Choosing a Methodological Path

Prior to beginning my studies in Toronto this year, I had assumed that the Method and Theory course would be a course which would teach me how to properly go about studying religion. In particular, I assumed, in light of my own textually based studies, that we would be looking primarily at various forms of textual criticism (historical, redactional, source, etc.). Thus, I was a little surprised when I saw our topics of study when the course began. The task of summarizing what has been constructed from this course as a whole is, indeed, a difficult thing to summarize. Thus, I will begin with some preliminary thoughts concerning the deconstruction of ideas and terms that took place in our course throughout the term.

Of course, now that the term is nearly over, I find that my earlier preconceptions about the course structure prior to actually attending were rather naïve and short-sighted on my part; however, I do not think myself to have been so naïve as to have presumed that our course would not focus upon deconstructing methodological preconceptions. I have found it quite challenging to maintain a consistent scholarly voice and position throughout the duration of this course. Furthermore, I have found many of the methodological problems quite difficult to respond to and yielding troubling consequences for my scholarship.

Needless to say, I found this very disconcerting (as likely most other scholars have experienced at least once during their careers). Furthermore, upon the discovery that such basic terms (such as ‘text’, ‘context’, ‘gender’, ‘performance’, ‘tradition’, etc.) might be so thoroughly critiqued and deconstructed, I continued to find myself falling into scholastic despair thinking that I would be unable to communicate with my fellow peers and colleagues in the study of religion:
Colleague 1: “Considering the context in which 4 Ezra was written, we may derive x, y, and z.”
Andrew: “Context? Which context? Do you mean the context in which the final redaction of 4 Ezra took place? If so, which moment, the moment in which the redactor raised his/her pen from the text or when the redacted form of 4 Ezra began to circulate into the possession of a wider community? Perhaps it would be more efficient for us to speak about 4 Ezra (a) which corresponds to time ‘Ta’ in the evolutional history of the text as opposed to 4 Ezra (b) referring to time ‘Tb’ in its development?
Colleague: “Wait, wait, wait… What are you doing? Can we even catalogue 4 Ezra in so broad and obscure a term as ‘text’?”
Even stepping away from the world of academia for a moment, communication even began to feel much more complex when going to the local McDonald’s:
McDonald’s Cashier: “Would you like some fries with that?”
Andrew: “Would you like fries with that? If by you, you mean me, and if me refers to I and, therefore, the self, I’m really not sure how to respond to your question. Is there really an I involved enough here that it can adequately respond to your question? Or is it, the I that is, merely a product of cultural experience?”
Cashier: “Err… So no fries then sir?”
Andrew: “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to reformulate your question, I’m not entirely sure what you’re really attempting ask me!”

Moreover, I began to find the same communication problems within my course readings. In particular, my self-assurance that I even understood readings at all began to fall into question. Is there any real way of knowing whether I even understood what Bell said at all, or perhaps I am relying too heavily upon Grimes’ interpretation of Bell? Hence, the problems that this course demonstrated for me were largely epistemological ones, and not merely in regards to the limits of what we can learn about an object of study based upon the methodologies we utilize, but also in regards to whether it was even possible to communicate with other scholars about scholastic issues. Before I was able to take anything constructive away from the course, I found myself in an intellectual mist until, finally, I recalled the epistemological training I had undertaken in my undergraduate philosophy courses. In particular, the approach taken in this class reminded me very much of the global skeptic.

Put simply, the skeptic sheds doubt upon proposed premises. Moreover, the global skeptic sheds doubt upon everything and maintains that nothing can be known. In fact, the Global Skeptic maintains that they can’t even known that they don’t know (as Keith Lehrer proposed) in contrast to Socratic skepticism which maintains that “I know one thing, that I don’t know anything.” Although I do not maintain that everyone in our class is individually a global skeptic, I do believe that we can, evidently, see a skeptical attitude present within our group as a whole, and, moreover, as a collective, our class tends to treat terms in a skeptical fashion. Unlike the global skeptic, however, our class appears to have certain implicit axiomatic epistemological presuppositions. For example, our course met every week to discuss the issues, demonstrating that everyone that came each week assumed that there would, indeed, be a group to attend and discuss that week’s issues with. This may seem a little absurd, but to the global skeptic, such an assumption would be called into question. Furthermore, we all discussed the issues both in our blogs and in our class, which demonstrates that we all assumed that some sort of communication was not only possible but efficacious (why else would we discuss these things?). Thus, it is evident to me that there are at least a few presuppositions that our class was unwilling to shed. This became, for me, the first building block which I took away from this course; namely, that scholars appear to have a tendency to maintain at least certain basic foundational precepts that they are either reluctant to admit and realize or unwilling to shed (for whatever reasons). The second building block which I have taken from this class is the limitation of any given methodology. Albeit, I had already presumed any approach to the study of religion to be problematic, I admit that I have discovered many additional problems within existing methodologies that I had not considered before. Third, my exposure to several alternative approaches to the study of religion allowed me to see various different possible approaches to studying religion.

I will now regress and demonstrate several problems that arise out of these three building blocks. Regarding the first, I am, as yet, uncertain what all of these epistemological axioms which people are unwilling to shed actually are. Thus, although it is evident that people do have certain axioms, I do not know that there are any that are shared amongst all people (in fact, I suspect there are not). Regarding the third, due to disagreements not only within our class, but amongst professional scholars, I am uncertain how to adequately define any given methodology. However, is it even necessary to do so? Does any person’s own methodological approach even need to be categorized into an approach which is utilized by a group of scholars? Do any two scholars have the same methodological approach? Does an individual’s approach even need to be the same from one project to the next? If so, this would seem to preclude the possibility of improving one’s methodological approach.

In light of these three conclusions, I must consider what they mean for me as an individual when I approach the study of religion? To these questions, I once again appeal to epistemology and the global skeptic. The problem with epistemology is that when speaking about knowledge, certain terms and definitions are given, and from these definitions, skeptics (and others) demonstrate alleged problems. Moreover, the global skeptic concludes that (if knowledge = true justified belief) then having any sort of knowledge is impossible. However, there is something terribly cunning which occurs in the skeptical approach to both epistemology and religious studies. In both cases, the skeptic (of epistemology or religion) has defined the parameters and given us the terms which we are supposed to work from, so, as soon as we even attempt to respond or dispute their conclusions we have already implicitly decided that we will ‘operate’ within the parameters set out by the skeptic. The solution to these problems is to not allow the skeptics to define our own parameters.

As scholars, if we have even a shred of hope or any aspiration to move forward with our work, we must define our own parameters and methodological approaches. Skeptics also have their own axioms. They utilize their own language to define their puzzles, and determine the deconstructitvist outcomes. In attempting to respond, we utilize their tools and attempt to follow in their footsteps in order to solve the puzzles which they have woven from their own hands. If we wish to construct, we too must do the same, we must be willing to outline our own frameworks, and not allow the sophistry to manipulate them. The global skeptic chooses to accept that knowledge = true justified belief, and similarly, all scholars in religious studies have their own axiomatic beliefs from which they ultimately derive their own methodological paths. Hence, in light of the deconstruction that has occurred in this course, I believe that we must either make a stand or allow ourselves to continuously be dragged down mercilessly into skeptical puzzles. We can either choose to step outside of the sophist religious studies scholars’ framework, or we can allow ourselves to be caught up in them and neglect construction. If we step outside of the puzzles and discover that certain earlier assumptions still do not work, then, I agree, we may consider abandoning certain presuppositions; however, if we can only speak about certain problems within an academic setting and when we return home at night forget that communication is allegedly impossible and continue to communicate with our parents, spouse, siblings, friends, etc.; then, perhaps, the problem does not exist at all!

I do believe that methodological approaches must continually be critically reevaluated. Thus, I maintain, as I did in my first blog, “the importance of a collaborative approach to studying religious texts, because personal prejudices and seemingly all methodological approaches to religious texts have their limitations which may only begin to be rectified by the synthesizing of ideas.” Hence, I have learned that my (developing) scholarly voice is my methodological approach. I admit to my own personal biases and underlying presuppositions (even if I am unable to identify them all); however, my hope is that through the persistent collaboration and critique of other scholars that my own personal conclusions may continue to be ‘purified’.

In regards to an alternative method of teaching the course, a historical approach might have been taken. Namely, we might have investigated how the religious studies methodologies (and perhaps even the objects of study) have changed over the years. However, I suspect that such an approach to methodology would result in a totally different class from the one which we have been attending. A course based on the history of methodological approach would have revealed interesting trajectories in terms of political interests throughout the history of studying religion; whereas, the course we have taken yielded data regarding human understanding and presuppositions of terms and approaches. I believe that this proposed alternative would likely be equally efficacious but very different from what we have done this term. Moreover, I believe that either approach would have lead the class as a whole deeper and deeper into skeptical doubt regarding the study of religion and methodology. Moreover, the invaluable solution to the reapplication of the skeptical problem to religious studies which I have found through doing the readings and participating in the discussions in this course is not something that I believe can exactly be ‘taught’; rather, I suspect it must be learned. Namely, you cannot simply tell someone how to solve these skeptical problems regarding key terms (including religion, ritual, etc.). I think that they need to be discovered. What do I know though? Perhaps what I have constructed from this course are the results of my own personal assumptions? Might my own thinking not be refined through the fire of critical response?

The Shedding of Tradition

The authenticity of religious traditions has long been a subject of interest for. In fact, I, generally, focus the large part of my research on Ancient Israelite and early Jewish. Eric Hobsbawm is interested in tracing the ‘origin’ of traditions. Moreover, he maintains that often so-called ‘invented’ traditions attempt to root themselves in the past: “In short, they are responses to novel situations which take the form of reference to old situations, or which establish their own past by quasi-obligatory repetition” (2). Moreover, Hobsbawm maintains that traditions typically arise in order to “attempt to establish community with a suitable historic past” (1). I find Hobsbawm’s analysis of tradition rather insufficient. Rather, I find Thomas’ notion that new traditions are established by rejecting previous traditions (227) much more convincing. In particular, I think that the notion of developing religious traditions is much better appropriated to Thomas’ understanding that ‘new’ traditions are those that break with or reject earlier tradition.

I find the entire notion of ‘invented tradition’ difficult to grasp in regards to religion. Consider that amongst the major religious traditions of the world, there is typically at least one core aspect which is used to link the traditions under one banner (for example, Christianity – Jesus). Moreover, there are also key traditions amongst sectarian groups within religious which also unifies these groups yet differentiates them from the religion as a whole. Consider for a moment a Baptist in conversation with a Roman Catholic, and the two begin to discuss the death of the Apostle Peter. “I wonder what happened to Peter?” the Baptist may enquire. “He was crucified upside down in Rome on the very day that St. Paul was martyred” the Catholic may respond. Of course, the primary source of tradition for the Baptist is the Christian Bible, in which, no direct mention is made of Peter’s death; hence, becoming confused, the Baptist might respond “how do you know this? It is not referenced in the Bible.” To this, the Catholic would respond, “It’s Church tradition!”

Christianity is a very broad term encompassing a very broad spectrum of various religious Traditions, and, although, sharing several key commonalities which bind the varying groups together under the common term ‘Christianity’ (such as Jesus and scriptural authority), there are also key divergences which perpetuate divisions within Christianity. One such difference would be to what the Catholic refers to as ‘Church tradition’. ‘Tradition’ in the Catholic sense refers to one of the three sources of authority; namely, ‘tradition’ in Catholicism refers to what is authoritatively passed down through the Church but is not recorded in the Bible. Similarly, to other Christians, they maintain 1) the authority of the Bible; however, they also maintain, 2) Church tradition, and 3) magisterial authority. What I am interested in is the intersection between the first and second tenets (Bible and tradition).

In particular, I find the Protestant departure from Church tradition very interesting. Specifically, within the western Christian tradition, Christianity had been a religious movement which had consistently been open to development since the time of Jesus. Namely, Christianity saw itself as, through the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, continually developing doctrine since the time the Apostles received the Spirit at Pentecost. Moreover, what is today called the New Testament was itself a gradual development (beginning with the collection of Paul’s letters and later the addition of the Gospels and the other epistles). Furthermore, this collection, likely, became canonized as a source of authority for all Christians in the fourth century A.D. However, Christian religious writings continued to flourish up until and after this time (in papal encyclicals, Hagiography, philosophy, etc.).

Thus, it was an interesting development for the sixteenth century Reformers to maintain “Sola Scriptura” (scripture alone) since until this time tradition and development within western Christianity had been so open to development. Namely, the Protestant Reformers thought of later Church tradition (post-New Testament tradition) as inauthentic or corrupt. Thus, for most Protestants, the Reformation was a sort of grass-roots process that was intended to return Christianity to what was entirely authentic and instituted by Christ. Hence, the only way to properly understand the Bible was through one’s inner grace, which departed from the Catholic view that the Bible must be interpreted through Church Tradition.

This notion of the Protestant Reformation is highly problematic Hobsbawm’s view that traditions arise in order to create group cohesion since the Reformation created such disunity within Christendom which continues to the present time. One might contend, however, that no new tradition was formed through the Protestant Reformation, but, rather, only a rejection of tradition occurred. However, this would be an misunderstanding of the Reformation since Reformers such as Luther and Calvin insisted that the only way to properly understand the Bible was through one’s grace. Moreover, this notion gave rise to five new traditions that became normative for Protestants: 1) solus Christos (Christ Alone), 2) sola scriptura (scripture Alone), 3) Sola fide (faith alone), 4) sola gratia (grace alone), and 5) soli deo gloria (glory to God alone). Although, these five principles do maintain some cohesion amongst Protestants as a whole, they found themselves in opposition to Catholic tradition and created greater (intentional) disunity amongst Christianity as a whole.

I believe that the issue outlined in this paper – namely the splitting of religious (or secular) communities in order to form sectarian communities – poses a problem to Hobsbawm’s understanding that tradition is something designed to create unity within a community. Rather, in the case of the Christian Reformation, the new traditions (which were an attempt to return to older tradition) came about due to the rejection of earlier tradition, which is much more in keeping with Thomas’ position. Moreover, my example of the Christian Reformation problematizes Hobsbawm’s notion of the factitious attribution of continuity of older tradition within new traditions (2), since, for example, all of these five Reformation principles had been present within Christianity since at least the fourth century. What was new about them, however, was the exclusive use of these five principles as the only means of authority. Hence, I believe that rather than thinking in terms of new/old traditions, it is better to consider tradition in terms of development since, ultimately, even ‘old’ traditions develop over the years and may appear almost entirely different from one period of time to another or in one community to another. Similarly, ‘new’ traditions do not arise out of thin air, they are often interpretive developments made by a community in order to move towards what is authentic.

Mourning as a Method for Provoking Empathy in Ancient Israelite Religion

Upon reading Christian’s “The Function of Ritual Weeping Revisited: Affective Expression and Moral Discourse” and Wolfson’s “Weeping, Death, and Spiritual Ascent in Sixteenth-century Jewish Mysticism” I began to think about mourning rituals in Ancient Israelite religion and how “the interweaving of emotional life with morality, especially on the manner in which emotionality expresses, reinforces, is shaped by, and challenges social and moral orders” (Corrigan 20) would be an interesting way of considering these ancient rituals.

In Christian’s paper, he argues that weeping was an important penitential Catholic practice in Early Modern Spain. He states “Without it God would not be moved. Weeping was not, as Huizinga would have it, the expression of a childlike sensibility that we have largely outgrown. Emotions were serious business; provoked, collective, weeping could be effective.” (46). Christian explains that Early Modern Catholic Spaniards believed that the eyes were a powerful way of knowing and recognizing the disposition of the heart; thus, tears were an important outward sign (42-3). Moreover, “tears were considered a favorable sign of contrition.” (43).

On the other hand, Wolfson explains how weeping is connected to spiritual ascent in sixteenth-century Kabbalah. In particular, Wolfson discusses two different mystical functions of weeping for sixteenth-century Kabbalists using R. Hayyim Vital (conceived of as an exemplary) as his primary example. The first function of weeping is thought to be a powerful spiritual method for the mystic to receive “mystical gnosis (hassagat ha-hokhmah)” (278). The second was the ascent of the soul, and the goal of these two functions was to result “in a spiritual vision” (292).

I found the functions of weeping – the first as penitential and the second as a means for spiritual vision – rather insightful, and I began to reflect on various mourning traditions in the Hebrew Bible and wondered if analyzing the notion of mourning might yield similar results. Although to my knowledge there are not any explicit instructions for the proper period of time or way people are to mourn, there are definitely several hints within various texts that imply a commonly understood mourning code. For example, after Job loses all of his possessions and children, he mourns for seven days before his friends Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar, who have come to comfort him, speak.

In Hebrew, the word for heart is lēbāb. However, the word has a very broad meaning in Hebrew and refers not only to the heart but it is also the center of one’s emotions. Furthermore, the same word refers to the mind, the will, and the inner self. It is the center of a person so to speak. One might even speak of it as one’s disposition. It reflects the core or what is most central to the individual. In other words, if one wishes to really know a person one must know their lēbāb.

I think that understanding this Hebraic concept of the lēbāb is a very important starting point for properly understanding the self in ancient Israelite religion. Furthermore, it is important to understand that the ancient Israelite community thought of themselves collectively. In other words, the ramifications of sin were felt throughout the community. Similarly, penance might be made on behalf of the entire nation, such as the Day of Atonement. Furthermore, I want to point out that it was a common practice for ancient Israelites to mourn the death of a loved one in a communal setting. Indeed, it was widely believed that, for example, the people assembled and mourned terribly for the death of their archetypal prophet Moses: “The Israelites wept for Moses in the plains of Moab thirty days; then the period of mourning for Moses was ended.” (Deuteronomy 34:8).

What I thought was particularly interesting is that mourning, or mourning-like practices are used in very diverse circumstances in ancient Israelite religion. For example, in Genesis 37, Joseph, the favored son of the Hebrew patriarch Jacob, is sold into slavery by his brothers, but when the brothers return home to their father Jacob they lie to him and tell him that Joseph has been killed by a “wild animal”. In response, “Jacob tore his garments, and put sackcloth on his loins, and mourned for his son many days.” (37:34). In another instance in a quite different story, a missing Book of the Law is found while the Temple is undergoing repairs and is read to King Josiah. “When the king heard the words of the Book of the Law, he tore his robes.” (2 Kings 22:11). Finally, in another instance related to mourning, the seer Daniel who is in exile in Babylon performs mourning rituals and wears sackcloth in order to gain divine binah (understanding) “Then I turned to the Lord God, to seek an answer by prayer and supplication with fasting and sackcloth and ashes” (9:3).

It seems to me that mourning rituals have a very diverse range of functions in the Hebrew Bible. They are used for mourning proper (as is the case for Job and Jacob), they are used to show remorse as in the case of King Josiah (2 Kings), and they are also used to invoke empathy from God to answer prayer (as in Daniel). Hence, to me, a broader understanding of mourning in the Hebrew Bible appears to me to be that it conveys one’s lēbāb in an attempt to bring about a change in another’s lēbāb. In Job mourning might be thought of as a tool to demonstrate the great suffering Job endures and, hence, to receive a divine response and insight from the LORD; in 2 Kings, King Josiah mourns to show his penitence to God that the deity might have mercy on them despite their failing to uphold these laws prior to rediscovering them. Daniel, similarly, seeks a sort of mercy that he may receive binah whilst he remains in exile. Thus, mourning appears to be used as an attempt to bring about moral empathy or mercy from others and often from God in Ancient Israelite religion.

Theorists as the Objects of Their Own Study

I believe that Grimes challenge – “Bell blames ritual theorists for constituting the object of their study. Do theorists of other sorts do any differently?” (127) – sufficiently demonstrates the problematic nature of theorizing in general. I believe that Grimes’ claim that theorists inevitably constitute the object of their study rings true, is very well articulated, and, moreover, is very highly troubling.

Consider Masuzawa’s statement “The project of comparative theology has been deemed not scientific on the grounds that it either presupposed or invariably drew the self-same conclusion as Christian theology, that Christianity was fundamentally different from all other religions, thus, in the last analysis, beyond compare.” (111). Again, Masuzawa’s work demonstrates how historically there has been a highly political dimension to theory-making and classification. Moreover, her work demonstrates how the early discourse concerning the ideology of “world religions” was focused in an apologetic way towards classifying and ordering the world’s religious traditions in a (usually) hierarchical formation under Christianity.

Grimes states: “Bell is at her most persuasive in showing how inevitably theory-making is a strategic activity.” (128). Inevitably, Grimes is correct in his assessment that theory-making is strategic for several reasons. First, it is clear that it is strategic, in so far as, we take a group of phenomena or facts and attempt to classify them, and explain them and how they relate to one another. In other words, there is a goal in mind when one theorizes. The goal, however, is politicized and inevitably reflects values and presuppositions of the theorizer.

Consider, for example, Grimes’ discussion about Milton Singer. Grimes explains that Singer went to India and inquired into “how he might study the cultural pattern of India”, and he was directed to the “rites, festivals, recitations, prayers, and plays” (110). These things he called “cultural performances” (11). He maintained that the core cultural values could be captured in them, and that they are more ready to study than values of the heart (110). In other words, Singer believed that the essence of a religion might be captured most accurately through action rather than through doctrine, or holy writings, etc. Geertz, similarly, maintained that “we have access to things emotional and conceptual, to a people’s ethos and world view, by way of public cultural performances.” (111). Thus, Singer and Geertz both, clearly, demonstrate their own presuppositions within their methodology by privileging performance over belief.

In addition, Grimes writes “Is there any important term in Western scholarship—religion, matter, mind, creation, reality—that is not marked by its own history and sociology?” (127). Of course, one can never definitively demonstrate how each and every scholar brings his or her own biases into their study; however, Grimes’ statement rings very true in light of Masuzawa’s book surveying the development of the notion of ‘world religions’. Thus, I find Grimes’ earlier comment, at least in part, frighteningly true. Thus, in light of the problematic nature of posing theories when we read a given scholar’s work do we learn more about the object of study or the scholar? Personally, even upon reading Grimes’ own work, I feel that more than learning about performance, I have learned about Ronald Grimes and how he understands the study of ritual. However, there seems to me a third option of what we may learn most about when reading scholarship.

Since it is evident that scholars inevitably bring personal biases and values into the texts we study, there is, evidentially, a third hermeneutical layer that is created when reading a given scholar’s work. In particular, one will learn something about oneself when reading a theory since the reader too brings their own assumptions and prejudices into the text? Initially, I find that this renders the issue of doing any sort of ‘pure’ scholarship very discouraging. Namely, can it even be said that there can be any truly scholarly discourse at all? Can we even say that we gain any sort of intrinsic knowledge from the works we read? It does seem that we as scholars are affected by what we read; however, are we affected by anything essential to the text or are we affected by some sort of personal interpretation of the text? When anthropologist 1 speaks to anthropologist 2, to discuss anthropology, do they really discuss a ‘field of anthropology’ or do they both discuss their own field of anthropology which is relative to themselves? Initially, this may seem absurd, but even if we take a more moderate view and begin to think about a discourse where at least some communication is achievable, there seems to be some truth to this problem.

It appears to be a very slippery scale, which becomes even more slippery when we begin to discuss the problems of what one even considers scholarship (as per our discussion in class last week). Should this problematic outlined here not make sense, might one say that they have solved this difficult problem or has the reader merely misinterpreted the author and, hence, not discovered the intrinsic problematic outlined in the text?