my heart the place of one of the great teachers who has had considerable part in finding that place in my heart…” (343)

That last expression particularly interests me: “finding that place in my heart.”

Gandhiji does not speak as though he has generously allotted a place to Jesus. He recognises that Jesus has come to occupy a place in his heart. The distinction is subtle, but it is significant.

This gives me a way of expressing something I have believed for a long time.

For me, this comes close to what bhakti means: standing in a personal relationship without reservation. The devotee does not imagine that he or she is conferring greatness upon God, the Guru, or the great teacher. Rather, the devotee comes to recognise and feel the relationship that has been given.

Here I am taking Gandhiji’s illustration into my own reflection; he himself does not use the word bhakti in this passage. But his distinction between giving and feeling helps me express something that I already strongly believed.

In that relationship, God does not become God because I give Him a place. A great teacher does not become great because I accept him. The place is not created by my act of acceptance. What changes is my own relationship to the one whom I have come to recognise.

And this leaves me with a question which I find both amusing and serious:

Who is really accepting whom?

When I say, “I accepted Christ,” the sentence seems to place me in the position of the one who is doing the accepting. But if Christ is the one whom I recognise as greater than myself, should I not approach the relationship with greater humility? What have I actually given Him?

Perhaps what I can say is not that I have magnanimously given Christ a place, but that I have been given the grace to feel His place.

This does not make the devotee’s response unimportant. Acceptance, surrender, devotion and love are real. But they do not confer greatness upon the one to whom they are offered. They express what has happened in the heart of the devotee.

That is why Gandhiji’s distinction between giving and feeling speaks to me so strongly.

It also protects us from making devotion into an intellectual exercise. Gandhiji says that it would be “a most terrible thing, a tragic thing” to argue intellectually about what place one should give one’s wife in one’s heart. His point is precisely that such a relationship cannot be established by intellectual calculation. It is “a matter purely for feeling”.

For me, this is where his words touch something very close to bhakti.

I may think that I am giving.

But perhaps I am simply learning to feel.

And perhaps that is the more humble posture of a devotee: not to imagine that I have given a place to the One whom I worship, but to be grateful that I have been given the grace to recognise and cherish the place that is already there.

Gandhiji gives me the distinction. The larger reflection is mine.

And that is precisely why I value it.

Ashram, September 25, 2026

229.

Notes: 2 The Principal of the College had asked Gandhiji what place he would
give to Christ among the great world teachers not as a divine instructor, but
as a man and a teacher.

Source:

SPEECH AT CENTRAL COLLEGE, JAFFNA
November 29, 1927. The Hindu, 2-12-1927. 

CWMG, vol. 35, pp. 342-43. mkgandhi.org