Purification: Balinese Hindu devotees perform the Melukat ritual during the full moon at Tirta Empul Temple in Gianyar, Bali, Indonesia. Photo: Murdani Usman/Getty Images
Looking back at what you created this year is a valuable exercise.
For me, 2024 brought a whole new way of understanding the meaning and symbolism behind innotivity (innovation, creativity and adaptability). We replaced the trite pyramid of our previous model with a flowing bonsai acacia, for one thing.
But my biggest creative advancement was surely my experience on the island of Bali. I travelled there in September to participate in the Global Speakers’ Federation Summit. It was the biggest talk I have given, to a room of 200 of the world’s best professional speakers. It was also my first trip to Asia.
What really knocked my socks off was the spiritual experience. Yes, Bali has one of the world’s densest populations of yoga retreats, but I am not talking about that. I am referring to Balinese Hinduism, which I propose is the world’s most creative religion.
What do I mean by “creative religion”? As with anything I would describe as creative, I mean it is unique, valuable and synthesises an existing variety of approaches into one set of practices.
Bali is perhaps the most famous of the more than 17 000 islands in the Indonesian archipelago. It is a magnet for international tourists. The island has a population approaching five million people, and an annual visitor average of 16 million, meaning there are three times more tourists each year than people who live there.
Only Venice, Macao and Iceland have greater ratios of tourists to residents, but their populations are comparatively tiny, with all three combined adding up to less than a fifth of Bali’s.
Indonesia is the largest Muslim country in the world, making Bali a radical anomaly, the only non-Islamic island in the archipelago. Almost everyone on Bali is Hindu, but of a peculiarly Balinese type.
My introduction to Bali came at one of its most touristed temples, Pura Luhur on the Uluwatu cliffs, offering a stunning view of the Indian Ocean. My tour guide Mangcku (“monk”), a documentary filmmaker, took me there during my first afternoon on the island to watch the Kecak Fire Dance.
The fire dance harks back to Bali’s Indian roots, narrating an ancient epic called the Ramayana. The hypnotic, entrancing chants of a shirtless chorus of 30 men drive the action with their endless “takatakatakatakataka” as masked lead actors detail the story of Prince Rama, his wife Sita and his monkey general Hanuman.
It’s a stunning performance that begins in broad daylight and ends in darkness. I’m talking about natural end-of-day reality, not metaphor.
The temple at Uluwatu is one of more than a thousand public temples spread across the island.
Mangcku took me to more than I could count on my fingers, teaching me that Bali’s religion is as different from mainstream Hinduism as mainstream Hinduism is from Islam or Christianity.
A bit of history — Indian traders brought Hinduism to Bali in about 100 CE. But it wasn’t until a thousand years later that the religion took hold. Instead of banishing the animistic traditions that came before it, Hinduism absorbed them.
Or maybe they absorbed it. Either way, the Balinese focus on harmony with nature did not diminish.
The ancestral spirits that inhabit their mountains, rivers, trees and animals became manifestations of Hindu deities.
For instance, while Hindus elsewhere venerate the god Ganesh, Balinese Hindus pray to a localised version called Ganapati, who looks less human and more fully elephant.
This localisation is fundamental to Bali’s Hinduism. Religion in Bali is personal. There are almost 25 000 private family temples in people’s yards — one for every 200 residents. I marvelled as we drove by one after the next.
Each is a unique work of art, its layout and carvings of animals and demons distinct.
This deeply individual connection to the religion manifests in how holidays are commemorated. The day before I left the island was Galungan, the second-most important day of the year, when the Balinese celebrate the triumph of order (dharma) over chaos (adharma).
And yet the only indication of the special day was the tall bamboo poles placed along the roadside with food for the ancestors, and the special lace dresses the women wore. Otherwise, it was business as usual.
The only Balinese holiday that is obvious is Nyepi, the Day of Silence, when the entire island shuts down and nobody dares leave their house for fear of the evil spirits that run rampant. Although this does provide a space for internalised reflection, it is the antithesis of creativity.
The days leading up to Nyepi provide the opposite experience, as the island bursts with creative energy. In Ogoh-Ogoh parades, people pump enormous effigies of demons through the streets and then burn them to symbolise the destruction of evil.
Even the underlying symbolism of Balinese Hinduism is a bit different. Most of Asian religion and philosophy focuses on duality, such as yin-yang, or in Hindu, purusha (spirit) and prakriti (material).
Mangcku taught me that Balinese spirituality is based on a structure of three: equal balance among our relationship with the divine, with nature and with other humans.
There is an element of this in traditional Hinduism, in the trinity of Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer. But the Balinese version is about the individual’s relationship to the trinity.
The highlight of my trip was when Mangcku brought me to Tirta Empul, a temple featuring a series of seven holy purification pools.
The stations, in order, purify the body, mind, karma and soul, enhance spiritual connection, bring balance and health and, finally, synthesise the ritual, offering peace and renewal. At each station, Mangcku offered the spirits incense and a tray of flowers, rice and spices that he had carefully prepared the night before.
I embraced the moment as if the belief system were my own. As a Jew raised in a partly Christian household whose beliefs look more Mahayana Buddhist, it is second nature for me to try out others’ practices.
And the Balinese are open to their traditions being shared with outsiders without damage to its sacred essence.
But this freedom is not total. My last stop was Tanah Lot, one of Bali’s most iconic landmarks. Like Uluwatu, Tanah Lot sits at the fringe of the shore, but at sea level. It seems to float on the surf. I came on Galungan to witness how the Balinese commemorated this day formally.
For the first time, I was not allowed to do so. The main temple was for locals. We tourists — more than a thousand of us, scrabbling along the rocks like frantic ants — had to watch from outside the gates.
Maybe Mangcku could have got me in, but he was not with me. It was heartening, though, to finally see Balinese Hinduism treated with a touch of the mysticism it deserves.
Balinese Hinduism is not a static set of doctrines. It is a faith that thrives on adaptation and reinterpretation, a vibrant, living practice that transforms the most mundane activities into acts of worship and reshapes every aspect of life.
Most of all, it is a reminder that spirituality at its best is not just about adherence to tradition but about creating anew — a canvas where faith becomes art and art becomes faith again.
And that is why Bali was the best creative milestone of my year, taking me back to a tradition I had never experienced. What about you?
Michael Brian Lee is an advisory board member of World Creativity and Innovation Week/Day and a Radio 702 creativity contributor.
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