The confessions of an atheist

Catching religion at the Sagrada Familia

Hola All,

I recently visited the, still incomplete, Sagrada Familia basilica in Barcelona. The front façade, which depicts the nativity, is a cross between theme park and rocket ship; the overall kinetic energy of the structure overwhelms the eye. George Orwell famously called it, “One of the most hideous buildings in the world.” But although I can imagine it not being to everyone’s taste, I beg to differ.

The Sagrada Familia is maximalist; a celebration of “why not more?” rather than, “less is better.” I am accretive by nature: in matters of identity as much as aesthetics, which makes Antonio Gaudi, the basilica’s principal architect, a perfect match for me. His masterpiece is one of the few spaces in the world where I catch religion.

It is in the bones of cathedrals to soar, and the Sagrada Familia for all its modernism, shares the vertiginous verticality of its medieval predecessors. Up, up, the ceilings go, shafts of light coloured by the stained glass illuminating the vast space like ethereal lasers. It is impossible to lift your eyes up to the magnificence and not feel your soul rise in tandem, even if like me, you are not all that convinced about souls in general and about souls needing salvation, in particular.  

This basilica is a sacred space. It is bordering on blasphemous to remain unmoved by it. Were I feeling wretched and forsaken, I believe I would find solace being here, cocooned by the hush and the illuminated dust motes.

The interior of the Sagrada Familia: Pic Credit: Pallavi Aiyar

But what do these words: sacred, profane, blasphemous, mean to someone who does not believe in God?

It feels uncomfortable putting it so baldly- for multiple reasons. To begin with, I come from an intransigently religious country, where religion is a condition, not an option. You are born a Hindu and any individual protestation about unbelief is brushed aside as a childish tantrum.  I remember telling an “uncle” that I was an atheist a few years ago, to which he’d smiled indulgently and said, “Beta aisa nahin kahte” (“hush, child we don’t say things like that”).

This social inability to be taken seriously as an unbeliever is complicated by the fact that I adore rituals, most of which are connected to religion. The excitement of decorating the house with diyas and rangoli in the lead up to Diwali was always worth the mild boredom of attending the prayers to Ganesh and Laxmi that accompanied the festivities. I willingly folded my hands in front of the painted clay deities of these gods, enjoying the wafting incense mingling with the scent of the offered flowers, singing devotional hymns and suspending belief to allow myself the fantasy of a supra-material force making me wealthy and wise.

I also looked forward to celebrating Eid with my Muslim neighbours because the food was delicious. And Christmas was inevitably fun: the tree and presents. I even attended midnight mass on Christmas eve, whenever I could. It was exciting to stay up late and I liked the music of the call and answer of the prayers:

Priest: The Lord be with you.
Congregation: And with your spirit

Do I believe in the Lord, God, Devatas, Allah? No. Do I believe they will make my wishes come true? No. Do I believe in heaven or hell or reincarnation. No.

But I do believe in rituals. They build solidarity, they are markers of identity and they are performed on special occasions, transforming ordinary days into the special, like birthdays. They answer a human yearning for connection, celebration, giving thanks, remembrance and beauty.  

As a humanist, I understand the human need to reach for something beyond the known, for the search for meaning, for faith when there is nothing else left. And so, while I do not personally have much truck with God, I am at ease with the belief of others.

I will accommodate my behaviour to that belief by covering my head if needed, folding my hands if asked to and listening attentively to prayers. I will bite my tongue and avoid arguments over faith, because it would be unhelpful to everyone concerned. I respect the religious customs of people because I respect people in general. This is tact in my book, not hypocrisy.

What I am not at ease with is religion being used to disrespect those who do not share the same faith. When belief is weaponized to exclude, to burn instead of to build, to demand obedience in lieu of critical thinking, to hurt, that belief becomes profane.

So, back to what I mean when I use words like sacred and profane. How does someone secular deploy these terms?

The sacred for me, I suppose, is something that inspires awe. Most often it has to do with the kind of beauty – natural or manmade – that short circuits rational thought and packs a direct, emotional punch. Moments when your eyes fill with tears because you are moved, even before you have the words to express why this is so.

A random sample of the sacred according to Pallavi:

A thicket of cherry blossoms in bloom.

A morning raga.

A flock of migrating cranes.

Little kids eating ice cream.

The silhouettes of distant mountains in shades of ink blue.

Puppies.

Silent spaces in crowded cities.

The Sagrada Familia.

Cherry blossoms in Tokyo. Pic Credit: Pallavi Aiyar

The profane is anything that desecrated or denigrates the sacred.

Thoughts?

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Until next week,

xoxo

Pallavi