Who truly speaks for the divine in the hallowed halls of the courtroom?

Dr C S Rangarajan   I hyderabad 

In a moment that blended judicial wit with profound philosophical inquiry, Chief Justice B R Gavai of the Supreme Court of India posed a rhetorical question during a recent hearing on religious rights: "Why don’t you ask your Lord Vishnu whether he has any problem with it?" The remark, delivered with a touch of levity amid arguments over temple entry protocols, has sparked widespread reflection on a fundamental dilemma in India's legal landscape: Who truly speaks for the divine in the hallowed halls of the courtroom?

At the heart of the matter lies the intricate intersection of faith, law, and human interpretation. In cases involving religious rituals, temple management, and devotees' rights, courts frequently turn to legal representatives, temple authorities, or government counsel for guidance. and yet, the central figure—the Deity whose sanctity is invoked—remains conspicuously silent. This absence, when bridged by mortal voices, carries inherent risks: exclusion of marginalized communities, perpetuation of discriminatory practices, and a potential misalignment between divine intent and human agendas.

Justice Gavai's comment emerged in the context of a petition challenging caste-based restrictions on temple access, a recurring theme in Indian jurisprudence. While intended to underscore the absurdity of rigid human-imposed barriers on spiritual matters, it inadvertently highlighted a deeper paradox. The Almighty, described in sacred texts as beyond human comprehension and representation, is thrust into legal fictions that both empower and constrain Him.

Under Indian law, Hindu deities are recognized as juristic persons—a status affirmed in landmark rulings like the 1966 Supreme Court decision in Idol of Shri Thakurji vs. State of Himachal Pradesh. This allows temples to hold property, enter contracts, and sue or be sued in court. However, this legal personhood comes with a caveat: the Deity is deemed a "perpetual minor," incapable of self-representation and dependent on human stewards such as trustees, shebaits (temple managers), or endowment boards.

This construct, designed to safeguard religious endowments from mismanagement, inadvertently vests immense power in these intermediaries. The question arises: In acting as God's earthly proxies, do these guardians prioritize celestial compassion or consolidate their own authority?

This tension is mitigated, in theory, by the doctrine of parens patriae—Latin for "parent of the nation"—which obligates the state to act as a guardian for those unable to protect their interests. In deity-related litigation, this principle empowers courts to intervene against abuses, ensuring that religious institutions do not become vehicles for social exclusion, caste hierarchies, or economic exploitation. Recent cases, such as the ongoing Sabarimala review and disputes over women's entry into certain shrines, illustrate how judges invoke this oversight to balance tradition with constitutional equality under Articles 14, 15, and 25 of the Indian Constitution.

As Justice Gavai's quip invites us to ponder, what if the Divine were to step into the witness box? Would Lord Vishnu, the preserver of the universe, demand adherence to ritualistic purity at the expense of the devout? Or would He extend an open invitation to the humblest seeker, echoing the Bhagavad Gita's assertion that He dwells equally in all beings? Would barriers of birth or gender bar His grace, or would He dismantle them with a reminder that true darshan—divine vision—transcends sanctum doors and societal divides?

History offers timeless lessons in this regard. Over 2,700 years ago, in the ancient Dravidian heartland, the saint-poet Tiruppan Alwar faced rejection at the grand Srirangam Ranganathaswamy Temple in Tamil Nadu. Born into what is now classified as a Scheduled Caste, he was deemed "untouchable" by orthodox priests, forbidden from approaching the idol of Lord Ranganatha, an incarnation of Vishnu.

Legend, preserved in the Divya Prabandham—the Tamil canon of Vaishnava hymns—recounts a miraculous intervention. The Deity Himself is said to have appeared in the priests' dreams, commanding them to carry the devotee on their shoulders into the sanctum sanctorum. Overcome with awe, the priests complied, transforming exclusion into exaltation. Tiruppan's subsequent hymns, brimming with ecstatic devotion, became cornerstones of the Bhakti movement, which democratized spirituality by emphasizing personal surrender over priestly mediation.

This ancient narrative found a poignant echo in contemporary Hyderabad just last month. At the revered Chilkur Balaji Temple in Jiyaguda—affectionately known as the "Visa Temple" for its reputed blessings on travel aspirations—a similar act of radical inclusion unfolded. A devotee from a marginalized Dalit community, initially hesitant due to lingering caste stigmas, was lifted onto the shoulders of the temple priest and escorted into the inner sanctum.

The gesture, captured in viral social media videos, drew parallels to Tiruppan's story and served as a "living sermon," as one eyewitness described it. Temple authorities hailed it as a reaffirmation that Bhakti—pure, unadulterated devotion—trumps birth-based hierarchies. "God sees the heart, not the lineage," the priest later told local reporters, underscoring that divine grace flows to all who approach with sincerity.

Such gestures build on reformist legacies that have reshaped temple access in India. In 1936, Maharaja Chithira Thirunal Balarama Varma of Travancore issued the landmark Temple Entry Proclamation, flinging open the doors of state-controlled temples to "all Hindus irrespective of caste or creed." Facing vehement opposition from conservative factions, the young ruler invoked not personal authority but the ethos of divine equity.

"The Maharaja did not presume to speak for God," notes historian Manu Pillai in his biography of the monarch, "but acted as a conduit for justice, aligning royal prerogative with spiritual universality." The proclamation, a precursor to post-Independence constitutional reforms, dismantled centuries of ritual apartheid and inspired similar movements across princely states.

Today, as courts grapple with petitions from Ayyappa devotees, Jain ascetics, and interfaith couples seeking ritual recognition, Justice Gavai's light-hearted provocation resonates deeply. The Divine, in His infinite wisdom, bears no blame for human failings. It is we—trustees, lawyers, and legislators—who must be held accountable to the ideals of compassion, inclusion, and unvarnished truth. Until the Lord of Lords deigns to testify, our legal system, and indeed our collective conscience, must amplify the whispers of the voiceless: the excluded devotee, the overlooked seeker, the heart yearning for unmediated union with the Eternal.

In the end, perhaps the truest courtroom advocate for God is not a silk-robed counsel but the quiet power of empathy—a force that, like the Alwars' hymns, can carry the marginalized across thresholds of exclusion into realms of grace.