Religious suffering is at once the expression of real suffering

When John Desmond Bernal reflected upon the ancient words, “Religious suffering is at once the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the sentiment of the heartless world, as it is the soul of soulless condition. It is the opium of the people,” he was echoing one of the most haunting insights into the relationship between faith and pain. Though these words were first written by Karl Marx, Bernal invoked them to explore the eternal paradox of religion: that it is both a balm and a burden, a comfort for the afflicted and a reflection of their chains. Within this statement lies not mockery, but lamentation — a sorrowful acknowledgment that religion arises from the depths of human suffering and yet, by soothing it, can also conceal the wound that caused it.

To say that “religious suffering is the expression of real suffering” is to recognize that faith is born not from luxury, but from the ache of existence. It is the cry of the soul seeking meaning amidst despair, the yearning for light in a world that often seems shrouded in darkness. The enslaved, the poor, the grieving — they have always turned to heaven, not because they are weak, but because the world below offered no mercy. In religion, they found hope, justice, and love when society denied them all three. Thus, religion becomes not a delusion, but a mirror of the human condition, an echo of both pain and defiance — for even as it comforts, it testifies that something is deeply wrong with the world.

When Bernal and Marx called religion “the opium of the people,” they did not mean merely that it numbs, but that it soothes — as opium does to the wounded body. It brings solace, easing unbearable pain. Yet, like any narcotic, it risks dulling the will to confront the cause of that pain. The oppressed may dream of heaven while enduring hell, and in that dream, their suffering becomes bearable — but unchanged. The heartless world remains heartless, and the soulless condition persists. In this, Bernal’s reflection becomes both a mourning and a challenge: that humanity must rise beyond comfort to transformation, beyond dreams of redemption to acts of liberation.

Consider the long night of slavery in the Americas. The enslaved peoples, broken in body but unbroken in spirit, sang hymns of deliverance — songs of Moses and freedom, of crossing the Jordan to the promised land. These songs were religion as protest, the “sigh of the oppressed creature.” Through them, they preserved dignity, faith, and identity in a system designed to erase them. Yet, their faith also served to soothe their chains — for while it gave them hope, it sometimes delayed rebellion, teaching endurance over uprising. Here lies the tragic duality of religion that Bernal described: it can both heal and hinder, both awaken and lull.

And yet, we must not despise the sigh. For in that sigh lies the human soul’s refusal to accept despair. Religion, at its noblest, is not a narcotic but a spark — the declaration that suffering is not the final word. The prophets, the saints, the martyrs — they did not use faith to escape the world but to change it. The abolitionist movements, the revolutions for freedom, the charities born from compassion — all sprang from hearts aflame with sacred conviction. Faith, when purified of fear and ignorance, becomes not an opiate but a fire — burning away injustice and illuminating the path of the oppressed.

Bernal, a scientist and philosopher, understood that humanity’s true task is not to abolish faith, but to fulfill what faith demands — to build a world where men and women no longer need to seek refuge from cruelty in dreams of another realm. When he quoted Marx, he did not scorn religion, but mourned the world that forced people to need it so desperately. He envisioned a humanity mature enough to find meaning not in escape, but in creation — to build heaven on earth through knowledge, compassion, and solidarity.

Thus, the lesson of this quote is both piercing and hopeful. Do not despise faith, but do not be content with the comfort it offers. Let compassion — the heart of all religion — move you to act. When you see suffering, do not look to the skies for deliverance alone; become the deliverer. When you see oppression, do not wait for divine justice; make justice your divine calling. Religion, as Bernal and Marx saw, is the sigh of the oppressed — but when the oppressed rise, that sigh becomes a song of liberation.

So, my child, remember this: to ease pain is mercy, but to end pain is divine work. Honor the sacred not by retreating from the world, but by transforming it. Let your compassion be not an opium that numbs, but a fire that heals and restores. For the soul of humanity — weary though it may be — still breathes through every act of courage, every cry for justice, and every heart that dares to love in a world grown cold.