An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion 9781472548849, 9781441191380, 9781441171597

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Acknowledgements This book is a thorough revision of my earlier text, Expressing the Sacred: An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion, published first in 1992 by the University of Zimbabwe Publications in Harare, with a second edition appearing in 1996. I have felt the need for some time to update the book while at the same time retaining its introductory and user-friendly style. I am grateful to Continuum for giving me the opportunity to do this in the present volume. I also want to express my thanks to the University of Zimbabwe Publications, and to its Director, Mr Munani Mtetwa, for giving consent to publish this extensively revised version through a European and North American-based publishing company. In the preparation of the text, the original tables and diagrams were designed by Roger Stringer and Caroline MacNaughtan, who were then in the Publications Office of the University of Zimbabwe. The tables and diagrams have been modified and prepared in the current volume by Valerie Cox, to whom I express my deep appreciation. I want to thank primarily the students in the University of Zimbabwe and the University of Edinburgh who over the past 17 years have used Expressing the Sacred and have made helpful comments which I have incorporated into this new edition. The students posed significant questions, raised important issues and challenged many of the assumptions contained in the original text. I have been gratified that the book served as a useful resource for tutorial sessions and small group discussions, and that it has been particularly welcomed by students and teachers in many parts of Africa. I have retained in this version my dedication to the late Rev. Collen Zhuwawo, whose BA Honours thesis presented to the University of Zimbabwe forms the basis for the case study I present in Chapter 4. Finally, I want to thank my many colleagues in the University of Zimbabwe, the University of Edinburgh and in the wider academic community, particularly in the British Association for the Study of Religions, with whom I have enjoyed lively conversations over the years and whose input into this book, both directly and indirectly, I value immensely. James L. Cox Edinburgh 

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Preface Oftentimes when I am at a social gathering, I am asked by a new acquaintance what I do for a living. I answer that I lecture at the University of Edinburgh. Inevitably, the next question follows: ‘In which subject?’ When I respond, ‘Religious Studies’, frequently the person replies enthusiastically: ‘That’s wonderful!’ I look perplexed and ask myself, ‘Why does it appear “wonderful” to this person that my academic subject focuses on “religion” ’? The answer is obvious: many people confuse the scholarly study of religion with the practice of religion. It is for this reason that virtually the first thing I say when I address first year Religious Studies students is something like the following: ‘The study of religion is not a religious act!’ I then pursue a series of lectures explaining where the academic study of religions fits within scholarly disciplines, emphasizing that it is a field distinct from theology and philosophy, but very much a part of the human and social sciences. I stress that in Religious Studies we focus our attention on communities that claim to respond to revelatory acts from sacred sources, but we never study anything other than the communities themselves, including their histories, beliefs, rituals, myths, scriptures or oral traditions, moral attitudes and religious specialists. In other words, we are concerned with human behaviour and make no comment on alleged divine interventions in the human condition. This book provides an introduction to studying religious communities in an objective, fair and neutral manner by exploring a critical way of doing this called ‘the phenomenology of religion’. As such, it is intended to fill a gap in texts used in introductory courses on religion. Some books concentrate on discussing religion from various disciplinary approaches, but most pay only scant attention to the phenomenology of religion. My argument in this book is that the phenomenology of religion has defined the dominant method in Religious Studies for well over 70 years and still represents a fundamental approach within mainstream thinking among scholars of religion. In the past 20 to 30 years or so, it has come under increasing attack for a number of reasons I discuss in detail throughout the book, but specifically in Chapter 9. My contention is that, despite its detractors, the phenomenology of religion retains an essential place in the academic study of religion and thus needs to occupy a

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Preface principal role in teaching about methodologies in university programmes in Religious Studies. This book is divided into nine chapters. After defining religion in Chapter 1 and providing historical background to the phenomenology of religion in Chapter 2, I outline the method in Chapter 3 as a step-by-step process. In the fourth chapter, I provide a case study exemplifying the method based on the work of one of my students in the University of Zimbabwe. I then devote the next four chapters to discussing the phenomena of religion by grouping religious behaviour and practices into categories or typologies. In the final chapter, after summarizing the place of the phenomenology and history of religions in the overall academic approach to the study of religion, I address some key objections which have been voiced by leading critics of the phenomenological method. I conclude by suggesting that an important future direction for the academic study of religion can be found in a creative synthesis between the phenomenology of religion and the contemporary scholarly interest in the cognitive science of religion. At the end of each chapter, I have included a section I have called ‘Questions for Discussion’. These are intended to assist students who may be using this book in small group or tutorial sessions by helping them focus on some of the key issues I have raised in each chapter. The questions may also be useful for tutors and lecturers who might use these as a guide for setting essay questions or for providing direction for research projects. The references cited in each chapter are presented as a general bibliography at the conclusion of the book. This, in itself, should provide a rich resource for students who want to delve more deeply into the phenomenological method and its place in the overall study of religion as a human phenomenon.

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Chapter Outline Classifying definitions Theological definitions of religion Moral definitions of religion Philosophical definitions Psychological definitions Sociological definitions Substantive and functional definitions of religion Solutions to the problem of defining religion Towards a working definition of religion A working definition of religion Relating the definition to social contexts Conclusion Questions for discussion

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In this chapter, I address one of the overriding problems associated with the phenomenology of religion by confronting directly the issue of defining religion, which in itself is controversial since definitions tend to conform to the predetermined aims of the academic discipline which has formulated the definition in the first place, although the definition is usually presented as objective and universal. Phenomenologists generally have defined religion with a two-fold aim in mind: (1) to define religion in a way that does not offend believers; (2) to defend the study of religion against those who would reduce it to an epiphenomenon of other primary areas of investigation, such as sociology, psychology, anthropology, economics or politics.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion For phenomenologists, to claim that religion is a subject in its own right, distinct from social, political, economic or other fields of study, required a clear statement as to what it is that makes religion unique. Harold Turner, who taught the phenomenology of religion in the University of Aberdeen in the 1970s and 80s, argued that the focus of the many academic disciplines in the social sciences constitutes the ‘milieu’ or context into which religion is interwoven, but none of the disciplines on its own can explain religion (Turner, 1981: 1–15). Turner acknowledged, for example, that societal structures influence religious beliefs and organizations, but he also contended that religion influences societal structures. In this sense, the social context into which religion is set is important for students to understand, but religion cannot be reduced to any one of the social factors present in the context. Or, to take another example, when psychologists study religion, they apply techniques drawn from their own area of expertise, but they still study something unique within the milieu, something they call religion, and thus they refer to themselves as psychologists of religion. Finding a suitable definition which delineates the field called religion thus for Turner was important to support the fundamental phenomenological assumption that the subject matter of religion constitutes a field of study in its own right and therefore fully justifies the persistence of departments of religious studies in universities and other academic institutions. After addressing the fundamental problem of defining religion, I devote the remainder of this chapter to developing a definition which in the first instance attempts to correct the widespread assumption that phenomenological definitions are ahistorical and theological, and, secondly, to establish the framework for what I mean by religion as I use it throughout the remainder of this book.

Classifying definitions Various scholars from different fields have suggested sometimes contradictory criteria to determine what can be included or excluded as religious phenomena. In the process, they have sought to provide definitions they regarded as providing a ‘true’ account of what constitutes religion, but on closer scrutiny it soon becomes apparent that the way religion is defined conveys the presuppositions of the one doing the defining. This flaw was noted by phenomenologists, who attempted to develop a methodology that would

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neutralize the effects of what they regarded as distorting and biased definitions. I will deal with this in detail when I discuss the phenomenological method, but at the outset, by reviewing a series of simple definitions, it will be possible to demonstrate how the content of the definition betrays prior assumptions contained in the definition itself, and, at the same time, to suggest that severe limitations must be placed on any definition of religion from any source. In order to illustrate this, I refer to a book on the religions of the world by John Ferguson (1978: 13–17), who in the introductory section lists 17 definitions which for purposes of clarity I have organized into the following categories: (1) theological; (2) moral; (3) philosophical; (4) psychological; and (5) sociological.

Theological definitions of religion Definitions which insist that religion refers to God or supernatural spiritual powers of some sort can be classified as theological. Examples from Ferguson of this type are listed below. a. ‘Religion is believing in God.’ This definition is credited by Ferguson to a schoolboy who offers a commonsense approach to the question, ‘What is religion?’ The thirteenth-century theologian, St. Thomas Aquinas said something quite similar when he announced that ‘religion denotes properly a relation to God’ (cited by Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh, 1985: 6). b. ‘Religion is belief in spiritual beings.’ This roughly is a summary of the view of the latenineteenth-century anthropologist E. B. Tylor. I will discuss Tylor in more detail later, but it is enough to note here that Tylor held that, in its earliest form, religion involved a belief in a hierarchy of spirits from the lower to the most powerful beings. c. ‘Religion is the life of God in the soul of man.’ This comes from the nineteenthcentury theologian, W. Newton Clarke. It stresses the two realities of God and the soul, belief in both of which is necessary for religion to exist. d. ‘Religion is a mystery, at once awesome and attractive.’ This statement is derived from the twentieth-century German theologian Rudolph Otto who found the ‘essence of religion’ in the idea of the holy which he claimed attracts people due to its mystery and its power.

The four examples above can be used to summarize theological definitions of religion as follows: A theological definition makes the central criterion of religion belief in a transcendent power which usually is personified as a Supreme Being, but sometimes is

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion conceived as diffused through powerful spiritual beings, or is held to be impersonal as a mysterious, supernatural force.

Moral definitions of religion Definitions which stress that religion consists of telling its adherents how they ought to live may be termed moral definitions. Examples of this type are: a. ‘Religion is leading a good life.’ This is another commonsense definition and is attributed by Ferguson to a schoolgirl. It simply asserts that to be religious is to be moral without defining what morality entails. b. ‘Religion is morality tinged with emotion.’ This comes from the nineteenth-century British writer Matthew Arnold. It complements the schoolgirl’s commonsense answer by insisting that human emotions or feelings must accompany the moral understanding for religion to be present. c. ‘Religion is the recognition of all our duties as divine commands.’ This is a form of the eighteenth-century philosopher Immanuel Kant’s ‘categorical imperative’ which contends that there is a moral law which we all ‘ought’ to obey. Religion exists when that moral law is interpreted as a commandment from God. d. ‘Religion is a sum of scruples which impede the free use of our faculties.’ Ferguson attributes this definition to Salomon Reinach, a late-nineteenth and early-twentiethcentury historian of religions. Although it implies a negative reaction towards religion, it identifies the function of religion as enforcing external laws, attitudes or customs by divine decree and thus can be classified as a moral definition.

The above examples can be summarized as follows: A moral definition makes the central criterion of religion a code of correct behaviour generally affirmed by believers as having its source in an unquestioned and unquestionable authority.

Philosophical definitions Although related to theological definitions, philosophical definitions generally describe religion in terms of an abstract, usually impersonal, concept derived on the basis of human reason. Ferguson cites a number of examples which can be placed within this category. a. ‘Religion is what a man does with his solitariness.’ This definition, from the twentieth-century philosopher Alfred North Whitehead, identifies the abstract notion of solitariness as the fundamental religious dimension within human

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existence. Presumably, when one achieves a condition or awareness of the solitary (as opposed simply to being alone or lonely), the individual has achieved a religious experience. b. ‘Religion is the relation of man to his own being, but as a being outside of himself.’ This assertion is related to the nineteenth-century philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach’s theory of religion as a human projection. It defines religion as existing wherever human characteristics (e.g. love, power, hope, knowledge) are transferred to an imaginary being conceived as outside, yet perfecting, those human characteristics. c. ‘Religion is ultimate concern.’ This famous definition offered by the twentiethcentury theologian Paul Tillich forms one of the most simple yet basic definitions of religion. For Tillich, religion is a relationship which people hold with that which concerns them ultimately. Obviously, this could be God or spiritual beings, but since it is much broader than this, it conveys an abstract idea which can be embodied in a variety of specific objects, symbols, or concepts.

The three examples cited above lead to the following summary: A philosophical definition makes the central criterion for religion the positing of an idea or concept which the believer interprets as ultimate or final in relation to the cosmic order and to human existence.

Psychological definitions Psychological definitions of religion stress that religion has to do with the emotions, feelings or psychological states of the human in relation to the religious object. Some examples from Ferguson are as follows: a. ‘Religion is the result of seeking comfort in a world which, dispassionately considered, is a terrifying wilderness.’ This definition was developed by the twentiethcentury philosopher Bertrand Russell. It stresses that due to the misfortunes and sufferings they experience in the world, people seek comfort or consolation in religion. As we will see in our later discussion of Sigmund Freud, comfort and consolation are psychological needs. b. ‘Religion is some kind of profound inner experience.’ Ferguson attributes this definition to another schoolgirl. Since it stresses inner experience, it can be classified as a psychological definition similar to that offered by the nineteenth-century theologian Friedrich Schleiermacher who described religion as ‘a feeling of absolute dependence’ (cited by Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh, 1985: 5). c. ‘Religion is a universal obsessive neurosis.’ This definition falls within the viewpoint of the followers of the psychoanalytic school of Sigmund Freud. It defines religion

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion as a psychological disturbance, one which, although universal, must be overcome if humanity is to attain psychological health.

A summary of psychological definitions is shown below: A psychological definition makes the central criterion of religion feelings or emotions within people which cause them to appeal to forces greater than themselves to satisfy those feelings.

Sociological definitions Definitions of religion which emphasize religion as a group consciousness embodying cultural norms or as a product of society in general may be termed sociological definitions. Ferguson’s list includes the following which fall within this category: a. ‘Religion is the opium of the people.’ This classical definition constructed by Karl Marx indicates that religion results from the oppression of the masses by those in positions of social or economic power who use the message of religion to keep the oppressed content with their lot in this life in the hope of a just order in the next one. Religion thus plays a sociological function for both the oppressor and the oppressed. b. ‘Religion is the conservation of values.’ This definition is attributed by Ferguson to the late nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century German philosopher Harald Höffding, but it reflects a widely held view of traditional sociologists like Émile Durkheim, about whom I will speak in more detail later, or the twentieth-century anthropologist Bronislaw Malinowski. Religion, in this view, is described as a conservative force within society which defines the fundamental values of the group and then maintains and enforces those values by an appeal to supernatural powers. c. ‘Religion is a co-operative quest after a completely satisfying life.’ Although this could be viewed as a psychological definition, its emphasis on the co-operative quest places it within the sociological category. Ferguson does not cite a precise source for this quotation, but it sounds quite similar to the definition offered by the contemporary South African scholar Martin Prozesky (1984: 153) that religion is ‘a quest for ultimate well-being’. This definition leads to the conclusion that whenever societies seek to attain the most satisfying life for their members, they are exhibiting religious concerns. This is echoed also by the anthropologists William Lessa and Evon Vogt (1965: 1) who define religion as ‘a system of beliefs and practices directed towards the “ultimate concern” of a society.’

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The above examples suggest the following about sociological definitions: A sociological definition makes the central criterion of religion the existence of a community of people which is identified, bound together, and maintained by its beliefs in powers or forces greater than the community itself.

Few of the 17 definitions of religion cited by Ferguson can be placed neatly into just one of the five categories described above. Some could be put into more than one such as Rudolph Otto’s ‘awesome mystery’ (theological or philosophical) or Ludwig Feuerbach’s perfected human characteristics (philosophical or psychological). Each nonetheless shows clearly the ideological standpoint from which each scholar started. This demonstrates that none of the above definitions objectively describes religion; rather, each contains within it sometimes hidden assumptions that serve the interests of those doing the defining. (For a summary of Ferguson’s definitions of religion, see Table 1.1.) Table 1.1 Summary of Ferguson’s definitions of religion Theological definitions (a) Religion is believing in God. (b) Religion is belief in spiritual beings. (c) Religion is the life of God in the soul of man. (d) Religion is a mystery, at once awesome and attractive. Moral definitions (a) Religion is leading a good life. (b) Religion is morality tinged with emotion. (c) Religion is the recognition of all our duties as divine commands. (d) Religion is the sum of scruples which impede the free use of our faculties. Philosophical definitions (a) Religion is what a man does with his solitariness. (b) Religion is the relation of man to his own being, but as a being outside himself. (C) Religion is ultimate concern. Psychological definitions (a) Religion is the result of seeking comfort in a world which, dispassionately considered, is a terrifying wilderness. (b) Religion is some kind of profound inner experience. (c) Religion is a universal obsessive neurosis. Sociological definitions (a) Religion is the opium of the people. (b) Religion is the conservation of values. (c) Religion is a co-operative quest after a completely satisfying life.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion

Substantive and functional definitions of religion The seventeen definitions provided by Ferguson can also be analysed by dividing them according to two quite different designations: substantive and functional. A substantive definition delineates religion in terms of its content, usually by referring to supernatural entities or transcendental forces. Among Ferguson’s definitions, those which define religion as belief in God or in spirits would reflect substantive approaches. Religion can be found when the substantive elements are present; without these, religion does not exist. Functional definitions, on the other hand, define religion operationally as achieving some goal or end, such as meeting psychological needs or providing a cohesive force within society. Those definitions cited by Ferguson, like that proposed by Sigmund Freud, who suggested that religion is an infantile neurosis or that of Émile Durkheim, who emphasized the conservative nature of religion within society, are functional. Both substantive and functional definitions, just like the types of definition based on disciplinary divisions, reveal the presuppositions with which scholars begin their study. The distinction between substantive and functional definitions demonstrates further how narrowly or how widely the parameters are conceived by those constructing the definitions. Substantive definitions tend to restrict what can be included amongst the phenomena of religion, whereas some functional definitions are so broad as to include almost anything. The most limiting substantive definition is one that defines religion as a belief in God, since this restricts religion to a certain type of theistic belief. Very broad substantive definitions, such as Tylor’s reference to supernatural agents, nonetheless stress that religion is defined by the objects of belief and make no reference to the functions of such beliefs. The most general substantive definition on Ferguson’s list is the one suggested by Tillich, whereby anything with which an individual is concerned ultimately can be classified as religion. Although substantive definitions can be very broad, functional definitions in their pure form focus on the end result of religion and thus fall into a different category altogether. For example, on Durkheim’s definition, communities that are bound together by a central symbol or symbols are defined as being religious on the basis of the function the symbols fulfil within particular societies. This, of course, eliminates any reference to supernatural entities and reduces religion to an operation of society. According to the French

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sociologist, Danièle Hervieu-Léger (1999: 76), substantive definitions tend to restrict the study of religions to the mainline, historical religions, such as Christianity, Buddhism or Islam, whereas functional definitions emphasize the dispersal of religious symbols in diverse ways through many avenues that previously would have been considered secular, such as political movements, forms of nationalism, ethnic identity or even allegiance to a football team. In their introductory textbook on religion, the American scholars, Hall, Pilgrim, and Cavanagh (1985: 9–10) identify four characteristic problems with traditional definitions of religion which can be applied both to the types of definition I have derived from Ferguson’s list and to the distinction between substantive and functional definitions. These are: (1) vagueness; (2) narrowness; (3) compartmentalization; (4) prejudice. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh argue that many definitions are so vague that they do not distinguish the subject matter of religion from other fields of study. As we have noted, this is a failing of functional definitions of religion. The schoolgirl’s statement that religion means ‘living a good life’ might be accused of this fault. Some definitions overcompensate for the problem of vagueness by restricting the subject matter of religion and thus exclude too much from the field of study. This is the major problem of substantive definitions where normally aspects of human experience that do not involve supernatural agents are automatically removed from consideration by the scholar of religion. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh argue that any definition which explains religion in terms of just one ‘single, special aspect’ of human life is guilty of compartmentalization. This means reducing religion to one part of life and ignoring its relevance to the totality of human existence. Schleiermacher’s definition as a feeling of absolute dependence might do this by reducing religion to a mere psychological condition. Whitehead also might compartmentalize religion by restricting it to the experience of solitariness. A definition which evaluates in the process of defining cannot present an objective picture of what religion actually is. Several examples of prejudicial definitions are found in Ferguson’s list. Marx’s argument that religion is the opium of the people clearly is biased. So too are Reinach’s claim that religion impedes ‘the free use of our faculties’ and the Freudian contention that religion is a ‘universal obsessive neurosis’. We thus are faced with numerous problems in defining what constitutes the unique subject matter of religion, the primary ones being that the search for a universal definition of religion appears so flawed that it appears doomed to failure and that any definition proposed by scholars betrays a predetermined, sometimes ideological, agenda beneath the definition proposed.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion

Solutions to the problem of defining religion A way out of the problem of seeking a universal, all-encompassing definition of religion has been suggested by the Dutch scholar Arie Molendijk, who argues that a definition of religion must be evaluated not according to its ‘truth’, but according to its usefulness. He thus advocates for an instrumental or what he calls a ‘stipulative’ definition which aims to ‘demarcate the subject in a particular context’ (1999: 3). A stipulative definition for Molendijk is a pragmatic one, developed ‘for the sake of a specific undertaking’ (1999: 9). In the context of defining religion, Molendijk is not looking for a universally applicable definition, but for an appropriate and useful definition that at the same time corresponds to actual usage. This does not mean that a definition must conform to language used by religious practitioners necessarily, but it must be capable of furthering academic clarity while remaining recognizable to wider, non-academic audiences, including those who fit into the definition proposed. Molendijk (1999: 9) notes that a pragmatic approach develops definitions for particular purposes, in service, for example, of legal, political or cognitive ends. Hence, the value of pragmatic definitions depends entirely on their utility in promoting the practical applications for which they are intended. If we follow this largely utilitarian interpretation, it is possible to identify those human activities which can be called ‘religion’, and to make assertions about those activities which can be tested empirically. The value of such a definition of religion depends entirely on its usefulness in promoting scientific knowledge. This means that religion cannot be defined, for example, as an experience which God induces in people who are portrayed as responding to an overwhelming power, as proposed by Otto or as a result of seeking comfort in this world, as suggested by Russell. Religion, in other words, cannot be defined by a transcendental referent, as in substantial definitions, nor by its postulated universal aim as suggested by functional definitions, but only in terms of concrete, observable socio-cultural activities, which are rooted in historical and political processes. Any theories about such socio-cultural activities must remain fully testable using well-defined and accepted empirical methods. In other words, any preliminary definition will be a working definition, predicated on its usefulness in helping define our field of enquiry by distinguishing it from other areas of academic investigation, and discarded

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if it is not useful in a particular context or if it is found to be deficient in the light of scientific testing. Ninian Smart, who was an influential British phenomenologist during the latter third of the twentieth century, devised a plan for developing just such a working definition of religion. Smart (1986: 46–7; See also, Saler, 2000: x–xv) suggested that students of religion must cease trying to develop precise definitions altogether since we will never be able to place what people have regarded as religious into one common category (theological, moral, philosophical, psychological, or sociological). For example, some theological definitions which insist on beliefs in the supernatural as the essence of religion, as occur in most substantive definitions, will exclude a large section of the Buddhist tradition which regards supernatural beings as irrelevant or even as impediments to attaining religious fulfilment. Yet, almost every book on the world’s religions includes this part of the Buddhist tradition as an example of ‘religion’. Smart suggests that the way we can overcome the problems inherent in defining religion is to study the religious traditions of humanity in terms of ‘family resemblances’. All religions are related despite the fact that some forms of religion seem to have nothing in common with other forms. They are connected just as in a family where distant cousins may look nothing alike and not even know of each other’s existence but still can be traced to common ancestors through family inter-connections. Following Smart, we can diagram the inter-connections between the religions as shown on Figure 1.1. In this diagram, Religion 1 shares nothing in common with Religion 4. If one were looking for a common definition, it would be impossible to find one based on these two examples. But we see that Religion 1 shares two properties with Religion 2 (B and C) and one with Religion 3 (C) whereas Religion 4 shares two properties with Religion 3 (D and E) and one with Religion 2 (D). Through

Figure 1.1 The interconnections between the religions PROPERTIES

Religion 1 Religion 2 Religion 3 Religion 4

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion a series of connections, therefore, we can relate Religion 1 to Religion 4. In such a way, atheistic forms of Buddhism might form a part of religious studies just as would monotheistic Islam by finding common properties between them, for example, through Vedantic Hinduism and Zoroastrianism. This way of approaching religious studies is not precise and it implies that no universally applicable definition of religion exists or is possible. Nonetheless, Smart’s approach is practical since it allows us to adopt a working definition which provides phenomenologists with indicators or general guidelines for a field of study they considered unique in and of itself.

Towards a working definition of religion In light of their critique of definitions of religion and in view of the problems entailed in obtaining an all-encompassing statement of the meaning of religion, I want to return to Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh, who have devised their own definition, which they claim overcomes vagueness and narrowness by being specific and distinct and avoids compartmentalization and prejudice by including the whole of human life without judgement. According to Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh (1985: 11), specificity and inclusiveness describe the marks of an adequate definition of religion, which they propose as follows: Religion is a varied, symbolic expression of, and appropriate response to, that which people deliberately affirm as being of unrestricted value for them.

Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh argue that this definition clearly outlines the subject matter of religion without excluding the wide variety of human symbols and conceptions of the unrestricted value. Moreover, they claim that this definition includes the many ways humans practice religion without evaluating any of those practices. Let us look carefully, therefore, at the various components within this definition. Varied, symbolic expressions. By a symbol, Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh are referring to the ways humans communicate with, conceive and relate to what they value without restriction. Symbols stand for, point to, or represent the actual object to which they are related. They occur in religious language, for example, through the telling of stories, writing of sacred scriptures, uttering

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words in rituals, or by delineating confessions of faith. They are also seen in art, music, and dance, in the patterns of a community’s social organization, in ritual activities, or in many combinations of these. The historian of religions Charles Long (1986: 2) says that religious symbols ‘radiate and deploy meanings’ and that they possess enormous power for any believing community. People. For Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh, the term ‘people’ includes both individuals and communities. Religion thus has something to do with the individual’s quest for meaning denoted by such questions as ‘Who am I’? ‘Where did I come from?’ or ‘What will my end be?’ Such questions are articulated and answered in religion through believing communities as they develop what the scholar of comparative religions Wilfred Cantwell Smith (1964: 168) calls the ‘cumulative tradition’. The study of religion, therefore, is not just what individuals do with their solitariness (as Whitehead suggested) but also what communities as a whole do in response to basic human questions. Deliberately affirm. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh (1985: 13) argue that religion is a human act which includes a voluntary choice. It is not capable of being reduced to the study of the social sciences alone whereby this act may be explained in terms of sociological functions or psychological needs. ‘A person must intentionally embrace, accept, or affirm for him or herself the unrestricted value.’ Unrestricted value. This refers to what the religious community prizes or esteems without limitation. It is the object towards which all the religious symbols of a community point; it embodies fundamental meaning itself. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh (1985: 16) explain: ‘ “Unrestricted value” represents a judgment of importance that includes and surpasses every restricted, temporary, local, or conditional value recognized in the relations constituting human experience.’ Although the Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh definition gets us some distance towards a working definition of religion, it still suffers from some of the very problems they have cited with other definitions. One problem in their definition results from their insistence that religion to be religion requires ‘deliberate affirmation’, which appears to commit what they call the error narrowness because it excludes religions which seem to place little value on individual choice or personal commitment. Indigenous Religions, for example, generally do not separate religious from non-religious activity. A person is ‘religious’ simply by being a part of the society. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh’s

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion emphasis on deliberate affirmation, moreover, may reflect a Western bias (even a Protestant Christian attitude) which stresses that the individual must affirm the ultimate in order to be ‘religious’. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh’s use of the phrase unrestricted value, although used largely in support of a substantive definition similar to Tillich’s, equally may be accused of committing the error of vagueness. Unrestricted value could include almost any human activity such as politics, sports, education, family, scientific and technological research or many other areas of human life which some people regard as being of unlimited importance. In the remainder of this chapter, and in light of the analysis offered by Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh, I want to present my own definition of religion, which I have now revised from my contribution to the a book dealing with definitions edited by the Dutch scholars, J. G. Platvoet and Arie Molendijk (1999: 272) and from my earlier definition which appeared in Expressing the Sacred (1996: 15). I follow a line somewhat between Molendijk’s ‘stipulative’ definition and Smart’s more general ‘family resemblances’ model. I also attempt to reconcile the disparity between substantive and functional definitions and in the process try to avoid fitting neatly into any one of the disciplinary classifications I have derived from Ferguson’s list. As such, I offer my own definition as consistent with the phenomenological tradition, which has sought to define the subject matter of religion in a way that distinguishes it from other aspects of life for purposes of academic clarity. At the same time, my definition seeks to avoid the error of identifying a timeless, ahistorical ‘essence’ of religion by firmly situating what I mean by religion within social and cultural contexts. If my definition proves useful as a working definition, it can serve to clarify how the phenomenology of religion can still contribute significantly to academic studies of religious communities in the twenty-first century, while operating practically as an overarching guide for my step-bystep explanation of the phenomenological method throughout the chapters of this book which follow.

A working definition of religion The first part of my definition of religion takes up the notion of ‘people’ as used by Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh by restricting the study of religion to ‘identifiable communities’. The scholar of religion cannot study individual experiences as religion, unless the experiences are somehow embedded in

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shared social constructs that are codified, symbolized and institutionalized in communities. In the case of individuals who testify to intense experiences of an extramundane reality, these can be treated as religion only if the individual incorporates the experiences into the life of an already existing identifiable community, or, as in the case of many charismatic leaders or prophets, forges the experience into a new religious movement comprising a definite group. The term identifiable refers to the requirement that a scholar place limits around communities under study, using sometimes historical methods, at other times defining them geographically, or in other contexts restricting them according to social or cultural criteria. In the end, we must be able to locate, delimit and contextualize the groups about which we are speaking. To this beginning point of a definition, I then refer to what it is that identifiable communities do. I suggest that the most important aspect of what they do can be summarized in two actions: ‘to believe’ and ‘to experience’. Acts of believing designate cognitions, thoughts, ideas, concepts, world-views – in other words, they refer to the way people think. I am arguing that, although specific acts of believing are bound within social and cultural contexts, the cognitive processes of humanity are universal. All humans form concepts around which they order their world and make sense of it. Closely related to thoughts are experiences. In fact, thoughts set the framework for how humans experience the world. If, for example, when I am out walking in the woods, I believe that I am being threatened by an aggressive animal, I will respond naturally with appropriate fear and will be prepared to flee or to defend myself. The experience is dictated by the thought, which, in this case is derived from sense perception, regardless of whether the perception is real or imagined. When applied to religion, thoughts and experiences are very closely connected. Since I am stressing identifiable communities, I am suggesting that the thoughts and experiences of those within the communities, although not identical, may be regarded as similar since the beliefs are largely shared among members of the group. Because experiences are moulded by acts of believing, the scholar can assume that the experiences are also similar, although no one can literally experience what another experiences. In place of ‘unrestricted value’, as used by Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh, I have chosen instead the term ‘alternate realities’. Identifiable communities, when they are behaving religiously, focus their attention on what they postulate to be alternate realities. The term ‘postulate’ implies that the scholar does not comment on the truth or falsehood of the alternate realities, but instead focuses on that to which the communities themselves testify. I have chosen

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion the term ‘alternate’ to indicate a process of switching between, or going from one to another, as in turns. Beliefs about and experiences of alternate realities refer to types of belief and experiences quite distinct from what we normally believe and experience in the world. When religious communities speak about their alternate realities, they refer to something like a spirit, a god, a power or force that, although clearly occurring in this world and within consciousness, denotes something quite identifiably different from ordinary experience and consciousness. When members of a group participate in a religious ritual, for example, they know that they are relating to what they postulate to be an entity or entities that operate in a time and space clearly differentiated from the time and space they experience normally outside the ritual context. In one sense, they switch their focus from the ordinary to the non-ordinary, or to alternate realities. This is not best thought of as alternative realities, as in another, contrasting reality, but as alternate in the sense that for believers the ordinary enters into and experiences the non-ordinary, moving in turns from the one and back to the other. The term ‘realities’ denotes a multidimensional non-ordinary world; it can also refer to the fact that religious communities often experience what is alternate in different ways, and thus may switch between not just one alternate reality but numerous realities. The term ‘realities’, moreover, is used in a way that favours the insider’s point of view, for whom their objects of religious attention are ‘real’ in the fullest sense of the term. In my definition, however, I want to insert the term ‘postulated’ alternate realities to suggest that the believers do the postulating, not the scholar. I also want to add to the term ‘alternate realities’ the qualifier, ‘non-falsifiable’, which is a technical concept drawn largely from Karl Popper, an important twentieth-century philosopher of science, who argued that for a theory to be genuinely scientific it must be falsifiable. If any assertions about reality cannot be falsified, they are not subject to empirical investigation. This applies to all theological or metaphysical statements. Popper distinguished between the principle of verification and the idea of non-falsifiability, arguing that simply because something cannot be verified does not make it unscientific in the same way as something does which cannot be falsified. He exemplified this by referring to the statement: ‘All swans are white’. Clearly, this statement can be falsified, but to verify it would mean that every swan that populates the planet or ever did populate the planet would need to be checked to be sure they are or were white. Popper (1959: 27) observes: ‘No matter how many instances of white swans we may have observed, this does not justify the conclusion that all swans are white’ (emphasis his). In fact, the

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statement has been falsified with the discovery of a species of black swans native to Australia. Putting the various component parts together leads to a summary of the first part of my working definition of religion: Religion refers to identifiable communities which base their acts of believing and their resulting communal experiences on postulated, non-falsifiable alternate realities.

This definition is practical since it underscores the fact that scholars of religion cannot study religious experiences themselves, nor the postulated alternate realities, but can only describe the observable social facts surrounding what communities do or say in response to that which they claim to be real. This is because, as the definition stresses, beliefs about and experiences of postulated alternate realities are entirely non-falsifiable. Naturally, the fact of believing certain things or not believing them can be falsified, just as it is possible to falsify whether or not individuals in the community claim to have undergone extraordinary experiences. Analyses can proceed about the connections between belief and experience, and the ways these are expressed in mythic, ritual, legal, artistic or other symbolic ways. It is also possible to outline what types of experiences are most likely to be associated with particular belief systems. Yet, neither the objects of belief nor the alleged extramundane character of the experiences can be studied scientifically. This means that academic work is concerned with what communities postulate rather than the object or objects about which their postulations are made. This also suggests that when communities perform certain actions, affirm particular beliefs, organize social relations, endow particular individuals with positions of importance or engage in types of ritual behaviour, all in relation to their postulated non-falsifiable alternate realities, the scholar of religion describes these as accurately as possible and interprets them fairly. In other words, this definition operates as an instrumental, working definition only, since it sets the parameters within which the study of religion proceeds. The first part of my working definition clearly is substantive as opposed to functional, in that without acts of believing and experiences of postulated non-falsifiable alternate realities, religion is not present. As we have seen with other substantial definitions, this suffers from two possible objections: (1) it too narrowly restricts the subject matter of religion; (2) it can be classified very broadly as a ‘theological’ definition. If my contention is correct that

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion theological statements cannot be falsified, it would mean that, however much I aim to achieve a scholarly definition of religion, I have, perhaps unwittingly, adopted a non-empirical approach by unduly limiting my definition to the necessary presence of a transcendental entity. In order to overcome the objections that my definition is entirely substantial, and hence too narrow, and that it hides theological presuppositions, I need to add a second part to my definition.

Relating the definition to social contexts The narrowness of substantive definitions of religion has been exposed by the French sociologist, Danièle Hervieu-Léger, who challenges one of the major weaknesses of many substantive definitions that scholars of religion must limit their studies to established, institutional religions associated in the West largely with Christianity (See Cox, 2007: 79–85). In modern Western society, she argues, religion has stepped outside its institutional boundaries and has occupied positions more in line with individual tastes and desires. Nowhere can this be seen more clearly than through the proliferation of new religious movements in contemporary Western society. According to HervieuLéger (1999: 79), contemporary religious movements include a wide range of activities including ‘cults and sects which have recently come to compete with the historical religions, . . . syncretic groups with an oriental influence, revival movements within the organized religions’, each of which aims at ‘the self-development of the individual adherent’ (1999: 79). This suggests that scholars of religion should be including in their study the broad, but loosely defined, effects of religion over wide areas of social life, including political, economic, artistic and scientific interests, and not restricting themselves to studying institutional forms of religion, as might be implied in part one of my definition of religion. Hervieu-Léger contends further that the contemporary social situation means that religion cannot be defined as a fixed entity, the parameters of which are demarcated clearly for all time. In line with her view that religion and social change are closely interwoven, she argues that religion must be understood by analysing what she calls ‘the mutating structures of believing’ (1999: 84). Yet, she somewhat unexpectedly adds that acts of believing,

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whether they occur in the traditional, historic religions or are expressed in their contemporary individualistic forms are always undertaken from within a structure of authority, or what she calls ‘an exteriorly imposed order’ (1999: 85) that responds to a universal human craving for security. In line with a functional approach to defining religion, she contends that individuals seek security in the face of death while societies seek to avoid the threat of chaos or disorder (1999: 86–7). The important issue for defining religion, however, cannot be reduced to a functional explanation, but in each case it depends on how the individual or society legitimates its source of authority for acts of believing aimed at ensuring security. This means that the question confronting scholars is not, for example, could a modern spectator sport like football be considered a ‘religion’, any more than it asks if modern expressions of Christianity, Judaism or Islam can be regarded as religious. What is important in this context is the authoritative source for such beliefs and how this is transmitted from generation to generation. According to Hervieu-Léger, ‘There is no religion without the explicit, semi-explicit, or entirely implicit invocation of the authority of a tradition; an invocation which serves as support for the act of believing’ (emphasis hers) (1999: 88). The key indicators of a religious, as opposed to a non-religious legitimation of the heritage of believing, are found in the words ‘transmission’ and ‘authority’. The transmission of a tradition must be accomplished with an overwhelming authority, which establishes a community and makes it entirely distinctive from any other community. Three fundamental components of a definition of religion thus emerge from Hervieu-Léger’s analysis: (1) expressions of believing; (2) the memory of continuity; and (3) the legitimating reference to an authorized version of tradition (Hervieu-Léger, 2000: 97). These elements clearly apply to the historic religions which have a long tradition that is passed on from generation to generation with an overpowering authority. They can also be fitted into an interpretation of new religious movements, which develop prophets or charismatic leaders so as to provide fresh interpretations of the authoritative tradition and thus affect the way it is transmitted. They, in fact, provide living evidence of the ‘mutating structures of believing’. Nonetheless, prophets, leaders and reformers still relate to the authoritative tradition and frequently justify their reinterpretation on the grounds they represent the ‘true’ or ‘genuine’ tradition. One apparent problem with Hervieu-Léger’s components of religion refers back directly to her references to the individualization or atomization of contemporary quests for security in contemporary Western society. Groups today are formed that

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion often have a fluid membership, where individuals ‘pick and choose’ from a wide array of ‘spiritualities’ available in the marketplace. Seemingly, these do not depend on a community that connects itself to a historic transmission of a legitimating authority. This, however, is only apparent, since such groups retain a postulated link to an authoritative tradition from which they derive the source of their legitimization. As Hervieu-Léger (2000: 87) observes, the antiquity of a tradition is not what gives it authority, although it may give it ‘an extra value’. To exemplify what I think is Hervieu-Léger’s meaning, I want to cite an example from my own research conducted in 2001 in which I participated in a ‘trance dance’ sponsored by the Lightgate Learning Center in Thetford, Vermont (See Cox, 2003: 74–82; Cox, 2007: 156–8). This organization, which could in a very broad way be associated with what Hervieu-Léger describes as the tendency of individuals in contemporary Western society to seek their own personal spiritual fulfilment, in its literature described its purpose as providing a ‘gateway to enlightenment for body, mind and spirit’. I discovered this organization through a leaflet available in a local supermarket which listed numerous such groups and activities. The brochure I read in advance of attending the trance dance described it as replicating a practice that has ‘existed for over 40,000 years’. During the actual ritual itself, after about 30 minutes, a deep male voice was played over a powerful amplifier that announced: ‘Trance Dance is 40,000 years old. It has been practised by our ancient ancestors all over the world.’ This confirmed to me that, although the Lightgate Learning Center had been established recently and that its leaders formed no part of an institutional ‘religion’, they nonetheless derived their authority for their rituals by appealing to an ancient tradition which they claimed had been passed on for generations. This act of legitimization clearly was important to the leaders of the Lightgate community as a source of their authority. It is this type of appeal that is replicated within similar groups to which Hervieu-Léger is referring when she speaks about ‘exteriorly imposed order’ as the key element in defining a religion. The most compelling criticism of Hervieu-Léger does not relate to her discussion of contemporary movements in Western society, but derives instead from her contention that the distinction between what is religious and nonreligious is a matter of degree, since the authority of a tradition must be ‘overwhelming’ for it to qualify as religion. This is why, for her, loyalty to a football team does not qualify as a religion, since such loyalty does not derive from an authority that unites believers by their allegiance to an all-encompassing authority. In other words, what is religious is determined as a matter of

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degree rather than of substance. This would call into question the ability to include many loosely organized movements in contemporary Western society under the category ‘religion’ since their authoritative transmission often is not ‘overwhelming’ but moderate; the emotional effects may not be lasting but transient; the power over life most certainly will not be all-consuming but will be split between many competing interests. This leads me to conclude that although Hervieu-Léger’s analysis is extremely useful for embedding religion in socio-cultural contexts, it cannot stand on its own, and requires the first part of my definition to indicate unambiguously what we mean by the category ‘religion’. I thus arrive at my completed working definition of religion, which includes the first part of my substantive definition as amended by HervieuLéger’s socio-cultural analysis: Religion refers to identifiable communities which base their acts of believing and resulting communal experiences of postulated non-falsifiable alternate realities on a tradition that they legitimate by appealing to its authoritative transmission from generation to generation.

This definition can be tested empirically; it is embedded in socio-cultural contexts and thus is non-theological; it does not seek an ‘essence’ of religion but is rooted in the practice of identifiable communities. It is both substantive and functional, in that it portrays a content to religion and at the same time focuses on its function as transmitting an authoritative transmission from generation to generation, even if the transmission is merely postulated. As such it meets Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh’s criteria of specificity and inclusiveness, while avoiding the prejudicial aspects of their definition by avoiding any normative connotations, as is found in their term ‘deliberately affirm’. It also overcomes Hervieu-Léger’s lack of clarity when distinguishing the religious from the non-religious as matters of degree, since it is capable of incorporating groups that may be transient on the basis of the substantive element in the definition. For this reason, devotion to a football team is not religious, not because the authority lacks an overwhelming power over the life of supporters (it well could do so), but because it lacks any reference to non-falsifiable alternate realities. According to my definition, no degree of emotional attachment is necessary before experiences within identifiable communities can be regarded as religious. The components of religion are entirely objective and include an identifiable community, its beliefs about and

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion experiences of postulated non-falsifiable alternate realities, and its traditions that are derived from and centred around an authority that is passed on from generation to generation. On this accounting, although football is not a religion, atheistic Marxism might be regarded as a religion, since, not only do adherents follow an authority that has been transmitted for generations, but the reality envisaged is alternate, in the sense that it is eschatological and involves a non-falsifiable claim that history will achieve an inevitable utopian conclusion. Of course, this interpretation of Marxism could be challenged on grounds that what it postulates can be falsified by history, and, for some, already has been (Morris, 1987: 41–43: 320–4). Nonetheless, in so far as Marxism attracts adherents whose beliefs and experiences relate to a faith in an ideal world, I would contend that this fits my definition of religion, since the forces that create the inevitability of history’s end are entirely non-falsifiable. At the same time, we could argue that Marxism contains the key elements of the Hervieu-Léger definition: groups identify and organize themselves in response to a tradition that is transmitted authoritatively, but in the process of transmission they revise their beliefs in light of present circumstances. It is at this point that Smart’s notion of family resemblances might be seen to apply, for example, by noting the close relationship between Marxist theories about an ideal world and the Christian conception of the Kingdom of God. On one reading of Smart, Christianity and Marxism could be regarded as first cousins, if not siblings.

Conclusion As we have seen in this chapter, defining religion is fraught with difficulties, not the least of which results from the fact that definitions are developed to suit the preconceptions of those who have devised the definitions in the first place. We have also noted that attempts to define religion in a ‘true’ or universal manner suffer from a failure to treat social and cultural contexts seriously. For these reasons, I have opted for a working definition in this chapter which seeks to combine substantive and functional approaches while at the same time retaining an entirely pragmatic and testable formulation. I intend that my definition will provide a useful overarching guide to which the phenomenological method is then applied as a research tool. The primary aim of this book thus remains – that of outlining a method for the study of religion that can be distinguished from other methods in the

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social and natural sciences and one that also remains distinct from theological interpretations. This is precisely what the phenomenology of religion aims to achieve. In order to assess how well it meets this goal, to which I will return in the final chapter, I will need to outline the stages in the method in some detail. Before doing this, however, it is necessary to set the context for the method by providing for the student historical background, since it is important to note that the phenomenology of religion did not develop in a vacuum. Positively, it derived its key elements from philosophy, particularly from the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century German phenomenologist, Edmund Husserl, and negatively as a reaction against what phenomenologists regarded as the prejudicial and reductionistic explanations of religion emanating from the social sciences at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries. In the next chapter I discuss these important historical influences before turning in the following chapters to outline the stages in the method itself.

Questions for discussion 1. Discuss the differences between functional and substantive definitions of religion. 2. Evaluate the Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh definition of religion according to their own criteria. List weaknesses and strengths of their definition. Do the same for Cox’s working definition. 3. What does Smart mean by ‘family resemblances’? Give examples of how this might apply in the study of actual religions. Does this help us develop a working definition of religion? 4. Of the 17 definitions of religion given by Ferguson, which could fit into more than one classification? List each of your choices under the various categories and then justify your choices. 5. Does religion require a belief in the supernatural to qualify as a religion? How does Cox’s use of ‘alternate realities’ compare to notions of supernatural agents? 6. What is the meaning of Hervieu-Léger’s notion of the authoritative transmission of a tradition and how could it apply to loosely organized, non-institutionalized groups common in contemporary Western society? 7. Is it useful to define religion? Give reasons for your answer.

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Historical Background: Philosophical Phenomenology and the Social Sciences

Chapter Outline What is phenomenology? Husserl’s description of the phenomenological method Application of the method The notions of intersubjectivity and empathy Summary and qualifications The social sciences and the development of the phenomenology of religion Social scientific reductionism Biological evolution applied to levels of religious development Projectionist theories of religion Theological reductionism Conclusion Questions for discussion

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In this chapter, I identify and analyse two central factors which explain, at least in part, why the phenomenology of religion developed into such a powerful force in the academic study of religions, reaching the apex of its influence by the mid-twentieth century. First, I outline its relationship to philosophical phenomenology in order to prepare in the next chapter for my discussion of how leading phenomenologists adapted key concepts from philosophy to what they considered a method uniquely suited for the study of religion. They used this method to bolster their argument that believers’ perspectives should take priority over explanations emanating from the social sciences, which they regarded as prejudicial and reductionistic. Although

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in general these two factors – reliance on philosophical phenomenology and reaction against social scientific explanations of religion – accurately account for the historical development of the phenomenology of religion, I want to underscore at the outset two important qualifying points: (1) in many cases the connection between the phenomenology of religion and technical philosophical phenomenology is quite tenuous, since, the main ideas employed in the study of religion were used in a quite straightforward manner; (2) phenomenologists of religion not only reacted against social scientific reductionism, but, in fact, drew some of their key ideas from important thinkers, particularly from the fields of sociology and psychology. I will elaborate further on these points in Chapter 3, but I emphasize them at the outset so that the student is alerted to the fact that the issues associated with a phenomenological interpretation of religion are more complex than might appear on first reading.

What is phenomenology? Phenomenology, in its twentieth-century form, is a philosophical movement attributed to the German philosopher Edmund Husserl (1859–1938). Rather than offering descriptions of the nature of reality itself, it provides a method for knowing or investigating the way we know reality. As such, it belongs squarely within the branch of philosophy called epistemology, the study of knowledge. The French phenomenologist Maurice Merleau-Ponty described phenomenology as a ‘style of thinking’ (cited by Bettis, 1969: 2), by which he meant it is an effort to describe the actual state of affairs as disclosed by the phenomena of the world. It is important to note that Edmund Husserl did not invent the term phenomenology. Earlier German philosophers, such as G. W. F. Hegel in his Phenomenology of Spirit (1807), employed the term, as did Johann Gottlieb Fichte, writing in 1804, who used it as a tool for interpreting states of consciousness in his book entitled Facts of Consciousness (Copleston, 1965a: 53). Later, the German philosopher Hermann Lotze investigated the soul as a phenomenological term and Eduard von Hartmann referred to the phenomenology of religious consciousness (Höffding, 1950: 520–4; 533–7). It is incorrect, therefore, to associate phenomenology strictly with Edmund Husserl. Nevertheless, the way he interpreted philosophical questions influenced almost all later phenomenologies, including the German school comprised,

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion among others, of Max Scheler, Nicolai Hartmann and Husserl’s student, Martin Heidegger, and the French existentialists including Gabriel Marcel, Jean-Paul Sartre, Paul Ricoeur and, as we have noted, Maurice Merleau-Ponty (Ayer, 1982: 214–33; Spiegelberg, 1982: 7–12). Husserl began his academic career as a mathematician, writing his PhD thesis, which he submitted in 1882 to the University of Vienna, on a topic related to calculus. After working for a short period in Berlin as a mathematician, he returned to Vienna to study philosophy. In 1901, he was appointed Professor in the University of Göttingen, where he wrote one his most important books, Ideas: A General Introduction to a Pure Phenomenology (English version, 1931), in which he spelt out in detail many of the key ideas in his philosophical method. Before exploring his method for obtaining knowledge, I will discuss briefly three concepts which help explain his overall approach: rigorous science, philosophical radicalism and intentionality. Rigorous science. Husserl believed that by the early twentieth century science had degenerated into the unphilosophical study of mere facts – what can be known through direct observations (oftentimes referred to as positivism). Scientific enquiry had also become dominated by a related concept called ‘naturalism’, which explained the world entirely in terms of apparent natural occurrences. Husserl referred to this as the natural attitude, by which he meant accepting the world ‘out there’ as given, uncritically, as if it is unaffected by the one doing the perceiving. He viewed this attitude as pre-theoretical and naïve, and contended that although it is characteristic of commonsense ways of thinking, it underpins all naturalistic interpretations of the world (Husserl, 1931: 106). The incapacity, and even unwillingness, of science to explore problems of value and meaning because of its confinement to the natural attitude defined for Husserl what he called in a later publication ‘the crisis of European Sciences’ (1970). Rather than rejecting the natural sciences as legitimate fields of study, he wanted to replace the naïve philosophy at the root of naturalism with ‘a rigorous science’ based on clearly articulated philosophical methods aimed at examining the role of consciousness in the production of knowledge. One of the major problems associated with naturalism, for Husserl, was that it simply included consciousness as a commonplace part of nature, studying the mind as if it were just another object of empirical investigation and thereby committing the critical error of ignoring consciousness as the foundation for any scientific analysis of the natural world.

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Philosophical radicalism. Radical means ‘going to the roots’. The roots of knowledge for Husserl begin with the objects or things of perception, what he called the phenomena (from the Greek word phanos, meaning ‘that which manifests itself’). Although the phenomena comprise the ground for all human concepts, knowledge does not dwell in the things themselves but in the consciousness of the knowing subject. By employing a proper methodological analysis of consciousness, the observer uncovers a correlation between the subjective awareness (the act of perceiving) and the objects perceived (the content of perception). Husserl distinguished these two functions of consciousness with the words noesis, which he referred to as the act of thinking, and noema, by which he meant what is thought. In other words, a phenomenological analysis goes ‘to the roots’ of consciousness by examining the experience of thinking while at the same time analysing in what ways thought processes become ‘a consciousness of something’ (Husserl, 1931: 257; See also, Cox, 2006: 23–4). Intentionality. Intentionality, which is closely related to Husserl’s distinction between noesis and noema, refers in its simplest form to the subject actively perceiving or apprehending an object. Husserl explained: ‘Every presenting refers to a presented, every judgment to something judged’ (1931: 256). This implies that one who does the observing does so actively by directing attention towards an object. Perception thus does not consist of a subject passively receiving impressions on the consciousness. To illustrate this point, in Ideas Husserl (1931: 130) describes his experience of perceiving a table. As he moves around the table, changing his perspective, Husserl says that he keeps in his mind the one, same unified table. Each changing perception does not create a new table; it remains unchanged throughout the movements of the observer. It is the perception of the table that is in flux. Or, Husserl notes that if he closes his eyes, he has no perception of the table, but when he opens them, the table returns. The table remains unchanged to the consciousness which connects the new perception with the memory of the perception before his eyes were closed. In other words, the observer actively integrates perceptions in the mind with that which is thought about. In this way, the act of cognition is shown as directing subjective intentions towards objects, thereby making them genuinely ‘objective’ (Smith, 1983: 249–86; Bréhier, 1969: 207–8). Within the framework of a rigorous science and in the light of philosophical radicalism, for Husserl, the notion of intentionality overcame the tendency of positivism to define knowledge as limited to passively observing and describing mere facts as they present themselves to the

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion consciousness, and it made it possible for the observer to discern meanings within acts of observation.

Husserl’s description of the phenomenological method Husserl defined the phenomenological method as a descriptive theory of knowledge (Merleau-Ponty, 1969: 14). It begins from within the person, the subject, and seeks to move outside the person into an objective description of the world (intentionality). In this process, the assumptions beneath the natural attitude must be questioned and a new way of knowing developed, the purpose of which is to describe the phenomena as they appear and to attain an understanding of them. To accomplish this, two key activities must be executed. First, the observer must perform what Husserl called epoché (from the Greek meaning ‘to stop’ or ‘to hold back’) (Sharpe, 1986: 224). All thoughts associated with the natural attitude about material things, science, other humans, the sequence and order of events, or any other presuppositions must be suspended or, to use a term Husserl borrowed from mathematics, ‘put into brackets’. This is not the same as employing a form of doubting everything, as proposed by the famous philosopher René Descartes in the seventeenth century, but it involves suspending judgements in order that attention can be devoted to the processes of the operations of consciousness. In solving algebraic equations, for example, the mathematician places each component of the formula into brackets and works on solving each problem placed in brackets one at a time in order at the conclusion each limited solution can be applied to resolving the problem of the entire equation. In a similar way, Husserl’s use of the epoché does not mean that the phenomenologist doubts the existence of the external world, but it entails placing it within brackets, or suspending judgements about it, in order that, like a mathematician, attention can be focused on another part of the equation, in this case, on an analysis of the phenomena of perception as they appear in the individual’s consciousness. The effect of this method, according to Husserl, is to establish a new mode of consciousness in which the natural standpoint is put out of play or, as Husserl puts it, performing epoché ‘bars me from using any judgment that concerns spatio-temporal existence’ (1931: 111). By placing in brackets previously held beliefs or assumptions derived from the natural standpoint, the observer allows the pure phenomena to speak for themselves.

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The second key activity for the phenomenologist can now occur. The observer performs the eidetic intuition whereby only the essential structures of the phenomena are seen. The eidetic intuition, from the Greek eidos meaning form, idea, or essence, allows the observer to see into the very structure or meaning of the phenomena. Intuition suggests that the bracketed consciousness of one who has performed epoché is able to apprehend not just particular entities or even universal classes of entities, such as particular bananas and then ‘bananahood’ (what makes a banana a banana), but their essential meanings as entities and classes of entities. This can occur only when one’s preconceived notions are suspended thereby enabling the observer to intuit the meaning of what actually manifests itself in the world. This is why the eidetic intuition is also called the eidetic vision – seeing into the very nature or meaning of what exists in the world (Bettis, 1969: 10). Husserl (1969: 246) explains: The multiplicity of possible perceptions, memories, and, indeed, intentional processes of whatever sort, that relate, or can relate, ‘harmoniously’ to one and the same physical thing has (in all its tremendous complication) a quite definite essential style.

This combination of epoché and the eidetic intuition is required for the building up of an objective picture of the phenomena of existence. Epoché allows the observer to suspend theories of the world built on naturalistic assumptions, what Husserl calls the ‘fact world’, in order that consciousness, which forms the basis for all knowledge, can be analysed rigorously. In this way, the observer perceives the world as it comes fresh from the phenomena and is able thereby to intuit new realities or at least achieve a more complete understanding of reality than had been attained previously.

Application of the method Epoché and the eidetic intuition are the primary tools whereby the phenomenologist sees into the structures of existence and thus builds an objective description of the world. As the observer intuits essences and allows the phenomena to speak for themselves, three basic steps occur: (1) naming objects; (2) noting relations; (3) describing processes. Naming objects. In the condition of the bracketed consciousness, the observer will perceive a variety of phenomena which need to be distinguished from

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion one another by giving names to them. Although the names are not identical with the phenomena themselves, by naming objects, the observer makes sense of what appears. Hence, we name stones, houses, trees, books and all the other multitude of things which form the phenomena of our experience. Naming the phenomena enables us to speak intelligibly about that which has manifested itself to our consciousness. Noting relations. We need not only name the objects of the phenomena, we also begin to understand relations between them from very simple to complex concepts. If we watch birds flying, for example, we may just note the relationship between one bird and another. But if we see birds flying quickly and nervously as the skies darken and we hear distant thunder, we will form logical and temporal relations associating the actions of the birds with an impending storm. As we build relations between the named objects, we are forming structures of reality based on our observations of the phenomena themselves. Describing processes. The observer will also begin to describe processes at work within the phenomena. These include processes like development as, for example, when one sees a plant grow in response to proper amounts of sunlight and water. Processes in history may be observed as each event creates or influences later events. Psychological processes may be described as people go through stages, for example, from fear through anger to remorse. By naming objects, noting relationships, and describing processes, the phenomenologist claims to build the structure of reality not from presuppositions about the world but from observed phenomena themselves. This is a method of ‘getting inside’ the phenomena through epoché in order to see into the essence of them. Although the beginning point of philosophical phenomenology is subjective, its goal is to describe and understand the world objectively (Merleau-Ponty, 1969: 27–8).

The notions of intersubjectivity and empathy Because the objectivity aimed at by phenomenology is obtained subjectively, the genuinely scientific results of Husserl’s analysis of consciousness can be questioned. If a truly objective picture of the world is to be established using phenomenological methods, it is imperative that the analysis of one’s own

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consciousness, which is all any individual is capable of achieving under the method, be correlated to other consciousnesses. In other words, if objectivity is to be achieved, the reality of other selves must be established. Husserl was aware of this problem and proposed a solution through the notion of ‘intersubjectivity’ based on empathetic understanding. At one level, the awareness of others is no different from any other phenomenon with which the consciousness engages through its procedure of bracketing or performing epoché. Yet, persons fall into a different category from normal phenomena since they form part of what Husserl calls ‘ “psychosocial” Objects’ (1977: 91). They are experienced as objects of consciousness, but also as subjects in their own right. Hence, as a subject, my cognitions recognize other subjects as also performing acts of cognition. In this sense, they become both noesis and noema, ones who engage in the act of thinking and at the same time the object of my thought processes. Of course, I cannot enter into the consciousness of the Other and experience the Other’s cognitions. Nonetheless, through a process of what Husserl calls ‘transcendental “Empathy” ’, I can enter into the Other’s cognitions by cultivating a feeling for them based on my experience of my own cognitions. In this way, according to Husserl, an intersubjective consciousness is established (Husserl,1977: 92). As a tool of knowing, empathy succeeds because for the knowing subject other selves fall into a category of objects with what Husserl calls ‘spiritual predicates’. For Husserl, the notion of intersubjectivity as the basis for obtaining objective knowledge depended on the assumption that the same world is experienced by all subjects. It is, he says, a ‘thereness for everyone’ (1977: 92). This sounds very much like the natural attitude, which naively accepts the world just as it appears. Husserl responded to this objection by suggesting when it comes to analysing the cognitions of others a ‘peculiar kind of epoché’ must be performed. Just as occurs in the normal application of epoché, other selves are indeed placed within brackets, but in this peculiar state of bracketing the distinction between subject and object is overcome: ‘I experience myself as Other’ (1977: 93). From the perspective of the natural standpoint, I would be able to imagine myself as ultimately alone, as if every other self in the universe had been destroyed or somehow vanished. This is fundamentally different from what occurs in the bracketed consciousness, where the other is experienced as an ‘alter ego’, a kind of mirror image of my ego (1977: 93–4). In this sense, I can build up knowledge of the world objectively, since others are also capable of engaging in the same method of bracketing the world and seeing into the essences of the phenomena.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion The objectivity obtainable through this method, of course, is only proximate and thus can never be final or exact, particularly when the method is applied to the human sciences. Husserl admitted this when he discussed the application of the method to cultures, which he associated with ‘books, tools, works of any kind’ and which he further acknowledged have different expressions and meanings within different cultural communities (1977: 92). In the context of this book, we could add to Husserl’s list the term, religion, to suggest that when Husserl’s analysis is applied practically to the study of religion, the results must always remain incomplete and open to revision. The need for openness to revision, however, does not detract from the method but forms an inevitable part of it. When observers intuit the essence or structure of objects, relations, and processes, their conclusions always remain accountable to the phenomena, including the intersubjective relations between the observers and the practitioners. In other words, the method always calls the phenomenologist back to the source of knowledge, the phenomena themselves. As a result, any eidetic intuition must be tested and revised in the light of the phenomena thus guaranteeing that the essence is not, in the words of J. Hirschberger (1976: 194), ‘a mere universal’ but a ‘self-validating eidos’.

Summary and qualifications As we have seen from our review of the philosophy of Edmund Husserl, the phenomenological method chiefly examines the role of the subjective observer in apprehending the objective world. As a method for knowing, it recognizes that perceptions of the world are limited by and inseparable from the intentionality of the observer. In other words, epoché provides a framework for the act of observing. In line with Husserl’s criticism of the natural standpoint, Merleau-Ponty (1966: 3–4) cautioned against minimizing the role of the perceiver in the act of perception through his assertion that ‘nothing in our experience’ corresponds to ‘pure sensation’. He offered the following example to demonstrate this point: Let us imagine a white patch on a homogeneous background. All the points in the patch have a certain ‘function’ in common, that of forming themselves into a ‘shape’. The colour of the shape is more intense, and as it were more resistant than that of the background; the edges of the white patch ‘belong’ to it, and are not part of the background though they adjoin it: the patch appears to be placed on the background and does not break it up. Each part arouses the expectation

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of more than it contains, and this elementary perception is therefore already charged with a meaning. (emphasis his)

This example demonstrates that performing epoché is intended to promote the active role of the observer in describing phenomena. Nevertheless, it shows that the phenomenon itself provides the source of and criterion for the observations recorded. As such, the method seeks to reduce the impact of pre-judgements so that the observer is able to intuit meanings contained in the phenomena, their relationships and their processes. The eidos or essence of the phenomena in Husserl’s philosophical method primarily provides a means for understanding how the observer interacts with the data of experience and thus grasps meaning obtained from the data. This point underscores the fact that Husserl was not writing metaphysics, as if he were seeking to discover a final content or an unchanging universal idea. Rather, his method aimed at disclosing how the consciousness interacts with the phenomena, and thus always stressed that the phenomena themselves provided the final criteria for any interpretation suggested by the observer. Merleau-Ponty (1966: xvi–xvii) underscored just this point: ‘The world is not what I think, but what I live through. I am open to the world, I have no doubt that I am in communication with it, but I do not possess it: it is inexhaustible.’ Two points in conclusion, therefore, must be underscored: (1) no ‘pure’ descriptions of the phenomena separable from the subjective observer are attainable, although we can assume that all subjects relate to the same phenomena; (2) no final or universal statement of the essence of the meaning of the world is intended through this method. I stress these two points, since they will need to be kept in mind when we apply philosophical phenomenology to the study of religion.

The social sciences and the development of the phenomenology of religion In addition to employing key concepts from Husserl’s philosophy, phenomenologists of religion developed their methodological approach in order to counter what they regarded as the tendency amongst scholars to ‘explain away’

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion religion by reducing it to functions identified within particular branches of the social sciences. Towards the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth centuries, such explanations were often couched in evolutionary terms, so that religious behaviour could be ranked according to its place within the cultural development of humanity. Although phenomenologists shared with social scientists a commitment to securing ‘objective’ descriptions of religious practices, they argued that the presuppositions beneath social scientific explanations oftentimes veiled anti-religionist positions based on the notion that religious beliefs result from projections onto supernatural beings that are derived entirely from human experience. The phenomenology of religion, therefore, can be depicted as reacting against three tendencies emerging from social scientific interpretations of religion: the explanation of religious phenomena exclusively in terms of disciplines other than religion itself, such as sociology, psychology or anthropology (social scientific reductionism); the evolutionary assumptions beneath most theories aimed at analysing the development of religion amongst a wide array of cultures; and projectionist theories explaining why religion originated in the first place.

Social scientific reductionism Reductionism in general refers to the practice of finding explanations for any subject of investigation by reference to a single causative factor or family of related causative factors. When applied to the study of religion, reductionists interpret religious behaviour using theories employed within one specific discipline. This generally has been done by scholars operating within the social sciences. For example, rituals can be explained as fulfilling certain functions in society, such as re-enforcing socially sanctioned relationships between the sexes and between parents and children. Such functions are often related to the patterns observed within of other types of religious belief and practice, and ultimately these are identified as root causes behind the development of religion as a whole. The Dutch scholar, J. G. Platvoet (1990: 20), argues that social scientists have tended to reduce religion to their own discipline because their ‘primary field . . . is not the religions themselves’. The psychologist, for example, tends to interpret religious phenomena in terms of emotional needs and may ignore the conscious meaning of religious acts for the believers themselves. In his study of key phenomenologists of religion, George James (1995: 59–60) notes: ‘To study religion as purely economic behaviour or as psychosis would clearly be reductive.’

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A particularly good example of social scientific reductionism is found in a book by Rodney Stark and William Bainbridge who argue that all humans seek rewards and avoid what they perceive to be costs. In some societies the rewards are scarce and unevenly distributed but the costs are many. As a result, humans create ‘compensators’ based on the belief that ‘a reward will be obtained in the distant future . . . which cannot be immediately verified’ (1985: 6). Religion thus develops out of a profound dissatisfaction with this world and provides meaning by giving people hope in a future state of bliss, such as the Christian notion of heaven. This reduces religion to a single explanatory factor derived largely on the basis of a sociological analysis. Scholars of religion writing from within a phenomenological tradition contended that such explanations, although not necessarily wrong, distort the meaning of religion for believers and hence cannot be fully scientific. The anti-reductionist position within the phenomenology of religion was voiced early in the twentieth century by W. Brede Kristensen, who held the Chair of Religion in Leiden University in The Netherlands. In his important book, The Meaning of Religion, first translated into English in 1960, Kristensen famously declared: ‘Believers were completely right’ (1960: 14). By this, he meant that no interpretation of a religion can be accurate if adherents are unable to affirm the underlying meaning beneath a scholar’s interpretation. This is because researchers, in Kristensen’s words, must be able ‘to forget themselves’ and ‘surrender themselves to others’ (1960: 13). This selfsurrendering has the effect that the members of the religion the scholar is studying will likewise surrender themselves to the scholar. To implant one’s own preconceived notions and biases into the research findings, as is characteristic of reductionism, thus is to contradict the evidence that comes from the believing communities. The sign that a degree of self-surrender has been accomplished is that the researcher gives full credit to the interpretations of the adherents. If a researcher cannot give priority to the testimonies of believers, according to Kristensen, the religion has been described and interpreted in such a way that the religious reality has been negated. Much later in the twentieth century, Harold Turner at the University of Aberdeen championed the anti-reductionist cause associated with the phenomenology of religion by applying it to his analysis of African religions. Turner (1981: 14) argued that African religions have been particularly susceptible to social scientific reductionism, since most studies of African societies have been conducted by anthropologists rather than by scholars of religion. This has given the impression that ‘African religions are no more than social

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion and psychological phenomena rather than essentially religious and worthy to be professed as the faith of persons.’ When this is accompanied by the judgement that African societies are ‘primitive’, the religions of such societies are misconstrued not only by narrow interpretations, but are victims of prejudicial presuppositions about their low level in the evolutionary development of human cultures.

Biological evolution applied to levels of religious development Turner not only was reacting against social scientific reductionism, but against the application of Darwinian concepts of biological evolution to the social development of human societies. One of the best definitions of the theory of biological evolution is found in John Allegro’s book, Lost Gods (1977: 10). For more than half of its existence, this planet was in no condition to support life. Then, about two thousand million years ago, a combination of climatic and environmental circumstances allowed the formation of a new and wonderful molecular structure that was able not only to reproduce itself, but to store and pass on to its offspring a chemical blueprint that determined its nature and function. Self-regenerating and self-duplicating life had been born. However, since no copying device in nature is entirely exact, once every so often the transmitted code varies slightly from its pattern. The result is a mutation, making the progeny in some way different from its parents. The change might be for the good, perhaps helping the offspring to adapt more readily to a change in the environment, or for worse, depriving it of some faculty and thus threatening the strain with extinction. If the new organism is a success, it will proliferate at the expense of less favoured neighbours, and its novel advantageous features will be transmitted by the revised blueprint for subsequent generations.

With the widespread acceptance of this theory as scientific fact, scholars began to look for parallel developments occurring in cultures, societies and religions. It was assumed that the universal religious tendency in humanity originated in a primitive form and gradually evolved into higher, more advanced expressions. This process is defined clearly by the Welsh scholar, Islwyn Blythin (1988:10). With the influence of Darwin’s theory of evolution extending beyond the boundaries of biology, the search for the essence of religion and the search for the

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origin of religion coincided. Man’s religion, like his body, was thought to have evolved from inferior to more advanced forms, and there appeared a great interest in primitive religions which were held to contain the earliest aspirations of mankind.

Some key scholars in the history of the study of religions who employed such evolutionary assumptions include Auguste Comte, James G. Frazer, E. B. Tylor, R. R. Marett and Wilhelm Schmidt. Auguste Comte (1798–1857). Platvoet (1990: 14) calls Comte ‘the father of sociology’. He is best known for his evolutionary thesis which suggests that humans pass through three stages in their mental development: from the theological through the metaphysical to the scientific. The theological stage is the earliest and most primitive in which humans conceive the forces of nature as persons they call gods. This is evident even in monotheistic types of religion which describe the ultimate form of nature as a supernatural being. The metaphysical stage represents a transition whereby the personified gods are replaced by abstract concepts and universal ideas. The final stage is that of positive science in which nature is understood not in terms of personal beings or abstract ideas but through empirical, verifiable and objective laws (Preus, 1987: 109–19). James G. Frazer (1854–1941). Like Comte, Frazer based his explanation of religion on identifying the sequential stages in human social and intellectual development. For Frazer, the first stage was an age of magic through which humans sought to control or manipulate the forces of nature to attain certain desirable purposes. When magic consistently failed to produce the successful manipulation of nature, it began to be associated with false causation. Magic then gave way to religion which characteristically sought to appease spirits, initially associated with nature, which had the power to help humans achieve their desired ends. As religions developed, the tendency to regard some spirits as independent from natural objects and hence as more powerful than nature spirits emerged in the human imagination. In his discussion of the religious significance of trees, for example, Frazer (1963: 135) described how higher forms of religion develop from more primitive sources. Instead of regarding each tree as a living and conscious being, man now sees in it merely a lifeless, inert mass, tenanted for larger or shorter time by a supernatural being who, as he can pass freely from tree to tree, thereby enjoys a certain right of possession or lordship over trees, and, ceasing to be a tree-soul, becomes a forest god.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Like Comte, Frazer saw the final stage of human intellectual evolution as scientific thinking, the empirical testing and verification of real causes and real effects according to the consistent laws of nature (Hutchison, 1969: 32–3). E. B. Tylor (1832–1917). Tylor is famous for his influential theory of animism, which traced the origin of religion to the ‘primitive’ tendency to perceive living souls (anima) in all forms of nature. We have already seen that Tylor defined religion as belief in spiritual or supernatural beings. This belief, for Tylor, originated in dreams and in the observations of how breath goes out of a person at death. In dreams, a person is able to leave the body, travel to far-off or strange lands, speak to the living and the dead, or undergo amazing experiences – all while the body remains inert. Likewise, when a person dies, the body ceases to function. Primitive thinking assumed this was like a dream, where the soul of the person had vacated the body but still possessed life and the ability to influence human affairs. If humans have souls, by extension all objects in nature must have souls. Trees, stones, animals, mountains, pools and every other natural object possess a life-force. This view developed into polytheism which perceived powerful souls in objects and in non-physical spiritual forces. Later, some souls were conceived as being more powerful than others, usually associated with the sky. Sky gods were eventually transformed into one high god leading finally to monotheism, the highest form of religion (Preus, 1987: 139–42). R. R. Marett (1866–1943). Marett was influenced initially by the writings of Bishop R. H. Codrington, a missionary to Melanesia, a group of islands in the southwest Pacific. Codrington had described the Melanesian belief in an impersonal force or mysterious power which the Melanesians called mana (Tokarev, 1989: 39–42). This force, because it was impersonal, could not be an object towards which people made direct appeals. Rather, either it was with a person conferring skills required to achieve desired ends (such as success in hunting) or it abandoned a person (thus explaining failures and misfortunes). Although mana could not be appealed to, it seemed to operate like a law explaining why the Melanesians created such strict rules called taboos which the people were required to follow. Observance of the rules maintained the positive influence of mana whereas breaking them resulted in misfortune (Hutchison, 1969: 32). Marett argued that the impersonal force observed by Codrington among the indigenous people of Melanesia referred to a general primitive belief which had developed prior to animism in human evolution. Marett called this impersonal force ‘pre-animism’ or ‘dynamism’. Primitive

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people experienced fear, respect and wonder at the awesome power displayed in nature, such as is visible in violent storms. This feeling of awe at the personal power of nature, or what Sharpe (1986: 67) describes as the ‘uncanny’, explained for Marett the roots of religion. It was not until later that humans personified this power first in what Tylor called animism and later by creating gods and finally God (Platvoet, 1990: 16–7). Wilhelm Schmidt (1868–1954). Schmidt was a Roman Catholic missionary who held the idea that the original religion of primitive societies was monotheism or belief in on High God. Although he distinguished his position from earlier evolutionary theories, Schmidt’s view can be regarded as a kind of evolutionary process in reverse. Primitive beliefs do not begin in lower forms and move to higher ones; rather, the early belief in a High God degenerated over time, as Platvoet (1990: 27) notes, into forms of ‘naturism, fetishism, ghost-worship, animism, totems’. Schmidt explained this process by arguing that the High God among the primitives often is described in myths as withdrawing from day-to-day life to the remote regions of the sky. The most common concerns of people, therefore, were relinquished to lesser deities, ancestors and other spiritual beings. This produced polytheism. The great later monotheistic religions have developed out of these lower forms and may be regarded as recovering the original primal vision of belief in one God (Eliade, 1969: 23–5). The theories of Comte, Frazer, Tylor, Marett and Schmidt reflect a general consensus among early anthropologists and ethnographers that human cultures – including their religions – evolved over time into their current forms. These views clearly predisposed researchers to look for signs of development by studying so-called primitive societies that still existed in their day, for example, in Africa, parts of the Arctic and in Australia. Phenomenologists of religion regarded such presuppositions as predetermining the results of research by beginning with evolutionary assumptions and imposing them on religious data. They saw in Husserl’s notion of the epoché a way of suspending prior assumptions and forging a method aimed at allowing the phenomena to speak for themselves. I will outline this in the next chapter as I describe the phenomenological method as a step-by-step process, but at this point it is important to underscore that the phenomenology of religion began in part as a reaction against evolutionary theories which by the early part of the twentieth century dominated scholarly interpretations of the origin and development of religion.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion

Projectionist theories of religion A third prevailing view against which phenomenologists of religion reacted is what I am calling projectionist theories of religion. These assume that religion developed out of some human need which has been enlarged or projected onto an ultimate being. All forms of the projectionist hypothesis contend that God is created in the human image rather than humans being created in the image of God. One of the earliest and most influential exponents of this view was the nineteenth-century philosopher Ludwig Feuerbach (1804–1872). In his important book, The Essence of Christianity, first published in 1841, Feuerbach argued that humans are aware of their own finite situation, but long to be infinite. They are familiar with their own imperfections, but seek perfection. They recognize their own restricted knowledge, but want to know everything. They experience powerlessness, but want to become omnipotent. They fail in love, peace and justice, but seek to achieve these ideals. Out of their own finitude, imperfections, limited knowledge, powerlessness and injustice, humans have ‘projected’ an ideal onto a creature of their own making they call God, who is infinite, all-knowing, all-powerful, all-loving and the king of justice. Where do these qualities originate? Clearly, they are human ideas resulting from the desire within humanity to achieve them completely. Since humans cannot achieve them completely, they invent the all-perfect Being and project these very human qualities onto this Being. Feuerbach (1893: 12) put it this way: ‘Consciousness of God is self-consciousness, knowledge of God is self-knowledge.’ This process is called by Feuerbach the anthropomorphicizing of God or defining God by reference to human characteristics, which he believed actually harms humanity by alienating people from their true inner selves thereby inhibiting them from maximizing their own best qualities (Feuerbach, 1893: 14). Instead of seeking perfection outside themselves, humans should seek to perfect their own inner selves and their societies. This requires a reversal of the normal ordering of the subject and the predicate. Instead of saying, ‘God is love’, we are much better to say, ‘Love is god’. Rather than affirming, ‘God is all-knowing’, we should say, ‘Knowledge is god’. God must not be the subject of the sentence but the predicate; humans will then be able to foster the very best qualities they already possess within themselves (Küng, 1981: 200–2). Feuerbach’s projectionist theory influenced subsequent studies of religion in many of the social sciences. E. B. Tylor’s theory of animism, for example, is based not only on evolutionary theory but also on the idea that humans project

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spiritual beings, first imagined in their dream-life, onto all objects in nature. Pettersson and Åkerberg (1981: 97) go so far as to claim that ‘Tylor’s theory is a completely psychological interpretation’. This is true also of Marett’s concept of dynamism which results from a supposed projection of force or power onto inanimate objects. According to Marett, the primitive belief in a dynamic and mysterious impersonal force has resulted from the universal human sense of awe, mystery and wonder in response to the power of nature. Although the projectionist idea has been and still continues to influence the academic study of religions, I want to consider two of the most influential proponents of this view in the twentieth century, the psychoanalyst Sigmund Freud and the sociologist Émile Durkheim. Sigmund Freud (1865–1939). Freud, who was one of the originators of modern schools of psychoanalysis, wrote widely in the field of religion. One of his earliest contributions concerned the origin of totemic symbols among primitive societies and their relationship to taboos. He posited a universal primitive prohibition against incest and suggested that originally a primeval horde of male sons killed their father because they were jealous of his relationship with their mother (the Oedipus complex). This produced guilt and resulted first in totem animals acting as a substitute for the murdered father (hence, a prohibition against eating the totem) and second in the restriction against incest in reaction to the original sexual advances of the sons towards their mother (Freud, 1938: 189–95). Although Freud’s theories regarding totemism and taboos resulted from an interpretation of psychological projections of perceived primitive impulses within humanity, this idea has been largely discredited today. His continuing impact on the study of religion comes from a different application of the projection theory which explains religion as resulting from the human need for comfort against perceived threats, for authority in moral action and for answers to ultimate questions (Freud, 1964: 162). A recurring theme in all religions addresses the problem of human suffering. Freud believed that this produced the need for comfort evidenced in the religious belief that all pain will cease in a future life. Death, which induces the greatest human fear, is stripped of its power by religion’s promise of eternal life. This promise corresponds to a parent’s response to a frightened child who awakes at night due to a fear of the dark. The parent comforts the child by turning on the light and announces, ‘There is nothing to be afraid of; everything is all right.’ This is precisely what religion does when, in Freud’s words (1961: 19), it teaches that ‘over each of us there watches a benevolent

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Providence’. This Providence is projected out of the human need for comfort in the face of life’s misfortunes. Religion also authoritatively provides moral rules for its adherents to obey. If these precepts are followed, rewards result; if they are disregarded, calamity occurs. The need for moral laws, just like the need for comfort, has its roots in childhood experience. The same parents who took care of their children by keeping them safe from danger taught them about right and wrong behaviour. When children obeyed, parents rewarded them. When they broke the rules, punishment was meted out. For Freud, this childhood experience is projected onto moral codes and persists as religion. A third function of religion is to provide answers about the nature of reality itself. Although this aspect of religion most closely resembles philosophy and science, religion continues to project childhood needs by looking for answers which can be given from outside and which come with absolute authority. The parent is regarded by a child as an all-knowing source of information about the world. God is the projected parent who ‘reveals’ truth to the believers in a way far different from philosophy with its emphasis on reason and science through its method of empirical investigation. Religion for Freud is a neurosis, a psychological malady, because it keeps its adherents permanently fixed in a state of childish illusion rather than allowing them to grow up into mature adults who face life realistically. Healthy adults realize that their parents could not really remove all dangers from life, that they could not dictate moral laws and that they were not infallible sources of knowledge. Any adult who still regards parental authority in the same manner as a child does can rightly be regarded as psychologically disturbed. Religion, however, projects just these infantile illusions onto an all-powerful, supernatural being or beings and thus prevents people from responding to the real dangers and limitations within life in a psychologically healthy way. Émile Durkheim (1858–1917). Platvoet (1990: 17) calls Durkheim ‘the most important French sociologist after Comte’. Whereas Freud used Feuerbach’s projection theory to explain religious responses psychologically, Durkheim applied the idea in a social context. Durkheim began by making a distinction between the sacred and the profane, which he claimed ‘is characteristic of all cultures’ and that it ‘divides the universe into exclusive departments’ ([1915] 1976: 167). The sacred is expressed in any tradition by a ‘collective consciousness’ which impresses on members of a society rules of respect by making individuals identify completely with the group and thus connecting them with something greater than themselves. By contrast, the profane centres on ‘personal preoccupations’, ‘private existence’ and ‘egoistic concerns’.

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The sacred thus is found in the society; the profane in the merely private and individual. This distinction informed Durkheim’s functional understanding of religious beliefs and practices as uniting ‘into one single moral community called a church all those who adhere to them’ ([1915] 1976: 47). The most elementary form of religious life (following the title of Durkheim’s classic book) can be seen in primitive societies where the sacred is identified most clearly with the clan and its totemic symbol. A clan constitutes the basic social organization of primitive people and a totem is an animal or sometimes a plant or vegetable which represents or symbolizes the clan. The totem is what Durkheim referred to variously as the clan’s ‘emblem’, ‘ensign’ or ‘crest’ ([1915] 1976: 113). The clan is united by its sharing of this common emblem. It is not a family in the sense of consisting exclusively of blood relations nor do the members necessarily live in the same location. The clan shares the same rules of respect, follows the same rituals and thus participates in what Durkheim called the same ‘totemic cult’. The totem attains its sacred power particularly when the clan comes together or assembles (Preus, 1987: 173–4). Although the totem is regarded by members of primitive societies as sacred, it stands as the emblem of the clan, suggesting that the clan itself is sacred. The clan, however, is actually a social organization held together by an authoritative tradition expressed in various rules, customs, practices and beliefs. In this sense, society is sacred. One could go so far as to conclude that in the most elementary forms, society is God. The totem, as the objectification of the clan, is venerated and thus the clan actually worships itself. As an object of worship, society obtains god-like or transcendent power by determining for its members, in Platvoet’s words (1990: 17), ‘their thought, perceptions, behaviour and activities’. In Durkheim’s analysis, therefore, the object of worship represents fully a societal projection. Society needs to bind it members together, to create a sense of loyalty, to enforce rules of behaviour and to preserve its values. By projecting itself onto a divine or supernatural reality, society attains absolute power over its members and makes the collective consciousness sacred. Both Freud and Durkheim followed Feuerbach by locating the source of religion in a human projection which arises out of either individual or social needs. These, of course, represent forms of social scientific reductionism, against which leading phenomenologists of religion reacted. In Freud’s case, religion is reduced to infantile desires; in Durkheim, to a social function. Projectionist theories do more than reduce religion to explanations devised

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion according to the assumptions operating within a single discipline. They actually comment on the state of ultimate reality. Feuerbach’s atheism is reflected in Freud’s judgement on the illusory nature of religion and in Durkheim’s claim that society is its own divine being. Projectionist theories, therefore, begin with the assumption that no transcendent object of religious faith actually exists. As a result, the meaning of religion is explained exclusively in terms of human needs. The phenomenology of religion developed equally as a reaction against anti-religionist projectionist explanations of religion as it did to their related reductionist tendencies.

Theological reductionism The phenomenology of religion historically bears a close relationship to theology, in that most of the early phenomenologists were members of theological faculties. The motivation of foundational figures in the phenomenology of religion, such as the Dutch scholars, C. P. Tiele (1830–1902) and Pierre Chantepie de la Saussaye (1848–1920), was to separate the comparative study of religion from its traditional association with apologetics in which Christianity was confessed as the one true religion. Both Tiele and Chantepie sought to introduce historical and comparative methods based on factual descriptions of the religions of the world. They believed that ultimately a comparative study of the world’s religions would demonstrate the superiority of Christianity over all other faiths, but their methods, ostensibly at least, were based on descriptive material rather than on theological presuppositions (Cox, 2006: 104–7). The early reaction against confessional theology amongst phenomenologists was carried forward later in the movement’s opposition to another form of reductionism, what I am calling theological reductionism. Although this has been characteristic of Christian theology, in general, theological reductionism refers to a practice of evaluating every religion by the criteria established by one alone. Religions which emphasize that their beliefs are revealed by God often interpret every other religion in the light of that claim. António Barbosa da Silva (1982: 73) calls this a theologically normative approach where ‘its proponent takes one religion as the “true religion” (which is usually his own), and compares it with all other religions regarded as false ones’. Part of the theological concern that motivated the development of the comparative study of religions, such as that espoused by Tiele and Chantepie in the late nineteenth century, was a direct result of the expansion of Protestant

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missions into Asia, Africa and other parts of the so-called non-Christian world. Many nineteenth-century missionaries accepted some of the scientific approaches, particularly the evolutionary thesis, but used them, as did Tiele and Chantepie, to interpret Christianity as the highest form of religion. A good example of this is found in the Report of Commission IV on the missionary message, which was written following the Edinburgh World Missionary Conference of 1910. The Report was compiled by the Scottish theologian, D. S. Cairns, who devoted a section to Tylor’s classification of ‘animistic religions’ interpreted in an evolutionary context. Cairns wrote, for example: ‘Among the animistic tribes there is manifested in some cases a rudimentary moral sense and a dim consciousness of sin’ (World Missionary Conference, vol. 4, 1910: 27). The assumption behind this judgement is that Christianity possesses a high moral sense and a full consciousness of sin which can be awakened in its primitive form among animistic peoples. The Report of Commission IV adds that the monotheism of Christianity appeals greatly to animists. Cairns observed: ‘It may seem strange that truths which to us are so elementary, as the unity and omnipotence of God, should come home with such kindling power to the hearts of men’ (World Missionary Conference, vol. 4, 1910: 219). As the phenomenology of religion matured in the twentieth century, it moved away from the intention of some of its theological predecessors to use descriptive material, in the way Cairns did, to show how Christianity fulfils the highest strivings of all other religions. Phenomenologists came to classify this application of the comparative study of religions as much a form of theological reductionism as confessional approaches which began with the a priori assumption that Christianity has received the highest revelatory truth from God. The phenomenology of religion thus can be characterized as reacting against all forms of reductionism, both social scientific and theological, and against any attempt to combine them in which a theological belief (for example, the supremacy of Christianity) is interpreted in terms of pre-conceived scientific theories (animism and evolution). Phenomenology thus should not be depicted as reacting against theology but against theological interpretations of religion that make truth claims. Paradoxically, projectionist theories, which make atheistic assumptions about reality may also be accused of theological reductionism. By making statements about the truth or falsehood of religious beliefs, they evaluate all truth claims in the light of their understanding of what is ultimate. Feuerbach’s reversal of the subject and predicate (not God is love, but love is God), therefore, represents a form

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion of theological reductionism, thereby adding a further dimension explaining why the phenomenology of religion developed in the twentieth century as a non-reductive and at the same time a non-theological method for studying religions.

Conclusion In this chapter, I have sought to provide background material necessary for understanding the phenomenology of religion. I have drawn attention to key concepts in the philosophical phenomenology of Edmund Husserl, particularly the epoché and the eidetic intuition, and then I noted that prevailing interpretations of religion at the end of the nineteenth and well into the twentieth century were dominated by social scientific reductionism, many of which employed evolutionary and/or projectionist theories. I have also drawn attention to the growth of the comparative study of religions out of theological faculties and have noted that eventually phenomenologists of religion rejected the use of descriptive material to establish the superiority of one religion over another. In this sense, they also reacted against all forms of theological reductionism, including those that were employed by anti-religionist, projectionist theorists. After having outlined this essential background to the phenomenological movement in the study of religion, I am now ready to turn in the next chapter to outline the components within the phenomenological method itself.

Questions for discussion 1. What is the philosophical meaning of epoché? How could it apply to the unexamined assumptions people hold about the world? 2. What is meant by the phenomena? Can you provide some examples of them? 3. Note some relationships you might find between the phenomena you identified in question 2. Do these relationships exist in the phenomena themselves? If not, where do they come from? 4. Is it correct to call phenomenology a method of knowing rather than a comment on reality? Why or why not? 5. Briefly define biological evolution. Does it still influence theories of the origin of religion? Give reasons for your answer. 6. Evaluate the principal phenomenological objections to scientific reductionism, evolutionary ideas and projectionist theories.

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7. W. Brede Kristensen argued that studying religion helps one ‘grow religiously’. Do you agree? Why or why not? 8. Discuss the following statement: ‘Sigmund Freud’s interpretation of religion may be correct scientifically, but it is wrong phenomenologically.’ 9. What is theological reductionism? How does your answer shed light on the differences between phenomenology and theology?

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Stages in the Phenomenological Method Chapter Outline The stages in the method as applied to the study of religion Conclusion Questions for discussion

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A method implies a way of doing something or, in an academic sense, it explains how a theory or hypothesis is to be tested. If we apply the term ‘methodology’, as a study in the way an intended goal is achieved, to my working definition of religion in light of the historical background I discussed in the last chapter, we arrive at a preliminary definition of what the phenomenology of religion entails: The phenomenology of religion is a method adapting the procedures of epoché and eidetic intuition to the study of identifiable communities which base their acts of believing and resulting communal experiences of postulated non-falsifiable alternate realities on a tradition that they legitimate by appealing to its authoritative transmission from generation to generation.

In this chapter I explain the phenomenological method by outlining a stepby-step process based on the writings of some leading phenomenologists writing during the twentieth century. The idea of explaining the method in stages was introduced by the phenomenologist of religion, Gerardus van der Leeuw, in the ‘Epilogomena’ to his seminal book, Phänomenologie der Religion, first published in 1933 and translated into English in 1938 under the title Religion in Essence and Manifestation. Van der Leeuw, who in 1918 became Chair of the History of Religion in the University of Groningen in The Netherlands, has been acknowledged as one of the most influential phenomenologists

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of religion during the first half of the twentieth century (Pettersson and Å´kerberg, 1981: 23). I have expanded van der Leeuw’s five stages in the phenomenological method in this chapter and have made it sequential, whereas van der Leeuw (1938: 674) argued that his stages were experienced by the scholar simultaneously. I agree that the steps in the method do not follow rigidly one after the other, but by presenting them in a sequential order, I have shown how the stages in the process can be understood as a logical progression. I have chosen in this chapter not to describe the thinking of key phenomenologists according to their appearance in historical order. I have done this previously in my book A Guide to the Phenomenology of Religion: Key Figures, Formative Influences and Subsequent Debates (2006), and Eric Sharpe has done the same in his chapter on the phenomenology of religion in his book, Comparative Religion: A History (1986). I have preferred in this context to clarify the meaning of each stage in the method, substantiating my choice in the sequence by referring to the ideas of important thinkers in the phenomenological tradition. It is important to note that this approach does not take into account the fact that the scholars I am citing built their theories on the work of previous writers, oftentimes correcting what they regarded as weaknesses in the ideas of those who preceded them. Nonetheless, for purposes of clarity, I have chosen to compile the writings of phenomenologists of religion in order to present an overview of the method itself. As such, the stages I outline in this chapter should not be regarded as representing how every phenomenologist employed the method. Rather, they represent how I have interpreted the key elements in the phenomenology of religion in a practical and systematic fashion.

The stages in the method as applied to the study of religion Step 1. Performing epoché. Just as Husserl suggested in a philosophical context, the first stage in the phenomenological method entails bracketing out or suspending a researcher’s previous ideas, thoughts or beliefs about the truth, value or meaning of the religion under study. The phenomenologist wants to observe the phenomena of religion as they appear rather than as they are understood through opinions formed prior to their being observed. This means suspending personal beliefs and withholding judgements on academic

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion theories about religion. If, for example, the observer is a committed Christian who believes that Jesus Christ is the true and complete revelation of God, acting as a phenomenologist, the student of religion must suspend that judgement and try to allow the phenomena under observation to speak for themselves without their being filtered through Christian presuppositions. Or, if the observer is an atheist who denies the reality of any supernatural force, the same suspension of judgement must be performed if the phenomena are not to be distorted by the observer’s preconceived ideas. Academic theories about the nature, function, purpose or meaning of religion must also be suspended or placed within brackets. For example, the Freudian claim that religion is a universal obsessive neurosis, whether true or false, must be held in abeyance in order that the religious phenomena can manifest themselves to the observer without distortion. Other academic presuppositions from many fields such as sociology, anthropology, ethnology, geography, politics or economics must be placed in brackets in order that they do not interfere with the ability of the data to appear as they are to the observer. Van der Leeuw, who made performing epoché the third phase in his description of the simultaneous apprehension of religious phenomena, followed closely Husserl’s philosophical rejection of the natural attitude. Van der Leeuw described epoché as a tool to ensure ‘that no judgment is expressed concerning the objective world, which is thus placed “between brackets” ’ (1938: 646). He explained that this requires the scholar to observe ‘restraint’ by allowing only the phenomena that appear to manifest themselves rather than the observer relying on presuppositions about what lies ‘behind’ appearances (1938: 675). In van der Leeuw’s understanding, performing epoché should not be regarded as an effort to remove the observer from interacting creatively with the phenomena. The mind in its bracketed consciousness is not a blank tablet, but based on Husserl’s rendering of the term intentionality, performs epoché precisely to enable the observer to interpret the phenomena as they appear, liberated from naïve or unchallenged assumptions. In their book on the phenomenology of religion, Olaf Pettersson and Hans Å´kerberg (1981: 26) suggest that Husserl’s definition of epoché as ‘the exclusion from one’s mind of every possible presupposition’ was used in religious studies by van der Leeuw in order to gain a ‘relationship of understanding between the subject and the object’. A central problem for the study of religion is how the subjective observer gains knowledge of an objective entity when that objective entity (religious life and practice) is embodied in subjective experience. This entails the need for ‘scholars to see the object both in its internal structure

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and its broader connections’ (Pettersson and Åkerberg, 1981: 26). Epoché, because it eliminated potentially distorting biases, for van der Leeuw, enabled the observer to attain understanding of the subjective nature of religion (its internal structure) and its objective meaning (its broader connections). Another important phenomenologist of religion was W. Brede Kristensen, under whom van der Leeuw studied in Leiden University. Kristensen held the Chair in the History of Religion in Leiden for 36 years, beginning in 1901. Although his major work in English on theory and method in the study of religion, The Meaning of Religion, was not published until 1960, seven years after his death, his influence within the study of religions during the first half of the twentieth century was considerable. Despite the fact that he never employed the term epoché, Kristensen began by insisting that the scholar must call into question any interpretation of religion that is potentially offensive to believers. He argued that a genuinely scientific understanding occurs only when the scholar is able to see through the viewpoint or perspective of adherents, since believers understand their own religion better than anyone from the outside ever could. In order to gain an insider’s perspective, the scholar needs to suspend widely accepted presuppositions about the origin and meaning of religion. Kristensen believed that evolutionary theories in particular predisposed the scholar to evaluate religions from the outside and thus, in the words of Eric Sharpe (1986: 228), ‘to have been responsible for inducing scholars to pass premature judgment on material they had learned to understand only in part’. By applying evolutionary assumptions to religion, the outside researcher produces an entirely biased interpretation to which believers could never accede. Kristensen (1960: 13) concluded: ‘All evolutionary views and theories . . . mislead us from the start.’ Van der Leeuw later used Husserl’s term epoché to reinforce Kristensen’s emphasis on the authority of believers to interpret their own religion. In Kristensen and van der Leeuw, therefore, we meet two seminal figures in the academic study of religion who heralded the wider phenomenological reaction against distorting the testimony of believers through the observer’s preconceived ideas or theories. The first step in the phenomenological sequence thus involves employing the method of suspending prior judgements, either personal or academic, about the truth or value of the religion the researcher is investigating. As we saw in our discussion of Husserl, this method inevitably brings with it a number of problems which to some degree limit the method itself. For example, in any description of religious activity, the observer must select which

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion aspects are important and which are not, a procedure that inevitably influences the understanding of the religious activity itself. This problem has been noted by Pettersson and Å´kerberg (l981: 14) who call it one of the fundamental limitations of epoché. They ask, ‘What unitary principles or concepts direct the selections of data and what factors determine the interpretation of the data?’ Moreover, even though the observer endeavours to suspend all previous judgements, this is impossible in a literal sense, since each person experiences the world through cultural, social and psychological understandings which in part are hidden to the individual’s consciousness. Pettersson and Å´kerberg (1981: 16) conclude: ‘The scholar is to a great extent committed to the ideas of his age. When he begins his studies, he is already influenced.’ When attempting to apply the first stage in the phenomenological method, therefore, the student is warned that epoché cannot be practised perfectly and is best understood as a self-reflexive attitude which recognizes that the scholar begins from certain perspectives and predispositions. The attitude fostered by epoché attempts to minimize the observer’s admitted and acknowledged preconceptions and biases, both personal and academic, in order that a fresh look at religious phenomena can yield new insights and achieve greater understanding. In one sense, quite practically, the performance of epoché was intended by phenomenologists of religion to challenge what Husserl called the natural attitude, embodied principally within religious studies, as we saw in the last chapter, in the guise of social scientific reductionism, evolutionary interpretations of religious development and projectionist theories. It also was intended to reduce the impact of theological reductionism, which studied religions comparatively in order to establish the superiority of one, usually Christianity. The same principles embodied in the notion of epoché can be applied today by students of religion by refusing to accept dominant academic theories uncritically and by attempting to become aware of, and subsequently limiting, the influence of personal convictions on their eventual interpretations of the data. Step 2. Fostering empathetic interpolation. Empathy, in this context, refers to a process of cultivating a feeling for the practices and beliefs of a religion other than one’s own or at least of a religion which does not originate in the scholar’s own culture or historical period. To interpolate means to insert what is apprehended from another religion or culture, which to the outsider often appears strange or unusual, into one’s own experience by translating it into terms one can understand. This step is related closely to performing epoché, since after suspending personal and academic judgements, the

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researcher must ‘enter into’ the experience of the believing community under study. This corresponds closely to what Husserl meant by ‘intersubjectivity’, where the phenomenologist ‘gets inside’ the mind of the other based on one’s own subjective experience. The underlying assumption beneath this step is that human cognitive processes operate according to shared patterns, despite cultural variations. ‘Getting inside’ another’s religion, of course, is not easy. Barriers of culture, language and unexplained symbols make the task extremely difficult. This is why, for purposes of attaining understanding, the phenomenologist needs to foster an empathetic attitude, which simultaneously accompanied by the technique of interpolation, turns what is the unfamiliar into the familiar by translating it into the researcher’s own frame of reference. The scholar of comparative religions Wilfred Cantwell Smith argued forcefully for this approach. Smith, who began his academic career in the 1940s as an Islamicist, teaching Indian and Islamic History at Forman Christian College in Lahore, Pakistan, later wrote widely on theory and method in the study of religion. In 1964, he was appointed Director of the newly founded Center for the Study of World Religions in Harvard University, a post he held until 1973 when he moved to Halifax, Canada to establish the Department of Religious Studies in Dalhousie University. In his popular book, The Faith of Other Men (1972), subsequently re-printed under the title Patterns of Faith around the World (1998), Smith provided examples of empathetic interpolation by selecting key symbols which help interpret the meaning of faith for adherents within four religious traditions: Hindus, Buddhists, the Chinese and Muslims. For Hindus, Smith identified the central symbol as the Sanskrit expression ‘tat tvam asi’, which he translated into English as ‘that thou art’ (1998: 35–48). This terse statement points towards a deep religious truth affirming the identity of the individual soul (Atman) with the universal world spirit (Brahman). Smith (1998: 37–8) explained that for Hindus ‘the individual self is the world soul’ and thus ‘each one of you reading this book’ is ‘in some final, cosmic sense, the total and transcendent truth that underlies all being’. Smith interpolated this difficult and seemingly contradictory idea for the Western mind by suggesting that in the areas of art, morality, and theology people in European cultures, steeped as they are in Greek thought, seek a correspondence between what they appreciate aesthetically, do morally, or believe ultimately and what really is Beautiful, Good, and True. The unity sought between what the individual experiences and what is universal is familiar to the Western mind and thus interpolates empathetically what has

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion often appeared enigmatic for Westerners within the Hindu tradition. Smith does the same in the Buddhist tradition by describing a boys’ initiation rite practised in Burma called the Shin Byu ceremony (1998: 49–62), within the Chinese tradition by exploring the significance of the Yin-Yang symbols of opposition and complementarity (1998: 77–90), and for Muslims by explaining the Shahadah or testimony of faith, ‘There is no God but Allah and Muhammad is his prophet’ (1998: 63–76). In each case, Smith draws from the everyday experiences common in Western culture to help Westerners gain an appreciation for and an understanding of what otherwise might appear incomprehensible, strange or even wrong in other religious traditions. Van der Leeuw used the expression sympathy in conjunction with interpolation, which he defined as ‘the primitively human art of the actor which is indispensable to all arts, but to the sciences of the mind also’ (1938: 675), adding that ‘only the persistent and strenuous application of intense sympathy . . . qualifies the phenomenologist to interpret appearances’ (1938: 675). The phenomenologist of religion, Ninian Smart, who founded the first Religious Studies department in the United Kingdom in 1967 at Lancaster University, preferred the term empathy to sympathy, which he explained, following Husserl’s notion of intentionality, enabled the observer to recognize ‘a framework of intentions’ among the believers (1973a: 54). Intentionality, for Smart, not only required the active involvement of the researcher, but also included the acts of a believing community (what it intends by its myths, rituals and symbols) which must be apprehended by the observer if genuine understanding is to be achieved. The twin processes of using empathy and interpolating what is experienced into terms the researcher can comprehend defined for Smart how intentionality operates in a dual manner: first, by enabling the scholar to access the meaning of the religious life and practices for adherents and then by making sense of them intentionally in terms of the researcher’s own culture. The step of empathetic interpolation, like epoché, should be regarded by the student as imprecise and hence more like an attitude than an empirically measurable method. The observer ‘cultivates a feeling for’ the religious experience of a believer but can never experience precisely what a believer experiences. As such, the technique of interpolation always approximates what it might feel like to be a believer in terms of one’s own life and culture. Such a manoeuvre is subject to misinterpretation and thus the student should be warned against applying it too casually. In addition, since this step in the method does not use strictly the tools of empirical observation but

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consciously endeavours to adopt an attitude towards religious phenomena, limitations to accuracy inevitably result. Pettersson and Åkerberg (1981: 61) note that this procedure employs psychological methods because by definition the empirical data the scholar seeks to understand is inner experience. The situation is, then, that one person – the scholar – wants to understand another person’s religion. To reach this he must abandon the strictly historical method which does not answer questions about understanding.

Van der Leeuw sought to resolve this problem by arguing that all science requires interpretation and hence, unless one wants to abandon every effort to achieve understanding, hermeneutics (the art of interpretation) is inevitable in all empirical studies (van der Leeuw, 1938: 676; Pettersson and Åkerberg, 1981: 61). That this is accentuated by the scholar’s effort to understand religious experience should not be surprising and certainly should not invalidate the method. It does serve, however, to remind students of religion of the limitations in applying this stage in the method. Step 3. Maintaining epoché. Because Step 2 entails empathetic interpolation rather than conversion, the method of performing epoché is maintained throughout. This means that by entering into another religion the phenomenologist does not now believe what the adherent believes. The religious community which the researcher seeks to understand may hold many beliefs about alternate realities, or about the nature of human society, but phenomenologists maintain throughout the process their suspension of judgement about these beliefs. Ninian Smart (1973b: 54) referred to this stage as ‘methodological agnosticism’ by which he meant simply that ‘we neither affirm nor deny the existence of the gods’. Smart intended by ‘methodological agnosticism’ that the scholar of religion would remain agnostic about the ontological status of what he called the transcendent focus of religion, or as he put it, ‘phenomenology “brackets” questions of theological truth’. This does not mean that the scholar simply claims not to know the answers to theological questions. Within the phenomenology of religion, Smart explains, the question of truth ‘is a question not asked, not a question left undecided’ (1973a: 62). Another leading phenomenologist in the Dutch tradition was C. Jouco Bleeker, who was Professor of the History of Religion in the University of Amsterdam and Secretary General of the International Association for the History of Religions from 1950 to 1970. In his volume entitled The Sacred Bridge (1963: 3), Bleeker underscored the need to maintain epoché by insisting that phenomenology ‘cannot concern itself with the truth of religion’, but it

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion must always maintain a ‘position of impartiality’ by refusing to pass judgements on the beliefs of any religion. Phenomenology simply recognizes such beliefs as ‘a serious testimony of religious people that they possess a knowledge of God’. If scholars do not maintain epoché, according to Bleeker (1979: 176), they sacrifice one of the two main aims of the phenomenology of religion, that of studying ‘the religious phenomena . . . critically, unbiasedly, in a scholarly manner’. The other aim, he added, is to study the phenomena ‘with empathy’. The truth or falsehood of the beliefs of any religious community, therefore, is not considered by the phenomenologist. This corresponds to the rejection by philosophical phenomenology of the distinction between what is real or apparent. What is important for the phenomenologist of religion is not what is true, but the attainment of understanding and an accurate description of what the adherent believes to be true. What the phenomenologist personally believes has already been ‘bracketed out’. The question of ‘truth’ nonetheless raises problems and points towards limitations in the method. The Canadian scholar Donald Wiebe (1981: 1–6), for example, distinguishes between the truth ‘of’ religion and the truth ‘about’ religion. Wiebe argues that phenomenology has endeavoured to bracket out the truth ‘of’ religion while seeking to describe accurately the facts ‘about’ religion. This distinction, which is consistent with principles advanced within the phenomenology of religion, may be alien to and objectionable for many adherents, and thus may implicitly contradict the stage of empathetic interpolation. One could argue, for example, that the truth ‘of’ religion is quite central to a Christian who affirms that Jesus is the ‘only way’ to God or to a Muslim who testifies that ‘there is no God but Allah’. To maintain epoché about the truth claims of any religion requires a distancing of the observer from the perspectives of adherents. This points towards a tension between ‘cultivating a feeling for’ the testimony of the believers at Step 2 and suspending all judgements about the claims of the believers at Step 3. In his discussion of this issue, Smart (1973a: 33–4) offered a solution through the procedure of what he called ‘bracketed Expression’ whereby students of religious phenomena incorporate expressions into their descriptions. In other words, the scholar of religion seeks to describe evocatively the feelings, tones, attitudes and convictions of the believer. By placing these in brackets, Smart argues, the phenomenologist can portray ‘what a situation is like’ without making a commitment to the content of that situation, to the practices it encourages, or to the feelings it induces. This method enables the observer to imagine what it would be like to be a believer or to act ‘as if’ one

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actually experienced what religious adherents experience. Smart likens this to the work of a novelist, who ‘brings out the feelings of characters with whom he does not necessarily identify’ (1973a: 33). Smart admitted that ‘bracketed Expression’ can be misleading and must be understood in the context of seeking to describe and understand objectively what is at its core a subjective experience. It, nevertheless, makes some progress towards maintaining epoché while endeavouring at the same time to portray accurately and with empathy the faith commitments of believers. Step 4. Describing the phenomena. By observing the activities of any religious community and by endeavouring to ‘get inside’ the consciousness of believers, the phenomenologist will have encountered a wide variety of religious beliefs and activities. The first practical task, after having adhered to the attitudinal phases in Steps 1 through 3, is to describe the data observed as accurately as possible. Words, actions, gestures, songs, symbols, explanations by adherents and stories must be recorded in detail. The researcher’s descriptions also must correspond as faithfully as possible to the believer’s own testimony. Following W. Brede Kristensen on this point, the phenomenological method seeks to be fair to the adherent’s perspective in the conviction that the final authority as to the accuracy of any interpretation is not the observer but the believer. This sentiment is expressed in Kristensen’s famous statements: ‘There is no religious reality other than the faith of believers’ (1960: 13) and, as we noted in the previous chapter, ‘the believers were completely right’ (1960: 14). In its practical application, the student should note that no ‘pure’ descriptions are possible in a naïve way, as if the mind of the observer operated like a blank tablet. This stage, in a way that is consistent with the phenomenological method as a whole, engages the scholar actively with the phenomena observed. The student of religion endeavours to describe accurately what is occurring, but it can never be forgotten that an individual researcher is observing, interviewing, recording and transmitting religious data. As we have seen previously, this involves a process of selecting relevant material, organizing that material meaningfully, emphasizing or ignoring aspects within the phenomena, choosing subjects for interviews and composing questionnaires. Although the scholar endeavours to present the data in a way consistent with a believer’s understanding, the researcher’s own interpretations of meaning always follow the descriptions. Moreover, as we have seen, following Smart, the observer not only must describe occurrences but must also convey feelings, moods and tones within the phenomena. Within limits, however, the student of religion can follow Kristensen’s ideal of endeavouring

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion to make descriptions consistent with the perspectives of believers and then devise ways to test the descriptions among believing communities. This stage in the method thus involves an attitude of fairness on the part of the observer, the aim of which, in van der Leeuw’s words (1938: 677) is ‘pure objectivity’. The objectivity sought, however, as Husserl noted, differs from the natural attitude which excludes the consciousness from actively engaging with the phenomena. Van der Leeuw (1938: 677) argued that the facts ‘require a meaning’, but the meaning is not invented by the scholar like a fantasy; it always remains accountable to the facts. Objectivity is attained by the creative interaction of the scholar with religious data, a process which can be characterized phenomenologically as the intentional effort of the individual researcher to portray as accurately as possible the phenomena as they appear within the researcher’s bracketed consciousness. Step 5. Naming the phenomena. After describing a variety of religious practices within a particular community, the phenomenologist of religion will follow a pattern similar to that of the philosophical phenomenologist who builds structures of consciousness from perceptions of the phenomena. The structure of religion can only be derived after assigning names or creating categories into which similar types of phenomena described at Step 4 can be inserted. Van der Leeuw made the step of ‘assigning names’ the first on his list when describing the phenomenological method. He meant by this stage, initially at least, the necessary human activity of classifying one object in order to separate it conceptually from another followed by the mental procedure of placing similar objects into categories. He observed: ‘Since Adam named the animals, speakers have always done this’ (1938: 674). He warned that when assigning names scholars often commit the error of treating mere words ‘as if they were objects’ thereby confusing concepts with the reality behind the concept. To avoid this error, the phenomenologist must always remain attuned to the phenomena as they appear within the consciousness. The researcher must also avoid assigning names that are offensive to believers. Some words, although not wrong in themselves descriptively, carry connotations which misrepresent the actual meaning for the believer. For example, African Indigenous Religions have been called, among other things, ‘primitive’, ‘basic’, ‘pre-literate’, ‘traditional’ and ‘primal’. These words, although not necessarily inaccurate from the outside, misconstrue the perceptions of the religious communities themselves. In his introduction to the study of religion, Eric Sharpe (1971: 46) offered an excellent description of

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how the procedure of assigning names operates according to phenomenological principles. Prayer is an ideal case in point. Wherever prayer is found, it may be studied. It should be studied precisely as it is found, without manipulation and rationalization, as a mode of communication with the deity. The question of the existence or otherwise of the deity is left open, as is the problem of the efficacy of prayer. The student attempts by this method to discover the function of prayer in various religions.

Ninian Smart (1973a: 47) designated the stage of ‘naming’ by the term ‘typological phenomenology’, in which the phenomena of religion are organized according to categories or what he called ‘dimensions’, including doctrines, myths, ethics, rituals, experiences and institutions. In this book, I have suggested similar phenomenological categories as those proposed by Smart. My list consists of myths, rituals, religious practitioners, scripture, art, morality and belief. As I discuss these typologies in the chapters which follow, I note that these broad classifications often can be separated into sub-categories as, for example, when I sub-divide the general classification religious practitioner into shamanistic/priestly, prophetic and holy person types. I also note that each classification is inter-related to the others when they are put into the contexts of actual religious behaviour. By selecting these categories, I have sought to be faithful to the phenomena without distorting what a believer within any tradition would be willing to affirm. Moreover, by discerning types or patterns of various religious activities within more than one religious community, in accordance with the phenomenological method, I have sought to identify similar activities in other traditions that can be fitted into the classification. This requires employing a technique called by W. Brede Kristensen (1960: 418) ‘informed comparison’ which, as Richard Plantinga (1989: 175) explains, requires the scholar, ‘in order to understand given phenomena’, to ‘compare similar phenomena in different religious traditions, even if they are historically unrelated’. If the phenomenological method were to stop at this point, however, it would be vulnerable to the criticism, in the words of Pettersson and Åkerberg (1981: 14), that it overlooks ‘not only the historical but the cultural context’. This means that the phenomenological classifications and their interpretations of types across religious traditions would be done ‘independently of any historical or cultural systemization’. In applying this stage in the method, therefore, the student should be aware that the names or classifications assigned to religious data must be related to specific traditions which operate

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion within definitive cultures and which possess unique histories. The student proceeds cautiously at this stage towards creating general categories because it is necessary to name the phenomena in order to discuss them meaningfully in common discourse and to attain interpretations of their meaning. The process of creating general categories draws attention to an unavoidable limitation within the phenomenological method, which becomes evident as soon as the scholar begins to assign names to the phenomena. It is impossible to create classifications without having formed some prior assumptions about their content based on knowledge already attained. For example, the phenomenologist, following Sharpe’s description of prayer, must already have some idea of what constitutes a practice called prayer before identifying religious actions that fit into this classification. Of course, this does not remove the necessity of assigning names, but it cautions the student against too quickly applying preconceived notions which often are derived from the researcher’s own cultural or religious background. To stay with Sharpe’s example, to include forms of meditation within the category prayer may uncritically assume that the one engaging in meditation is making a petition to or at least focusing attention on an object of faith based on Christian preconceptions. Step 6. Describing relations and processes. After having assigned names to observed religious behaviour by putting them into typological classifications, the phenomenologist then notes how they are inter-related and seeks to identify processes among them. Myths, for example, are often related to rituals by forming the context for ritual activities, whereas rituals bring myths into the present experience of believers. Or art often depicts scriptural teaching and may offer a moral lesson. Processes can be seen when beliefs change to keep pace with scientific discoveries or when rituals take on new meanings within a community in the light of incursions from outside forces such as occurred in Africa during the era of European colonization. A description of the phenomena of any religion, therefore, includes the relationships between various classifications of the phenomena and it incorporates processes such as change, development, crises, growth or stagnation. By acknowledging the dynamic character of religious phenomena, the scholar avoids the error of simply comparing ‘descriptive typologies’ without considering how historical or cultural developments have influenced them. In her review of the history of phenomenology, Ursula King (1983: 88) adopts the term ‘historical phenomenology’ to define what I mean at this stage. This term, she contends, ‘is perhaps the most appropriate to describe a strongly

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historically grounded, but systematically and comparatively oriented study of religious phenomena’. Wilfred Cantwell Smith (1964: 141–2), calls this the ‘cumulative tradition’ by which he means the phenomena (‘temples, scriptures, theological systems, dance patterns, legal and other social institutions, moral codes, and so on’), which over time are ‘transmitted from one person, one generation to another’ (See Cox, 2006: 198–201). C. Jouco Bleeker (1963: 16–24) stressed the significance of religious development, which he described through the term entelechia. Bleeker particularly wanted to overcome the objection to phenomenology that, by creating typologies, it adopted a purely ahistorical methodology. He argued that the classifications of religious phenomena should not be regarded as static but are better described as ‘moving pictures’. Bleeker understood the term entelechia to imply that religions have within them built-in logical mechanisms for change which the scholar is able to identify and analyse. Following the classical Aristotelian example, religious change is likened to an acorn which possesses the potential to manifest its essence as a towering oak tree. In a like manner, the scholar of religion is able through careful study to identify patterns of change within different types of religious activity. Bleeker gave the example of religions with founders, such as Buddhism, Judaism, Zoroastrianism, Christianity and Islam, which follow typical patterns. Founders develop followers, some of whom become theologians and teachers whose main task is to interpret the teachings of the founder. Usually, a class of priests is created, for whom following the founder has become a profession. Eventually, an authoritative tradition is established that defines orthodox beliefs in the religion. Through time the authoritative tradition can become so stultifying that it distorts the original message of the founder, which in turn gives rise to reformers who try to return the religion to its original purity. By studying how the founders drew on past traditions and yet transformed them, and how reformers often respond to a perceived corruption of the original message of the founder, Bleeker believed that the process of entelechia or a pattern for change can be discerned by the scholar of religion. Although this analysis employed typologies, they were depicted as dynamic and in process. As will be clear from Bleeker’s discussion of entelechia, noting relationships and processes, just as occurs at every other stage in the phenomenological method, requires the scholar to adopt an active role in the development of phenomenological descriptions. This is because relations and processes clearly emerge out of the interaction between the scholar and the religious data and are not simply given in the phenomena themselves. Eric Sharpe (1986: 232)

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion underscores just this point: ‘[A] phenomenon . . . is given in the interplay and interpenetration of subject and object, in the very act of understanding.’ Step 7. Making informed comparisons. After naming the phenomena and noting relationships and processes among them, the scholar can now begin to compare the content of the phenomena which has been organized into typological classifications. W. Brede Kristensen (1960: 418) called this the procedure of making ‘informed comparisons’, which are undertaken so the scholar can take note of the similarities or describe the differences among various traditions within the classifications of the phenomena or their interrelationships and processes. If we take the category belief as an example, by making informed comparisons we will observe that although the same types of beliefs are found in every religion, their content varies, which in turn influences adherents’ religious experiences. We will then be able to document what types of rituals are emphasized within different traditions to re-enforce specific beliefs. We also can see how certain types of beliefs in one tradition may have modified under historical, scientific, or intellectual influences but how in another tradition they may have remained relatively unchanged. This results in an understanding of the meaning of the classifications of religious phenomena in general. What the observer learned by studying the phenomena within a specific tradition is now placed alongside similar phenomena derived from other traditions. By contrast and comparison, basic understandings of each category are built up so that we can speak, for example, of the religious significance of myths or rituals. In addition, comparing the phenomena as they are understood and practised within different traditions enables the scholar to develop a statement of meaning regarding the core concern or overriding principle characteristic of any specific religious tradition, in a way similar to the lead given by Wilfred Cantwell Smith who, as we saw, identified for purposes of clarification and understanding a key overriding concept within four major religions. If we were to follow in this line, for example, we might read the teachings attributed originally to the Buddha and then observe the activities occurring among Buddhist monks in Sri Lanka. After a careful study of the various activities of the monks, including their rituals, stories, art, moral principles and so on, we might conclude that the essential unifying factor among Theravada (Old School) Buddhism is the endeavour to become detached from all worldly concerns and enter into an unparalleled experience of peace and serenity. Each ritual of meditation, every teaching concerning morality and the monk’s vows of worldly renunciation, when seen in the light of the Buddha’s dialogues,

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would re-enforce this interpretation. Identifying such a core concern results from an informed comparison of the various phenomena within specific traditions in order to provide insight into what adherents within the tradition regard as the central meaning of their faith. The stage of making informed comparisons operates much like an architect’s plan for the construction of a building which enables the trained craftsman to see specific aspects within the design, how these inter-relate, and what the end product will be. The craftsman could view the plan in microscopic detail or in the broader design of what the whole is meant to be. The architect could also compare the type of building envisaged in the overall pattern with other buildings of similar or differing construction. This is analogous to how the student of religion studies specific phenomena within particular traditions, names these phenomena, notes their relations and processes, sees into their broader comparative significance and identifies a model on which the meaning implied in each of them can be construed. Step 8. The eidetic intuition. Understanding the meaning of religion. We are now ready to approach the penultimate stage within the phenomenological method, the eidetic intuition, which sees into the essence or meaning of religion in general. This stage is different from defining religion since it occurs after the previous steps have been taken and results from interaction with the phenomena themselves. In Chapter 1, I discussed definitions of religion and arrived at a working definition of religion. Since a working definition is operational, I placed it at the outset of phenomenological research. The eidetic intuition is derived at the conclusion of phenomenological studies. Working definitions imprecisely offer a direction for the research to proceed; the eidetic intuition reflects the results of that research. The beginning and the end of the study of religion, nevertheless, are inter-related and thus to some degree any working definition offers a preliminary direction which potentially could affect the outcome of research. Pettersson and Åkerberg (1981: 61) call this one of the ‘dilemmas’ of the phenomenological method: ‘A phenomenological research that does not have a certain idea of religion from the outset can never reach its true object – religion as religion’ (emphasis theirs). In Chapter 2, I examined the philosophical conception of the eidetic intuition by explaining that the eidos or essence of particular conscious acts must in some sense in Husserl’s phenomenology be capable of universalization, or as Dermot Moran (2000: 134) explains, ‘a singular experience, appropriately regarded, could yield absolutely evident insight and universal truth’ (emphasis his). In religious phenomenology, C. J. Bleeker (1963: 3) argued

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion that intuition means ‘vision’, a search for or a seeing into ‘the essentials of religious phenomena’, which he characterized as an enquiry into the theoria and the logos of the phenomena. By the term theoria, Bleeker was referring to the scholar’s task of finding essential characteristics within various types of religious phenomena, such as the idea of the deity, the meaning of sacrifice, the use of magic and the place of symbol in ritual and art. The impartial manner of phenomenologists and their direct study of the phenomena, taken together, allowed them to see into the meaning of particular beliefs and practices by placing them within broad classifications (Cox, 2006: 129–30). Bleeker here is referring to what, following Kristensen, I have called at Step 7 making informed comparisons based on an analysis of the content of the classifications identified at Step 5. Bleeker introduced the term logos to indicate that the task of the phenomenologist is to identify and bring to consciousness the otherwise hidden structures within the different religions. Bleeker (1972: 45) understood a structure as an objective entity, which, when uncovered by the phenomenologist, demonstrates that religion as a whole possesses a logic which is just as detectable and capable of description as are the laws of the natural sciences. For example, the phenomenologist describes what a particular religion teaches about the divine, and how such beliefs produce cultic practices. In turn, quite logically, the ideas about the ultimate and the ensuing cultic practices lead to a sense of what it means to be saved within the particular religion under study. By discerning these connections and by comparing them with other religions, the phenomenologist is able to describe in a purely logical manner how ideas about the divine result in religious practices and produce ideas about the nature of what it means to be human (Bleeker, 1963: 40). Bleeker’s careful analysis of the theory and structure of religion exemplifies what is meant by intuition. In the words of Diogenes Allen (1985: 259), ‘intuition does not mean “having an inspired idea” but literally “looking at”. It is a comprehensive vision built on a direct interaction between the scholar and the data of religious experience which, again in Allen’s words, serve as examples or instances of the general essence’ (emphasis his) (1985: 260). An important and influential figure in the academic study of religions throughout the latter third of the twentieth century was Mircea Eliade, who occupied the Chair of the History of Religions in the University of Chicago from 1958 until his death in 1986. Eliade’s writings cover a wide range of topics from Shamanism to Australian Aboriginal Religions, but his chief contribution to theory and method results from his hermeneutical approach to the study of religions, an approach I have argued elsewhere is fully consistent

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with the phenomenology of religion (See Cox, 2006: 183–7). I am calling Eliade’s interpretation of the meaning of religion a prime example of what I mean by the eidetic intuition, although Eliade himself did not use the term, nor did he directly refer to Husserl in his writings. Nonetheless, Eliade constructed a general theory of religion which he believed applied in all cultural and social contexts, and thus can be regarded as providing a statement about the universal essence of religion. For Eliade, the key word that helps the scholar unlock the meaning of religion is the ‘hierophany’, the manifestation of the sacred, which locates for the religious person (homo religiosus) points of orientation around sacred centres. Eliade contended that the sacred is unknown and unknowable in itself, but is revealed through manifestations in profane space and time (1987: 9–13). Hence, hierophanies are mundane, worldly objects which become the avenues for making known to humans what otherwise would remain utterly incomprehensible. As such, these manifestations, the hierophanies, constitute the subject matter of the history of religions. In his important book, Patterns in Comparative Religion, Eliade (1996: 29) explained that hierophanies reveal a ‘paradoxical coming together of sacred and profane, being and non-being, absolute and relative, the eternal and the becoming’. In what is arguably his most influential book outlining his theory of religion, The Sacred and the Profane (which significantly carries the sub-title, ‘The nature of religion’), Eliade (1987: 20–4) asks his reader to imagine a time when there were no hierophanies, no sacred intrusions in space and time. He calls this the chaos created by a profane homogeneity, where everything is the same, where no points of orientation can be located (1987: 29–32). This is equivalent to being lost, where a person cannot identify any familiar landmarks and experiences utter despair and hopelessness as a result. In like manner, for the religious person, homogeneity, the inability to detect sacred points of orientation, results in a sense of absolute meaninglessness and total chaos. In the mythic beginnings of history, when space and time were undifferentiated, for religious people, the sacred manifested itself creating meaningful points of orientation. Stories about these primordial hierophanies are told within different religious traditions in their cosmogonic myths, which in turn are re-enacted in rituals. Because religion primarily is about orientation, certain symbols recur in various forms throughout the world and across history. These primarily have to do with cosmic centres, which connect the layers of the world, the upper levels reaching to the heavens and hence to the gods and the lower levels

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion extending to the foundations of the earth. As such, stories about the sacred are often associated with the sky and are symbolized by mountains, trees, birds, the sun and the moon. Ritual attention frequently is focused around the symbols which are transmitted in the myths and thus rituals transport the religious community repeatedly into a time of beginning when the world was ‘founded’. This explains why for Eliade hierophanies, as told in myths and re-enacted in rituals, provide the key concept for interpreting religion universally (Eliade, 1987: 63–4; Eliade, 1975: 5–12). We should note that on Eliade’s model, anything at all can become a hierophany, a conduit for manifesting the sacred, but not everything does. A particular mountain may be selected because it is the highest in the region and hence is nearest the abode of the gods, or a tree may be identified because of its unusual shape indicating the presence of a mysterious force. Eliade (1987: 26–7) cites the example of Jacob in the biblical story (Genesis 28.10–22), who had a dream of a stairway reaching to heaven, which he interpreted as revealing the sacred. He subsequently built an altar at Beth-el separating the space around the hierophany from all other space. The altar represented sacred ground, the place where the hierophany occurred, and all other space was orientated around it. Hierophanies thus are expressed in a virtually endless variety of mundane forms: from natural objects (like trees or mountains) through sacred scriptures (such as the Qur’an in Islam) through visions and dreams (as exemplified in the story of Jacob) to human beings (such as the shaman in Arctic religious traditions or Jesus Christ in the Christian religion). Eliade concludes that ‘what matters is that the hierophany implies a choice, a clear-cut separation of this thing which manifests the sacred from everything else around it’ (emphasis his) (1996: 13). Eliade’s eidetic intuition is portrayed in Figure 3.1. This diagram shows that profane space and time are invaded by hierophanies through which religious people overcome the terror of homogeneity and find meaning in their lives. In his book The Meaning and End of Religion (1964), Wilfred Cantwell Smith provides us with another example of the phenomenological eidetic intuition. For Smith, the core or what he calls ‘the locus’ of religion is defined by the term ‘personal faith’, which in every case is directed towards a transcendent source. Faith, because it is intensely personal (although not individual), can never be observed directly by the outside researcher. What can be observed are what Smith referred to as the ‘expressions’ of faith – how faith manifests itself in actions, practices and forms of behaviour. The researcher

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Hierophanies

Profane space and time

THE SACRED

Figure 3.1 Eliade’s eidetic intuition

classifies the observable expressions of faith into categories, such as myth, ritual, community, law, ethics, scripture and belief (1964: 141). By classifying the expressions of faith into typologies, the scholar may give the impression that faith is timeless and unaffected by historical and social events. In order to clarify that this was not his meaning, as I noted above, Smith coined the phrase ‘the cumulative tradition’ to indicate the dynamic character of faith as it is expressed through believing communities throughout history. Since traditions build on the past, by noting changes in the way faith is expressed (and seemingly experienced), scholars testify to the living character and dynamic nature of religious communities. Smith (1964: 168) summarized his understanding of the key elements of religion in the following way: Every religious person is the locus of an interaction between the transcendent, which is presumably the same for every man (though this is not integral to our analysis), and the cumulative tradition, which is different for every man (and this is integral). And every religious person is the active participant, whether little or big, in the dynamics of the tradition’s development.

For Smith, therefore, the key elements in understanding the essence of religion are personal faith (the locus of religion), the transcendent (the direction towards which faith points), the expressions of faith (the observable manifestations of an intensely personal experience) and the cumulative tradition (how personal faith develops within religious communities over time). These

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion

Direction Transcendence of faith

Personal faith (Locus of religioin)

Expressions of faith

Cumulative tradition

Figure 3.2 Smith’s perception of the eidetic intuition

elements, which constitute Smith’s eidetic intuition, are diagrammed in Figure 3.2. These brief accounts of Eliade’s and Smith’s descriptions of the essence of religion exemplify that an eidetic intuition seeks to decipher a universal meaning for religion based on comparative studies conducted among particular phenomena within specific traditions. As Douglas Allen notes (1978: 163–4), this does not reduce religious phenomena to some ‘common denominator’, but represents a process of ‘integration’ leading to understanding. By analysing many traditions and seeing into the essence of each, Eliade and Smith intuit patterns of meaning which they portray as applicable to all religions. Step 9. Testing the intuition. The final stage in the phenomenological method is to return to the phenomena, test the intuition in the light of the phenomena and make revisions where necessary. In this process, any of the previous steps in the method may be re-traced. Since it is the phenomena themselves which determine the meaning of religion, all statements of the eidetic intuition remain accountable to them. In his book on the phenomenology of religion, M. Dhavamony (1973: 16) underscores the need for and yet the difficulty of completing this stage in the method. He claims that ‘observations and experiment furnish us with evidence’ from which we verify or falsify various hypotheses. Religious data, however, ‘are objectively ascertainable but subjectively rooted facts’ implying that phenomenological descriptions, structures, and meanings are quite difficult to verify or to falsify. Dhavamony is merely pointing to a common problem in the study of religion and more widely in all the human sciences, The process of achieving understanding and then of testing that understanding will always be, in Smart’s words, ‘crude’ because the observer seeks to unravel a ‘whole web of beliefs and resonances’ (Smart, 1983: 270). Despite its difficulties, if the phenomenologist is to be true to van der Leeuw’s aim of achieving ‘objectivity’, the conclusions reached must be held

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accountable to the data. The first part of the test, therefore, is to account for any discrepancies or possible errors in Steps 4 through 7. Descriptions must be capable of being verified, the processes and relationships must be rooted in the descriptions, the classifications and sub-classifications must help clarify and speak meaningfully about the phenomena described and the comparisons must be informed by careful analysis of the data. Step 8, which is the most generalized of all, must always be capable of being tested by recourse to the phenomena as presented in Steps 4 through 7. Otherwise, the eidetic intuition becomes non-scientific by employing methods similar to those which produce metaphysical or theological assertions. The phenomenological test thus is essential for the integrity of the method since in the last analysis it is the phenomena themselves which must be used to evaluate the accuracy of the meanings proposed by any scholar. To exemplify how Step 9 works in practice, I refer to a research finding that influenced my own interpretation of religion. In 1990, when I was a lecturer in the phenomenology of religion in the University of Zimbabwe, one of my postgraduate students proposed writing his BA Special Honours dissertation by testing among his own Karanga people in south-central Zimbabwe Eliade’s hypothesis that hierophanies are expressed principally in religions through cosmogonic myths and their ritual re-enactments. The student was motivated to conduct this study since, in his experience, he had never heard a cosmogonic myth told among his people nor had he witnessed any rituals re-enacting primordial moments at the beginning of time. Instead, the stories he remembered were largely socio-moral aimed at teaching members of the community the traditional values of the society. The rituals he had observed mainly were pragmatic aimed at securing the aid of ancestor spirits in resolving many crises afflicting the society, such as drought or illness. After conducting carefully constructed field studies, the student concluded that cosmogonic myths were inapplicable among his people, but that quasilegendary myths were prevalent, since these pointed back to a time when the people themselves entered and became established in the territory. Rituals to ancestor spirits of the chief’s lineage could be related to the founding of the people in a location, although rarely were the original ancestors mentioned by name. These findings, although not directly contradicting Eliade’s thesis, in the student’s opinion, called for a modification of Eliade’s universal interpretation of religion. The student found that hierophanies were abundant in his tradition, but these needed to be reconfigured to fit the local context in which territorial ancestors became the primary focus for ritual attention.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion This example demonstrates how the eidetic intuition must be tested by going back through each prior step in the method, and how this procedure can result in modifications of interpretative theories as required by the phenomena themselves. As I indicated earlier, Steps 1 through 3 largely inform the attitude of the observer. A second kind of phenomenological test relates to how effectively a scholar has accomplished the processes described in the first three stages. The test cannot be focused on how well the researcher has performed or maintained epoché, or if empathetic interpolation has been employed successfully. These primarily are subjective acts which only the scholar can evaluate. The phenomenological test in this context relates exclusively to the interpretations offered. If the eidetic intuition cannot be affirmed by believing communities, at least theoretically, phenomenologists would conclude that Steps 1 through 3 have not been adhered to. In other words, any eidetic intuition that offends adherents is judged to have violated the phenomenological principal, as we have seen, paraphrasing Kristensen, ‘believers are always right’. This does not mean that the scholarly interpretation must be articulated in the believers’ own terms, as a theologian might do, but the interpretation provided cannot be offensive to believing communities. For example, it is highly unlikely that religious communities would use Eliade’s language in describing the object of their faith, nor would they employ the symbols he introduces. To speak of one’s religion as being centred around hierophanies, which are related in myths that tell of sacred intrusions into the terror of the homogeneity of space and time and experienced through ritual re-enactments of the primordial intervention of the sacred, is to use a language quite different from that employed in confessional statements. Nonetheless, if believers understood what Eliade meant by these terms, they would not be offended and could affirm his essential meaning – at least attitudinally, if not always factually. In this sense, Eliade’s eidetic intuition would pass the test of the first three stages, since his interpretation of religion is consistent with what believers themselves could affirm.

Conclusion The phenomenology of religion, including its inherent limitations, is conveyed in the nine steps I have outlined in this chapter. These are presented as a diagram in Figure 3.3 which demonstrates visually how I have interpreted the

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Performing epoché Fostering empathetic interpolation Maintaining epoché OBSERVATION

Compare

Compare

RELIGION 1 4 5 6

RELIGION 2

Describing the phenomena Naming the phenomena Describing relationships and processes

4 5 6

Describing the phenomena Naming the phenomena Describing relationships and processes

7

Making informed comparisons

Revising where necessary

RELIGION 3 4 5 6

Describing the phenomena Naming the phenomena Describing relationships and processes

Revising where necessary 8

Performing the eidetic intuition (understanding the meaning of religion)

9

Testing the intuition

Figure 3.3 The phenomenological method

phenomenological method as applied to the study of religion. As I indicated at the outset of this chapter, the stages I have identified represent a sequential summary of the method, which I have constructed based on my reading of some of the leading phenomenologists of religion writing in the twentieth century. As a compilation, it does not reflect the thinking of any one scholar. I reiterate, therefore, that the student should not read this chapter as presenting the phenomenological method in a prescriptive sense, but should regard it as a guide which I believe not only is consistent with the thinking of scholars writing in this tradition, but which can be applied practically. In the next chapter, I will analyse the phenomenological method as I have presented it by applying it to an actual case study drawn from the Shona-speaking people of Zimbabwe.

Questions for discussion 1. Does it matter that epoché can never be employed perfectly? Why or why not? 2. Discuss the two terms ‘empathy’ and ‘interpolate’. How do they work together to help the scholar get ‘inside’ a religion?

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion 3. Is there a contradiction between refusing to comment on truth claims and the actual truth claims of a religion itself? If so, how would phenomenology attempt to overcome the contradiction? 4. Steps 4 through 7 are interlinked. Describe how each leads to the other. 5. Why might words like ‘witchcraft’ and ‘magic’ distort the phenomena rather than describe them? Can you think of other examples? 6. What is meant by the eidetic intuition? Discuss the adequacy of either Eliade’s or Smith’s model for interpreting religious meaning. 7. Is it possible to provide a universal statement of the meaning of religion? Give reasons for your answer.

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The Phenomenological Method: A Case Study

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Chapter Outline Background to the case study The kurova guva ceremony: preparations The kurova guva ritual Concluding ceremonies Phenomenological analysis Step 5. Naming the Phenomena The kurova guva ceremony Kurova guva: concluding phase Significance of naming the phenomena Using the case study in further phenomenological stages Summary Questions for discussion

74 77 78 80 80 83 84 86 86 88 89 90

In order to exemplify how the phenomenological method can be applied, in this chapter I am presenting a case study extracted from a BA Honours thesis submitted to the University of Zimbabwe in Harare in 1990. The student, the late Rev. Collen Zhuwawo, conducted research on a particular death ritual (kurova guva) among a Shona-speaking people called the Vashawasha living in a region approximately 20 kilometres north of Harare. Although Zhuwawo’s descriptions form a composite of what generally occurs in the ritual, he based his results on field observations and interviews. In this case study, I will apply the stages in the phenomenological method as I described them in Chapter 3 up to Step 5, and then, towards the end of this chapter, I will examine how the method can be

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion used to derive the meaning of specific types of phenomena, their structure and their essences. I am presenting this case study to assist the reader to visualize how a phenomenologist of religion would work with and evaluate conclusions based on material produced by another researcher. Of course, in many situations, scholars conduct their own research directly, but, for the purposes of producing comparative results, all researchers of necessity must utilize the findings of other scholars, whether this entails reading historical accounts or involves consulting contemporary studies. The phenomenology of religion, therefore, provides a method consisting of three layers: (1) it instructs students how to apply phenomenological principles in carrying out their primary research; (2) it provides tools for researchers to employ the research findings of other scholars; (3) it offers criteria for evaluating the techniques employed by other researchers and for testing their results. I am using the work of Collen Zhuwawo to provide an example of how a phenomenologist would apply the methodology to the second and third of these research goals.

Background to the case study The two main ethnic groups in Zimbabwe are the Shona and the Ndebele, terms which refer to the languages spoken by each group, both of which form part of the extensive Bantu linguistic family, and at the same time are used to designate their distinctive cultural identities. The Shona comprise the majority of Zimbabwe’s population, approximately 80 per cent of the now nearly 13 million inhabitants, but they are broken into various groupings distributed largely throughout the northern, eastern and central regions of the country, including the Korekore in the far north, the Zezuru in the northcentral region around the capital, Harare, the Manyika and Ndau in the eastern regions and the Karanga in the south-central portion of the country. The other main Shona-speaking group is the Kalanga, located in the extreme south-western area along the border with Botswana (see Berens, 1988: 40–1; Cox, 2007: 119–20). Today these groupings are referred to collectively as the Shona, but, according to the Zimbabwean anthropologist Michael Bourdillon, its general application to all those speaking a similar dialect was introduced by the British during colonial rule (Bourdillon, 1987: 17). The majority of the people in the south-western region, called Matebeleland, speak Ndebele,

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which is an Nguni language closely associated with the Zulu spoken in South Africa, with its characteristic ‘clicking’ sounds. The Shona are believed to have originated from a large series of migrations of Bantu ethnic groups who, according to Bourdillon (1987: 7), arrived as early as the second century CE and eventually occupied most of the region between the Limpopo River in the south and the Zambezi River in the north and the Kalahari Desert in the west and the mountains which today form the border between Mozambique and Zimbabwe to the east. There is little agreement as to where the Shona actually came from (Samkange, l968: 3), but many Shona groups refer to migrations from an unidentified place called Guruwuskwa (meaning ‘big grass’). Bourdillon (1987: 7) observes that ‘the people who settled in what is now Zimbabwe appear to have been related to the ancestors of many peoples now established to the south of the Limpopo River’. The Vashawasha people are a sub-group of the Zezuru who, as I noted, now occupy a region in the north-central part of Zimbabwe surrounding Harare. Bourdillon (1987: 17) reports that the Zezuru, although sharing a common language and culture, have resulted ‘from numerous migrations’ and thus ‘do not have a common history’. Zhuwawo (1990: 4) claims that the Vashawasha people arrived in their present location in the early eighteenth century having migrated from the south near the current Masvingo. The Vashawasha share many beliefs with other African peoples including the central place of ancestors in religious life. In his classic book African Traditional Religion, Geoffrey Parrinder (1981: 24) claims that ‘all Africans believe in the ancestors’ who ‘are regarded as having powers which are useful to men’. This belief is seen clearly in Zhuwawo’s description of the kurova guva ceremony which, although forming a part of a larger series of death rituals, specifically aims at bringing the deceased home from wandering in the forest by ritually making him an ancestor who can employ his influence for the benefit of his family. Since the Shona constitute a patrilineal society, Bourdillon (1987: 209) notes that the ritual normally is conducted for a man who has children, who has lived what the community regards as a morally upright life, and who has died what is considered a natural death (due to illness, for example, and not as a result of suicide) (see also, Kileff, 1988: 65). The kurova guva ceremony usually occurs around one year after the person has died. The rituals described by Zhuwawo take place among the people who currently live near the Roman Catholic mission at Chishawasha established in 1892. Zhuwawo (1990: 5–8) outlines how the missionaries established control

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion over the people of the region by developing model Christian villages and establishing schools. The missionaries enforced attendance at mass and punished people for participating in traditional rituals. This attitude has changed over the past 50 years and now the Roman Catholic Church has attempted to incorporate aspects of the traditional ceremonies into their own liturgy. The priest even participates at some points in the traditional kurova guva ritual. What Zhuwawo describes, therefore, should not be regarded as a ‘pure’ example of Shona Indigenous Religion since the original practices have been influenced by Christianity for well over 100 years. Nor should the rituals be understood as anti-Christian since ways have been developed to assimilate Christian words and symbols into them. These basic background facts are needed to place the ceremonies portrayed by Zhuwawo into an appropriate context. After presenting an edited version of the kurova guva ritual as described by Zhuwawo, I will evaluate his work by applying the phenomenological steps in the following ways: Step 1: Performing epoché. I will analyse how a reader can bracket out any pre-conceived ideas that may be conveyed in the original version about the value, truth, purpose or meaning of the ritual. Step 2: Fostering empathetic interpolation. I will try to determine to what extent it has been possible to convey how the ritual incorporates a believer’s point of view in terms that can be understood by an outsider. Step 3: Maintaining epoché. I will analyse the ability to use the material without imposing judgements on any truth claims contained in the ritual. Step 4: Describing the phenomena. I am aided in the descriptions of the activities surrounding the ritual by the fact that as an observer Zhuwawo was Shona-speaking and an African. In theory, he was able to offer advantages over Westerners who do not share such an intimate connection with the culture. We must be aware, however, that Zhuwawo was not only an ‘insider’, but as a Roman Catholic priest, he was equally an ‘outsider’ to traditional beliefs and practices. In the evaluation which follows the descriptions, therefore, I will return to the manner Zhuwawo used language to describe what he was observing. Step 5: Naming the phenomena. After presenting Zhuwawo’s case study, I will demonstrate how a phenomenologist creates classifications or typologies in order to compare this particular death ritual with rituals performed in other cultures for a similar purpose. I will also indicate how within the ritual other

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activities can be identified that can be placed within categories for comparative purposes.

The kurova guva ceremony: preparations The first step in the kurova guva ritual as described by Zhuwawo involves a series of preparations. The family elders must consult a diviner, called a n’anga, who is able to tell them if any obstacles might stand in the way of proceeding with the arrangements. Using either mechanical means, such as divining sticks (hakata), or sometimes by becoming possessed by a spirit, the n’anga is able to determine if the family ancestors (midzimu) consent to having the spirit of the deceased ‘brought home’ to take his place alongside them as a spirit who will guard and care for their descendants. Zhuwawo does not provide a description of an actual consultation with a n’anga. Rather, he cites a person he interviewed who said that the kurova guva ritual can only be performed if a n’anga has been consulted so that the descendants will be made aware ‘if there is anything that needs to be put right before the actual ceremony can be performed’ (1990: 11). The n’anga is able to determine what caused the death of the person and to warn the people of any dangers if the ritual occurs. The kurova guva ritual is dangerous, says Zhuwawo’s informant, if ‘the spirit of the deceased is an evil spirit’ or if he ‘did not die a normal death’ (1990: 11). Once the decision has been made to conduct the ritual, further preparations are required. Zhuwawo says that two or three people take charge of these preparations which begin with the placing of millet seed on a wooden plate followed by a comment addressed to the spirit of the deceased: Now look, (name of the deceased), we have brought this millet so that we may purify you and enable you to join the spirits of your paternal and maternal ancestors, and that you may come to guard your living family (1990: 11).

The millet is soaked in water until it germinates. It is then dried out in the sun so that it can be ground into a form suitable for brewing the beer to be used in the ritual. The actual brewing begins on the Monday of the week the ceremony is to take place. During the week, young people come together to sing joyful songs and to dance. On Friday evening, the first pot of beer is set aside

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion to be consumed as the family members play traditional musical instruments such as mbira and rattles accompanied by the singing of songs. One song recorded in the ceremony described by Zhuwawo is a traditional hunting chorus with the words repeated, ‘My dog has gone, all alone without anyone following it’ (1990: 12). The people sing songs and drink the first pot of beer until around midnight when they go to bed and are ready for the beginning of the kurova guva ritual on the following day.

The kurova guva ritual On Saturday, an animal is chosen (usually a bull) which is dedicated to the spirit of the deceased and to the other ancestral spirits. The dedication, which is normally done by a brother or cousin of the deceased, contains the following words: ‘Look, (name of the deceased) and you all his forbears, this is the relish which we have prepared for the people who have gathered here’ (1990: 13). The animal is then killed, skinned, cut into pieces, cooked and served along with maize meal (sadza) for all to eat. Just before sunset, a few close relatives and what Zhuwawo calls ‘the master of ceremonies’ (the sahwira) go to the graveyard where the deceased is buried (1990: 13). Although Zhuwawo does not indicate who the sahwira is, we should note for clarity that this person is a ‘ritual’ or ‘funeral friend’ who in most cases has been a long associate of the deceased (Hodza and Fortune, 1975: viii). Bourdillon (1987: 61) adds that the sahwira is a person, not directly related to the deceased, who usually is a senior member of another family which has had a long tradition of the sahwira relationship with the family of the person for whom the ritual is being conducted. Bourdillon (1987: 61) explains that this involves ritual functions, one of ‘the most important of which is handling the corpse at a funeral’. The procession to the graveyard is led by the sahwira and includes a woman carrying a pot of beer on her head. When the group reaches the graveyard, the sahwira takes the pot of beer, pours it on the grave of the deceased and announces, ‘This is the beer we have brewed for you’ (Zhuwawo, 1990: 13). The sahwira then picks up a handful of soil from the grave and places it on a piece of broken pot called a chizenga while he says, ‘We are taking you home today so you may look after your family and other relatives. Do not trouble them’ (1990: 13–4). The group then returns home carrying the chizenga and singing songs of bravery. The group is met by people at the homestead. The men join the procession waving

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spears, hunting axes and other weapons depicting scenes of war or hunting. These dramatic representations are accompanied by the women who make a high pitched sound called ululating. While this is going on, the sahwira walks slowly towards the hut or house of the deceased person. When he reaches the door, the singing, dancing and ululating cease. The sahwira pauses, enters the house or hut and places the chizenga containing the soil from the grave on the floor. Saturday night is a time of celebration with different types of songs being sung until dawn. One type (called jiti) is usually led by the youth. The music is accompanied by the fast beating of three drums. A circle is formed and the people take turns dancing inside the circle in time with the rhythm of the drumming, high pitched singing and the clapping of hands. They sing common and simple songs known widely among the participants. Church songs are also included in the celebrations. A third type of song is called ngondo music, traditionally sung by men and women elders. Mbira instruments, the low beat of drums and rattles accompany their singing. Zhuwawo says the singing stops occasionally to allow the people to rest and to drink beer or a specially prepared non-alcoholic beverage (1990: 15). In the midst of these celebrations, the sahwira imitates characteristics of the deceased in a dramatic and humorous way. Zhuwawo says this drama ‘provides a lot of laughing’ (1990: 15). The sahwira also makes accusations against members of the family such as calling some thieves or prostitutes. Those accused respond in a joking manner adding to the drama. The singing, dancing, and joking go on all night. Zhuwawo observes, ‘Nobody is expected to sleep that night’ (1990: 15). At dawn on Sunday, the sahwira and some members of the family return to the grave of the deceased. Again, a woman carries a pot of beer on her head. In addition, a close male relative cuts a branch from a tree, puts it over his shoulder and carries it to the grave. At the grave, another close male relative says to the maternal and paternal ancestors: ‘You have done your part in purifying (name of the deceased). Now (name of the deceased) has become an ancestor and guards his descendants’ (1990: 15). The sahwira then motions to the male relative with the branch indicating that he should approach the grave. Zhuwawo observes: ‘He thrashes the branch onto the grave and runs away out of the graveyard’ (1990: 15). The people then trot behind him singing traditional songs with some men whistling and the women ululating. This is followed by a big meal on Sunday consisting of sadza and meat obtained from cattle, goats and chickens. The meal is prepared by daughters and sisters-inlaw of the deceased. Plentiful meat, sadza and beer are available.

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Concluding ceremonies The Sunday meal is followed by an event called nhaka (the inheritance ceremony) which determines what happens to the wife (or wives) and to the belongings of the deceased. Bourdillon (1987: 215) explains: Each of the deceased’s widows is expected to accept the inheritor or some other close kinsman of her late husband, possibly a senior son by another wife, as her husband, who in turn accepts responsibility for the widow and her children.

The widow may object to any of those offered and again, according to Bourdillon (1987: 215), is requested to choose her new husband. ‘If she objects to all her late husband’s agnates, the marriage is readily dissolved.’ Zhuwawo does not go into detail concerning the events which follow. Bourdillon tells us that once the inheritor has been chosen and the senior widow has agreed to accept him as her husband, a ritual follows in which the inheritor and the senior widow sit on a mat together and receive token gifts from each person present as a sign that they have accepted him in his new role. Bourdillon (1987: 215) notes that the inheritor then ‘becomes responsible for the estate of the deceased which, in consultation with the deceased’s sister, he is expected to distribute equitably to appropriate kin’. The whole of the kurova guva ceremony is concluded with a ritual called kudzuruva which actually seals or closes the grave of the deceased. This usually occurs on the following Saturday or Sunday. On the day chosen, the sahwira goes to the grave along with two pots of beer which are carried on the heads of two women. He also brings an internal organ (usually a pancreas) from a goat. At the burial site, the sahwira removes any objects from the grave and moulds the earth into a well-compacted shape. The women approach the grave with the pots of beer into which the sahwira mixes the goat’s organ. He then pours the mixture over the grave smearing it smoothly until the entire grave is sealed (1990: 16). This act concludes the kurova guva ceremonies.

Phenomenological analysis In this case study, efforts were made to apply Steps 1 through 3 in the phenomenological method. The endeavour to suspend prior judgements (epoché) is evidenced by the descriptive manner in which the ceremony is presented. Moreover, the descriptions are told from the inside and thus induce the

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reader to imagine what it would feel like to be a participant in the events as they unfold. This empathetic state is interpolated through references to singing, dancing, joking and celebrating which are contrasted with quiet and sombre moments. These acts can be inserted into the experience of people from most cultures. In addition, no truth verdicts were made on the reality contained in the descriptions as efforts were made to maintain epoché. We see in Zhuwawo’s descriptions, however, inherent limitations in applying these stages of which the student should be aware. For example, as we sought to follow Zhuwawo through the details of the various rituals, it became evident that we needed to refer frequently to previous literature on the subject. On the one hand, this would tell us that we cannot ignore prior research and that the student should not think that epoché justifies a rejection of other scholarly contributions to the field from within various disciplines. Yet, on the other hand, it suggests that Zhuwawo assumed too much on the part of the reader, and that he should have set the context for his ritual descriptions by explaining the roles of various participants in the ritual. That he omitted such important background material required me to seek recourse to other material dealing with the same ceremony. From a phenomenological perspective, the only justification for limiting the impact of previous research is to enable the observer to take a fresh look at the phenomena free from the presuppositions under which it may have been conducted previously. Nonetheless, this does not excuse the researcher from filling in details that promote understanding of the events described. We should also note that Zhuwawo emphasized aspects of the kurova guva ritual in accordance with his own research aims. His overall intention in his dissertation was to compare the kurova guva ritual among the Vashawasha people with the Roman Catholic teaching on life after death. As a result, his descriptions were chosen in order to facilitate that comparison. This may explain why he emphasized what went on at the grave but tended to ignore the details of the inheritance ritual. There is nothing wrong with this, but when using secondary literature, the student should always be aware that every scholar begins with some idea of what the research is intended to discover or at least what the scholar initially suspects the findings might disclose. These research aims often result in the scholar presenting data quite selectively. In accordance with Step 4 of the method, the actual descriptions of the phenomena are then presented. The endeavour to avoid obvious interpretations while describing the rituals seems generally successful. Nevertheless, we find in Zhuwawo’s interview with a person describing the consultation with

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion the n’anga the words ‘evil’ and ‘normal’. We assume that these are Zhuwawo’s translations of words used in the Shona language. It is important to note that such terms carry connotations in English which may not be meant in the original usage. It would have been better, therefore, to have used descriptive language. Instead of saying ‘evil spirit’, Zhuwawo might have said a spirit which intends to do harm to members of his or other families. A ‘normal’ death might have been called ‘dying of a disease in old age’ as opposed, for example, to being the victim of attacks directed by spirits who are unknown to the deceased’s family or who represent a family which believes the deceased or his family is responsible for what it perceives as an injustice. At the very least, Zhuwawo should have enquired further from his informant what was meant by what Zhuwawo translated into English as ‘evil’ and ‘normal’. In Zhuwawo’s descriptions of what occurs at various stages in the ritual, not enough detail is provided, particularly with respect to visual symbols. We do not know if any art adorns the beer pots, what colours are used in various symbols or displayed in the clothing of the participants, if the processions to and from the grave are orderly or a kind of mass movement. In addition, as I noted above, we know very little about the sahwira as a practitioner in the rituals, why he is chosen or how he is selected. Although descriptions must not be interpretations, they need to be replete with detail so the reader can actually see and feel the phenomena. Although my summary of the kurova guva ritual among the Vashawasha people is based entirely on Zhuwawo’s work, with the exception of the points noted above, some comments in the original dissertation which seem to interpret rather than describe the data have been edited out. This was done to demonstrate how one could endeavour in so far as possible to follow the phenomenological method using the work of another scholar. Zhuwawo’s material which was removed from the original text but which demonstrates what ought not to be included at Step 4 is listed below: 1. ‘There should be a joyful atmosphere in the family so that the spirit of the deceased may find it favourable to join the family.’ 2. ‘The Friday evening which is dedicated to ngondo music is believed to appease the ancestors so that they may be ready to welcome the spirit of the deceased.’ 3. ‘The relationship between the living and the departed is fulfilled in the sharing of the beast.’

Example 1 above clearly interprets the data. The joyful atmosphere may indeed be required to encourage the spirit to come home, but it is not explicitly stated

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in the phenomena and other interpretations are possible. This statement should occur at a later stage. Example 2 uses a value-laden term. To appease carries the connotation that the ancestors are unfriendly, angry, capricious, easily offended and negative. If this is true, the phenomena must provide the support for such a conclusion. In this case, they do not or at least we have inconclusive data on which to make such a judgement. Example 3 is added as a comment to explain the killing of the beast and the distribution of the meat. It sounds strangely Christian particularly in speaking of a ‘fulfilled’ relationship and a ‘sharing of the beast’. Language must be chosen carefully so as to avoid obviously distorting interpretations even though we know that the observer can never provide ‘pure’ descriptions of what has occurred.

Step 5. Naming the Phenomena Out of the variety of events described by Zhuwawo, the phenomenologist seeks common names which can be used to classify, discuss, understand and find meanings within the material presented. This stage is similar to the act of perception in everyday life in which an observer organizes the data of experience in an orderly and comprehensive way. The act of ordinary perceiving requires that certain prior linguistic concepts be employed by observers when they describe what they see. As I noted in Chapter 3, this demonstrates an inevitable limitation to employing epoché since the observer already has a certain frame of understanding in place when language is used to describe and name the phenomena. I have indicated earlier that this text classifies the phenomena of religion as myths, rituals, religious practitioners, art, scripture, morality and beliefs. Although these categories are discussed in detail in Chapters 5 through 8, I identify them in the context of Zhuwawo’s descriptions in order to demonstrate how names are assigned to phenomena at this stage in the method. The preparations. The observer perceives the following activities at the preparation stage of the kurova guva ceremony: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

People consulting a n’anga. The n’anga consulting the spirits. The n’anga relaying information to the people. People acting on information from the n’anga. Placing millet seed on a wooden plate. Words addressed to the deceased. Millet brewed into beer.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Numbers 1, 2 and 3 introduce the category religious practitioner, one who plays an important role due to an ability to communicate with alternate realities and thus who relays information otherwise unknown to the people. Number 4 might be called morality, what the people must do in order to fulfil the requirements communicated by the practitioner. Numbers 5, 6 and 7 form a ritual including specially dedicated materials used and words uttered in a particular way at a particular time. The words convey a belief about the relationship between the people and the spiritual world. The terms religious practitioner, morality, ritual and belief, although containing meanings already assumed by the observer and thus needing further analysis, generally are descriptive terms through which the activities towards which they point may be discussed and understood. By naming the phenomena in this way we are able to discover what, for example, the people believe about alternate realities in this context, how the practitioner connects to them and how information from the spirit world is communicated to the people.

The kurova guva ceremony The observer could list the following phenomena within the kurova guva ritual as it occurs in various stages: Stage 1.

1. 2. 3. 4.

Stage 2.

5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10.

Stage 3.

11. The group processes home singing. 12. They are greeted by men who use dramatic gestures acting as warriors or hunters and by women ululating. 13. The sahwira places the broken pot inside the house of the deceased. 14. Dancing, singing and drinking continue all night. 15. Jokes are played on family members by the sahwira.

Stage 4.

16. A small group goes to the grave in the morning led by the sahwira accompanied by two women each carrying a pot of beer on her head.

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An animal is chosen. The ancestors are told about the animal. The animal is killed by the in-laws. The meat is shared in a meal under the direction of the sahwira. A small group goes to the grave led by the sahwira. A pot of beer is carried on the head of a woman. The beer is poured on the grave. The deceased is told the beer is for him. Soil from the grave is placed on a broken pot. The deceased is told he is being brought home.

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17. A close male relative who carries a branch from a tree over his shoulder is also included in the group. 18. The branch is beaten on the grave. 19. The male relative runs away from the grave dragging the branch to the homestead. 20. The others trot behind him.

Stage 1 of the ceremony introduces the ritual killing of an animal and sharing it with the participants. Some scholars would call this sacrifice, as interpreted for example by van der Leeuw, who describes the important element of sacrifice as a gift which may be given to another person or to some spiritual entity or it may be divided among members of the community (van der Leeuw, 1938: 354). The ritual involves religious practitioners: the one who dedicates the animal (a brother or cousin of the deceased), the ones who killed the animal (the in-laws), the one who gives instructions on the preparation and distribution of the meat (the sahwira). These practitioners adopt different roles in the ritual of the dedication, killing and distribution of the animal, following traditional rules which are adhered to strictly. Stage 2 includes a ritual with dedicated objects (the pot of beer, the soil and the broken pot) and a principal religious practitioner (the sahwira). Art plays a fundamental role in these activities through the broken pot, through singing and dancing and through drama. A specific belief is uttered when the spirit of the deceased is told he is being brought home to guard the family. At Stage 3, the sahwira acts out characteristics of the deceased’s life and personality. The songs sung at the celebration, such as the hunting choruses, may also reflect aspects of his life. Drama and song, therefore, build an oral tradition about the particular ancestor who may be remembered by name for up to four generations. The rituals themselves, moreover, continue to be performed according to oral traditions in similar ways from generation to generation. Oral traditions correspond largely to the function of scriptures in other societies where myths, rituals, beliefs and moral codes are recorded in written form. The ability of the sahwira to suspend the normal rules of social etiquette and to accuse family members of committing anti-social deeds contains elements of a myth. The singing, dancing and joking might represent an end of one time (the life of the deceased) and the beginning of a new time (the deceased becomes an ancestor) just as at the very beginning of the world something new and orderly emerged out of chaos. Although no myth is specifically recorded in this context, the role of the sahwira clearly is one of creating chaos corresponding to the general atmosphere of revelry. The

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion night is followed at Stage 4 by a return to the grave at dawn and symbolically bringing the spirit home by beating the grave with a branch from a tree. As Zhuwawo notes, this branch comes from the forest and may symbolize the chaos, darkness and danger which exist away from the village homestead. The forest thus stands for a primeval disorder which reasserts itself at death and which is dispelled by the act of bringing the spirit home with its renewal of orderly life. The ritual activities of Stages 3 and 4 are typical of cosmogonic myths and thus suggest the existence of these myths although they may not be stated explicitly or even known consciously by the adherents.

Kurova guva: concluding phase The specific data observed in the concluding phases of Zhuwawo’s descriptions are: Stage 1.

1. The wife decides whether or not to marry one of her husband’s brothers. 2. Possessions of the deceased are distributed among the family members.

Stage 2.

3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

The sahwira brings two pots of beer to the grave. Internal organs of a goat are mixed with the beer. Burial objects are removed from the grave. The beer with goat’s organs is poured onto the grave. The grave is moulded and sealed with the beer and goat’s organs.

The concluding phase consists in Stage 1 of a ritual which enforces the rules of the society and thus imposes moral sanctions. Implicit in this moral ‘ought’ are responsibilities of family members for one another, particularly for the widow or widows and her children. Stage 2 of the concluding phase consists of a ritual full of symbols: the beer, internal organs of a goat, the smearing of the substance on the grave. Each part of the ritual suggests soteriological beliefs (beliefs about salvation) relating to the well-being of the community by focusing on the threat to the body in the grave from outside forces and the transition from life to death to life.

Significance of naming the phenomena From the phenomena described in the initial, central and concluding phases of the kurova guva ceremony, we have identified the following

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classifications: myths, rituals, art, oral traditions (scripture), religious practitioners, beliefs and morality. These categories become significant as they help the observer see into the meanings of each type of activity. In this case, for example, we could look closely at the role of the n’anga in the preparation phase and attempt to understand what he communicates to the family and how he obtains his information. From this, we would build a picture of the n’anga as what I will describe later as a shamanistic/priestly type of religious practitioner. We could then compare his role in the ritual with the sahwira who functions at times as a prophetic type of practitioner. In this way, we would begin to see into the meaning or essence of the religious practitioners within this specific ritual. This would be repeated for each classification derived from the phenomena. This stage demonstrates clearly that the observer actively engages with the phenomena being described. We have seen this already simply by noting the observer’s choice of data to be recorded. We also see this in how the parts of the ritual have been ordered rationally. No stages as such exist inherently in the phenomena; they are placed there by the observer to help organize the material and to present it in a coherent way. Beyond these somewhat obvious ways in which the observer’s own perspectives are inserted into the phenomenological descriptions and their presentations, seeing into meaning even more significantly requires the researcher to interact intentionally with the phenomena as they occur and as they are described. For example, to call the various participants in the ritual activities religious practitioners requires a clear presupposition that one can assume an elevated status by virtue of a specific function performed within a ritual. Or to describe the forest as a symbol for chaos and hence recalling a cosmogonic myth requires a creative interpretation of the material by the observer which cannot be said to exist intrinsically within it. The phenomenological method, therefore, as I noted earlier, uses the methods of epoché, empathetic interpolation and maintaining epoché in order to produce descriptions which will allow the scholar to interact creatively with the phenomena in order to derive fresh insights or new meanings of religious data. By becoming aware of one’s own presuppositions, the scholar endeavours to suspend prior judgements or at least to limit their impact on the observations produced. By doing this, a researcher seeks in so far as possible to cultivate a feeling for what, in this case, the Vashawasha people will be experiencing in the kurova guva ceremony. Conscious of the fact that the researcher is always prone to interpret the data, the phenomena are described through carefully chosen language, which strives to avoid either denotative

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion or connotative distortions. By actively engaging with the phenomena, the phenomenologist sees into the meaning of the phenomena out of which classifications are determined which in turn promote understanding. In this case, these research objectives have been achieved by a careful scrutiny of the descriptions produced by another scholar and by subjecting them to a precise phenomenological analysis.

Using the case study in further phenomenological stages The case study of the Vashawasha people beyond Step 5 would lead to a description of the inter-relationships between the various classifications and their processes. We already will have been aware of some of these relationships. For example, myths are implied in rituals which in turn involve artistic gestures, drama, dance, singing and visual representations. Rituals also use mythic symbols in gestures and dramatic activity such as the beating of the grave with the branch and dragging the branch back to the homestead. The religious practitioner is central to the performance of rituals and to the communication of moral expectations. The oral traditions of the family are preserved in the rituals which are passed on from generation to generation. Beliefs are either explicitly stated or implicitly contained in the rituals, songs, dances and mythic symbols. Once we see into the meaning of specific categories, therefore, we are able to designate how they are related. We also note a process of movement from life to death to life operating within the ceremony. This process points towards the health and well-being of the community as a whole and thus involves other processes such as family interactions, the explanation of misfortune and death, and the preservation of a stable social and cosmic order. Historical processes can also be identified. Although I did not draw attention to the impact of Christianity on the traditional ceremony, it is evident at many places. The bull which is killed is blessed by a priest. Sharing the meat and sadza carries a connotation for the Catholic community of the Eucharistic sharing of bread and wine. The nhaka ritual allows the woman to choose whether or not to marry her deceased husband’s brother, a choice which will be influenced by Western values and perhaps in some cases by urbanization. Any description of the kurova guva ceremony of the Vashawasha people, therefore, must note that current practices reflect the

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process of incorporating Christian and Western influences into traditional beliefs and social expressions. Once the inter-relationships and processes among the phenomenological classifications have been noted (at least in part), we are able to derive their larger comparative meanings based on the model as presented at Step 7. Within Zimbabwe, variations occur between the rituals, mythic symbols, roles of religious practitioners and the other phenomena of the Vashawasha people and other Shona-speaking traditions. Similarities will also be noted so that the meaning of the Vashawasha myths, rituals, religious practitioners, oral traditions, art, morality and beliefs can be incorporated into a family called Shona Religions which share many resemblances more broadly with African Indigenous Religions. This larger African tradition can then be placed alongside other religious traditions so that the meanings and use of the phenomenological classifications within various traditions can be described and compared and so that the core concern of African Indigenous Religions can be deciphered. This procedure does not prescribe the content of any of the phenomena nor does it define the overriding principle of African religions. It offers a method for seeing into these. Obviously, myths and rituals will differ within traditions, but the pattern of their use will remain constant. Beliefs will describe sometimes contradictory pictures of alternate realities, but their functions and types will be consistent according to the phenomenological model. It would be possible, therefore, in theory to compare the beliefs implied in the Vashawasha kurova guva ritual with, for example, the beliefs contained in a Hindu purification ritual where people bathe in the sacred river Ganges. It would also be possible, on the basis of the comparative model, to derive and compare the core concern of African Indigenous Religions with Vaishnavite Hinduism. The purpose of such comparisons is to enable the scholar to achieve insight into meanings contained within the phenomena that ultimately leads at Step 8 to seeing into the meaning of religion in general. Following this, the phenomenological test must be applied by going back down each stage in the analysis to confirm accuracy and to ensure that the attitudinal phases have been observed.

Summary In this chapter, we have examined a specific ritual of a Zimbabwean religious tradition in order to exemplify how the phenomenological stages can

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion be applied. I have emphasized the need to suspend judgements, to attend to detail, and to form classifications of the phenomena while at the same time noting the limitations in each of these stages. I have described further how the observer can see into the phenomena of that tradition (including its relations and processes) in order to derive from them the structures and patterns which can be used to compare and contrast them in an informed way with other religious traditions. To test the process at any level requires returning to the phenomena to determine if they support the conclusions the observer has achieved. With this case study in mind, I move to the next phases of this book to explore the meanings of the phenomenological categories as they have been developed out of research conducted by many scholars among the world’s living and archaic religious traditions. Although many examples derived from the phenomena are offered in these chapters, it will be assumed, in the light of the limitations noted in the preceding chapters, that efforts to apply the first five steps in the phenomenological method have been conducted prior to arriving at the meanings offered for each of the classifications.

Questions for discussion 1. In the descriptions of the kurova guva ritual presented in this chapter, what words might suggest interpretations of the data rather than pure descriptions? 2. Cite evidence for or against the claim that the scholar effectively performed epoché and maintained it throughout. 3. What more would you like to have known about the ritual in order to have achieved a deeper understanding of it? 4. Where do you find suggestions in the accounts of the ritual of Christian influence? Is it possible to attain an untainted description of any religious ceremony? 5. What obstacles stand in the way of comparing the kurova guva ceremony, for example, with a Hindu purification ritual?

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Chapter Outline Myth and ritual according to Eliade 92 Other viewpoints on myths and rituals: Ninian Smart and Joseph Campbell 94 Are myths true? 96 Towards the meaning of myths and rituals 98 Testing the meaning: a Yupiit case study 99 Conclusion 102 Questions for discussion 103

In the next four chapters, based on steps 6 and 7 in the phenomenological method, I analyse and compare the key phenomenological classifications or typologies which I identified in the case study presented in the previous chapter. I consider the typological classifications in pairs to emphasize that the categories are inter-related, but my choice of which typologies to consider side by side is entirely arbitrary. Many other combinations could have been selected and more than two could have been considered at the same time. In Chapter 8, I treat the typology ‘belief’ as a special case, not because it is unrelated to the other classifications, but because it informs each one and thus can be regarded as relating to each in a unique manner. I want to underscore at the outset that the classifications I have selected are not intended to represent unchanging essential forms, but that the phenomena that comprise the categories are themselves in process and changing. I begin by comparing myths and rituals, two types of phenomena which have been connected closely in much scholarly literature. In this chapter, I look specifically at the interpretations of myths and rituals in the works of Mircea Eliade, Ninian Smart and

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Joseph Campbell. I then apply their conclusions to a brief case study based on late nineteenth century accounts of indigenous peoples in Alaska.

Myth and ritual according to Eliade As we have seen when discussing the eidetic intuition in Chapter 3, for Mircea Eliade, all religious people tell stories in the form of myths, which (1996: 430) recount events that took place in illo tempore, in the time of the beginnings, and therefore constitute a pattern for all significant events in life. This is based on Eliade’s insight into the structure of the religious consciousness, which he called the mind of homo religiosus and which he claimed is characterized by the religious person’s longing to be as near the sacred as possible (Eliade, 1969: Preface). The religious person is informed about the beginnings of the world through myth which, as we saw in Chapter 3, tells how the original homogeneity of space and time was broken into or punctuated by manifestations of the sacred, called hierophanies. The sacred introduces order out of chaos by creating centres of orientation around mundane objects like trees, rivers, mountains, stones, animals or even people. Once they become the avenue for sacred manifestations, such ordinary objects of this world are transformed into symbols which mediate the sacred for the religious communities. For Eliade, since myths are primarily cosmogonic, other aspects of myths, such as their socio-moral characteristics or their recounting of quasihistorical events, can be traced back to and ultimately are derived from the stories explaining how the world as it is now experienced came to be. Eliade (1996: 416) explains: ‘From one point of view, every myth is “cosmogonic” because every myth expresses the appearance of a new cosmic “situation” or primeval event which becomes, simply by being thus expressed, a paradigm for all time to come.’ Religious people tell the sacred cosmogonic myths over and over. As they do so, they create a sacred time, ritual time, when the myth comes to life, is re-enacted, and thus transforms the lives of the believers. In ritual, the people are able to go back to the origin of their world, to experience the creation of order out of chaos, and to find themselves renewed. The ritual occurs in a sacred space which is set apart by symbols making that space different from other space and hence an appropriate place for the ritual to occur (Eliade, 1987: 68–70). As such, rituals possess the characteristic of being repeatable according to a fixed pattern using symbols which are derived from and relate

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to the myth. The symbols may appear in the form of words, gestures, drama, pictures, images, or combinations of the above. The myth is incorporated into the ritual repetitions sometimes explicitly and at other times as a background assumption, depending on the type of ritual being performed. Some rituals, for example, are calendrical occurring at various times in the year often relating to a people’s need for subsistence, such as hunting, planting or harvesting. Some are life cycle rituals (as in Collen Zhuwawo’s accounting of the kurova guva ceremony), which are performed at significant times marking changes in an individual’s status, such as at birth, puberty, marriage and death. Others are crisis orientated, conducted only when a crisis affects the community, such as occurs in times of drought, infertility or war. All rituals, for Eliade, nonetheless, ultimately re-enact the cosmogonic myth either directly or indirectly thereby transforming the community by bringing it back into the sacred moment of its origin. Primordial space (profane space) is typified by the chaos of homogeneity lacking a fixed centre. With the creation of the world (told in myths), the world gains a focal point made known to the people by hierophanies which are then symbolized by sacred objects, altars, churches, trees, stones, mountains or other images standing for the sacred manifestation and the ordering of space (Eliade, 1987: 54–8). Eliade gives the example of a church. When one opens the door of a church, one enters a space fundamentally different from the space outside (1987: 25–6). For Eliade, the door represents the threshold between the profane and the sacred. In the church, one usually finds the central symbol of the cross or the crucifix which depicts the hierophany of the death of Jesus, a manifestation of the sacred which is told again and again in the sacred stories of Christians and re-enacted ritually in the Eucharistic celebration. During the Eucharist, the believing community remembers the time of the hierophany. The priest lifts the loaf of bread or the wafer and announces, ‘On the night in which he was betrayed, our Lord Jesus took bread, broke it, gave it to his disciples and said, “This is my body”.’ Profane space and time are transcended in the ritual moment as believers re-experience the presence of the sacred reality. From Eliade, therefore, we obtain the following components which define the relationship between myths and rituals: 1. Myths and rituals operate in sacred space and sacred time. 2. They result from hierophanies, manifestations of the sacred into profane space and time.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion 3. Hierophanies break the chaos of homogeneity by creating fixed points in space and time around which religious communities orientate their existence. 4. The occurrences of hierophanies are related in myths. 5. The mythic time of the hierophany is re-enacted in rituals which thereby gain a transforming power for believers by bringing them back to the original act of creation.

Eliade says that in all religions myths of origin are rehearsed regularly by re-enacting them ritually, repetitions which renew the people by periodically re-creating order out of the profanity of chaotic space and time. The religious community symbolizes this by creating sacred space (the really real space) and performing rituals in a sacred time (the really real time) (Eliade, 1987: 20). Eliade (1987: 64) concludes that religious people long to live as near the sacred as possible, that is, they strive to live in ‘a sacred world, because it is only in such a world’ that they participate in ‘being’ and that they possess ‘real existence’ (emphasis his).

Other viewpoints on myths and rituals: Ninian Smart and Joseph Campbell Ninian Smart (1973a: 79–80) describes a myth as ‘a moving picture of the sacred’, which is depicted in the form of a story. As a story, it shares much in common with novels, jokes, fairy-tales, legends and historical narratives, but it is not identical with any of these. For a story to qualify as a myth, it must have two components: (1) it must tell of sacred beings which usually are divided into good and evil; (2) it must tell of the relationship between the sacred (the transcendent or supernatural) and the world. Smart (1973a: 81) thus defines myths ‘as stories concerning divinities, typically in relationship to men and the world’. He adds that the function of myths is not entertainment, although they may be quite entertaining. In fact, if a story fundamentally serves as a source of entertainment for a people, it is probably not a myth but an epic tale, folklore or a fairy story. This distinction is important because it leads us to Smart’s comments about rituals. Like Eliade, Smart argues that ‘the primary context’ of a myth is ritual. He contends that myths relate ‘the events and transactions between divinities and men’ (1973a: 81). This is why myths generally are told in ‘celebrations’

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such as those re-enacted annually for Christians at the festival of Christmas. It is natural that, since divinities are objects of worship, stories about them will occur in a ritual context. The mythical struggle between good and evil, for example, is reflected in rituals which renounce and ward off evil. Also, like Eliade, Smart underscores the relationships between myth and ritual in time and space. In rituals, he says, one time (the time of the myth) ‘is represented in another time’. He cites the example of the re-enactment of the moment of Jesus’ resurrection in the ritual of Easter. Christians sing, ‘Jesus Christ is risen today!’ (1973a: 87) (emphasis his). Space is also transposed in rituals from its mythic location to the ritual context. In India, for example, since all other rivers are said to flow into the sacred river Ganges, bathing in the Ganges is believed to renew the believer ritually by making its mythic source in the distant mountain of the north present for the one who has entered the waters. In this sense, for Smart, re-enactments have powerful effects on participants in rituals. He refers again to the Easter story for Christians which gains its power from the fact that the mythic re-enactment is a ‘replica’ of the original event. A replica carries the principles of ‘likeness’ and ‘power identity’. The re-enactment ‘is identified with the power of the enactment’ (1973a: 92). Christian experience becomes a transforming anticipation of one’s own resurrection by re-living the resurrection of Jesus. The power of the original act of creation or renewal is experienced for the believer again and again as the myth is re-told and re-experienced in rituals. Another scholar who has written widely on the meaning of myths and rituals is Joseph Campbell. In the prologue to his four part series on mythology, Campbell (1970: 3) identifies common themes in what he calls the mythologies present in ‘the cultural history of mankind as a unit.’ These themes are: ‘fire-theft, deluge, land of the dead, virgin birth, and resurrected hero’. Like Smart, Campbell (1970: 3) notes that these themes are often told for entertainment in ‘spirit . . . of play’, but when they appear in a religious context they become ‘the verities to which the whole culture is a living witness and from which it derives both its spiritual authority and its temporal power’. This implies that a myth differs from other types of stories as a matter of degree: the religious person discovers fundamental meaning and encounters a depth of reality through myths, giving the category ‘myth’ a sense of gravitas lacking in socio-moral stories or those told simply to entertain. Campbell (1970: 462) also distinguishes between the local and universal applications of the classification myth and its relationship to ritual. Myths and rituals work together by ‘disengaging’ the believer ‘from his local,

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion historical conditions and leading him toward some kind of ineffable experience’. Although particular myths convey local meanings for a community, when they are re-enacted in rituals, they transform the community by bringing it into an experience of the universal. Campbell (1970: 462) explains that when myths are re-enacted in rituals, they possess the unique ability ‘to render an experience of the ineffable through the local and concrete’, and thus ‘to amplify the force and appeal of the local forms while carrying the mind beyond them’. The specifically local character of myths and rituals points towards a non-specific universal (Eliade’s sacred or the transcendence of Smart) which stands behind them.

Are myths true? An initial problem, whenever the term myth is used as a classification of religious phenomena, relates to the connotation of the term in general usage as that which is fictitious or untrue. Ninian Smart (1977: 18) has argued that in academic circles ‘myth’ implies a neutral category aimed at promoting understanding of ‘what is believed’. In this sense, myth does not refer to a ‘false belief’ but relates a story which for believers is true precisely because it describes the world as they experience it. This does not mean that the elements within the story are always regarded by adherents as literally or historically accurate, but that the symbols disclosed in the myth help them attain meaning within their lives. This interpretation of myth as conveying fundamental ‘truths’ about the origin of the world and how people came to occupy a place within it, as we have seen, defines a constitutive assumption within Eliade’s theory of myth and ritual, a view that is supported in the writings of Ninian Smart (1973a: 79). This conclusion is complicated by the fact that some religions, such as Judaism, Christianity and Islam, claim that their myths are based on actual occurrences within history while the myths of other religions, such as the stories of divine warfare as told in ancient religions of Persia or the descriptions of the activities of the gods and goddesses in Hinduism, make little reference to actual events. In order to clarify the relationship between ‘historical’ and ‘non-historical’ myths, Eliade (1987: 110–3) distinguished religions that regard time as having a beginning and an end and religions which fundamentally view time as cyclical in nature. He called the former ‘historical time’ and the latter ‘cosmic time’. For example, Yahweh, in the case of Judaism, does not manifest himself in ‘cosmic time’, a time beyond time which can be entered repeatedly through rituals. Rather, Yahweh reveals himself in historical time,

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a time which is irreversible and hence unrepeatable. For Christians, also, God manifests himself in history and thus does not re-incarnate himself in rituals. He lived, died, and rose again once in history. The biblical scholar Brevard Childs (1960: 72–3) clarifies the distinction between ‘cosmic’ and ‘historical’ time, although in the end he reaches conclusions with which Eliade cannot concur. Childs argues that myths operate in ‘cosmic time’ in which ‘there is no actual distinction . . . between the past, the present, and the future’. He suggests that although the original act of creation may be thought of as having occurred in some primeval past moment, ‘time is always present’. Myths make the primeval moment of creation present through the recurrence of rituals which bring the believing community back into the moment when the world sprang forth fresh from the creator’s hands. The recovery of cosmic time told in myths and re-enacted in rituals, however, is quite different from historical time. According to Childs (1960: 73), cosmic time ‘brings nothing new in essence since the substance remains unchangeable’. Historical time, by contrast, is defined by religious communities as the intrusion into historical moments of the sacred manifestation in a unique and unrepeatable way. This is why, according to Childs, it can be remembered, re-told, and symbolized in rituals, but never recovered and re-entered and hence never literally re-enacted. Childs’ analysis leads to the conclusion that religions of the Abrahamic tradition (Judaism, Christianity and Islam, in particular), which base their beliefs on historical time, do not possess myths. A variation on this theme has been suggested by the theologian Maurice Wiles who argues that only part of what the historical religions teach (such as the virgin birth of Jesus of Nazareth in Christianity) actually is mythical, since this part of the Christian tradition is non-historical. This leads Wiles to conclude that (1977: 150) ‘myths may be basically historic in origin’ but ‘their historical basis may be either very slight or non-existent’. For example, the myths surrounding the birth of the Buddha bear a connection to history (the actual life of Siddhartha Gautama), but the story telling of his conception by an elephant’s trunk in heaven has no foundation in history. If Wiles is correct, Child’s distinction between historical and non-historical religions must be modified so that myths can be defined as non-historical stories of divinities and their relations with humanity, some of which are interspersed within religions of history. Eliade overcomes the conclusions of either Childs or Wiles by arguing that although cosmic time does not apply to religions of history, liturgical time does, since this kind of time involves a remembering of historical events which can be re-enacted precisely because religions which speak of

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion historical manifestations of the divine regard history itself as sacred (1987: 104). In other words, the historical event defines the hierophany, the meaning of which is symbolized in ritual activities. In Judaism and Christianity, according to Eliade (1987: 111), history ‘reveals itself to be a new dimension in the presence of God’; it functions similarly in rituals as cosmic time does for the non-historical religions. It is possible, therefore, to speak of historical myths, stories which affirm that certain historical occurrences actually manifested the sacred reality. They are re-enacted in the liturgical cycle, such as within the Christian church, where the annual festivals linking the events in the life of Jesus are re-enacted from Advent through Easter and back again to Advent. These stories, although relating a beginning, middle and end to time, still retain the marks of a myth where the original story, in this case the historical event, is brought directly into the present experience of believers through ritual re-enactments. Ninian Smart (1973a: 83), even more than Eliade, dismisses the sharp distinction made by Childs and Wiles between myth and historical occurrences. ‘From a phenomenological point of view’, he says, ‘there is no difference in kind between an event that did happen and event that did not happen but is believed . . . to have happened’. The phenomenologist, following the principle of epoché, makes no distinction between the really real and what the adherent believes to be really real. It is not phenomenologically possible to define a myth as that which did not happen in history or as that which is scientifically implausible. Myths are true because they are true for the believer even if a particular community does not insist that they actually occurred within history. They are true to life and hence carry the power to transform the believer through ritual re-enactments. From a phenomenological perspective, therefore, understanding myths is enhanced by observing any community’s use of cosmic or liturgical (historical) time and space, but whether or not the events recounted in the stories tell of real sacred manifestations is affected only by the perspectives of the religious communities themselves.

Towards the meaning of myths and rituals From the discussion above, we are able to see into the meanings of myths and rituals as classifications of religious phenomena. Based largely on the theories

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of Eliade, Smart and Campbell, we have observed that myths possess the following six characteristics: 1. A myth tells of a sacred manifestation (hierophany). 2. Myths relate stories of the origin of structures (the making of the homogeneous non-homogeneous) through the founding of sacred space and time. 3. Myths provide for believers a picture of the sacred. 4. Myths contain stories of divine beings and their interactions with humans and the world. 5. Myths use local stories, divinities and events to point towards a universal reality. 6. Myths are true if they are true for the believer both in religions which stress the historicity of the sacred stories and those which do not.

We have observed the following six parallel characteristics of rituals: 1. Rituals manifest the sacred through a re-enactment of the original hierophany. 2. Rituals re-establish structures and thus transform and re-new the believer’s existence by making space and time sacred. 3. Rituals bring the picture of the sacred to life. 4. Rituals re-enact stories of divine beings and thus re-enforce their inter-relationships with humans and the world. 5. Rituals use the local stories, divinities and events to bring the believer into the presence of the universal. 6. Rituals make the myths true by transposing the believer into the space and time of the sacred story.

Taken together, we can summarize the interaction between myths and rituals in the following three points: 1. Telling a myth itself constitutes a ritual. 2. A myth is a myth as a category of religion only if it is employed in a ritual. 3. The combination of myth and ritual transforms the believing community by making its space and time non-homogeneous.

Testing the meaning: a Yupiit case study Thus far, I have assumed that the phenomenological method has been employed by Eliade, Smart and Campbell to provide us with the meanings of myths, rituals and their inter-actions. Obviously, it is not possible to examine every description on which they based their conclusions, but we can test

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion the general applicability of their findings within a particular case study. If the results listed above are correct, we should find myths and rituals working closely together. I have chosen a case study based on the accounts of the ethnologist E. W. Nelson, who lived among the Yup’ik speaking peoples of south-western Alaska from 1877 to 1881 prior to the widespread incursion of Protestant missionaries into the region a few years later. Nelson (1935b: 455–64) described in detail many of the myths and rituals of the Yupiit people who lived along the coast of the Bering Sea south of the Arctic Circle. As a word of explanation, I should note that the Yupiit (plural form of Yup’ik) form part of a wider group of northern peoples, often referred to as the Inuit, which are linked historically, culturally and linguistically throughout Arctic regions stretching from Siberia across Alaska into Canada and Greenland (Langdon, 2002: 48; Oswalt, 1999: 5; Cox, 2007: 97–9). In writings that now are housed in the Smithsonian Institute in Washington, D.C., Nelson observed that many Yupiit myths tell how the raven, a large crow common in Alaska, created all things. The following summary of one of the raven myths was related to Nelson by an old man who said he had learned it himself as a boy from a very old man. The Myth of the Raven The first man emerged out of the pod of a beach pea by straightening out his legs and bursting the pod. The man fell to the ground where he stood up a full grown man. He soon experienced an unpleasant feeling in his stomach and stooped down to drink some water from a small pool at his feet. When he looked up, he saw a dark, winged object approaching him. This was Raven who subsequently landed by the man. Raven lifted his wings, pushed up his beak like a mask, and became a human. When he saw the first man, Raven was astonished at the sight and asked where he had come from. The man pointed to the beach pod. Raven exclaimed, ‘Ah! I made that vine but did not know anything like you would ever come from it’. Raven then took the man to a hill where he formed other creatures: first mountain sheep and then a woman for the man. He then created fish, birds, and other animals and taught the man how to survive in his environment. Man and woman bore a son and a daughter who married and formed the first human family. When Raven had finished his creative acts, he returned to the beach pod from which the first man had originated only to find that three other men had emerged from it. Raven led one of these inland but he took the other two to the sea. Each was taught how to develop skills for survival including making fire and hunting or catching sea animals.

According to Nelson, when the myth was completed, the narrator always performed a concluding ritual by pouring a cup of water on the floor and saying,

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‘Drink well, spirits of those of whom I have told’. This comment confirms that the telling of the myth was related to a ritual. Moreover, we know that such stories often were dramatized in dances and songs used in ritual activities. One such ritual, described by Nelson (1935a: 451–2) among the villages of the Yupiit along the Bering Sea is called Ihl-u-gi (Feast of the Dead). This feast was held annually for those who were still awaiting the more elaborate ceremony called the Great Feast of the Dead which was conducted every 5 to 10 years (Oswalt, 1967: 227). Nelson observed the people offering food, water and clothing to those who had died within the past year. The festival took place in what Nelson called a kashim (called in Yup’ik a Qasgiq) located at the centre of the village. It was the place where the men gathered for repairing their hunting equipment, where village social gatherings occurred, where stories were told and rituals enacted. It became a ritual space during the feast of the dead and a place of orientation around which the lives of the people were organized. Before the ritual began, an oil lamp was lit and placed in the Qasgiq in front of the location where the deceased person normally sat on social occasions. When the ritual commenced, an old man would beat a drum slowly and rhythmically while seated in front of the main lamp in the middle of the room. All those participating would join in a long song comprised of the following words: Dead ones come here: Sealskins for a tent you will get. Come here, do: Reindeer skins for a bed you will get. Come here, do.

When the song was completed, the people placed a small pot of food on the floor in front of each oil lamp and poured a little water on the same place. Then the remainder of the food was distributed and the people joined a celebration of singing and dancing. Although the Myth of the Raven and the Feast of the Dead are not obviously inter-related, we can find evidence that the theories offered by Eliade, Smart and Campbell apply to them. The myth tells how the first human emerged from the sea pod and how he instantly required water to drink. The Ihl-u-gi ritual replenishes the spirit who has not yet joined the spirits in the land of the dead with food and water. The myth relates how Raven created animals and instructed humans how to care for them and thus to survive. The spirit of the deceased is called in the ritual to come near and to enjoy the benefits of the creation, in this case, protection through a sealskin tent and warmth through a reindeer bed. That those addressed are recently deceased

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion and that they have yet to be honoured in the Great Festival points towards their vulnerability and their continued need for sustenance by the gifts of creation. The comment of the narrator and his pouring of ritual water after the telling of the myth suggest further that all spirits experience the same need for nourishment which the first human felt. One of the myth’s hierophanies is water. The pool appeared at the feet of the first man. In the ritual re-enactment of this, water is provided for the spirits of the dead. Moreover, this occurs within a ritual which takes place at the centre of village life; hence, it represents a replica of the structure of the Yupiit cosmos. The Qasgiq makes space non-homogeneous by fixing the centre of the world for the people, and time non-homogeneous through rituals which overcome the barriers between the living and the dead. The picture of alternate realities is portrayed in terms of survival. In the myth, Raven brings man to a hill where he creates animals, teaches the first man how to hunt and fish, and then gives him a woman. The water, food and clothing offered in the ritual correspond to the Yupiit pre-occupation with survival. That the people lived in a harsh natural environment and that the myths and rituals seem to focus on survival make the stories real in the lives of the adherents since quite literally they are true to life. Finally, the fact that we can so closely connect in the ritual the spirits of the recently deceased to the cosmogonic myth of the creation of the first human, provides evidence that the myth and its ritual re-enactment pointed the Bering Sea Yupiit towards an integral relationship with a spirit world, consisting partly of ancestors who had recently died. Much more could have been said about the Yupiit myths, rituals and their understanding of alternate realities. For a more comprehensive case study, I would refer the reader to chapter five of my book, From Primitive to Indigenous: The Academic Study of Indigenous Religions (2007). For purposes of exemplifying the phenomenological categories of myth and ritual, however, the basic elements found in Nelson’s rendition of the story of creation and the annual ritual of the dead seem to confirm the findings of Eliade, Smart and Campbell.

Conclusion The descriptions and interpretations of myths and rituals and their interrelationships as presented in this chapter are not intended to be exhaustive. They stress their ‘religious’ aspect – Harold Turner’s ‘what’ which is interwoven

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into the ‘milieu’. Other disciplines would emphasize different facets within the milieu pointing out that rituals do much more than re-enact myths and that myths cannot be explained exclusively in terms of the origins of the world and a people. For example, rites of passage perform instrumental social functions for a community as we saw quite clearly in the nhaka ceremony described by Zhuwawo in Chapter 4. We have assumed, nevertheless, that the research conducted by Mircea Eliade, Ninian Smart and Joseph Campbell has been based on a wide and accurate sampling of specific traditions according to Steps 5 and 6 of the phenomenological method. This procedure has helped us arrive at conclusions regarding the religious significance of myths and rituals according to the stage of informed comparison. We have tested this through a brief analysis of the Yupiit myth of the Raven and its related ritual called the Feast of the Dead. This case study, although inconclusive in itself, suggests that my interpretations of myths and rituals are reliable and hence are capable of helping build up further steps in the phenomenological method which aim at disclosing a universal meaning as expressed through quite particular religious practices and beliefs.

Questions for discussion 1. What is meant by the non-homogeneity of space and time? Give examples of how myths and rituals make space and time non-homogeneous. 2. According to Eliade, what distinguishes the sacred from the profane? 3. How could rituals transform the life of believers? Be specific. 4. Are myths true? Why or why not? 5. Why must myths and rituals be local in character? If they are local, how can they point towards a universal meaning?

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Religious Practitioners and Art

Chapter Outline Religious practitioner: types Shamanistic/priestly type Prophetic type The holy person Religious practitioners: a summary Art Presentational and representational art The religious practitioner and art The shaman-priest and art Prophets and art The holy person and art Summary Questions for discussion

105 105 108 110 112 113 114 116 116 117 118 119 119

A religious practitioner is one who holds for the identifiable community a role which in various ways, times and locations operates as a point of contact between the community and its postulated alternate realities. Frequently, the function of the religious practitioner is seen in the performance of rituals, but certain activities that can still be regarded as religious occur outside rituals. The practitioner may not be ‘professional’ in the sense of being set apart from the community but may simply adopt an assigned role within particular rituals or parts of rituals. Or, it is possible that the religious assignment may occur only once in the practitioner’s lifetime. Conversely, the practitioner may take on the role of mediating repeatedly

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between the people and their postulated alternate realities. In some cases, the practitioner may be regarded by adherents as directly embodying an alternate reality and thus be treated as sacred or holy. As a form of expressing alternate realities, art is often closely related to the religious practitioner, who, for example, may lead the community in dancing or may play a central role in dramatic re-enactments of myths, or may wear special clothing or garments which are adorned with symbols of the alternate realities. In some cases, the religious practitioner may be the primary subject of the art itself. Investigating how the religious practitioner uses and is used by art, therefore, helps clarify the meaning of artistic expressions as a category of religious phenomena. In this chapter, I examine the phenomenological categories of religious practitioner and art, separately at first and then I analyse them in relationship with one another. I emphasize again at the outset of this chapter that these two categories, like the pairings I am suggesting throughout my discussion of the phenomenological classifications, appear within other phenomena and are associated across the whole of a people’s religious activities. Yet, just as I indicated in the last chapter when I coupled myths with rituals, the category religious practitioner is linked to art as a classification in a way which demonstrates a close connection between the two.

Religious practitioner: types For purposes of clarification, I am making a distinction between three types of religious practitioner: the shamanistic/priestly type, the prophetic type and the holy person. These divisions indicate the various roles and functions of religious practitioners and thus help us achieve an understanding of this phenomenological classification.

Shamanistic/priestly type Mircea Eliade has done extensive research on the shaman as a religious practitioner. He notes that the prototypical shaman is found in Siberia and central Asia, and that the term itself is derived from the Tungus (Evenki) people of the Russian far-east (Eliade, 1989: 4). Typically, shamans are defined by the experience of going into a trance, leaving their bodies, and travelling to an upper or lower world, often with the assistance of spirit helpers (Eliade, 1989: 6).

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Sometimes the spirit helpers are described as spirits of animals, but almost always the shamanic call entails a series of ordeals that, in the words of Piers Vitebsky (1995: 59), take ‘the form of a violent onslaught which leads to what seems like a complete destruction of the future shaman’s personality’. Ultimately, the shaman masters the spirits that have attacked him and uses them to accomplish a number of tasks, such as recovering a stolen soul of an ill person, predicting the weather or guiding hunters to animals necessary for the sustenance of the community. In her study of Greenlandic shamans, Merete Jakobsen (1999: 7) stresses that ‘mastery of spirits is essential to . . . the role of the shaman’. She quotes in support of her conclusion the early twentieth century Russian ethnologist S. M. Shirokogoroff, who asserted that ‘the relations between the shaman and the spirits may be defined as those between “master” and “servant” ’ (cited by Jakobsen, 1999: 8). This leads Jakobsen to a concise but clearly demarcated definition of a genuine shaman: ‘He is the master and ecstasy is his tool’ (1999: 9). In my interpretation of this type of religious practitioner, I am extending this narrow definition of a shamanistic type to include those who mediate on behalf of a community, often by using means that depend on dissociative behaviour, such as expressed by those possessed by spirits, which, for example, defines one of the most common forms of mediation in sub-Saharan Africa. Eliade (1989: 4–6) appears to embrace this wider definition when he refers to the shaman as one who employs a ‘technique of ecstasy’ in order to enter the spiritual world and perform important functions for the community such as healing, divining, predicting the future, directing rituals and escorting the deceased into the world of the dead. These represent what I mean by shamanistic/priestly activities. I am emphasizing the shamanic role in this context because in shamanistic activities I discover a clear paradigm for all priestly functions. Although not all priests enter into states of ecstasy, nor directly master spirits, they all employ techniques, whether learned or acquired, to release the power of postulated alternate realities for the benefit of the believing community. Eliade (1977: 424) explains that the shaman is ‘enabled to “see” the spirits, and he himself behaves like a spirit’. This sounds similar to the way Frederick Streng (1985: 57) defines a priest as one ‘who loses his individual identity and speaks in the name of God’. In Christianity, Streng (1985: 111) explains, the priest performs ‘regular devotional and sacramental services for the community’ and offers ‘some form of pastoral care for individuals’.

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To achieve a clear picture of classical shamanistic activities, I will refer to two accounts of this phenomenon among the Yupiit people of Alaska (about whom I wrote in Chapter 5), the first recorded in the anthropologist Wendell Oswalt’s study of ‘Alaskan Eskimos’ (1967) and the second told by a member of the Yupiit community. In a later publication, Oswalt notes that the term Eskimo is not generally used today by indigenous peoples, since it originally was applied in a derogatory fashion by the Algonkian-speaking Indians who referred to the Canadian Inuit as ‘eaters of raw flesh’, or Eskimos (Oswalt, 1999: 5). In a ritual described by Oswalt, a shaman (1967: 222–3) was tied and bound and then placed in front of a small lamp in the Qasgiq. Some people began to beat drums while others sang, inducing the shaman to enter into a trance-like state. After the oil-lamp was extinguished leaving the Qasgiq in darkness, the shaman was believed to leave his bound body, pick up a bow and arrows which had been placed beside him, and shoot the arrows into the air. The arrows were said to have travelled through the sod walls of the Qasgiq to distant places before returning to the Qasgiq. After the arrows had been released and had returned, the lamp was lit. The shaman, who had been making groaning noises as if struggling, could be seen still bound, but the arrows were stuck in his body. After the shaman was untied, the arrows were removed and inspected for signs of caribou blood and hair. Those with blood and hair on them were ‘read’ by the shaman to determine in which direction the caribou were moving so they could be followed and killed by the hunters. This abbreviated account provided by Oswalt demonstrates that for the Yupiit communities shamans were religious practitioners who had learned special techniques of entering into a trance in order to contact the spirit world and that they employed these skills in a priestly way by acting as a mediator aimed at ensuring the well-being of the people, in this case, by directing hunters towards the animals that would help to feed and sustain the community during the long winter months. My second example is taken from a book compiled by William Oquilluk (1981: 116–7), a Yupiit from the western sub-Arctic regions of Alaska. We are not given details concerning the context of this description, but we are safe in assuming that it occurred in the Qasgiq and focused on the role of the shaman in dealing with dangerous spirits that might threaten the wellbeing of the community. The shaman acted on behalf of the community by enduring suffering or even death, although his death occurred in the spirit world, from which he was brought back to life after leaving his trance state. Oquilluk’s account shows that a shaman was believed to be able to travel

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion while in a dissociative condition to far-off places (such as the moon) or to the world of the dead. When a shaman was going to fly to see how things were someplace else, he had to do things in a certain way. He would lay down on the floor after he finished his special songs and doing his drumming. He had on all his clothes. Then his helpers would tie up his legs real tight with a rawhide rope. They left a piece about three feet long hang off the end of his feet. They tied a sharp hatchet to the end of that piece of rope. One of the helpers would put a pair of sealskin pants [trousers] around shamish’s neck with the legs hanging over his arms. Then the helpers would pick up the shamish when he was ready and throw him on the little fire burning there. The fire would go out. The shamish’s body would still be there but his spirit was going away from that place. . . . Sometimes he would be gone a long time. His body laid there like it was dead. Sometimes he would make a little noise. People knew he was fighting with an evil spirit then. Maybe he would get killed while he was gone. Sometimes he would be hurt and when he came back his helpers had to carry him to his house and take care of him until he felt good again.

From Oquilluk’s description, told from the point of view of a believer, we understand why Eliade (1989: 8) described the shaman in priestly terms as the ‘great specialist in the human soul’. In light of these brief accounts of prototypical Arctic shamans, and on my broad interpretation of priestly types, the characteristics of the shamanistic/ priestly type of religious practitioner can be summarized as follows: 1. The shaman-priest possesses special knowledge or experience through which contact with postulated alternate realities is believed by the community to be assured. 2. The shaman-priest makes this contact in order to provide a channel of communication between the people and their postulated alternate realities. 3. The link between the alternate realities and the people is believed to be necessary for the identifiable community’s well-being and survival (sometimes understood in spiritual rather than physical terms).

Prophetic type Like the shaman-priest, the prophetic type of religious practitioner adopts a mediating role, but does so by receiving and delivering a message from the alternate realities which the people need to hear and to which a response is demanded. For example, in his book on world scriptures, Kenneth Kramer (1986: 183) defines the prophets of Israel as ‘forthtellers’, who proclaimed

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God’s message of doom for those failed to respond and salvation for those who turned away from their disobedience. Kraemer identifies three specific functions of the Hebrew prophets: they challenged the advance of pagan civilization by their unyielding demands for right conduct and moral living; they criticized rituals which had lost their moral meaning; and they re-emphasized ethical monotheism. In these ways, they became the voice for God. For Christians, Jesus can be regarded as a prophetic type within the Jewish tradition since he challenged Roman (for Kramer, pagan) civilization by calling for his own people to act righteously. He also criticized rituals and laws which had lost their moral character. And Jesus re-emphasized the response of the people to the one God he referred to as his Father. Muhammad, the prophet of Islam, declared himself to be a prophet in the tradition of the Jewish prophets and Jesus. Muhammad received the definitive message from God (Allah) which overthrew Arabic paganism, challenged a weakened form of Judaism, exposed the confusion of Christians about the Trinity, demanded that rituals fundamentally contain the moral call for submission and declared a pure unyielding monotheism. In this sense, within the Islamic tradition, Muhammad became the ‘seal’ of the prophets (Sherratt and Hawkin, 1972: 83). The Jewish, Christian and Islamic traditions clearly share Kramer’s three elements of prophetic religions in common. Yet, the prophetic type of religious practitioner is not limited to religions in the Abrahamic traditions. Other religions also contain elements of receiving a message from an alternate reality or realities and communicating the message authoritatively to the believers. Whereas the Jewish, Christian and Islamic traditions emphasize the one God who confronts his people, other perspectives suggest that the prophet leads the way for each person to achieve meaning and purpose in life. In this sense, for example, the Buddha is a prophetic type of religious practitioner because he saw into the depth of reality and communicated his vision so that others might find the way out of suffering into enlightenment. Siddhartha Gautama became the ‘Enlightened One’, the Buddha, first by recognizing that the world is full of suffering. Although, according to the tradition, his wealthy father tried to shield him from seeing this truth, Siddhartha discovered the facts of illness, old age and death. In response, initially he gave up all his worldly pleasures, renouncing his body and adopting an ascetic life style. This did not lead to Enlightenment, since through renunciation he still remained attached to the world, although in a negative way. After trying various paths to truth, he eventually achieved understanding of

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion the ‘middle way’ while meditating beneath a Bo-tree (Sherratt and Hawkin, 1972: 151). His vision led to his teaching concerning the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path, which, if followed, leads every person into the same experience of release from attachment to the things of this world, and hence to a end to suffering. Although the message the Buddha discovered did not occur in a context similar to the Jewish-Christian-Islamic idea of a revelation from God, it did represent a seeing into reality itself. His message, therefore, represents a word from a reality quite different from that experienced in ordinary space and time, and yet one that is connected integrally with this life. Since the Buddha’s Enlightenment was not his alone, but was intended to lead others into the way of salvation, he fits firmly into the prophetic type of religious practitioner. In light of the above examples, the characteristics of prophetic types among religious communities can be summarized as follows: 1. A prophet receives a message from an alternate reality or realities. 2. The prophet’s role is to deliver the message faithfully to the people. 3. The message is necessary for the people to hear and respond to if they are to be saved from what the message defines as a condition which threatens their wellbeing (again sometimes understood as spiritual rather than physical).

The holy person Some religious practitioners are regarded as sacred or holy because they embody or incarnate what the believing community conceives as an alternate reality or realities. The holy person is regarded as sacred not just at particular moments, when in a trance, for example, but represents for adherents, in Eliade’s terms, a direct and permanent hierophany. Jesus provides an obvious example of this type of religious practitioner for Christians. He not only delivers the word from God, as a prophet; he is the word. For his followers, he is not just the Son of God, but God the Son. The Christian creeds affirm that Jesus Christ is the second person of the Holy Trinity, one with the Father and the Spirit. Jesus is ‘of the same substance with the Father’ as the fourthcentury Nicene Creed declares. For believers, Jesus is the holy person par excellence, ‘very God of very God’ (Davies, 1959: 69–72). Many followers of the Buddha also elevated him from being one who saw into the meaning of existence to one who in himself embodied and thus defined that meaning. Siddhartha Gautama made no claim to be divine, but, particularly in Mahayana Buddhism (the form of Buddhism found generally

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in northern regions of Asia, Japan and Korea), a doctrine developed surrounding the concept of ‘Buddhahood’. Siddharthaa became regarded as the one who incarnated in himself the heavenly Buddha and thus was able to teach others. The theologian John Hick (1977: 169) argues that the elevation of Jesus from a prophet to God in the Christian faith is similar to what happened with Siddhartha, who was transformed from the Buddha (Enlightened One) to Enlightenment itself. Hick explains: ‘The human Gautama came to be thought of as the incarnation of a transcendent pre-existent Buddha as the human Jesus came to be thought of as the incarnation of the pre-existent Logos or divine Son.’ Both Jesus and Siddhartha Gautama, therefore, can be regarded as prophetic types and as holy persons depending on how they are seen and understood by believers. Another example of a holy person is found in Monica Wilson’s (1959: 21–5) descriptions of the divine king Kyungu among the Nyakyusa people of Nyasaland (now Malawi). Kyungu was a big man physically who had fathered many children. At the time of her writing, Wilson says he was already old and regarded as a man of wisdom. The people treated him in a way which shows that they regarded him as divine, particularly when they protected him from misfortune. Wilson writes: ‘He must not fall ill, suffer a wound, even bleed, for his blood falling on the earth would bring sickness to all the people – the whole country.’ She adds that Kyungu was thought to have created food and rain. His breath, hair, nails and even the mucus from his nose kept the land fertile. By virtue of his inherent sacredness, Kyungu sustained the people and guaranteed their well-being. Within traditions that elevate a human being to a status beyond the ordinary in space and time, the holy person directly reveals the alternate reality or realities to a people. Believing communities see in the person the manifestation (hierophany) of that which they postulate to be alternate. The holy person, therefore, like all other religious practitioners mediates alternate realities to identifiable religious communities. The holy person does this uniquely by providing a direct link between the people and what otherwise would remain hidden from their immediate perception. I should add here a caveat that allows for human beings to be regarded temporarily as incarnating alternate realities, such as occurs in some shamanistic practitioners during possession rituals. When a person is possessed by a spirit, such as an ancestor, the medium is transformed by embodying the spirit and actually becomes the ancestor as remembered by the community, when he or she was alive, in voice, personality and physical manner. In this sense, the medium

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion under possession is a holy person, but only temporarily. When the possession ceases, the individual returns to taking up a quite ordinary place in society. As permanent incarnations of the sacred, the holy person, as exemplified by Jesus, the Buddha or divine kings, can be distinguished from shamanistic/ priestly types, who, in some cases, become momentary incarnations of postulated alternate realities.

Religious practitioners: a summary Each type of religious practitioner holds in common the role of mediating between alternate realities and identifiable communities. The shamanistic/ priestly type represents the alternate realities to the community and in turn represents the community to the alternate realities. The prophet receives and communicates a message from the alternate reality or realities, which the prophet claims the people must hear and respond to if they are to avoid calamity and achieve some form of salvation from what threatens them. The holy person is the hierophany; simply by being in the presence of this type of religious practitioner, the people experience directly their postulated alternate reality. It will be clear from this presentation, that each type of religious practitioner contains aspects of the other types. The shaman-priest may deliver a prophetic message: ‘Do this or die!’ Prophets, like Isaiah of the Hebrew scriptures or Muhammad, may also experience ecstatic seizures and thus share characteristics with shamans. Because of a special relationship with the alternate realities, the shaman-priest may be regarded in some traditions as set apart from the rest of the people, and in some sense be treated as holy. And, as I have noted, the spirit medium temporarily incarnates an alternate reality, although the medium fits best into the shamanistic/ priestly classification. Prophets also, since they are regarded by believing communities as having directly received a message from a sacred source, in some instances may be revered as holy. Holy persons in themselves, like Jesus and the Buddha, may also act as prophets or may assume a priestly function by representing the people to alternate realities. The three types discussed above, therefore, are not meant to be compartmentalized rigidly, but to serve as guidelines for understanding and distinguishing the roles and functions of religious practitioners. These guidelines are summarized in Table 6.1.

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Table 6.1 The religious practitioner Type

Characteristics

Shamanistic/priestly

Represents the people by using special techniques or knowledge which provide

Prophetic

Receives a message from postulated alternate realities which the prophet delivers

Holy person

A human being who incarnates a postulated alternate reality.

unique access to postulated alternate realities. to the people without which they will be kept from achieving salvation.

Art In a religious context, art is a broad term encompassing many ways of expressing, appreciating and experiencing alternate realities. It includes songs and dances, music and rhythm, painting, architecture, drama, clothing, masks, sculpture, poetry and stories – in short, the many ways in which a people’s experience of alternate realities are symbolically presented and represented. The anthropologist Raymond Firth (1973: 15–6) says that symbols stand for (represent) something which lies behind the symbolic representation. As such, ‘the symbol appears capable of generating or receiving effects reserved for the object to which it refers – and such effects are often of high emotional charge’. Frederick Streng (1985: 167) adds that art ‘exposes the deepest meaning of life’. Since art in religion symbolizes or stands for alternate realities, it provides the phenomenologist with a direct view into the collective experience of identifiable communities. Through painting or drama or song, the observer senses what it means to be an adherent within a particular tradition. Wilfred Cantwell Smith (1964: 173) calls art an ‘expression’ of a people’s faith which cannot be explained fully in words. The observer must enter into it and experience it. Smith cites the following example from his own experience to underscore this point. On a wall of Aya Sofia in Istanbul there stands, recently uncovered, an ancient mosaic depicting the first confrontation of the courtesan Mary Magdalene and Christ. To portray Christ’s face, the unnamed artist has put together a few bits of coloured stone in such a fashion as to portray, in a way that was more forceful and more effectively unified than I have met in any theological statement, what in prose I call simultaneous judgment and forgiveness.

Through art, the combination of Christ’s judgement and forgiveness was communicated so the observer (Smith) could grasp its meaning in one moment

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion better than he could ever have done by reading volumes of theological works on the subject. This exemplifies the fact that artistic expressions in religion depict and portray, often with transforming power, what any tradition postulates to be its alternate reality or realities. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh, to whom I referred in Chapter 1, quite helpfully divide the classification of art into two sub-categories they refer to as presentational and representational art.

Presentational and representational art Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh (1985: 78) refer to presentational art as that which immediately brings the believer into the presence of an alternate reality or at least ‘invokes’ that presence. Following Eliade, any artistic expression which serves as a hierophany qualifies as presentational art. For example, Eliade (1989: 145) calls the traditional garments and masks worn by a shaman a hierophany as they bring the believer directly into contact with the alternate realities postulated by the community through the symbols depicted on what the shaman wears. The masks of the shaman often portrayed myths where the raven or other animals could be both human and animal. Oswalt (1967: 230) says that such a mask ‘might have an animal or a bird head on half the mask and a human head represented on the other half, the division being down the center of the mask’. Eliade (1989: 147) concludes that the shaman’s costume is ‘an almost complete symbolic system’ by which the shaman ‘transcends profane space and prepares to enter into contact with the spiritual world’. Another example of presentational art is found in the icons of the Eastern Orthodox Christian churches. Icons generally portray holy persons and are the means whereby believers commune directly with what they regard as sacred. Worshippers kiss the icons, direct their attention towards them in prayer and meditate on them. Any art, therefore, which presents an alternate reality so that the believer directly experiences it is presentational art. Art which tells a story, offers a message or conveys a truth is representational art. As such, say Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh (1985: 78), ‘representational symbols could be said to perform a more didactic or teaching function as the tradition or religion is passed on down through history’. For example, the mosaic observed by Smith, although it struck him forcibly, communicated to him the concepts judgement and mercy. Believers, who encounter the same mosaic in the way Smith did, see in Jesus’ face purity and love and thus learn about God, humanity and the Christian way of salvation. The same message can be transmitted through songs and poetry. For example, William Faber’s

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well-known hymn, a stanza of which is quoted below (Faber, 1983: 230), conveys to many Christians the same understanding that Smith obtained when viewing the Byzantine mosaic. There’s a wideness in God’s mercy Like the wideness of the sea. There’s a kindness in his justice Which is more than liberty.

Most art can be either presentational or representational, or both. For example, Michelangelo’s celebrated paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican can fit into either category. One of his most famous paintings depicts the hand of God reaching out giving life to Adam. One could look at the painting and immediately feel in the presence of the transcendent creator and marvel at his majesty. That would make Michelangelo’s painting presentational. Or, one could view the painting carefully and read into it the Christian teachings about the power of God, creation out of nothing and human contingency. It would then be classified as representational art. The observer, of course, could experience the painting and interpret its meaning simultaneously, making it both presentational and representational in the same moment. When art is used in rituals, it tends to be presentational. We have seen this with myths. Their very telling constitutes a ritual which transforms believers by bringing them directly into a time beyond time through re-enacting the events told in the myth. One could also derive certain teachings about alternate realities and a community’s understanding of the world from myths and their ritual re-enactments. By extracting the meaning from the telling of the myths and ritual performances, the believer is reflecting on the teachings entailed in them and thus removes them from direct experience. When this occurs, myths and rituals function didactically and thus shift from being presentational to representational forms of art. Hall, Pilgrim and Cavanagh (1985: 79) explain: ‘Since ritual in general is more presentational, the artistic forms that play a central role in ritual are more presentational in function.’ One further example may help clarify how art can be presentational and representational, often at the same time. The scriptures in both the Christian and Jewish traditions contain poems, parables, myths, teachings, sermons and many other literary art forms. In Christian practice, when the Bible is read in a worship service, it is being used normally as a representational art form, since it is telling a story or offering a message. Yet, it can also be

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Table 6.2 The relationship between presentational and representational art Presentational art

Representational art

A hierophany.

Didactic.

Leads the believer into a direct experience of

Helps the believer understand postulated alter-

postulated alternate realities. Usually forms part of rituals.

nate realities. Can be separated from rituals.

NB: Most art can be presentational or representational

used in a presentational way when it is adorned with gold at the edge of its pages, is bound with a gold or silver covering containing sacred images and when it is carried forward ritually towards the front of the church and placed on the pulpit. As it is brought forward, frequently the people stand out of respect to acknowledge the Word of God through which the object of their faith is made known to them directly. Table 6.2 illustrates the relationship between presentational and representational art forms as a phenomenological classification.

The religious practitioner and art In this chapter, I have defined three types of religious practitioner and two categories of artistic expression, noting in the process that these classifications cannot be delineated rigidly. I now move to examine some of the relationships between religious practitioners and art.

The shaman-priest and art We have already noted that according to Eliade the costume worn by a shaman is a hierophany in itself – presenting alternate realities directly to the believers. Drumming, singing and dancing also help induce the shaman’s trance state and form a part of what Eliade refers to as the shamanic ‘technique of ecstasy’. A musical instrument used to assist Yupiit shamans has been described by Oswalt (1967: 220) as a ‘tambourine type drum’ made of seal or walrus bladder and stretched over a wooden frame, which varied in diameter between one and three feet. The drummer, who could either strike the rim or the centre with a stick, produced a rhythm which was vital to creating the correct atmosphere for shamans to leave their bodies and travel to far off places like the moon. Without art, Yupiit shamans could not perform

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their primary role of mediating between the community and its postulated alternate realities. The same could be said for other priestly types of practitioners. The Anglican or Roman Catholic priest, for example, usually wears a vestment called a chasuble when celebrating the Eucharist. This garment is often elaborately adorned with various Christian symbols of diverse colours – gold, representing the kingship of Christ; red, the tongues of flame recounting the Holy Spirit’s appearance at Pentecost; purple, the blood of Christ shed on the cross. As the priest says the words of celebration, the vestments adorned with artistic symbols present Christ to the people and at the same time communicate beliefs held by the community about Christ.

Prophets and art The word delivered by the prophet comes in an art form, whether it is spoken or written. The Hebrew prophets, for example, used dramatic prose in order to represent the message calling for the people’s repentance. In Christian churches, the preacher often adopts the prophetic role by proclaiming the divine message dramatically so as to invoke a response from the people. Islam specifically serves as a paradigm for a prophetic religion, whose founder, as we have noted, is regarded by believers as the ‘seal of the prophets’ beginning with Adam and culminating with Muhammad. The prophetic message is supremely transmitted in the holy book for Muslims, the Qur’an, which obtains the same reverence for Muslims that Christ, as the ‘Word’ of God, does for Christians. In Islam, the Qur’an presents and represents the word of Allah both as it was revealed to the prophet Muhammad and as it has been preserved by later generations. Since the Qur’an is literally the Word of God, when it is used as a presentational art form, it is treated with absolute reverence. Muslims are encouraged to commit its words to memory, reciting it in its original Arabic. They have also preserved it through the use of calligraphy, an ornate type of handwriting which makes the text especially beautiful (Kamm, 1976: 7–8). The Qur’an also represents the message of Allah as delivered in a book comprising 114 chapters called ‘suras’. The word ‘sura’ means ‘degree’ or ‘step’ by which the believer approaches a more nearly perfect submission to God. Each chapter, therefore, contains a didactic message aimed at assisting the believer to grow in devotion and obedience to Allah. An example of how the Qur’an combines presentational with

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion representational art is found in the opening sura which Kenneth Kramer (1986: 258) calls the ‘quintessence of the entire book’. Even in its English translation (Ali, 1977: 14–5), the artistic power of the words is conveyed to the reader while at the same time the words communicate how the Muslim conceptualizes God. In the name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. Praise be to God, the Cherisher and Sustainer of the Worlds: Most Gracious, Most Merciful: Master of the Day of Judgment. Thee do we worship, And Thine aid we seek. Show us the straight way. The way of those on whom Thou has bestowed Thy Grace, Those whose (portion) is not wrath, And who do not go astray.

These verses form part of the devout Muslim’s prayers five times a day. The words, initially delivered to the prophet, guide the believer into a relationship with Allah. They show, therefore, how the prophet, as a type of religious practitioner, uses art (both presentationally and representationally) to mediate a message from what I am calling in the larger phenomenological sense, alternate realities, but, which, of course, for Muslims would be simply referred to as Allah (‘the God’).

The holy person and art The holy person often becomes an object for artistic expression – either to present alternate realities directly to the believer or to represent truths central to the message conveyed by the holy person. A good example of this is found in Buddhist art through paintings, sculptures and religious objects. In his book on Buddhism, Maurice Percheron (1982: 172–3) relates how in Cambodia images of the Buddha often present a calm, serene face. The lips are clearly depicted in ‘an elusive smile’. The eyes are lowered so as to appear half open and half shut. The whole image portrays one who is in deep reflection and yet filled with ‘tender compassion’. The Buddha’s elusive smile and eyes half closed to the world demonstrate an inward peace reflecting his freedom from attachment to worldly desires. He keeps his

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eyes half open to the world, nonetheless, as a sign of love for those who have not yet achieved total bliss. By meditating on this image, a follower of the Buddha may realize the same experience of release from suffering that the Buddha attained. One can also understand the image as communicating or representing certain truths: each person must discover enlightenment for oneself; the world of suffering can be overcome only by finding the truth within oneself; peace can never be attained by attachment to worldly desires; compassion for the unenlightened keeps those who have been enlightened in this world in order to help others find the way. These concepts can be derived, in conjunction with the teachings of the Buddha, from a long and careful study of the Buddha’s image. This example demonstrates that as a phenomenological category, holy persons are depicted in art in various traditions in order to lead believers directly into the presence of alternate realities and/or to convey to the believers truths about those realities.

Summary The discussion in this chapter of religious practitioners as mediators between identifiable communities and their postulated alternate realities and art as presentational and/or representational demonstrates how these two phenomenological classifications are closely related. The religious practitioner cannot mediate without art; art becomes the tool for symbolizing the mediation. Understanding this relationship helps us draw other connections, for example, between art and myths or the religious practitioner’s use of art in rituals. Making such connections enables the phenomenologist to build up the structure of religion generally by noting processes and interrelationships across all the phenomenological categories.

Questions for discussion 1. What is a shamanistic type of religious practitioner? What does it mean to say that a priest fits into this category? Discuss a Roman Catholic priest as a shaman. 2. Discuss ways the Buddha and Jesus are similar and/or dissimilar as: (a) prophets; (b) holy persons. 3. What does it mean to say that Muhammad is the ‘seal of the prophets’?

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion 4. Show how a n’anga of the Shona tradition (see Chapter 4) can be (a) shamanistic/ priestly; (b) prophetic; (c) a holy person. 5. Brainstorm a list of religious art objects. Identify each item on the list as potentially presentational, representational or both. 6. What are the advantages/disadvantages of discussing the religious practitioner and art as related classifications of religious phenomena?

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Chapter Outline The nature of scripture Sacred events and oral traditions: the example of the Dinka of southern Sudan From oral tradition to written sources Morality The distinction between morality and ethics Summary Questions for discussion

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In this chapter, I examine two further classifications of phenomena and study their interrelationships. I begin with scripture, the written texts of religious traditions obtained from oral sources, and then look at morality, codes of conduct which are often recorded and exemplified in scripture.

The nature of scripture The word ‘scripture’, as Kenneth Kramer notes (1986: 10), comes from the Latin scriptura and literally refers to the act of writing. It commonly denotes the written texts of religious traditions. These texts are regarded differently among the traditions, with some, such as Islam, revering the text itself while others, like Buddhism, regard the recorded words as guides appropriate to the individual’s search for Enlightenment. Although the term scripture literally refers to written texts, the texts of the major religious traditions have been developed out of oral traditions.

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Some religions never develop written sources, but pass on their teachings, myths, rituals and moral understandings in oral form from generation to generation. From a phenomenological point of view, this does not mean that religions with written texts are more advanced than those which transmit their traditions orally. In his book exploring scriptures in the world’s religions, Harold Coward (1988: x) argues that there is a tendency, particularly among Western scholars, to value the written word over oral traditions. This, he suggests, is ‘characteristic of only the most recent period of Western cultural history’. Scripture, he contends, ‘has been understood by more people in most times and places (other than our own period) as including both the oral and the written word’ (1988: x). The general process by which scriptures are developed follows three stages. The first stage involves the occurrence, following Eliade, of a hierophany, or a sacred manifestation. The second stage moves to the telling of stories about the sacred event and the re-living of these events in rituals. This constitutes the oral tradition. The third stage in some traditions produces written texts which record the sacred events based on what has been passed on orally (see Figure 7.1). The development of written texts, of course, is far more complicated than these stages imply. Oral traditions change and continue to influence the development of written texts. The written texts frequently undergo changes with layer on layer intertwined into a final document which may be produced over a very long period of time (as seen in the Hebrew story of creation as related in the first chapter of the book of Genesis) and may be influenced by subsequent ritual activities. For believing communities, the original hierophany is paramount and constitutes the source of what is spoken of and later written about.

X (Hierophanies)

X1 Oral stories and rituals about X

X2 Written forms about X from X1

Figure 7.1 The development of scripture

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Sacred events and oral traditions: the example of the Dinka of southern Sudan The scholar of African religions, Benjamin Ray, has interpreted the relationship between myth and ritual amongst the Dinka of southern Sudan in a way that underscores my argument that hierophanies form the beginnings of scripture for believers. Ray based his account on the landmark book on the Dinka written by the Oxford anthropologist Godfrey Lienhardt, entitled Divinity and Experience: The Religion of the Dinka (1967). Both Ray and Lienhardt refer to a myth, told in many versions among the Dinka, which describes the origin of clans among the people. The myth relates how in what Ray calls ‘a primordial time’ (1976: 39) a severe drought had decimated the land resulting in the starvation of the cattle on which the Dinka depended for survival. What follows in the story is a series of events which eventually led the people to move to a more fertile land, taught them survival skills and established ritual activities connected with these methods of survival. The myth centres around a culture hero named Aiwel Longar. This figure is represented in many myths as having demonstrated miraculous powers from birth. Lienhardt (1967: 172) relates how Aiwel Longar, when still a tiny baby, was left sleeping alone in a hut. His mother had placed beside him a gourd of milk, but, when she returned, it was gone. At first, she blamed her daughter, who protested her innocence. Aiwel Longar’s mother then hid herself and observed the tiny baby get up and drink the milk. These powers remained with Aiwel Longar into adulthood, who, as the story develops, was tending his cattle during the time of the severe drought. The lack of rain had caused the people to take their cattle for long distances to locate water and find what meagre grass existed to feed the cattle. This caused most people’s cattle to become extremely thin, and most to die. By contrast, Aiwel Longar’s cattle were fat, well-fed and healthy. Some young men decided to spy on Aiwel Longar to discover how he was able to maintain such a healthy herd, and discovered that he took his cattle to a place outside the village where he had special knowledge of a type of grass beneath which springs of water flowed. By pulling up the grass, Aiwel Longar exposed his cattle to plentiful supplies of water. After his secret was exposed, Aiwel Longar called the elders of the village together and told them they must leave the land. He offered to lead

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion them to a new home containing what Lienhardt (1967: 173) describes as ‘fabulous pastures . . . where there was endless grass and water and no death’. The people refused to be led by Aiwel Longar, who instead set off on his own to the new land of plenty. Finally the people followed but, in Lienhardt’s translation (1967: 173), ‘Divinity’ set mountains and rivers in their way. Across one river which the people had to cross to get to the new land, Divinity ‘made a dike like a fence’. As the people attempted to pass the fence, Longar killed them one by one with a thrust from his fishing spear. He continued until one man named Agothyathik fooled Longar into thinking a decoy made from the sacrum of an ox was a real person. When he realized he had been tricked, Longar attacked Agothyathik. They wrestled for a long time until Longar became tired. Longar then told Agothyathik to summon his people across the river. Longar gave fishing spears to some men and to others he gave war spears. In Lienhardt’s account, when the myth is related orally, certain rituals are performed that re-enact the events of the story. For example, when the part is reached that describes how Aiwel Longar killed the people who were trying to cross the river with his fishing-spear, Lienhardt (1967: 173) observes: ‘When they reach this point they almost always raise the arm as though holding a fishing-spear, and make the rapid and vigorous darting movement by which they spear fish.’ When the narrator gets to the part of the story which describes the wrestling between Agothyathik and Longar, Lienhardt (1967: 174) adds: ‘The seizing and wrestling are often mimed by those telling it.’ Later in his analysis of the Aiwel Longar myth, Lienhardt associates explicitly rituals where an ox is sacrificed with the meaning of the myth as ‘the conversion of death into life’. This has particular significance for the founding of the clans and for their continued well-being through fertility and the perpetuation of the lineage. Lienhardt (1967: 296) explains: ‘Every sacrificial rite . . . anticipates the death (with its associations of sterility and finality) which the Dinka expect and fear, and by doing so demonstrates their own power of survival.’ Although Lienhardt particularly emphasizes the close connection between the myth and its associated rituals with the legitimization of political power amongst the Dinka, we could equally give this an Eliadean interpretation. Clearly, the myths are re-enacted in rituals, not only in their telling, but also indirectly through sacrificial rites. It is possible also to identify hierophanies in the story. The grass under which plentiful springs of water flowed whereby Aiwel Longar sustained his cattle can be called a manifestation of the sacred due to its extraordinary occurrence. The myth, on Lienhardt’s telling, refers

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to ‘Divinity’ placing obstacles in the way of the people who eventually followed Aiwel Longar into the new land, and thus the very existence of the rivers and mountains, when told in the context of the story, function as hierophanies. The appearance of the protagonist Agothyathik in the story can be regarded as a hierophany leading eventually to the people’s survival. From the story of Aiwel Longar we can see clearly how, in an Eliadean sense, hierophanies (X) are transmitted orally through their re-telling in myths and their re-enactments in rituals (X1), and in this way bring the people regularly into a time of beginning, in this case when the people were established in the land they now occupy. Although the Dinka do not possess written scriptures, we will see from the analysis which follows how their oral traditions function in a similar way as written texts do for other religious communities.

From oral tradition to written sources Most religious traditions that comprise the so-called world religions, including, among others, Hinduism, Buddhism, Sikhism, Judaism, Christianity and Islam, record their stories, rituals and teachings in written form. As I noted at the beginning of this chapter, following Harold Coward, they undergo a process of developing written texts out of oral transmissions. This can be seen clearly in Islam which can be regarded as a classic example of a ‘religion of the book’. We have already noted that the Qur’an is regarded by believers as literally the word of God, and hence it can be regarded in one sense as a manifestation of the sacred message. The book itself, however, is not the sacred manifestation: the hierophany is defined as the words contained in the book. When Muhammad received his first revelation from Allah through the Angel Gabriel, he was told to ‘recite’, that is, to speak out the words he had received. The words he recited were revealed by Allah. He set them to memory, but, since according to tradition he was illiterate, he could not write them down. Although as soon as he recited a revelation, his companions recorded it on leaves, bark, bones or whatever they could find, the Qur’an itself was not completed in its final version until approximately 20 years after Muhammad’s death. This explains in part why every Muslim is urged to memorize the Qur’an and to recite it. The word is fundamentally oral (see Sherratt and Hawkin, 1972: 77–80). The case of Islam supports Harold Coward’s claim that the oral tradition has a primary place over written texts in all religious traditions. Coward argues that in most faiths the oral word is regarded as

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion eternal. This, he says, is true of the teaching of Siddhartha Gautama who (in Mahayana Buddhism) became enlightened as an embodiment of the eternal Buddha, of the word uttered at the beginning of each Hindu cycle of creation, of the Torah which God dictated to Moses on Mount Sinai and of the eternal Word of God become flesh in Jesus of Nazareth (Coward, 1988: 165). Why, then, did certain traditions record the sacred oral word in written texts? One answer to this is suggested by the case of Islam. Since the word itself is sacred, it came from the mouth of the prophet accurately and perfectly. This is why Muhammad’s words were recorded immediately and faithfully on various objects and kept safely in a bag. No error in transmission could occur using the written method. A second purpose for recording the word in written form is also suggested by the case of Islam. After Muhammad’s death, what A. Yusuf Ali (1977: xxxiii) calls a ‘furious storm of apostasy’ occurred. In other words, many people began to interpret the word of God in ways which were unfaithful to its original transmission. In defence of the word, many followers were killed, most of whom knew the Qur’an by heart. It was then decided, according to Ali (1977: xxxiii), ‘to preserve the Qur’ān intact in its original form against any and every kind of danger’. In addition to the need for accuracy and to oppose heresy, some traditions, such as Christianity, needed a means of making the message coherent, organized and verifiable. The followers of Jesus required a record of his life, teachings and activities. Some scriptures, therefore, are developed in to order to unify the essential message into an intelligible form. A further explanation suggested by Coward (1988: 173–4) for the growth of written texts is that by writing down the central message of a tradition the sacred story becomes available to all people. When the primordial hierophany is told in myth and re-enacted in ritual, it often comes under the control of priests or religious practitioners. When it is written and distributed, it becomes the possession of all the people. This occurred, for example, in the Protestant Reformation beginning in the sixteenth century which adopted the doctrine expounded by Martin Luther of the ‘priesthood of all believers’ and had as one of its main objectives that the Bible should become available to all people (see Kim and Kim, 2008: 19–20). These considerations lead to the conclusion that scripture begins as an oral tradition which has been passed down within religious communities from generation to generation. For historical, theological and practical reasons, some traditions write down the oral transmissions, a process which in some traditions (like the Hebraic) occurs over a very long period of time and

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includes the insertion of new interpretations of the oral tradition into the texts by editors. The reasons that scriptures are written rather than remaining oral can be summarized in the following points: 1. Writing preserves accuracy in telling sacred events. 2. Wrong interpretations of sacred events are minimized when oral traditions are recorded. 3. Writing presents the sacred events in an organized, logical and uniform manner. 4. Committing the sacred stories of a tradition to writing makes them available to a wider audience than is possible when they are transmitted orally, and thereby they are removed from the exclusive control of religious specialists.

Morality Moral rules, the authoritative ‘oughts’, are communicated through the oral transmissions and scriptures of all religious traditions. These are derived from the sacred events, told in myths and ritually re-enacted. In some traditions, the moral codes have been recorded in written form, whereas in others, such as in the example of the Dinka of southern Sudan, they have remained oral. Both written and oral forms of transmission, nonetheless, are regarded by the religious communities as providing regulations for the life of the people and as proceeding from a source I defined earlier as an alternate reality or realities. In order to clarify the relation between scripture and morality, I have added a further dimension to the diagram demonstrating how scriptures have developed (see Figure 7.2). Every religion prescribes in some sense how the believer ‘ought’ to behave. The ‘ought’ is an imperative because it is traced back to the hierophany, told in myth and re-enacted in ritual. To disobey the moral imperative is to disrupt life, to threaten well-being, to move away from the centre towards chaos, to counteract the order secured by the original, primordial hierophany. The

X (Hierophanies)

X1 Oral traditions

X2 Written scriptures

X3 Moral prescriptions

Figure 7.2 The development of moral prescriptions

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion moral ‘ought’ appears in different guises in varying traditions. In the Hebrew scriptures, we see it in the form of the commandments delivered by God to Moses. The hierophany is the presentation of the law to Moses who then delivers it to his people. The law is told and recorded. It prescribes how the people are to live, lists punishments for disobedience and defines means by which forgiveness and reconciliation can be obtained. By contrast, in the Chinese tradition called Confucianism, the moral ‘ought’ is not communicated in the form of a commandment, but as advice often transmitted in proverbs. Its imperative nature nonetheless is confirmed by the fact that the wise man, Confucius, is able to discern the perfect pattern for human conduct which is modelled after the ideal, which is called the will or way of heaven (Tien). The Confucian hierophany is thus the wisdom of the sage who discerns the will of heaven and describes it to the people. If the people follow the teaching, harmony and peace prevail; if they ignore the wisdom of the sage, chaos and disorder will result (see Graham, 1959: 365–84). An example of Confucius’s teaching can be seen in his advice to governmental rulers. The wisdom he offers is based on the principle of reciprocity which he described as a universal ideal governing all relationships. Govern the people by regulations, keep order among them by chastisements, and they will flee from you and lose all self-respect. Govern them by moral force . . . and they will keep their self-respect and come to you of their own accord. (Analects, II.3; cited by Kramer, 1986: 111)

Yet another form of the moral ‘ought’ is seen in the caste system of India, the organization of social order according to classifications determined at birth. The four classes of Hindu society in descending order are the Brahmin (priestly), the Kshatriya (warriors), the Vaisya (vassals, nonprofessional workers, farmers and traders) and the Sudra (servants). The classes originated, according to Hindu mythology, from a hierophany told in one of the Hindu scriptures called the Rig-Veda (Song of Knowledge) in which the body of the god Purusha was divided up to form the various parts of the society (see Sherratt and Hawkin, 1972: 109–16). This myth, called the Purusha Sukta (Hymn of Man) is recounted by the Indian scholar L. M. Joshi (1975: 65). When they divided Purusha, how many portions did they make? What do they call his mouth, his arms? What do they call his thighs and feet? The Brahmin was his mouth, of both his arms was the Kshatriya made. His thighs became the Vaisya; from his feet the Sudra was produced. (Rig-Veda, 10.90.11–12)

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The myth of the division of Purusha’s body tells of the sacred origin of the classes of Hindu society. To live within one’s class, to do one’s duty as a member of that class, is to follow the moral ‘ought’, the Hindu dharma. To fail to abide by one’s social class makes one an ‘outcaste’, one who ceases to live by the divinely prescribed order. This is why Joshi (1975: 72) concludes that the caste system is ‘not merely a social institution’ but ‘predominantly a religious institution’. The examples cited above demonstrate that morality is conveyed and preserved through a religion’s scriptures (interpreted broadly as oral and written traditions) and thus is connected to their hierophanies by myths, which convey their transforming power in the life of believers through ritual re-enactments. It is imperative, therefore, for a religious community to adhere strictly to the authoritative moral teachings that have been passed on from generation to generation if they are to secure and maintain what the tradition defines as optimal well-being.

The distinction between morality and ethics In his book entitled The Religious Experience of Mankind, Ninian Smart (1977: 19) defines one dimension of religion as ‘the ethical’. He says that ‘ethics concerns the behaviour of the individual and, to some extent, the code of ethics of the dominant religion controls the community’. When outlining what he calls ‘typological phenomenology’ (1973a: 47), Smart gives an example of an academic approach, which might compare ‘Buddhist and Christian attitudes towards war’. Smart seems in this context to be using ethics interchangeably with what I have described in this chapter as the phenomenological classification ‘morality’. I have deliberately preferred the term morality to ethics in order to stress the insider’s perspective in selecting a category for comparative purposes. As I have used it, morality refers to an ‘ought’ or imperative derived from a hierophany and communicated to the people through scripture (either oral or written). Ethics, by contrast, analyses why an imperative actually is (or is not) binding on a community. In other words, ethics as an academic discipline establishes theories which either justify or dispute the ‘oughts’ of a religious community. When I refer to morality as a religious phenomenon, I am

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Table 7.1 The relationship between morality and ethics Morality

Ethics

The ‘ought is revealed.

The ‘ought’ is analysed.

The ‘ought’ is obeyed.

The ‘ought’ is followed for the reasons suggested in

The ‘ought’ is not questioned.

The ‘ought’ is open to challenge.

Disobedience produces chaos.

The consequences of the failure to follow the ‘ought’

The sacred ‘ought’ defines the primary concern as

The ‘ought’ concerns a believer only secondarily as

the analysis.

depend on the analysis. how a believer is to live. Part of religious phenomena.

apologetics. Excluded from the phenomena.

suggesting that its force is derived from what believers regard as an unquestionable sacred source and hence is transmitted to them with an ultimate authority. Ethics does not accept the authority of the hierophany but exposes it to an academic analysis. The end of this procedure might result in supporting a moral imperative, but it will be one which has not been derived from the occurrence of the sacred event, but from analytical thinking. Believers may use the tools of ethics to justify what they already regard as a moral imperative. This is a form of apologetics, which is a theological argument created to support what has been accepted previously on other grounds. Morality thus constitutes a part of religious phenomena since it is derived from believing communities’ responses to the authority commanded from their alternate realities. Ethical analysis can be traced to the sacred source only secondarily (in the form of apologetics) and does not require one to be a believer to engage in it. Ethics, as I have defined it, therefore, in a strict sense does not belong to a category within the phenomenology of religion, if the phenomena are interpreted religiously, that is, from the perspectives of adherents. Table 7.1 demonstrates the relationship between morality and ethics.

Summary In this chapter, I have argued that scripture and morality demonstrate two further interrelationships among religious phenomena. We have seen, however, that during my discussion of these two categories, I have referred repeatedly to their close connection to myths and rituals. I also noted in the previous chapter that religious practitioners and art relate closely to myths and rituals

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and thus, by applying the analysis of this chapter, it becomes clear how any of the phenomenological classifications I have discussed might equally be connected to scripture and morality. My overall discussion of myths, rituals, religious practitioners, art, scripture and morality, suggests that the processes and interrelationships among all the phenomena are complex and that other combinations could have been analysed quite profitably. The particular combinations I have formed have been selected for the purposes of seeing into the meaning of each classification and of demonstrating that no classification I have defined thus far operates in isolation from the others. I move now to conclude my discussion of the phenomenological typologies by considering what I am calling the special case of belief as a category uniquely related to each of the others.

Questions for discussion 1. Do you think that oral traditions hold a higher or more prominent place than written texts among religious communities? Why or why not? 2. Provide an example of how a hierophany in any religious tradition with which you are familiar led to an oral tradition which was later recorded. 3. ‘African religions are pre-literate and thus inferior to religions with written scriptures’. Discuss this theoretical statement. 4. Evaluate the reasons offered in this chapter as to why oral traditions might have been recorded. Suggest others that might apply. 5. Write down an ‘ought’ which governs your life. Would you call your ‘ought’ morality or ethics? Give reasons for your answer. 6. Why does the author in this chapter exclude ethics from religious phenomena? Do you agree with this assessment? Why or why not?

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The Special Case of Belief

Chapter Outline What are beliefs? Types of belief Types of belief in Vedantic Hinduism Deriving beliefs from the phenomena Why beliefs form a special case Questions for discussion

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Thus far in this book I have not considered beliefs as part of the religious phenomena nor have I related them to other typological classifications. This is because I am arguing that beliefs occupy a unique place within religious experience and thus constitute a special case in the study of religious phenomena. Although I am regarding ‘belief’ as a category of the phenomena alongside other classifications, I am not analysing it in this chapter by coupling it with another phenomenological type; I have chosen instead to describe beliefs as contained in and emerging out of each of the categories I have identified in Chapters 5 through 7.

What are beliefs? Whenever adherents within a religious tradition articulate to themselves or to others what their alternate realities are, they use the medium of belief. To do this they must think something about their alternate realities. That thinking comprises a belief. Beliefs, therefore, can be defined as the content of what it is that people postulate about their alternate realities. If, for example, an outsider

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were to ask a believer to explain or define his or her concept of an alternate reality, the believer would use an idea or thought to express the meaning. The thought or idea employs words which are necessary for communicating to the outsider what the adherent believes about the alternate reality. The alternate reality is not identical with the belief expressed in words, but the belief helps the adherent achieve self-understanding of the meaning of the alternate reality and assists in its communication to others. Beliefs are contained within each of the phenomenological classifications. They may not always be stated explicitly, but beliefs can be derived from these classifications. Believers possess some idea of what their community holds about alternate realities when they hear the myths recited or participate in their ritual re-enactments. They observe a religious practitioner and understand something about what the practitioner is mediating or communicating. Believers may experience the alternate realities directly, for example, through meditating on an icon or by entering into an ecstatic emotional state under the influence of dancing and drumming, but they will still have formed an idea of what constitutes the content of the icon or into what dimension they are entering through the state of ecstasy. In hearing the reading of scriptures, believers will recognize pointers towards their alternate realities and their moral authority over their community. The phenomenologist enters into these phenomena using the first three steps in the method, and then seeks to determine from them what adherents within any identifiable community think or conceive about their alternate realities.

Types of belief Beliefs not only define what religious traditions postulate about their alternate realities; they also define what the traditions hold about the human condition. This condition almost always entails a fundamental predicament which needs resolving, usually obtained by some kind of relationship with the alternate realities. This analysis leads me to suggest three main types or sub-classifications of the overarching category belief: numinological beliefs, which define communities’ understandings of their alternative realities; anthropological beliefs, which focus on defining the human condition (including the world in which humans live); soteriological beliefs, which deal with the way humans resolve the essential problems created by their condition in

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion the world. In some traditions, notably but not restricted to theistic religions, the numinological belief determines the other two, since the anthropological is derived from the numinological and the soteriological is obtained from the numinological through the anthropological. In other traditions, such as African Indigenous Religions, the human predicament, usually defined as some event which interferes with obtaining community well-being, determines the numinological and anthropological beliefs. In order to illustrate how the sub-categories of belief are interrelated, I will analyse how the three types of belief operate in the form of Hinduism known as Vedanta. Vedanta literally means ‘end of the Veda’ and refers to a philosophical type of Hinduism which emerged around the sixth century BCE. The Vedas are the authoritative written scriptures for all forms of Hinduism. The literature within the Vedas is lengthy and developed over approximately one thousand years after the Aryan peoples moved, in successive waves, from central Asia into the Indus valley beginning around 2000 BCE. Following my argument in the last chapter, like most scriptures, the Vedas began as part of a large corpus of oral traditions. Sherratt and Hawkin (1972: 109) explain that the content of what later was written down originally ‘was circulated by word of mouth’ since the ‘Aryan Indians preferred to memorize vast passages of the Vedas’. The Vedas are divided into four books comprised of the Rig-Veda, Sama Veda, Yajur Veda and Atharva Veda. Each of these contains various types of writings: hymns to the gods and associated rituals, called Brahmanas; interpretations of the rituals, referred to as the Aranyakas; and at the end of each Veda, philosophical speculations called the Upanishads. It is on the Upanishads, which were written between 800 BCE and 500 BCE, that the Vedantic form of Hinduism is based. The word Upanishad, translated from three Sanskrit words, means ‘near down-sit’ (Sherratt and Hawkin, 1972: 117) and may refer to the Indian tradition of putting oneself under the guidance of a teacher (guru). This interpretation is supported by the fact that much of content of the Upanishads consists of dialogues between teachers and their pupils. This interpretation would mean that the Upanishads are the source of wisdom and that one needs to ‘sit down near’ them, meditate on them and learn from them about the nature of reality, oneself and one’s ultimate destiny. There are about two hundred Upanishads, but, as the tradition has developed, eighteen are now considered authoritative (Hinnells and Sharpe, 1972: 49–51). Vedantic philosophy based its interpretation of the Upanishads through a form of literature called the Sutras, the most important of which are the

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Brahma Sutras written somewhere between 200 BCE and 200 CE. Although the Brahma Sutras are not regarded as final and authoritative for faith, as part of the sacred tradition (smriti), they offer insight into the meaning of Vedantic beliefs. They are short, aphoristic texts written in Sanskrit which in themselves call for interpretations, since they are difficult to understand. The reader of the Brahma Sutras needs to study each aphorism over and over in deep meditation to arrive at an understanding (Klostermaier, 1989: 61–73; Kramer, 1986: 18–30; Smart, 1989: 50–6, 71–4). Nonetheless, because of their cryptic content, the Brahma Sutras themselves required a philosophical commentary or interpretation. Three main writers on Vedantic philosophy emerged between the eighth and the thirteenth centuries CE, each offering an interpretation of the Upanishads, often based on their reading of the Brahma Sutras. The three are Sankara (778–820 CE), Madhva (c. 1230 CE) and Ramanuja (died 1127 CE). These three developed different theories about the nature of the ultimate and the relationship of the human and the world to it (Copleston, 1982: 68–95; Hinnells and Sharpe, 1972: 49–51). In my analysis of types of belief in Vedantic Hinduism, I will follow the Upanishads as they were interpreted through the non-dualist philosophy of Sankara.

Types of belief in Vedantic Hinduism Within Vedantic thinking, the ultimate is called Brahman. Brahman must first be understood as transcendent or beyond the human and the world in which the human lives. Brahman is described in the Katha Upanishad as immortal, the source of all things, that from which the whole universe emerged. The Hindu scholar W. Weaver (1972: 22) explains: Behind the world of multiplicity and change there is a principle that remains constant; a Reality that is beyond all vicissitudes and change. This principle is most frequently referred to as Brahman . . . the essence of everything; the Allencompassing Absolute from which everything proceeds.

This would appear to define the primary numinological belief within Vedantic Hinduism by emphasizing the absolute ‘otherness’ of Brahman from human experience. Yet, just when it would appear that the numinological belief in Vedantic Hinduism separates the ultimate from human existence, the immanence or nearness to the human of Brahman is revealed, since Brahman is found in and

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion actually is identical with the true Self in each person, the Atman. The Atman is described in the Katha Upanishad (I, 2, 18) in terms of what could only be ascribed to Brahman: ‘The . . . Self . . . is never born; nor does he die at any time. He sprang from nothing and nothing sprang from him. He is unborn, eternal, abiding and primeval.’ The Self is Brahman; Brahman is the Self. This Brahman–Atman unity actually constitutes the central numinological belief within Vedantic Hinduism explaining why, as we saw in Chapter 3, Wilfred Cantwell Smith identified the Sanskrit phrase, ‘tat tvam asi’ (that thou art) as the key symbol at the core of Hindu thought. Its meaning is explained in the Chandogya Upanishad (VI, 13, 3): ‘Though you do not see Brahman in this body, he is indeed here. That which is the subtle essence – in that have all things their existence. That is the truth. That is the Self (Atman). And that . . . thou art (tat tvam asi).’ Although Brahman seems to be spoken of here in personal terms, as Vedantic philosophy was interpreted through Sankara, Brahman is referred to as a universal ‘world spirit’, the only true reality encompassing all things. ‘Tat tvam asi’ suggests that this world spirit, the one true reality, is identical with the true Self found within every individual self. Frederick Copleston (1982: 77) summarizes this belief: ‘Brahman is the sole reality and the permanent element in you is not different from Brahman.’ Closely related to this numinological belief is the Vedantic anthropological belief, the teaching about the true nature of the self. This teaching emerges from the question about the exact relationship between each individual self and the universal world spirit. This central question has been summarized in the words of Eric Lott (1980: 38): ‘If the transcendent SELF alone is the ultimate reality, how can any finite being share its nature?’ The first answer to this question is suggested by Lott himself (1980: 39), who warns against confusing what he calls the ‘empirical ego’ with the Atman. The empirical ego refers to what each of us calls our ‘self’: our individual personalities, our bodies, our feelings and our emotional states. Yet, this empirical ego is not unborn, not eternal and certainly not the source of the entire universe. This self will change, decay and ultimately die. It cannot be Brahman; it cannot be the true Self. This distinction between the empirical ego and the true inner Self is underscored by the story of the visit of the god Indra and the demon Virochana to the famous teacher Prajapati as related in the Chandogya Upanishad (VIII, 7–12). After sitting with Prajapati for 32 years, Indra and Virochana explain to their mentor what they want to learn: ‘We have heard . . . that one who realizes the Self obtains all the worlds and all desires. We have lived here because

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we want to learn of this Self.’ Prajapati responds by telling the two enquirers to look into a pool of water and report what they see. They return and tell him that they have seen their bodies. Then Prajapati instructs them to put on their finest clothes and look again. This time, when asked what they have seen, Indra and Virochana answer: ‘We have seen the Self; we have seen even the hair and the nails.’ Prajapati concurs that it is true that indeed they have seen the Self. Virochana goes back to the land of the demons well pleased that he has understood Prajapati’s teaching correctly that the body is the Self. The Chandogya Upanishad comments: ‘Such doctrine is, in very truth, the doctrine of the demons.’ But Indra realizes before ever arriving back in the land of the gods that he had not understood the meaning of the lesson. He therefore returns to Prajapati for another 32 years. At the conclusion of this long period, Indra reports to have learned the following: ‘That which moves about in dreams, enjoying sensuous delight and clothed in glory, that is the Self. That is immortal, that is fearless, and that is Brahman.’ What Indra had learned was that a part of each individual self can be detached from the body. That is the self known in dreams. If one is blind in the body, for example, the self can see in dreams. If one is lame in the body, in dreams one can run and leap. With this knowledge, Indra believed he had learned the secret of the true Self and headed back to the land of the gods. Before arriving to share his insight with the gods, however, Indra realized that this knowledge also was deficient, since in dreams the self ‘is conscious of many sufferings’. Every person has experienced terror in dreams, has known disappointments in dreams and has even felt extreme anger in dreams. Dreams, therefore, cannot define the pure bliss of the unchanging, eternal Self. Once again, Indra returned to Prajapati for further teaching. Indra then describes the third lesson he obtained from Prajapati after the conclusion of another 32 years of instruction. ‘When a man is sound asleep, free from dreams and at perfect rest – that is the Self. The Self is immortal and fearless, and it is Brahman.’ The true self thus is likened to that experienced in a dreamless sleep, undisturbed by any outside forces, free from suffering and in a state of perfect peace. This deeper understanding had pushed Indra towards an apprehension of the Atman; but he was bothered by one further problem. Surely, this dreamless state is like being unconscious where one is aware of nothing. He ponders that this must be ‘next to annihilation’ and returns to Prajapati for help. Indra’s final stay with Prajapati lasts only 5 years until he discovers the true meaning of the Self. From his first 32 years

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion he had learned that ‘this body is mortal, always gripped by death, but within it dwells the immortal Self’. After his second 32 years, he learned that the inner self ‘when associated in our consciousness with the body’ continues to be subjected to pleasure and pain. His third period taught him that, as the association of the consciousness with the body ceases, there also cease pleasure and pain. His last 5 years taught him the final insight whereby he could connect these three truths: the concern with annihilation becomes a problem only so long as a person persists in associating the state of consciousness, which is like a dreamless sleep, with individual bodily existence. This latter point needs further explanation. When an individual enters into a deep sleep, the person cannot be said to be unconscious; otherwise how would it be possible to awake and feel renewed physically and mentally? After a deep, dreamless sleep, the person says something like, ‘I slept so well. I feel so refreshed!’ The person is even able to think back to the feeling of peace and realize what a reinvigorating experience has occurred. Yet, while in this condition of the dreamless sleep, the person remains totally unaware of being an individual connected to a personal body. It was as if the person in a dreamless sleep had experienced a consciousness beyond physical consciousness. This type of consciousness is like discovering the true Self (Atman) and apprehending its unity with Brahman. Dreamless sleep is analogous to experiencing the absorption of individual consciousness into universal Consciousness. Indra concludes: ‘Rising above physical consciousness, knowing the Self to be distinct from the senses and the mind – knowing it in its true light – one rejoices and is free.’ The story of Indra’s lessons learned at the feet of Prajapati leads us to the central Vedantic conclusion about the Self. The idea that the empirical ego is the true Self is an illusion and results from what Sankara called ‘wrong conception’ (Lott, 1980: 45). The deepest Self is fundamentally different from the empirical ego because it is identical with Pure Consciousness, Brahman. The anthropological belief of Vedantic thinking, therefore, maintains that the physical self which people take to be real is an illusion. The Self which is real needs to be understood as the eternal Brahman set free from physical existence, individual consciousness and the ignorance which results from associating the two together. This anthropological belief leads towards the Vedantist’s description of the human predicament and thus defines what constitutes the primary soteriological belief in this form of Hinduism. The fundamental human problem in Vedantic thinking is ignorance: mistaking the unreal for the real and failing

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to comprehend what is really real. This ignorance has the effect of perpetuating the cycle of birth and re-birth (the transmigration of souls or reincarnation) according to the law of karma. If one overcomes ignorance and sees into reality, the karmic cycle will be broken and no transmigration of souls will occur. It is important, therefore, that I explain briefly the Hindu beliefs in karma and transmigration in order to present the Vedantic teaching on salvation. The law of karma constitutes a pivotal doctrine throughout the many forms of Hinduism. It defines life in terms of moral causes and effects. In its most strict interpretation, it holds that every deed which a person commits, for good or evil, will result in an appropriate reward or punishment. Everything a person experiences in this life is deserved; everything a person does in this life will produce a just effect (Klostermaier, 1989: 204–6). Clearly, this law cannot operate within one life. People do not always receive appropriate rewards or punishments according to their actions in this life. For this reason, karma must be accompanied by the idea of the transmigration of souls. The soul must ‘migrate across’ one life into another life and be born again in another body. The rewards one deserves in the present life will be experienced in future lives, and the rewards one is experiencing in this life will have been earned in previous lives. Likewise, the penalties one deserves for bad conduct may not be experienced until future lives, but certainly the sufferings one experiences in this life will have been caused by evil behaviour in previous lives. The law of karma and its related theory of the transmigration of souls, therefore, construct a universe based on an absolute system of cosmic justice. There is no innocent suffering. Everything one experiences for good or for evil is experienced in exact proportion to previous deeds (Cox, 1989: 17–8). Although this belief constructs a judicial order, it proposes two ideas which are objectionable within Vedantic thinking: it confuses pleasure and pain in bodily existence with reality; and it perpetuates an endless cycle of birth and re-birth, keeping the Self eternally bound within physical existence and preventing it from achieving unity with Brahman. The first Vedantic objection is clear. Reward and punishment are associated with pleasure and pain in physical existence, including the particular caste within Indian society into which one is born. Caste is determined by the law of karma and carried out at birth through appropriate transmigrations of the soul. Those in the lowest, menial positions in society should perform their duties faithfully according to the law of karma in order that they might be born into a higher station in the next

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion life and thus minimize their suffering. In Vedantic thought, as we have seen, the body is always subject to pain and can never attain eternal pleasure. The second Vedantic objection to karma and transmigration is based on the first problem – if karma and transmigration are ‘really real’ and not just part of the phenomenal world of appearances, the Self will be re-born endlessly into various states of physical existence and hence will be bound not only to suffering but to separation from the source and ground of existence, the eternal Brahman. In the end, according to this Vedantic interpretation, humanity will never achieve its true purpose and meaning so long as it remains enslaved to the laws of karma and the transmigration of souls. This leads to the conclusion that the Self needs to be released or liberated from the endless cycles of birth and re-birth and experience its true unity with Brahman. This liberation is called moksha and defines the Vedantic soteriological belief. The cause of the continued enslavement to karma and transmigration is ignorance. The person must come to see the whole system as maya, illusion. When this awareness dawns in consciousness, one no longer confuses the individual empirical ego with the true inner Self and thereby experiences freedom from ignorance and attains the pure bliss of the Brahman–Atman unity. This is moksha, release from the illusion created by the laws of karma and transmigration of souls. The Hindu scholar, K. Sivaraman (1974: 4–5) likens moksha to waking up from a dream where the dreamer has mistaken illusion for reality. Sivaraman suggests that this waking up is ‘a possibility always, at any given time but at no particular time’ (emphasis his). Since karma and transmigration of souls are illusions, they persist so long as people continue to take them to be real. The awakening can occur at any time at all, but it is not a time within history. Rather, it is a release from the illusion of history into the eternal Brahman, and to be released is to be saved. The central Vedantic numinological, anthropological and soteriological beliefs can now be summarized: Numinological: The alternate reality is the eternal world spirit called Brahman and its unity with the true Self within all selves called Atman. Anthropological: The empirical self (the body and the mind’s connection to the body) is an illusion: the true self is Atman. Soteriological: Salvation entails release (moksha) from illusion (which perpetuates the cycles of karma and transmigration of the soul) into the realization of the unity of the true Self with Brahman.

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It will be clear from this summary that each type of belief is related to the other, but that from a believer’s point of view the numinological (the statement of what constitutes the alternate reality) determines the anthropological and soteriological beliefs. Because the Brahman–Atman unity constitutes the alternate reality within the Vedantic form of Hinduism, the individual self is defined strictly in terms of the universal Self, ignorance of which creates the need for salvation.

Deriving beliefs from the phenomena In the above analysis of Vedantic Hinduism, I derived the numinological, anthropological and soteriological beliefs largely from the phenomenon of scripture. I referred to the Upanishads and to their interpretations based mainly on Sankara’s non-dualistic philosophy. The particular sections of the Upanishads to which I referred contained a story, which could be classified as a myth and as an art form, from which I extracted the central beliefs contained within the story. Although we can see different types of phenomena presented through the written sources, primarily I isolated the key Vedantic beliefs in this case from the phenomenological classification I have labelled ‘scripture’. The same beliefs can be derived from a particular ritual practised widely within many types of Hindu meditation. This involves uttering the deep, resonating sacred sound ‘OM’, which can be done in a group, under the guidance of a guru or alone. The sound is given to help the adherent experience, in Sivaraman’s words (1974: 5), that ‘you and I differ in our bodies, in the minds and egos associated with bodies, but we do not differ in self’. ‘OM’ actually consists of three Sanskrit letters corresponding in English to A-U-M. They represent the three levels of consciousness exemplified in the story of Indra’s enlightenment under the patient teaching of Prajapati. The first letter corresponds to the belief that the body is not the same as the Self but that in the body dwells the immortal Self. This constitutes the first level of meditation as a person goes deeper into the true inner Self. The U stands for the second level of awareness that the Self is not identical with the individual consciousness attached to a body, but that within each consciousness resides the immortal Self. The M signifies the realization that the true Self is the Pure Consciousness of the immortal Brahman, without either individuality or annihilation, which is apprehended by rising above both the physical senses and the mind (Kramer, 1986: 27–8).

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion As participants in the ritual utter the sacred sound, they travel ever deeper from the first through the second to the third level of awareness through a process of meditation and concentration. When this is done in groups, the leader may ask adherents to close their eyes, imagine a line of connection between each person in the room, and then utter the ‘OM’ sound in unison. The result produces a booming, deep vibration which can be felt by participants and which symbolizes that individuality has been overcome in the unity of the group on a horizontal level while each empirical ego on a vertical dimension goes downward into the self to discover the true Self within every self. By analysing the meditative ritual centring on the sound and symbol ‘OM’, the scholar, as a participant-observer, is able to uncover the numinological, anthropological and soteriological beliefs contained within the ritual. In this case, these are clear. They consist of the Brahman–Atman unity, the illusion surrounding the empirical ego and the release from ignorance into the realization of Pure Consciousness. This ritual of meditation, therefore, is shown in this way to contain within it the very same beliefs as were communicated in the written sources.

Why beliefs form a special case This survey of beliefs within the phenomena of Vedantic Hinduism exemplifies the special case of beliefs within religious traditions. Believers in this example experience the alternate reality through the belief that the individual self is an illusion and that salvation consists of grasping the meaning of the unity of the true inner Self with the ultimate world spirit. Once having experienced this unity, adherents translate its meaning into words that make sense for their individual self-understanding and in terms that can be communicated to others. In this sense, every effort to relate what an insider has experienced in ways that can be understood by those outside the community requires expressing the meaning of the experience through ideas, cognitions or thoughts – in other words, as beliefs. The religious experience itself will not always be achieved using the words of belief, and, indeed, may result from participation in rituals, through the telling of stories, through the mediation of a religious practitioner, by directly confronting a presentational work of art or by hearing or reading a scripture. Nonetheless, the beliefs will still be present within these phenomena and thus will perform a necessary function when defining or interpreting religious experience.

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Although the model of deriving beliefs by studying the phenomenological categories applies to all religious traditions, the content of beliefs varies dramatically across the traditions. What identifiable communities believe about alternate realities, about the human condition and about salvation is not the same. By carefully studying the phenomena, the phenomenologist is able to use the tools of epoché and empathetic interpolation to define beliefs which can be compared both in terms of their common instrumental functions (numinological, anthropological and soteriological) and their distinctive contents. Following the phenomenological steps, the scholar is able to describe myths, rituals, religious practitioners, art, scripture and morality within any particular tradition and, through a careful analysis, identify their key numinological, anthropological and soteriological beliefs. Structurally, these can be compared with the same types of beliefs in other religious traditions. By insisting on using the phenomenological method to glean beliefs from the classifications of religion, the scholar is able to avoid defining the beliefs of one religion in terms of another. It is not possible, for example, to evaluate the Hindu idea of avatara (the appearances of the divine in animal, animal-human and human forms) as a lower illustration of the Christian belief about the incarnation of Jesus – if one understands that these two beliefs are quite distinct in relation to the myths, rituals, religious practitioners and other phenomena within each tradition. The same comment could be applied to other instances of apparent similarities, such as attempting to compare in a facile fashion the traditional Chinese practice of ancestor veneration with the role ancestors play in many societies in sub-Saharan Africa. The phenomenological approach thus warns against beliefs being presented academically merely as abstract concepts unrelated to actual religious practices. By claiming that beliefs constitute a special case among the phenomena of religion, I am open to the charge, nonetheless, that I am stressing thoughts over experience, or as W. C. Smith puts it, of confusing ‘faith’ with ‘believing’ (1998: 13). Smith argues that ‘belief is not faith; it is one expression of faith, at a conceptual and verbal level’. He gives the example of a theist, who may intellectually believe in God, but who may lack faith in God. Smith (1998: 13) explains: ‘Believing something, as an intellectual stance, is at a considerably lower level than the deeply personal one, of living in, and by, faith.’ Although I agree with Smith that beliefs do not equate to faith, my argument is that ‘faith’ does not constitute one of the phenomena of religion,

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion since, by definition, the phenomenologist of religion, following the stage of maintaining epoché, cannot see literally through the eyes of a believer. As a scholar of religion, the phenomenologist can at best utilize the tools of empathy and interpolation to gain an understanding of the religion under study, but can never cross over the boundary to embrace the faith of any religious community. As we noted in Chapter 3, Smith (1964: 141) himself seems to endorse this view in The Meaning and End of Religion, when he indicates that the scholar, although recognizing that personal faith lies at the core of all religion, can only describe the expressions of faith, which, on my accounting, constitute the phenomenological categories or typologies I have identified. Extracting beliefs from the other phenomena of religion is necessary for the final stage in the method to occur, the eidetic intuition, which, although a ‘seeing into meaning’, conveys what the scholar interprets as religious meaning in terms of concepts, ideas or theories. By carefully and accurately eliciting beliefs from the phenomena, scholars are enabled to explain and articulate their versions of the eidetic vision. To achieve a clear interpretation of the meaning of religion, of course, requires close attention to all the phenomenological categories, but, on a cognitive level, this entails a careful and informed comparison of the beliefs of different religions. For this reason, on academic grounds, I conclude that beliefs form a special case in relation to the other phenomena of religion by providing an essential stepping stone towards attaining the eidetic intuition, which constitutes the final stage in the phenomenological method. This process is outlined in Figure 8.1.

Identify beliefs in religions 1, 2, 3, etc. as they are expressed through myths, rituals, religious practitioners, art, scripture and morality

Classify beliefs in each religion under study according to numinological, anthropological and soteriological sub-categories

Provide an interpretation of the meaning of religion in general - the eidetic intuition

Compare the core meaning in different religious traditions as determined by their beliefs

Compare numinological, anthropological and soteriological beliefs in different religious traditions

Identify the essential or core meaning in the religions under study as derived from their numinological, anthropological and soteriological beliefs

Figure 8.1 How comparing religious beliefs leads to the eidetic intuition

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Questions for discussion 1. Discuss how beliefs are contained in (a) myths; (b) rituals; (c) religious practitioners; (d) art; (e) scripture; and (f) morality. What does your discussion tell you about the author’s argument that beliefs constitute a ‘special case’ among the phenomena of religion? 2. Are anthropological and soteriological beliefs always derived from numinological beliefs? Why or why not? If not, give examples of numinological beliefs which have been obtained from anthropological and/or soteriological beliefs? 3. How could ‘tat tvam asi’ be numinological, anthropological and soteriological at the same time? 4. What is meant by dreamless sleep? Could one be conscious and later not recall being conscious? 5. Study the diagram (Figure 8.1) explaining how to compare religious beliefs according to the phenomenological method. Describe the function of beliefs according to this diagram.

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The Place of the Phenomenology of Religion in the Current and Future Academic Study of Religion

Chapter Outline Ways of studying religion Theoretical objections to the phenomenology of religion and its defence The cognitive science of religion as a new expression of the phenomenology of religion Questions for discussion

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Thus far in this book, I have defined religion, explained the historical background to the development of the phenomenology of religion, outlined the stages in the method as a step-by-step process and presented phenomenological classifications in relation to one another and in process. I now turn in conclusion to situate this methodology within the larger academic approach to the study of religions in order to indicate its significance for Religious Studies programmes in university settings. I do this in this chapter initially by explaining the place of the phenomenology of religion within an overall academic structure, which I call ‘ways of studying religion’. I then outline some key theoretical objections to the phenomenological method, which I answer in each case by my own defence of the phenomenology of religion. I conclude by drawing connections between phenomenology and the recent emphasis among scholars of religion on the cognitive science of religion and argue that a merging of the two may indicate an important future direction for the academic study of religion.

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Ways of studying religion In Chapter 1 of this book, I proposed a working definition of religion as follows: Religion refers to identifiable communities which base their acts of believing and resulting communal experiences of postulated non-falsifiable alternate realities on a tradition that they legitimate by appealing to its authoritative transmission from generation to generation.

This definition limits the scope of academic ways of studying religion to the social sciences as a branch of the larger natural sciences, and thereby places theological approaches outside the scope of empirical methodologies. This is because theology analyses what a tradition regards as revelatory acts from alternate realities and thus represents a genuinely ‘insider’ perspective, as opposed to one gained through empathetic interpolation. The social sciences study human responses to what identifiable communities postulate to have been revealed by alternate realities rather than privileging the content of the revelation itself, as occurs in the case of theology. I am not arguing that theology does not hold a place in the academy, but that it does not belong within the social sciences. For example, departments of Christian theology analyse critically and systematically the history, development and meaning of Christian doctrines, but they do so on the assumption that such doctrines hold a normative place within human responses to what Christian faith postulates to be revelation from God. Such departments also give priority to the study of the Christian scriptures, to the development of ecclesiastical history and to the interpretation of Christian ethics within contemporary society. These can be, and usually are, delivered in fully academic ways that justify their place within universities and among the wider scholarly community. Nonetheless, by giving priority to one tradition and, by implication suggesting that a particular tradition holds a normative place among human religious responses, Christian theology operates on fundamentally different assumptions from the social sciences. This applies to all theological interpretations of religion, including Islamic and Jewish theologies, but also more generally to any ‘insider’ discourse on the meaning and nature of religion within human experience. The empirical study of religions thus is constituted exclusively by disciplines that study human responses to what identifiable communities

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion postulate to be alternate realities, but they never attempt to study the postulated realities themselves, since these are entirely non-falsifiable. Where then does this place philosophy, which, as we have seen, has provided a foundation for the phenomenology of religion and more widely for the sciences in general? Philosophy in this wider sense is not restricted to the philosophy of religion, which poses questions about proofs for the existence of God or about issues of why evil exists in the world, but more generally concentrates on issues surrounding epistemology – how we know what we know, or the basis for knowledge. Empirical sciences make fundamental assumptions about the way knowledge is attained and the limits of knowledge. My use of the term ‘non-falsifiable’ results from a philosophical notion that prohibits, for example, metaphysics (speculations about the ultimate nature of reality) from consideration in the realm of scientific investigation. Although scientific methods are based on philosophical assumptions about the limits of knowledge, they share with philosophy the notion that reason or logic provides the authority for determining and testing research conclusions. Philosophy, in all its branches, uses the tools of rational discourse to justify its results. Yet, philosophy also informs theology, as theologians develop theories about the revelatory acts and as they employ critical analyses to argue for or against particular interpretations of the meaning and significance of the content of revelation. In this way, philosophy stands midway between science and theology. By virtue of its reliance on reason and logic, it serves as a tool underpinning empirical studies of religion and at the same time remains embedded in all forms of academically informed theological discourse. Since it studies human responses to postulated revelatory acts and makes no comment on the alleged truth or falsehood of religious claims, the phenomenology of religion belongs squarely within the social sciences and is entirely distinct from theology. At the same time, it draws on a particular philosophical school founded by Edmund Husserl, who analysed the way knowledge is achieved and in the process offered a critique of naïve forms of scientific positivism, which contended that only directly observable data can form the basis for empirical studies. Husserl, as we have seen, examined the place of the consciousness within the apprehension of the data of experience, and in the end asserted that consciousness must provide the bedrock for all scientific findings. This, as I argued in Chapter 2, although posing its own difficulties, was intended to provide a foundation for a rigorous science aimed at correcting the unexamined assumptions of what Husserl called the ‘natural attitude’. The phenomenology of religion seeks to apply this rigorous analysis to the

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study of religions by attempting to understand the role of consciousness in the apprehension of the external data of religious communities, or, in van der Leeuw’s terms (1938: 671), to overcome the subject–object dichotomy erected when researchers seek to understand identifiable communities of which they are not a part. The end result is intended always to be objective knowledge, in the sense that the descriptions, classifications and interpretations produced by the scholar using this method can be tested (or falsified) by recourse to the data themselves. Thus far, I have not drawn a distinction between the phenomenology of religion and the history of religions as ways of studying religions. In its disciplinary formation, the academic study of religion, particularly in continental Europe, has been associated with the history of religions. As we have seen, the formative Dutch phenomenologists of religion, Kristensen, van der Leeuw and Bleeker, each held chairs in the history of religion in their respective institutions. The international association founded to study religions academically still bears the title the International Association for the History of Religions, although many national associations, such as in Britain changed from being the British Association for the History of Religions to the British Association for the Study of Religions (see Sutcliffe, 2004: xvii). Even Mircea Eliade, whom I have fully associated with the phenomenology of religion, always referred to himself as a historian of religion and never as a phenomenologist. Wilfred Cantwell Smith, as we have noted, drew a close connection between describing the phenomena of religion (the expressions of faith) and the history of religions (the cumulative tradition). In these fundamental ways, the phenomenology of religion and the history of religions have grown up side by side and are interlinked traditionally as disciplines devoted to the academic study of religion. One way of understanding the relationship between phenomenology and history is to note the distinction between synchronic and diachronic studies of religion. Phenomenology has tended to be associated with synchronic studies of religion, that is, how religious phenomena ‘appear’ in the present to the mind of the researcher. This does not refer simply to contemporary studies or descriptions that occur from field observations. Following Husserl and van der Leeuw, reading texts also entails an analysis of the consciousness and employs techniques such as epoché, empathetic interpolation and maintaining epoché in order that typologies in support of an informed comparison can be undertaken (see van der Leeuw, 1938: 672). The consciousness of the observer, the categories and the comparisons are synchronic, occurring in the present

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion and form part of the interpretation the phenomenologist gives to the data observed – including historical data. In order to avoid the charge that this fosters a kind of essentialist or ahistorical methodology, phenomenologists have stressed that the phenomena of religion can be understood only as part of the overall historical development of specific religions. This is why virtually every phenomenologist I have discussed thus far in this book emphasized history, whether it was voiced by Eliade as the history of hierophanies, by W. C. Smith as the cumulative tradition, or was contained in Bleeker’s notion entelechia. History as a diachronic study of religions and phenomenology as a synchronic typology work hand in glove to produce a common methodology which defines the study of religion as a classification in its own right. The social sciences and by extension, as we will see later in this chapter, some natural sciences, apply discipline-specific methods to study identifiable communities that make assertions about non-falsifiable alternate realities, and they also apply these methods to analyse how such communities legitimate their claims by appeals to transmitted authoritative traditions. A wide variety of academic methods within the social sciences in particular can be applied to the study of religion including, among others, psychology, sociology, anthropology, economics, politics, geography and sub-disciplines that have emerged from these larger headings, such as social psychology. Each of these employs methods appropriate to their disciplines and helps build up a fully interdisciplinary approach to the study of religion. As I discussed in Chapter 2, none of these claims as a discipline to focus exclusively on religion. Sociologists of religion are first sociologists, who apply techniques drawn from the larger sociological framework to the study of religious communities. The same applies to psychologists, anthropologists, economists, political scientists and geographers. Only those who follow methods derived from the phenomenology and history of religions claim to have developed methods uniquely applicable to the study of religion, and thus constitute a discipline in its own right alongside sociology, psychology, anthropology, politics, geography and other scientific approaches which can be applied to the study of religion. In other words, the phenomenology and history of religions taken together define the study of religion as a discipline with its own methodological approach. Religious Studies, understood in a fully multidisciplinary context, therefore, consists of the phenomenology and history of religions as the discipline dedicated uniquely to the study of religion and other scientific disciplines, which apply their own methods to analyse and interpret religious phenomena.

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These considerations lead to conclusions about the academic study of religion. The social sciences, including the phenomenology and history of religions, study human responses to postulated revelatory acts emanating from any tradition’s understanding of its alternate realities. Philosophy, based on the method of rationality, provides a foundation on which all empirical sciences are built. Theology, which begins from an ‘insider’ perspective, analyses the revelation which its particular tradition treats as normative. As such, theology does not study religion, but on the basis of its own privileged tradition, may seek to understand the relationship among the religions. In Christian terms, this often produces theologies of pluralism or interfaith dialogue, but they remain theological nonetheless and do not belong within the scientific study of religion.

Theoretical objections to the phenomenology of religion and its defence Despite my contention that the phenomenology and history of religions define the key methodologies relevant to the study of religion as a subject in its own right, recent criticisms of the phenomenology of religion have called into question its continued academic credibility. These can be summarized under three central themes: (1) the philosophical dependency of the phenomenology of religion on Husserl has resulted in critical errors in applying the method for obtaining and interpreting research data; (2) the notion that religion is a subject in its own right with its own unique methodology is based on an essentialist, quasi-theological ideology; (3) the phenomenology of religion, as a reaction against scientific reductionism, employs its own form of theological reductionism within the study of religion. In the sections which follow, I summarize the main arguments in support of these key objections to the phenomenology of religion and then in each instance offer my own responses in defence of the method. Objections to the phenomenology of religion I. Philosophical. As we saw in Chapter 2, Edmund Husserl claimed that a failure to analyse how the subject and the object interacted in the apprehension of the external world characterized contemporary science, which unreflectively accepted what individuals

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion perceive without giving primacy to the place of consciousness in the apprehension of the external world. Husserl called this the natural attitude, a viewpoint embedded in all forms of scientific positivism. By performing the epoché, Husserl proposed a method for suspending judgements on the existence of the external world in order that an analysis of consciousness could be made the foundation for knowledge. Following Husserl, phenomenologists of religion argued that only by employing the method of empathetic interpolation, or cultivating a feeling for the religious experience of the believer, could the subjective observer enter into the object of study and thereby overcome the distance between the scholar of religion and religious adherents. According to Gavin Flood, a contemporary scholar of Hinduism, the phenomenology of religion followed too closely just at this point Husserl’s notion of bracketing out ‘the natural attitude’. On Flood’s analysis of Husserl (1999: 100), when the natural attitude is in play, existence is taken for granted, but when it is put in brackets, ‘the ego “abstains” from the world’s affirmation or denial’. This procedure is undertaken in order that the meaning of the phenomena apprehended in perception can be understood directly by the observer, who has become freed by the epoché from considering the question of the existence of the phenomena. Within the phenomenology of religion, however, the separation between existence and meaning contradicts the ‘idea of phenomenological neutrality’ (Flood, 1999: 102). Describing facts while remaining ‘agnostic’ about the ‘truth content’ or ‘existence’ of that to which the facts refer, in Flood’s view (1999: 102), ‘creates an immediate tension if the claim of phenomenology is that an accurate understanding of religious statements can be made by its method’. In other words, to withhold judgement about the truth claims of a religion follows precisely the Husserlian division between existence and meaning, but in the process it restricts understanding on a believer’s own terms, since believers insist on asserting the very truth claims on which phenomenologists refuse to comment. A second philosophical problem the phenomenology of religion inherited from Husserl, according to Flood, results from Husserl’s argument that the individual consciousness is at the same time both particular and universal, operating under individual constraints but possessing a kind of universal rationality that combines passive receptions of the data of the world with an active ordering of them into coherent patterns. As I noted in Chapter 2, in Husserl’s view, the observer, although particular and individual, asserts a common understanding of the world with others, or obtains intersubjectivity,

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through empathy. In the phenomenology of religion, this same process operates when the subjective observer, in this case the scholar of religion, is able to penetrate into the inner meaning of religious facts. This, according to Flood, has resulted in the overriding emphasis among phenomenologists on subjective states, conveyed in terms of numinous experience, faith or inner enlightenment. Flood argues that this can be seen clearly in the case of Eliade, where religion is construed in terms of the observer’s ability to feel ‘as if’ one were religious by entering into the mind of the religious person. For Flood, this turns the study of religion into a study of the structure of the religious ‘consciousness’ because it is wed to the idea it imported from Husserl that ‘assumes the universality of the rational subject . . . who can, through objectification, have access to a truth external to any particular historical and cultural standpoint’ (Flood, 1999: 108). In defence of phenomenology I. Addressing philosophical objections. A central philosophical objection to the phenomenology of religion, as expressed by Flood, centres on the problem created by the researcher’s need to maintain epoché with respect to what identifiable communities postulate about their alternate realities. This creates for Flood the artificial distinction between existence and meaning, artificial at least from the adherent’s perspective. I drew attention to this problem when I was discussing the attitudinal phases in the phenomenological method in Chapter 3. I suggested that one resolution to this problem was developed by Ninian Smart who advocated a method of ‘bracketed expression’, where the moods, feelings, attitudes and emotions of the believers are inserted within the scholar’s bracketed consciousness (Smart, 1973a: 33). Although this does not entail a commitment to the existence of the objects about which the community expresses its religious beliefs (the researcher maintains, in Smart’s terms, an ‘agnostic’ attitude towards the truth claims of the religious community), it does encourage scholars to relay a sense of what is being experienced by adherents as they perform and participate in various religious activities. This is achieved mainly by applying the step in the method, following van der Leeuw, I have called empathetic interpolation (van der Leeuw, 1938: 674–5). Bracketed expression does not overcome Flood’s objection that the phenomenology of religion separates existence from meaning, since meaning – from a believer’s point of view – is what is conveyed in the scholar’s descriptions. Claims of truth and value (existence) by definition are placed within brackets, whereas meaning is conveyed by the way the researcher presents and interprets the data. Although various methods can be offered to get around this

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion problem, in my view, the essential problem remains intractable. Unless the scholar proposes either to reject or affirm the truth claims of the religious community under study, a position of empathetic neutrality is the best that can be achieved. To reject the positions maintained by believers, of course, is possible, but this is characteristic of certain types of explanations, which themselves are based on ideological presuppositions, as we saw, for example, in the Freudian interpretation of religion as an ‘infantile neurosis’. Nonetheless, to affirm the positions of believers as ‘really real’ is to cross over the line from seeking understanding to conversion. The phenomenological aim of attempting to communicate the sense of what it is to be a believer in an identifiable community without passing judgement on the actual truth or falsehood of its postulated alternate realities, therefore, although fraught with difficulties, continues to define a benchmark for fairness in interpreting religions. As suggested by Wilfred Cantwell Smith (1981: 97), this sense of fairness must relate to at least three audiences at once: the religious group that is being studied, the academic community with its rigorous standards of critical analysis and members of the wider public who may struggle to understand religions with which they are unfamiliar. Flood’s second objection to the phenomenology of religion, that it inherits from Husserl an unavoidable subjectivity, strikes at the core of phenomenology’s claim to fall within the social sciences. Since in Husserl’s philosophy consciousness is accessible only to the one performing acts of consciousness, the assumption that other minds operate in exactly the same fashion cannot be tested. It is based on a ‘feeling for’ the other and results in Husserl’s attempt to overcome solipsism (the view that the individual consciousness is all that can be known to exist) through an alleged intersubjectivity between independent minds. In a like manner, phenomenologists of religion secure understanding of religious practices with which they are unfamiliar by appealing to a common humanity based on the assumption that nothing human can be truly alien to other humans. In other words, even though the eyes of faith are denied to the scholar of religion, it is possible to imagine what it would be like to possess a vision based on faith. Smart (1984: 264) provides several examples of how common human experiences provide the basis for achieving empathetic understanding. He says that as a man, he can never experience what it is to conceive and give birth to a child. Yet, through the use of empathy, he can cultivate a feeling for a woman’s experience and through interpolation can understand what it is to create and give birth to, for example, ideas or projects. He provides another example of visiting a murderer in prison.

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Although he hopes never to experience personally what it would be like to kill another human, he can understand how an individual might attain such a level of rage that he could actually take another life. As a human being, it is possible to understand others through a process of empathy based on the assumption that humans all basically think alike. Although solipsism can never be disproved, it remains an untenable philosophical position since a theory of knowledge can never proceed without the assumption that other minds experience the world in roughly similar ways (see Popkin and Stroll, 1986: 146). For this reason, Husserl can hardly be faulted for asserting common patterns of human thought which can be ascertained through assumed intersubjective experiences. In a like manner, the phenomenologist of religion takes for granted that religious people have shared ways of expressing their beliefs in postulated alternate realities, an understanding of which can be penetrated through a combination of empathy and interpolation. This means that the phenomenologist often refers to numinous experiences or, following Eliade, describes the longing of the religious person to be as near the sacred as possible in time and space, through myths and rituals (see, for example, Eliade, 1987: 43). These represent scholarly interpretations generated by a careful analysis of data, but at the same time ones that are provoked by a subjective empathy. Such interpretations give insight into how the religious mind operates, or better, how the mind operates when it perceives the world religiously. So, in one sense Flood is correct when he argues that the phenomenologist of religion conceives the world by projecting the numinous experience of the believer onto the data. This is done nonetheless in the interests of objectivity, that is, to disclose the way the religious mind functions as part of a shared human way of thinking, but which at the same time is expressed in multiple ways in specific social and cultural contexts. Objection to the phenomenology of religion II. Its hidden theological agenda. As we have seen, phenomenologists of religion repeatedly insisted that religion exists as an entity in itself, or as a classification sui generis, which requires specific methodological tools unique to its subject matter that are quite separate from any operating within the social sciences. It is this claim that has brought charges from many scholars that the phenomenology of religion is ideologically based and therefore more akin to theology than to genuine scientific disciplines. Following this line of thinking, Robert Segal of the University of Aberdeen has launched a stinging criticism of the phenomenology of religion (Segal, 1999: 139–163). In particular, Segal

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion has attacked Eliade for confusing the study of religion in its own right with religious faith and thus of moving out of science into theology. Segal accuses Eliade of adopting a faith stance through his contention that the central component in religion is the sacred which believing communities apprehend through hierophanies. As we have seen, Eliade, and others writing in the phenomenological tradition, insist that all interpretations of religious beliefs and practices must be expressed in terms believers themselves can affirm, or at the very least in language that does not offend religious communities. Segal counters that by subjecting academic interpretations to the believers’ own authority, the scholar of religion not only describes the perspectives of adherents but actually endorses them. In Segal’s words (1999: 143), this position forces phenomenologists of religion to affirm that ‘the conscious, irreducibly religious meaning for believers is its true one, which means at once its true one for them and its true one in itself’. A similar critique has been offered recently by Paul-François Tremlett, an anthropologist and researcher at the School of Oriental and African Studies in London. Like Segal, Tremlett’s chief offender is Mircea Eliade, whose primary aim in all his academic writings, according to Tremlett, is to restore authentic meaning to a world which in modernity has deviated from its original, primordial spiritual orientation, defined by Eliade as seeking to be as near the sacred as possible. Tremlett (2008: 30) suggests that Eliade’s mission is consistent with the phenomenological aim a whole, which abandons it claim to ‘value-neutrality by allowing certain assumptions about the reality or truth of the sacred to structure [its] mode of enquiry’. This is consistent with Segal’s charge that the emphasis within the phenomenology of religion on preserving a religious standpoint requires phenomenologists actually to endorse that standpoint. This view is confirmed, according to Tremlett (2008: 47), by Eliade’s analysis of sacred space which ‘founds, establishes and fixes the world, giving it meaning and moral content’. He adds (2008: 47): ‘Modernity is, for Eliade a kind of pathological condition marked by alienation, loss, relativism, amnesia and ultimately nihilism.’ This leads to Tremlett’s conclusion (2008: 47) that the phenomenology of religion is not only value-laden but based on an ideology, the purpose of which ‘is to make a contribution towards the re-awakening of humanity’s essential spirituality in order to re-enchant the world’. Segal and Tremlett are not alone in suggesting that the phenomenology of religion, rather than providing a scientific methodology for religious studies, actually restricts it within boundaries dictated by theological assumptions.

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Similar criticisms have been developed and expanded by Timothy Fitzgerald of the University of Stirling in his controversial book, The Ideology of Religious Studies (2000), but Fitzgerald carries his argument to even more radical conclusions than either Segal or Tremlett by contending that the term religion as an analytical category should be abandoned as an essentialist, ideological concept created by theologians for theological purposes. Fitzgerald’s primary target is not Mircea Eliade but Ninian Smart, whom he accuses of maintaining ‘an essentialist, reified concept of religion and religions’ based on the idea that religion is ‘a distinctive and analytically separable kind of thing in the world that can be identified and distinguished from non-religious institutions throughout the vast range of human cultures’ (Fitzgerald, 2000: 55). This becomes particularly clear when Smart applies his dimensional categories to religions, whereby the core of religion is expressed in various observable forms, such as myths, rituals, art and legal institutions. Fitzgerald (2000: 56) claims that ‘the imagery is of a primary substance, an essence, taking on some of the secondary properties of the institutional media through which it manifests itself’. This essentialist notion of religion is also implied in Smart’s distinction between religions and worldviews or between what Fitzgerald calls (2000: 56) ‘religions proper (Islam, or Buddhism for instance) and religionlike ideologies such as nationalism, Marxism, Maoism, and Freudianism’. Maoism, as a secular ideology in Smart’s thinking, for example, can be analysed according to the dimensional model, just as can Buddhism, but only Buddhism can be regarded as encompassing a genuinely religious worldview because ‘it is centred on the transcendent’, which defines its core or irreducible essence (Fitzgerald, 2000: 58; see Smart, 1977 [1969]: 14–5; Smart, 1997: 8). This, according to Fitzgerald, demonstrates that Smart’s phenomenology depended on a transcendent reality at the core of religion, which, in line with Segal and Tremlett, leads Fitzgerald to conclude that phenomenologists not only interpreted religion theologically but endorsed a theological interpretation of religion. Fitzgerald also devotes a section of his book to the thought of Wilfred Cantwell Smith, who he contends, like Smart, has smuggled into his analysis of religion a transcendental element. Fitzgerald (2000: 47) observes: ‘Smith is defining our subject of study in terms of fundamental values that are represented as transcendental.’ These values in turn are interpreted theologically, since in Smith’s writings the term transcendent ‘refers to an absolute reality, a monotheistic Being who creates the world and invests human life and history with purpose’. In this way, Smith has imposed his own Christian assumptions

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion onto a field he has accused of being undermined by the increasing power of Western scientific thinking. In the end, Smith falls prey to a fundamental contradiction of thought. On the one hand, he offers a biting critique of the category religion while ‘as a modern liberal ecumenical’ theologian, he is caught up in promoting the very category he has rejected. Fitzgerald (2000: 47) concludes: ‘He has himself proclaimed his own faith, which he uses as the framework of basic presuppositions in terms of which he wishes to explain the data of other ideologies.’ The theological problem identified by Segal, Tremlett and Fitzgerald points in their collective view towards a ubiquitous phenomenological error, resulting not from the careful descriptions and the resulting classifications phenomenologists have employed to interpret a variety of social and cultural activities, but from their insistence that for something to qualify as religion, it must refer to a transcendental entity. Segal, Tremlett and Fitzgerald thus would have us conclude that the phenomenology of religion, rather than being situated squarely within the social sciences, belongs rather to theology since its commitment to the reality of ‘the sacred’ or ‘the transcendent’, its manifestations and its meanings conform squarely to a theological analysis of postulated revelatory acts. In defence of phenomenology II. Answering the charge of phenomenology as a surreptitious theology. Does the effort by phenomenologists to present the beliefs and practices of religious communities in terms that believers can affirm amount to endorsing the beliefs and practices of religious adherents? To deny the right of non-believing scholars, such as Freud or Durkheim, to interpret religions in ways that offend believers, according to Segal and Tremlett, is to place restrictions on academic freedom on quasi-theological grounds. Theologians, of course, do not interpret their religious tradition from the stance of a non-believer, but a social scientist might, and often does. As we have seen, phenomenologists must act ‘as if’ they are believers in order to gain an insider’s understanding of religious traditions, but at the same time they must maintain neutrality or impartiality by refraining from making any judgement on a community’s beliefs or practices. Segal argues that the believer truly is a believer who embraces as real the object of faith, whereas the phenomenologist, who only pretends to be a believer, cannot really obtain understanding, unless the boundary between belief and non-belief is transgressed and the phenomenologist actually becomes a believer. In other words, phenomenology, according to Segal, is caught in a massive contradiction: by privileging the believers’ perspectives, the method places limits on scientific

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interpretations, but at the same time the method never allows the scholar to achieve genuine understanding (that is, as a believer understands) due to its commitment to academic neutrality. This is a powerful argument but one that is locked into an oppositional or dichotomous way of thinking. Either one is a believer or one is not a believer. The scholar either adopts the perspective of the non-believing social scientist and interprets religion necessarily as an outsider by giving no priority to a believer’s own point of view or the scholar, in the phenomenological tradition, acts like a believer and endorses the religious perspective as an insider. I have argued against this dichotomous view in previous publications (1993: 103–123; 1996: 162–170; 1998: 94–97) by suggesting that the philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein’s analysis of language demonstrated that oppositional thinking does not provide the only, or indeed the best way, for understanding relationships in the world. Following Wittgenstein, as he was interpreted by the theologian David Krieger (1991: 110–8), I contended that just like games we play in everyday life, we can move into and out of various methods in the study of religions without contradiction. In order to play a game, one must abide by the regulations of that game, but when one plays a different game, the operable rules vary. We cannot apply the rules of one game to another nor arbitrarily change the rules of a game, but we certainly can understand more than one game at once and know how to play many games well. When this analogy is applied to the study of religions, to argue that a non-believer cannot suspend personal judgements by using alternative methods to enter into the viewpoint of another is like saying we can never learn to play a different game from the one we know best and play regularly. The phenomenology of religion, as I argued at the beginning of this chapter, applies methods that differ from those employed within specific social scientific disciplines, but this neither invalidates the phenomenological method nor disparages the tools used by the other social sciences. It is like playing more than one game and understanding that different rules apply to each. The aim of the phenomenology of religion is to promote understanding in ways that can be affirmed by believing communities, but certainly not in confessional terms which would be employed by members of those communities as genuine insiders. The interpretations promoted by phenomenologists must speak to the academic community and must be able to withstand rigorous scholarly scrutiny. Where they do not, they require modification or, in some cases, rejection. In this sense, phenomenologists are playing by the same rules as other social scientists. Yet, by limiting their interpretations to theories

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion that encourage understanding of a religious community in terms acceptable within the community, phenomenologists adhere to a self-imposed rule within a discipline devoted exclusively to the study of religion. This method does not dictate to other disciplines in the social sciences what interpretations are permitted or feasible. Phenomenologists argue, for example, that Freud might be right that religion is an infantile neurosis (whether it is or not must be capable of falsification), but from the point of view of a believer this could never be regarded as a correct explanation of religion. In order to promote understanding from the inside, phenomenologists of religion deliberately limit themselves to scholarly interpretations that in principle could be affirmed by believers. This is like playing a game that, although related to other games, operates according to its own rules. Only dichotomous thinking prohibits the scholarly community from playing by many rules, just so the overriding or overarching rule imposes the principle of non-falsifiablity as applied to every game played in the scientific arena. In this sense, it is Segal, and in so far as they support his conclusions, Tremlett and Fitzgerald, who unduly restrict the freedom of interpretation in a scientific sense by their unwavering commitment to dualistic thinking. Mircea Eliade, who has been the target of many opponents of the phenomenological method, as Tremlett rightly observes, contends that a lack of religious orientation defines the central problem of modernity. In other words, Eliade advocates for the superiority of a religious as opposed to a secular view of the world. It can be argued that Eliade has used the data he has collected in his many volumes to bolster this contention. The objection to his conclusions, however, must be based not on his personal religious stance, but on how accurately his interpretations fit the data and how well they stimulate understanding of religious communities. His model of religion is rooted in hierophanies, the priority of the sacred, the importance of cosmogonic myths and their ritual re-enactments and structures that are found in myths and rituals, such as symbols of the axis mundi in the form of trees, mountains, birds, shamanic practitioners, the Kaaba in Mecca or the cross of Christ – all of which must be capable of empirical testing. His own personal view that a religious life is superior to a non-religious one is incapable of being falsified and must be placed outside scientific judgement. Even his view that the sacred and its manifestations define the core meaning of religion must be supported by evidence. If Eliade personally believes that the reality of the sacred defines meaning for humanity, this is secondary to subjecting his theoretical interpretations to the judgement provided by the empirical data of religion. The

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sacred, as a word indicating what religious communities most value, need not exist on a metaphysical plane for Eliade’s interpretation to shed light on what it is to be religious and how the structure of the religious mind apprehends reality. Objection to the phenomenology of religion III. Theological reductionism within phenomenology’s anti-reductionism. We have seen how on one level the anti-reductionist tendencies of phenomenologists were developed to limit the effect of potentially distorting biases, described by Kristensen as the application of evolutionary theories to religions and cultures, and by Eliade and Smart as the tendency within the social sciences to treat religious practices as ‘epiphenomena’ of more fundamental processes, such as social, psychological or economic forces (see, for example, Smart, 1973a: 51). A third criticism of phenomenology occurs at just this point, since, some detractors argue, by objecting to social scientific reductionism, phenomenologists have introduced their own form of theological reductionism into the study of religion. This objection has been voiced by Tremlett (2008: 42) who contends that the anti-reductionism of phenomenologists has grown out of their fear that ‘positive science . . . will always destroy meaning through its reduction to mere fact’. Fitzgerald agrees, arguing that although phenomenologists censured scholars in the social sciences for reducing religion to a subset of disciplines in the social sciences, they have fallen into the same trap by claiming that the special subject matter of religion requires its own tools for analysis that are denied to those studying religions culturally, socially, historically or from literary perspectives. Fitzgerald (2000: 225) summarizes his position as follows: ‘The persistence of the idea that “religion” picks out some further analytically significant aspect of human nature, or type of institution or experience, is an illusion generated by the theological wing of the academy under the camouflage of “the science of religion”.’ If Fitzgerald is correct, the phenomenology of religion is best classified under theology as a way of studying God or the alternate realities themselves. If scholars want to avoid the problems they have inherited from phenomenology and study religion non-theologically, Fitzgerald insists that they must focus on the real object of study: the social, ‘understood as the values of a particular group and their institutionalization in a specific context, including the way power is organized and legitimated’ (2000: 71). Fitzgerald concludes that the social is not some dimension of religion, some aspect that can be studied as if it were an ‘optional extra’, but ‘the actual locus of a nontheological interpretation’ (2000: 71). On this point,

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion Robert Segal (1999: 151) is in full agreement, arguing that social scientific reductionism is necessary, and indeed ‘is the only one possible’ for a genuinely academic, non-theological study of religion. Unless one actually is speaking as a believer, reductionistic interpretations, which use the tools of the social sciences rather than theology, provide the only avenue available for a scholar of religion. If social scientific interpretations have failed, Segal (1999: 156) adds, it is not ‘because they have been reductionistic . . . but because they have not been reductionistic enough’. The theological reductionism inherent in the phenomenology of religion operates on entirely different assumptions from social scientific reductionism, which by definition represents the standpoint of the non-believer. After all, a scholar cannot write as a believer non-theologically. In this sense, the phenomenology of religion, unwittingly or surreptitiously, endorses a theological interpretation, according to Segal, precisely because it fears that social scientific reductionism will ‘reduce God to a delusion’ (1999: 157). Eliade, above all, exemplifies this attitude, since, in Segal’s words, Eliade ‘insists on a nonreductionistic interpretation of religion in order to preserve the reality of God’ (1999: 157). In defence of phenomenology III. A case for non-theological comparative reductionism. In his stinging critique of the category religion, Fitzgerald has missed the critical point in the anti-reductionistic stance of the phenomenology of religion. The right to claim that phenomenology belongs among the social sciences results exclusively from the subject matter of the phenomenology of religion, which is limited to the study of socially constructed identifiable communities. Phenomenology does not profess to study the revelatory acts themselves, but human responses to what believers postulate as revelations from alternate realities. The aspects of identifiable communities which phenomenologists study focus on observable activities that communities organize around their postulated alternate realities and how they transmit their tradition authoritatively from generation to generation (synchronic and diachronic studies). The tools available to the phenomenologist are not designed to study the postulated alternate realities, but the phenomena of religion, that is, the responses the identifiable communities make to their postulated alternate realities, which phenomenologists organize into classifications or typologies. It is the believers who do the postulating and they who make comments on the reality of their alternate realities. The phenomenologist is prohibited by the constraints of science from studying the alternate realities themselves.

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How then does this differ from other social sciences? If, for example, psychologists propose to study religious behaviour, they apply methodologies drawn from within the academically accepted boundaries of the discipline called psychology to study how individuals respond to and influence the interpretations of the alternate realities postulated within identifiable communities. Sociologists, political scientists, geographers and anthropologists each use the tools of their discipline to offer insights on the community’s beliefs, institutions, and activities relevant to the postulated non-falsifiable alternate realities. Psychologists, sociologists, political scientists, geographers and anthropologists do much more than study the way their discipline understands how communities relate to what they postulate to be alternate realities, but when they do so, we say they are applying the tools unique to their discipline to the study of religion. The phenomenology of religion in partnership with history, although not possessing exclusively the attitudinal and descriptive methodologies applicable to the wider scientific study of religion, alone classifies religious phenomena, identifies the structural characteristics of religion and interprets the meaning of religion without potentially offending believers. The interpretations of religion offered by phenomenologists of religion in this sense differ markedly from those emanating from other disciplines. For example, to return to Eliade, the structure of religion as a history of hierophanies (as seen from the believer’s perspective) which provide order, orientation and meaning (again from a believer’s point of view), although not inherently contradicting any social scientific interpretation of religion, certainly differs from any that would be offered by psychologists, sociologists, economists, political scientists, geographers or anthropologists. Yet, Eliade’s structure of religion adds to scholarly knowledge by offering interpretations of the data that encourage understanding of how religious people apprehend the world. At the same time, his interpretation can be tested against the data of religion, and therefore can be falsified or modified depending on results provided by empirical studies. It is true that since Eliade’s interpretation of religion does not offend believers it may lend itself readily for use by theologians, but this does not mean that the interpretation itself is theological. So, if the phenomenology of religion does not employ a form of theological reductionism, how can we explain the traditional anti-reductionist position maintained by most phenomenologists? At this point, I think we must situate early phenomenologists into their historical period. Kristensen and van der Leeuw in particular were writing at a time when many social scientists

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion uncritically assumed that civilizations could be ranked from primitive to developed, assumptions that were translated into rating religions from the lowest to the highest types following evolutionary models (see Cox, 2007: 10–13). Contemporary versions of phenomenology react less against explanatory theories of religion than earlier scholars in this field by considering them alongside other theories for testing and for constructing interdisciplinary comparisons. The fact that social scientists now admit to cultural biases and argue generally that it is necessary to adopt self-reflexive perspectives when studying human populations also shows that the social sciences have changed radically since the time Frazer and Tylor were constructing models of religious evolution and Freud and Durkheim were offering psychoanalytical and sociological explanations of religion. Phenomenologists of religion nowadays are inclined to place their interpretations alongside others developed in the social sciences in the belief that a multi-disciplinary approach offers a more scientifically sound, but a complex, route to understanding religions than can be attained by adhering to the tools of one discipline alone. As such, phenomenologists continue to resist singular explanations of religion, arguing that methods derived from the phenomenology and history of religions contribute substantially to an overall understanding of religions within contemporary societies. The phenomenology of religion continues to oppose all forms of reductionism which explain away other interpretations, even those emanating from the phenomenology of religion itself, and encourages crossdisciplinary dialogue as the most fruitful technique for attaining and communicating understanding of religions. In this sense, Fitzgerald is correct when he urges academics from all disciplines to study cultures comparatively, but he is wrong when he argues that the study of religion in its own right veils a surreptitious form of theological reductionism. My defence of the phenomenology of religion as belonging squarely within the social sciences, as a non-theological and non-reductive method and as multi-disciplinary in intent, is confirmed by its close alliance with the recent wave of academic interest from scholars of religion in the cognitive science of religion. I conclude this book, therefore, with a look ahead considering where the phenomenology of religion is most likely to find its renaissance in the twenty-first century. I find this through the somewhat surprising and at times startling similarities between the phenomenological method, which reached its heyday between 1940 and 1980, and the increasingly dominant commitment of contemporary scholars of religion to the cognitive science of religion, which I am dubbing ‘a new expression of the phenomenology of religion’.

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The cognitive science of religion as a new expression of the phenomenology of religion On its website, the recently founded International Association for the Cognitive Science of Religion (IACSR; http://www.iacsr.com) declares that the cognitive science of religion is ‘multidisciplinary’ drawing together ‘a wide variety of disciplines in the human, social, natural and health sciences’. In particular, it unites under a common banner scholars of religion and those ‘that normally do not deal with religion’ such as ‘cognitive scientists and experimental psychologists’. The Secretary General of the IACSR is Armin Geertz of the University of Aarhus in Denmark and the former Secretary General of the International Association for the History of Religions. Geertz and his colleague Jeppe Sinding Jensen are managing a major project at the University of Aarhus under the title, ‘Religion, Cognition and Culture’, the purpose of which is to explore ‘religion in general as a formative factor in cognition and culture’ based on the findings of their earlier research that ‘religion is a very rich resource in manipulating the mechanisms connecting individual brains and bodies with social brains and bodies’ (http://www.teo.au.dk/en/research/ current/cognition: accessed 8 April 2009). I draw attention to these recent developments to indicate that theories linked with the cognitive science of religion are now capturing a major interest amongst scholars who formally and deliberately dissociate themselves from theological interests. On its website, the IACSR makes this quite explicit: The IACSR seeks to advance the naturalistic study of religion. Those interested in dialogue between science and religion, attempts to find religion in science and science in religion, or attempts to validate religious or spiritual doctrines through cognitive science should seek other associations and other forums that better address such concerns (http: www.iacsr.com/Home.html: accessed 8 April 2009).

This statement corresponds in part to the traditional aims of the phenomenology of religion to study religions non-theologically and from multidisciplinary perspectives without reducing religion to singular explanatory theories. If the future of the non-theological and non-reductive study of religions is closely aligned with the cognitive science of religion, my argument is that it represents a contemporary reinvention of many of the ideas associated

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion with the phenomenology of religion and thus, in so far as it retains a mainstream location in universities and amongst researchers, the cognitive science of religion may merge with phenomenology of religion to produce the next advances in the academic study of religion. As I indicated, the cognitive science of religion draws from many disciplines and thus it cannot be summarized precisely in a brief series of statements. Yet, certain themes emerge from those writing in this field from perspectives within the study of religion. Historically, according to the Finnish scholar Ilkka Pyysiäinen (2002: 3), interest in this area of study can be traced to an important book by Dan Sperber, first published in English in 1975 as Rethinking Symbolism, but research in the cognitive approach was advanced significantly in 1980 through a seminal article by Stewart E. Guthrie under the title, ‘A Cognitive Theory of Religion’. Guthrie’s main contention, which he later formulated into a full-blown theory (2003), was that humans tend to anthropomorphize objects of nature, projecting humanlike qualities onto inanimate objects as well as onto plants and animals. This, of course, is not a new idea, since it was advanced by E. B. Tylor during the latter part of the nineteenth century as the theory of animism. As we saw in Chapter 2, for Tylor, religion originated in the common operation of the human mind when humans projected a soul onto animate and inanimate objects on the basis of their experiences in dreams and their observations of the apparent loss of a spirit or breath when a person dies. Cognitive scientists of religion extended Tylor’s projection theory by promoting the notion that humans perceive life forms all around them as part of a process of evolutionary survival. In other words, it is safer to think that a noise in the night is an intruder than to assume it is a branch of a tree blown by the wind against a window. By attributing life force to inanimate objects, humans in the scheme of evolution fostered their survival against real and imagined threats. The cognitive scientist of religion, Justin Barrett (2006: 91–2), has coined the term ‘Hyperactive Agency Detection Device’ (HADD) to represent just this intense human sensitivity, born out of survival instincts, to perceive the activity of independent agents even when no such activity is actually present. The beginning point within the cognitive science of religion thus is based on the notion that all humans think more or less the same and respond to the environment using similar cognitive processes. How do we move then from the notion that humanlike agents populate the natural world to beliefs in supernatural agency? In his introduction to his edited reader entitled Religion and Cognition, D. Jason Slone (2006: 5) argues that ‘supernatural

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agent concepts involve ordinary agent concepts (e.g. person, animal) with one or two violations of domain-specific agents (e.g. they have minds with beliefs and desires) but with one or two “supernatural” capacities (e.g. their minds know everything)’. This idea, following the work of Pascal Boyer (1994), introduces two key concepts that are fundamental for cognitive scientists of religion: counter-intuitive ways of thinking and violation of ontological boundaries. Pyysiäinen (2003: 19) argues that in order to explain what cognitivists mean by counter-intuitive patterns of thought, we need first to understand what is entailed by intuitive ways of thinking. The beginning point, he explains, it to understand that human thought developed in response to the material environment, which largely was the same for every culture. This, he says, accounts for similarities in ‘our brains and cognitive machinery’ (2003: 19). For example, Pyysiäinen notes, if we are told about some species of animal that we previously have not heard about, we infer immediately that the animal is mortal and that it is not made out of metal, although we would never have been given this information directly. He concludes from this that ‘it is beyond reasonable doubt that all humans have such intuitive knowledge concerning physical objects, natural kinds (plants and animals), and persons’ (2003: 20). As a result of intuitive thinking, we apply ‘physical explanations to physical objects’ and biological explanations to living kinds (plants, animals and humans) (Pyysiäinen, 2003: 20). This is what is meant by domain-specific ontological boundaries. Animals are not made out of metal; humans are not immortal; living things cannot walk through physical objects. These boundaries are known intuitively and construct the human response to the environment in which we have been born and in which all cultures have developed. Pyysiäinen (2003: 20) explains that counter-intuitive thinking violates these ontological boundaries when, for example, will or intention is attributed to inanimate objects or, conversely, normal biological limitations are denied to living beings. This does not mean that counter-intuitive thinking is ‘ridiculous’ or that it is ‘false’, but that it occurs strictly whenever ontological boundaries are violated. He explains: ‘It is, for example, considered quite natural that god exists, although one does not intuitively expect a person to lack a physical body. In other words, a believer in god intuitively assumes that all other persons, except for god, have bodies’ (2003: 20). This means that supernatural agents relate to and are derived out of intuitive ways of thinking as counter-intuitive projections, or as Pascal Boyer (2002: 161–2) and other

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion cognitive scientists of religion have put it, ‘gods are “minimally counterintuitive” agents’. Because counter-intuitive agents are minimally counter-intuitive, humans interact with them in the same ways that they interact with intuitive agents in normal social situations. The difference is that interaction with counter-intuitive agents occurs generally in ritual contexts. Building on the work of E. Thomas Lawson and Robert N. McCauley (1990), Justin Barrett (2006: 93) notes that rituals operate as a ‘subclass’ within larger religious activities, but they differ in that they specifically involve agency. In other words, rituals ‘are distinguished by being represented as an agent acting upon someone or something (a “patient”) to bring about some state of affairs, by virtue of invoking supernatural causation’. In his explanation of Lawson and McCauley’s theory, Barrett notes that the three elements of ritual consist of: (1) a supernatural (counter-intuitive) agent; (2) acting on someone or something in need of the action; (3) in order to effect a change in the situation constituting the need. Ritual can be analysed from the perspective of the action involved, the one in need or on the result produced by the action. With the notion that humans think counter-intuitively when they are thinking religiously, although minimally, combined with the anthropomorphic explanation of religious ideas, we see that normal social operations are transferred in ritual contexts to agents with powers that extend beyond ordinary human powers. In other words, if what I have called the alternate realities are indeed alternate and not alternative, they enter into and engage with human beings in a space and time that is out of the ordinary (counter-intuitive) but at the same time (from the perspective of ritual participants) efficacious within ordinary space and time. The way ontological boundaries are crossed in this view is determined by the social and cultural contexts in which the rituals are performed, but the need to cross the boundaries is created by the situation which the ritual is intended to address. This point has been made by Todd Tremlin in his recent book, Minds and Gods: The Cognitive Foundations of Religion (2006). In Tremlin’s view, the social context dictates the need for religious rituals that employ beliefs in counter-intuitive agents. He explains: ‘The counterintuitive property that makes supernatural beings immediately salient and especially relevant to human life is that they have unique access to what matters most to minds like ours – strategic information and personal moral qualities’ (Tremlin, 2006: 120).

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Cognitive scientists of religion claim that their approach to the study of religion is fully testable using experimental methods most often applied in quantitative analysis. For example, in his reader on this subject, Slone (2006: 5) argues that ‘experimental evidence provides more powerful support for scientific claims than passive observational support for the reason that experiments are controlled tests of potentially causal variables’. Included in his book are results of experiments conducted by Justin Barrett and Melanie Nyhof (2006: 149–77) and Pascal Boyer and Charles Ramble (2006: 178–214) which test different types of counter-intuitive perceptions among controlled groups. In addition, chapters are devoted to presenting the results of psychological investigations in how children reason about religion. In the last chapter of the book Rebekeh Richert (2006: 337–51) tests the theories of the cognitive anthropologist Harvey Whitehouse by constructing what Slone calls ‘several artificial rituals for subjects to perform’ under controlled conditions. Slone (2006: 9–10) concludes that such ‘experimental findings . . . provide robust support for core hypotheses in the field’. This very brief review of the cognitive science of religion shows several points of contact with traditional phenomenological approaches to the study of religion, which I summarize in the following points: 1. Since all humans think basically alike, common cognitive structures can be identified that help explain the universal fact of religion in human life; 2. These structures can be broken down into sub-sets (typologies) and analysed according to the way they operate within religious communities; 3. Religions focus on agents that operate in ordinary space and time in often extraordinary ways (counter-intuitive agents, or alternate realities, crossing ontological boundaries); 4. The ways humans express religious thinking conform to culturally determined symbolic representations, and thus differ in their specific content; 5. Theories interpreting (or explaining) religious behaviours and practices must be fully testable (or falsifiable) following strictly defined scientific procedures; 6. Theological explanations are excluded from the scientific study of religions; 7. A fully multi-disciplinary scientific approach is advocated, although the cognitive approach extends beyond the social sciences to the natural and medical sciences – an advancement that can be included within the phenomenological tradition.

These common interests suggest that phenomenologists of religion can sit easily within the cognitive science of religion, and indeed, the merger of phenomenology into the cognitive sciences may herald an important future direction defining dominant trends in the academic study of religion. Some

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An Introduction to the Phenomenology of Religion points of warning, nonetheless, should be noted. The phenomenology of religion, as we have seen, has stressed that interpretations and indeed explanations of religion should be capable of being affirmed by believers, or at least not be offensive to believers. We have seen how this entails on one level a potential contradiction, since phenomenologists refuse to comment on the truth or value of any religion studied. The cognitive science of religion, although potentially offensive to believers, need not be, as Pyysiäinen has underscored: counter-intuitive thinking is not ridiculous or odd; it is human. The other point of warning is to avoid adopting one approach (the cognitive method) as an exclusive method in the study of religions, particularly insofar as it emphasizes experimental and controlled testing as opposed to ethnographic studies which often involve participant observations on the part of the researcher. Experimental testing based on quantitative research methods yields measurable results, but this is not superior to qualitative methods in which the researcher enters into the life of those being researched and provides interpretations based on sound scientific methods. Qualitative research cannot be replicated in the way that quantitative research can be, but it can be documented and traced, and hence tested (see, for example, LeCompte and Schensul, 1999: 85–93). I conclude this book by forecasting that the phenomenology of religion, with its important antecedent figures I have referred to repeatedly, like Kristensen, van der Leeuw, Bleeker, Eliade, Smart and Cantwell Smith, can fit into and complement the current movement among scholars of religion who have aligned themselves with the cognitive science of religion. Indeed, phenomenology, due to its traditional emphasis on maintaining a nontheological, non-reductive and yet multi-disciplinary approach to the study of religion promises to forge a creative synthesis with the new wave of cognitive scientists working in the field of religious studies. This synthesis suggests that the phenomenology of religion can balance out the reductive tendencies implicit in the cognitive science of religion by insisting that the primary task of the student of religion is to foster scholarly understanding, whereas the cognitive sciences can counter the essentialist tendencies within the phenomenology of religion by anchoring it firmly to its longstanding commitment to scientific objectivity. If I am right, the phenomenology of religion cannot be dismissed as a relic of twentieth century intellectual history but instead belongs at the forefront of new thinking in disciplinary developments studying human responses to what I have called throughout the chapters of this book postulated alternate realities.

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Questions for discussion 1. What is meant by the statement that the phenomenology of religion provides a non-reductive, non-theological approach to the study of religion? 2. Evaluate the claim that the study of religion is a topic in its own right demanding its own methodologies. 3. Why would theology be excluded from the academic study of religion? Do you agree? 4. What is the relationship between synchronic and diachronic studies of religion? 5. Evaluate the charge that the phenomenology of religion is a surreptitious form of theology. 6. Do the first three stages in the phenomenological method conceal hidden contradictions? Why or why not? 7. Explain the terms: (1) counter-intuitive ways of thinking; (2) violating ontological boundaries. How effectively do you think these explain the origin and development of religion across all cultures? 8. Evaluate the conclusion of the book that the phenomenology of religion and the cognitive science of religion share enough common characteristics that they can create a synthesis which will define the future direction in the academic study of religion.

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Index academic study of religion 51, 64, 146–70 see also religious studies African Indigenous Religions 58, 89, 134 Aiwel Longar 123–5 Åkerberg, Hans 41, 49, 50, 51, 52, 55, 59, 63 Ali, A. Yusuf 118, 126 Allah 54, 56, 109, 117–18, 125 Allegro, John 36 Allen, Diogenes 64 Allen, Douglas 68 alternate realities 15–17, 84, 89, 102, 104–5, 109, 111–14, 115, 116–17, 118–19, 127, 132–3, 140–1, 162–3, 168 Angel Gabriel 125 animism 38–9, 40–1, 45, 166 Aquinas, St. Thomas 3 Arnold, Matthew 4 art 105, 113–19 as applied to kurova guva ceremony 85 as an expression of religious tradition 113–14 as a phenomenon 113 presentational 114–16 religious practitioners use of 116–19 representational 114–16 atheist 12, 22, 44, 50 Atman 53, 136, 137, 138, 140 see also Brahman-Atman unity Bainbridge, William 35 Barrett, Justin 166, 168, 169 beliefs 132–44 anthropological 133, 134, 136, 138–9, 140 as applied to kurova guva ceremony 84, 85 numinological 133, 134, 136, 140 as a phenomenon 133, 141–2 soteriological 133, 134, 140 Bible 115–16, 117, 126

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biological evolution, theory of 36–9 Bleeker, C. Jouco 55–6, 61, 63–4, 149, 150, 170 Blythin, Islwyn 36–7 Bourdillon, M. F. C. 74–5, 78, 80 Boyer, Pascal 167, 169 Brahman 53, 135–6, 137, 138, 140 see also Brahman-Atman unity Brahman-Atman Unity 136, 138, 140, 141, 142 Bréhier, Émile 27 British Association for the Study of Religions 149 Buddha 62, 97, 109–11, 112, 118–19, 126 see also Siddhartha Gautama Buddhism 11, 12, 54, 61, 129, 157 Mahayana 110–11, 126 Theravada 62 Buddhist art 118–19 Cairns, D. S. 45 Campbell, Joseph 92, 95–6, 99, 101, 102, 103 caste system 128–9 Cavanagh, R. R. 3, 5, 9, 12–14, 15, 21, 114, 115 Chantepie de la Saussaye, P. D. 44 Childs, Brevard 97, 98 Christian art 114–15 Christian rituals 95, 97, 98, 106, 109 Christianity 61, 106, 126 Eastern Orthodox 114 effect of on kurova guva ceremony 76, 88–9 Protestant 44–5, 100, 126 Roman Catholic 75–6, 88, 117 Christmas 95 Clarke, W. Newton 3 Codrington, Bishop R. H. 38 cognitive science of religion 165–70 Comte, Auguste 37, 39 Confucianism 128 Confucius 128

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Index Copleston, Frederick 25, 135, 136 Coward, Harold 122, 125–6 Cox, James L. 18, 20, 27, 44, 61, 64, 65, 74, 100, 139, 164 Darwin, Charles 36 definitions of religion 1–23 functional 8–9 moral 4, 7 philosophical 4–5, 7 psychological 5–6, 7 sociological 6–7 stipulative 10, 14 substantive 8–9 theological 3–4, 7 working 12–18 Descartes, René 28 dharma 129 Dhavamony, M. 68 diachronic study of religion 149–50 Dinka people, Sudan 123–5 Durkheim, Émile 6, 8, 41, 42–4, 164 dynamism 38, 41, 60, 67 Easter 95, 98 eidetic intuition 29, 32, 63–8, 69, 70, 144 Eliade, Mircea 39, 64–8, 69, 70, 91, 92–4, 95, 96, 97–8, 99, 101, 102, 103, 106, 108, 110, 114, 116, 122, 124, 125, 149, 150, 153, 155–6, 157, 160–1, 162, 163, 170 empathetic interpolation 52–5, 70, 76, 87, 143, 144, 149, 152, 153 entelechia 61, 150 epoché 28–9, 30, 31, 32, 33, 39, 46, 49–52, 55–7, 76, 81, 87, 143, 144, 149, 152 Eskimo 107 ethics 129–30 Eucharist celebration 88, 93, 117 Faber, Frederick William 114–15 faith 66–8, 143–4 family resemblances theory 11, 14, 22 Feast of the Dead 101 Ferguson, John 3, 4, 5, 6–7, 8, 9, 14

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Feuerbach, Ludwig 5, 7, 40, 42, 43–4, 45 Fichte, Johann Gottlieb 25 Firth, Raymond 113 Fitzgerald, Timothy 157–8, 160, 161, 162, 164 Flood, Gavin 152, 153, 154, 155 Frazer, J. G. 37–8, 39, 164 Freud, Sigmund 5, 8, 41–2, 43–4, 160, 164 Freudian interpretation of religion 9, 50, 154 Ganges River 89, 95 Geertz, Armin 165 Guthrie, Stewart E. 166 Hall, T. W. 3, 5, 9, 12–14, 15, 21, 114, 115 Hartmann, Nicolai 26 Hebrew prophets 109, 112, 117 Hegel, G. W. F. 25 Heidegger, Martin 26 Hervieu-Léger, Danièle 9, 18–22 Hick, John 111 hierophanies 65–6, 69, 70, 93–4, 122, 124–5, 127–8 Hinduism 53, 96, 134 Vedantic 12, 135–41, 142 Hirschberger, J. 32 Höffding, Harald 6, 25 Husserl, Edmund 23, 25–7, 28–9, 30–3, 39, 46, 49, 50, 51, 52, 148, 151–3, 154, 155 Hyperactive Agency Detection Device (HADD) 166 intentionality 27–8, 54 International Association for the Cognitive Science of Religion (IACSR) 165 International Association for the History of Religions (IAHR) 149, 165 Isaiah 112 Islam 12, 61, 109, 117–18, 125–6 Jakobsen, Merete 106 James, George 34 Jensen, Jeppe Sinding 165 Jesus Christ 50, 56, 93, 95, 98, 109 as incarnation of God 111, 143 as a religious practitioner 110

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Index Joshi, L. M. 128–9 Judaism 61, 96–7, 98 Kant, Immanuel 4 Karanga people, Zimbabwe 69, 74 Karma 139–40 Kim, Kirsteen 126 Kim, Sebastian 126 King, Ursula 60 Klostermaier, Klaus 135, 139 Kramer, Kenneth 108–9, 118, 121, 128, 135, 141 Krieger, David 159 Kristensen, W. Brede 35, 51, 57, 59, 62, 70, 149, 161, 163, 170 Kurova guva ceremony 73–90 Kyungu 111 Langdon, Steve 100 Lawson, E. Thomas 168 LeCompte, Margaret D. 170 Leeuw, Gerardus van der 48–9, 50–1, 54, 55, 58, 68, 85, 149, 153, 163, 170 Lessa, William 6 Lienhardt, Godfrey 123–4 Lightgate Learning Center 20 Long, Charles 13 Lott, Eric 136, 138 Lotze, Hermann 25 Luther, Martin 126 McCauley, Robert N. 168 Madhva 135 magic 37 Malinowski, Bronislaw 6 Marcel, Gabriel 26 Marett, R. R. 37, 38–9, 41 Marx, Karl 6, 9 Marxism 22, 157 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice 25, 26, 28, 30, 32, 33 Michelangelo 115 Molendijk, Arie 10, 14 morality 127–30 distinction from ethics 129–30

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relation to scripture 127–9 as used in kurova guva ritual 84 Moses 126, 128 Mount Sinai 126 Muhammad 54, 109, 117, 125–6 Muslims 117, 118, 125 Myth of the Raven 100, 101, 103 myths 60, 88, 91–103, 115 cosmogonic 69, 86, 92 quasi-legendary 69, 92 relation to rituals 92–4, 98–9 socio-moral 69, 92 use in kurova guva ritual 85, 86 n’anga 77, 82, 87 Nelson, E. W. 100–1, 102 nhaka ceremony 80, 88, 103 noema 27, 31 Nirvana 109–10, 111 Nyakyusa people, Malawi 111 Nyhof, Melanie 169 Oedipus complex 41 OM 141–2 Oquilluk, William 107–8 Oswalt, Wendell 100, 101, 107, 114, 116 Otto, Rudolph 3, 7, 10 Parrinder, E. G. 75 Percheron, Maurice 118 Persia 96 Pettersson, Olaf 41, 49, 50, 51, 52, 55, 59, 63 phenomenological method 28–9, 32, 73, 143 stages in 48–71 philosophical phenomenology 24–33 Pilgrim, R. B. 3, 5, 9, 12–14, 15, 21, 114, 115 Plantinga, Richard 59 Platvoet, J. G. 14, 34, 37, 39, 42, 43 Popper, Karl 16 positivism 26, 148, 152 principle of non-falsifiability 16–18, 21–2, 148, 160

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Index projectionist theories 40–4, 45 Prozesky, Martin 6 Pyysiäinen, Ilkka 166, 167, 170 Qur’an 66, 117–18, 125–6 Qasgiq 101, 102, 107 Ramanuja 135 Ramble, Charles 169 Ray, Benjamin 123 reductionism 161–4 social scientific 34–6 theological 44–6 Reinach, Salomon 4, 9 reincarnation 139 religion definitions of 1–23 theories of 40–4, 65, 151–64 religious practitioners 104–13, 116–19 holy person types 110–12, 113 in kurova guva ritual 84, 85 prophetic types 108–10, 112, 113 relation to art 116–19 shamanistic/priestly types 105–8, 112, 113 religious studies 12, 150 Richert, Rebekeh 169 Ricoeur, Paul 26 rigorous science 26 rituals 60, 88, 91–103, 115 calendrical 93 crisis 93 as demonstrated in kurova guva ceremony 84 life cycle 93 relation to myths 92–4, 98–9 Russell, Bertrand 5, 10 sahwira 78–9, 80, 85–6 Sankara 135, 138, 141 Sartre, Jean Paul 26 Scheler, Max 26 Schensul, Jean J. 170 Schleiermacher, Friedrich 5, 9 Schmidt, Wilhelm 37, 39

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scripture 121–7, 141 oral traditions 123–7 relation to morality 127–9 Segal, Robert 155–7, 158, 160, 162 self-reflexivity and phenomenology 52, 164 Shahadah, Islamic testimony of faith 54 shamanism 112, 105–8 shamans 114, 116–17 Sharpe, Eric 28, 39, 49, 51, 58, 60, 61–2, 134, 135 Shin Byu ceremony 54 Shona people, Zimbabwe 73, 74–7, 89 Siddhartha Gautama 97, 109–11, 126 Sikhism 125 Silva, António Barbosa da 44 Sivaraman, K. 140, 141 Slone, D. Jason 166, 169 Smart, Ninian 11–12, 14, 22, 54, 55, 56–7, 59, 68, 91, 94–5, 96, 98, 99, 101, 102, 103, 129, 135, 153, 154, 157, 161, 170 Smith, D. W. 27 Smith, Wilfred Cantwell 13, 53–4, 61, 62, 66–8, 113, 114–15, 136, 143–4, 149, 150, 154, 157–8, 170 Sperber, Dan 166 Stark, Rodney 35 Streng, Frederick 106, 113 synchronic study of religion 149–50 taboos 38, 41 tat tvam asi 53, 136 Tiele, C. P. 44–5 Tillich, Paul 5, 8, 14 Torah 126 transmigration of souls 139–40 see also reincarnation Tremlett, Paul-François 156–7, 158, 160, 161 Tremlin, Todd 168 Turner, Harold 2, 35, 36, 102 Tylor, E. B. 3, 8, 37, 38, 39, 40–1, 45, 164, 166 Upanishads 134–7, 141 Vashawasha people, Zimbabwe 73, 75, 81, 82, 87, 88–9

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Index Vedas 134 Vogt, Evon 6 Whitehead, Alfred North 4, 9 Whitehouse, Harvey 169 Wiebe, Donald 56 Wiles, Maurice 97, 98 Wilson, Monica 111 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 159

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World Missionary Conference, Edinburgh 1910 45 Yahweh 96 Yin-Yang symbols 54 Zezuru people, Zimbabwe 74, 75 Zhuwawo, Collen 73–4, 75–8, 79, 80, 81–2, 83, 86, 93 Zoroastrianism 12, 61

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