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?

From the General to the Particular

Wendy Doniger seeks to understand mythology as a universal human phenomenon and attempts to identify common characteristics among mythologies. Considering my interest in mythical creatures within Ancient Israelite religion, this book was of particular interest to me. However, rather than focusing upon her understanding of mythology, her book brought another concern to mind. In particular, I found it very interesting how her book clearly demonstrates the necessity that humans relate the similar to the different, or the particular to the general. This necessity appears to be a deeply ingrained disposition within the human psyche and sheds light on how we must approach the study of mythology, and, more generally, religion.

To clarify what is meant by working from the particular to the general, I do not insinuate that we begin to studying the world by examining the tiniest particles and moving from them to the next tiniest particles, etc. Rather, I speak about the human tendency of moving from what is most familiar in everyday life to the more obscure. Consider the shepherd boy who spends his days tending to sheep. From his everyday experience, he knows that sheep are short creatures, with a thick fleece, etc. Clearly, the shepherd boy will recognize a sheep when he sees one; moreover, if he has a flock consisting of both white and black sheep, he will know that they are closely related creatures. If the boy has never seen any other animal other than sheep, and one day a goat from the neighboring hills wanders into his flock, will he consider the beast to be identical to the sheep in his flock? Certainly not! He will say, this creature has four legs, two eyes, etc., but where is its fleece? However, since he has not been previously exposed to any other sort of animal except sheep, he might even be inclined to label the goat a short-haired, horned sheep (or something similar) based on its comparison to the sheep.

Instinctively, humanity appears to have this tendency to compare and contrast things that are new and unusual to what is more familiar. Consider what Doniger says about the caveperson (who is our ancestor) and the saber-toothed tiger; namely, that even though the tiger has some differences in appearance to the lion that the caveperson decides to run from the tiger as he did from the lion (28). Doniger uses this example to strengthen her argument for the comparative mythologies approach; however, I contend that this example demonstrates a more universal human necessity of moving from the general to the particular or, similarly, to move from ‘the similar’ to ‘the different’. Here for the caveperson, the lion acts as the general or similar and the tiger as the particular or different.

Similarly, Max Muller makes the case that religion results from the experience of the particular and the contemplation of what lies beyond the finite. Max Muller demonstrates how this is the case for the ancient Aryans and demonstrates that through examining the pre-Buddhist period we can examine through linguistics how the notion of the divine evolved out of the human contemplation of the other (The Hibbert Lectures 1878: 145-152). Hence, Muller demonstrates how the human understanding of the divine or infinite (what is general) derives out of studying what is more familiar (the finite).

This is precisely the underlying point Doniger is getting at in her approach to the telescopic and microscopic view. She iterates this quite clearly in her reference to Oh What a Lovely War when she discuses the hero who is sitting under the tree which turns into a cross and disappears into a sea of crosses (20). What the viewer is really doing here is identifying with one particular person and using that person as a gateway to better understand all of the members of the graveyard. Were other soldiers like the hero of the film? Did other soldiers enjoy reading under trees? We use the protagonist as our point of comparison when it comes to the other soldiers buried beneath the white crosses. Since the protagonist is what is most familiar to us, he is used as a sort of prototype by which we can judge the identity of the other soldiers, in how they are both similar and deviate from the hero.

Finally, I wanted to note how Doniger’s own approach to the study of mythology utilizes the approach of comparing what is more familiar with what is less familiar. In particular, consider her discussion on Tamar and Judah, and Helena and Betram (36-41). Her approach is to first of all discuss what is similar between the two (36), and, then, she proceeds to discuss how the “gaps” in the Tamar and Judah story might be filled by examining comparable myths (40-41). Hence, she moves from what is more general amongst these stories to examining the missing details in the stories (what is more specific).

It seems to me inescapable to leave the method of moving from what is more particular to the more general. Moreover, this position is evidenced by Doniger’s notion that within the myth is both the microscopic and the telescopic. This demonstrates that humans must work from what is more readily available on an everyday level to what is more unusual. In particular, what she demonstrates, similar to what Muller upholds, is that humans require some sort of basis or anchor in everyday life in order to attempt to understand the divine (as is the case in Job and the Bhagavata Purana). The upshot of this human tendency of working from the general to the particular demonstrates that humans are unable to escape a categorical approach to learning, and, thus, it appears that the European project of comparative theology as really being a comparison of Christianity, to the other world’s traditions, as Masuzawa examines, is an inevitable sort of human reaction since humans have the tendency to compare what is most familiar to what is unfamiliar.

Hence, it is important to use this approach of the particular towards the general as a basis in pedagogy. Hence, when it comes to the study of religions introducing students to religious studies through a first year World Religions course is quite fitting. In particular, it is important for the student of religion to study world religions in a very generalized way so that upon further study, the student may compare and contrast how individual religious traditions are either similar or deviate from the generalized models discussed in the introductory course.

Women’s Studies and the Collaborative Approach

I have always struggled with writing about women’s studies because I have always felt somewhat like an outsider in regards to this methodology and its concerns. Thus, I appreciate Kinsley’s position that “In the end, perhaps, the only realistic conclusion is for historians of religions to accept this situation and to recognize that in many cases we can only perceive a partial picture of the whole which must be completed by colleagues of the opposite sex.” (13). Despite this feeling of being an outsider with regards to women’s studies, I agree with Kinsley’s conclusion that women’s studies generally contributes to religious studies; however, I believe that we must remain responsible scholars and not give up on focusing upon texts from other angles, including those of other traditionally marginalized groups.

Inevitably, when studying any discipline with a particular lens, the scholar implicitly makes some sort of value judgment upon her/his discipline and what they believe is important for understanding their object of study. For example, in the case of a source-critical scholar, the researcher believes that there is a certain value in attempting to discover whether a given text utilized sources or not and, if it did use sources, what the nature of these sources are. Similarly, the feminist scholar is interested in the role of women; hence, Young remarks that traditionally feminists have been interested in “why they themselves have been virtually absent from textual canons both as knowers and the known.” (27). In addition, Kinsley writes “In the case of many of those in women’s studies, the agenda concerns undertaking scholarship that will alleviate the oppression of women in one way or another.” (10). Thus, women’s studies, naturally, tends to focus on the role of women in the world, which is a specific value judgment on behalf of the adherents of this methodology.

However, the lens of women’s studies often allows scholars to examine many disciplines from different and ‘untraditional’ angles. This is particularly true in religious studies, in which the study of religion has traditionally been the study of “men’s religion” which is not always identical to “women’s religion” (Kinsley 4). There are countless examples of the advances that have been sparked by women’s studies, such as modern feminist interpretations of the Gospel of Luke which many scholars believe have demonstrated that Jesus is depicted as particularly favorable towards women in Lukan theology (Fredrick Murphy 237).

I cannot help but be concerned, however, that women’s studies has the potentiality of leading towards a dangerous dichotomy between men’s scholarship and women’s scholarship and, similarly, between men and women in history. Young, for example, maintains that feminists have generalized about “women’s experiences under patriarchy (their subordination and victimization by men)” (33). Certainly, studying works from a feminist critical point of view has many benefits, such as the reinterpretation of the role of women in Luke’s Gospel and is important for retrieving a larger picture of the phenomena of religion. However, there have been many other marginalized groups in the past which should not be disregarded either. For example, the poor are also given a particular emphasis in Luke: “Looking at his disciples, he said: “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” (Luke 6:20). Thus, although feminist criticism of various traditions can be very beneficial for better understanding religion, it is important to not mistake the part for the whole.

Young remarks that, typically, feminist scholars reject the notion of phenomenological “essences” since discussing things in a generality undermines individuality (30). I strongly agree with the feminist conception of examining individualities, but we must remain consistent and not generalize feminist approaches either. Rather, I believe that utilizing feminist approaches will help to shed light on the history of religions, but we must not assume that women are inherently lacking in voice in every in all historical circumstances: “our dissimilarity from women in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries should not lead us to suggest, as some feminists have, that they were mere victims of patriarchy” (Bynum “Introduction” 18).

In short, we must not lose sight of the individual in our research whether we take a feminist approach to studying religion, a liberationist approach, or any other approach to studying religion. I do not maintain that there is anything inherently wrong with taking a feminist approach to the study of religion or other disciplines; in fact, I believe that such an approach can be highly beneficial for scholastic studies in general. In fact, I believe that there are certain projects which must be undertaken by women in studying religions in order to come closer to having a “full picture”. What concerns me is how we appropriate the results from this (or any other) approach after we have collected our data. Thus, I maintain that it is important for feminist scholars (as all other scholars) to dialogue with peers who utilize other methodologies. We must always keep an eye to a collaborative approach. Certainly, there are times when certain generalities may be made in our studies; however, there are also an abundance of particularities which we must be open to in a collaborative approach to the study of religion. Thus, we may move from generalizations to particulars.

Placing the Context into a “Context”

While I was reading Elizabeth Clark’s work, I found myself attempting to absorb each of the various scholars’ positions and consider how they might be applied to the study of biblical texts. In particular, I found myself deeply intrigued by the problem of contextualism. This problem has surfaced several times within our course discussions over the past several weeks, so this week I will examine several limitations with regards to contextualism, especially the problem of choosing a proper context of genesis.

According to Clark “contextualism refers to historians’ customary appeal to the explanatory force of extratextual political, economic, and social phenomena” (138). On the most basic level, contextualism has to do with explaining something (for example a text) based on the context out of which it arose. However, what is it we are referring to when we discuss the context of the genesis of a text? If we examine the Hebrew Bible, we find a highly complex collection of various literary writings, which arguably, emerged out of a span of about a thousand years. Within the contemporary canon of the Tanakh are three divisions – the Torah, the Nevi’im, and the Ketuvim – and each of these sections gained authoritative or ‘canonical’ status within Judaism at different periods in time. The final section (the Ketuvim) may have received canonical status at the Council of Yavne around 100 CE. Accordingly, the ‘context’ out of which the canonical Tanakh may have emerged was in the city of Yavne, under the leadership of Rabbi Yohanan ben Zakkai, shortly after the fall of the Second Temple.

This is one ‘context’ out of which we may interpret the Hebrew Bible and, in particular, the Ketuvim. Surely understanding the context out of which this canon emerged will help to shed some light on the texts themselves; for example, the texts accepted as canonical will have been chosen since they are relevant to several of the concerns that the community would have had at the time and, thus, would likely have some sort of recurring theme or themes. Furthermore, we might assume some sort of editorial order, whether thematic or hierarchical, that the community would have had for the books when they gathered them into a single collection. However, the Council of Yavne is merely one of the ‘contexts’ out of which the Hebrew Bible emerged.

It is of the utmost importance to recall that the Hebrew Bible did not emerge solely out of this single context. This was merely the context out of which the Tanakh as a tripartite canon arose. Rather, each individual book in this corpus has its own context out of which it emerged. Similar to Barthes, Derrida, and Kristeva’s notion of texts being “tissues of quotations” (132), many of these individual texts themselves are collections and redactions of several sources, which, in turn, have their own literary history out of which they emerged. For instance, according to the Documentary Hypothesis, the Pentateuch has, at least, four separate sources, which form an intricate literary history. Each source – J, E, P, and D – were collected and redacted under very different circumstances between the tenth and fifth centuries BCE. Moreover, the J source, for example, is speculated to contain several sources of its own.

Hence, if we wish to consider the context out of which the Pentateuch arose, we can imagine and discuss at least five different ones: 1) the context out of which the sub-sources of J (as well as E, P, and D’s sub-sources) emerged, 2) the context out of which J was collected and redacted, 3) the context in which J and E were combined into the JE source, 4) the context out of which P was incorporated into the JE source, and 5) the context out of which the final form of the Pentateuch was redacted and the book of Deuteronomy was added to the Tetrateuch (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, and Numbers) to form the Pentateuch. This scenario is further complicated by the fact that J, E, P, and D (and their sub-sources) had, likely, all been passed down orally for several years prior to their literary composition, which seems to begin to blur the distinction between text and context. Moreover, there are scribal variances amongst various Pentateuchal manuscripts, and the Documentary Hypothesis itself is merely conjectural and may not accurately represent the literary composition of the Pentateuch. Simply put, one of the major problems with contextualism is choosing which context is the one most important for properly understanding any given text (Clark 141)?

There are numerous other problems with contextualism. For example, the numerous contexts themselves out of which texts emerge are fluid. For instance, the author of a given text does not instantaneously produce a text. The author spends a period of time either compiling and redacting sources or writing a text. Thus, even the voice of the author may change during the time of composition; such that, even within a single text produced by one author, the text’s ideology need not be entirely consistent throughout. The author is not necessarily constrained by any particular moment in time or any single doctrine. Thus, even the most fundamental assumptions we might assume a text must adhere to, such as the Principle of Non-Contradiction, may not be adhered to throughout the text. Hence, Skinner would have a difficult time in uncovering an author’s intentions (139), given that the author’s intentions are fluid; for instance, most scholars distinguish between an early, middle, and late Plato whose philosophy changes radically throughout his own works.

Finally, even if we are able to isolate a single context out of which the text emerged, the problem of what I shall call contextual expansion arises. Namely, if a text can be understood by its context, we face the problem that it may be ever expanding. For instance, when we come across an archeological discovery in Israel that affects a reading of the book of Kings, our knowledge of the context out of which the text arose expands. Furthermore, if we have a further discovery, our context will expand again, etc. Seemingly, our context will be ever expanding. Thus, at what given point might we assume that our understanding of a given context is sufficient to properly understand a text? Hence, there are several severe limitations to contextualism. Moreover, there is no need to assume that there is merely a single context of genesis for any text; rather, there are several geneses out of which a plethora of meanings arise. Hence, it becomes more fruitful to discuss the development of the composition of a text and its role in a particular community at a given point in time.