What is the point of offering donations to a temple, a gurdwara, a masjid, or any other religious institution, when you are not taking care of the very people you are responsible for?
Your parents.
Your brother or sister.
Your son.
Your daughter.
Your wife.
If these relationships are broken, neglected, or ignored, then what exactly is being offered at the altar?
Charity, in its truest sense, is not a public transaction. It is a moral obligation that begins close to home. Responsibility is not optional, and it certainly cannot be outsourced to religion.
Yet we often see the opposite.
People proudly announce how much they have donated in a year. Their names are embedded into bricks and stones, carved into walls, displayed for the world to see. As if morality improves by engraving it in granite. As if generosity becomes real only when it is visible.
This is not devotion. This is performance.
There is a quiet contradiction in giving generously to institutions while withholding care from those who depend on you emotionally, physically, and financially. It is easier to write a cheque than to show up consistently. Easier to fund a building than to repair a relationship. Easier to seek social validation than to face personal accountability.
In many cases, public charity becomes a way to cleanse guilt without changing behavior. A form of moral laundering. A way to say, “Look, I am a good person,” while avoiding the hardest work of all—being responsible.
True spirituality does not begin in temples or mosques or gurdwaras. It begins at home.
If your parents feel abandoned, no donation redeems that.
If your spouse feels unseen, no plaque compensates for that.
If your children feel unsafe or unsupported, no ritual corrects that.
Real devotion is rarely visible. It does not demand applause.
It looks like paying hospital bills quietly.
It looks like listening when it is inconvenient.
It looks like choosing duty over comfort, consistency over recognition.
No names carved. No announcements made.
Giving to institutions while failing your own people is often not generosity—it is avoidance. And carving your name into stone does not make you virtuous or immortal. It only makes your insecurity permanent.
If one must give, the order matters:
First, responsibility.
Then, care.
Then, integrity.
Only after that—charity.
Anything else is theatre.
And the universe has never been impressed by performances. It responds only to alignment.