In many spiritual spaces today, divinity is increasingly encountered through drama. Sound, movement, rhythm, incense, and collective emotion dominate the sacred landscape. Ritual trance, when performed publicly, reassures communities that the divine is present, active, and responsive. It is visible, intense, and emotionally convincing.
There is nothing inherently wrong with this. For centuries, outward ritual has preserved traditions, sustained cultural memory, and given people a shared language of faith. Noise gathers crowds more easily than silence, and spectacle often feels like certainty.
Yet somewhere along the way, an imbalance has quietly emerged.
While praying to my iṣhṭa devatā in stillness, I once experienced a brief but striking inward shift. There was no ritual build-up, no percussion, no chanting, no incense—none of the sensory triggers commonly associated with trance. What arose instead was calm. A sudden inward absorption, accompanied by a fleeting inner perception—luminous, non-verbal, and difficult to describe. The moment itself was brief, yet its after-effects lingered for hours, gently altering the sense of time and awareness before resolving naturally.
There was no impulse to speak, perform, or interpret. The experience concluded on its own, leaving behind not excitement, but quiet grounding.
This contrast raises a fundamental philosophical question: why has spirituality become something we increasingly expect to witness, rather than something we are willing to encounter within ourselves?
Traditionally, ritual trance may be understood in two broad forms. One is externally induced—shaped by sound, rhythm, movement, smell, and collective energy. It is communal, visible, and dependent on environmental stimulation. The other is internally triggered—arising through stillness, attention, and devotional receptivity, where sensory input reduces rather than intensifies. The first sustains community and tradition; the second confronts the individual with awareness itself.
The concern is not that external ritual trance exists—it always has, and it serves a purpose. The concern arises when outward display becomes the sole measure of spiritual authenticity, while inward seeking is overlooked or forgotten. When people begin to look only toward those who perform trance, diagnose doshas, and prescribe remedies, spirituality risks being outsourced. Responsibility quietly shifts away from personal inquiry toward external authority.
This is precisely where Hindu thought offers a clear yet gentle reminder:
Religion often begins by seeking God outside. Hindu spirituality matures by discovering that the same God was always within.
Ritual was never meant to replace inner inquiry; it was meant to prepare the mind for it. The medium was never meant to become the destination; it was meant to point beyond itself. When sound dominates, silence is mistaken for absence. When performance is rewarded, stillness appears insignificant.
Inner experiences are inconvenient in this way. They cannot be displayed, repeated on demand, or transferred to others. They confer no authority and attract no following. Precisely because of this, they are often ignored. Yet it is within such quiet, fleeting moments that one begins to understand what spiritual traditions mean by “the divine within.”
This is not a rejection of ritual, nor a claim that silence is superior. Both have their place. External ritual keeps culture alive. Inner alignment keeps consciousness alive. One preserves continuity; the other deepens understanding.
The danger lies only in mistaking one for the other.
Perhaps the more demanding spiritual discipline today is not louder devotion, but quieter attention. Before seeking divinity in spectacle, oracle, or performance, it may be worth pausing to ask whether enough space has been given to stillness, sincerity, and inward receptivity. Not everyone will experience inner absorption—and no one needs to. But remembering that such a possibility exists keeps spirituality from becoming merely something we watch, rather than something we live.
