Most people don't want to talk about politics and religion. They

In the voice of the mystic and the musician, Prince once spoke a truth that echoed far beyond the stage: “Most people don’t want to talk about politics and religion. They say, ‘Let’s talk about something else.’” Beneath these simple words lies a lament and a challenge — a sorrow for humanity’s silence and a call to awaken from it. For in every age, men have feared the topics that reveal their hearts. They would rather speak of shadows than light, of trivialities than truth. Yet the great questions — those of power, justice, faith, and meaning — will not disappear simply because we avert our gaze.

In the ancient days, to speak of politics and religion was to speak of the very soul of the city and the heavens above it. The Greeks gathered in the agora to debate justice; the prophets cried out in the wilderness to denounce kings and priests alike. The wise knew that to remain silent in such matters was to wither in spirit. But now, many have grown timid. They turn away, saying, “Let us speak of the weather, of sport, of amusement,” as if to shield themselves from the fire of truth. Prince’s words shine like a mirror to our age — an age that hides behind comfort, fearing the storms of honest thought.

For politics is not merely the quarrel of men in suits, nor religion merely the prayers of the devout. They are the twin pillars of our moral and communal life — one concerning the laws that bind us together, the other the beliefs that shape our souls. To avoid them is to live without reflection, to walk the world blindfolded. The wise do not flee from difficult conversation; they meet it with grace, with curiosity, with courage. For only in such discourse can we refine our minds, temper our passions, and understand the hearts of others.

Consider Socrates, who walked the streets of Athens questioning all — kings and craftsmen, poets and priests. His questions pierced through the veil of pretense. Many despised him for it, for his words stirred discomfort in the complacent. And so, the city silenced him with hemlock. Yet his spirit endured, and his name became eternal, for he refused to “talk about something else.” He knew that truth, though painful, is the breath of civilization. Without it, the heart of a people grows still.

So too did Prince, in his art and his being, challenge the silence. Beneath the melodies and the glitter, he spoke of the sacred and the profane, the system and the soul. He knew that music without message is hollow, that creation must stir conscience. He refused to conform to a culture that trades depth for distraction, and his legacy endures because he dared to say what others only whispered. His quote, though born in conversation, is a sermon — a reminder that silence is not always peace; sometimes it is surrender.

What, then, is the lesson for those who live now? It is this: speak with courage, even when the world turns its eyes away. Do not fear the sacred subjects. Engage in discourse that uplifts and deepens. Listen as much as you speak, and when you disagree, do so with respect and conviction. To discuss politics and religion rightly is not to divide, but to understand; not to conquer, but to seek common ground. For in every true dialogue lies the seed of wisdom.

If we continue to say, “Let’s talk about something else,” we shall one day find that there is nothing left worth saying. But if we choose to speak, to wrestle with the hard questions, to lift the veil from our shared illusions — then perhaps we will rediscover what it means to be truly human: not creatures of avoidance, but seekers of truth.

Therefore, let each of us dare to begin the conversations others fear. Let our words be bridges, not weapons. Let our hearts remain open, and our tongues guided by reason and compassion. For only through dialogue can light enter the chambers of misunderstanding. And in this, we honor the wisdom of Prince, who saw the danger of silence and urged us — gently, prophetically — to talk about what truly matters.