Article57

Miracles are not just wonders — they are propaganda. Moses, Jesus, and Muhammad turned miracles into weapons of monopoly, celebrated globally through Christmas, Easter, and Ramadan, while the miracles of Krishna, Buddha, and Shiva are dismissed as myth or folklore. Why this glaring double standard? Read the full essay.

Miracles in Abrahamic Religions and Miracles in Indic Religions

Miracles are not simply stories of the impossible; they are instruments of power. Nowhere is this more obvious than in the three Abrahamic faiths—Judaism, Christianity, and Islam—where miracles are both celebrated as divine proof and imposed as public truth. The miracle becomes propaganda, and propaganda becomes civilization. Moses does not merely liberate a people; he does it by commanding the plagues of Egypt, parting the Red Sea, feeding the Israelites with manna, and drawing water from stone. These miracles are remembered not as myth but as historical fact, incorporated into the very DNA of Jewish identity. Christianity then raises the stakes further, building its entire edifice on the miracles of one man, Jesus, whose healings, resurrections, and final triumph over death are said to be the only doorway to salvation. Islam, though initially wary of spectacle, still casts its Prophet Muhammad as a figure surrounded by miraculous signs—the Qur’an itself proclaimed a standing miracle, later traditions speaking of the splitting of the moon, water flowing from his hands, and a cosmic journey through heaven. Each tradition weaponizes miracle, not as allegory or metaphor, but as monopoly. These miracles are the seals of truth, exclusive to their own tradition, non-negotiable, and compulsory for billions.

Now contrast this with the East—with Hinduism, Buddhism, Daoism, Confucian traditions—where miracles abound, but their function is entirely different. Krishna in the Bhagavata Purāṇa lifts Govardhana Hill with a single finger, dances with thousands of gopīs by multiplying himself infinitely, and reveals the entire cosmic form of the universe within his body to Arjuna. Shiva swallows poison to save the cosmos, dances creation and destruction into existence, and manifests simultaneously in countless forms. The Buddha walks on water, flies through the sky, multiplies his body into countless images, and descends from the Trāyastriṃśa heaven on a triple staircase of gold, silver, and lapis. Daoist sages transform themselves into cranes, live for centuries without food, summon storms, or ride dragons across the sky. Yet none of these miracles is treated as monopoly proof of exclusive salvation. They are woven into mythic storytelling, symbolic pedagogy, and cultural imagination. The miracle here is play, not propaganda. It invites devotion, wonder, reflection—not obedience to a single absolute claim.

And yet, despite the richness of Eastern miracle traditions, it is the Abrahamic miracles that dominate the world stage. Christmas, a celebration of a miraculous birth, has become the most powerful consumer holiday on earth, shaping economies as much as religions. Easter, a celebration of resurrection, is preached as historical fact that must be believed lest one perish. Ramadan and Eid are woven into the fabric of entire societies, shaping the rhythms of millions of lives. Passover, a commemoration of the miraculous exodus, remains central to Jewish identity and celebrated globally in diaspora communities. The calendar itself bends around these miracles. Western and Islamic societies enforce them, broadcast them, export them, and market them with unrelenting force. By contrast, Diwali—the festival of lights celebrating Krishna and Rama’s victories—is exoticized as folklore. Holi, the festival of colors, is reduced to an Instagram spectacle. Vesak, the Buddha’s birthday, enlightenment, and death, passes with hardly a whisper in the global press. No Western government adjusts its calendar for the descent of the Buddha from heaven; no global consumer empire depends on the burning of lamps in honor of Rama’s return to Ayodhya.

The contradiction is glaring. Jesus walking on water is solemn history; the Buddha walking on water is “myth.” Moses parting the Red Sea is divinely revealed truth; Rama’s bridge of stones to Lanka is legend. Muhammad’s night journey to heaven is untouchable fact in the Muslim imagination; Krishna multiplying himself into thousands of lovers is dismissed as fantasy. Why this asymmetry? It is not because Abrahamic miracles are more credible; on the contrary, they are no less fantastic than their Eastern counterparts. It is because the Abrahamic world turned miracle into a marketing tool, a political weapon, and a cultural monopoly. Miracles became proof of chosenness, proof of authority, proof of supremacy. They were used to convert, to conquer, to enforce. A religion without miracles in this tradition could not survive, for the miracle was not allegory—it was contract. To deny it was not to disagree but to blaspheme.

This explains why the Abrahamic world both celebrates its own miracles and ridicules others. If the miracle is monopoly, then rival miracles are threats. If Jesus is the only Son of God, then Krishna’s divine play is false. If Muhammad’s Qur’an is the eternal miracle, then the Buddha’s cosmic descent must be dismissed. If Moses alone parted the sea, then the miracle traditions of other civilizations must be reduced to fable. To admit parity would be to weaken the monopoly, and monopolies do not survive by sharing markets. They survive by suppressing rivals. That is why Christian missionaries in India mocked Hindu miracle stories as idolatry while preaching resurrection as literal fact. That is why Islamic conquerors dismissed Buddhist relics as superstition while proclaiming the Prophet’s night journey as truth. That is why Jewish tradition holds fiercely to its unique covenant, insisting that no other people has witnessed miracles of the same magnitude.

But the Abrahamic insistence on miracles as history has also turned them into global propaganda. Christmas is no longer confined to churches; it is piped into shopping malls, movies, music, and advertising across the globe. Easter is not merely a religious feast; it is a civilizational marker of spring, rebirth, and hope marketed to billions. Ramadan is not only a month of fasting but a state-enforced schedule in Muslim-majority nations. By contrast, Hindu and Buddhist miracles are confined, localized, stripped of civilizational power, treated as curiosities. The miracle traditions of the East were not designed for monopoly; they were designed for allegory, culture, devotion, and art. They never insisted that the entire globe must bow before them. That humility, paradoxically, is what left them vulnerable. For in the modern world, power belongs not to allegory but to marketing.

If we examine carefully, we see that miracles in the Abrahamic world function less as moments of wonder and more as instruments of control. They police boundaries of faith. To deny Jesus’s resurrection is to exclude yourself from salvation. To doubt Muhammad’s Qur’an is to risk apostasy and punishment. To question Moses’s exodus is to sever oneself from covenant. But in Hinduism, to doubt whether Krishna truly lifted Govardhana Hill is not to exclude yourself from Hindu identity. In Buddhism, to doubt whether the Buddha truly walked on water does not exile you from the Dharma. Eastern traditions understood miracles as mythic vehicles, metaphors for deeper truths, and therefore never demanded universal literal assent. But precisely because they did not demand it, they could not monopolize the world. The Abrahamic traditions demanded it, enforced it, and exported it, and so they conquered the calendar, the culture, and the imagination of billions.

To see the contradiction more sharply, one must consider how miracles are narrated and remembered. In the Abrahamic tradition, miracles are linear, exclusive, and historical. They are bound to specific times and places: the Red Sea parts once, Jesus rises once, Muhammad ascends once. They are one-time events that mark a people forever, inseparable from their theology. In the East, miracles are cyclical, playful, and recurrent. Krishna does not perform one miracle but endless miracles, retold in different forms across centuries, each variation equally valid. The Buddha’s miracles reappear in countless stories across sutras, sometimes contradictory, sometimes overlapping, always pointing to a deeper teaching rather than historical fact. Hindu and Buddhist miracles are not historical contracts; they are mythic symphonies. And this difference in narrative structure explains the difference in global power. A miracle that happens once and must be believed as history becomes the foundation for exclusivity and authority. A miracle that happens infinitely as myth becomes a cultural resource but never an instrument of monopoly.

This monopoly logic gave Abrahamic miracles a unique political function. The parting of the Red Sea was not just a natural wonder but a declaration: this people is chosen, this law is divine, and this covenant is eternal. The resurrection was not merely a display of power over death but a cosmic ultimatum: believe or perish. The night journey of Muhammad was not a private mystical vision but a validation of prophethood, proof that his authority extended into heaven itself. In each case, the miracle became inseparable from law and obedience. Law without miracle would have been tyranny; miracle without law would have been entertainment. But together, miracle and law created an irresistible machine of authority. The miracle gave legitimacy to the law, and the law enforced the miracle. This explains why these religions exported themselves so aggressively, while Hinduism, Buddhism, and Daoism did not. For the Eastern miracle, detached from law, was never designed to coerce.

The irony is that the Abrahamic world accuses the East of superstition while itself relying on miracle for legitimacy. Western anthropologists, missionaries, and colonial administrators dismissed the Mahābhārata or the Purāṇas as “mythology,” while presenting the Bible as history. They ridiculed Krishna’s exploits as “folklore” while solemnly teaching children about Balaam’s talking donkey or Jonah’s three days inside a whale. Muslim polemicists mocked Hindu temples as repositories of idolatrous fantasy while proclaiming that Muhammad split the moon. Jewish rabbis defended the literal plagues of Egypt while denying any validity to Buddhist tales of flying arhats. The miracle was always true when it was ours, false when it was theirs.

The difference lies not in credibility but in power. Abrahamic religions did not succeed because their miracles were more believable. On the contrary, the miracles of Krishna, Buddha, or Laozi are no less implausible than the resurrection or the parting of the sea. They succeeded because they turned miracle into a political weapon. Christianity marched across Europe and the world not only with the sword but with the claim that the resurrection was a historical fact binding upon all humanity. Islam expanded across continents not only with armies but with the claim that the Qur’an was the eternal, inimitable miracle of God. Judaism survived exile and diaspora not only with cultural resilience but with the claim that their ancestors uniquely witnessed God’s hand in history. The miracle was a marketing strategy, one that converted myth into monopoly.

Christmas is the perfect symbol of this strategy. What is Christmas? At its heart, it is the celebration of a miraculous birth: a virgin conceives without intercourse, angels announce the event, a star leads magi across the desert. Yet Christmas is not confined to the faithful. It has become a global commercial empire, dictating retail calendars, advertising campaigns, and even the tempo of economies. One miracle has been transformed into the largest holiday in human history. By contrast, Diwali, celebrating Rama’s return and Krishna’s victory over Narakasura, remains local. It is colorful, vibrant, joyous—but it does not dominate global culture. The miracle of a divine birth in Bethlehem is marketed endlessly, while the miracle of Rama’s return is relegated to “world culture” segments in school textbooks.

Easter works the same way. A man rises from the dead—an event no less implausible than any Hindu or Buddhist miracle—but it is marketed as the hinge of history, the event upon which salvation depends. Western civilization marks time by this miracle, literally dividing history into “before Christ” and “after Christ.” The resurrection becomes not only a theological claim but a chronological monopoly. Meanwhile, the Buddha’s enlightenment under the Bodhi tree, though arguably a more profound spiritual turning point, is celebrated only by Buddhists, marginalized in global discourse, and ignored in school calendars. It is treated as local wisdom, not as world history.

Ramadan shows the same dynamic in the Islamic world. It is not only a month of fasting but a calendar enforced at the level of state and society, shaping economies, workplaces, and daily life across dozens of nations. It commemorates the miraculous revelation of the Qur’an, considered itself an eternal miracle. No Muslim can dismiss this without placing themselves outside the fold. The miracle enforces obedience, and obedience sustains civilization. Compare this with Vesak, the celebration of the Buddha’s birth, enlightenment, and death. It is honored with lamps, chants, and processions, but it does not reorganize global economies or impose itself on non-Buddhists. It is reverence without monopoly.

The Abrahamic world ridicules Eastern miracles precisely because it cannot afford to take them seriously. If it did, it would have to admit that its monopoly is false. If Krishna’s cosmic dance or Shiva’s swallowing of poison are as valid as Jesus’s resurrection, then the claim of exclusivity collapses. If the Buddha’s miracles are as true as Muhammad’s, then the Qur’an is no longer unique. The ridicule, therefore, is strategic. By mocking other traditions as myth while proclaiming its own as history, the Abrahamic world maintains its monopoly. It enforces its miracles through law, calendar, education, and culture, while denying the same legitimacy to rivals.

Yet the world is beginning to see through the contradiction. The global rise of yoga, meditation, and Buddhist philosophy signals a hunger for traditions that do not demand monopoly. People are drawn to the allegorical richness of Hindu and Buddhist miracles precisely because they are not compulsory. Krishna’s dance with the gopīs can be read as divine love, psychological allegory, or poetic fantasy—none of which exclude you from the tradition. The Buddha’s miracles can be seen as mythic teaching devices without expelling you from Buddhism. This flexibility, once a weakness in the struggle for global dominance, is now a strength in a world tired of monopolies.

But the Abrahamic machine remains powerful. Its miracles are printed on calendars, sung in carols, enforced by blasphemy laws, and broadcast by global media. Its holidays reshape economies; its propaganda saturates culture. It will continue to celebrate its own miracles while dismissing others, not because of credibility but because of politics. For in the end, miracle in the Abrahamic world is not wonder—it is marketing.

To understand the full weight of this contradiction, one must ask: what is the function of miracle in human society? At its core, miracle is a violation of the ordinary order, a reminder that the universe is not exhausted by the visible. In every culture, miracle is tied to awe, to the disruption of daily expectations, to the intrusion of the extraordinary into the mundane. But in the Abrahamic traditions, that awe is not left open-ended—it is immediately captured and weaponized. The miracle is not simply “wonder”; it is proof. It is an argument. It is a demand for assent. Moses’s plagues are not natural wonders; they are presented as evidence that Yahweh is the only true God. Jesus’s healings are not acts of compassion alone; they are signs of divinity, claims of authority, and ultimatums of belief. Muhammad’s Qur’an is not merely eloquence; it is positioned as a miracle so inimitable that to deny it is to deny God. Miracle is domesticated into the service of obedience.

In Hindu and Buddhist contexts, miracle retains its openness. Krishna’s multiplication of himself to dance with the gopīs is not a proof that he alone is God but an expression of līlā—divine play. It is theater, not ultimatum. The Buddha’s miracles, while dazzling, are often presented as subordinate to his teaching: in the Pali Canon he warns that miracles of psychic power are inferior to the “miracle of instruction.” In Mahayana sutras, the most elaborate miracle stories are ultimately allegories of wisdom and compassion, not contracts for obedience. This openness allowed Hinduism and Buddhism to absorb, syncretize, and adapt across cultures—from Greece to China to Japan—without demanding literal uniformity. But it also meant that they did not dominate the global stage, for in a world of empires and armies, openness is weakness and monopoly is strength.

The contradiction thus becomes a cultural double standard. The Abrahamic world insists on its own miracles as history while dismissing others as fantasy, yet the structure of the stories is the same. The Red Sea parts no more plausibly than the Yamuna bends for Vasudeva carrying baby Krishna. Jesus rising from the tomb is no more rational than the Buddha descending from heaven on a triple staircase. Muhammad’s night journey is no more “historical” than Laozi riding west on a water buffalo and vanishing into mystery. Yet one set is institutionalized, globalized, and enforced, while the other is marginalized, exoticized, and ridiculed.

This double standard is not an accident; it is the logic of empire. When the British colonized India, they mocked Hindu epics as mythology while teaching the Bible in schools as sacred history. When Christian missionaries entered Asia, they dismissed Buddhist miracle stories as superstition while demanding belief in virgin birth and resurrection. When Muslim conquerors ruled parts of South Asia, they destroyed temples and derided their miracle traditions as idolatry while enforcing Qur’anic miracle as absolute. The point was never consistency; the point was supremacy. The ridicule of rival miracles is part of the monopoly strategy. You cannot allow competitors in the marketplace of the miraculous, for if everything is miraculous, nothing is unique.

And yet, in an ironic twist, modernity has begun to erode the monopoly. Science, secularism, and historical criticism have challenged the literal reading of Abrahamic miracles. Western universities dissect the Exodus, the Resurrection, and the Night Journey with historical skepticism. Millions in the West now celebrate Christmas more as culture than creed, more as shopping spree than sacrament. The monopoly is cracking. But here, too, the Abrahamic world adapts, for even stripped of literal belief, the holidays retain cultural and economic power. Christmas without Christ is still Christmas shopping; Easter without resurrection is still spring festival. The miracle has been so successfully marketed that it continues to dominate even when belief declines.

By contrast, Hindu and Buddhist miracles, long dismissed as “myth,” now gain new audiences in the secular world precisely because they never demanded literal assent. Yoga, meditation, and mindfulness thrive in a scientific age because they are not tied to the coercive power of miracle. The Buddha does not require you to believe he walked on water; he asks you to test the Dharma in your own life. Krishna does not demand that you accept the lifting of Govardhana as historical fact; he invites you to contemplate the meaning of divine protection and play. In the modern world, where literalism collapses under scientific scrutiny, the openness of Eastern miracles becomes a strength. They can inspire without coercing, enchant without enslaving.

And so the contradiction sharpens into an indictment. The Abrahamic world celebrates its own miracles as proof, markets them into holidays, imposes them through law and culture, and ridicules others as superstition. Yet its own miracles are no less implausible, no less fantastical, no less mythic. The only difference is the machinery of power. One set of miracles became propaganda for empires, another set remained allegory for civilizations. The former conquered the globe; the latter endured in fragments. But in an age where propaganda is increasingly transparent, the future may belong to the miracles that never claimed monopoly.

The question, then, is not whether miracles are true or false. All miracles are equally implausible when measured by reason. The real question is: what do civilizations do with their miracles? Do they use them to coerce, to monopolize, to erase rivals? Or do they use them to inspire, to symbolize, to play? The Abrahamic world chose the first path, and it won the empires of the earth. The Eastern world chose the second, and it kept its plurality but lost the monopoly. Both paths carry cost and consequence. But the glaring contradiction—the insistence that one’s own miracles are history while others’ are myth—remains the most transparent propaganda of all.

And perhaps this is the final irony: the world that mocked Hindu and Buddhist miracles as fairy tales now consumes yoga and meditation, chants mantras, and seeks wisdom from the East without needing to believe in miracle at all. Meanwhile, the world that once demanded obedience to resurrection or exodus now celebrates those miracles as consumer holidays stripped of belief but saturated with profit. The monopoly of miracle is breaking down, and with it, the arrogance that ridiculed rivals. The East may never have imposed its miracles on the globe, but in the long run, its refusal to monopolize may prove to be the more enduring miracle.