The question of whether or not there is a God or truth or

Hear now the words of Jiddu Krishnamurti, which resound like thunder over the mountains of the soul: “The question of whether or not there is a God or truth or reality or whatever you like to call it, can never be answered by books, by priests, philosophers or saviours. Nobody and nothing can answer the question but you yourself, and that is why you must know yourself – Immaturity lies only in total ignorance of self.” These words are not the murmur of an idle thinker, but the cry of a sage who has walked the deserts of doubt and returned with fire. They remind us that no temple, no scripture, no master, however venerable, can hand us the truth we long for. It must be drawn from the deep well within.

The ancients taught that the journey inward is the most perilous of all. To conquer kingdoms may bring renown, but to conquer the restless self is to taste the wine of eternity. When Krishnamurti speaks of knowing yourself, he points to the unshakable foundation without which all outer knowledge collapses into sand. For what is immaturity but the endless chase after borrowed beliefs, the clutching of another man’s answers as though they were one’s own? The child clings to the words of others, but the wise one dares to meet the silence of the heart.

History offers us the figure of Siddhartha, the prince who became the Buddha. Surrounded by luxury, he had teachers, priests, philosophers to guide him. Yet their teachings could not quench the fire of his questions. He sat beneath the Bodhi tree, resolved not to rise until he encountered truth for himself. And in that stillness, through knowing his own mind, he awakened. His story is a mirror to Krishnamurti’s words: salvation cannot be inherited, nor purchased, nor bestowed. It must be discovered in the secret chambers of the self.

And consider Socrates, who declared that the unexamined life is not worth living. He stood before Athens, accused and condemned, yet he did not waver. He knew that books and traditions, though valuable, cannot replace the flame of self-inquiry. To know yourself, he taught, is the beginning of wisdom. His death is not merely the tragedy of a man unjustly condemned, but the testament that integrity, born of inner knowledge, is stronger than the fear of death itself.

Therefore, let us hear the teaching: no priest, no saviour, no philosopher can walk the path for you. They may point the way, they may whisper encouragement, but the journey into the self is yours alone. To rely only on borrowed words is to remain a child in spirit, tossed by the winds of others’ certainties. But to descend into your own depths, to look upon your fears, your desires, your contradictions—this is the labor of the mature soul. In that labor, the veils of ignorance are torn away, and the light of reality is revealed.

What lesson then must you carry? Begin the work of self-knowing. Each morning, before you reach for the clamor of the world, sit in silence and ask: “Who am I today? What do I fear? What do I seek?” Write your answers, not for the world but for your own eyes. Question your own motives as fiercely as you question the words of others. When anger arises, trace its root. When joy comes, savor its source. This is the slow unfolding of truth—not in books, but in the living temple of your heart.

Let your actions follow this wisdom. Trust not the easy comfort of borrowed doctrines, but test all things in the crucible of your own awareness. Be humble enough to learn, but bold enough to stand alone when needed. For in the end, the greatest immaturity is to never have met yourself, while the greatest triumph is to walk the earth as one who truly knows who they are. Thus shall you become unshaken by dogma, unbroken by fear, and alive with the radiant fire of truth.