Conscience at the Crossroads: Womb, Mercy and Creation

 

-Savio Saldanha SJ

DOI- 10.5281/zenodo.18279916

17-01-2026

Mercy from the Womb

            I did not intentionally set out to study the etymology of ‘Mercy’. The question came to me quietly, during a reading group conversation where we were speaking about mercy. A Syrian Jesuit, Mike Kassis, mentioned that in Arabic the word raḥma (رحمة) means mercy, and that it comes from raḥim (رحم), the womb. A Croatian Jesuit, Robert Matečić, agreed and added that in Hebrew we observe the same roots reḥem (רֶחֶם), womb and raḥamîm (רַחֲמִים), meaning mercy or compassion and also in Aramaic – the spoken language of Jesus – we notice the same root r-ḥ-m, with similar meanings: womb, tender mercy. For me this etymology seemed more than a coincidence, mercy and womb coming from the same word family.

            That short exchange stayed with me, unsettling something within me. I began to sense that this conversation had opened a new perspective for me, and yet it was also something that brought me to this crossroads of conscience. One path led to the way I had often heard mercy explained in Western theology while the other led back to the languages Jesus himself spoke and prayed and most importantly thought. This essay traces the path of my reflections.

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Mercy in the Semitic languages

            As stated earlier, in Hebrew the word reḥem means womb. From this word comes raḥamîm, mercy or compassion. Hence, we see that mercy is not just an idea, it is an actual place. This is a sacred place where life begins, where the weak are held and where growth happens in darkness and trust. It is a sacred place because in this place humans become co-creators with God. The Psalmist says in Ps.139:13-14, “For it was you who formed my inward parts; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made”. It will be interesting to note that Aramaic, the daily language of Jesus, shares the same root and so does Syriac, the language of early Eastern Christianity. Mercy is again linked to the womb which gives life before judging it.

            The Arabic language preserves this link with great clarity, Raḥim is womb, Raḥma is mercy. Even the most common names of God in Islam, al-Raḥmān and al-Raḥīm, speak of a mercy that shelters and brings forth life. Mercy here is not a response to failure but the very source of existence! Across these languages mercy is creative because it generates and sustains. Interestingly, it does not begin with guilt but with life.

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The Latin turn

            When Christianity moved into the Latin world the meaning shifted. Latin did not have the same root. Mercy became misericordia. The word joins miser, meaning wretched, and cor, meaning heart. Mercy now means a heart moved by another’s misery. Simply explained, I see someone in pain, and feel sympathy or empathy with that person.

            The image is no longer the womb, but the heart. Mercy becomes a reaction. Mercy responds to misery. It does not give birth. It forgives after the fact. Over time, this shaped theology. In practice, sin often came first and mercy followed. Law often stood before life. Suddenly, mercy was no longer ‘life-giving’, but became ‘life-saving’. In all this change the human conscience learned to ask, “Am I guilty?” more often than, “Am I alive?”

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The early Church

            In biblical theology, mercy (raḥamîm) is not merely pardon but, re-creation, restoration of life and even covenantal rebirth. Ezekiel 36 (very close to John 3!) speaks of water, new heart and a new spirit. All of this is the language of ‘creative mercy’ and not merely an emotion or reaction.

            The early Church Fathers still stood close to this biblical world. Greek and Syriac writers spoke of salvation as rebirth. Baptism was new creation, not only cleansing. God’s mercy was seen as a power that brings forth a new person. Especially in the Syriac tradition, the Spirit gives life like a mother; hence the Church is a place of birth. Mercy is not simply a weak kindness but a strong and patient love that forms Christ in us. Even in the Greek Fathers, mercy was linked to participation in divine life. God does not only overlook sin but shares life. As theology developed in the Latin West, moral order and legal clarity became more central. Much good came from this, but something quieter was lost. Mercy slowly became thinner, less of creative, and more of law.

            St. Augustine thought in Latin categories, when he wrote that, Grace heals the will, Mercy forgives guilt and thus, God’s love is paternal, judicial and sovereign. The maternal imagery never fully disappeared, but it was no longer structural. Thus, in Augustine, we see a careful articulation of guilt, grace, and healing, framed in a juridical vocabulary. Saint Augustine’s Latin articulation of grace and guilt remains a profound and necessary contribution, even if it speaks more readily in juridical and paternal language than in maternal metaphor. Later Western developments sometimes leaned heavily on this juridical line and muted the more maternal, creative metaphors. The juridical tradition that followed served a real pastoral need in its time, offering moral clarity and protection, even as it sometimes left less room for the older language of creative and generative mercy.

            What is striking is how Pope Francis and contemporary theology are retrieving the Syriac intuition. In Amoris Laetitia, we see multiple times that Pope Francis states, Mercy as source, not exception. He refers to the Church as mother, while stressing on discernment rather than legalism and accompaniment rather than judgment. When he speaks of mercy as: “God’s way of touching the human heart”, he is, actually moving back toward raḥmē, away from pure misericordia.

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Conscience at a crossroads

            This is where my conscience stands today. Many of us experience conscience as pressure, as a fear of failure and a list of rules to measure up to. Mercy is then reduced to an escape clause, something applied when we fall short. The Semitic vision challenges this, if mercy is womb-like, then conscience is not first a judge, but a place where life is being formed, slowly, sometimes painfully but always with care. This does not remove responsibility, but it changes its tone. Growth matters more than perfection. Direction matters more than control.

            I found that reading the Gospel with this lens changed how I heard Jesus. His Call was not first about moral sorting, but about new life and being drawn into the life of God. It becomes about mercy as the ground we stand on, not the exception we beg for. Mercy, understood in this way, does not cancel truth or human responsibility; rather, it creates the space in which truth can be faced and responsibility can be assumed without fear.

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Mercy as new creation

            To speak of mercy as a creative force is to return to the heart of Christian faith. In Christ, God does not only repair what is broken, but creates again. The womb-like images of mercy found in the biblical and Semitic tradition do not replace other images of God, but stand alongside them, enriching our faith by reminding us that God’s justice is always life-giving. This reshapes my perspective on mercy. I see the Sacraments become places of formation, and not reward. Moral life becomes response to life received, not a ladder to earn love. Conscience becomes a listening space, not only an alarm. At the crossroads where many believers stand, this matters. A conscience shaped only by law risks forgetting why it exists. St. Paul speaks of this when he says, ‘They show that what the law requires is written on their hearts, as their own conscience also bears witness, and their conflicting thoughts will accuse or perhaps excuse them’. (Rm.2 :15) A single conversation led me here. It helped me see that words carry worlds and that by listening to the roots of mercy, I came closer to the Gospel itself.

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References

 Biblical Texts

• The Holy Bible. New Revised Standard Version. Psalm 139:13–14; Ezekiel 36:25–27; Romans 2:15.

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Magisterial and Contemporary Church Teaching

• Francis. Amoris Laetitia. Apostolic Exhortation on Love in the Family. Vatican City, 2016.
  See especially §§6–9, 56–59, 296–312.
• Francis. Misericordiae Vultus. Bull of Indiction of the Extraordinary Jubilee of Mercy. Vatican City, 2015.
• Catechism of the Catholic Church. Vatican City, 1992. §§1996–2005 (grace), §§1422–1424 (sacraments of healing).

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Saint Augustine and the Latin Tradition

• Augustine of Hippo. Confessions. Translated by Henry Chadwick. Oxford University Press, 1991.
• Augustine of Hippo. On Nature and Grace. In Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, First Series, Vol. 5. Edited by Philip Schaff. Hendrickson, 1994.
• Augustine of Hippo. Enchiridion on Faith, Hope, and Love. Translated by J.F. Shaw. Regnery, 1955.

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Greek and Syriac Fathers

• Ephrem the Syrian. Hymns on Paradise. Translated by Sebastian Brock. St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1990.
• Ephrem the Syrian. Hymns on the Nativity. Translated by Kathleen McVey. Paulist Press, 1989.
• Aphrahat. Demonstrations. Translated by K. Valavanolickal. St Ephrem Ecumenical Research Institute, 2005.
• Gregory of Nyssa. On the Making of Man. Translated by H.A. Wilson. Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, Second Series, Vol. 5.
• Basil of Caesarea. On the Holy Spirit. Translated by Stephen Hildebrand. St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2011.

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Studies on Semitic Mercy and Syriac Theology

• Brock, Sebastian P. The Luminous Eye: The Spiritual World Vision of Saint Ephrem. Cistercian Publications, 1992.
• Schmemann, Alexander. Of Water and the Spirit. St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1974.
• Rahner, Karl. Foundations of Christian Faith. Crossroad, 1978.

At the Crossroads of conscience: Receiving the Eucharist on tongue or in hands?

 

-          Savio Saldanha SJ

DOI: 10.5281/zenodo.18247404

14-01-2026

 

Approaching the Altar: A Moment of Discernment

            It happens quietly, almost routinely. Whenever I am distributing the Eucharist, I see people with different manners of displaying their reverence, some walk up to you straight and receive the Eucharist on their hands, some kneel and receive it on their tongue, while others offer small bow and receive it either on their hands or tongue. Before joining the Society of Jesus, I would myself be in the same situation, I would step into the Communion line and as it moved towards the altar, beneath my calm exterior, many questions would surface: “Am I spiritually prepared to receive Christ? How should I receive Him?” The first question I believe is more important than the later, as it directly addresses the Core of Catholic belief. Yet, I often find myself a part of debates and discussions on the ‘correct’ manner of receiving the Eucharist. I believe this question places us at a ‘crossroads of conscience’.

            At this crossroad we can see the struggle between belief, logic and the Church Magisterium. This struggle invites us to introspect and decide the path God is asking us to take to reach Him. This struggle has the potential to be negative (causing judgment, pride, and division) but, if approached correctly can become positive. This article does not aim to argue that all options are equal, but I intend to help readers discern how to live the Church’s discipline in faith and charity.

            This brief moment—where the human reaches out toward the divine—is far from trivial. It is one of the most intense crossroads in Catholic life, where personal conscience, ecclesial tradition, and the mystery of the Eucharist converge. The manner of receiving Communion, far from being a purely external or mechanical choice, becomes an embodied expression of belief, reverence, and relationship with Christ truly present. It is also, whether we realize it or not, a moment that calls for ‘discernment’. Through this blog post, I shall try to find answer to this dilemma, struggle or debates. So if you feel pulled in different directions, you’re not alone. Let’s walk through this.

 

Norm and Indult: The Church’s Legal and Liturgical Language

            A responsible discussion of this issue must begin with clarity about the Church’s own discipline. Canonical language distinguishes between a norm, which expresses the Church’s universal practice, and an indult, which is a special permission granted by competent authority.

            Reception of Holy Communion on the tongue remains the normative practice of the Roman Rite. Reception on the hand exists by way of indult and was granted to Episcopal conferences under specific conditions. This distinction was articulated in Pope Paul VI’s 1969 instruction Memoriale Domini. While acknowledging that Communion in the hand had already emerged in some regions; the document firmly reaffirmed that “the apostolic custom of placing the Holy Eucharist on the tongue of the communicant must be retained” (Paul VI, Memoriale Domini, 1969).

            The document also expressed pastoral concern that a change in practice could contribute to a diminished sense of reverence or weaken belief in the Real Presence. So, from the Church’s own view, Communion on the tongue is the ideal. Communion in the hand is a permitted option, given with care.

 

A Theology of Receiving: Friendship and Sonship   

            Many faithful experience these prescriptions differently. For them the question is, ‘What expresses our relationship with Christ?’ Jesus’ declaration, “I no longer call you servants… I have called you friends” (John 15:15), shapes a relational spirituality that emphasizes closeness rather than distance. Standing and receiving in the hand can feel like an embodied affirmation of this friendship. St. Paul reminds believers that they have received not “a spirit of slavery” but “a spirit of adoption” (Romans 8:15). Within this framework, the Eucharist is experienced less as a court ritual and more as a family meal — an inheritance given to sons and daughters.

 

Eucharistic Realism and the Question of the Fragment

            Underlying the traditional preference for receiving on the tongue is a profoundly Eucharistic concern: the Church’s unwavering belief that Christ is fully present in every fragment of the consecrated Host. The Council of Trent defined that Christ is present “whole and entire” under each species and in each part of the species (Council of Trent, Session XIII, ch. 3).

            This teaching has concrete liturgical consequences. If even the smallest particle contains the fullness of Christ, then extraordinary care is required. This concern is echoed in the 2004 instruction Redemptionis Sacramentum, which insists on retaining the Communion paten precisely “to avoid the danger of the sacred host or some fragment of it falling” (Congregation for Divine Worship, Redemptionis Sacramentum, no. 93).

            From this perspective, receiving the Eucharist on the tongue is not merely a matter of custom or preference but a physical expression of Eucharistic faith—a bodily confession that this is not ordinary food, but the Lord Himself.

 

The Biblical Account of Judas

            When we turn to the Bible itself for clarity on how to receive the Eucharist, we find a scene that is both illuminating and sobering. At the Last Supper, Jesus "took the bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and gave it to his disciples" (Matthew 26:26). The Gospel does not specify whether Judas received the first Eucharist in his hand or on his tongue; the focus is entirely on the sacred gift and the tragic heart of the receiver. Based on the historical context of a shared Passover meal, scholars agree Judas almost certainly received the bread directly into his hand from Jesus Himself. This detail carries a profound lesson: Judas received the Lord's very Body from the Lord's own hand, yet his heart was closed to grace, already set on betrayal. The physical manner of his reception did not save him. This stark reality forces us to ask the more critical question—the one that truly matters at our own crossroads of conscience: It is important not merely how do I receive, but who am I as I receive? Am I, in this moment, a friend or a betrayer? The state of our soul, not the placement of the Host, is the altar upon which everything rests.

 

Engaging Contemporary Arguments and Culture

            The orthodox voices which are vocal on social media strongly emphasize that Communion on the tongue is the only truly reverent option and imply — explicitly or implicitly — that Communion in the hand represents a theological and liturgical decline. Many commenters echo this conclusion, often framing the issue in moral absolutes.

            While the Church fully affirms the importance of reverence and has clear reasons for preferring reception on the tongue historically, the Magisterium does not teach that receiving in the hand, where permitted, is sinful or inherently irreverent. The danger of social-media discourse is that it can collapse legitimate theological preference into moral judgment, creating division where the Church herself allows diversity.

            Another frequent claim appeals to early Church practice, arguing that Communion in the hand is “ancient” and therefore fully traditional—or conversely, that modern practice represents a rupture. Historically, the reality is more complex. Early Christian reception practices varied, and the Western Church gradually adopted reception on the tongue precisely to protect Eucharistic faith as theological clarity about the Real Presence developed. What the Church permits today reflects ‘development of discipline’, not contradiction of doctrine.

            Arguments about physical cleanliness and hygiene often dominate popular discussions. Some of the critics claim that hands are not pure and so the Eucharist should be received on the tongue. It must be noted that, from a theological standpoint, neither hands nor tongue are “pure” before God. Hence what ultimately matters is the state of the receivers soul, not the relative sterility of body parts (cf. Matthew 15:11). These perspectives highlight the symbolic power of posture and gesture, reminding us that how we receive shapes how we understand who we are before God.

            I agree the critics rightly warn against casual reception and loss of Eucharistic awe and this concern is deeply valid. However, I also believe that reverence cannot be reduced to posture alone. As the Gospel account of ‘The last supper’ shows, without interior faith, even the most traditional gestures risk becoming performative. Conversely, where catechesis is strong and faith alive, legitimate external forms can truly express devotion.

            The Church does not teach that receiving the Eucharist in the hand (where allowed) is a sin. The problem with online fights is they turn a personal call into a public test. They create division where the Church herself allows for choice. The call for more reverence is right and good. But reverence isn’t just in the posture. If your heart isn’t in it, the most perfect gesture is just an empty show. And if your heart is full of faith, then either permitted way can be a true act of love.

 

The Magisterium: Doctrine, Discipline, and Interior Disposition

            The Church’s Magisterium offers a rich and nuanced framework for holding these tensions together. While affirming legitimate diversity of practice where permitted, it consistently emphasizes reverence, faith, and interior preparation.

            The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches unequivocally that in the Eucharist “the Body and Blood, together with the soul and divinity, of our Lord Jesus Christ and, therefore, the whole Christ is truly, really, and substantially contained” (CCC 1374). Because of this, the Eucharist demands an attitude of adoration, humility, and awe. The Catechism further insists that external gestures—kneeling, silence, careful handling of the sacrament—are not optional add-ons but integral expressions of faith (cf. CCC 1387).

            At the same time, the Catechism reminds the faithful that fruitful reception depends above all on interior readiness. One must examine one’s conscience, be in a state of grace, and approach the sacrament with faith and love (CCC 1385). Again we come to the point that external correctness without interior conversion remains insufficient.

            Recent papal teaching reflects this balance. Pope Benedict XVI consistently emphasized receiving Communion on the tongue while kneeling as a visible antidote to the “casualization” of the sacred, particularly in cultures where Eucharistic faith has weakened. Pope Francis, while affirming the Church’s discipline, repeatedly stresses that the heart of authentic worship lies in humility, mercy, and openness to grace rather than in external precision alone (Francis, Evangelii Gaudium, no. 95). The Magisterium thus refuses both extremes: it neither reduces the Eucharist to a private, informal encounter nor allows reverence to harden into empty ritualism, rather in these teachings we find a balance of faith, and openness to receive Jesus in authentic worship.

 

Ignatian Discernment: Listening to the Movements of the Heart

            It is here — after doctrine, discipline, and theology have been respected — that Ignatian discernment becomes especially helpful. St. Ignatius of Loyola teaches that God guides the soul through interior movements of consolation and desolation, drawing the person toward deeper faith, hope, and love (Spiritual Exercises, nos. 313–336).

            The question, then, is not simply: ‘Which option is allowed?’ Rather, ‘Which manner of receiving helps me love God more and serve my neighbor better?’ Does receiving on the tongue deepen humility, reverence, and awe? Does receiving in the hand foster gratitude, intimacy, and trust? Or does either option feed distraction, pride, or indifference?

            Ignatian discernment does not relativize truth, nor does it dismiss Church teaching. Rather, it invites the believer to notice how concrete practices shape the heart over time. A choice that consistently leads to greater charity, prayerfulness, and reverence is likely aligned with God’s grace. So if receiving the Eucharist on tongue gives me peace and makes me feel the awe of receiving Christ, then I should do so. But, if in doing so, I feel pride, being superior to those who are receiving the Eucharist on their hands, then these movements are not from God. So this choice is a physical prayer. It’s your body saying, “This is not just bread. This is my God.”

 

Conclusion: The First Altar Is the Heart

            At this crossroads, we need to hold two truths together, not choose one. The first truth is awe: If this is really God, then no sign of respect is too much. Our actions shape what we believe. We are approaching a mystery far greater than us. The second truth is love: Jesus gave us this food out of friendship, not fear. He invites us to come close. We are His family. This relational instinct reminds us that grace restores dignity and casts out fear. The Eucharist is not given to humiliate, but to nourish—to form believers into sons and daughters who live in freedom. In the end, the most important place we receive Communion is not in our hands or on our tongue, but in our heart.

            With a humble, faithful heart, whichever way we choose becomes a real meeting with the Lord. Without love, the most careful gesture becomes hollow. Without conversion, even the most correct posture risks becoming a performance. The proper way to receive Communion is the way that leads to deeper love of Christ truly present and Christ encountered in others. Approach the altar with attentiveness, humility, and faith. That is the place where the Lord most desires to dwell.

            So, come to the altar with that faithful heart. Make your choice from that place. Let it be the way that helps you receive not just the Host, but the Christ it carries, with all His love for you. That, my friend is the point of it all.

 

References

 Primary Sources (Magisterial Documents)

Congregation for Divine Worship and the Discipline of the Sacraments. Redemptionis Sacramentum: On Certain Matters to Be Observed or to Be Avoided Regarding the Most Holy Eucharist. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2004.

Francis. Evangelii Gaudium. Apostolic Exhortation. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 2013.

Paul VI. Memoriale Domini: Instruction on the Manner of Distributing Holy Communion. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1969.

Catechism of the Catholic Church. 2nd ed. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1997.

 Council Document

Council of Trent. Decree Concerning the Most Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist (Session XIII, October 11, 1551). In Decrees of the Ecumenical Councils, edited by Norman P. Tanner, vol. 2, 693–702. London: Sheed & Ward, 1990.

 Historical/Theological Work

Ignatius of Loyola. The Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola. Translated by Louis J. Puhl, S.J. Chicago: Loyola Press, 1951.

 Scripture

All biblical quotations are from the New American Bible, Revised Edition (NABRE). Washington, DC: United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2010.

 

 Postscript: A Word to Those Who Feel Hurt or Uneasy

            If this reflection has caused unease, resistance, or even hurt, I want to speak to you directly. Sometimes discomfort is not a sign that something is wrong, but that something important is being touched. In the Ignatian tradition, such inner disturbance can be a holy churning—an invitation to remain with the feeling rather than flee from it. Do not rush to resolve it or defend yourself against it too quickly.

            I encourage you to take this unease into prayer. Sit with the Lord whom you receive in the Eucharist and ask: What is stirring in me? What fear, desire, or longing is being revealed? God often works not through immediate clarity, but through patient attentiveness.

            You do not have to carry this alone. If the reflection unsettled you, seek out a trusted priest, spiritual director, or pastoral guide. Discernment in the Church is never meant to be solitary. It unfolds within prayer, dialogue, and the gentle guidance of the Spirit.

            Whether you found affirmation or discomfort in these words, know that you are seen, respected, and invited deeper—not away from the Eucharist, but more fully into its mystery.

At the crossroads of ancient Indian philosophy and how it has shaped India’s evolving social thought.

-          Savio Saldanha SJ

DOI: 10.5281/zenodo.18199195

Date: 09-01-2026

 

Ancient Indian Philosophy, Caste, and Conscience at the Crossroads

            As I reflect on my philosophical studies, I often find myself returning to the question of what it means to study Indian philosophy today—both as an academic pursuit and as a personal search within a society undergoing rapid change. Writing for my blog Conscience at Crossroads, I wanted to explore how these ancient schools of wisdom shape my own thinking and continue to influence India’s collective imagination. 

            Reflecting on the Indian philosophical schools and their influence on Indian culture and the collective memory of its people is a complex task. I am also interested to understand how the concept of casteism came into being through this culture and became what it is today. In this regards, I feel blessed to pursue my theological studies in France, as this distance has given me the chance to view these influences from the outside. Philosophically, there are two ways of looking at any system: from within, as one who belongs to it and therefore shares its limits and constraints; and from without, where a certain distance allows greater freedom, neutrality, and critical clarity, since one is not bound by the system’s internal pressures or expectations.

            As I was reflecting on the subject, one of my Jesuit friends, Seby Varghese sent me an article by Tony Joseph on a related topic. Tony Joseph’s article is empirically grounded history of how caste emerged and evolved; while I was reflecting about its normative-philosophical and theological discernment and how to engage that legacy today. This essay grows out of that struggle for clarity. The challenge, as I experience it, is discerning what in this heritage still carries life-giving insight, and what must be critically questioned or left behind. Some elements reveal their value or their harmfulness quite clearly; others are so deeply woven into our cultural habits and shared memory that distinguishing wisdom from distortion becomes far more difficult. The question for me is, ‘How to engage pro-actively with the Indian philosophical schools and the non-negotiable demands of social-justice today?’

 

Classical Indian philosophy and the formation of caste

            The classical darśanas—Nyāya, Vaiśeṣika, Sāṅkhya–Yoga, Mīmāṃsā, and Vedānta—offered powerful visions of truth and liberation, and they continue to furnish key categories for public moral debate: dharma (interchanged between religion and duty), karma (the fruits of deeds- good or bad), saṃsāra (world), ahiṃsā (non-violence), and mokṣa (liberation). These concepts frame how many Indians still think about responsibility, suffering, and the good life. Yet the metaphysical reflections of classical texts were not socially innocent: Vedic and Dharmaśāstra traditions progressively translated them into a hierarchical order of varṇa and later jātis, sacralizing graded inequality.​

            Tony Joseph’s historical reconstruction clarifies how contingent and contested this development was. He shows that a fully articulated four‑fold hierarchy appears only late in the Ṛgveda (the Puruṣa Sūkta), that varṇa in early Vedic literature is “embryonic,” and that the first clearly definable caste is that of the Brahmins formed around a unified oral canon in the Kuru realm through gotra‑based endogamy. As agriculture expanded and surplus grew, an alliance between priestly and royal power—what Joseph calls the core of the varṇa‑jāti system—proved politically and economically convenient, and later Brāhmaṇa and Dharma texts universalized this hierarchy by mapping it onto the cosmos itself. The result, by the beginning of the Common Era, was an elaborated ideology of varṇāśrama‑dharma that kings across the subcontinent could invoke to legitimise power and extraction.​

            Ambedkar’s insight that caste is a structure of “graded inequality,” an “ascending scale of reverence and descending scale of contempt,” finds here a concrete genealogy. Ancient philosophy did not simply “discover” an eternal order; it helped construct and justify a historically contingent alliance that aligned metaphysics with privilege.​

 

Is “Indian philosophy” really pan‑Indian?

            This raises a disturbing question: whose thought is being presented when we speak of “Indian philosophy”? The classical systems are profound achievements, but they largely emerged within and often reinforced a Brahmanical social order that normalized caste hierarchy and restricted access to learning. Large sections of India’s population—Dalits, tribal communities, women, and other subaltern groups—were excluded from recognised philosophical discourse and often from literacy itself.​

            Joseph’s geography of caste strengthens this critique. He traces how the Brahmanical varṇa project arose in a specific region—Kurukṣetra and later “Āryāvarta”—and met persistent resistance in what Johannes Bronkhorst calls “Greater Magadha,” where Śramaṇa traditions such as Buddhism and Jainism rejected Vedic authority, opposed sacrificial violence, and admitted members regardless of varṇa. Gana‑saṅgha polities like the Śākyas did not easily accommodate the priest‑king alliance; Buddhist texts record Brahmin resentment when their ritual status was not honoured in such settings. Even the semantics of “dharma” became a battleground, with Aśoka’s edicts and Śramaṇa usage pressing a moral meaning centred on compassion, generosity, and non‑violence, while early Dharmasūtras rushed to re‑assert a varṇa‑ordered dharma policed by Brahmins.​

            The classical philosophical schools—Nyāya, Vaiśeṣika, Sāṅkhya–Yoga, Mīmāṃsā, and Vedānta—are undoubtedly profound intellectual achievements. They have shaped India’s metaphysical vocabulary and ethical imagination for centuries. Yet, it must be acknowledged honestly that these systems largely emerged within, and often reinforced, a Brahmanical social order. Their reflections on liberation, knowledge, and duty were frequently articulated from within a social framework that accepted caste hierarchy as normative, even sacred. As a result, large sections of India’s population—Dalits, tribal communities, women, and other marginalized groups—were excluded not only from philosophical debate but from being recognized as legitimate bearers of wisdom.

            From this perspective, the question is not whether these classical systems are valuable—they clearly are—but whether they can claim to exhaust what counts as “Indian philosophy.” For me, the answer must be no. India has always been home to multiple philosophies, many of which were philosophies of dissent rather than system-building. Dalit philosophies, tribal cosmologies rooted in land and community, women’s embodied wisdom transmitted through oral traditions, and materialist schools such as the Cārvāka tradition represent alternative ways of thinking about life, suffering, freedom, and truth. These traditions were not merely different; they were often actively suppressed because they challenged ritual authority, caste privilege, and metaphysical justifications of inequality.

            The case of the Cārvākas is particularly revealing. As my paper on this subject (2023) shows, Cārvāka philosophy represents one of the earliest traditions of philosophical dissent in India. Rejecting Vedic authority, ritual sacrifice, and the metaphysics of karma and rebirth, the Cārvākas grounded ethics in lived experience, material reality, and human flourishing in this world. Their near-erasure from mainstream philosophical curricula is not accidental; it reflects a long history of privileging metaphysical systems that aligned with Brahmanical power over philosophies that questioned its foundations. Similar dynamics can be observed in the marginalization of Dalit and tribal philosophies, whose critiques of caste and hierarchy were often dismissed as “non-philosophical” precisely because they threatened the dominant order.

            These philosophies are not aligned with the mainstream darśanas—and they do not seek to be. They are philosophies of rebellion, resistance, and survival. Yet they are no less philosophical for that reason. On the contrary, they engage some of the most fundamental philosophical questions: What counts as a good life? Who has the authority to define truth? How should power, suffering, and dignity be understood? In many ways, they speak more directly to the lived reality of the majority of Indian people than the abstract metaphysical systems that dominate textbooks.

 

Contemporary Indian thought: argument, dissent, and liberation

            Among modern thinkers, B. R. Ambedkar engages this legacy with unmatched moral urgency. In Annihilation of Caste, he argues that caste is not an abnormality but a structural outcome of key scriptural and philosophical resources, and that doctrines of divinely sanctioned varṇa‑dharma and ritual purity are incompatible with constitutional ideals of liberty, equality, and fraternity. Any philosophy adequate to a democratic India must therefore be measured by its capacity to dismantle caste rather than sacralise it.​ This is where Hindutva philosophy fails as it struggles to uphold the varna system rather than the ideals of the Indian Constitution, but that is a topic for another discussion.

            Amartya Sen, in The Argumentative Indian, insists that India’s past is not only metaphysical but deeply argumentative: Buddhist councils, epic dialogues, and scholastic disputations embody a tradition of public reasoning that can nourish democratic dissent today. Sen’s retrieval of an indigenous culture of argument complements Ambedkar’s call to annihilate caste: both refuse the image of an inherently “hierarchical” India and highlight counter‑traditions of critique and debate.​ Dialogue and rebellion against injustice are the soul of Indian cultural and philosophical heritage, and not reverence of unjust hierarchies which regard certain class of individuals, castes and groups as superior and others inferior in a societal system.

            Daya Krishna pushes this further by challenging the closure of “Indian philosophy” itself. In Indian Philosophy: A Counter Perspective and The Future of Indian Philosophy, he argues that concepts like dharma, karma, and mokṣa must be reopened to contemporary questioning rather than treated as frozen authorities. In his view, genuine Indian philosophy is not the repetition of classical positions but an ongoing, dialogical interrogation that must make room for subaltern and dissenting voices.​ In other words, these ideas should be revisited and reviewed from the modern perspectives of social justice and humanism.

A Catholic Perspective

            The Catholic social teaching provides a convergent yet distinct critique. Gaudium et Spes insists that every form of discrimination based on “sex, race, color, social condition, language, or religion” contradicts God’s intent, thereby implicitly condemning caste‑based exclusion. Fratelli Tutti calls for social friendship and universal fraternity, offering a theological language for solidarity that resonates with constitutional morality and Ambedkar’s fraternity. In India, the Church’s schools and social apostolates can embody practices of inclusion that challenge caste boundaries, even as the Church must repent of having sometimes mirrored those very hierarchies. In this regard, strict internal assessment of practices which harbor and encourage casteism and other related forms of injustices must be identified and rooted out. Only when this is done can the Church in India truly stand up for the protection of those oppressed for millennia by the unjust social order.

 

Ignatian discernment and the limits of inculturation

            At this stage of my reflection, the question is no longer simply what Indian philosophy offers, but how one should engage it responsibly. Here Ignatian discernment has become an indispensable guide for me—and, I believe, for others who stand at similar crossroads of culture, faith, and conscience. Ignatian spirituality does not ask us to accept traditions wholesale, nor does it encourage a posture of suspicion toward everything inherited. Instead, it invites a disciplined freedom: the freedom to receive with gratitude what leads to life and the courage to refuse what diminishes human dignity, even when such elements come wrapped in the language of tradition, sanctity or inculturation.

            Ignatius of Loyola’s insistence on discernment of spirits—attending carefully to movements that lead towards greater faith, hope, love and justice and resisting those that foster fear, domination, or exclusion—offers a powerful framework for engaging Indian philosophy with partiality. By partiality, I do not mean arbitrariness or cultural disdain, but a morally responsible selectivity. Not every insight that is ancient is therefore liberating; not every cultural form is automatically compatible with the Gospel or with the demands of justice. Ignatian discernment teaches us to “test” traditions by their fruits, especially by how they affect the most vulnerable.

            In this sense, Ignatian discernment resonates strikingly with the Buddha’s advice to the Kālāmas: not to accept teachings merely because they are ancient, authoritative, or widely revered, but to examine whether they lead to compassion, wisdom, and the reduction of suffering. This convergence is significant. It suggests that critical discernment is not a foreign imposition on Indian thought, but a practice deeply consonant with some of its most ethical and emancipatory strands. Both traditions resist blind conformity and invite a reflective, experience-tested commitment to truth.

            This approach also helps clarify the limits of inculturation. Inculturation, when rightly understood, is not the uncritical baptism of cultural practices, but a discerning encounter between faith and culture. History offers sobering lessons here. In the Indian context, the misplaced zeal of certain early missionaries—who equated cultural accommodation with Gospel fidelity—allowed caste distinctions to enter ecclesial life, sometimes even being justified as “Indian” expressions of Christianity. What was presented as inculturation often amounted to the sacralization of social hierarchy. The result was a Church that, at times, mirrored the very structures of exclusion it was called to challenge.

            Ignatian discernment exposes this failure not as a lack of cultural sensitivity, but as a failure of conscience. It reminds us that the ultimate criterion for inculturation is not cultural continuity but the promotion of greater justice, equality, and human dignity. Any philosophical or cultural element—whether Brahmanical metaphysics, ritual purity codes, or inherited social hierarchies—that normalizes exclusion must be subjected to critical scrutiny, regardless of its antiquity or prestige.

            For me, then, Ignatian discernment offers a way of inhabiting Indian philosophy without being captive to it. It allows me to learn from Nyāya’s rigor, Yoga’s discipline, Vedānta’s depth, and Buddhism’s compassion, while simultaneously standing in solidarity with Dalit, tribal, and dissenting traditions that expose the violence hidden beneath certain metaphysical ideals. It resists both romanticization and rejection. Most importantly, it places conscience—not tradition, caste, or cultural pride—at the center of philosophical engagement.

            This discerning posture prepares the ground for the conclusion that follows. If ancient Indian philosophy is to contribute meaningfully to India’s evolving social thought today, it must be approached neither as untouchable scripture nor as a relic to be discarded, but as a field of moral testing. Ignatian discernment equips us for precisely this task: to walk with our traditions, question them honestly, and allow them to be transformed in the light of justice, compassion, and the common good.

 

Conscience at the crossroads

            The distance afforded by studying in France has sharpened, rather than resolved, the tension between reverence and critique. From outside, it becomes clearer that what is presented as “Indian philosophy” is often a curated Brahmanical canon whose transmission has systematically marginalised other voices. From within, as a Jesuit trained in discernment, it becomes impossible to accept any philosophical claim without asking about its ethical and social consequences.

            Ancient Indian philosophy shapes contemporary Indian social thought in an ambivalent way. On the one hand, it offers resources for rational inquiry, inner freedom, ecological sensitivity, and inter‑religious dialogue. On the other hand, it provides narratives that have justified caste hierarchy, gender inequality, and ritualised exclusion, often by presenting a contingent social order as a cosmic necessity. Joseph’s notion of Homo opportunisticus—political and economic actors who build sacralised orders to entrench their power—reminds us that philosophy and theology can become instruments of this opportunism when they lose contact with the victims of the systems they justify.​

            For a society committed to constitutional morality and social justice, nostalgia for a putatively golden past or outright rejection of tradition are equally inadequate. What is needed is discernment. Sen’s “argumentative” heritage, Ambedkar’s uncompromising critique, Daya Krishna’s call to reopen canonical concepts, Śramaṇa and Dalit resistances, and Catholic social teaching on human dignity can together form a kind of ecumenical “school of conscience.”

            Hence for me, my engagement with Indian philosophy is therefore not merely academic but moral and spiritual. It asks which philosophies help me see the human person more fully/completely, and which normalize domination. It asks whose voices have shaped the canon, and whose have been erased. The path forward is not to abandon India’s philosophical past, but to walk with it critically: retrieving what gives life, resisting what dehumanizes, and welcoming suppressed traditions of dissent as equal partners in imagining India’s social future. Only such a discerning engagement can honour both the depth of India’s ancient wisdom and the non‑negotiable demands of social-justice today.

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Key references

• Ambedkar, B. R. Annihilation of Caste.
• Bronkhorst, Johannes. Greater Magadha: Studies in the Culture of Early India.​
• Daya Krishna. Indian Philosophy: A Counter Perspective; The Future of Indian Philosophy.
• Gaudium et Spes (1965), Vatican II.​
• Francis, Pope. Fratelli Tutti (2020).​
• Joseph, Tony. “Homo opportunisticus: The contingent, contested evolution of caste.” The Hindu, 2025.​
• Sen, Amartya. The Argumentative Indian.
• Saldanha, S. “Cārvāka philosophy, the first philosophy of dissent.” 2023.​ https://doi.org/10.5281/zenodo.8167185