Does Religion Have a Universal Essence?

Both Geertz and Asad attempt to demonstrate how religion is integrated with and interacts with human culture. However, these scholars diverge on their specific understandings about how religion as a phenomenon is a part of human society. While their descriptions of religion are problematic, their work helps to demonstrate how a scholar’s assumptions can greatly affect how the relationship between the religious perspective and the secular perspective relate to one another.

Geertz believes that human beings communicate through symbols (The Interpretation of Cultures 89). Moreover, humans themselves construct cultural significance through the interpretation of groups of symbols (5). By extension, Geertz defines religion as “(1) a system of symbols which acts to (2) establish powerful, pervasive, and long-lasting moods and motivations in men by (3) formulating conceptions of a general order of existence and (4) clothing these conceptions with such an aura of factuality that (5) the moods and motivations seem uniquely realistic” (90). Implicit in Geertz’s definition is his assumption that religion is a discernible universal phenomenon, distinct from the non-religious sphere of culture.

Geertz elaborates further that humans rely upon symbols for epistemic purposes: “Man depends upon symbols and symbol systems with a dependence so great as to be decisive for his creatural viability and, as a result, his sensitivity to even the remotest indication that they may prove unable to cope with one or another aspect of experience raises within him the gravest sort of anxiety” (99). Hence, Geertz argues that symbols are central to the human’s process of learning, and that humans depend upon the symbols to be able to convey various epistemic significances.

Further evidence demonstrating Geertz’s assumption of an underlying religious paradigm, distinct from a non-religious paradigm is evident in his understanding that the religious perspective is merely one of several cultural perspectives. For instance, Geertz maintains that the common-sense perspective, which is distinct from the religious perspective, is common to all people (119). Furthermore, he argues that, typically, ritual action leads to an expansion of the practitioner’s common-sense paradigm (122). Thus, Geertz argues that religious belief can derive through religious ritual. This position, problematically, presumes a correspondence between ritual and belief.

Conversely, Asad argues that the pursuit of a definition of religion is misguided endeavour, and contends that formulating such a definition presumes that religion has a universal essence (Asad 252). Asad argues in a Foucaultian fashion that the development of religious traditions needs to be understood within the context of a history of a genealogy of knowledge. In particular, Asad examines the history of western Christianity, and demonstrates the importance of power for the transformation and growth of the tradition. Namely, Asad argues that “it is not mere religious symbols that implant true Christian dispositions, but power”, ranging from imperial, ecclesiastical, hellfire, church, fasting, and penance (242-243).

A second major contribution of Asad’s work is demonstrating that the western notion of separating the religious (private) and non-religious (public) spheres developed out of western Christian thought. Asad argues that Christianity redrew the boundaries between “the religious and the secular” several times during the medieval period (244), and, at a later period, “with the triumphant rise of modern science, modern production and the modern state, the Churches would also be clear about the need to distinguish ‘the religious’ from ‘the secular’, shifting, as they did so, the weight of religious truth more and more onto the moods and motivations of the believer” (244). Thus, Asad demonstrates that analyzing religion separate from the secular is a modern conception, and, therefore, it is harmful to impose such a distinction on all religious traditions since no such distinction may actually exist for the adherents. For instance, there would certainly be no such distinction among the Jews of the Second Temple period. Therefore, Geertz’s treatment of religion as a separate perspective from the aesthetic and scientific paradigms is rooted in the underlying assumption that there is a cultural distinction between the religious and the secular (250).

I appreciate Asad’s position that constructing a universal definition of religion might be a delimiting pursuit. However, neglecting the pursuit of such a definition renders our discussions about such traditions, which are typically considered religious, virtually meaningless. Without drawing reference to a definition of religion, we risk segregating cultural traditions such as Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, and treating them as if they are each distinct cultural phenomena with limited comparative value since each is an entirely unique phenomenon. A definition of religion (no matter how synthetic it might be) must be crafted and continually revised in order to advance our knowledge of these traditions. Though Asad is correct that attempting to define religion presumes a priori that there is an essence to the phenomenon; however, Asad’s call to altogether abandon the pursuit of such a definition likewise presumes that there is no essence to religion. Thus, perhaps a way to solve this anachronistic understanding of religion as a distinct paradigm from the secular would be to understand religion in a more general fashion.

Namely, drawing upon Geertz’s notion that common-sense is the most universal human paradigm, we might integrate religious tendencies into this most universal of human perspectives. Thus, common-sense should be extended to include the human disposition to reach beyond itself; for example, ‘where do the lightning bolts come from during a thunderstorm?’ ‘Who casts down these beams of fire/light to earth?’ The human urge to ask such questions should be considered fundamental to the human experience. Hence, under this more general paradigm, we can explain why both Hindus have traditionally attributed the rain to Indra, and many scientists have preferred to attribute the rain to natural meteorological phenomena. In other words, Geertz’s universal common-sense perspective should be extended to include the human desire to explain the unexplained. Thus, this revised common-sense perspective can be understood as the most universal human paradigm and can serve as a genus for the phenomenon of religion, and from which we might derive a definition of religion.

Structure in Myth or the Myth of Structure?

Do human cultural traditions have any intrinsic meaning, or are our cultural institutions merely instances of a larger human chaos? This is one of the most important questions which both Lévi-Strauss and Foucault wish to address throughout their work. Lévi-Strauss argues that human myth is constrained by linguistic structures (213); on the other hand, Foucault, (apparently) conversely, seeks to demonstrate that institutions within society which appear to be governed by rational purpose must be understood as the inadvertent result of genealogical relationships, and ultimately the elite’s attempt to control deviancy (135-169).

Lévi-Strauss states “Mythology confronts the student with a situation which at first sight appears contradictory. On the one hand it would seem that in the course of a myth anything is likely to happen... But on the other hand, this apparent arbitrariness is belied by the astounding similarity between myths collected in widely different regions” (208). However, he argues that understanding myth as a language helps to alleviate these apparent contradictions (209). In order to discern this structure, Lévi-Strauss argues that the process of comparative mythology must be properly structured in the way that an orchestral score must be properly read in regards to the different instrumental parts which inevitably are included in the score (213). Furthermore, he argues that myths do not have “true” or “original” forms (217). Rather, a myth is a composite of all of its cultural variants; thus, a proper “structural analysis should take all of them into account” (217).

Clearly, Lévi-Strauss understands that to thoroughly analyze every permutation of a particular myth is impossible; hence, he attempts to strip several myths down to their basic components and structure them according to their most significant units (219). Lévi-Strauss’ rigid examination of these units leads him to describe families of myth where certain apparently key figures within a particular version might play especially significant roles but yet do not appear in cultural variants; for instance, consider his discussion on the Hopi myth of Shalako and the very different roles which the god Masauwu holds in certain variants of the tale, yet, in others, Masauwu may not even be present. In summary, Lévi-Strauss imposes a very rigid, almost mathematical, system upon the construction of mythology.

Foucault addresses the issue of structure from a decidedly very different perspective. Foucault begins by depicting two, apparently, very different types of penalties. Foucault historicizes the significance of the scaffold as important for public performances of bodily torture and execution, which served as a means of publicly displaying the disciplining of the perpetrator. Furthermore, the public display of the body following brutal forms of torture or execution would help to reinforce the severity of the penalty (34).

Following Foucault’s analysis of this earlier western system of public torture, he discusses the significance of the “gentle way of punishment”. However, Foucault does not believe that the shift between earlier forms of public torture and modern notions of imprisonment do not come about due to an informed ethical consciousness; instead, they are necessary to satisfy a demand for a universal mode of punishment for all perpetrators and crimes (116-117). Moreover, the goal of both the new gentle mode of punishment and its earlier more violent counterpart are the same, namely, to ultimately create a class which is obedient to the hierarchical elite. This is achieved by modern prisons through continual surveillance, which is experienced by the victim as “anonymous power”. Foucault states “this network [of constant surveillance] ‘holds’ the whole together and traverses it in its entirety with effects of power that derive from one another: supervisors, perpetually supervised” (176-177). Moreover, the institution of the prison fits into yet a greater system of coercion which includes military groups, medical facilities, schools, and religious institutions (300).

Thus, Foucault’s system initially appears to differ from Lévi-Strauss’. In particular, Lévi-Strauss has attempted to uncover the logical structure within human culture and, in particular, within myth, which are governed by certain universal human laws; in contrast, Foucault attempts to demonstrate that the presumption of purpose within human is merely accidental to a hierarchical political agenda. In other words, Lévi-Strauss demonstrates how despite the appearance of great diversity amongst myths (and more broadly human culture), the basic structures of myths are related; inversely, Foucault demonstrates that despite the appearance of particular logical structures within human society, social institutions need to be understood amidst a greater human genealogical relationship of thought. In this regard, Foucault might also understand himself as examining human mythology.

However, Foucault has also implicitly imposed a structure of his own upon the development of western penal traditions in regards to their genealogical development. In particular, Foucault has similarly demonstrated how the intellectual development of the prison came about through conformity to both a hierarchical human structure and an intellectual genealogy. In this manner, both Lévi-Strauss and Foucault share some sort of a notion of universal laws which guide human cultural developments.

How Should we Approach the Elephant in the Room?

There is a famous Indian parable about several blind men and an elephant. Each of the men attempts to touch a specific part of the elephant (such as the ears, the legs, the tail, etc.) in order to understand what it is. However, after touching the different parts of the elephant, they began to discuss the nature of what the animal was like and soon discovered that they vehemently disagreed about the elephant’s nature. This parable has been used for several different purposes within Jainism, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Islam such as to demonstrate the inexpressible quality of the universe. I argue that this parable might also be qualifiedly applied to religious studies scholars and their study of religion.

J. Z. Smith briefly outlines the evolution of the idea of “religion”; namely, he demonstrates how the concept is virtually a term fabricated by Christians which has expanded and contracted to include and exclude several cultural phenomena (such as Judaism, Buddhism, etc.) at different times. This, development of the term has lead Smith to conclude that “religion” is a synthetic term which scholars are free to define for their own purposes (“Religion, Religions, Religious” 281). In light of the cultural development of the idea of “religion”, this conclusion might appear sound. However, one must also account for the historical influx of information that gradually became available to the Christian scholars who defined the term. Thus, it is better to think about “religion” as a concept which has changed due to a growing body of information rather than Smith’s understanding that it is a term strictly defined by scholars’ ideological and political agendas.

Conversely, Smith is correct in identifying the roots of this concept as emerging out of a Christian world-view. Therefore, the idea of “religion” has often been susceptible to students’ incorrectly assuming that “religion” stems only from “belief”. Certainly, it was this Christian idea that “religion” stems from one’s belief that lead to Colonel Olcott’s (who was raised within the Presbyterian Christian tradition) assumption that authoring a Buddhist catechism would help to oppose Christian missionary endeavours within 19th century Sri Lanka (Lopez 29-34). Certainly, belief plays an important role within many cultural groups, but this is not true for several traditions typically identified as “religious”. Thus, it might be stated that one of the “blind men” or rather many Christian scholars identified the elephant or “religion” with belief; however, belief is, perhaps, not an intrinsic aspect to the phenomenon of “religion” as a whole.

This leads to the issue of classification. How should we classify ideas and concepts? In particular, how might we classify the elephant? Understanding ourselves and understanding institutions and concepts is intrinsically linked to how we understand the “other”. Similarly, “[p]erhaps the most fundamental classification of religions is “ours” and theirs,”” (Smith “Classification” 39). Unfortunately, while classification tends to be generalizing, it is indispensible within any academic discipline. In order to understand the unknown, should we not discuss how it is both like and unlike what is known? Learning comes out of utilizing cultural language and symbols which are already familiar to the learner to understand the unknown. Studying “religion”, therefore, must be done in the context of our own personal cultural backgrounds. Thus, if the blind man from the forest touches the leg of the elephant, he might say that the leg is strong and sturdy like a tree.

The same must be said of those who study “religion” and come from a confessional background (or from any and every background for that matter). Much of the study of religion has been separated into very specific fields such as the New Testament, or Rabbinics, etc. with little reference to the studies of the broader academy (Gill 974), just as the blind men examined different parts of the elephant without reference to other parts of the animal. Thus, a prolegomenon to resolving this issue would be through comparison and discussion of ideas within the broader field of religion. However, the method of comparative religions is not a new method within the study of religion, at least in terms of discussing similarities (969).

Therefore, what needs to be considered is if and how all of these distinctive cultural phenomena (Christianity, Judaism, Buddhism, etc.) relate to one another in regards to the human experience. Are religions related through shared common properties or do they have a family resemblance (Smith, “Classification” 36-37)? Conversely, are religions merely related synthetically due to a constructed and an expanding/contracting usage of the term “religion”?

I contend that the solution to these questions might come about through broader discussions and the “bridging-of-the-gaps” among the various subareas of religious studies. In the parable outlined above, the blind men are all touching the same thing, which, similarly, implies a commonality to the study of religion. Thus, we are all discussing a related phenomenon of “religion”, but what remains is for us to begin examining other parts of the elephant and discussing how these parts fit together into coherent whole. However, since the term “religion” basically developed out of a particular world-view (Christianity), it is up to religious studies scholars to integrate new world-perspectives and information into our developing understanding of “religion”, and, thereby, to change an originally external and mistaken term into a term which accurately describes this widespread human phenomenon.

The Prospects of Being the ‘Passive’ Observer within a Religious Community

I thoroughly enjoyed Coleman’s problematization of the insider/outsider debate in regards to not only evangelical communities but to ethnography in general. One aspect about the study of religion that I not only find quite interesting but also quite attractive is its undeniable significance within contemporary society. This is, of course, particularly the case in regards to modern religious movements and traditions found throughout the present-day world. Thus, the fact that the study of contemporary religious movements carries with it inevitably embedded personal biases and often results in emotional responses further problematizes its study and observation. What I find striking about Simon Coleman’s papers is his ability to demonstrate the impossibility of approaching a tradition from an unbiased or impartial perspective. Furthermore, I believe that his discussion concerning Stephen Warner (49-51) thoroughly demonstrates some of the ways in which the study of a contemporary religion might creep into a scholar’s personal life and subsequently affect the way one considers the tradition.

Coleman explains that Warner found himself interested in studying the Mendocino Presbyterian Church in California because both his ex-wife and son had joined the congregation (49). Indeed, he himself was a “long-lapsed Presbyterian”. In fact, Warner later married “a fellow choir member of the church” (51). In practice, he openly participated in the ritualistic aspects within the community (with the exclusion of communion) (50). However, Warner attempted to still keep a barrier between himself and the full-fledged members of the Presbyterian community through the medium of a verbal barrier: “‘My rule was not to say anything I did not believe, and therefore I never offered a prayer.’” (50). In light of the recount of Warner’s liminal experience between member of the church and ethnographer, I found Coleman’s question – “can we still maintain with Warner that it is ethically consistent to hold hands in a prayer circle, but not to speak the words of a prayer?” to be a very acute question to consider.

Upon reading through the experiences of Gellner, Harding, Warner, and Coleman himself, I began to reflect on personal experiences of visiting various religious communities and observing traditional practices in order to better understand communal rituals, beliefs, and concerns. One of the groups which I found most interesting was a small Messianic Jewish congregation situated in London. The Messianic movement is a relatively recent branch of Christianity that attempts to uphold both Jewish legal traditions while maintaining their confession of faith in Jesus and the authority of the New Testament. Even within Messianic Christianity there are several sub-sects which vary largely in terms of which community leans more heavily upon Jewish traditions versus Christian traditions. The particular group that I attended maintained fairly strong ties with local Evangelical churches but also leaned fairly heavily upon Jewish traditions (especially ritual and some liturgy). Hence, with their emphasis upon such issues as maintaining kosher (indeed a large portion of the members were themselves ethnically Jewish) but their interaction with several Evangelical communities made them a very unique religious community.

Upon visiting this community, I found it very difficult to discern how much I could ethically participate and not participate within a given community while visiting. In fact, I originally visited the Messianic community with the naïve intention of merely ‘observing’ their weekly communal gathering. I had believed that my own participation in the community would be a harmless one in which I might be able to remain ‘hidden away’ or ‘blended in’ the background of the congregation and left undisturbed whilst I examined the community. However, similar to Harding who was unsuspectingly ‘invaded by the fundamental Baptist tongue’ (46-47), I soon found myself not only invited but pulled into the Messianic experience. The weekly Shabbat Schule (Sabbath School) takes place every Saturday and includes much more than an hourly ‘service’ as many churches do. Rather, the Schule is a full day event (including a communal breakfast, worship, teaching, readings in Hebrew, lunch, small group discussions, Davidic dance, fellowshipping, etc.). Thus, when I entered the Schule I opened myself up for much more than just an hour’s quiet and passive observation. During the Oneg (the communal meal) I was bombarded with friendly questions such as “Are you Messianic?”, “Will we see you on Wednesday at the small group session?” “Are you a musician, perhaps you could help out with the worship music?” and many other similar questions.

Needless to say, I began to experience a sense of guilt for intruding into their community without any clear intention of becoming a ‘full’ member. Thus, I soon felt compelled to confess to them (especially the rabbi) that I was not a Messianic in order to do away with any sort of confusion. However, upon this confession (to several members), I was immediately welcomed as a beloved guest in their extended family, and treated as an ‘insider’ and long lost brother rather than an ‘outsider’ and stranger, and I was soon invited to several Messianic functions. Moreover, out of my fascination and developing admiration for the community, I continued to attend several Schule meetings. In fact, I eventually became a regular attendee of the Tuesday night Hebrew lessons later that year (out of both interest and for practical purposes). However, through all of my interaction with (and love for) the congregation, I never became a ‘full member’. Thus, I began to straddle a liminal space, similar to Coleman’s experience of blending in with the younger members at the Word of Life church (80-81), between being an observer and a participant within the community.

There are several important points to demonstrate in both my experience with the Messianic congregation and other religious communities. First, the Messianics do not maintain a strict separation between members of the Schule and their personal social circles. Instead, the Messianic movement is very much a community based tradition which strives to create social cohesion in all aspects of life (from Saturday worship, to weekday meals, to raising children, etc.). Everything (even menial things) are done in cooperation with the other members of the Schule; thus, for one who attends the Schule, you are immediately adopted as a close social friend (which immediately became my experience with the Schule). This implies that for the outside ethnographer who seeks to study this tradition (and others which do not maintain distinctions between social friends and friends within religious communities) that to properly understand this tradition, he/she must immerse themselves entirely into the tradition. This involves not only attending the weekly Schule and prayer meetings, etc., but sharing meals, babysitting children, and genuinely becoming an important part of the other members’ lives. Second, such an immersion into the community requires an emotional investment on behalf of the ethnographer. This emotional investment and the unavoidable relationships which develop in light of this investment into the tradition compromise one’s ability to maintain a strictly ‘detached’ and ‘unsympathetic’ approach to the tradition.

Thus, is it possible, as Coleman questions, for an ethnographer to straddle the space of both ‘self’ and ‘other’ when studying certain traditions such as Harding who lost control of her interview with the Baptist pastor (46-47)? Furthermore, Coleman questions the ethical dimension of holding hands in a prayer circle but not praying (53); however, are we to limit religion to a phenomena purely related to one’s personal belief? The Messianics view participation within the Schule as merely the climax of an entire week of an involvement with the community; thus, to truly observe the community, one must become involved in personal lives and emotions. Is it possible for the ethnographer to maintain ‘detached’ in these cases? Is it ethically responsible to participate in rituals such as worship music to more personal daily functions such as eating with the community yet maintain one’s distance as the purely ‘observing’ scholar? Is such an intrusion upon personal lives permissible for the sake of scholarship? Is it possible for the outsider to be able to investigate such a community without significantly impacting the community? Is it possible to remain the merely passive observer for the sake of anthropology while being invited to community members’ homes for meals, prayer, and discussion?

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.