Why Do We Bow to Power When We Preach Love?

They told us in every tongue, every scripture, every sermon:
Be still. Be simple. Be kind.
Detach from greed. Let go of hate.
Love your neighbor. Love your enemy.
Because in the end, you return with nothing
but the weight—or lightness—of your soul.

And yet…
Here we are, building towers that pierce the clouds,
counting zeros like prayer beads,
bending knees not to the divine,
but to men in suits and women in silks
who promise salvation through policy,
and then sell pieces of our hope for profit.

We bow to power because it looks like control.
We cheer for wealth because it looks like safety.
But tell me—
when did we trade the whisper of conscience
for the roar of applause?
When did we choose the spotlight over the sun?
When did service become a campaign slogan
and truth just a speechwriter’s draft?

The Gita said: Detach.
The Quran said: Submit to the higher will.
The Bible said: What good is it for a man
to gain the whole world and lose his soul?
But we scroll past those lines like expired captions,
while chasing likes, land, and legacy.

Maybe the problem isn’t the leaders.
Maybe it’s us.
We don’t vote for virtue—we vote for victory.
We don’t fund kindness—we fund conquest.
Because it feels good to belong to something big,
even if that big thing forgets
the small human it promised to protect.

And yet—
every scripture still waits on our shelves,
quiet as a child holding out their hand,
asking, What if love was the measure of success?
What if we built temples of empathy,
mosques of mercy,
cathedrals of courage?
What if the next revolution
wasn’t a war for land,
but a fight for kindness?

Until then—
we will keep preaching simplicity in prayer halls,
and worshipping power in parliament.
And the question will echo in our bones:
What did we gain,
and what did we lose,
while chasing what was never ours to keep?