Do scholars and priests keep the torch of religion burning in the absence of enlightened beings?

Osho, is it not true that in the absence of the enlightened—and those rare ones are not always around—it is the scholars and priests who keep the torch of religion burning?

Priests have great interpretations—how will you decide what Krishna said? There is only one way: go within. Krishna still speaks there. Become an Arjuna—Krishna still speaks. Become an Ananda and Buddha will speak again. He will speak the very same thing that was spoken then. It is not about Buddha or Krishna—dharma speaks. Buddha is one mode for dharma to speak; Krishna is another. The same is said as Buddha said—the same! The language will differ, the feeling is the same. The hues of expression will differ, but that which is expressed is the same. Only one thing has ever been said, again and again. Times change, languages change, symbols change, stories change, parables change. But that toward which the finger points does not change. The fingers that point change, but the moon they point to is the same. No one preserves that. Yet priests do preserve something, certainly: the…

Osho! Basically, you are a herald of religion—of the original, essential religion. You yourself seem to be religion. But the surprising thing is that right now your strongest opposition comes from the religious establishment itself! The recent statements by two Shankaracharyas are fresh examples. Would you kindly shed some light on this?

The death of his father shook Shankaracharya utterly. But the mother, already in grief, would be left alone if Shankara took sannyas. She refused. The story says: Shankara went to bathe in the river, and a crocodile caught his leg. A crowd gathered on the ghat; the mother came running. Shankara said, “The crocodile says it will let go if you allow me to take sannyas.” What could the mother do? With tears she said, “All right, then become a sannyasin—at least live. If you live, even as a sannyasin, I will see you some day.” And the story says the crocodile let go. That is just a story; crocodiles were not that wise then, nor now! If man is not so wise, what of crocodiles! I spoke of Mulla—he did marry. Fourteen-year-old girl, eighty-year-old groom. The next day friends asked, “How was the wedding night?” “Don’t ask—great joy! Only…

A few days later, when the guest was departing, the night was dark. He said: The night is dark; how shall I go? The road is dark and deserted, there is no companion. The host said: I will walk you a little way. And I will light a lamp for you; carry it, the path will be illumined. He lit a lamp and placed it in the departing guest’s hand. They had not yet descended the steps of the ashram when the very one who lit the lamp blew it out before the steps were even left behind. The guest, holding the extinguished lamp, exclaimed: What are you doing? The monk said: When no one else can row your boat, how can anyone else light the lamp for your way? And when you yourself must row your boat, who can be your companion in this darkness?

Osho, why is it that all enlightened ones teach the central transformation of awareness and awakening, yet the religions founded on them shrink into conduct codes and rituals? Aren’t all organized religions merely parts of society?

But the wife would not agree. She said, “I don’t get into talk of mistakes and corrections. Some ill omen might occur! What harm is it to us?” Lines remain: “It happened this way, it was done that way, it was said so.” Then our meanings, our blindness, are added to them. Religion becomes superstition; truth loses its peaks and becomes the falsehood of the valleys. And around that falsehood, crowds gather. Those who reached the Buddha in the beginning reached through their own awakening. Then they had children; those children had nothing to take from the Buddha, nothing to give. For them, religion is only a rite. Born in a Buddhist home—Buddhist; had they been born in a Hindu home—Hindu; in a Muslim home—Muslim. It is a matter of accident. Being born in a Hindu home is as accidental as a white cat sitting by a pot of curd.…

One who loves dharma is exhilarated in a Buddha’s presence. For this he has waited for births—that there be someone who is proof. He does not want intellectual proof—he wants living, existential proof. Someone whose very breeze carries Buddhahood; in whose presence we feel proof that God is. Whose presence tells us the world does not end at matter—there are secrets hidden here. A way to search. One whose presence becomes a call to a great quest; who challenges: Come, walk with me! As I have wings, so do you. You never flew, hence you forgot your wings. You were born with wings. Flutter—you too will fly. What I found is your treasure too. But such people were unfortunately few. They were few then, they are few now. The misfortune is that many are religious, but not lovers of religion.