God's Golden Hoard

Discoveries in an Indian temple confirm that religion can be a very effective wealth creation scheme

"If you want to get rich," advised L. Ron Hubbard, "start a religion". Today's news from Kerala, that archaeologists investigating the long-neglected vaults of the Thiruvananthapuram temple have unearthed treasures worth up to £12 billion, suggests that his maxim wasn't simply a reflection of 20th century cynicism. God has long been where the money is.

The Indian temple's treasuries haven't yet been fully explored, but already they have yielded up tons of gold coins, sacks overpouring with diamonds and rubies, and spectacular individual items including a six-metre long necklace. Kerala chief secretary K Jayakumar estimated the total value at 500 billion rupees (around £7 billion); while other sources put it at more than $23 billion. No-one really knows, of course, and such figures are highly speculative. But it's certainly an awful lot.

The treasure represents the accumulation of centuries. The temple dates back to at least the 8th century and for many years was under the protection of the royal dynasty of Travancore. Its position at the hub of trade routes helped it grow rich with the offerings of passing merchants and wealthy pilgrims. Much of the wealth, though, seems to have been locked away and forgotten about until a recent decision of the Indian Supreme Court ordered the contents to be itemised and secured.

Though the quoted sums may equal the entire Indian education budget, there seems little prospect of a sell-off. This is sacred treasure, after all, not just loot. The hoard may make the temple of Thiruvananthapuram officially the country's richest, but there are several others whose wealth is known to run into billions of dollars and many more whose precise holdings remain unclear.

It has also just been revealed that the guru Sai Baba -- best known for his Afro hairstyle and for performing a conjuring trick with "sacred ash" -- left behind property worth around £5.5bn when he died in April. The world's richest Christian pastor, by contrast -- Nigeria's Bishop David Oyedepo -- has to make do with a paltry $150 million, although that is enough to keep him in four private jets as well as homes in London and the United States.

In scenes strangely similar to those in Kerala, officials at Sai Baba's ashram recently decided to investigate the guru's private chambers, previously off-limits to everyone bar himself and a single assistant who alone understood the security. They found treasures of £1.6 million in rupees and 98 kilos in gold, worth almost £3 million at today's prices. But that represented only a small part of his accumulated wealth from what Gethin Chamberlain tartly described as "a lifetime of claiming to be the incarnation of God."

But why single out India? We may be accustomed to drawing a sharp distinction between things spiritual and temporal, between filthy lucre and religious transcendence, but for long as temples have existed they have proved effective as money magnets. Some economic historians argue that organised religion began as a mechanism for collecting and redistributing resources. The gods, like middlemen everywhere, would have taken their cut.

Jesus may have told the rich young man to sell all he had and give it to the poor, but the Christian churches have rarely applied that stricture to themselves. Instead, the wealthy were encouraged to ease their passage through the eye of the needle by giving (or at least leaving) their money to God. It was an offer many kings, aristocrats and bankers felt unable to refuse. Some of the results are currently on show at the British Museum's aptly titled Treasures of Heaven exhibition. Featured are bejewelled boxes, golden crosses, gilded disembodied limbs and other striking pieces of medieval bling, all designed to contain the saintly bones and other relics that for centuries formed a vital element in popular and elite religion.

As Martina Bagnoli points out in one of the essays in the catalogue accompanying the show, the precious reliquaries were not simply containers of spiritual treasures whose value was unquantifiable, they were also ways of storing up material wealth. In Mainz, a solid gold cross weighing 600lb was made in 983. Bits of it were chopped off and melted down during various emergencies over the following two centuries. By 1161 there was nothing left.

But other sacred treasures have been better preserved, and while no-one has (so far as I know) tried to put a value on every cathedral, artwork, statue and piece of real estate owned by the various parts of the Roman Catholic Church it would surely dwarf even that of the Thiruvananthapuram temple. Or, for that matter, the estimated $30 billion assets of the Utah-based Mormon Church. An even bigger -- and probably impossible -- job would be to establish what proportion of the world's tangible wealth is held by religious organisations of every kind.

After all, it pays to invest for the long term. And you can't get much longer-term than eternity.

Belief, disbelief and beyond belief
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Leader: The angry middle

As a sense of victimhood extends even to the middle classes, it makes Western democracies much more difficult to govern.

Two months after the United Kingdom’s vote to leave the European Union, it remains conventional wisdom that the referendum result was largely a revolt by the so-called left behind. Yet this is not the full picture. Many of the 52 per cent who voted Leave were relatively prosperous and well educated, yet still angry and determined to deliver a shock to the political system. We should ask ourselves why the English middle class, for so long presumed to be placid and risk-averse, was prepared to gamble on Brexit.

Populism has long appealed to those excluded from political systems, or from a share in prosperity. In recent years, however, its appeal has broadened to young graduates and those on above-average incomes who also feel that they have not benefited from globalisation. The sense of middle-class victimhood has become a major strand in Western politics.

In the United States, middle-class anger has powered support for Bernie Sanders and Donald Trump. The former drew his activist base mostly from young liberals. And while Mr Trump’s success in the Republican primaries was often attributed to a working-class insurrection against “the elites”, exit poll data showed that the median yearly income of a Trump voter was $72,000, compared with a national average of $56,000. (For supporters of Hillary Clinton, the figure was roughly $61,000.) It is not the have-nots who have powered Mr Trump’s rise, but the have-a-bits.

In the UK, similar forces can be seen in the rise of Jeremy Corbyn. Indeed, research shows that three-quarters of Labour Party members are from the top social grades, known as ABC1. About 57 per cent have a degree.

Mr Sanders, Mr Trump and Mr Corbyn have very different policies, ideologies and strategies, but they are united by an ability to tap into middle-class dissatisfaction with the present order. Some of that anger flows from politicians’ failure to convey the ways in which society has improved in recent years, or to speak truthfully to electorates. In the UK and much of the West, there have been huge gains – life expectancy has risen, absolute poverty has decreased, teenage pregnancy has fallen to a record low, crime rates have fallen, and huge strides have been made in curbing gender, sexual and racial discrimination. Yet we hear too little of these successes.

Perhaps that is why so many who are doing comparatively well seem the most keen to upset the status quo. For instance, pensioners voted strongly to leave the EU and are the demographic from which Ukip attracts most support. Yet the over-65s are enjoying an era of unprecedented growth in their real incomes. Since 2010, the basic state pension has risen by over four times the increase in average earnings. 

Among young people, much of their anger is directed towards tuition fees and the iniquities of the housing market. Yet, by definition, tuition fees are paid only by those who go into higher education – and these people receive a “graduate bonus” for the rest of their lives. Half of school-leavers do not attend university and, in a globalised world, it is their wages that are most likely to be undercut by immigration.

However, we should not be complacent about the concerns of the “angry middle”. The resentment exploited by Donald Trump is the result of 40 years of stagnant median wages in the United States. In Japan and Germany, median wages have not increased in the past two decades. In the UK, meanwhile, the median income for those aged 31-59 is no greater than it was in 2007, and those aged 22-30 are 7 per cent worse off, according to the Institute for Fiscal Studies.

To compound the problem, the wealthy keep getting wealthier. In 1980, American CEOs were paid 42 times the wage of the average worker. They are now paid 400 times as much. In the UK, the share of household income going to the top 1 per cent has more than doubled since 1979. Because of our hyperconnected, globalised media culture, we see more of the super-rich, fuelling feelings of resentment.

As a sense of victimhood extends even to the middle classes, it makes Western democracies much more difficult to govern, with voters oscillating between populists of the left and the right. The political centre is hollowing out. Rather than pander to the populists, we must do more to quell the politics of victimhood by addressing the root of this corrosive sense of grievance: entrenched inequality. 

This article first appeared in the 25 August 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Cameron: the legacy of a loser