Sacred Traditions, Modern Questions
“Wow, that temple is mesmerizing,” I thought as we pulled into the parking lot. After spending an hour on the road, my family had arrived at a Hindu temple my mom, in particular, wanted to visit. I had been to Hindu temples before, but this one felt different. There was a kind of magic to it. Its grandeur set it apart, as if it had been transported straight from the heavens.
Originally from India, my parents practiced Hinduism. When they immigrated to the U.S., they brought their religion with them and passed it on to my sister and me. We went to local community events filled with prayers and celebrations, attended Balavihar—our version of Sunday School where we learned about Hindu teachings—and often prayed at home with friends and family.
Despite how woven into my childhood Hinduism was, I struggled to connect to it spiritually. The rituals were conducted in Sanskrit, an ancient language that I and most people around me didn’t understand. The stories were interesting, but they didn’t reflect my lived experiences. And the prayers? They went on for hours. As a child, that mostly just left me bored and restless.
As I grew older, I developed a cultural appreciation for Hinduism. While it still didn’t shape my spiritual identity, it shaped my parents and our family lineage. Out of respect and curiosity, I began joining them on temple visits more regularly to learn more. This brings me to this particular visit.
Stepping out of the car, I took in the temple’s towering architecture, wondering if the inside would be just as stunning. At the entrance, we took off our shoes—a cultural and religious practice that honors the purity of the space and shows respect to the divine. A nearby wash station allowed us to clean our feet before entering.
As I waited my turn to wash up, a priest approached. He greeted our family warmly and exchanged pleasantries with my parents, who had already finished. I wasn’t fully paying attention—until he said six words that made me do a double take:
“Men in front. Women in back.”
My sister and I exchanged a perplexed look before stepping into the temple hall to rejoin our parents. Sure enough, I saw men settling toward the front and women finding seats in the back. The priest moved to the front, music began to play, and my dad and I took our seats up close.
But as I sat there, I wasn’t focused on the puja—the prayer—taking place. I wasn’t marveling at the intricately carved walls or majestic statues. I wasn’t thinking about spirituality or God.
I was distracted.
Why had I been told to sit in the front? Why was I given a better view of the ceremony? Why were my mom and sister seated in the back?
I had been to temples before where men and women sat separately, but usually they were divided left and right—not front and back. That layout at least offered an equal view of the altar. But here, the message felt different.
As someone who believes in gender equality, I found myself conflicted…and guilty. This temple visit had been especially meaningful for my mom, yet because I’m a man, I had the better seat. And as someone raised in the Hindu faith, I couldn’t help but wrestle with the tension: How do I reconcile advocating for equality while participating in traditions that feel unequal? I had grown up learning about the feminine divine in Hinduism, how Goddesses like Durga, Lakshmi, and Saraswati are revered, and how an entire sect, Shaktism, centers devotion around female deities. Hinduism is one of the few major religions where the divine is regularly portrayed as female. So why, in this sacred space, were women asked to sit in the back?
This temple was more than a place of worship. It became a lens for examining the tension between religious tradition and modern values. It held a mirror to society, revealing the subtle (and not-so-subtle) ways people are treated differently based on identity. And in that moment, it became an invitation: an opportunity for me to live my values, and to show up for the women in my life, even within the walls of tradition.