I would like to use article 18 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as the starting point of my presentation on religious freedom as a universal human right. Many of us are already familiar with it; allow me however to spell it out nevertheless. This is what it says:

Everyone has the right to freedom of thought, conscience and religion; this right includes the freedom to change his religion or belief, and freedom, either alone or in community with others and in public or private, to manifest his religion or belief in teaching, practice, worship and observance[1].

I would like to advance three propositions, using article 18 just read out as the tee off point. The three propositions then may be stated as follows:

1. That the concept of religious freedom articulated in this article presupposes a certain concept of religion, a concept associated with Western religion and culture;
2. That a different concept of religion, associated with Eastern religion and culture, leads to a different concept of religious freedom; and
3. That unless human rights discourse is able to harmonize these two concepts of religious freedom, ironically but not surprisingly, the clash of the two concepts might ultimately result in the abridgment of religious freedom in actual practice.

I

The concept of religious freedom as embedded in the article cited earlier is based on a particular concept of religion. It presupposes that an individual can only belong to or profess one religion at a time. Were this not the case the idea underlying the article that religious freedom implies the right to change one’s religion would not make much sense. Freedom then boils down to the freedom to change.

It is important to note that the idea—that one may belong to only one religion at a time—is shared by both the religious as well as the secular traditions of the West. Some have argued—notably W.C. Smith—that whether a religion is a reified entity is a modern Enlightenment idea. But the idea that one can belong to only one religion is part and parcel of both the religious legacy of the West—through the Abrahamic religions—and its secular legacy—through Enlightenment.

If one believes that one can only belong to one religion at a time, then it stands to reason that religious freedom would essentially consist of one’s freedom to change such affiliation by the voluntary exercise of choice.

II

In parts of the East, however, one encounters a somewhat different notion of religion. Many Chinese colleagues have told me that typically the well-read and well-bred Chinese did not look upon himself as being either a Confucian, or a Daoist or a Buddhist exclusively in pre-communist China. The question whether he belonged to one or the other had a certain artificiality about it. He or she was typically steeped in all three to varying degrees and he or she may have his or her preference—but, and this is the important point—preference did not imply exclusion. The contemporary reality of China is of course different. But the point gains in force when considered in the light of the contemporary reality of Japan. According to the 1991 census, 95% of the population of Japan declared itself as followers of Shinto and 76% of the same population also declared itself as Buddhists.

If we talk of China and Japan, India cannot be far behind. It is well-known that most modern Hindus do not regard the various religions of Indian origin—Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism—as mutually exclusive religions. If the Indian census-takers did not insist that one can only belong to one religion—significantly a British legacy—I would not at all be surprised if the Indian religious statistical reality began to resemble the Japanese.

What would the concept of religious freedom possibly mean in the context of such a concept of religion? I would like to propose that it would now imply the idea of multiple religious participation rather than the idea of religious conversion. Mahatma Gandhi was once asked: What if a Hindu comes to feel that he can only be saved by Jesus Christ? Gandhi’s reply may be paraphrased thus: Good for him, but why should he cease to be a Hindu? Thus in the Eastern cultural context, freedom of religion means that the person is left free to explore his or her religious life without being challenged to change his or her religion. Such exploration need not be confined to any one religion, and may freely embrace the entire religious and philosophical heritage of humanity. Thus conversion is banned in Nepal and the rationale for such a policy is also couched in the rhetoric of religious freedom—that religious freedom means each religion being left to grow and develop on its own, without interference from other religions. Interestingly, even Islamic Indonesia subscribes to such a concept of religious freedom, where conversion from any one of the five religions so acknowledged—Hinduism, Buddhism, Islam, Catholicism, and Christianity (Protestantism)—to the other is forbidden. This model has its positive side in terms of preserving pluralism. It however assumes a Western concept of religion and should be distinguished from the Eastern model which questions an exclusive concept of religion itself. It will perhaps be a point of interest for students of religion that in the Indonesian perspective Catholicism and Protestant Christianity are two distinct religions. But I digress.

III

I can now advance to, and advance, the third proposition. According to one concept of religion—herein dubbed Western—freedom of religion consists of freedom to change one’s religion when faced with a religious option. According to another concept of religion—herein dubbed Eastern—freedom of religion consists of not having the need to do so when faced with such an option.

Recent events in India indicate that the simultaneous operation of these two concepts can lead to religious volatility. India’s religious culture is heavily imbued with the Eastern concept of religion, India’s political culture relies heavily on the Western concept of it. I would now like to conclude by saying that the tensions now building up in India lend a certain urgency to our deliberations of this third proposition: because its forebodings are being borne out. A number of states in India have introduced Freedom of Religious Bills. One is not certain whether it is sheer naiveté or a highly developed sense of irony which accounts for this nomenclature, for the proponents of both Western and Eastern concepts of religion have begun to allege that such legislations restrict religious freedom. These legislations require prior clearance from the government authorities before a conversion can be carried out. Hindus are resentful because conversion is thereby still allowed; Christians are resentful because conversion is thereby impeded!

[1] Tad Stahnke and J. Paul Martin, eds., Religion and Human Rights: Basic Documents. (Columbia University: Centre for the Study of Human Rights, 1998) p.59.

In dealing with a religious tradition one should realize that the truth does not always lie in front of us. Religious traditions are not monolithic, and the very fact that we are looking at one thing can mean that we may be overlooking something else. Religious traditions are not static, they are changing even as we are looking at them, just like a top which seemed stable when spinning but is really in constant motion. Moreover, a religious tradition always possesses a quality over and above its contents, a fact one is likely to overlook if one looks only at the existing contents.

These remarks create the mental space for the recognition that religions can be a positive factor in matters of population and development, contrary to their popular image. Take the question of family size for example. Almost all the influential figures in the world’s religions had small families. Rāma, the popular God of Hinduism, had two sons; the Buddha had one son; Mahāvīra, the last prophet of Jainism, had one daughter (if that); Guru Nānak, the founder of Sikhism, was survived by two sons; Confucious had one son; Lao-Tzu, the founder of Taoism, none. Abraham had two sons and two daughters; Moses had two sons; Jesus none, and Prophet Muhammad was survived by a daughter.

Thus while we may have some reservations about the composition of the families in terms of gender equality, there can be no denying the fact that the example of all these major figures could work more powerfully to vindicate the norm of a small-sized family than all the posters in the world.

Scholars have distinguished among several forms of dialogue.[1] Eric J. Sharpe, for instance, distinguished between four types of dialogue,[2] which may also overlap:

(1) Discursive Dialogue: a candid exchange of opinions and ideas through discussion among participants of different religions;

(2) Human Dialogue: a “meeting in which persons are to meet as persons rather than as believers in a particular religious tradition; it is a meeting at the level of common humanity;”[3]

(3) Secular Dialogue: where secular concerns such as economic development overrule the religious differences of the participants;

(4) Interior Dialogue: which consists of a sharing of religious experience.

In respect to this classification the suggestion has been made by Robert A. Stephens that, out of these four categories, human dialogue as a category of its own right ought to be deleted. He adduces the following reasons for taking such a step:

(1) If we are dealing with dialogue in a religious context, then to “focus merely on common ground of shared humanity may not be religious in any sense of the word; it is the necessarily common ground between believers and non-believers.”[4]

(2) If indeed such a dialogue were to occur, “if there is a meeting on this common ground, what does one meet about—common humanity or aspects thereof? It could then be categorized as secular dialogue.”[5]

(3) Stephens argues, citing Sharpe in support that “it is somewhat unrealistic to prescind from religious conviction, one’s own or another’s. Is the other really treated as a fully human person, as a fully other, if we prescind from his fundamental convictions?”[6]

From these arguments Stephens concludes that human aspect of dialogue is so basic to any form of dialogue that it is virtually meaningless to treat it as a form of dialogue. He writes:

I would therefore see consciousness of common humanity (with the mutual respect that it should entail) as that which ought to be the presumed common ground in dialogue of any type…. human dialogue could hardly exist in its own right. If the term is used to refer to the “dialogue” of simply sharing in everyday living, then the word is being used in a very broad sense indeed. In an Indian village, Hindus, Muslims and Christians may live in harmony and respect each other, but this co-existence does not necessarily indicate the presence of any type of dialogue.[7]

II

In the rest of this paper I shall argue that the category of Human Dialogue be retained as a form of dialogue, because the arguments adduced by Stephens against it are capable of being rebutted and because fresh arguments in support of the category can be advanced.

(1) It is doubtless true that human dialogue need not be religious in the usually accepted sense of the term, but the crucial point to be considered here is the meaning of the word religion. If we restrict the meaning of the term religion to the usually accepted religious traditions of mankind[8] then his point has considerable force but if we take into account some “modern manifestations of religious instinct” such as Jungian “depth” psychology and Marxian Communism,[9] for instance, then the position may have to be revised. Next, if we could take the idea of Humanism[10] itself seriously or worked with “open definitions” of religion, then the point will have to be again re-assessed.[11] Moreover, a Christian-Marxist dialogue could possibly fall in this category if the common humanity of ideologically differing human beliefs is emphasized.

(2) One should not be too dismissive of common humanity as the meeting ground of dialogue because, to the extent that one particularizes oneself as a follower of a religious tradition, to that extent one does compromise one’s common humanity. One has only to recognize that Buddha did not preach to Buddhists but to human beings and likewise Christ, to recognize the force of this argument. It may, therefore, be not altogether out of place, even in a dialogue among traditional religions, to draw attention to the common humanity of the participants, which may be lost sight of in the particularity of one’s commitment to one’s own tradition.

(3) It might be an interesting point to consider what is left in common if everyone’s religious convictions are either rescinded or retained. For this would impart an interesting dimension to the dialogue. The Gandhian experiment in basic education under the so-called Wardha scheme is of interest here. In our modern terminology Gandhi would probably be considered strong on dialogue, and one disposed to encourage it. Yet in the Wardha Scheme: “Sectarian religious instruction was deliberately omitted from the plan, for which Gandhi was roundly criticized. Although he too was deeply convinced personally that all religions are true, he did not propose the teaching of a syncretistic universal religion but only basic morality. Gandhi wrote: ‘Fundamental principles of ethics are common to all religions. These should be regarded as adequate religious instruction so far as the schools under the Wardha scheme are concerned.’”[12]

(4) The concept of natural theology can also be related to that of human dialogue. Natural theology is usually contrasted with revealed theology[13] but if is taken in the sense of religious or moral consciousness in man as such, rather than as manifested in a particular religious tradition, then it becomes potentially relevant to human dialogue. Thus the Education Commission of 1882 in British India recommended “that an attempt be made to prepare a moral text-book, based upon the fundamental principles of national religion, such as may be taught in all Government and non-Government Colleges.”[14] The proposal was not accepted[15] but it is clear that the votaries of different religions relating to one another through such a book are probably best seen as parties to a human dialogue.

III

It is clear, therefore, that given the current religious situation of the world, the trends in the definition of religion and in the dialogue of world religions, the category of Human Dialogue serves a useful purpose.

An earthquake does more than shake up the world, it shakes up our worldview. It forces us to ask that most difficult question of all: Why? And not just why me but why us? If it is just I, perhaps it is the retribution of some secret vice of mine catching up with me but if there are so many, a change in quantity does amount to a change in quality (pace Marx). In an earthquake the scale creates the phenomena, and similarly, philosophically and theologically, the scale creates the issue: it can no longer be buried.

Why should a natural disaster such as an earthquake occur at all—claiming so many innocent lives.

What causes an earthquake?

There are three distinct although interrelated ways of answering this question: through science, through God and through karma.

The principle of causation involved is a natural one from the point of view of science. Earthquakes occur on account of subterranean fault lines. They are the result of tectonic activity and if we happen to be at the wrong place then this is a random happening. We live in a world of scientific causation in which our fate is determined by statistical contingency. Just because we happened to suffer as a result, we search for a “deeper meaning” in our suffering. But perhaps we should have the courage to stop at the surface and resist the temptation to be unduly profound. Science deals with causes, not purpose. What purpose does a volcano have in blowing up? It is a wrong question to ask—for purpose presupposes a conscious principle at work and if no such principle exists then one is helpless! But would one not rather feel guilty than helpless?

One strand in religious thinking, as opposed to the secular thinking described above, identifies God as this supreme conscious principle. Once we do that the whole line of questioning takes a different turn. When causation becomes conscious, it acquires a moral dimension. Now one can speak of the will of God at work. One is compelled to ask, like Yesica del Carmen Berrius, the coffee picker, who reacted to the killer earthquake that struck El Salvador, by asking: “What have we done that God has punished us like this?” (Time, January 29, 2001, p. 5). The natural fault-lines of science turn into moral fault-lines in theology. We run into the problem of Job and come out with the conventional response from theism—that the will of God is inscrutable. The gulf fixed between us creatures and the creator is so vast that we cannot comprehend God’s actions no matter how hard we try, no more than a dog can comprehend his master’s. Some religious scholars, like Rabbi Kushner, have proposed a less forbidding response, also echoed in process theology, that God is doing his best to manage the world but sometimes he slips up too. In that sense to err is not just human. But to err is human too and the tragedy could in some way be a punishment for our sins.

This is what the moralist Mahatma Gandhi precisely claims that the earthquake which devastated Bihar in India in 1934 was: God’s punishment for the sin of untouchability practiced by the Hindus. At this the humanist but also rationalist Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore joined the issue with him, for promoting irrational and even superstitious thinking.

The principle of Karma plays a key role in the Hindu moral universe, a principle which can operate on its own, like any natural law, such as that of gravitation. Many victims of the recent earthquake in India would then tend to account for the suffering inflicted by the earthquake in terms of past karma. But just as there were two views regarding the extent God might be complicit, there are two views on how Karma might be involved. Suffering would be the present outcome of the past misdeeds of the victims experienced collectively, according to the more fatalistic version of Karma. According to a more Buddhist version, however, only a Buddha’s insight could determine whether the actual earthquake was a purely natural event, or in the nature of a moral event, involving punishment for bad Karma. And if bad Karma, whose bad Karma? Is the Chinese occupation of Tibet the outcome of past bad Karma of the Tibetans, or simply the perpetration of bad present Karma by the Chinese?

Note that all these lines of explanation involve a profound ambiguity. First, science. The universe as it hangs out there is existentially ambiguous—one could offer a purely scientific account of it and one could offer an equally convincing theistic or karmic account of it. Second, God. Even if we accept the theistic view we face an ambiguity—is it the outcome of our failing or God’s failing? Third, Karma. If we decide to go past God and rely on Karma, we still face an ambiguity as to whether the earthquake was a karmic or a natural event.

So our suffering is clear but our responses—whichever route we take—lead us into an ambiguity. But should we then give way to despair?

I don’t think so. For ambiguity contains within it the possibility of choice. In fact ambiguity makes our choice genuine. If we knew for certain that the earthquake was the outcome of only natural causes or divine causes or Karmic causes, would we be free human beings? For if with ambiguity comes choice, then with choice comes freedom.

After all, no matter to which chain of causation one is bound, one is entirely free to come to the help of the victims. In such altruism then, at another level, one may find the glorious resolution of ambiguity.

One person who perished in the devastating earthquake in Bhuj in Gurarat, India, was a school teacher who used to ask his students “What remains when everything is lost?”

As he is no longer with us to provide the answer, I must: “The future.”

During the period of the heavy interaction between India and the West during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, the West did not succeed in converting Indians to Christianity on an appreciable scale. This fact has obscured what it did achieve—it converted its intelligentsia not to Christianity but to the Christian concept of religion—not to the West’s religion but to the West’s concept of religion. This concept of religion was employed by this intelligentsia both during the period of British Raj and after, to describe the Indian “religious” reality, which does not quite conform to it. Hence its use to describe this reality, in the process of reflecting it, also reshaped it. According to this Western concept of religion one can only belong to one religion at a time, while the Indic concept of religion permits multiple religious affiliation. This was doubly unfortunate: It was unfortunate for the West failed to benefit by not taking the Indic concept of religion into account in its conceptualization of religion, a failure apparent in human rights documents available in the West, abetting the charge that human rights discourse is Western, and it was unfortunate for India: By forcing Indian religious reality into a Western conceptual constraints it thereby distorted it and exported to India the problems the Western concept of religion had created in the West.

The reformulation of intellectual discourse in a way in which it takes the Indic concept of religion as seriously as the Western might help solve both the problems.

I was coming out of the staff club when I ran into a colleague going into it. I changed direction and went in with him. It was a pleasant dinner and by the time we all worked our way to its conclusion someone managed to say: “But surely reason is universal.”

“Is it?”

“Well, if you have scientists from U.S.A. and U.S.S.R. and France and Britain and Japan at a conference, they are able to arrive at conclusions in common.”

“True but you also have controversy in science, with scientists differing among themselves.”

“But they can always appeal to empirical verification to establish whose reasoning is correct through experiment, or through observation as in the case of astronomy.”

“But to the extent that a line of reasoning is verifiable it is extra-subjective and the way to really settle an issue is to make it extra-subjective. Reason, however, is intra-subjective, and it remains in the realm of reason only to the extent that it is debatable.”

“No. Your approach draws a fundamental distinction between science and other forums of reasoning but the scientific method is only one form of reasoning. As a matter of fact there is no such thing as the scientific method.”

“There isn’t?”

“No. A lot of work has been done on this point by philosophers of religion.”

“But if reason is so universal in its operation and the scientific method, so to say, also falls in the domain of reason, then why do scholars agree that the earth is spherical (pace the Flat Earth Society) but do not agree whether God exists or not?”

“Because in the latter case there are good reasons for and against and because science, so to say, is a special case of reason.”

“It is so special that its conclusions command an acceptance denied to reason in its other applications?”

“But in its other applications too reason should command the same acceptance,” said the colleague. He was by now on his cup of coffee and I on my cup of tea.

“Then why do scholars differ so sharply in other realms of reason?”

“Because the correct reasoning has not yet been established.”

“But what constitutes correct reason. Or better still, what is reason anyway?”

“It cannot be defined but surely what is reasonable is clear enough.”

“Perhaps to reasonable people,” I said.

“We are talking of reasonable people.” My friend would not let my obiter dictum slip by.

“Then why do even reasonable people differ?”

“Because reason has not yet fully worked out the issue.”

“That sounds reasonable,” I said. “But could not what is considered reasonable be culture-bound?”

“Give an example.”

“Well. It was considered reasonable in medieval times in the Christian West that biblical authority should be accepted in matters related to the physical universe. This was not considered reasonable in Hindu thought for instance, wherein the scope of scriptural authority was limited to matters of morality and salvation, so there is a difference of opinion here regarding the field in which reason can be applied.”

“But these matters as to the field in which reason could be applied can be settled by recourse to reason itself,” the colleague said.

“If it were,” I said, “why would even some scientists arrive at correct conclusions, verified by experiments, for the wrong reasons. I have been told that this has happened in the history of science. But then what is reason?”

“It’s a mystery,” the colleague said.

And we left it as such.

Modern Indian intellectuals never weary of directly or indirectly advocating secularism and of playing St. George against its great adversary communalism. The extent to which this antipodality has come to serve as a frame of reference in discussions in present-day India hardly needs any documentation. If it does, it is supplied by such books as Communalism and the Writing of Indian History (New Delhi: People’s Publishing House, 1969), and so on.

The purpose of this note is to demonstrate that a lot of the supposed attack on communalism is really tilting at windmills and the applauding of secularism blind adulation of the West. The use of the word communalism distorts the existing reality and the use of the word secularism projects a false idealism.

The realization which corrects both of these errors is the realization that the Indian religious scene has always been distinguished by religious pluralism—and that both the concepts of communalism and secularism involve a negation of this historical and contemporary reality. By interpreting history exclusively in terms of a single community or from the viewpoint of a single community, one distorts it. (It should be noticed that the Marxists are as capable of being communalists in this sense—if they interpret history exclusively from the point of view of one “community,” e.g. the working class. In this context the statement that the only ism Hinduism is really opposed to is fanaticism takes on a new significance.)

Similarly, by overlooking this pluralism or turning a blind eye to it in the name of secularism, one tries to obscure the fact of pluralism through a form of modern idealism. This is as dangerous as communalism, if not more, for while communalism distorts but does not totally ignore the fact of pluralism, secularism advocates an attitude which could easily lead to sweeping pluralism under the red carpet rolled out to greet the forces of modernism.

It would appear that both of these courses must ultimately be self-defeating, the first by trying to demolish pluralism through the dominance of one community and thereby encouraging a contrastive combative communalism and the latter by allowing these forces to continue unabated by pretending that the right kinds of textbooks, speeches and announcements on T.V. and radio are enough.

What is preventing the emergence of the solution is the wrong labeling of the situation—a wrong labeling of the problem as communalism and the solution as secularism.

The situation should be referred to as one of religious pluralism—the answer is the cultivation of interreligious communication. Indian society has always been pluralistic, and, although, occasionally this has led to conflict, by and large the issues have been faced through debate and the evolution of certain latitudinarianism in thought, combined with the acceptance of certain common ethical norms and a certain commonness of spiritual aspiration.

Thus the Government of India should consider seriously the implementation of the following recommendations of the University Education Committee of 1948-1949 which had Dr. S. Radhakrishnan as its Chairman:

(1) That all educational institutions start work with a few minutes for silent meditation;

(2) That in the first year of the Degree course lives of the great religious leaders like Gautama the Buddha, Confucius, Zoroaster, Socrates, Jesus, Sankara, Ramanuja, Madhva, Mohammad, Kabir, Nanak, Gandhi, be taught;

(3) That in the second year some selections of a universalist character from the scriptures of the world be studied.

(4) That in the third year, the central problems of the philosophy of religion be considered.

Two categories with which students of Buddhism are bound to become familiar, whether they focus on the Theravāda or the Mahāyāna forms of it, are prajñā and karuṇā. What follows are some observations on trends in Western intellectual history in the light of this distinction. In order for these observations to surface in the course of a general survey of modern intellectual history one might begin by rendering the word prajñā as cognition in English (in place of the more usual ‘insight’) and karuṇā as compassion. As a next step, one might then ask the question: What follows if we view compassion as a mode of cognition?

The suggestion is not as far-fetched as it might sound at first. It makes eminent sense in at least three ways. (1) Modern philosophical and scientific concepts of cognition are based on the subject/object dichotomy, with the implication that a conscious subject (the scientist) cognizes an object, if not inert then at least, radically different from the subject (matter, bacilli, etc.). However, the greater the extent to which the object of investigation possesses life or consciousness the more porous the distinction tends to become. (2) In the case of the study of human beings or shall we say, in the humanities, a very different view of the dichotomy needs to be taken. The psychiatrists represent the extreme case where the true scientific understanding itself consists of being able to cognize the inner mental and emotional states of the other human being. (3) There are some modes of knowing in which cognition presupposes compassion. In appreciating a dramatic performance, for instance, if one does not have com-passion for the suffering being depicted on the stage, the literary ‘cognition’ of the play itself would be impaired.

This prepares the ground for the following observations:

(1) While enlightenment in Buddhism involves the operation of both the factors, the Western Enlightenment, it seems, chose primary focus on only one of them: cognition.

(2) The synchronic presence of the two elements in Buddhism is replaced, as it were, by a diachronic movement in relation to Christianity. The emphasis on compassion in medieval Christianity was followed and replaced by an emphasis on Reason in the West. The recent questioning of the supremacy of Reason in the West is now allowing more room for the incorporation of compassion as cognition.

(3) Both Buddhism and Christianity, as well as the modern West, recognize the healing power of non-emotional involvement. This represents a striking fact. Thus we have the Arhat or the Bodhisattva who fully identifies with the suffering of the universe but never loses sight of the fact that the ultimate redemptive power lies in prajñā. In Christianity and the modern welfare state we have the social servants and the social workers who similarly do not allow the intense emotional involvement of the familial type to cloud their vision. The most concerned person, on witnessing an accident, calls the ambulance rather than jeopardizing the victim’s condition by spontaneous sentimental attempts to take care of him or her. The doctor, and further down the line, the scientist, similarly display a non-emotional involvement which does not preclude a humane sympathy from characterizing their actions, and even motivating their interest in medicine and science itself.

(4) In a sense cognition and compassion set the limits for each other. For instance, a sole focus on the cognitive aspect of the disease could make a doctor callous towards the patient. Similarly, an exclusively compassionate attitude, combined with lack of cognition, might cause one to give something to a patient which the patient craves but which will only serve to aggravate the illness. Similarly, these two—cognition and compassion—can be polarized or totalized. For instance, in the West, when it is Reason alone which was allowed to respond to the challenge posed by the quest for an ultimate reality, philosophy per se emerged. Then cognition and compassion, when the latter is represented by a confessional approach to reality, got polarized as philosophy versus theology. In India, when religion is regarded as the response of the entire human being (and not just Reason) to the whole of reality, then no distinction is drawn between the two—or even between philosophy and religion.

(5) The current movement known as “deconstruction” in Western thought leads one to ask the following question from a Buddhist point of view: If compassion had intellectually enjoyed as firm a place in Western thought as in the Buddhist, would a movement like deconstruction have emerged? The revolt of Reason represented by the Enlightenment was against revelation. If it now be claimed that reason has exhausted itself as a mode of knowing and revelation has already been discredited in this role—what does the West have to fall back on intellectually? This might not have been the case if compassion had been as primary a category in Western thought as revelation.

I

I would like to begin by explaining the task I have set out before myself, and why. When we review the religions of the world we encounter different concepts of the ultimate reality. To describe these various terms such as Semitic Monotheism, Hindu Panentheism, Confucian Agnosticism, Taoist Mysticism, Buddhist Transtheism, etc., have been used. You may be inclined to join issue with me on the appropriateness or otherwise of these distinctions but this is not the time to do so. For my purpose at the moment is merely to draw attention to the wide variety in the concepts of the ultimate. If this fact of diversity in the conception of the ultimate is challenged then my task shall be complicated and this is something we could pick up on again later. At the moment I would like to emphasize the fact of this diversity in the conceptions of the ultimate.[1] This is the first point. The second is that when we review the conception of the universe in the various religious traditions then we encounter a similar diversity of opinion. We encounter here Semitic Creationism, Hindu pulsating eternalism, Buddhist dependent coorigination, Confucian Realism, and Taoist Naturalism.[2] Again, if this fact of diversity about the nature of the universe were challenged then my task shall be complicated and this is something which could be picked up later. At the moment, again, I would like to emphasize the fact of the diversity in the conceptions of the universe.

I would also like to add that this diversity in the concepts of the ultimate and the universe seems to exist not only among the various traditions, that is, interreligiously but also within the various religious traditions themselves—in their different subtraditions or at different periods in history, that is, intrareligiously.[3] I shall, however, speak only of the major religious traditions as a whole.

To recapitulate then, when we survey the major religious traditions—by which, bowing to academic tradition—I mean Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, Confucianism, and Taoism[4]—we find a wide variety about the conceptions of the ultimate on the one hand and conceptions of the universe on the other. Now I am in a position to identify the task I have set before myself today—could it be that although the various religious traditions have different conceptions of the ultimate reality and different conceptions of the universe, they might agree on the nature of the relationship between the two? Their views on the nature of the ultimate may differ as also about the nature of the universe—but despite this could it be the case that they agreed on the nature of the relationship between the two items they are not agreed about?

II

There are two ways in which we could set out to accomplish our task: (1) We could survey the relationship between the ultimate reality and the universe in each tradition and try to formulate a generalization on the basis of such a survey or (2) we could define the various possible relationships that could exist, to start with, between the two—the ultimate reality and the universe, and see which category provides us with a catch-all net or at least one which will cover the maximum number of cases.

For reasons not entirely clear to me I have opted for the second procedure.

III

The various possible relationships which could exist between the ultimate reality and the world could be either obscure or recognizable. If recognizable they could either involve a relation of complete independence between the two or varying degrees of dependence. If dependence were involved, it could either be unilateral or bilateral (perhaps mutual is a better word here). If the dependence were unilateral it could mean either that the ultimate reality depended on the universe or the universe on the ultimate reality.

Let us now see if we can narrow the focus further. If the ultimate reality depended on the world, it could hardly be regarded as ultimate. If the relationship between the two was too obscure, our enterprise will come to a quick end. If the universe and the ultimate reality were quite independent of each other, the ultimate reality would have to be regarded as an ultimate reality and this in turn would raise the question whether it could be regarded as ultimate.

Thus before we proceed further, two ends of the spectrum of possible relationships are defined. The relationship, at least initially, may not be taken as too obscure for investigation, and the ultimate reality and the universe so independent, that the universe may lay claim to its own ultimacy.

Hence we are thrown into the range wherein the relationship may be unilateral or one of mutual dependence. An example of mutual dependence would be sonship depending on fatherhood and fatherhood on sonship.

Let us now see how far a model of unilateral dependence can carry us. Such unilateral dependence can be of three kinds: (1) temporal; (2) ontological; or (3) logical. To illustrate with examples from daily life: When a painter paints a picture at a point in time the painter possesses temporal priority; the screen can exist without the movie but not the movie without the screen, thus the screen possesses ontological priority; the “idea” of the chicken may be seen as preceding the chicken, in the chicken-egg debate, to make it intelligible, thus providing an illustration of logical priority. Now to apply the categories: In the first case, the ultimate reality is seen as creating the universe. At first sight this would seem to fit the Semitic religions neatly but not the Eastern ones wherein the universe as well as the ultimate reality in some sense may be viewed as eternal. However, trouble could arise from within even the Semitic tradition. It is true that a belief in creation ex nihilo would be consistent with the temporal dependence of the universe on the ultimate. However, the extent to which the Genesis account can be so interpreted has been debated. Unlike the English word creation, the Hebrew word for “creation” is used uniquely in that sense so it can be argued that we do not quite know what it means.[5] Again, the question of the universe being created out of nothing leads one to ask the further question—what is meant by nothing? Does it mean just nothing or no-thing, in the sense of matter existing without form. Medieval Jewish, Islamic and Christian scholasticism is rife with a discussion of such issues.[6]

One is, therefore, naturally led to a discussion of ontological dependence. If it is granted that the universe or matter in some form always exists then its relationship to the ultimate reality needs to be discussed. Now many religious traditions, it seems, would concede that whatever form this matter or universe may be in, it is ontologically dependent on the ultimate reality. That is to say, the ultimate reality could exist without it, but it could not exist without the ultimate reality. This would seem to be true of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, as well as of Hinduism in general (with the possible exception of Sāṅkhya in which universe could exist but not evolve without the ultimate reality of purusas).

But what about Confucianism, Taoism and Buddhism? In the case of Confucianism, or more properly neo-Confucianism, the relationship between li (principle) and chi (form) may be described as that of mutual dependence—but it is clear that Principle possesses on ontological priority according to the statements of the neo-Confucians themselves.[7] Even if this is disregarded, logical priority must be conceded, for although we do not know whether the egg came first or the chicken, the “principle” on which the chicken is formed must be seen as prior to the chicken, not on a sequential but a structural view. Similarly, the priority of the Tao can be clearly established on the basis of the opening statement of the Tao-te-ching.[8]

The careful observer would have noticed that in moving to Confucianism, Taoism and Buddhism, sometimes the concept of ontological priority had to be replaced by that of logical priority when the ontological connection between the ultimate and the universe became too close. But when they seem to be fused, as in forms of Mahayana Buddhism, the situation becomes rather complex. For if “Saṁsāra and Nirvāṇa are the same” and “Form is Emptiness and Emptiness is Form” then how are we to establish the ultimacy of one over the other? Here, however, two points need to be borne clearly in mind: (1) The kind of description mentioned above belong to the world of samvṛtta satya or the relative plane as opposed to the paramārtha satya or the Absolute, identified with Śūnyatā. But the distinction between the Absolute and the Relative is itself a product of the relative realm of discourse, so that ultimately only the Absolute exists and must possess ontological primacy, the Relative being dependent on the Absolute. (2) Whatever be said of Nirvāṇa and Śūnyatā, and its relation to the world, the fact that salvation lies in the realization of Nirvāṇa or Śūnyatā is not challenged.

The case of Mahayana Buddhism, however, can pose a tough problem when looked at from another point of view. If the universe and the ultimate are seen as interpenetrating each other, in such a tight embrace that they can’t be separated, then the ontological priority of the ultimate is thrown in doubt on account of complete mutual dependence. In this case, even invoking logical priority may not prove very helpful because the idea of logical priority can be seen as assailing the logic of logic itself, something the Mādhyamika School is notorious for. It will be noted, however, that the Ultimate, be it Emptiness or whatever, still possesses axiological priority.[9]

IV

The foregoing discussion suggestions the following conclusions. (1) As relationship necessarily involves relata, it involves a fundamentally dualistic world-view. Thus those world-views which regard the ultimate as “none” (Mādhyamika Buddhism) or “one” (Advaita Vedānta) tend to fall off the table if the point is pressed too far.

(2) If both the Ultimate and the universe are eternal, their co-eternalism shifts the gear into that of ontological priority. If the universe itself is regarded as ultimate one ends up with some form of scientific materialism or Marxism.

(3) The more intimate the contact, or the greater the measure of mutual dependence between the Ultimate and the universe, the greater is the pressure to move from temporal, through ontological to logical and finally towards axiological priority.

(4) Temporal, ontological and logical priorities imply axiological priority automatically. The Creator has more “value” than creation, the independent over the dependent, etc.

(5) The final conclusion then is that all the diverse religions agree on the axiological priority of the Ultimate. But isn’t that why it is Ultimate one might say, to begin with? Or, one might ask, does the end provide the beginning and the conclusion becomes the introduction.

Some modern human rights, such as freedom of religion, were won in opposition to established religions and this may have helped generate the broader impression that religions are opposed to human rights.

A project was initiated in 1993 to look into what had so far been an unexamined relationship between religion and human rights. It is called The Project on Religion and Human Rights and was located in New York.

The aspect of the Project I worked most closely with, in close collaboration with Professor Harvey Cox of Harvard University, addressed the issue whether religions can serve as positive resources for human rights. As we investigated the issue we began to shed our initial scepticism in this regard and began to identify examples from each religion which can help enlarge the scope of human rights—as envisaged in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights of December 10, 1948. The following examples might serve to substantiate this claim.

(1) Hinduism. Article 3 of the Declaration of Human Rights states that everyone has the right to life. Those familiar with Hinduism know that the traditional Hindu blessing alludes not just to life but longevity (āyuṣmān bhava) as well. Should then not longevity be added to the right to life, thereby securing the right for human beings against life-threatening pollution and a host of other factors?

(2) Buddhism. Section 1 of Article 17 confers on “everyone the right to own property alone as well as in association with others.” In the Buddhist Saṅgha, however, property is not merely held in association with others but is held by it as an association and its just use is also enjoined. The existing Article could certainly benefit from the Buddhist example.

(3) Confucianism. In Confucian China, a doctor was paid inversely in relation to the number of patients treated, for the physician’s function was envisaged as keeping people in good health. Article 25, which accords to everyone the right to adequate health, could benefit from this insight.

(4) Taoism. Article 16 identifies the nuclear family as virtually the basic social unit but Taoism, as well as African religions, place much more emphasis on the community. The recognition of community rights thus becomes important.

(5) Judaism. Under the Law of Return passed by the Israeli Parliament in 1950, every Jew is automatically granted Israeli citizenship upon entering Israel, a crucial provision if the widespread persecution of the Jews is kept in mind. Article 14 of the Declaration, which only grants the right to asylum from prosecution, thus suffers by comparison.

(6) Christianity. Certain forms of Christianity practice institutionalized monasticism. Article 24 accords to everyone the right to rest and leisure form one’s work but not the right to retire from such work itself, which is upheld by the monastic orders not only of Christianity but other religions as well.

(7) Islam. Under Islamic Law compelling need is a mitigating factor in determining punishment, as in the case of theft. This brings with it the realization that the Articles of the Declaration of Human Rights should not be read in an isolated way. Thus Islam teaches us that Article 17—the right to own property—must be read with Article 25—which confers the right to an adequate standard of living.

Thus virtually every major religion has some insight to offer in the manner in which human rights are understood. If it is recognized that in their own day religions were great humanizing influences, that Christianity condoned slavery to avert a greater evil of genocide for instance, then we will be able to take a more positive view of religion as positive resources for human rights. Do I not destroy an enemy, Abraham Lincoln is believed to have said, when I make him a friend.