Christianity and the Limits of Materiality 9781474291750, 9781474291798, 9781474291774

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Christianity and the Limits of Materiality

Bloomsbury Studies in Material Religion Series editors: Birgit Meyer, David Morgan, Crispin Paine, Brent Plate, and Amy Whitehead Bloomsbury Studies in Material Religion is the first book series dedicated exclusively to studies in material religion. Within the field of lived religion, the series is concerned with the material things with which people do religion, and how these things—objects, buildings, landscapes—relate to people, their bodies, clothes, food, actions, thoughts, and emotions. The series engages and advances theories in “sensuous” and “experiential” religion, as well as informing museum practices and influencing wider cultural understandings with relation to religious objects and performances. Books in the series are at the cutting edge of debates as well as developments in fields including religious studies, anthropology, museum studies, art history, and material culture studies.

Christianity and the Limits of Materiality Minna Opas and Anna Haapalainen

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

LON DON • OX F O R D • N E W YO R K • N E W D E L H I • SY DN EY

Bloomsbury Academic An imprint of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square 1385 Broadway London New York WC1B 3DP NY 10018 UK USA www.bloomsbury.com BLOOMSBURY and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published 2017 © Minna Opas, Anna Haapalainen, and Contributors 2017 Minna Opas and Anna Haapalainen have asserted their right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. No responsibility for loss caused to any individual or organization acting on or refraining from action as a result of the material in this publication can be accepted by Bloomsbury or the author. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. ISBN: HB: 978-1-4742-9175-0 ePDF: 978-1-4742-9177-4 ePub: 978-1-4742-9178-1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Opas, Minna, editor. Title: Christianity and the limits of materiality/[edited by] Minna Opas and Anna Haapalainen. Description: New York: Bloomsbury Academic, 2017. | Series: Bloomsbury studies in material religion; 1 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016055682| ISBN 9781474291750 (hb) | ISBN 9781474291781 (epub) Subjects: LCSH: Material culture–Religious aspects–Christianity. | Christianity and culture. | Materialism–Religious aspects–Christianity. Classification: LCC BR115.C8 C4466 2017 | DDC 261–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016055682. Series: Bloomsbury Studies in Material Religion Cover Design by Catherine Wood Cover image © ALFREDO ESTRELLA/AFP/Getty Images Typeset by Deanta Global Publishing Services, Chennai, India

Contents List of Figures List of Contributors Foreword  David Morgan Acknowledgments Introduction: Christianity and the Limits of Materiality  Minna Opas and Anna Haapalainen

vii viii ix xvi

1

Part 1  Doubting 1

Spirit Media and the Specter of the Fake  Marleen de Witte

37

2

Organic Faith in Amazonia: De-indexification, Doubt, and Christian Corporeality  Minna Opas

56

Things Not for Themselves: Idolatry and Consecration in Orthodox Ethiopia  Tom Boylston

78

3

Part 2  Sufficing 4 5 6 7

The Bible in the Digital Age: Negotiating the Limits of “Bibleness” of Different Bible Media  Katja Rakow

101

The Plausibility of Immersion: Limits and Creativity in Materializing the Bible  James S. Bielo

122

Humanizing the Bible: Limits of Materiality in a Passion Play  Anna Haapalainen

141

The Death and Rebirth of a Crucifix: Materiality and the Sacred in Andean Vernacular Catholicism  Diego Alonso Huerta

163

Part 3  Unbinding 8

Proving the Inner Word: (De)materializing the Spirit in Radical Pietism  Elisa Heinämäki

187

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  9 The Return of the Unclean Spirit: Collapse and Relapse in the Baptist Rehab Ministry  Igor Mikeshin

210

10 Mimesis and Mediation in the Semana Santa Processions of Granada  Sari Kuuva

230

Afterword  Diana Espirito Santo Index

249 259

List of Figures Figure 2.1 Yine Evangelicals in Peru waiting for the beginning of a service

61

Figure 3.1 Meskel celebration in Zege, Ethiopia

86

Figure 4.1 Grandma’s Bible and a BibleApp on smartphone

112

Figure 5.1 Concept art for selected passengers, hanging in design studio

134

Figure 6.1 Michael’s Theatre group rehearsing at the Michael’s Church in Turku, Finland

142

Figure 7.1 Pilgrims praying at Cruz Verde

169

Figure 10.1 Catholic procession in Andalusia, Spain

241

List of Contributors James S. Bielo, assistant professor at the Department of Anthropology, Miami University Tom Boylston, lecturer at the Department of Social Anthropology, University of Edinburgh Diana Espirito Santo, assistant professor of Social Anthropology at the Anthropology Program of the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile Anna Haapalainen, doctoral candidate at the Department of Comparative Religion, University of Turku Elisa Heinämäki, postdoctoral researcher at the Department of World Cultures, University of Helsinki Diego Alonso Huerta, doctoral candidate at the Faculty of Theology, University of Helsinki/Pontificia Universidad Católica del Perú Sari Kuuva, postdoctoral researcher at the Department of Art and Culture Studies, University of Jyväskylä Igor Mikeshin, PhD at the Department of Social and Cultural Anthropology, University of Helsinki David Morgan, professor of Religious Studies at the Department of Art, Art History and Visual Studies, Duke University Minna Opas, collegium research fellow at the Turku Institute for Advanced Studies, Department of Comparative Religion, University of Turku Katja Rakow, assistant professor at the Department of Philosophy and Religious Studies, Utrecht University Marleen de Witte, postdoctoral researcher at the Department of Sociology and Anthropology, University of Amsterdam

Foreword David Morgan

The relation between the material and immaterial, or matter and spirit, is the stuff of much philosophical inquiry and theological debate in the history of Christianity, particularly as it relates to the nature of Jesus as human and divine and to the ontology of the Eucharist. There was a time when these matters inspired violence and required affirmation on pain of death. Arguments over Christ’s nature in the sixth century were also challenges to imperial unity, just as debates in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries over the nature of the Eucharist were interlaced with political sovereignty and imperial authority. The body of Jesus was mapped over the social body of state and empire. Although the violence and controversy among Christians have largely ceased, the urgency of material life in the age of capitalism is certainly intense. The sheer count and issue of material things have proliferated in societies of mass-production, where the liberties conceived by constitutional founders have become succinctly expressed in the right to consume as one likes. The problem of materiality is not likely to subside in a world where you are what you own. The troubled relationship between material things and ourselves points us to the much older problem of the relationship between the body and the soul. Self is a modern idea, but it has roots in the soul, a complex, varied, and very old one. Soul is a spark of divine life, an immortal substance housed within the body and surviving its death. Self is not. It has a beginning and it is forged by the way people lead their lives. Yet self and soul reside in the body and answer to the name and identity of the individual. The metaphysics of the soul vary considerably according to theology and the ontological architecture of the cosmos. Concepts of self vary dramatically according to views on gender, race, jurisprudence, governance, and social hierarchy. But all of these parameters of soul and self comprise the matrices that envelope human beings in material forms—dress, jewelry, housing, accoutrements of wealth, and rank—and thus endow individuals with visibility and presence, on the one hand, or degrees of invisibility and absence, on the other. In other words, who and what we are depends on the social construction of wealth and authority.

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At an existential level, soul remains a powerful idea in modern life, even if its fit with self is not altogether commodious. Most people are uneasy about the annihilation of the self at the end of life. As something mysterious that persists, soul is beguiling. What happens when a person dies? A living, speaking, feeling body is suddenly no different than a log. How do people make sense of this? Where did the person go? The body still appears to be there, but something else is clearly not. In fact, of course, the body itself has irreparably changed in an instant. It is no longer capable of supporting the life we knew and the inevitable processes of decay have already begun. The eyes of the dead, the limpness of the body, or the pallor of the flesh are immediate indices of the passing. Never has the body seemed so blankly material, so utterly physical and nothing more. The gripping sadness at this moment is that the loved one is gone and will not return. The finality and irreversibility of death are its sharpest edges. It is not unusual for people to wonder where they are. One sees the image or corporeal trace, the bodily imprint of the person one has always known. But the absence is starkly palpable. Where is the deceased now? And the location implies something about the individual’s present state. If the dead are simply nowhere, then they no longer exist. Or if they are in a place called heaven, what is the basis of their being? The sudden departure of those we love leaves us in the grip of something inchoate and deeply unsettling. It may seem melodramatic, but framing the discussion of materiality with the foregoing description of the sensation of bereavement helps clarify the visceral matter of “the limits of materiality.” When I first heard this phrase in connection with the conference that Minna Opas and Anna Haapalainen had organized, I recall thinking that there could be no such limit, since everything that exists exhibits mass. Even the tiniest particles in the universe carry some mass, even if only in the form of pure energy. What sense does it make to speak of the limits of materiality when that is all there is? Do the limits of materiality imply that somewhere, somehow, we are not material at all? Are we pure spirit fighting against the prison house of material existence? I would like to make sense of the phrase by refusing to endorse any form of dualism and proceeding instead to thematize duality as a critical set of problems set for religionists, especially but not only Christians, by their own tradition of belief and teachings. Christians recognize a range of limits as inherent to human existence and rely on their religion to interpret and ultimately to overcome them. The example of struggling with mortality points to the most obvious and obdurate limit of materiality: the human body does not last. Whether we possess

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souls or only selves, we are housed within a frame that is finite. We face this and many other limits associated with it every day. Think only of the many needs that we are compelled to address in order to be happy: the needs posed by hunger, safety, sexuality and affection, menaces to health, and anxieties about status. These keep lapping at the shore of our material existence each day and remind us that we do not last forever and that every moment brings to us the limits that define us. We are creatures of time, not immortality. The history of Christianity evinces two ways of dealing with the finitude of the body and the needs it presents. The first is the way of asceticism, which consists of training the body to require less. Monks and nuns discipline themselves to eat in a regimented, communally regulated way, and to dress, speak, interact, sleep, and work in like manner. This is not a denial of death or need, but an assertive management of life in order to learn and practice the art of dying (ars moriendi). It is also the way of the few. The second way focuses on lay practices. Most people who have professed Christian belief have done so in terms of a variety of practices that are designed to secure life in the ebb and flow of need and supply. They manage their needs by looking to God and the saints, and to the network of friends and social relations to secure their daily existence within the community of belief. Religions are one of the moral technologies that humans devise and struggle to maintain in order to stabilize their lives. Moral technologies operate in the shape of an economy of limited resources, typically in the form of barter or gift economies. This may strike readers as a bluntly functionalist way of thinking, but denying the deeply economic nature of human existence would not get us very far. Religions manage the scarcity of resources by engaging in exchanges with spiritual powers that sacred economies provide. Those who do not rely on a religion manage resources and negotiate their situations by some other means— politics, philanthropy, financial investment, insurance, healthcare, or a thousand habits of hoarding and expenditure. Trade is in our nature. The art of the deal is what we practice to negotiate better circumstances. Whatever makes us bigger, safer, more robust, and enduring in a universe that can be startlingly indifferent toward us. Religions are a form of patronage of friends in high places. Whatever else they do, religions are strategies of enchantment that human beings find indispensable in dealing with their finitude. Why do religions often posit a sharp distinction between matter and spirit? The answer for monotheists is clear: because God is spirit and matter is created. In order to differentiate divine nature from the created universe, it is necessary to distinguish matter and spirit. A nontheological answer can be found in the

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human experience of alienation. This may be defined as any estrangement from a desired ideal that takes the shape of a limiting or oppressive force. For example, we may be excluded from other people by virtue of class, race, sexuality, ethnicity, or creed. We may be alienated from our own bodies in moments of self-disgust or shame, recognizing in ourselves something we did not wish to see. When we fail to achieve something that we desired, we may turn to regard ourselves as disappointing. In all these instances, we long to transcend the limits placed upon us, the limits that arise from within us, the limits that we confront as the very condition of our finitude. And we note with grim clarity the stark difference between the way life is and the way it ought to be. In that difference arises the consciousness of a keenly desired transcendence and the belief that we are more than our circumstances. In his classic study, Primitive Culture (1871), Edward Tylor even argued that the universal belief in spiritual beings, which he defined as religion, originated in the experience of the soul as a material image of the body. According to Tylor, this notion of soul arose in dreams and visions in primitive cultures as the continuation of the life of an individual separated by death from the body.1 Of course, there is much about Tylor’s approach that is no longer compelling, but his account is friendly to the materiality of religion inasmuch as he regards the idea of the soul as visual and material in nature. The soul as a perception originates in dreams and visions as a form of likeness. And as ethereal as it may be, it is experienced nevertheless as material— touching, enticing, menacing, and frightening to the living.2 At the very least, Tylor’s ethnographic data show that the soul image is a widespread cultural phenomenon and ancient. Without wishing to defend Tylor’s animism as the essence of religion, I believe we can take from his account encouragement to resist any staunch segregation of matter and spirit in the study of religions. It will prove far more profitable to scrutinize the rhetoric of alienation that tends to structure treatments of materiality. Alienation as the isolation of body from soul dematerializes the soul and everything that religions variously do to it. By dematerialization, I mean the pushing of categories of ordinary experience and knowledge toward their limits or boundaries. We know we are approaching this liminal state when words, images, and other forms of sensation and representation lose their singular or accepted sense and indulge in paradox, when they acquire an ambivalence that points beyond to deeper or higher or less visible dimensions. Examples are not hard to enumerate: the transcendent experience of religious ecstasy or mystical

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union, the sublime experience of great art, the ominous power of dreams, and the prospect of life after death. But as soon as we list such forms of experience, we realize that they are all, in their own way, as forms of dematerialization deeply embodied, irrevocably material, and shaped by history and religious tradition. They appear as transcendent, disembodied, immaterial, and spiritual, but what they actually do is project the body beyond itself, or use embodiment as a framework for imagining what surpasses the body’s control or immediate apprehension. Rather than canceling the body, dematerialization actually tries to expand it. Understood in this way, dematerialization is a procedure for loosening the bonds of the body as if it were chains limiting a higher substance or capacity from realizing its true nature. Bodies, in other words, host their own sense of confinement and redemption with the cultural tools and dispositions that time and place afford them. Thus, Christianity tells its adherents that they are mortal flesh bound to die, then offers them the means to surpass that end—membership in the body of Christ and expectation of the resurrection of the body at the end of time. This expectation accounts, for example, for the traditional opposition to cremation among Christians. The body must be left intact in order to physically resurrect. This is itself a fascinating instance of the limit of materiality as construed by one religion. The religion defines the problem that humans face and provides its resolution: you must die, but you will be resurrected. And Christianity accomplishes both moves in the medium of the body: enlisting the flesh as created, finite substance as the material limit, but at the same time using the body in an openly paradoxical way to evoke the sensation of redemption that will culminate in the resurrected and glorified body that will no longer know death. The body is both the limiting condition and the means for envisioning what lies beyond it. An example will make this point clearer. Speaking of the soul’s mystical approach to God, the sixteenth-century Carmelite visionary, Saint Teresa of Avila, followed the biblical and medieval traditions of envisioning the deity as a monarch. Accordingly, the soul must adopt a demeanor of self-abasement: “What we have to do,” she wrote in The Interior Castle (1577), her account of mystical procession toward union with Christ, “is to be like poor and needy persons coming before a great and rich Emperor and then cast down our eyes in humble expectation.”3 The soul enters the presence of God not in visual exchange, Teresa wrote, but stands within his hearing: “When from the secret signs He gives us we seem to realize that He is hearing us, it is well for us to keep silence, since He has permitted us to be near Him.”4 Teresa repeatedly negated the visual sense

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in order to heighten touch, hearing, and even smell.5 And yet she posited what she called “interior sight” and used the Augustinian term “intellectual vision” in her description of the soul’s ascent to divine union.6 The return of the repressed sense is theatrically envisioned by Gianlorenzo Bernini’s spectacular marble sculpture of Teresa in ecstatic transport in the Cornaro Chapel, Rome. Bernini aptly portrayed Teresa with her eyes closed, the better to “see,” hear, smell, and feel what was happening to her. We watch an angel pause in the penetration of the enraptured nun, an experience she described in visceral terms: a feeling that penetrated to the soul’s “very bowels,” such that “when He that has wounded it draws out the arrow, the bowels seem to come with it, so deeply does it feel this love.”7 Even in the supersensuous visions of the mystic, re-embodiment in the higher, purer, more ideal corpus of divine union took place in the medium of the individual body. There are, of course, distinctly aniconic forms of religious devotion and mystical experience in a number of different religious traditions. But Christianity does not transcend the body. Matter and spirit never stray far from one another. We might as well speak of the limits of spirituality, since the two form either side of a single coin in Christian thought and practice. Yet the limits of materiality will probably always be more compelling, since it is the constraints of the flesh that we experience poignantly each day. The essays of this collection explore this in a number of productive directions: in images ranging from icons and a miracle-working crucifix to theme parks that materialize biblical narrative in order to argue for the plausibility of creationism; and in the curious shift in the Bible’s format from the two-thousand-year-old codex to digital media such as the smart phone, iPad, or e-book reader. In other media, authors explore the challenges of adapting the Passion play to modern audiences and staging the processions of Holy Week. And still others consider the problems of pneumatology as it relates to the cultivation of inwardness, to the spiritual healing of addicts, or to the growth of an invisible yet sensible bodily organ that produces the faithful life of Peruvian Evangelicals in the Amazon. All of these address the fraught and uneasy boundaries of visible and invisible, matter and spirit, body and soul. In one way or another, each of these practices is able to bring the divine close, envision it, embody it—to traverse the boundary between seen and unseen, heard and unheard, and create forms of presence in doing so. What we learn in the process is that the study of materiality is no less the study of immateriality, and that immateriality is configured in a number of

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ways—as feeling, sensation, as silence or invisibility, as sound, as event. Each of these produces a new conception and use for the materialized faith, and in so doing changes it, however imperceptibly. History—change over time—is the result. The dance of matter and spirit, of the seen and the unseen, the old and the new, results in the evolution of Christianity. The faith takes shape in tandem with the development of media, ideas, practices, and the constant press of such agents as youth and consumers. All of the essays register this reality, showing no anxiety about exploring the importance of popular culture and commerce as fundamental forms of the material turn in religious studies.

Notes 1 Tylor (1920: 426–8). 2 Tylor (1920: 453). 3 St. Teresa of Avila (1961: 106); emphasis added. 4 Ibid. 5 Ibid., negation of sight: 126, 153, 160, and 179; scent, 138; locutions, 143. 6 Ibid., “interior sight,” 186; “intellectual vision,” 145, 150. 7 Ibid.: 136.

Acknowledgments This book arose from the Study of Christianity Roundtable monthly research meetings that led the editors to organize the conference “Christianity and the Limits of Materiality” at the University of Turku, Finland, in September 2014. We wish to thank the participants of the roundtable for the lively and productive discussions. The conference was made possible by the funding received from the School of History, Culture and Arts Studies (University of Turku) and Turku University Foundation to which we extend our gratitude. We would like to acknowledge the significant intellectual contribution made by the four keynote speakers of the conference, Marleen de Witte, Matthew Engelke, Jeffrey Hamburger, and David Morgan, to the project. We also wish to thank all the participants of the conference for the vivid intellectual and theoretical discussions that generated a need to continue the work on Christianity and materiality, which resulted in this book. We would like to acknowledge our colleagues at the School of History, Culture and Arts Studies (University of Turku), the participants of the fortnightly Text Workshop meetings and especially the organizer Tiina Mahlamäki for their unending support, assistance, and critique. A word of sincere appreciation goes to the series editor Amy Whitehead for her insightful comments and critical gaze that helped us sharpen our perception. We would also like to thank David Morgan for encouraging us to propose the project to Bloomsbury and the publisher for their professionalism and flexibility during the project. We express our gratitude to the anonymous reviewers of the book who provided valuable comments for directing us to interesting additional paths. On behalf of the contributors to the book, we wish to thank the anonymous reviewers of the chapters for their insightful comments that helped to improve the texts. As editors of the book, we wish to thank the contributors for their ongoing commitment to the project and Diana Espirito Santo for her willingness to hop aboard with such short notice. Also, each of the contributors owes a considerable intellectual debt to the people with whom we do our research. Without their involvement and patience our research would not have been possible. Finally, we wish to thank our families and especially our children for their constant interruptions of our work, which have reminded us that there is a world of utterly important everyday life outside of our writing process.

Introduction: Christianity and the Limits of Materiality Minna Opas and Anna Haapalainen

[i]n the tiny and almost impalpable drop of their essence, the vast structure of recollection. Marcel Proust The interplay between humans and the material world, in those fleeting moments in which the whole world of experiences and recollections opens and closes in a second, is like eating the crumbling, tea-soaked madeleine in Marcel Proust’s famous episode in The Senses of Consciousness: Swann’s Way in Half. Seeing the small, shell-shaped, lemon-flavored cakes on trays in pastry-cooks’ windows had been a mere observation, a recognition of their existence, for the protagonist, but tasting one with a cup of lime-flower tea opened up a whole world of past and present for him. Just as “souls, ready to remind us, waiting and hoping for their moment,” a small crumb of madeleine was in fact more than anticipated ([1913] 2008: 42). This episode crystallizes the human struggle with materiality: it is always abundantly present, yet often bypassed because of its abundance and ongoing presence (cf. Miller 2005a). It is inescapable and overwhelming and therefore does not surrender easily under scrutiny. Although humans are material beings affected by and affecting the material world, materiality itself is often treated in everyday life as something given. Yet, in the smallest fleeting moments—but also as an elemental content of our daily existence—some of it may stand out, demanding our attention, and forcing us to engage in a special relation with it. This situational, contextual, and affective “being-in-touch” with materiality works also in a multitude of ways as the generative force of human religious life. The abundance and presence of materiality has been of concern to Christian theologians as well as laypeople throughout centuries. Christians— not least because of Christianity’s inherent mystery of Christ’s two natures— are continuously engaged in resolving the conundrum between materiality and immateriality. These negotiations surface in the form of the relationship

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between body and soul or spirit, as the problem of the nature of religious objects and things, and that of ritual efficacy, for instance. The relation between the material and immaterial does not submit to fixing. The materialityimmateriality dichotomy is therefore best understood as a generative force in Christianity, entailing a constant movement between overcoming and enforcing the dichotomy. However, understanding Christians as merely trying to solve or live out such given dichotomies would amount to ignoring the richness of lived vernacular Christianities. Material and immaterial, or immanent and transcendent, are not given categories that echo a common-sense definition of matter and things. Rather, they are historically situated concepts: their meanings change depending on how their relation is conceptualized and what they are set against or with (Meyer and Houtman 2012: 4, 7; see Pels 2012). The present book takes the often ambivalent relationships Christians have with materiality as a starting point and examines the concrete practices informed by this ambivalence as a driving force contributing to the ways in which people in different Christian traditions and in different parts of the world understand and live out their religion. In particular, it explores the different Christian understandings of the co-constitution of “matter” and “spirit” (see Espirito Santo and Tassi 2013: 15). Nevertheless, rather than study conceptualizations, the book zooms in on praxis. The book addresses the following questions: How, exactly, does Christianity happen materially? What are the mechanisms and modes of material praxis, informed and inspired by Christian thought and belief, through and in which Christians become Christians? Christianity past and present is the most fruitful arena for research on the material constitution of religion not only because of the long history of patristic and medieval theological discussions and the legacy of Protestant iconoclasm, but also owing more generally to its intertwinement with the processes of (Western) modernity. Emblematic of this intertwinement is the “modern fear of matter” (Pels 2012) exemplified by the collision of two different views on the nature of matter upon the encounter between the Portuguese and West Africans in the late fifteenth century, which brought about the notion of “fetish” to European languages to mark the false attribution of agency to things (Latour 2010; Masuzawa 2000; Meyer and Houtman 2012: 15; Pels 2012). During the past decades, as part of the ontological and material turns in social sciences and humanities, scholars of Christianity and of religion have begun to examine the relationship between the material and immaterial and between the related dichotomy of immanence and transcendence. Special attention has

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been given to the power of objects and things—and materiality in general— to “create and co-create their environment” (Espirito Santo and Tassi 2013: 8; see Bielo 2016; Blanton 2015; de Witte 2011; Engelke 2007, 2012a; Henare, Holbraad, and Wastell 2007; Hutchings and McKenzie 2017; Keane 2003, 2007; Luhrmann 2012; McDannell 1998; Meyer 2010, 2015; Meyer and Houtman 2012; Mitchell 2010, 2015; Mitchell and Mitchell 2008; Morgan 2010, 2012; Orsi 2006; Reinhardt 2016; Vásquez 2011; Walker Bynum 2011; Whitehead 2013). As a result, materiality of religion is no longer to be understood as mere candles, icons, offerings, altars, churches, bodies, or other objects, but as a vast repertoire of different situational and contextual “being-in-touch” relations (Whitehead 2008: 182). In other words, matter is understood not merely to mirror ontology but to be involved in the making of spiritual worlds (Espirito Santo and Tassi 2013: 8). Previous scholarship has come up with a number of tools or notions that help to scrutinize the ways in which this making takes place in practice. The tools that several of the contributors to this book employ or build on include Matthew Engelke’s (2007) notion of the “problem of presence,” which describes the Christian conundrum of bringing the transcendent to the realm of the immanent, and his analytical distinction between the notions of objectification and thingification, which refer to positively and negatively charged processes of materiality, respectively (2007, 2012b); Webb Keane’s notion of semiotic ideology (2007), that is, the culturally specific ways of understanding of how words and other semiotic elements signify, and the related terms of “bundling” (2005), “ethical affordances” (2014), and “spirit writing” (2013); Jon Mitchell’s (2015) use of the concept of mimesis, with which he, building on Michael Taussig’s (1993) work, refers to creative repetition that has the ability to overcome the difference between signifier and signified; and Birgit Meyer’s notion of “sensational forms” by which she refers to the “relatively fixed, authorized modes of invoking and organising access to the transcendental” (Meyer 2008b: 708).1 These approaches all highlight different aspects of the processes of human encounters with the transcendent. However, this book wishes to dig yet deeper into these processes and, through identifying thematic aspects central to Christian negotiations of the limits of materiality, begin to parse the problem field of Christian materiality. Given that Christians, despite finding temporal solutions, constantly struggle with the purported separation between the transcendent and the immanent, the book’s approach is deeply grounded in the study of practices, action, and performance. As David Morgan (2010: 8; see Espirito Santo and Tassi 2013) notes: “Religion happens not in spaces or performances but as

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them.”2 Under examination are the different forms of boundary-work related to Christian materialities. By boundary-work we refer to the practices and negotiations conducted at the limits between the material and immaterial and constituting those limits. It is in and through this boundary-work that Christians attempt to stabilize the relation between materiality and immateriality and to solve the “problem of presence” (Engelke 2007). As the chapters in this book show, at the heart of such stabilizing processes may be a variety of “things”: the Bible, the body, statues, pilgrimage journeys, religious paraphernalia, diaries, and the language of worship. In this boundary-work, materiality may appear as a burden and may be critiqued (see e.g., Engelke 2007; Mafra 2011), but it may also emerge as a resource. Daniel Miller (2005a) notes how the more people wish to resign from materiality, the more important certain instances of it become. The book lifts out three central modes in which Christians conduct boundarywork as and at the limits of materiality: doubting, sufficing, and unbinding. Doubting here refers to processes in which Christians wrestle with the ambivalent nature of matter and the inconsonance between spirit and matter: can matter ever be trusted? Sufficing as a mode of boundary-work addresses the question of the quality of materiality: what kind of matter or materiality is adequate for and capable of constituting faith? Finally, the work of unbinding places emphasis on the value of matter as Christian people try to come to terms with or employ the inevitable materiality of faith. This tri-partitite thematic division, which will be further examined below, reveals different ways of forming the “problem space” (Reinhardt 2016) of materiality and immateriality. These are spaces that force fundamental questions of transcendence as well as meaning and signification to the fore, but at the same time tie these inseparably to material practices. These are also spaces in which answers to the questions of transcendence, immanence, meaning, and signification are thereby sought, formulated, and negotiated. Consequently, even though the focus of this book is on materiality, it is still closely bound up with questions of meaning. As has been noted many times, the reduction of materiality to a subservient position in relation to meaning was for a long time characteristic of the anthropological study of religion. E. B. Tylor’s intellectualism, which saw religion as belief in spiritual beings (but see Engelke 2012a,b), Saussurean structural linguistics, Durkheim’s separation of the sacred and the profane, Geertzian symbolism, and especially Weberian separation of materiality from meaning have led to a rather systematic dematerialization of religion in social-scientific analysis.3 Material forms have become reduced to the

Introduction

5

position of mere carriers of meaning or metaphors with little or no constitutive power in relation to religion (Meyer and Houtman 2012: 11). Although not the first to critique the anthropological quest for meaning—since the 1970s, researchers had pointed out the problematic nature of this endeavor (Argyrou 2002; Asad 1993; Bloch 1989; Foucault [1966] 2005; Gell 1998; Keesing 1987, 2012; Shore 1996; Tambiah [1981] 1985)4—Matthew Engelke and Matt Tomlinson’s book Limits of Meaning—Case Studies in the Anthropology of Christianity (2006) has added an important contribution to this body of works because of its project of a more systematic reassessing of the significance and position of the concept of meaning for anthropological studies of religion in general and of Christianity in particular. The allusion of the title of the present book to the Limits of Meaning is evident and the book provides a telling point of reference for the present book when it comes to the examination of theoretical developments within the field of the study of Christianity during the past decade. In its attempt to dissolve the hierarchy between meaning and materiality, Limits of Meaning focuses on language, in particular, and so draws on both the (Protestant) Christian emphasis on language practices (see e.g., Coleman 2000; Harding 2000. Robbins 2001) and the long anthropological tradition of relating meaning to language.5 The present book does not shift the focus away from language, but in addition to it places it on objects, things, aesthetics, form, and relationality and so takes part in the current scholarly quest to better understand the relationship the material world has with meaning, belief, spirituality, and ideology. Meaning is thus in this book understood not as something separate from and surpassing material practice, but rather as inextricable from and emerging in it (cf. Miller 2005a). We cannot escape from materiality and practice (partaking in) defining our possibilities as humans and people’s religious lives. Therefore, it is not meanings or materiality, but the form of the relation between them, which comes to signify. By lifting the questions of limits and modes of boundary-work to the center, the contributions to the book also examine how Christians in their negotiations at the interfaces of materiality and the transcendent create and legitimize their religion and what the meaning of such negotiations is within the larger framework of Christian identities and the politics of belonging. According to Nira Yuval-Davis (2012: 10), “the politics of belonging comprise specific political projects aimed at constructing belonging to particular collectivity/ies, which are themselves being constructed in these projects in very specific ways and in very specific boundaries.” These projects are not only processes of identity formation conducted in relation with others, but always also processes of exclusion and

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Christianity and the Limits of Materiality

boundary-drawing: they are the “dirty work of boundary maintenance” (Favell 1999). They therefore always also contain questions of power: what are the criteria for belonging in a given collectivity and who gets to decide about them? The limits of materiality is one specific boundary in relation to which Christian negotiations of belonging are conducted. The belonging in these negotiations may be of a very concrete kind in which people leave or are left outside of their Christian reference groups, or more subtle processes involving individuals’ (or groups’) experiences of no longer conforming to or representing their group. As seen in several of the case studies in this book (e.g., chapters by Boylston, de Witte, Heinämäki, Mikeshin, and Opas), the inability for people to physically conform with the collectively approved ways of experiencing God may have the effect of alienating Christians from their congregations and Christian collectivities. On the other hand, experiences of unbelonging may be produced, for instance by violations of aesthetic tradition, which work to cut off people’s bonds from the form of Christianity with which they have felt an affinity (see Bielo, Haapalainen, and Kuuva, this book). Furthermore, the chapters in this book demonstrate how the Christian material boundary-work is relevant for Christian practitioners in not only their own work of belonging but also in the struggle they face to make the Word present for others in theater plays, addict rehabilitation centers, ritual processions, and Christian theme parks, for instance (see Bielo, Haapalainen, Kuuva, and Mikeshin, this book, respectively).

Study of Christianity and the Protestant lens It is often said that Christianity, especially Protestantism, emphasizes immateriality over materiality, or at least that immaterial divinity is viewed to surpass other forms of existence in the hierarchical order of things. As noted, Max Weber’s perspective on Christianity has had a strong influence on these views. His analysis of Protestantism as a salvation religion that moved beyond reliance on concrete material forms has served as a distorting lens not only in the study of Christianity in general, but even in that of Protestantism itself (Meyer 2010; see Meyer and Houtman 2012: 9). In relation to Pentecostalism Birgit Meyer (2010: 743) notes how its analysis via Protestantism eclipses from view many aspects, especially its sensational dimension. This observation of the distorting effect of the “Protestant lens” is important and has thus far not received proper attention. The views obtained through such lenses are

Introduction

7

inclined to simplify things. The rough division of Christianity into Pentecostal/ charismatic churches, Protestants, Catholics, and Orthodox Christians, while certainly enabling the examination and underlining certain tendencies in present-day field of global Christianity, has also served to eclipse the variety existing within these churches and denominations. Whereas the Catholic and Orthodox Christianities still suffer from the lack of attention in discussions on anthropology of Christianity and Christian materialities—their attitudes toward materiality is often taken too much for granted—it is in regard to the Protestant block that such eclipsing has had the most profound consequences. As Meyer (2010: 743; see also Meyer and Houtman 2012: 10–11) has noted, research has been “privileging a particular view of Protestantism as a rational, disenchanting religion that transcends the body, the senses, and outward religious forms. It fails to account for some crucial aspects of Protestantism.” The “Protestant lens” has, in fact, been a “Reformed lens.” One reason for this may be that in anthropology and humanist study of Christianity, Protestantism has to a large extent been approached via social-scientific thinkers, such as Max Weber, Luis Dumont, Marcel Mauss, Talal Asad, and Arjun Appadurai, discarding theological research and its ability to lift up more nuanced views within Christianity.6 This tendency has its background in the difficult relationship between anthropological and religious studies research with theology. As Christian theology has been noted to have had a strong blueprint on Western research on religion—it has profoundly influenced the categories and conceptual tools for thinking—the pendulum has now swung to the other end, where different concepts have been deconstructed in order to free them from Christian influence and where Christianity has not even been recognized as a subject worth studying (see Coleman 2010; Robbins 2003). This development has worked to weaken the scholarly sensitivity toward the more and less subtle differences within Protestantism and other forms of Christianity. Despite the pendulum having already begun to swing back toward the center, there is much to be done in this respect. The present book begins the work by attempting to make the picture of Christian denominations more versatile in regard to their engagement with materiality. Here, we first turn to Martin Luther’s theology. Notwithstanding the emphasis we by so doing again appear to place on Protestantism, we do not intend to do so at the cost of other forms of Christianity, but rather in order to bring the scholarship of different Christianities into conversation with one another (see Hann 2012). Luther is important to this effort for several reasons. First, the scholarly interest in the study of charismatic forms of

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Christianity and the Limits of Materiality

Protestant Christianity, which was largely brought about by the explosion of Pentecostal and charismatic Christianities but also owes to the old tendency in social-scientific research to study the exotic, has quite paradoxically—much because of Weber’s influence—been leaning on the purified forms of Protestant theology, that is Calvinism and Zwinglianism. This approach, the “Reformed lens,” has left the more “moderate” side of the Reformation, namely Luther’s theology, with little attention. Nevertheless, as will be discussed below, the highlighted interest in the sensational side of Protestantism and Christianity at large would benefit from looking back to Luther. Secondly, Luther’s thoughts on materiality—which will be further discussed below—did in many respects follow the Catholic custom; yet, his actions triggered the reformative agenda of emphasizing the spirit over matter. In this way, Luther can be seen to stand at the junction between Catholicism and the Reformed Protestant Churches in the question of materiality. Or further, following the present book’s approach, Luther’s actions can be seen as formative of the limit or boundary zone between Catholicism and Protestantism.7 In fact, thirdly, Luther’s views do not link only (medieval) Catholicism and Protestantism, but also in some ways bridge Protestant and Orthodox Christianities. Although there are no possibilities to develop this connection further here, Luther’s view of “Christ present in faith,” for instance, has been noted to offer a theological parallel to the Orthodox or Eastern Christian doctrine of theosis or deification, a union with God, in which the human being partakes in God’s divine nature8 (Mannermaa 1998; Saarinen 1997: 38–54, 2010: 4–5; Luehrmann 2010; on critique see: Isaac 2012: 251–68; Briskina 2008: 16–39; Trueman 2006: 73–98). In general, Luther’s emphasis on the centrality of the body for Christian faith and his views of the materiality of faith at large serve as bridges between Protestantism, Catholicism, and Orthodox Christianity (cf. Eusterschulte and Wälzholz 2015; Hanganu 2010; Hann and Goltz 2010; Hann 2012). Last, the present moment is obviously a convenient time to write about Luther, as the five hundredth anniversary of the Reformation commemorating his ninety-five theses of Wittenberg is at hand.

Luther and materiality Luther’s theology, and Protestant Christianity in general, have an intriguing relationship to modernity in many ways, but especially in regard to materiality and to the question of the relationship between body and soul in particular.

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Aristotelean holistic view of the human had been influential in medieval theology. In the sixteenth century, however, the Platonian influence became stronger and some humanists “adopted the dualist concept of man” (Deschamp 2015: 209; see also Müller 2014) which posited the body and mind as two distinct elements. This, which came to be called the Cartesian dualism (which for Descartes was only a methodological stance rather than ontological), is seen to both affect Protestant theology and to be advanced by it.9 Already, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the majority of the Protestant intelligentsia seemed to have endorsed the principle of dualist anthropology and the idea that the human essence resided in the soul, not in the body, which was just its contingent frame. However, what is largely left unnoticed in the social-scientific study of Protestant Christianity is that Luther was strictly against such “philosophication” of religion and his understanding of human being differed greatly from the dualist view of the human being (Ibid.: 209–10).10 Luther’s theology relied on Thomas Aquinas’s theology, in which the soul was understood as the substantial form of the body, which informed the human bodily composition. Human being, argued Luther, is simultaneously all flesh (totus caro) and all spirit (totus spiritus) and he cannot be reduced to one of his two natures but remains totus homo—a person undivided into two separate substances (Luther 1483–1546, WA 56, 344, 23–345, 2; Deschamp 2015: 2010; Slenczka 2014). In his anthropology, Luther thus retained the mystery familiar from the question of Trinity and Jesus’s two natures. Nevertheless, instead of viewing this as a mystery, he gave a rational justification to his view of totus homo. This becomes especially visible in relation to two questions concerning materiality: human ability to know God and the problem of images. One of the central theological questions of the Reformation period concerned human possibility to gain knowledge of God. In regard to this problem of the hidden God—Deus absconditus—Luther was strictly against the medieval “theology of glory,” which assumed that sinful human beings could gain knowledge of God through reason (see Mannermaa 1998). The Heidelberg Disputation reveals that his understanding of the question was at that time very material.11 Luther had moved from theology, in which the existence and nature of God was expressed through negation—God was that which human could not understand—toward the theology of suffering or the cross. In this theology of the cross, a person does not attempt to understand God’s justice or plan, but to know God as this has revealed himself through Jesus. For Luther, the material

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Christianity and the Limits of Materiality

suffering body was therefore the only way to gain knowledge of God (Mjaaland 2015: 93; Westhelle 2014). This same importance given to materiality can be seen in Luther’s view on images. The fact that the Reformation led to serious acts against religious materiality, to phenomena like the iconoclastic events in Wittenberg in 1521–22 and more generally the Iconoclastic Fury in Europe of the sixteenth century, has led to the general view of Protestantisms as iconoclastic forms of Christianity. This generalization has eclipsed the view that the Protestant Reformation did not include some single tendency or approach to materiality and images, but many. For instance, Luther’s manner of combining the Word and materiality has surprisingly been overlooked in the study of contemporary Christianity and Christian semiotics (see Morgan 1998, 2008).12 In contrast to Karlstadt (as well as to Zwingli and, later on, Calvin), Luther refused to see the prohibition of images as a separate and self-sufficient command, but—following Catholic tradition in this point—he subsumed it under the First Commandment. As Margarete Stirm13 has remarked, the only thing that the Old Testament condemned in Luther’s view were cults attached to images, so that the interdiction did not concern the fabrication of artifacts itself but the worship of these images (Deschamp 2015: 218; see Morgan 1998: 65–66, 2008: 105–6). For Luther, images were closely intertwined with hearing the Word that invigorated an image in one’s heart ([1525] 1958: 99): Of this I am certain, that God desires to have his works heard and read, especially the passion of our Lord. But it is impossible for me to hear and bear it in mind, without fanning mental images of it in my heart. For whether I want it to or not, when I hear of Christ, an image of a man hanging on a cross takes form in my heart, just as the reflection of my face naturally appears in the water when I look into it. If it is not a sin but good to have the image of Christ in my heart, why should it be a sin to have it in my eyes? This is especially true since the heart is more important than the eyes, and should be less stained by sin because it is the true abode and dwelling place of God.

Luther’s understanding continued the Middle Age tradition where images were “transformed into something revelatory” (Morgan 1998: 66). His distinction between the images “before the eyes” and “in the heart”—inappropriate and appropriate ways to be-in-touch with images—allowed him to separate the production of images from the practice of idolatry. In this way, the heart also became the center of Luther’s theology of the cross.

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In general, then, Luther’s anthropology can be understood as centering on the principle of homo simul justus et peccator and therefore relying on a rather paradoxical relationship to the body. The body is simultaneously corrupted and imperative for divine recognition and faith. It is through the body, through senses and the heart, that a person partakes in God’s Word (Deschamp 2015: 217; Morgan 1998: 66). Here we see the drastic difference between Luther’s and Weber’s Protestantisms and thus the influence Weber has had in distorting the “Protestant lens.” While Weber saw Protestantism as contrasting material culture (form) with meaning (Weber [1930] 2005: 40, 110, 116), for (late) Luther the suffering body was the only site for generating meaning and knowledge of God. The two main points in Luther’s theology discussed above find resonance with the cases in this book in a variety of ways. They also show the importance of deconstructing the “Protestant lens” and point toward the further need for more specificity in our discussions of different forms of Christianity (see Luehrmann 2010). First, Luther’s theology of the cross, which was in many ways at the border of medieval and modern epistemologies, provides a window for understanding the centrality of the body for Christian praxis not only in Orthodox and Catholic Christianities, as customarily held, but also within the wide range of Protestantisms. Central questions in this respect are: What is the role of the senses in gaining knowledge of God and how are sensations, emotions, and other somatic aspects incorporated into processes of faith? These questions are taken up by the contributors to the book when they discuss the sensual attuning (chapters by de Witte, Opas, Rakow, Bielo, Haapalainen, and Kuuva) and disciplining (chapters by Boylston, Huerta, Heinämäki, and Mikeshin) of the body for it to become suitable for receiving and experiencing the presence of God. Second, Luther’s idea that the only way to imagine God properly is to hear the Word of God—or in the second place, to use pictures and images of Christian divinities as media—and then to inscribe the words (or images) in the heart, calls for a more varied understanding, especially of Protestants’ relationship to language and images, than the intellectualist and rather immaterialist approach usually employed allows for (but see Coleman 2006; Morgan 1998; 2010; Meyer 2006; Tomlinson 2014).14 All chapters in the book address this issue of recipiency in their own ways and thus provide a wide spectrum of different Christian understandings of the reception and effects of words and images on people’s bodies, hearts, and faith.

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Christianity and the Limits of Materiality

Limits and boundary-work Central to the discussion on Christian materialities, as also seen in relation to Luther’s views on the human nature and images, are limits and boundaries. Limits are, of course, in many ways at the heart of human life at large and therefore have been examined in a variety of contexts in human sciences. The present time, filled with global-scale cultural, religious, and economical movement, has forced and allowed researchers to study limits and their trespassing: borders, boundaries and frontiers, their enforcement, dissolution, crossings and re-crossings, and transmigration (see e.g., Crapanzano 2004; Tweed 2006; Urban 2001). Within the anthropological and ethnographic study of Christianity, much scholarly interest has been devoted to the three relations often considered as exemplifying the fundamentality of limits for human existence—namely the relations between the body and the mind/soul/spirit, God and humans, and between life and death, which all bear connection to the question of bodiliness (Csordas 1993; Grotti 2009; Luhrmann 2012; Opas and Haapalainen 2016; Vilaça 2009).15 In addition, a host of other limits and boundaries have been placed under scrutiny: denominational and interreligious boundaries (Bialecki 2014; Gershon 2006; Gooren 2010; Handman 2015; Jebens 2006; Lindthard 2016; Robbins 2004), boundaries between sacred and profane times, places, and things (de Witte 2013; Douglas [1966] 2002; McDannell 1995; Mitchell 2010, 2015; Tweed 2006), between morality and immorality, and different kinds of moralities (Keane 2007; Lester 2005; Robbins 2004; 2007), individuals and collectives (Agadjanian and Rousselet 2010; Elisha 2011; Keane 2007; Weber [1930] 2005), priests and laymen (Luehrmann 2010), divine presence and absence (Engelke 2007), past, present, and future (Robbins 2006), and people and objects, and things and the world at large (Blanton 2015; Hanganu 2010; Luehrmann 2010; Meyer and Houtman 2012; Reinhardt 2016; Robbins 1997; Tomlinson 2014; Whitehead 2008). Thus, limits and boundaries are everywhere. But what are they? What do they do? First, limits, borders, and boundaries not only separate, but also unite. The notion of limit is closely intertwined with the notion of relation. Drawing on Karen Barad’s (see 2007: 298, 2003: 820) work, archeologists Chris Fowler and Oliver Harris (2015) note that “we can apprehend relational becoming and beings that relate, ‘but not both sharply at once.’” In other words, we as researchers, just as Christian devotees, can apprehend materiality and immateriality, immanence and transcendence, as co-constitutive. However, in focusing on their co-constitutiveness—and, thus, on the limit, because for two sides to be

Introduction

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mutually constitutive they also have to be somehow separate—we inevitably lose sight of them as forming a whole. As Vincent Crapanzano (2004: 19) notes, “we cannot describe that aura, the hinterland, without somehow losing it.” The notion of apprehension is important here. Second, limits make things visible and are thereby connected to the processes of objectification and framing (see e.g., Engelke 2005; 2007; 2012b; Gell 1998; Keane 2005). To conceive things is to delimit them in some way, to objectify them. This may be a positive process, as well as a negatively charged one—a process of thingification (Engelke 2012a,b). Flows of things often considered immaterial or abstract, such as ideologies, religions, language, sounds, and alike, are made available for scrutinizing through delimiting. In the context of religion, it has been noted how “spirits are never perennial or omnipresent, notwithstanding frequent claims to the contrary. There are always limits to their extension in space and to their duration in time, even in religious practice itself ” (Johnson 2014: 7). In Christian settings, for instance, the Holy Spirit—despite the apparent omnipresence—exists by necessity objectified and delimited. Third, instead of just restricting, limits also enable things. Writing about Ghanaian Pentecostal experiences of the transcendent, Birgit Meyer (2008b: 708) notes how it is in sensing the limit of understanding—when speaking in tongues, for instance—that people are able to experience that which is beyond. The limit has power to enable the “experience of the sublime in the here and now,” not merely to delineate. In this book, however, the focus is not on the limits of understanding but rather on those of materiality—on the modes of functioning of Christian materialities and their relation to the transcendent. The chapters in the book show how the limits of materiality force questions of transcendent to the fore and thus, as discussed above, enable Christians to dwell in the problem spaces of Christian materiality—doubt, sufficiency, and boundedness. Fourth, limit, just as the material and immaterial, is a historically, culturally, and relationally situated concept. Charles Taylor (2007: 539–93) aptly demonstrates this in showing how the understanding of the nature of human boundaries has changed over time. He argues that our ancestors lived in an “enchanted” world, in which the “world” could immerse and shape people’s physical and psychic lives as it surpassed the “porous” boundary of self. Contrastingly, the selves of the modern era are buffered, more disenchanted, and separated from the effects of the forces of and in the world; the human limits are more solid and impermeable. Equally, Christian limits of materiality are not necessarily similar

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Christianity and the Limits of Materiality

in all places and at all times. They may also change within a single Christian context. Finally, and most importantly for the present topic, limits do not exist by themselves but are generated in and through or rather exist as practices (see Linde-Laursen 2010: 2). In relation to Christian materialities, we understand the limits existing as boundary-work. This boundary-work makes visible and defines (over and over again) the relationship and nature of immanence and transcendence, materiality, and immateriality. The form, which the actual boundary-work of Christian materiality takes, depends on and varies according to the medium. On the other hand, the medium gets constituted in this boundarywork. In other words, the media at the heart of the boundary-work—such as electronic Bibles, biblical theme parks, plays, statues, crucifixes, or the body— affect the way materiality, the relation between materiality and immateriality, and the limits of materiality are being perceived, but they also become what they are in these processes16 (cf. Barad 2003: 820; see Fowler and Harris 2015). Marleen de Witte (this book) discusses this two-directional process, or in her terms “material-spiritual circuit,” explicitly in relation to Ghanaian Pentecostals, for whom certain material actions—for example the laying on of hands—are understood to result in spiritual changes, such as making the Holy Spirit flow, which “in turn solicit somatic and thus material responses, as well as material effects in the world” (p. 45). In general, then, we can conclude that the boundarywork at and as the limits of materiality amounts to faith in action. It is the space where Christian immanence and transcendence get constituted.

Three modes of boundary-work As discussed above, the problematic relation Christians have with materiality often takes the form of one of the three different modes of boundary-work— doubting, sufficing, and unbinding—which each accentuate a different aspect of matter: its nature, quality, and value, respectively. In addition, they bring forth slightly different attitudes toward materiality. In the first mode, doubting, materiality is viewed ambivalently. It is understood as having the power and means to both verify and tear down authenticity claims. Consequently, Christians struggle to diminish the possibility of the latter process without ever being fully capable of doing away with it. In the second mode, sufficing, materiality is regarded as positively attuned. At the center is not a question of materiality

Introduction

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being “bad”/“worldly” or “good,” but about it being “enough”: having a potential to bridge transcendence and immanence. The third mode, unbinding, is about controlling matter either by denying or amplifying it in order to reach or achieve purposed spirituality. As such, this mode would seem to involve a somewhat negative approach to materiality itself. However, the unbinding of materiality does not have to be thought of solely as thriving to control matter as such, but the focus can be on the qualitative aspects of matter. Understood in this way, the aim is to unbind matter from the “worldly” sphere and make it more susceptible to “spirit.” Although pointing out these three specific modes of boundary-work, the book does not suggest that these would be the only modes available for Christians for the making, defining, and living out of the limits of materiality. Nevertheless, doubting, sufficing, and unbinding are processes strongly emerging from the case studies in this book and can therefore be envisioned as adaptable to other Christian traditions and contexts too. Furthermore, these three modes of boundary-work are intertwined in many ways with three other central concepts—authority, authenticity, and agency—that have received much attention in previous research on Christianity. Consequently, the cases in this book also provide a novel angle from which to approach the relation of these “triple-A” terms with Christianity.

Doubting Doubting emphasizes the active process related to believing and disbelieving on the one hand and knowing and uncertainty on the other. Doubt is not the opposite of belief but is implicated in it, because belief without doubt would amount to knowledge (Toren 2007; see Bloch 2005: 110). Doubt is also not the same as uncertainty, which can be understood as the context in which doubting becomes possible and activated. In other words, doubt or doubting is active work, whereas uncertainty “cannot be wilfully employed” (Pelkmans 2013). The chapters in this part of the book deal with the incongruence between spirit and matter and the problem of fixing or stabilizing the relationship between them. Under scrutiny are Christian experiences of materiality not conforming to their spiritual condition or faith and the difficulties of letting go or overcoming of the subordination of matter to spirit. In this part’s opening chapter, Marleen de Witte draws on her fieldwork conducted among Ghanaian Pentecostals to examine the tension between the power and peril inherent in Christian materiality as a generative force in

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Christianity and the Limits of Materiality

Pentecostal faith and practice. She discusses how materiality’s limits are formed and confronted when materiality raises concerns of authenticity for religious actors. At the heart of these concerns is the suspicion that religious materiality may, after all, be just a human creation that is void of spirituality. The Pentecostal processes of doubt wind around different forms of Christian “spirit media,” such as objects, bodies, liquids, images, or sounds, which facilitate the interaction between people and spirits; they are—as de Witte shows—central both for “making spirits” and for “faking spirits.” In her chapter, Minna Opas examines doubt as an active process of everyday Christianity among the indigenous Peruvian Evangelical Yine people and asks what happens when the understanding of one’s faith and the perceptions concerning the physical evidence of that faith fail to meet. Among the Yine, faith in God is said to actualize within a person as a special “organ” called ruwekinri. Difficulties arise, however, when despite purported faith, the presence of this organ within one’s body cannot be sensed. Opas suggests that this process is best described as one of de-indexification, in which the referential relation between sign and referent is cut. Tom Boylston explores in his chapter the relationship between materiality and authority. He concentrates on Ethiopian Orthodox people’s attempts to go beyond the doubt produced by worldliness, that is, the sinfulness and imperfection of flesh, and ritual paraphernalia in particular. Central for overcoming the incompleteness of matter is shown to be the success in consecration, in linking people and things to religious authority by means of tracing and establishing connections with the past and present authoritative people and objects, and by improving matter, for instance by disciplining the body. These chapters approach doubting as a mode of boundary-work and, as such, as a generative force in people’s Christian lives. Doubting is not merely a doubt of something being “true” or “untrue,”17 but a practice where authenticity comes to be verified over and over again. In Boylston’s and de Witte’s chapters doubt is linked to the ambivalent nature of matter, while in Opas’s chapter doubting is caused by the absence of particular kind of physical experiences. Opas’s chapter thus deals with the fundamental question of the necessity of materiality for making the transcendent present. However, all the chapters in this part seem to subscribe to the observation that doubt or doubting “does not exclusively point to ontological and epistemological referents, to the questions ‘what is?’ and ‘what is true?’” but also to pragmatic referents, to the question “what to do?” (Pelkmans 2013: 2; see Hecht 2010). Doubt is an active practice that redefines and reconstitutes the limit of materiality in order for believing to be possible.

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Sufficing Another mode of boundary-work is what we call sufficing. In the chapters of this part, the contributors ask what are the sufficient material conditions in/through/ by which Christianity can be experienced as authentic, faithful to tradition, or immersive. There are no clear or simple criteria for defining what is too little, too much, or sufficient for Christian materiality. The boundary-work conducted here involves an ongoing negotiation of the proper amount and proper kind of materiality, as well as proper kind of relation to materiality. The questions Christian struggle with are: How does faith turn into material Christianity that is convincing enough? How does materiality become recognized by devotees as sufficient to affectively produce faith in oneself and in others? When and how does matter become not enough or too much? By focusing on the evaluation of sufficient materiality, we do not want to imply that religion/faith/belief is something immaterial or that the possible value claims presented by believers are necessarily in hierarchical relation to religious material expressions. As noted above, religion, faith, and belief are considered to exist as practices, as boundary-work. Although Christians may in different contexts conceptualize matter as subordinate to faith and belief, it does not entail the existence of an absolute or natural hierarchy, but rather implies something that could be called a “situational universe”; the ways immateriality and materiality become continuously generated and organized in relation to one another in praxis. The specific questions the conundrum of sufficiency raises in Christians, and which the contributors to this book examine include: What difficulties does the scarcity of clues found in the Bible, in tradition, or in material legacy and practices pose to Christians’ attempts to generate or live out their faith? Are textual and historical materials available sufficient to create immersive enough theme parks, statues, and crucifixes, or produce convincing enough religious plays, for generating faith? To what extent can the media for delivering the Christian message—the Bible in particular—be altered before the message crosses the limit of inauthenticity? The part on “sufficing” is opened with a chapter by Katja Rakow in which she takes a closer look at the process of negotiation of the suitability and use of different Bible versions, let those be bound or digital, for delivering the Word authentically and believably among the neo-Pentecostal Christians in the United States. The analysis concentrates on the role of the physical properties of the “Word,” of the Bible, as an enabling or restricting factor in religious practice. Electronic Bibles, in particular, are observed to pose a challenge to these

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Christians, because they exist only as data and lack tangible physical properties of their own. The author develops the notion of “Bibleness,” with which she refers to the capability of different Bible versions to operate as adequate media in religious practice, for the examination and unveiling of the limit for sufficient degree and kind of Christian materiality. The idea of something to be sufficient enough can be approached also from another angle as James Bielo does in his chapter where he scrutinizes the design project of a creationist biblical theme park, “Ark Encounter.” Bielo focuses on how a team of creative artists negotiate Christian materiality’s potential for failure in realizing a model of religious conversion. The objective of the Ark Encounter project is to demonstrate the historical plausibility of the biblical story of Noah by creating an entertainment experience capable for immersing visitors in the (creationist version of) biblical times. The artists’ team is engaged in an ongoing struggle to overcome the problem of the insufficiency of information provided by the Bible concerning the visual imagery of biblical times, and is thus forced to produce creative solutions. Therefore, the author argues, the limits of materiality are “always eventually about uncovering the possibilities of materiality” (p. 123). An alternative view on sufficiency is introduced in Anna Haapalainen’s chapter where she examines the boundary-work considered sufficient among Finnish Evangelical Lutherans for dissolving the temporal gap between the biblical times and today’s world. The theater group creates a tension between materiality and immateriality with choices of costumes, set, stage usage, and interplay between the characters of the Scripture, actors, and audience. These actions are all about matter and its qualities—how matter can be dealt with in a manner that strives to humanize the Scripture to make it tangible, visceral, and alive for the actors as well as for the audience. In his chapter, Diego Alonso Huerta discusses the topic of sufficing in the context of the Peruvian pilgrimage tradition in Huamantanga. He poses the question: Why does the ritual of pilgrimage to a crucifix at Huamantanga persist even though the original crucifix was destroyed and replaced? He focuses on the ambivalence between the intrinsic material nature of the crucifix and its capacity to evoke symbolical meanings of sacredness that go beyond it. However, this sacredness does not depend uniquely on the crucifix, but rather emerges from a dialectical relationship between the myth related to the original crucifix, the pilgrims’ devotion, and three material elements: the replacement crucifix, the route, and pilgrims’ bodies. The intertwinement of these elements creates the conditions sufficient for the pilgrims to experience God’s presence and grace and for the replacement crucifix to become more than a replica of the original.

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The question of sufficing highlights the problems of authority or power and especially that of authenticity. The cases discussed in this part show how the problem of authenticity is related to both the quality and quantity of matter. The quality of matter is found important in the case discussed by Rakow, in which people treat different versions of the Bible in different ways: an electronic Bible cannot have the same historical depth as a bound Bible may have and therefore is sometimes considered to lack in authenticity, derived from the resonance between history and the eternality and unchangeability of the Word of God. Michael Rowlands (2005: 80) speaks about this tendency as hierarchies of materiality: “How some may become more material than others,” and as such more powerful or more authentic than others. On the other hand, an electronic Bible has specific technological qualities that make it superior to the bound version in certain circumstantial points of usage, thus underlining the idea that the medium of the Gospel is less important than the Gospel itself. The importance of qualitatively sufficient materiality for successful ritual praxis is emphasized in a different manner in the case of Catholic pilgrimage of Huamantanga (Huerta), in which the deeply material and mimetic pilgrimage process charges people’s bodies with an authenticity that could not be achieved otherwise. It is also through this same conditioning of matter that the pilgrimage has the potential to make the replacement crucifix “authentic” even though the original crucifix was destroyed. Although built into the topic of sufficing, the question of the quantity of qualitatively proper kinds of matter preoccupies Christians to differing extents. The Christians in the cases discussed by Bielo and Haapalainen are balancing between too little and too much of certain kinds of material things and conditions in order to reach a state of authenticity capable of generating faith in visitors to a theme park and the audience of a play, respectively. The excessive makeup of biblical characters in a play, and construction techniques not used in biblical times, for instance, are considered to diminish the affective experience these creative teams aim at producing for people. Materiality in these cases needs to be sufficiently authentic, aesthetic, and plausible and yet it should not overrun the “mission” it is used for.

Unbinding The third mode of boundary-work treated in this book is that of unbinding. With unbinding, we refer to the processes of opening or dissolving postulated

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boundaries. Such processes first require the recognition of the boundary in order to be able to open or modify it. One of the emblematic Christian examples of a process of unbinding is the forgiving of sins. In Western mainstream Catholicism, God has the sovereign power to forgive sins, yet priests are granted with the authority to “bind or unbind” them in the world, that is, to give absolution: to release the person from the spiritual and carnal sins of the past and the present (Hanks 2015: 402; Pace 2007: 40). The act—the actual boundary-work through which this is achieved—is that of confession and prayer for God’s mercy. The cases discussed in the third part of the book relate unbinding especially to corporeality, to the processes of unbinding the body in different ways in order to be able to exercise unrestrained spirituality, but also to those of unleashing bodily or spiritual experiences from the constraints of reason, for instance. As Matthew Engelke (2015: 46) has noted, “the body is crucial site in coming to understand the places and times in which certain paradigmatic signs of ‘enchantment’ come down.” This “enchantment” can be understood as amounting to the boundarywork we here discuss; in unbinding humans negotiate, define and redefine, move and modify, and act and experience the limits in the problem space formed by the material and immaterial. This is not to say, however, that the processes of unbinding would necessarily have to be related to the human body. As shown by the contributors to the book, at the heart of such processes there may also be different things and objects, such as statues. However, regardless of the particularities of each case, central to the processes of unbinding is the rather explicit attention given to both the relation and the limit between the material and the immaterial, between matter and spirit. Furthermore, even though the three chapters put forward different approaches to materiality, the agency of materiality is undeniable in all of them. The third part includes three chapters. Elisa Heinämäki’s chapter explores the strategies of the eighteenth Century Radical Pietist project of dematerialization. Heinämäki investigates how life in the Spirit is pursued and constructed in Radical Pietist practice, which on the one hand emphasizes the localization and fixing the Spirit within the devotee’s body, but on the other hand acknowledges the impossibility of such binding of the Spirit: the Spirit always remains unrestrained and unpredictable by nature. The author asks what kind of operations on the body and on material objects are involved in the work that (re)draws and (re) defines the limits between the material and the immaterial and both materializes the Spirit to fix it in the body and dematerializes it to enable its identification and its subsequent benevolent action. A different process of unbinding is introduced

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in Igor Mikeshin’s chapter. The chapter gives an account of bodily transformation through moral transformation among Russian addicts participating in a Baptist rehabilitation process. Mikeshin argues that bodily remission is maintained by a continuous process of moral transformation, which takes place in and through accepting, adopting, and interiorizing the biblical text as a narrative of conversion and Christian life. The matter, the “body,” is actively controlled in order to keep at bay the temptations it presents and thus to make space for the spirit to free the person from addiction. According to Mikeshin, this twofold process of transformation is most easily perceived when it fails—when an addict leaves the Baptist rehab and relapses. In her chapter, Sari Kuuva approaches the boundary-work of unbinding in relation to authenticity. The focus of the chapter is on religious practices related to the making of processual statues and to participating in processions where these statues are carried. All these activities are shown to aim at establishing and maintaining human interaction with the divine. Kuuva argues that such interaction in the processions is dependent on three issues, in particular: (mainly visual) authenticity, touch, and collective action. It is through the mimetic presence formed by the intertwinement of these factors that the statues’ authentic materiality becomes unbound, thus enabling people’s interaction with the divine through the statues. Together the chapters show how the process of unbinding emphasizes in a variety of ways the hierarchical relationship between spirit and matter and thus addresses the question of the value of materiality. In many Protestant contexts, penitence requires that the body is made “dead” to the world time and time again. This can be seen, for example, in Heinämäki’s chapter on Radical Pietism, where the body and its needs are to be controlled in order to make the “Spirit” flow and affect the believer. The separation of the body and spirit and their hierarchical relation can be seen also in Mikeshin’s chapter, where addiction is controlled by disciplining the body and its unhealthy needs with vigorous spiritual practices. An opposite view on the hierarchy of spirit and matter is forwarded in the chapter on Granadian processions written by Kuuva, where excess materiality does not interfere with but is rather considered a prerequisite to the mediation of the transcendent. The flamboyant and decorative statues expressing vivid emotions of sorrow and suffering are mimetic points connecting humans with the divine. This leads us back to Marcel Proust and the abundancy of materiality that surrounds us and as part of which we live our lives. It is this abundancy that also preoccupies Christians, who attempt to tame and control, surpass, employ, and embrace it in their religious lives and to which time and time again they need to

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submit and surrender. The practices informed by the preoccupation people have with materiality that can be glossed as doubting, sufficing, and unbinding form the very substance of people’s everyday lived Christianities.

Notes   1 The works discussed here naturally build on other important works on religion and materiality, such as Appadurai 1986; Csordas 1993; Gell 1998; Engelke 2012a, 2015; Espirito Santo and Tassi 2013; Ingold 2000, 2006; 2013; Keane et al. 2006; McDannell 1995; Miller 2005a; Turner 1982; Coleman 2006; Henare, Holbraad, and Wastell 2007; Viveiros de Castro 200; Walker Bynum 2011.   2 In a Hegelian manner, we could say that boundary-work makes Christians who they are and what they do (On humanity and materiality see Hegel 1977; Miller 2005a: 8).   3 Durkheim ([1912] 1995); Geertz (1973); Saussure (1915); Tylor ([1871] 2016); Weber ([1930] 2005: 40, 110, 116). On systematic dematerialization of religion in social-scientific analysis see for example Basso and Selby (1976) and Schneider (1976). On over-emphasis on Geertz’ search for meaning in anthropology see Tomlinson and Engelke (2006: 3–4).   4 See for example, Engelke (2007); Espirito Santo and Tassi (2013); Henare, Holbraad, and Wastell (2007); Houtman and Meyer (2012); Keane (2007); McDannell (1998); Morgan (2010); Whitehead (2013). On the question of meaning and materiality in anthropology and related fields in general, see for example, Appadurai (1986); Barad (2007); Butler (1990); Fuglerud and Wainwright (2015); Gell (1998); Ingold (2000, 2013); Latour (1993); Meskell (2004); Miller (2005b); van Dyke (2015).   5 The question of expressions’ denotative quality and especially the Wittgensteinian critique of denotation and his focus on meaning’s relation to the function of language—meaning as a process—have motivated the study of the relationship between meaning and language (Tomlinson and Engelke 2006; see Grayling 2001; Wittgenstein [1953] 2001).   6 In spite of the emergence of a religious turn (sometimes also referred to as a theological turn) in philosophy and humanities (McCurry and Pryor 2012), the wider theological turn in humanities involving engagement in balanced conversation between disciplines, is, however, yet to come, although signals to that end do exist, as we can already speak, for instance, of a “neo-Pauline turn” in anthropology (See Bialecki 2010; Meyer and Houtman 2012: 10).   7 Luther’s theology took place also as a junction between the medieval and modern worlds. This becomes evident in relation to his views on the Bible. Even though he wanted the church to have the monopoly for interpreting the Bible, with his

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9

10 11 12

13 14

15

23

separation of the secular and the religious he did, in fact, create possibilities for the opposite: the Bible could in vernacular languages be interpreted in a different (secular) epistemological system. For him, however, the secular was not autonomous with regard to the religious (this is a modernist reading), but a normative frame, a principle of inclusion and exclusion (Largier 2009: 44–45). The Finnish School of Luther Studies behind this view has also been criticized for its understanding of theosis. For the wedge between Luther and Melanchton and the question of justification critique, see Trueman (2006: 89–92). On the critique of real-ontic union see Briskina (2008: 22). As the general view has it, the Reformation attacked the Catholic (medieval) embrace of structures and forms and thus joined certain “modern” philosophical schools. However, rather than an alignment of the early Reformed tradition with philosophical schools of thought or doctrines, this development is best understood more broadly as the transition from religious to philosophical consciousness (Harwood 1998). It has been argued that “the post-Kantian epistemological spectacles of modernity do not allow an encounter with the ‘ontology’ of Christianity” (Mannermaa 1998; Saarinen 2010: 4). Tuomo Mannermaa (1998: 4–9) notes that “the modern period has often replaced the content of doctrine, the sacramental presence of God and the personal encounter with the core (res) of theology with an existential experience regarding the phenomenal—or even epiphenomenal—traces of God.” This movement toward philosophical consciousness has contributed to the understanding of Reformed Christianity as inimical to materiality. Interestingly, Luther’s studies have been noted also to be trapped with the dualistic separation of mind and body (see Deschamp 2015: 210). Luther’s theology had, however, gone through a radical change during his career (Mjaaland 2015: 93). See Lee Palmer Wandell (1995), Voracious Idols and Violent Hands: Iconoclasm in Reformation Zurich, Strasbourg, and Basel, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press; Margaret Miles (1985) Images as Insight: Visual Understanding in Western Christianity and Secular Culture, Boston: Beacon Press. Margarete Stirm (1977), Die Bilderfrage in der Reformation, 45–49, Gütersloh: Gütersloher Verlagshaus Mohn, cited in Deschamp 2015: 218. The medieval idea of the soul being located precisely in the heart is one of the most obvious differences to the more modern (Melanchtonian) view, which endorsed the novel concept that the soul was located in the brain (Vidal 2011: 38–40). In the context of the body, the boundary between the human being and the world has been under scrutiny for a long time, with focus on the human being and other humans, animals, nonhumans, objects, place and space, art and architecture, and technology and machines, for instance. Approaches have ranged from the examination of the boundedness and porosity of the body (Bourdieu [1980] 1990;

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Butler 1990; Douglas [1966] 2002; Johnson 2014; Lakoff and Johnson [1980] 2003; Mauss 2007; Strathern 1988; Taylor 2007; Turner 1980; Viveiros de Castro 1998) to phenomenological embeddedness of the human being in the world (Bourdieu [1980] 1990; Csordas 1993; Ingold 2013; Merleau-Ponty [1945] 2012) and have recently turned toward the co-constitution of things and humans (e.g., Henare, Holbraad, and Wastell 2007; Latour 2004; Lock 2001; Santos-Granero 2009; Tsing 2013). 16 Karen Barad’s (2003) observation on the role of the research “apparatus” is instructive here. Building on this idea, Fowler and Harris (2015: 134) note that “ideas and theories work only when reality is configured to allow them to do so; they are and rely on ‘actual physical arrangements’.” 17 The focus on practice has also been taken up anew as a way to look beyond meanings emerging from doctrines and structures. Jon and Hildi Mitchell (2008; see Mitchell 2015), for instance, have noted that privileging religious doctrines and categories—“their sense of truth”—has eclipsed the importance of the practices and experiences that make up religiosity. Borrowing Pierre Bourdieu’s ([1980] 1990: 86) observation that “practice has a logic which is not that of the logician,” they note that “a focus on performance takes us away from the search for a categorical logic, or ‘truth’ and towards an understanding of the experiential, or existential, grounds of religiosity.” Religious meanings are noted to arise not only from particular ritual actions, but also from everyday practical experience.

Quotations Proust, M. ([1913] 2008). The Senses of Consciousness: Swann’s Way in Half, San Antonio: MSCA Philosophy Group.

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Meyer, B. (2008b), “Religious Sensations: Why Media, Aesthetics, and Power Matter in the Study of Contemporary Religion,” in H. de Vries (ed.), Religion: Beyond a Concept, 704–23, New York: Fordham University Press. Meyer, B. (2010), “Aesthetics of Persuasion: Global Christianity and Pentecostalism’s Sensational Forms,” South Atlantic Quarterly, 109 (4): 741–63. Meyer, B. (2015), “Picturing the Invisible. Visual Culture and the Study of Religion,” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion, 27 (4–5): 333–60. Meyer, B. and D. Houtman (2012), “Introduction: Material Religion—How Things Matter,” in B. Meyer and D. Houtman (eds.), Things: Religion and the Question of Materiality, 1–23, New York: Fordham University Press. Miller, D. (2005a), “Materiality: An Introduction,” in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, 1–50, Durham: Duke University Press. Miller, D. (ed.) (2005b), Materiality, Durham: Duke University Press. Mitchell, J. (2010), “Performing Statues,” in D. Morgan (ed.), Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief, 262–76, London and New York: Routledge. Mitchell, J. (2015), “Ontology, Mimesis and Divine Intervention: Understanding Catholic Visionaries,” in M. Bull and J. P. Mitchell (eds.), Ritual, Performance and the Senses, 11–30, London: Bloomsbury. Mitchell, J. and H. J. Mitchell (2008), “For Belief: Embodiment and Immanence in Catholicism and Mormonism,” Social Analysis, 52 (1): 79–94. Mjaaland, M. T. (2015), The Hidden God: Luther, Philosophy, and Political Theology, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Morgan, D. (1998), Visual Piety, Berkeley: University of California Press. Morgan, D. (2008), “Image,” in D. Morgan (ed.), Keywords in Religion, Media, and Culture, 96–110, London and New York: Routledge. Morgan, D. (2010), “Introduction. The Matter of Belief,” in D. Morgan (ed.), Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief, 1–18, London & New York: Routledge. Morgan, D. (2012), The Embodied Eye: Religious Visual Culture and the Social Life of Feeling, Berkeley: University of California Press. Müller, G. (2014), “Luther’s Transformation of Medieval Thought: Discontinuity and Continuity,” in R. Kolb, I. Dingel, and L. Batka (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Martin Luther’s Theology, 105–14, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Opas, M. and A. Haapalainen (eds.) (2016), “Connected with God: Body, Social and the Transcendent,” Special issue of Temenos: Nordic Journal of Comparative Religion, 52 (2). Orsi, Robert A. (2006), Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious Worlds People Make and the Scholars Who Study Them, Princeton: Princeton University Press. Pace, E. (2007), “Religion as Communication: The Changing Shape of Catholicism in Europe,” in N. T. Ammerman (ed.), Everyday Religion: Observing Modern Religious Lives, 37–50, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pelkmans, M. (ed.) (2013), Ethnographies of Doubt: Faith and Uncertainty in Contemporary Societies, London and New York: I.B. Tauris.

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Pels, P. (2012), “The Modern Fear of Matter: Reflections on the Protestantism of Victorian Science,” in B. Meyer and D. Houtman (eds.), Things: Religion and the Question of Materiality, 27–39, New York: Fordham University Press. Reinhardt, B. (2016), “‘Don’t Make It a Doctrine’: Material Religion, Transcendence, Critique,” Anthropological Theory, 16 (1): 75–97. Robbins, J. (1997), “666, or Why is the Millennium on the Skin? Morality, the State and the Epistemology of Apocalypticism among the Urapmin of Papua New Guinea,” in P. Stewart and A. Strathern (eds.), Millennial Markers, 35–58, Townsville: Centre for Pacific Studies, James Cook University. Robbins, J. (2001), “God is Nothing But Talk: Modernity, Language and Prayer in a Papua New Guinea Society,” American Anthropologist, 103 (4): 901–12. Robbins, J. (2003), “What is a Christian: Notes Toward an Anthropology of Christianity,” Religion, 33 (3): 191–9. Robbins, J. (2004), Becoming Sinners: Christianity and Moral Torment in a Papua New Guinea Society, Berkeley: University of California Press. Robbins, J. (2006), “Afterword: On limits, Ruptures, Meaning, and Meaninglessness,” in M. E. Engelke and M. Tomlinson (eds.), The Limits of Meaning: Case Studies in the Anthropology of Christianity, 211–24, Oxford: Berghahn Books. Robbins, J. (2007), “Between Reproduction and Freedom: Morality, Value, and Radical Cultural Change,” Ethnos, 72 (3): 293–314. Rowlands, M. (2005), “A Materialist Approach to Materiality,” in Daniel Miller (ed.), Materiality, 72–87, Durham: Duke University Press. Saarinen, R. (1997), Faith and Holiness: Lutheran-Orthodox Dialogue 1959–1994, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Saarinen, R. (2010), “Finnish Luther Studies: A Story and a Program,” in O-P. Vainio (ed.), Engaging Luther: A (New) Theological Assessment, 1–27, Eugene, OR: Cascade. Santos-Granero, F. (ed.) (2009), The Occult Life of Things:Native Amazonian Theories of Materiality and Personhood. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Saussure de, F. (1915), Course in General Linguistics, C. Bally, A. Sechehaye and A. Riedlinger (eds.), W. Baskin (trans.), New York–Toronto–London: McGraw-Hill Book Company. Schneider, D. (1976), “Notes toward a Theory of Culture,” in Keith H. Basso and Henry A. Selby (eds.), Meaning in Anthropology, 197–220, Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Shore, B. (1996), Culture in Mind: Cognition, Culture and the Problem of Meaning, Oxford, Oxford University Press. Slenczka, N. (2014), “Luther’s Anthropology,” in R. Kolb, I. Dingel, and L. Batka (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Martin Luther’s Theology, 212–32, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Strathern, M. (1988), The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia, Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press.

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Weber, M. ([1930] 2005), The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism, Taylor and Francis e-Library edition, London and New York: Routledge. Westhelle, V. (2014), “Luther’s Theologia Crucis,” in R. Kolb, I. Dingel, and L. Batka (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of Martin Luther’s Theology, 156–67, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Whitehead, A. (2008), “The Goddess and the Virgin: Materiality in Western Europe,” The Pomegranate 10 (2): 163–83. Whitehead, A. (2013), Religious Statues and Personhood: Testing the Role of Materiality, London: Bloomsbury. Wittgenstein, L. ([1953] 2001), Philosophical Investigations, 2nd ed., trans. G. E. M. Anscombre, Oxford: Blackwell Publishers. Yuval-Davis, N. (2012), The Politics of Belonging: Intersectional Contestations, London: Sage.

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Part One

Doubting

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1

Spirit Media and the Specter of the Fake Marleen de Witte

It was about halfway into my ethnographic fieldwork on charismatic Pentecostalism and African traditional religion in Accra when I attended a prayer meeting in one of the city’s many Pentecostal churches. A warming-up of praise and worship had raised the vibe among the crowd of about two hundred people. As the pastor joined the praise and worship leader on stage, singing faded smoothly into praying. People started walking about in the hall, clapping, rapidly moving their hands or fists up and down, shaking their heads, stamping their feet, and fervently praying in tongues. No longer as unfamiliar with the physicality and emotionality of this kind of Pentecostal prayer sessions as I had been in the beginning of my research, I joined them and started moving about a bit. Listening to the sound, I discovered a beat, a kind of rhythm in the apparent cacophony. The “tongues” of the people were backed by a monotonous, almost Buddhist-sounding prayer by the pastor’s assistant behind the mike. The pastor himself threw in some forceful utterances here and there. The backing sound of the keyboard was hardly distinguishable from the human voices, but integrated them into a cadence. Having remained silent up till then, I suddenly felt an urge to attempt speaking in tongues, curious to know whether I could do what Pentecostals claimed was the work of the Holy Spirit. Softly and hesitantly—was it not unethical to do this?—I started to mimic the kind of sounds I was hearing. Concentrating on the waning distinction between the sounds that entered my ears and the sounds that came from my mouth, I emptied my mind of any further thoughts and submitted myself to the flow. All of a sudden, I grew dizzy; my vision blurred and the hall started spinning around me. I felt I was going to faint. In the split second that it took me to grasp a chair and sit down my visit to a traditional shrine the previous day flashed through my mind. The gods! They had caught me! And now they made me stop pretending to be a Christian. Or was it the Holy Spirit telling me to stop resisting

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it? As I sat with my head between my knees and the blood slowly returned to my brain, I regained myself. I did not believe in spirits and gods. It must have been the intensity of the sound experience, and low blood pressure perhaps. I had listened to many Christian testimonies about how the Holy Spirit would manifest in people’s bodies as a tingling sensation, dizziness, or other physical responses; to warnings about the dangerous powers of demons associated with traditional shrines; to narratives about fake Christians, pastors even, who secretly engaged with these evil powers but would eventually be exposed and punished. But I never came close to believing in the supernatural agency they told of. And yet, the power of the many religious events, practices, objects, and media products that I engaged with during my fieldwork was such that at rare and unexpected moments I found myself sensing the possibility of spirit intrusion in my own body. Starting with this personal experience, I wish, first of all, to suspend, at least for the moment, the question of belief (Lopez 1998; Orsi 2015)—too often seen as what religion is all about—and to call attention to the power of what I will call spirit media: the material forms—be they objects, bodies, liquids, images, or sounds—and their aesthetic force through which religion becomes tangible on a more somatic, sensory level. I did not, and still do not, “believe” in spirits. And yet, I had somehow felt their power. More importantly, I do not think that the persuasive power of such material forms worked essentially different for the religious people I studied: sustained engagement with such forms tunes the senses to the tactile presence of the supernatural. In that sense, spirit media, whether a blood-coated god object in a shrine or a multisensory Pentecostal prayer session, can make spirits real and present in the world. In a now-classic article about Yoruba traditional religion, Karin Barber (1981) described “How Man makes God in West-Africa.” She writes: “The idea that gods are made by men, not men by gods, is a sociological truism. It belongs very obviously to a detached and critical tradition of thought incompatible with faith in those gods” (1981: 724). Indeed, from my own social science perspective, the gods and spirits that my religious interlocutors engaged with were essentially humanmade. And thus they were not real. Made up. But, as many scholars have now come to agree, this perspective, which basically separates spirit from matter and places primacy on the former, is the outcome of a particular, Protestant-Christian heritage conveyed to social-scientific theories of religion (see Asad 1993; Keane 2007; Meyer and Houtman 2012; Pels 2008). Theories that tend to reify (systems of) belief and abstract them from the social and material practices that generate them. Contrary to its universalizing tendencies and assumptions, it is only one of the possible perspectives on the relation between religion and matter.

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Yoruba traditional religion, Barber continues, contains built into it, a very similar notion [of men making their gods], and here, far from indicating scepticism or decline of belief, it seems to be a central impulse to devotion. The òrìşà (gods) are, according to Yoruba traditional thought, maintained and kept in existence by the attention of humans. Without the collaboration of their devotees, the òrìşà would be betrayed, exposed, and reduced to nothing. (1981: 724)

They would cease to exist. And thus, devotees go to great lengths to enhance their particular òrìşà’s glory with offerings of food, kola nut, and other items, ritual praise chants, and lavish spending on elaborate festivals. Such investment constitutes the òrìşà’s power, which is in return solicited for blessings and protection. This perspective, present in a number of traditional West African religions, thus turns the logic that “gods are human-made and therefore not really real” upside down, positing instead that what makes gods real and powerful is the human effort that goes into their making. This idea is taken up in a recent book edited by Diana Espirito Santo and Nico Tassi, Making Spirits: Materiality and Transcendence in Contemporary Religions (2013), which offers an inspiring challenge to the notion—still dominant in modern Western thinking—that material forms are an expression of some underlying thought (belief, meaning, worldview), and to the ProtestantChristian dichotomies that have formed this notion: transcendence versus immanence, subject versus object, matter versus spirit, body versus mind. Mainly concerned with presenting ontological alternatives to the Christian dualism of spirit and matter, the chapters give ethnographic examples from a variety of non-Christian religions to show how there is constant interplay between religious practitioners and material and spiritual domains. In the Afro-Cuban mediumship described by Espirito Santo for instance (2013), ritual activity plays an important generative role in giving objects agency and bringing spirits into being: objects can materialize spirits and things done to and with these objects constitute these spirits as social actors, able to affect the human world. Regrettably perhaps, the book contains almost no examples of making spirits from Christian traditions. What I want to suggest here is that approaching materiality—and its limits—through a focus on “making” is very relevant for Christianity too. And it is all the more interesting precisely because—and this is the key point—Christian practices of making spirits contradict the dualisms that Christian ideologies, and in particular post-enlightenment Protestant ones, emphasize at the same time.

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The Yoruba example, my own fieldwork experience, and the idea of “making spirits” all challenge the often taken-for-granted distinctions between matter and spirit, between skepticism and belief, between the fabricated and the real, thus invoking Bruno Latour’s notion of “factish gods” (2010; see also Stolow 2012). They raise questions about the relationships between those terms, about how spirit and matter might interact, and feed into one another. In this chapter I propose to address these questions by calling attention to the human process of making the spirit world and to the stuff that goes into this making. In doing so, I will focus mostly on charismatic Pentecostalism in Ghana, using material collected during more than a decade of close observation of that field, including intensive ethnographic fieldwork with the International Central Gospel Church in Accra from July to September 2001 and from March 2002 to March 2003. In focusing my discussion on the materiality of making spirits, I side with Birgit Meyer, who in her inaugural lecture at Utrecht University stressed: The point is not to unmask religion and entities such as God, gods and spirits as fictitious illusions, but to cast doubt on the very distinction between fiction and fact—or illusion and reality—on which such unmasking rests, and instead concentrate on the . . . concrete acts that involve people, their bodies, things, pictures, texts, and other media through which religion becomes tangibly present. (2012: 7)

At the same time, we also need account for the effect that this very distinction between the human-made and the God-given, between matter and spirit, globalized through historical processes of missionization and colonization, may produce in people’s religious lives and experiences; and for the fervency with which such projects of unmasking are taken up by Christians themselves. After all, the people that we as scholars of Christianity study share, and often struggle with, the same modern Protestant legacy that we have inherited, even if their engagements with that legacy may take place in the context of a religiosity, such as that described by Barber. The suspicion that religious material forms may be just that—empty forms created by humans, devoid of spiritual power—is not reserved to the skeptic unbeliever or detached social scientist. The possibility that such forms may not be the manifestations of spirit power that they profess to be—and that, therefore, they are “fake”—also haunts believers, especially those nurtured in the Protestant tradition. Whereas in Barber’s Yoruba case people’s awareness of the human making of gods did not indicate skepticism or disbelief, in many other cases, especially Christian ones, such awareness does raise doubt and suspicion among practitioners themselves. The Masowe Apostolics in

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Zimbabwe, for instance, described by Matthew Engelke (2007), see the Bible not as God’s Word, but as a human-made material object, a book, the thingness of which stands in the way of a “live and direct” connection with God. During my own research on charismatic Pentecostalism in Ghana, I noted that people were wary of the “fake pastor” who uses performance tricks, media shows, and marketing strategies to lure people into believing that he has supernatural powers (thereby all the more emphasizing the power of “real” pastors). The idea that I want to put forward here is that there is both power and peril in religious materiality and that the tension between the two—between the power of spirit media and the specter of the fake—may constitute a fruitful focus in the study of material Christianity (and material religion more broadly). In the remainder of this chapter, I will first develop the idea of “spirit media” and consider their role in the making (tangible) of the spirit world. In the second part I will address the limits of materiality and concentrate on the instances where materiality raises concerns about authenticity for the religious actors involved. In other words, I will first reflect on making spirits, and then on faking spirits. And the question of course is: When does making slip into faking?

Spirit media: Power in presence Let me note at this point that my understanding of materiality is a very broad one: “materials” are not limited to solid objects and artifacts, but include bodies, their gestures and postures, voices live and recorded, music and other sounds, and painted or printed pictures as well as television images, radio waves, smells, even air can be regarded as material (Alves De Abreu 2009). This very broad notion of matter is undoubtedly due to the fact that I came to the question of materiality in religion—and the relationship between matter and spirit—from the field of religion and media, and in particular from an interest in the nexus of media technology, religious practice, and the senses. The past two decades have seen a burgeoning scholarly interest in exploring the intersections between media technologies and religious traditions. It is interesting to note that scholars in the field of religion and media—often seen as intangible, elusive, disembodied—have been particularly productive in advancing new approaches to material religion (e.g., Meyer and Houtman 2012; Plate 2015).1 In my view, the most productive focus of attention in this field is not so much on how religion and media, as formerly separate spheres that come to meet as religious groups, adopt new—or newly available or accessible—media technologies; rather,

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I am inspired by an increasing number of scholars (De Vries 2001; Eisenlohr 2009; Engelke 2007; Meyer 2009; Morgan 2008; Stolow 2012) who, instead of seeing media as new to religion, advance a broader understanding of media and mediation as intrinsic to religion: religion as media (Stolow 2005). As a practice of making the divine present in the world, religion, they emphasize, always implies the use of techniques, technologies, and material forms that mediate between what is conceived as the physical and the metaphysical worlds and that enable people to experience the presence and power of gods, spirits, and other transcendent beings. Power in His Presence is the title of a television broadcast by the Ghanaian charismatic pastor Korankye Ankrah. It refers to the central Pentecostal concern with the coming into presence of God’s power through the Holy Spirit, to which I will return below. But it also illustrates the central paradox of religion more broadly: all religions, in one way or the other, posit power in the existence of a spiritual reality beyond what our senses can ordinarily perceive in the material world; yet at the same time, as a practice of engaging with that extrasensory reality, religion depends on the sensory mediation of transcendental presence through material forms: books like the Bible, the Quran, the Torah; prayer, prophecy, glossolalia; music and dance; ritual performance; spirit mediums, diviners, priests, healers, prophets and their dresses and attributes; amulets, icons, rosaries, prayer beads; oils, powders, incenses, liquids; shrines, temples, chapels, mosques; or, indeed, television broadcasts. In a million ways, written texts, ritual speech, sounds, human bodies, objects, substances, spaces, and modern media technologies can be made to function as “spirit media” that facilitate religion’s core business of connecting people and spirits. They can make the power of spirit entities not only imaginable, but also experienceable and real. One objection that could be raised against the idea of religion as mediation is that it presupposes rather than questions an ontological gap between the material and the spiritual (see, for instance, Hirschkind 2011). In my understanding, “spirit media”—as material forms—often participate in the creation of the very spirit that they “mediate,” thus fusing matter and spirit and collapsing dualistic categorizations. Quite in line with the approach advanced in Making Spirits, my use of the term “spirit media” is inspired by the phenomenon of spirit mediumship, whereby the human body becomes the very material through which the physical and the spiritual merge, and the distance between such domains disappears. The body becomes the god. Media technologies or religious objects are part and parcel of this process of rendering the divine present. When

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we take seriously the material-aesthetic qualities of various kinds of “spirit media,” be they made of stone or flesh or sound waves or television pixels, there is, from an analytical perspective, no essential, à priori difference between such media. The difference between them lies in their specific technological and aesthetic qualities and possibilities, and in the ways in which these may be differently valued and sanctioned. The question, then, is how material objects, modern media technologies, and techniques of the body interpenetrate and inform each other in the materialization of religious presence. This implies a focus on the assemblage of human bodies and sensoria, objects and images, and technological devices in and through which the spirit world is brought into presence or, indeed, into being. And on the technicity—and in that sense the artificiality—of religious phenomena and experiences, the human effort that goes into “the making of spirits.”

Pentecostal mechanisms of circuitry Charismatic Pentecostalism in Ghana provides an instructive case from which to think of these configurations. What materialities do we encounter there? And what practices of “making of ”? What stuff do people use? What tools? These are interesting questions to pose with regard to charismatic Pentecostalism, because it so explicitly rejects material mediation of the spirit and instead emphasizes spiritual immediacy and divine self-revelation. In contrast to the Catholic tradition, charismatic churches promise believers direct access to the power of the Holy Spirit, without any intermediary: no divine priests, no sacred spaces, no powerful objects, no ritual needed. However, while placing primacy on the spontaneous coming into presence—and, crucially, into action—of God through the Holy Spirit, a lot of material work actually goes into the making present and operative of this spirit power. This starts with the making of the “supernaturally gifted Man of God,” whose role as a “spirit medium” is increasingly prominent in Ghanaian Pentecostal practice, even if theologically denied (de Witte 2011a). Certain people (mostly, but not only, men) are perceived as being chosen by God and endowed with a special “anointing” that enables them to transfer the power of the Holy Spirit to their followers. The body of this man of God is authorized as an important instrument for the operation of the Holy Spirit on earth. In the multisensory spectacles that charismatic services are, the pastor’s performance, his appearance, his dress, his voice, and especially his touch, all feature centrally

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as effective modes of tapping into the source of supernatural power: laying on of hands, anointing with olive oil, and other forms of physical touch, bodily movements, and gestures, all create “points of contact” with the Holy Spirit. The body and the senses of the believer are also “made.” The repeated performance of postures and gestures and the training of bodily techniques transform the body into a medium of contact with the Spirit (De Witte 2011b). As suggested by the opening vignette, spoken words and other sounds are also material in a way: for it is not so much the semantic quality of sound— the meaning of words—that makes the Spirit flow, but its physical quality— uttering meaningless sounds, the sheer volume of shouting, the style in which one prays, the rhythm of music. Technology is fully integrated in this total sensory experience: sound amplification, surround-sound technology, musical instruments, cameras and screens, closed-circuit television, and PowerPoint projections all contribute to people’s sense of divine presence. The making of “anointed men of God”—the making of charisma—as well as the tuning of the believer’s senses is inseparable from the making of religious media products. It involves specific filming techniques and extensive editing of the spoken content as well as the images in order to maximize the intended effect of the broadcast on the viewers (De Witte 2003). This plays a crucial role in establishing Pentecostal leaders’ spiritual authority. Just as the pastor’s body and voice mediate the presence of the Holy Spirit in church, his technologically mass-reproduced body image and voice can also transfer the Holy Spirit over distance, through television or radio. Some media preachers make use of the materiality of the media device by calling their listeners, viewers, or readers to place their hand on the radio set, the television screen, or the book page, much in the same way that the materiality of the body is used to create contact points during services in church. But also without physical touch, the Holy Spirit can flow through the eye and the ear, as testimonies from people about having received Holy Spirit baptism through a television broadcast and being healed through live-on-air radio prayers indicate. One can indeed “catch the anointing” (Heward-Mills 2000) by listening to sermon tapes, watching religious videos, or reading religious books. Taken together, pastors’ and believers’ bodies, their voices, physical objects, and media technologies all combine to create a material-spiritual circuit that enables the power of the Holy Spirit to flow and to manifest itself (in emic understandings, that is) in believers’ bodies as physical sensation—goose bumps, shivers, falling or spinning, feeling the Holy Spirit—and in material success in believers’ lives: a car, a house, money, visa, fertility, physical healing, and other

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“victories” that are attributed to the working of the Holy Spirit. Adopting the term “circuit” from Pentecostal writings (see below), by material-spiritual circuit I mean this: in many different ways, material actions (laying on of hands, speaking out words, anointing with oil, offering money, etc.) are taken to result in spiritual changes (make Holy Spirit flow, expel demonic spirits), which in turn solicit somatic and thus material responses, as well as material effects in the world. The working of this “mechanism of circuitry” does not even always need belief, as in the case of my own story at the beginning of this chapter. But interestingly, belief can be such a transactional force as well: the faith gospel proclaims that you have to believe in your material blessing for it to be “spiritually released” and come true materially. Let me stress here that “belief ” is not necessarily what one thinks it is or does. When a Ghanaian Christian says, “I know that spirits and witches exist, but I don’t believe in them, so they cannot affect me,” belief is not so much an inner state of conviction, but more like an energy that one can invest in a particular deity. Much like Yoruba òrìşà devotion or Afro-Cuban spirit making, believing in the power of the Holy Spirit seems to be an act that also constitutes this power, enabling it to produce material effects in one’s life. This at least is what transpires from the book Invisibility to Visibility, written by Ghanaian pastor Richard Gyamfi Boakye. In it he explains the working of faith as the principal device needed to transport invisible things, comparable to technologies of remote sensing, such as satellites: Like a satellite, faith has the ability to gather the energy of the spiritual realm and send signals into the physical in the form of solutions. . . . When faith is released it will complete the circuit of the spiritual and the physical and as a result spiritual resources will be transported into the physical. (Gyamfi Boakye 2001: 4–5)

Could we say, then, that belief here is one of the materials used to create the Holy Spirit as a social actor, that is, enabling its capacity to act in the world? In any case, matter as encountered here, is not so much “representing” or expressing “what people believe in.” Rather, what we are dealing with is “the agency of matter acting on spirit and [thereby] enabling its potential to act back” (Espirito Santo 2013: 37). In Charismatic/Pentecostal practice, things like objects, substances, bodies, media devices, and television images—and might we add belief here?—work as “technologies of ontological transformation, both generative of spiritual presence in the physical world, and of physical attributes in the spiritual one” (ibid.: 46). The Holy Spirit thus emerges as a phenomenon that flows between material and spiritual domains, interweaving

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these domains in a way that is very much in line with indigenous West African religious traditions (and with what Espirito Santo described for Afro-Cuban spirit mediumship). It can be argued, as I have done elsewhere (De Witte 2008), that part of Pentecostalism’s success in Ghana, as in many parts of Africa, is because it ties into rather than dismisses indigenous ideas about materiality, spirituality, and mediation (cf. Trapido 2013). I would hesitate, however, to interpret this as a particular “African” form of Pentecostalism, as many of the aspects of material-spiritual circuitry that I have described can be found in charismatic Christianity the world over (e.g., Brahinsky 2012; Klaver 2011; Luhrmann 2004). What is important here is that Christian practices of materialspiritual circuitry call into question the spirit-matter or mind-body split that still informs Western hegemonic thinking about religion. Equally important is that these material practices of lived Christianity often contradict religious adherents’ claims as well. Protestantism has left a legacy not only in the scholarly study of religion, but also in many of the religious life worlds that we study. So, as part of our efforts to redress the Protestant bias in religious studies by focusing on the material stuff of religious practices, we also need to take into account the tensions and insecurities caused by the multiplicity of ideas about the power and status of that material stuff, especially in so-called “frontier zones” (Meyer and Houtman 2012; Keane 2007). Practices with things are situated in attitudes toward things, and vice versa. But these attitudes are not clear cut, informed as they are by the “long conversation” between indigenous West African ontologies and Catholic, Protestant, and secular ones. This may produce contradictions, as in the case of charismatic Pentecostalism, which combines a marked employment of matter with a strong suspicion of matter. And this is where the specter of the fake comes in.

The specter of the fake As I have argued, analytically there can be no difference between true and false religious sensations or experiences. All experiences framed as religious are in a quite literal sense “artificial,” resulting from processes of making such as those I have described above. In Ghana’s religious arena, however, which is marked by fierce competition among a variety of religious specialists seeking to convince widely overlapping audiences of their claims to authority and authenticity, this very distinction is the stake in struggles over who can claim access to “real,” that

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is, divine, not human, power. The necessary element of technicity—of human making—present in any phenomenon or experience framed as supernatural may cause insecurity and doubt among believers and a concern with distinguishing “true miracles” from “fraudulent illusions.” But fabrication does not necessarily imply fakery and deception. Let’s return for a moment to Barber’s analysis of the making of Yoruba gods. One of the ritual chants says: “It will pull the cloth off its head; it will say there’s nothing there; by evening its patron will have run into debt” (Barber 1981: 738). “It” here refers to a foolish devotee and alludes to the fact that the devotees know very well how their god’s tricks are done, with, among other things, costumes (“cloth”) over their heads. But this does not imply that they are deceiving the people, that there is really nothing to the òrìşà, that it is all a hoax put over by human beings. Nor is this, Barber argues, an expression of skepticism. Rather, at the heart of the Yoruba devotional attitude is the recognition that the power of a god derives from its fabricated appearance—the cloth over the living man’s head. And nobody would be so foolish as to destroy that power—that is beneficial to all—by revealing the process of making it—pulling the cloth off its head. Devotees thus maintain the secret—which is largely a public secret—of the òrìşà’s making, “keeping up appearances,” because once revealed, “the òrìşà would be reduced to an empty word, an object of ridicule” (ibid.) and those who depend on it will land into trouble. Power is in appearance. This brings us back to charismatic Pentecostalism and its very similar emphasis on “power in presence.” For the Pentecostal makers I met in Ghana too, the fact of practicing and acquiring bodily techniques or using technology to generate sensations was not necessarily contradictory or “fake” despite Pentecostalism’s emphasis on divine agency and self-revelation. The editors in pastor Mensa Otabil’s media studio, for instance, admitted that they sometimes “cheat” in order to produce a desired effect (De Witte 2003). But this does not mean that they are deceiving the audience. Rather, their editing tricks help to get the Holy Spirit across so that the audience can partake in its beneficial power. The teachers in the Sunday School teach children how to pray in tongues by saying “I love Jesus I love Jesus I love Jesus” quicker and quicker and quicker until the words become all jumbled up. They did not see this as teaching them how to “fake it,” but as opening up the children’s bodies to allow the Holy Spirit to enter. The sound technician in the church takes pride in creating an intense sonic experience that makes people feel the Holy Spirit in their body. To him, this does not mean that the Holy Spirit is really not there. So, making it is not

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necessarily faking it. Rather, and quite similar to the Yoruba case, conscious and directed action on the part of the spirit-desiring believer is deemed necessary in order to bring the spirit into action. However, when a Ghanaian Pentecostal pastor in Uganda was caught with an Electric Touch machine that could produce in people a tingling sensation that would make them believe in his supernatural powers, scandal erupted (De Witte 2012a). This was fraud! And when a television station in Accra launched a youth preaching competition, designed as an eviction talent contest, with a jury of experienced preachers advising the kids on their performance style, this was cause for controversy (De Witte 2012b). For “these things are spiritual and not physical,” one commentator lamented, and so, such a show would groom selfconfident, fake preachers who know the tricks of persuasion and thus teach young people to be fraudsters. Time and again, the popular media carry reports of the activities of fake pastors trying to capitalize on the widespread craving for miracles and making huge sums of money from unsuspecting individuals, who call on them for spiritual solutions to their problems. In Nigeria, the authenticity of media pastors became such a matter of public concern that in May 2004 the Nigerian National Broadcasting Commission imposed a ban on the depiction of “unverified miracles” on its television stations (Ukah 2015). The source of suspicion here is that it is not self-evident when “performance” becomes “divine touch” and when it fails to become “divine” and remains “mere acting.” Charismatic/Pentecostals are well aware that critics often dismiss their religious mannerisms as “mere performance” or “just pretending.” In the introduction to his booklet How to be filled with the Holy Spirit—and note here the manual-style “how-to” phrase—pastor Mensa Otabil takes such critiques head-on when he writes: “Some of the questions [about “Holy Spirit Baptism” and “speaking in tongues”] have to do with whether the experience is real or if people are faking it” (Otabil 2006: 6). Indeed, the theatrical religious behavior of Pentecostal Christians may not only be seen as faking the outward signs of the gifts of the spirit, but also become an object of comedians’ mockery (Shipley 2009). Charismatic pastors are themselves the most frequent target of accusations of fakery. In Ghana’s competitive, but lucrative, religious field, pastors (and other religious specialists) always risk being accused of performing tricks to mislead people with false claims to spiritual power so as to get rich quickly and lead extravagant or immoral lifestyles. No pastor is totally immune to such criticisms and the legitimacy of particular pastors’ claims to anointing is much debated in Charismatic/Pentecostal circles and beyond. Even established pastors, such as

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Mensa Otabil, constantly need to authenticate the implicit message that they are not “mere” media creations, but embody “real” and effective anointing from God, that is, divine, not human power. To the public, the means to discern “genuine men of God” from “charlatans” faking divine power for material gain are far from clear cut and this is exactly the source of people’s fear of the figure of the fake pastor.

Problems with matter So, whence this problem with material form? This suspicion of outward appearance? First, let me distinguish between two takes on the fake encountered in Ghana. The first is the suspicion that things presented as coming from God are in fact coming from evil spirits. We find it, for instance, in the fear, as described by Birgit Meyer (2010), that a Jesus picture on the wall in reality harbors a demon, covering up its true, evil nature. Or in the ambiguity of consumer goods and material wealth, which charismatic preachers so lavishly display: often taken as evidence of spiritual blessing, there is also suspicion that the sources of this wealth lie in the domain of evil spirits. Hence projects—undertaken by Christian and non-Christian actors alike—of unmasking the “fetish power” behind a pastor’s success. A well-known example is Nana Kwaku Bonsam, a self-professed “fetish priest” who has made it his mission to “expose all those who masquerade as ‘Men of God,’ but have their powers from other sources,” as he put it in a much-discussed “spiritual battle” between him and a Pentecostal pastor (De Witte 2009). A video posted on YouTube shows Kwaku Bonsam and his people invading a Pentecostal church to reclaim his god, Nana Bekoe, from the pastor, who allegedly had “bought” the god to make his church flourish, but had refused to pay for the service.2 A black object, claimed to be (the effigy of) the god, is produced from inside the church, after which the pastor confesses on camera and is taken away by the police. The widespread media circulation of such projects of unmasking (see also Meyer 2006 on video as a technology of revelation) animates the specter of the fake, while at the same time confirming the power of the genuine pastor. This first understanding of the fake, then, is part of a spiritualizing ontology that posits that matter is never “mere” matter but can always call into presence something beyond, some spirit power, good or evil. And the danger is that from appearance one cannot tell the difference. The second take on the fake displays a “modernist” problem with the “vanity” of matter, the idea that matter is “mere” matter—quite the opposite thus. It is

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found in the suspicion that things presented as coming from God are in fact human fabrications. This suspicion derives from a “hierarchy of value from the most material to the most spiritual” that has a long history on the West African coast and leads back to the notion of the “fetish” and the discourse on “fetishism” (Masuzawa 2000; see also Meyer 2010). Derived from the Portuguese feitiço—a human-made, magical object, amulet—which in turn derived from the Latin factitius—made, manufactured, artificial (as opposed to natural)—the notion of the fetish came to be used in European discourses to refer to a “mere object” that is falsely attributed with spiritual powers. It thus marked a distinction, and a differential value judgment, between a wrong and lowly attitude toward objects and a higher attitude that properly recognizes and dismisses matter as “mere matter” and prioritizes the spiritual instead. This hierarchy of value continues to be mobilized up to today among Ghanaian Christians with everpresent fervor, as in critiques of religious fakery and performance cited above. Such criticisms recurrently invoke distinctions between spirit and matter, the God-given and the human-made, and display a particular modern Protestant concern with authenticity that privileges depth over superficiality, inside truth over outward appearance, content over form, spirit over body, spontaneity over ritual, immediacy over mediation, divine agency over human agency, divine calling over learned art, and so on and so forth. In practice, it is not always possible to clearly distinguish between these two different, and in fact opposing, ontologies, because they also merge and people in their attitudes toward and practices with material things move between the two. But I find it important to emphasize both takes on the fake in order to avoid exoticizing narratives that present African Christians as being locked up in some kind of irrational, distinctly anti- or premodern thinking, seeing spirits in everything. Such narratives might in fact reproduce the old “fetishism” discourse in its positing of an essential difference between West Africans, who were utterly mistaken in their confounding spirit and matter, and Europeans, who knew better. Or between us, rational scientists of religion, and the religious believers that we study. It is important to recognize that the so-called modernist ontology has also taken root in West Africa and has influenced people’s attitudes toward matter—just as it is important to emphasize that modern Europeans’ practices with matter display more “fetishist” attitudes than we might be inclined to think, as Bruno Latour (2010) has argued in The Modern Cult of the Factish Gods. The point is that, as I have argued above (see also De Witte 2012a), religious authority always needs a certain degree of technicity or artificiality. But for

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the divine to be identified as the true source of power, this process of making has to be naturalized, to appear unnoticed in a way (cf. Van de Port 2011). When exposed, this “making of ” can dismiss the sensations evoked as being not spirit-induced, but rather human-produced, and thus “fake.” As a result of their eager exploitation of the “lure of images” (Morgan 2007), the visceral force of sound, and the persuasive impact of touch (De Witte 2015), charismatic pastors have become particularly susceptible to suspicions of fakery. The figure of the fake pastor has come to be associated with charismatic Pentecostalism more than with any other religion. Such concerns with discerning fake and real spiritual power are of course characteristic of a type of religion that locates religious authority not in institutionalized hierarchies and formal education (which are of human making), but in divine inspiration and charisma. What seems to have accelerated fears about spiritual trickery and generated a public obsession with assessing genuine spiritual power and unmasking fakery is the recent mass mediatization of religion, and of charismatic Pentecostalism in particular (see also Shipley 2009). At stake here is an insecurity over the sources of religious authority as religious leaders increasingly draw on the power of media technologies to enchant the masses and establish their charisma. In drawing on bodily techniques and media technologies to produce in people a sense of divine presence, Pentecostals at the same time need to mystify the mediating work of these techniques and technologies so as to authenticate a religious experience as immediate and real. As the emphasis on extravagant wealth and sexual escapades in stories about fake pastors indicates, this problem of making and faking is not only a theological problem (of presence), but is also implicated in wider societal struggles about power, resources, and morality.

Conclusion A focus on “humans making their gods,” and on all the stuff that goes into this making, may be counterintuitive to scholars of Christianity and taken to be better suited to African (diasporic) religious traditions whose gods come in distinctly material and artifactual form. I hope to have shown in this chapter that such a focus can be particularly productive for the study of material Christianity. Not in the least because it allows us to do justice to the primacy of aesthetic force in religious life and experience. This implies that we take the Protestant dichotomy of matter and spirit, and its various spin-offs—outward appearance and inward

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belief, mediation and immediacy, the fabricated and the real—for what they are: not given qualities, but made ones. They are qualities that are historically and politically produced and attributed to certain objects, bodies, words, sounds, and images in a process of religious authentication that endows them with the power—and denies other items the power—to establish a connection between religious subjects and divine or spiritual beings. A focus on practices of “making spirits” thus prevents us from mistaking such Protestant dualisms for analytical categories, for it collapses the distinction between human and godly making right away. It shows us that what counts as “media,” “representations,” “performance,” or “fabrications” and what as “immediate” or “real” divine presence cannot be taken at face value, but is subject to negotiation within and among religious groups. And often contested, because the line between such designations is thin, but taken to be vital. Lingering doubts, recurrent debates, and occasional scandals about “religious fakes” indicate that this process is never final and is particularly acute in contexts of religious encounter and/or religious transformation. Instead of dismissing the spirit-matter dualism all together, then, studying the making and handling of spirit media, and the discourses and debates that surround it, makes us take this Protestant heritage seriously for its continuing impact on Christians’ attitudes to and practices with material and aesthetic forms. It gets us at the struggles over the proper ways to render the divine present and operative, and the ambiguities therein. It brings us to the makers and to the choices and difficulties they face. And, most importantly, it helps us to ask better questions: What concrete materials do people use to connect to the divine? How do such materials come to be “charged” with a supernatural power or authenticated as manifesting an immediate presence (i.e., how does matter come alive)? When does the materiality, and the technicity, of spirit media become an issue of concern? And to whom? And why is that some media come to be seen as implying some kind of distance or absence, or even fakery? What kind of power relations and moralities are at play in these dynamics of fabrication, animation, and unmasking? A focus on making, then, helps us account for both the power of materiality in Christianity and its limits. For Pentecostals, these limits seem to lie in the thin line between making and faking: in the tension between, on the one hand, people’s sense of, and trust in, divine power and agency, and, on the other hand, the “spirit media” that make this power accessible to the human senses and operative in the human world. For what seems so unsettling for Pentecostals is the possibility that the physical sensations or outward appearances that they learn to take as evidence of the working of the Holy Spirit are merely human artifacts.

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Notes 1 Perhaps this is not surprising, as theorists of media and technology have long emphasized the importance of the materiality of technological mediation (e.g., McLuhan 1964; Kittler 1999). 2 “Nana Kwaku Bonsam reclaims god from church,” https://www.youtube.com/ watch?v=aj1-yFzUhbM, last accessed January 25, 2017.

References Alves de Abreu, M. J. (2009), “In Midair: Breath, Media, Body, Space: A Study of the Catholic Charismatic Renewal Movement in Brazil,” PhD dissertation, University of Amsterdam. Asad, T. (1993), Genealogies of Religion, Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Barber, K. (1981), “How Man makes God in West-Africa: Yoruba Attitudes Towards the ‘Orisa,’ ” Africa: Journal of the International African Institute, 51 (3): 724–45. Brahinsky, J. (2012), “Pentecostal Body Logics: Cultivating a Modern Sensorium,” Cultural Anthropology, 27 (2): 215–38. De Vries, H. (2001), “In Media Res: Global Religion, Public Spheres, and the Task of Contemporary Comparative Religious Studies,” in H. de Vries and S. Weber (eds.), Religion and Media, 3–42, Stanford: Stanford University Press. De Witte, M. (2003), “Altar Media’s Living Word: Televised Charismatic Christianity in Ghana,” Journal of Religion in Africa, 33 (2): 172–202. De Witte, M. (2008), “Spirit Media: Charismatics, Traditionalists, and Mediation Practices in Ghana,” PhD dissertation, University of Amsterdam. De Witte, M. (2009), “Eigen ogen en levende lijven: Antropologie, media en de fetisj van het face-to-face,” in T. Sunier (ed.), Antropologie in een zee van verhalen, 111–35, Amsterdam: Aksant. De Witte, M. (2011a), “Fans and Followers: Marketing Charisma, Making Religious Celebrity in Ghana,” Australian Religion Studies Review, 24 (3): 231–53. De Witte, M. (2011b), “Touched by the Spirit: Converting the Senses in a Ghanaian Charismatic Church,” Ethnos, 76 (4): 489–509. De Witte, M. (2012a), “The Electric Touch Machine Miracle Scam: Body, Technology, and the (Dis)authentication of the Pentecostal Supernatural,” in J. Stolow (ed.), Deus in Machina: Religion, Technology, and the Things in Between, 61–82, New York: Fordham University Press. De Witte, M. (2012b), “Television and the Gospel of Entertainment in Ghana,” Exchange, 41 (2): 144–64. De Witte, M. (2015), “Touch,” in B. Plate (ed.), Key Terms in Material Religion, 261–66, London: Bloomsbury.

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Eisenlohr, P. (2009), “Technologies of the Spirit: Devotional Islam, Sound Reproduction and the Dialectics of Mediation and Immediacy in Mauritius,” Anthropological Theory, 9 (3): 273–96. Engelke, M. (2007), A Problem of Presence: Beyond Scripture in an African Church, Berkeley: University of California Press. Espirito Santo, D. (2013), “Materiality, Cosmogony and Presence among Cuban Spirits and Mediums,” in D. Espirito Santo and N. Tassi (eds.), Making Spirits: Materiality and Transcendence in Contemporary Religions, 33–56, London: I. B. Tauris. Espirito Santo, D., and N. Tassi, eds (2013), Making Spirits: Materiality and Transcendence in Contemporary Religions, London: I. B. Tauris. Gyamfi Boakye, R. (2001), Invisibility to Visibility: How You Can Release Things From the Spiritual Realm, Vol. 1, Kumasi: Willas Press. Heward-Mills, D. (2000), Catch the Anointing, Accra: Parchment House. Hirschkind, C. (2011), “Media, Mediation, Religion,” Social Anthropology, 19 (1): 90–7. Keane, W. (2007), Christian Moderns: Freedom and Fetish in the Mission Encounter, Berkeley: University of California Press. Kittler, F. (1999), Gramophone, Film, Typewriter, trans. G. Winthrop-Young and M. Wutz, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Klaver, M. (2011), “This is my Desire: A Semiotic Perspective on Conversion in an Evangelical Seeker Church and a Pentecostal Church in the Netherlands,” PhD dissertation, VU University, Amsterdam. Latour, B. (2010), The Modern Cult of the Factish Gods, Durham: Duke University Press. Lopez, D. S. (1998), “Belief,” in M. C. Taylor (ed.), Critical Terms for Religious Studies, 21–35, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Luhrmann, T. (2004), “Metakinesis: How God Becomes Intimate in Contemporary U.S. Christianity,” American Anthropologist, 106 (3): 518–28. Masuzawa, T. (2000), “Troubles with Materiality: The Ghost of Fetishism in the Nineteenth Century,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, 42 (2): 242–67. McLuhan, M. (1964), Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press. Meyer, B. (2006), “Religious Revelation, Secrecy and the Limits of Visual Representation,” Anthropological Theory, 6 (4): 431–53. Meyer, B., ed. (2009), Aesthetic Formations: Media, Religion, and the Senses, New York: Palgrave-Macmillan. Meyer, B. (2010), “ ‘There Is a Spirit in that Image’: Mass-Produced Jesus Pictures and Protestant-Pentecostal Animation in Ghana,” Comparative Studies in Society and History, 52 (1): 100–30. Meyer, B. (2012), “Mediation and the Genesis of Presence: Towards a Material Approach to Religion,” inaugural lecture, Utrecht University. Meyer, B. and D. Houtman (2012), “Introduction: Material Religion–How Things Matter,” in D. Houtman and B. Meyer (eds.), Things: Religion and the Question of Materiality, 1–26, New York: Fordham University Press.

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Morgan, D. (2007), The Lure of Images: A History of Religion and Visual Media in America, New York: Routledge. Morgan, D., ed. (2008), Key Words in Religion, Media, and Culture, New York: Routledge. Orsi, R. A. (2015), “Belief,” in B. Plate (ed.), Key Terms in Material Religion, 18–23, London: Bloomsbury. Otabil, M. (2006), How to Be Filled with the Holy Spirit, Accra: Combert Publications. Pels, P. (2008), “The Modern Fear of Matter: Reflections on the Protestantism of Victorian Science,” Material Religion, 4 (3): 264–83. Plate, B., ed. (2015), Key Terms in Material Religion, London: Bloomsbury. Shipley, J. (2009), “Comedians, Pastors, and the Miraculous Agency of Charisma in Ghana,” Cultural Anthropology, 24 (3): 523–52. Stolow, J. (2005), “Religion and/as Media,” Theory, Culture and Society, 22 (4): 119–45. Stolow, J. (2012), “Introduction: Religion, Technology, and the Things in Between,” in J. Stolow, (ed.), Deus in Machina: Religion, Technology, and the Things in Between, 1–22, New York: Fordham University Press. Trapido, J. (2013), “Forms of Fetishism in Kinshasa: Historical Insights and Contemporary Practices,” in D. Espirito Santo and N. Tassi (eds.), Making Spirits: Materiality and Transcendence in Contemporary Religions, 205–28, London: I. B. Tauris. Ukah, A. (2015), “Managing Miracles: Law, Authority, and the Regulation of Religious Broadcasting in Nigeria,” in R. Hackett and B. Soares (eds.), New Media and Religious Transformation in Africa, 245–65, Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Van de Port, M. (2011), “(Not) Made by the Human Hand: Media Consciousness and Immediacy in the Cultural Production of the Real,” Social Anthropology, 19 (1): 74–89.

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Organic Faith in Amazonia: De-indexification, Doubt, and Christian Corporeality1 Minna Opas

I was once, during my fieldwork among the indigenous Yine people living in the Peruvian Amazonia, counseled by an Evangelical Yine man in his fifties because he was concerned about my spiritual condition. In spite of declaring that I was neither Evangelical nor Catholic, but that for my research I regularly attended services both at the Evangelical church and at the Catholic chapel, the man was worried that I could not develop into a proper Christian. Even though at the Evangelical church my being would be nourished by the presence of God, the visits to the Catholic chapel would nullify the effect—among the Evangelicals it was considered rather the realm of Satan than of God. He wanted to know whether I could feel these influences in my body. As I gathered, the man’s concern sprung from his personal experiences related to the difficulties in attempting to live in faith. The difficulties were not about the problem of living up to Christian ideals—in fact, he thought he was doing quite well in that sense—but rather about the discrepancy between the experienced faith and the physical signs of it. Some Yine Evangelicals say that faith in God actualizes within a person as a special “organ” called ruwekinri or “his/her life,” which is located in the believer’s chest, near, or in, the heart, and is thought to grow as it becomes nourished by faith or by God’s direct influence. Its presence in the body can be sensed. Nevertheless, at the same time this organ is said to be invisible and intangible, and people are often uncertain in regard to its existence in their bodies—do they, after all, feel its presence? This was the question with which the Evangelical man was struggling. He was active at the church and participated in the organizing of meetings and in preaching, but withdrew quickly when worldly disputes—often related to socio-economical disagreements—came to dominate discussions. He had raised his numerous

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children in the Christian faith, and deeply regretted that one of his sons had chosen to live another kind of life distanced from his family and from God. In short, the man attempted to lead a Christian life. However, he expressed his concern to me that in spite of his faith he had not in quite some time been able to feel the ruwekinri within his body and was rather perplexed by the inconsistency. Was there something wrong in his Christian life and faith after all? Was he just imagining that he was in faith? Why was his Christian condition not being confirmed by physical sensations? I understand his uncertainty as being connected both to Yine ideas concerning the nature of personhood and the epistemological uncertainty related to it and to the Christian problem of mediation, of how the presence of the transcendent becomes tangible in the world (Engelke 2007; Meyer 2008, 2015). In many indigenous Amazonian cosmologies—including the Yine— humanity is considered to be an unstable bodily condition. Owing to the openness of the body, a human being is constantly physically influenced by other beings, humans, nonhumans, and things alike and may therefore under certain conditions be caused to drift away from being a legitimate human (Taylor 1996; Vilaça 2002, 2005). As outer appearances may be deceitful, people’s moral actions are normally the best proof of their human condition (cf. Rivière 1994: 261). Nevertheless, even the actions may not tell the whole truth. For instance, a person under the influence of a nonhuman, although looking and acting as a human, may still be already distancing from their human bodily condition— they no longer fulfill the minimum requirements of being human. Consequently, people can never be entirely sure that the other humans they are interacting with are legitimately human. Among the Yine, I have found the same applying to Christianity. Christianity is understood to be a bodily condition in need of constant reproduction, albeit one whose stability and sufficiency is difficult to verify. A true Christian is said to lead a Christian life and do good deeds. However, as in the Evangelical man’s case, such deeds are not unquestionable as signs, which causes what I have formerly called “epistemological ambiguity” (Opas 2014), that is, uncertainty over the possibilities of gaining trustworthy knowledge of the world through one’s senses. In the man’s case, this ambiguity over his own Christian condition was exemplified in relation to the faith organ ruwekinri. Without sensing the presence of ruwekinri in his body, how could he know that he was Christian enough? In the anthropological study of Christianity, such questions related to sensing of one’s faith and the presence of or connection with God have recently been

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discussed in terms of material mediation and especially the problem of sincerity. The Yine case contributes to these discussions by expanding our understanding of the sincerity of Christian faith as material, rather than linguistic, practice. The problem of sincerity has been observed to be an issue that is unsettlingly present, especially in many charismatic but also other Christian contexts (Coleman 2006; Bialecki 2011; Engelke 2007; Keane 2002, 2007; Mafra 2011; Robbins 2004, 2008, 2011; Schieffelin 2008). Protestant and charismatic Christians are denoted to strive to free their interior (immaterial) sincerity of faith from the disturbing materiality of the exterior. They attempt and are expected to express to others with accuracy their inner thoughts and feelings. The kind of Protestant language ideology at work in these processes has been shown to be one emphasizing immaterial meanings over material forms (Keane 2002, 2007). On the other hand, Simon Coleman (2006), for instance, has shown how Christian language ideology may also accentuate the materiality of sincere language. Among the Word of Life Christians, words are objectified; they become thing-like objects that are produced and consumed and are formative of and inalienable from Christian personhoods. In both cases, however, the question of the sincerity of Christian faith has largely been approached through focusing on language use. This is, of course, indicative of the importance Protestants have been noted to place on language and text. Nevertheless, the Yine Evangelical’s case shows that the concern over sincerity may also take place aside from language (see also Hoenes del Piñal 2011; Mafra 2011). In relation to the Yine faith organ ruwekinri the question of sincerity appears to be in the first place about experience and tangibility. The case thus opposes the view of signs as immaterial and separate from the material world and aligns with the recent research on semiotic ideologies (Keane 2006, 2007; 2013), which head toward understanding referentiality in material rather than purely linguistic (and thus supposedly immaterial) terms. In this chapter, the Yine Evangelical uncertainty and doubt related to the sensing of the special “faith organ,” ruwekinri, is viewed as constituting a “problem space” (Reinhardt 2016)—or rather a quandary sphere, to emphasize materiality and praxis—formative of faith and of Christianity. It is in and through the practices within this quandary sphere that the Yine Evangelicals negotiate not only what it means to be a legitimate Christian, but also more specifically the relationship between signs of faith and the experience of being in faith. I will argue that the problem the Evangelical man was having, namely that his physical sensations did not correspond to the experienced condition

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of his faith, was due to what I call the process of “de-indexification,” that is, the breaking off of the referential relation between the subjective experience of faith and its material—in this case bodily—index. The referential relation between faith and the ruwekinri as an index of faith that was once active had become deactivated not because the referential relation would have been dissolved as in the process of thingification (Keane 2005), but because the sign itself had disappeared or, rather, had become impossible to be perceived through the senses. The chapter further suggests that this is not something specific only to Amazonian indigenous Christianities, but a mode of doubting in general that is visible in other Christian contexts as well.

The Yine and Christianity The Yine are an indigenous group of about 6,000 to 7,000 people living mainly in the Peruvian lowland area in indigenous communities but also in cities. Although their first contacts with Catholic missionaries took place in the seventeenth century, in the southeastern Peruvian Amazonia where I have conducted fieldwork since the year 2000, the Yine were evangelized only from the 1950s onward by missionaries of the Summer Institute of Linguistics/Wycliffe Bible Translators (SIL International/WBT), a US-based alliance of two organizations founded in 1934 and 1942, respectively, which focuses on transcribing languages and translating the Bible. They work worldwide, currently with speakers of more than 1,600 languages.2 Among the Yine, the SIL/WBT missionaries taught people not only about God, but also the art of reading and writing, which is why many Yine talk about them in terms of having been “civilized” by them (Gow 2006; Opas 2008; cf. Grotti 2009). Still today, the heritage of the SIL/WBT missionary work influences the Yine communities, as the Evangelical Yine pastors and some of the lay brothers go through training near the city of Pucallpa at the Biblical Institute of the Swiss Mission, which has a history of co-operation with SIL/ WBT. This chapter is based on the ethnographic research material formed with and among the Yine people of one indigenous community with a population of approximately 300 persons during several fieldwork trips between the years 2012 and 2015. Despite the strong Evangelical influence, the Catholic Church has also had a secured presence in this community, not least because the community’s primary school has been led by Dominican Catholics. However,

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the participation of the adult Yine Catholics of this community in the Catholic practice of Christianity or in profound religious reflection has been very low, for reasons I have discussed in more depth elsewhere (Opas 2008), and even though they form an integral part of the Yine communal religious landscape, they are not my focus in this chapter.3 In contrast to the Catholics, the Evangelical Yine are relatively active in practicing their religion even though during my fieldwork the then-current pastor moved away from the community, leaving the practice to the hands of three Evangelical brothers. The Evangelicals met three to five times a week at the Evangelical Church to study the Bible, sing, pray, and praise the Lord (see Figure 2.1). Although one common theme in their preaching was the end times and the work of Satan in this world, their practice was not very charismatic. There was no speaking in tongues and no emphasis on specific spiritual gifts, for instance. What they did, however, share with many charismatic Christians was the wrestling with the question of sincerity.

Faith as material relation and practice There are two concepts central to Yine Evangelical discourse on processes of faith: Giwekikaluru Kpashiri, Holy Spirit, and ruwekinri.4 One Yine man explained to me the nature of Holy Spirit metaphorically with an example of the growth of a fetus. Just as a fetus in a mother’s womb is nourished through and by the mother’s body and so little by little begins to grow and gain strength, in a similar manner God gives people life and nourishes them with the Holy Spirit so that they can grow not only in faith but also gain physical strength. According to the man, just as humans cannot survive without food, they cannot keep on going without God giving them life. A person can survive without food for a few days but it makes them weak, unable to work. A person needs food in order to have strength, in order to be able to work. In a similar manner, the man explained, a person does not have strength to live well without God giving them life, alimenting them with the Holy Spirit. What is interesting here is that the sensation of being nourished by the Holy Spirit is not solely a feeling of having strength to work but is said by some, but not all, Evangelicals to literally make up a special “organ,” ruwekinri, located in the person’s abdomen or chest (cf. Coleman 2006: 170–1). It is this organ, ruwekinri, which gains strength and grows in size by being nourished by the Holy Spirit and by faith.5 It was exactly the presence and the changes in the size of ruwekinri

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that the Evangelical man of the anecdote expected me to have felt when visiting both the Evangelical and Catholic Church. Nevertheless, the growing of one’s ruwekinri, of one’s faith, is not the result of God’s actions on men alone. Also, the believer should act in a way which strengthens their ruwekinri. A person’s good thoughts and acts contribute to its growth. According to the Evangelicals, a person with a large ruwekinri will love one’s neighbor, will speak well and love others, and eventually will go to Heaven (which purportedly the Catholics do not).6 This multidirected interaction between a person, other people, and God makes the ruwekinri not only a site for making faith tangible, but also a site of encounter between the believer and God. These are not, however, encounters in the sense of two parties meeting up, but rather ones in which God or the Holy Spirit and the human person become, at least in part, consubstantial. The idea of consubstantiality was not peculiar nor specific to the Evangelical human-divine relations among the Yine. In the Yine social cosmos, as noted also for many other indigenous social cosmoses in Amazonia and other parts of the world (e.g., Conklin and Morgan 1996; McCallum 1997; Strathern 1988), persons are relationally constituted in and through different corporeal processes and interactions. In the Amazonian context, the observation was initially made by Anthony Seeger, Roberto da Matta, and Eduardo Viveiros de Castro (1987 [1979])

Figure 2.1    Yine Evangelicals in Peru waiting for the beginning of a service. Photo by author.

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when they viewed Amazonian social groups as “communities of substance.” They put forward the idea that corporeal substances impart qualities of identity to those who incorporate them. Other authors have provided further evidence for the way in which, in the ongoing process of relationality, people become consubstantial through the sharing of corporeal substances and their analogues (Conklin and Morgan 1996; Londoño Sulkin 2012; Walker 2013). Among the Yine, legitimate personhood, that is, the legitimate human body, is produced through the corporeal practice of sharing food and of living and working with others, for instance. But this ongoing constitution also means that no one ever achieves a fully stable or completed body. Being a person is not a static state of existence but a highly unstable condition under constant negotiation. Yine Christianities could in a similar manner be conceptualized as unstable bodily conditions under constant formation (cf. Bonilla 2009; Grotti 2009; Vilaça 2009, 2016).7 As one Evangelical Yine man explained, in his former life as Catholic, he had had a Catholic body. He had drunk alcohol and behaved selfishly. But now, he said, after he had begun to listen to the Word of God and go to the Evangelical meetings his body had changed into an Evangelical one. He no longer drank or had loose sexual relations but acted respectfully toward others. It was not that his body forced him to do so, but rather that it enabled such behavior and, animated by the consubstantiality with other Evangelical bodies, gravitated toward it. Although I did not have a chance to talk about God and the faith organ ruwekinri with this man, it is presumable that such animation was also considered to be brought about by God’s consubstantializing influence, as voiced by many of the Evangelical Yine brothers when telling me about their personal lives.8 Faith, then, was among the Yine Evangelicals understood in very material terms. David Morgan (2010) has argued for a view of belief as practice. According to him, belief should not be thought of as something immaterial but as material practice. “Forms of materiality,” he notes, “sensations, things, spaces, and performance—are a matrix in which belief happens as touching and seeing, hearing and tasting, feeling and emotions, as will and action, as imagination and intuition” (Morgan 2010: 8; see Orsi 2015). For the Yine Evangelicals, faith was, indeed, something existing as material practice, as consubstantiality with God and fellow Evangelicals. But this practice also had a very thing-shaped material consequence (and cause) as it resulted in the generation and growth of the specific faith organ ruwekinri. As site and materialization of people’s relationship with God, ruwekinri, which increased in size and power when

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properly nourished, was understood to work as an indicator of the Evangelicals’ Christian condition. The larger the ruwekinri, the easier it was to sense it, not only because it generated good deeds and good speech, but also because it was said that its presence within one’s body could also be physically felt. The Evangelicals described such sensations in different ways. For some people the body felt light, for others it felt strong. Some people felt solidness in their bodies, while others said they could feel ruwekinri as a lump in their chest. What was common to these experiences was the very physical bodily sensation that ruwekinri produced, which also became stronger the larger one’s ruwekinri was considered to have become. Ruwekinri as a solidly material thing was, however, encircled by an aura of ambiguity.

Epistemological ambiguity and the question of sincerity For the Evangelical Yine people, the existence of ruwekinri as a physical organ was open to question in two central ways. First, the understanding of ruwekinri as a separate faith organ was not shared by all Yine Evangelicals but was most outspoken by those most active in Evangelical practice. Other Evangelicals were fairly uncertain in regard to the physical nature of ruwekinri. Instead of constituting a separate organ, some understood it as coterminous with, or part of, the heart. According to this view, the Holy Spirit did produce specific and concrete physical changes in people’s hearts, but these changes did not amount to the generation of a separate organ. Yet others denied the concrete and separate physicality of ruwekinri and were of the opinion that the Holy Spirit just nourished a person’s heart, thus giving them “life” (ruwekinri), understood rather as vitality. According to these approaches, a person would still become consubstantial with God through nourishment by the Holy Spirit, but the idea of ruwekinri as a separate organ was denied. Such variation in the Evangelical views could easily be considered as making the active Evangelicals’ view atypical and questionable. I do not, however, consider such variation and uncertainty as marking the active Evangelicals’ views of ruwekinri as something exceptional. Rather, the uncertainty surrounding the materiality of ruwekinri seemed to be emblematic of the more general ambiguity over form in the Yine social cosmos, to which I will return below. Second, even though not doubting the physicality of ruwekinri, this organ did pose an epistemological problem also for the more active Yine Evangelicals.

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In spite of describing ruwekinri as a separate organ located in the chest, they insisted that it cannot be seen or touched, not even if an autopsy was performed. Ruwekinri was invisible and formless. Yet, the Evangelicals held onto its physicality and materiality. Its presence in the body could be felt and it had material consequences for people. In itself, this controversy between the simultaneous tangibility and intangibility of ruwekinri was not particularly— if at all—disturbing for the Yine. In fact, understanding the intangibility and invisibility of this putatively material and physical organ as controversy is more a product of a Western approach to materiality than internal to Yine Christianities. For the Yine, for something to be material it did not have to be tangible or visible, at least not for normal everyday perception. Their social cosmos was full of such instances. Witchcraft darts, for instance, were pathogenic items, intangible and invisible for common people at the time of their launching, yet extremely tangible and visible when sucked out from the victim’s body by a shaman. However, problems—and problems of sincerity in particular—related to ruwekinri arose when the Evangelicals, despite considering themselves to be good Christians who regularly went to the church, read the Bible, and prayed, could not feel or sense the presence of ruwekinri within the body. Such failure to sense ruwekinri could be a case of losing a sensation that once existed or never having had such an experience in the first place. Both instances, however, led to a similar ambivalent situation in which the body’s outer appearances as visible to others, including the way the person acted and spoke, and the person’s understanding of their own body’s Christian condition, were in contradiction with the physical experience of their bodily condition. In spite of practicing their religion amid other Evangelical bodies, wanting to follow God and acting accordingly, people could lose or never feel the presence of ruwekinri in their bodies. Ruwekinri thus remained rather vague as an indicator of faith, as people had to ask themselves if they really were as connected with God as they thought they were. As such, there was nothing special in such epistemological ambiguity over form in the Yine social cosmos. As discussed above, because of the openness of bodies, different beings and entities were considered able to influence one another physically, even though they would not be in direct, visible, physical contact with one another. Just as in the case of pathogenic items, different beings, things, and substances could cause people to be distanced from the bodily perspective or point of view they attempted to maintain. Such influencing, especially since the visible bodily changes often took place slowly,

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led to a situation in which one could never be entirely sure of the nature of other people’s bodily condition. Instead of physical form, the best indicator of the bodily point of view of a person was therefore their behavior. For instance, the relatively common condition of people becoming corporeally influenced by nonhuman beings, as in the case of a brocket deer taking a human form and attempting to seduce people, for instance—and therefore becoming little by little distanced from the human personhood, was talked about in terms of madness. Such a person was mad, or rather, their body was mad, and they no longer acted morally in the way legitimate human beings should act: eating charcoal, walking around naked, or leaving their children unattended. From the illegitimate behavior people knew that the bodily condition of the person had radically changed. However, although behavior was in a similar manner held to be a good indicator of people’s Christian (Evangelical or Catholic) condition, it was not seamless. There was a possibility that a person acting as an Evangelical (or Catholic) was a fake. In addition to the gradual fabrication of bodies, within the discussions on Amerindian perspectivism (Lima 1999; Viveiros de Castro 1998) also another view on the nature of bodies in Amazonia has been put forward. In many perspectival cosmoses relationships have been found to precede form. The idea is explained by Eduardo Viveiros de Castro (1998) with an example of pronominal relations: just as a father is a father only if there is someone to whom he is a father, a fish, for instance, is a fish only if there is someone to whom it is a fish. A brocket deer calling a person and appearing before them in a human form because the human person—based on the call—is expecting to meet a human being, serves as an example of such a process in the Yine social cosmos. Although this kind of view of Amazonian bodies has been found incompatible with, or at least very different from, the idea of the relational formation of bodies through practices of sharing of substances (Vilaça 2009, 2016:19; Viveiros de Castro 2004, 2012; on the critique of ontologization of Amazonian understandins of personhood, see Fausto 2007), in the Yine social cosmos, however, particular Yine variants of the two processes existed side by side. I was often told about both types of encounters and relationships and it was together, in connection to one another, that they constituted the ambiguity the Yine people experienced in relation to form. This point is important for understanding the problems Yine Christians experienced in relation to ruwekinri and to Christian bodies more generally. As said, despite the gradual relational formation of Christian bodies through material practices, which as

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such were usually rather predictable, there always still existed the possibility that just as brocket deer’s, also people’s appearances and even behavior was deceptive—it did not conform to the person’s “true” bodily condition (cf. Viveiros de Castro 2011). In the Yine communal life, this was prone to cause friction between the Yine Evangelicals and Catholics, as it opened up and maintained a space for doubt. Both the Evangelicals and Catholics accused the other party of not being what they claimed to be (Opas 2014). Furthermore, it made interdenominational relations a venue for voicing other social disputes. However, more importantly for the present discussion, the ambiguity over form created by the tension between the two modes of bodily form was integral to Yine Evangelicals’ quest for growing and living in faith. Before proceeding to discuss in more detail the difficulty the Evangelical man experienced in regard to being able to physically sense his faith, it is worth pointing out that even though the deceitfulness of form was a possibility constantly present in Yine daily lives, what differentiated the active Evangelicals’ unease in the face of such ambiguity from other cases was the individualization of the experiences. In contrast, for instance, to the case of being overtaken by a brocket deer’s perspective, in which people themselves still thought that their bodies were stable and human, in the case of the Evangelicals, a person was forced to question the state of their own faith, that is, the size of their own ruwekinri. Such ambiguity over form that extended to people’s personal experiences seems to be something brought to or generated by the Yine in the process of domestication of Protestant Christianity. The emphasis put on inner self-reflection instead of, or perhaps rather in addition to, reflection over other people’s behavior and position in the web of social relations was a characteristic of the daily life of the active Evangelicals, but did not equally feature in the lives of the Catholics or in the relations the Yine had with the other actors or beings in their social cosmos. Nevertheless, as people were considered to become what they were as the result of relationality, the idea of purely personal faith that people should be able to sense within and by themselves, and the requirement of corporeal selfreflection as (Western) Protestant individuals, caused bewilderment (cf. Bialecki and Daswani 2015; Coleman 2006; Daswani 2011; Dumont 1985, 1986; Keane 2007; Robbins 2004; Vilaça 2011). The ambiguity remained irresolvable and as an integral part of active Yine Evangelical Christians’ lives. Doubts concerning the ruwekinri formed a quandary sphere for the Yine Evangelicals for negotiating sincerity, individuality, legitimate Christianity, and, as will be further discussed below, the physicality and materiality of faith.

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De-indexification of faith Ruwekinri as a physical organ and site of encounter with God was the very heart of Yine Evangelical practices of mediation, bringing together the transcendent and the immanent. However, as discussed, there was a possibility that this mediation would fail. In the case of the Yine man discussed above, ruwekinri as a faith organ seemed to close up or disappear, no longer signaling the presence of God and his consubstantiality with God, no longer responding to his Christian praxis, and no longer affirming that it itself (the faith organ) is nourished by the Holy Spirit. In other words, it no longer worked as formative of the divine or instructive of everyday Christian praxis for the man. The uncertainty surrounding ruwekinri— both the question of its existence as a separate organ in the first place and the need of constant vigilance over the correspondence of the understandings and the physical experiences of his faith—became amplified and the man was left with intensified doubt. When he told me about this problem he had, he put his concern into words in two questions: “Have I done something wrong? Am I in faith after all?” The disappearance of the material and physical sensations—that is, the encounter with the limits of Christian materiality—which for the man had worked as proof of his connection with God and were generative of that connection—forced him to address the fundamental epistemological questions related to believing and his relationship with God: How could he gain knowledge and certainty over his own Christian condition? Such developments, I suggest, are not to be viewed merely as processes in which problems with materiality raise questions of immateriality. They also reveal something elemental of the generative processes of lived, and thus very material, Christianity. In the Yine case, they reveal a transition from the practices of uncertainty to those of doubt. In the daily Christian life, when everything seems to be in place, there is no need to actively question one’s faith and the premises of believing. But when problems arise, such need is activated and the rather passive uncertainty gives way to active doubting. As Mathijs Pelkmans (2013: 4) notes, “doubt cannot be at rest, whereas uncertainty cannot be wilfully employed.” Doubt, therefore, is a practice that reveals the limits of Christian materiality and a force that enables the reauthentification of one’s faith and the relegitimization and authorization of the signs of that faith. Webb Keane (2005) urges us to identify the semiotic ideologies guiding such processes of signification. The Yine Evangelical man’s problem of signification in relation to ruwekinri rose out of and was embedded in a semiotic ideology, in

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which, as discussed above, subjects and objects—if a separation between them can be made in the first place—are intertwined with one another not just in one, but various ways. For instance, people may be considered subjects on their own right or under the influence of someone else’s point of view; pathogenic darts used in witchcraft are subjectified objects without full autonomy, but could equally also be considered as particles of objectified subjecthood; and a person’s belongings such as clothes retain some of its owner’s subject matter but are not granted full agency (see Santos-Granero 2009). In the Evangelical Yine man’s understanding, ruwekinri was not merely an object of God’s or the Holy Spirit’s and the believer’s actions but acted as a kind of subject as well— although by no means an autonomous one—as it guided him toward doing good deeds and which he considered to send good thoughts to his mind (cf. Keane 2003).9 In order to better understand the problem faced by the Yine man as the sensations confirming the existence of his ruwekinri were lost, we need to take a closer look into the processes of signification related to the subjectification and objectification of ruwekinri as a faith organ. Matthew Engelke (2005, 2007, 2012) has observed how objectification should not be considered a single kind of process but should be further divided to better capture the multiplicity of the phenomenon. He separates what he calls the positive, or at least not negative, from the negative types of objectification. The former refers to the Hegelian understanding of objectification as a “dual process by means of which a subject externalizes itself in a creative act of differentiation, and in turn appropriates this externalization through an act of . . . sublation” (Miller 1987: 28; see Engelke 2012: 60). In Christian theology, an example of a kind of objectification, Engelke (ibid.) notes, is found in how God manifests his presence. Objectification, understood in this way, does not have to be something negative. Nevertheless, as an analytical term objectification does usually carry a negative connotation as it is held to denote an act of separation. This is why Engelke wishes to introduce a novel term, thingification, for referring to the negative processes of objectification. By thingification he means a “process through which an object is divested of an ‘immateriality’ ” (ibid.: 61), thus making it a mere thing and as such dangerous because of the potentiality of it being then wrongly considered as connected to immateriality (e.g., spiritual presence). The process of thingification could be understood as one in which an object is (temporarily) cut off from its conventional connections to other qualities. Webb Keane (2005) talks about such connections as the “bundling” of different qualities. He notes that qualities cannot exist without an objective form and

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therefore become bound up with other qualities, which, owing to the alterations of contexts or social conventions, may cause the signification of the quality to change. He takes the color red as an example. “Redness on a cloth,” he (2005: 194) explains, “comes along with light weight, flat surface, flexibility, warmth, combustability, and so forth. There is no way to eliminate (nor, entirely, to regiment) that factor of co-presence or bundling.” The other qualities therefore remain available and may in a different context become more visible or dominant. The cutting of the connections with other qualities not only makes an object a thing, but also a possibly dangerous one—bad matter—because there lies the possibility of it being rebundled with other qualities. For the Evangelical Yine man and other active Yine Evangelicals ruwekinri as a separate faith organ is an emblematic index of faith: the larger one’s ruwekinri and the more tangible the physical sensations related to it, the stronger one’s faith. In a sense, then, ruwekinri is an objectification of faith. We could therefore conclude that what causes doubt in relation to this faith organ is the possibility of it becoming thingified, divested of its connections to the Holy Spirit and therefore potentially becoming bad matter. Given the Yine socio-cosmological logic (or semiotic ideology) this would seem to make sense. The connections and consubstantialities with certain persons and entities such as God may be lost, or rather gradually dissolved, thereby leaving room for influences from other persons and beings. For a certain period of time, such changes may go unnoticed, thus opening up a space for doubt: Are the sensations of ruwekinri really produced by the Holy Spirit, by God and faith in God, or perhaps by Satan? However, the Evangelicals I talked to about ruwekinri never voiced their concerns in these terms. Although otherwise keen to search for marks of Satan’s temptations in their lives, in relation to ruwekinri this was not the case. In fact, I suggest that a different process from thingification and from rebundling of qualities is taking place here, a process I call de-indexification. By de-indexification I refer to the breaking off of the referential relation between the referent (faith) and its index (ruwekinri). In other words, de-indexification is a process in which the material index disappears, (possibly) leaving behind intense doubt as the referent of the former index becomes solitary. In the Yine case, it was not that the ruwekinri would have ceased to work as an index of faith or that it would have been stripped off of its connections with God as in thingification and become bad matter. Rather, the problem the Evangelical Yine man faced was that the index itself, ruwekinri, ceased to be or at least its presence within his body ceased to be felt. It disappeared. Consequently, he was

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left without inner physical “evidence” of his faith even though he could—at least for some time—carry on with the practice of his faith and be considered and affirmed as true Christian by other Evangelicals. The process of de-indexification should not be understood as one of losing material evidence of something immaterial, in this case faith (see Keane 2008). One term which we can think with and which allows us to examine the process of de-indexification and the nature of ruwekinri in general without being locked into the dualism of materiality-immateriality is that of affect. The notion of affect can be understood as referring to “processes of life and vitality which circulate and pass between bodies” (Blackman 2012: 4). The notion enables us to focus on the nonverbal and nonconscious dimensions of experience and on “how bodies are always thoroughly entangled processes, and importantly defined by their capacities to affect and be affected” (Blackman and Venn 2010: 9; see Seigworth and Gregg 2010; Bialecki 2015). Among the Yine, affect as circulating vitality could be seen as structuring and generative of people’s connection with God, and as taking a material form as ruwekinri. Thus understood, the disappearance of ruwekinri, and by it the matrix of faith and affective energy, has therefore its consequences not only for the individual but for the Evangelical collectivity as well. It is a breach in the materiality of faith taking place both at the personal and at the collective level. At the personal level the de-indexification has immediate effects (doubt of faith) in comparison to those taking place more slowly at the collective level. In the longer course, however, it becomes increasingly plausible that such disappearance will have its effect also on the outer signs of the person’s faith and thus, on the person’s interaction and consubstantiality with other Evangelicals. I would also suggest that the process of de-indexification is not something specific to the Yine case, but can be found in Christian praxis in a variety of contexts, as well as in many other religious contexts in which questions of mediation get highlighted. As an example we could take Protestant and charismatic spiritual gifts such as glossolalia and faith healing. In some of such cases, the de-indexification is deliberate and brought about in order to strengthen faith and to discern between legitimate and illegitimate signs. Josh Brahinsky (2012: 230) notes how some of the Pentecostals he met at a mass evangelizing event were suspicious of the physical signs of faith emerging and the presence of God produced in and by evangelization to crowds: “If there was crowd manipulation involved in it, then it’s not true worship, then it’s not true faith,” his interlocutors said. Some particular somatic experiences are here cut off from their referential relation to true faith, while others retain the connection and indexicality as the Pentecostals recognize the possibility of physical exaltation induced by the

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very worldly collective fervor. In other cases, the processes of de-indexification are not voluntary and cause equal distress among believers as the inability to feel the presence of ruwekinri does among the Yine Evangelicals. People not receiving spiritual gifts may feel deprived of their full connection with God (e.g., Luhrmann, Nusbaum, and Thisted 2010). Even if this would not be seen as a grave problem, the physical experiences of spiritual gifts are something that believers do often long for. For instance, among Chilean Pentecostals studied by Martin Lindhardt (2011: 236–7), only very few congregation members possessed the gift of prophesy and many others, although having experiences of God inspiring them during speaking, were “longing and praying for a stronger experience of being taken and used by God, e.g., prophesizing, speaking in tongues, or being used as instruments.” In all of these cases, people do not doubt the existence and verity of somatic signs of God’s presence and one’s faith. On the contrary, people are certain of their existence.10 The ontological premises do not become questioned. But, as in the case of the Yine Evangelicals, this de-indexification does lead people to question their own spiritual state. If (and when) God exists and I am in faith, how come I cannot feel that in my body?

Conclusion In this chapter, I have examined the question raised by one Evangelical man concerning true faith and legitimate Christian corporeality among the indigenous Yine Christians. I have looked at the intertwinements between materiality, practice, and the senses, and examined the ways in which the body is related to the experiences of true or authentic Christianity. In particular I have asked, what happens when a person’s individual bodily (sensory) experiences of faith, and the understanding of one’s Christian bodily condition fail to meet? Where do the limits of the body as an instrument of Christian faith lie? Previously, discussion on the interiority of sincere Christian faith has largely concentrated on language. The Yine case, however, provides ethnographic evidence that such sincerity does not have to be a question of language. Yine ruwekinri, especially when experienced as a separate faith organ, is very much material. It generates out of Christian praxis and physical proximity to other similar Evangelical bodies and relationship with God, and becomes felt within the body as pressure, lightness, and strength and motivates benevolent actions toward others. It is, in a way, affect streaming through the Evangelical bodily existence. Sincerity is thus shown to be something tangible. The case

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also opposes the view of signs as immaterial and separate from the material world. As noted, recent research on semiotic ideologies (especially Keane 2005, 2008, 2013) has headed toward understanding referentiality in material rather than purely linguistic (and thus supposedly immaterial) terms. In the Yine Evangelicals’ case, both the index and the referent appear to be very material indeed. Faith is best understood as a material practice and ruwekinri as a thing, a practice, as well as an agent. Most importantly, the above discussion on ruwekinri has revealed a process of referentiality, which I have termed de-indexification. With this term I have meant the breaking off of the referential relation between a thing (referent) and its (material) index. In the process of Yine Evangelical de-indexification, the experience of the existence of one’s ruwekinri disappears (or it can never be felt in the first place). Consequently, a person’s understanding of their Christian bodily condition and faith is no longer physically affirmed and the uncertainty generally coloring believing and faith turns into doubt. I have argued that this doubt related to ruwekinri as an index of faith forms a quandary sphere in which legitimate Christianity and the materiality of personal faith get negotiated among Yine Evangelicals, and that such processes are not restricted to Christianity among the Yine but can be found in many other Christian contexts as well. The limits posed by Christian corporeality can therefore be understood as generative and formative of lived Christianity.

Notes   1 The research was funded by the Academy of Finland.   2 According to the information found on the webpage https://www.sil.org/about (accessed January 31, 2017).   3 In the Yine community where I have conducted most of my fieldwork, the Evangelical church was in the year 2012 temporarily “taken over” by a nonindigenous Pentecostal pastor coming from the city of Puerto Maldonado and having his background in the Assemblies of God Church. The situation caused disunity among the Evangelicals (see Opas 2014) and eventually led to the formation of a separate church led by the Pentecostal pastor.   4 The basic form of the word is giweklu, life, but I shall use the third person singular form ruwekinri, throughout the text.   5 This bears some resemblance to the classic Azande example of witchcraft substance taking the form of an “oval blackish swelling” usually attached to the liver (EvansPritchard 1976).

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  6 Some Evangelicals even said that the part of the person which goes to Heaven after death is the ruwekinri (giweklu), but in these cases, I gathered, they talked about ruwekinri more as a life force than as a specific organ.   7 In the Amazonian context, bodily transformation has been understood as the indigenous counterpart of the process of religious conversion understood in more mental terms (e.g., Vilaça 2009: 2016).   8 This view of the human being as consubstantial with God stands in interesting contrast with the idea of the human as an image of God. Here, the materiality and immediacy of the process in which people partake in God’s being gets emphasized, leaving little room for theological questioning of the problem of human genesis. Humanity and Christianity take place here and now.   9 Also, those Evangelicals who considered ruwekinri to be in the heart or equal to the heart were of the opinion that a person’s thoughts generate in the heart and rise from there to the mind. This view resonates interestingly with Luther’s view of the relationship between the heart and the mind (see Luther 1958: 99 and the introduction to the present book). 10 In different Christian communities, there may also be social pressure to have bodily experiences of God’s presence, to the extent that people may even fake having them even though they personally would not consider them necessary for having an authentic connection with God (see Csordas 2011).

References Bialecki, J. (2011), “No caller I.D. for the Soul: Demonization, Charisms, and the Unstable Subject of Protestant Language Ideology,” Anthropological Quarterly, 84 (3): 679–703. Bialecki, J. (2015), “Affect: Intensities and Energies in the Charismatic Language, Embodiment, and Genre of a North American Movement,” in S. Coleman and R. Hackett (eds.), The Anthropology of Global Pentecostalism and Evangelicalism, 95–108, New York: New York University Press. Bialecki, J. and G. Daswani (2015), “What is an Individual? The View from Christianity,” Hau: Journal of Ethnographic Theory, 5 (1): 271–94. Blackman, L. (2012), Immaterial Bodies: Affect, Embodiment, Mediation. London: Sage. Blackman, L. and C. Venn (2010), “Affect,” Body & Society, 16 (1): 7–28. Bonilla, O. (2009), “The Skin of History: Paumari Perspectives on Conversion and Transformation,” in R. Wright and A. Vilaça (eds.), Native Christians: Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous People of the Americas, 127–46, Farnham: Ashgate. Brahinsky, J. (2012), “Pentecostal Body Logics: Cultivating a Modern Sensorium,” Cultural Anthropology, 27 (2): 215–38.

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Coleman, S. (2006), “Materializing the Self: Words and Gifts in the Construction of Charismatic Protestant Identity,” in F. Cannell (ed.), The Anthropology of Christianity, 163–84, Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Conklin, B. A. and L. M. Morgan (1996), “Babies, Bodies, and the Production of Personhood in North America and a Native Amazonian Society,” Ethos, 24 (4): 657–94. Csordas, T. J. (2011), “Ritualization of Life,” in M. Lindhardt (ed.), Practising the Faith: The Ritual Life of Pentecostal Charismatic Christians, 129–51, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Daswani, G. (2011), “(In-)Dividual Pentecostals in Ghana,” Journal of Religion in Africa, 41 (3): 256–79. Dumont, L. (1985), “A Modified View of Our Origins: The Christian Beginnings of Modern Individualism,” in M. Carrithers and S. Collins, and S. Lukes (eds.), The Category of the Person: Anthropology, Philosophy, History, 93–122, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dumont, L. (1986), Essays on Individualism: Modern Ideology in Anthropological Perspective, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Engelke, M. (2005), “Sticky Subjects and Sticky Objects: The Substance of African Christian Healing,” in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, 118–39, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Engelke, M. (2007), A Problem of Presence: Beyond Scripture in an African Church, Berkeley: University of California Press. Engelke, M. (2012), “Dangerous Things. One African Genealogy,” in B. Meyer and D. Houtman (eds.), Things: Religion and the Question of Materiality, 40–61, New York: Fordham University Press. Evans-Pritchard, E. E. (1976), Witchcraft, Oracles and Magic among the Azande, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fausto, C. (2007), “Feasting on People: Eating Animals and Humans in Amazonia,” Current Anthropology, 48 (4): 497–530. Gow, P. (2006), “Forgetting Conversion: The Summer Institute of Linguistics Mission in the Piro Lived World,” in F. Cannell (ed.), The Anthropology of Christianity, 211–39, Durham: Duke University Press. Grotti, V. E. (2009), “Protestant Evangelism and the Transformability of Amerindian Bodies in Northeastern Amazonia,” in R. Wright and A. Vilaça (eds.), Native Christians: Modes and Effects of Christianity among Indigenous People of the Americas, 109–26, Farnham: Ashgate. Hoenes del Piñal, E. (2011), “Towards an Ideology of Gesture: Gesture, Body Movement, and Language Ideology among Q’eqchi’-Maya Catholics,” Anthropological Quarterly, 84 (3): 595–630. Keane, W. (2002), “Sincerity, ‘Modernity’, and the Protestants,” Cultural Anthropology, 17 (1): 65–92.

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Keane, W. (2003), “Semiotics and the Social Analysis of Material Things,” Language and Communication 23, 409–25. Keane, W. (2005), “Signs are Not the Garb of Meaning: On the Social Analysis of Material Things,” in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, 182–205. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Keane, W. (2007), Christian Moderns: Freedom and Fetish in the Mission Encounter, Berkeley: University of California Press. Keane, W. (2008), “The Evidence of the Senses and the Materiality of Religion,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 14 (1): 110–27. Keane, W. (2013), “On Spirit Writing: Materialities of Language and the Religious Work of Transduction,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 19 (1): 1–17. Lima, T. S. (1999), “The Two and Its Many: Reflections on Perspectivism in a Tupi Cosmology,” Ethnos, 64 (1): 107–31. Lindhardt, M. (2011), “When God Interferes: Ritual, Empowerment, and Divine Presence in Chilean Pentecostalism,” in M. Lindhardt (ed.), Practising the Faith: The Ritual Life of Pentecostal Charismatic Christians, 220–48, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Londoño Sulkin, C. D. (2012), People of Substance: An Ethnography of Morality in the Colombian Amazon, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Luhrmann, T., H. Nusbaum, and R. Thisted (2010), “The Absorption Hypothesis: Learning to Hear God in Evangelical Christianity,” American Anthropologist, 112 (1): 66–78. Luther, M. ([1525] 1958), “Against the Heavenly Prophets in the Matter of Images and Sacraments,” in C. Bergendoff (ed.), Luther’s Works, 79–223, Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press. Mafra, C. C. J. (2011), “Saintliness and Sincerity in the Formation of the Christian Person,” Ethnos, 76 (4): 448–68. McCallum, C. (1997), “Comendo com Txai, comendo como Txai. A sexualização de relações étnicas na Amazônia comtemporânea,” Revista de Antropologia, 40 (1): 104–47. Meyer, B. (2008), “Religious Sensations: Why Media, Aesthetics, and Power Matter in the Study of Contemporary Religion,” in H. de Vries (ed.), Religion: Beyond a Concept, 704–23, New York: Fordham University Press. Meyer, B. (2015), “Medium,” in S. B. Plate (ed.), Key Terms in Material Religion, London: Bloomsbury. Miller, D. (1987), Material Culture and Mass Consumption, Oxford: Blackwell. Morgan, D., ed. (2010), Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief, New York: Routledge. Opas, M. (2008), “Different but the Same: Negotiation of Personhoods and Christianities in Western Amazonia,” unpublished PhD dissertation, Turku: University of Turku. Opas, M. (2014), “Ambigüedad epistemológica y moral en el cosmos social de los yine,” Anthropologica, 32 (32): 167–90.

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Orsi, R. A. (2015), “Belief,” in B. Plate (ed.), Key Terms in Material Religion, 18–23, London: Bloomsbury. Pelkmans, M., ed. (2013), Ethnographies of Doubt: Faith and Uncertainty in Contemporary Societies, London & New York: I. B. Tauris. Reinhardt, B. (2016), “ ‘Don’t Make It a Doctrine’: Material Religion, Transcendence, Critique,” Anthropological Theory, 16 (1): 75–97. Rivière, P. (1994), “WYSINWYG in Amazonia,” Journal of the Anthropological Society of Oxford, 3: 255–62. Robbins, J. (2004), Becoming Sinners: Christianity and Moral Torment in a Papua New Guinea Society, Berkeley: University of California Press. Robbins, J. (2008), “On Not Knowing Other Minds: Confession, Intention, and Linguistic Exchange in a Papua New Guinea Community,” Anthropological Quarterly, 81 (2): 421–29. Robbins, J. (2011), “The Constitution of Mind: What’s in a Mind? Interiority and Boundedness,” Journal of the Finnish Anthropological Society, 36 (4): 15–17. Santos-Granero, F., ed. (2009), The Occult Life of Things: Native Amazonian Theories of Materiality and Personhood, Tucson: The University of Arizona Press. Schieffelin, B. B. (2008), “Speaking Only Your Own Mind: Reflections on Talk, Gossip and Intentionality in Bosavi (PNG),” Anthropological Quarterly, 81 (2): 431–41. Seeger, A., R. da Matta, and E. Viveiros de Castro ([1979] 1987), “A construção da pessoa nas sociedades indígenas brasileiras,” in J. P. de Oliveira Filho (ed.), Sociedades indígenas e indigenismo no Brasil, 11–29, Rio de Janeiro: Marco Zero. Seigworth, G. J. and M. Gregg (2010), “An Inventory of Shimmers,” in G. J. Seigworth and M. Gregg (eds.), The Affect Theory Reader, 1–28, Durham: Duke University Press. Strathern, M. (1988), The Gender of the Gift: Problems with Women and Problems with Society in Melanesia, Berkeley: University of California Press. Taylor, A.-C. (1996), “The Soul’s Body and Its States: An Amazonian Perspective on the Nature of Being Human’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute (N.S.), 2 (2): 201–15. Vilaça, A. (2002), “Making Kin out of Others in Amazonia’, Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 8 (2): 347–65. Vilaça, A. (2005), “Chronically Unstable Bodies: Reflections on Amazonian Corporalities,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 11 (3): 445–64. Vilaça, A. (2009), “Bodies in Perspective: A Critique of the Embodiment Paradigm from the Point of view of Amazonian Ethnography,” in H. Lambert and M. McDonald (eds.), Social Bodies, 129–47, Oxford: Berghahn Books. Vilaça, A. (2011), “Dividuality in Amazonia: God, the Devil and the Constitution of Personhood in Wari’ Christianity,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 17: 243–62. Vilaça, A. (2016), Preying and Praying. Christianity in Indigenous Amazonia, Berkeley: University of California Press.

Organic Faith in Amazonia Viveiros de Castro, E. (1998), “Cosmological Deixis and Amerindian Perspectivism,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 4 (3): 469–88. Viveiros de Castro, E. (2004), “Perspectival Anthropology and the Method of Controlled Equivocation,” Tipití: Journal of the Society for the Anthropology of Lowland South America, 2 (1): 3–22. Viveiros de Castro, E. (2011), The Inconstancy of the Indian Soul: The Encounter of Catholics and Cannibals in the 16th-century Brazil, Translated by Gregory Duff Morton, Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press. Viveiros de Castro, E. (2012), “Cosmological Perspectivism in Amazonia and Elsewhere,” HAU: Masterclasses Series 1. Available online: https://haubooks.org/ cosmological-perspectivism-in-amazonia/ (accessed February 28, 2017). Walker, H. (2013), Under a Watchful Eye: Self, Power, and Intimacy in Amazonia, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Things Not for Themselves: Idolatry and Consecration in Orthodox Ethiopia Tom Boylston

I am not sure what is immaterial. A spirit? An imaginary being? The object of an idea? Love? Friendship? A relationship? A spirit (or a god) seems a very different kind of thing from a thought (or its object), but both might, from a certain point of view, get classed as immaterial things. I am also not sure that the Ethiopian Orthodox Christians I have worked with on the Zege peninsula and in Addis Ababa think primarily in terms of material versus immaterial things. They certainly use dichotomous language for talking about religious life, but usually in the language of world (alem) versus spirit (menfes), or flesh (siga) versus spirit. As Michael Scott once pointed out to me, this is not the same as opposing matter to nonmatter—who are we to say that spirit is an immaterial thing and not, say, a different kind of material?1 More to the point, When an Ethiopian Orthodox Christian talks about the flesh and the spirit, we cannot assume that they are using flesh as a synecdoche for all matter. Flesh is a very specific kind of matter around whose very specific properties—its desires, its needs, and its tendency to putrescence—much of Orthodox practice revolves. Understanding Ethiopian Orthodox approaches to materiality, therefore, means looking at different kinds of material and how they relate to one another. Orthodox ritual practice assembles human bodies and religious objects and substances in such a way as to implicate divine or spiritual agents as participants. The best way to understand Orthodox materiality, its limits, and the problems it addresses is to look at how these components are assembled with regard to one another and are possibly, in the process of assembling, transformed. Two key points of concern will emerge from this analysis: idolatry and consecration. Ethiopian Orthodoxy does not possess a strong iconoclastic tradition and makes considerable use of icons and religious substances such as holy water. Despite this fact (or because of it), the avoidance of idolatry remains a pressing concern.

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Anxieties of idolatry concern the purported failure of others to recognize that there is something beyond the material thing from which proper authority derives—although this beyondness may remain a rather indeterminate quality. Consecration concerns the way in which objects, bodies, and substances are authorized and made fit for religious communication. Techniques of consecration lie at the heart of Ethiopian Orthodox practice, and if we can work out what it means to sanctify something, we will be much closer to resolving this question of what lies beyond the object. The answer may or may not be “something immaterial”; but it will always be something to do with authority. It is this relationship between material substance and the authority of what lies beyond the material substance that I want to explore. I plan to trace how Ethiopian Orthodox Christians draw the flesh into relation with material substances and with things or agents that are not immediately present to the senses. This may mean God or the saints, but it may also mean historical events and personages that are no longer here but that can be intimated or recalled through signs. In each case, the absent agent is important because it is more powerful than the present ones, and is understood to lend its authority or power to them.

The orientation of things The matter-spirit question has deep roots in Ethiopian Christianity. The church follows the non-Chalcedonian tradition of miaphysitism, along with the Coptic, Armenian, and Syriac Orthodox Churches. They rejected the Christology of the Council of Chalcedon (AD 451), which stated that Christ was of two natures, divine and human. The miaphysite churches held instead that Christ was of one single nature, which was an inextricable mix of divinity and humanity (not, as is sometimes assumed, the gnostic position that Christ was only divine or the Arian one that he was only human). The distinction now seems like a semantic quibble and indeed I have been told many times that Christology is no longer a major point of difference between Ethiopian Orthodoxy and the Orthodox and Catholic churches of Europe. There remains, however, a lingering discourse that describes the Ethiopian Church as more archaic than most, preserving a number of Hebraic traditions such as the Levitical dietary laws and the use of holy arks in church (Ullendorff 1956, 1968; Rodinson 1964; Pedersen 1999). There has been a concomitant tendency (from a Eurocentric Christian perspective) to cast Ethiopian

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Orthodoxy as more “material,” more tradition bound and less transcendental than other branches of Christianity (Getatchew 1996). This is a narrative that most Ethiopian Orthodox Christians would challenge, being, as we will see, intensely concerned with the danger of treating material things as having moral power in their own right. This tendency to desire self-sufficiency is a mark of arrogance (t’igab), one of the primary sins to which the flesh in particular is prone (Levine 1965; Messay 1999). The discipline of the flesh through fasting is, accordingly, an integral and indispensable focus of Ethiopian Orthodox daily practice (Ephraim 1995; Boylston 2013). The Ethiopian Orthodox solution to the problem of the flesh is not so much effacement as a change of orientation toward authority and absence. To illustrate, over coffee in Addis Ababa, I asked some theologically literate church activists about flesh and spirit. They told me about certain ways in which church teaching, traditionally a monastic pursuit, had “turned towards the world” since the 1960s via various Sunday School and lay education movements. The conversation went as follows (paraphrased from field notes): Tom: You mentioned a turn towards the world. What is the relationship between church and world? What does it mean for Christians to be in the world? Altaye: No Christian can be totally separate from the world. The challenge is how to live in it—that is spirituality. You must select. Not all of the world is bad, and maturity is being able to select between the good and the bad. Tom: So it’s not about escaping from the flesh? Belete: We are created with flesh . . . What matters is your ideology, your intention—where your work is heading.

Spirituality, that is, has as much to do with intention, practice, and desire as with the physical status of things or bodies (Wright 2002). There is nothing to suggest that fleshliness (or worldliness) and spirituality constitute an absolute dualism in the general understanding of Ethiopian Orthodox Christians. An action or object may be more or less worldly, or more or less spiritual, depending on usage, provenance, and context. A handful of holy ash, byproduct of the baking of communion bread, is a very spiritual thing indeed; but there are plenty of demons that, while lacking bodies, can only be base and worldly. What we need to understand is how things and bodies become more or less spiritual: by being drawn into relation with absent others through symbolic form and practical interaction.

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I have argued elsewhere (2013) that the fasts and feasts make present what is absent: saints, divine figures, and foundational acts of devotion that are absent from us by their precedence in time, or their disembodiment. I also argued that this representation is not merely expressive, but ties practitioners bodily into relationships of trust and dependence with these foundational, absent figures and events—and through them to a God who is omnipresent but difficult to reach or know. These forms of relationship-making with saints through holy actions and objects can also be essential to religious community formation (Heo 2015). Here I would like to focus on form: how formal resemblances connect present actions to past deeds and personages. Fasting on certain days (say, the Assumption of Mary) creates, by analogical resemblance, a connection between the present practitioner and the sufferings of Mary two thousand years ago in the Holy Land. This resemblance, because it is an imitation, is understood to be inferior and submissive to the act or person being recognized, but also as participating in their story. The form of fasting connects the faster to the beyond in a relationship of hierarchical submission to that beyond. Formal imitation creates a relation, that is, not just with beings that are not tangibly present, but also with authority in general. I will try to build on this claim in what follows. But perhaps the main reason that people give for fasting is to discipline and weaken the flesh: to mitigate our propensities for aggression, lust, and greed and thus help people to maintain a spiritual disposition (Levine 1965; Malara, forthcoming). This does not constitute an attempt to negate the flesh, except in extreme circumstances, but to prepare and condition one’s body to be in a more spiritual state—ready to take the Eucharist, or simply to be in a better moral position, more tuned for salvation. The Eucharist and other forms of divine consumption can actually help in this disciplinary process. One young trainee priest told me that he intended to marry, because monastic life was “very, very, very, very difficult.” But he was very much troubled by the temptation to lose his virginity with his girlfriend before marriage, which would make him unable to serve in the clergy. He spent much of his time thinking about this, but when he took holy communion, it would take over his body and lift the burden from him, and he could confess, repent, and go back to service. The Eucharist was for him a lynchpin that sustained him on his religious trajectory and liberated him, for a time, from worldly desire. The cure for the problems of the flesh, then, was a different sort of fleshly engagement, a higher kind of consumption.

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There are other vital forms of material engagement that are essential to popular Orthodox practice, especially given the limitations on Eucharistic participation. The use of holy water is one (Hermann 2012, forthcoming; Malara, forthcoming), complemented by holy ash. Water and ash can be ingested or rubbed on the skin, but also transported and passed on to others, who may be too sick to collect the substances themselves. As Diego Malara (forthcoming) describes, the material qualities of the substances give them ethical affordances—they, and the blessing they convey, can be shared among the faithful and can become tokens of our care and regard for one another. Webb Keane (2014) has argued that Orthodox materialities should be viewed in terms of the “ethical affordances” of matter that “provide ways of treating the world as ethically saturated.” Our example of the sharing of holy water supports this argument, but requires an addition: the materials of religious practice have ethical affordances because they are divinely empowered. The value of holy water is not reducible to its material affordances alone, but also to its having been in some sense activated by a higher authority. Holy water and holy ash must always come from a church. According to Hermann (forthcoming), if a natural holy spring is found, a church will usually be built on that spot so as to circumscribe its power within institutional boundaries. In other cases, holy water or ash come from acts of blessing by priests and it is by these means (either directly from God or through his ordained agents) that substances become media by which believers engage with and ingest some portion of God’s power. There appears to be some debate about the precise manner in which God’s power or blessing enters or charges the water or ash (as we should expect), but there is no doubt that the substances themselves are thereby empowered and will remain so if passed on subsequently to others. Here, as with the fasts, an element of imitative resemblance is present: holy water recalls the water that came from Christ’s flank on the cross, while also presenting some formal resemblances to Eucharistic wine (Fritsch 2011; Malara, forthcoming). Attenuated resemblances of the Eucharist may invoke attenuated irruptions of divinity. It is important to realize that substances like holy water are historical entities. It matters very much which church a particular bottle of holy water comes from. In my original fieldsite on the Zege peninsula, where Christianity has been established for some 700 years, the water of Azwa Maryam monastery is well regarded. This is largely due to the miraculous acts associated with the place: the peninsula’s founder, Saint Betre Maryam, had a vision of Mary on the spot where

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the monastery now stands. The efficacy of water or ash cannot come from its material qualities alone, but from a history of empowerment: proximally from the priest who prays on it, at one remove; from the saint whose devotion brought blessing to the place; ultimately from the action of God. Holy items cannot be understood just in terms of their material qualities or affordances, but what they have done and what has been done to them and by a series of associations with special actions and actors (Kaplan 1986). Sanctity and sacred power are historical products of divine and human interaction. We therefore need to understand the sanctity and the power of material things in terms of how their histories are remembered, recounted, diffused, and repeated: how people trace the relationships that they have accrued (Hanganu 2010). Ethiopian Orthodox Christians do not solve the problems of flesh and desire by completely turning away from matter. Instead they seek transformations, both of flesh and of the substances with which it comes into contact. These practices train practitioners’ dispositions beyond the material things of desire, but the medium in which this happens is flesh and substance—we are all in the gutter, but we can learn to look at the stars, at least for some of the time. Holy water and the Eucharist involve material manifestations of God, or of divine blessing, in the tangible world. They invoke God’s power, but they also refer back to historic actions of holy people and emanations of divine blessing. Like fasting, they enact formal imitations of sacred prototypes—and these prototypes are always historical in nature. People deal with the problem of the limits of matter by seeking to draw bodies and substances into relation with higher things. But this drawing-into-relation requires the transformation of those bodies and substances: to discipline them through fasting, empower them by invoking divine blessing, or link them to divine beings and events through symbolic and representative work, making analogical resemblances and indexical connections.

Idolatry: Beyond the dumb matter of the other Good things are those that have been oriented toward the beyond and made subordinate to it. From here we can start to understand why idolatry matters in the Ethiopian Orthodox context. Anthropological literature on iconoclasm has tended to focus on images and problems of representation: the humanmade nature of images; the fact that representations of the limitless can be

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controlled, owned, manipulated, and have their meanings transformed; or the way that iconoclasts think image-worshippers are unable to distinguish between the representation and the represented and therefore lack purity, elevation, civilization, or simply intellectual capacity (Lévy-Bruhl 1923; Gell 1998; Spyer 2001; Latour 2002). These concerns have been, in one way or another, ever present in the Abrahamic traditions, with their distinctive arrangement of the relations between matter, transcendence, and exclusivity. As Sonja Luehrmann (2010) writes, the regularity of iconoclastic controversies going back to the eighth century has lent a tone of conscious defiance to contemporary Orthodox iconic practices; icon venerators do so in the knowledge that there are those who despise or misconstrue their actions. The most common reference point is St. John Damascene’s eighth-century Apologia Against Those Who Decry Holy Images (1898 [730]): I do not worship matter; I worship the God of matter, who became matter for my sake, and deigned to inhabit matter, who worked out my salvation through matter. I will not cease from honouring that matter which works my salvation. I venerate it, though not as God.

St. John’s defense of images hinges on the distinction between worship (latreia) and veneration and on the idea of all creation as representation of the ineffable: humankind is the original image of God, and the question of representation is therefore the question of the flesh. But if veneration, not worship, is due to certain material forms, then the implication is that all matter, flesh or otherwise, is to be understood ultimately as representation: the first image was the human body. What matters in the final instance, and what actually merits worship in itself, is that which is beyond the material thing, that ineffability that it renders tangible. The veneration of icons, images, or any other substance is contingent on the recognition that what really matters is the beyond. The Scripture says, “You have not seen the likeness of Him” (Ex. 33.20). What wisdom in the law-giver. How depict the invisible? How picture the inconceivable? How give expression to the limitless, the immeasurable, the invisible? How give a form to immensity? How paint immortality? How localise mystery? It is clear that when you contemplate God, who is a pure spirit, becoming man for your sake, you will be able to clothe Him with the human form. When the Invisible One becomes visible to flesh, you may then draw a likeness of His form.

The text of the defense of images is still worth reading for the nuance of its account of materiality and representation. It sets a tone for much subsequent

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Orthodox thinking about the relation between representation and prototype and about the morality of matter. The Incarnation makes representation possible; it is no mistake to paint the human form of God, because human forms were already images anyway. In this way, Christ is understood to render obsolete many of the troubles of idolatry that vexed the Mosaic Israelites and their golden calves. In Ethiopian Orthodoxy, however, the focus of material concern has tended toward paganism and nature worship rather than the idolatry of artifacts, for good historical reasons. The formative era of the contemporary Orthodox attitude to sainthood and materiality was in the reign of the Emperor Zara Yaqob (r. 1434–1468), today remembered as a great religious philosopher-king and ardent centralizer. Concerned that the state religion had not taken hold deeply with a peasantry who still seemed to retain mainly pagan practices, Zara Yaqob embarked on a campaign of standardization, regularizing the Orthodox calendar for all citizens and vigorously promoting cults of the Cross and the Virgin (Kaplan 2002, 2014; Taddesse 1972). Kaplan remarks that the use of imagery was probably well judged, given the extremely limited literacy of the general population, and that this was also the era in which the calendrical cycles of fasting became normative Orthodox practice (Kaplan 2014). Zara Yaqob’s militancy succeeded in placing religious imagery and bodily practice at the heart of the religious life of the peasantry. There were countermovements in Ethiopia at this time, most notably the Stephanites, who refused to venerate the image of the cross, the saints, or, crucially, the emperor. This suggests that a seed of iconoclastic thought has long been present in inchoate form, but the Stephanites were violently suppressed and later reincorporated into the mainstream (Kaplan 2002). A century later, there followed the Jihad of Mohammed Grañ, in which vast numbers of churches, paintings, and relics were destroyed, and it seems reasonable to suggest that there would have remained little appetite for iconoclasm after that. Nature worship, on the other hand, is still a source of anxiety. A friend of mine from the Zege forest likes to make this point by saying that his grandmother thinks that Mary is a kind of qollé (“female tree spirit”). Multiple people have made the point to me that “we do not worship stones and water”—a clarification that seems to be necessitated by the richness of Ethiopian Orthodoxy’s material heritage, especially the rock-hewn churches of Lalibela, which are cut into the landscape itself. Orthodox Christians in Zege, too, have an extremely close, centuries-old relationship with the landscape. But despite and because of this, they are adamant that the blessed nature of the land comes from beyond: from

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God, not from the rocks (Boylston 2015). Young people in Zege still speak quietly of people in the forest who sacrifice chickens to the spirits of the Lake, and the existence of various dangerous autochthonous spirits is widely accepted— though all subordinate to the power of God and kept under control on his behalf by the Archangel Michael. The importance of what lies behind the thing is marked by an explicit discourse about signs and resemblances, as explained to me by Abba S’om, the local priest in Zege responsible for exegesis and public education. I had visited him after the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross, which celebrates the Empress Helena’s discovery of the remnants of the true cross on Calvary, and culminates across Ethiopia in the burning of giant bonfires topped by wooden crosses (Figure 3.1). It may be that the burning derives from pre-Christian harvest festivals still found elsewhere in the country, but I was curious as to how people would interpret the public burning of the cross, which seemed at least potentially to suggest the opposite of a Christian celebration. Abba S’om told me, first, that the idea was not to destroy but to illuminate (mabrat) the cross, in line with a verse from a votive hymn sung at the festival. He then explained to me that the cross was a sign or symbol (milikkit): if you were to destroy a photograph of me, nothing would happen to my person. Similarly, if you destroy a cross, nothing happens to Christ or the Trinity. He

Figure 3.1   Meskel celebration in Zege, Ethiopia. Photo by author.

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had given a sermon at the festival explaining that the cross was our power and our salvation (haylacchin, medhanítacchin), but also our sign (milikkitacchin): it was powerful because of its signifying action, by its relation to God. When I later pursued the question with another monk, he added to this that two thieves had been crucified with Jesus, but that we did not venerate their crosses—it was not the cross or crosses in general, but the specific connection between the sign of the cross and the historic Crucifixion, that lent power to the sign (c.f. Keane 2005). By contrast, as Abba S’om made very clear to me, the Eucharistic Host is not a sign, but the actual flesh and blood of God—Christ, he told me, did not say, “This is a sign of my flesh”; he said, “This is my flesh.” The Eucharistic ritual is densely packed with things that are signs, such as censers that represent the flame of God within Mary’s womb, and the imprinting of thirteen crosses on the holy bread. This semiotic work is required to consecrate the things of the ritual, but the sacrament that they enable is no sign, but the thing itself. This relationship—signs that facilitate actual irruptions of divinity—is crucial to understanding the wider dynamics of Orthodox materiality, especially the ways of consecration, which will be discussed in the next section. The material focus of the Eucharistic ritual, and of any Ethiopian Orthodox Church, is the tabot or ark—a kind of object that has obsessed European observers as well as Ethiopian Christians (Amsalu 2015). A tabot is a tablet or box of tablets that resides in the inner sanctum of a church and is said to resemble the tablets given to Moses on Mount Sinai, and by extension to be a representation of the ark of the covenant. It is this tabot, one of the most distinctive elements of Ethiopian practice, that is consecrated by a bishop when a new church is founded. No lay person is permitted to see it, and certainly no woman, and it only leaves the sanctum of the church on certain festival days, under a finely brocaded shroud, where it is brought to bless the waters. The tabot is probably best understood as the dwelling place of divinity (Pankhurst 1987; Getatchew 1988a). My friend Ralph Lee (pers. comm.) tells a story of an old woman who, seeing the tabot paraded on epiphany, began to address it as “My Lord, my Lord” (gétayé), whereupon those close by, concerning that she was speaking to the tabot, corrected her that this was only the home of our Lord, and not God himself. The concern about faithful but uneducated people mistaking sign for signified is a recurrent trope, especially among the priesthood and the current generation of educated and engaged young Orthodox Christians.

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One could make the case that it is the richness, even redundancy, of Orthodox material-symbolic culture that most fully conveys the beyondness of God. If the sign is clearly marked as a sign, there must logically be a referent behind it, and that referent must be in some way unavailable to the senses, or no sign would be required in the first place. But again, tabots are not mere signs; they are bearers of divine power and not just powerful in an actor-network theory, objects-have-agency sense (Latour 2005). Rumors persist that they are made of gold rather than wood and in Zege constant vigilance is required against their theft. My friend Thomas told me about a man who had been frozen to the spot in the course of trying to steal a tabot, struck down by God. More pragmatically, when the tabots of Zege spend the night outside of the church, on the eve of epiphany, they are kept in a tent under armed guard. Some people even told me that these were replicas (missil), because the real things were too valuable to be kept out at night. This would make them replicas of replicas of the ark of the covenant. Note how easily the holy potency of the tabot gets construed as material value, something at risk of being stolen by the unscrupulous. It is not easy to separate God from gold, and requires constant vigilance. This vigilance in turn comes to stand for the defense of the Orthodox faith against perceived threats from Islam, secularism, and Protestantism. For Ethiopian Orthodox Christians, a tabot is a dwelling place of the divine. For it to be fit for this purpose, it must satisfy certain material and historical conditions: it must be crafted in symbolic resemblance of the tablets of Moses, and it must have been consecrated by a bishop by the proper rituals. This is a combination of material-symbolic affordances of the tabot-as-object, combined with a relational aspect (priest-tabot-God) that must be correctly inaugurated and authorized.

Consecration: Symbolic form and holy power A tabot is a man-made object that becomes powerful through consecration by a bishop. Once again, resemblance to a historical sacred prototype combines with the actual transfer of holy potency, and neither aspect alone appears sufficient. What follows is not an authoritative account of Ethiopian Orthodox theology, which in any case is famously nonsystematic (Cowley 1989; Binns 2013). It is, rather, an attempt to outline key practices around which questions about sanctity and material things coalesce. Issues of religious materiality are never

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fully resolved by doctrine, but are focal points of debate, uncertainty, and critical reflection (Keane 2014; Reinhardt 2016). A bishop can consecrate a tabot and can also perform the sacrament of Holy Orders, which ordains priests and qualifies them to perform, in turn, the sacrament of the Eucharist (Fritsch 1999: 78). For the bishop to be ordained in his own right, three other bishops are required (Getnet 1998: 102); although there was a time when only the patriarch of the Egyptian Coptic Church could ordain clergy. Each act of consecration, then, must have been empowered and authorized by previous consecrations. The initial conditions of possibility for all of these acts are, first, the Incarnation, which makes any kind of salvation possible, and then, the miracle of the sacraments: the granting by God’s free grace (s’ega) of certain means for invoking the divine activation or authorization of particular persons or things. Quite often the sacraments are themselves enabled by other sacraments, multiplying and extending chains of blessing and grace. As well as the objects of sacraments, numerous ancillary objects require consecration—more or less anything that will reside in a church and partake in the Eucharistic ritual: the clergy’s robes, the cups and plates, copies of the Scriptures, memorial tablets for the dead (Aymro and Motovu 1970). In each case—and around churches generally—the proliferation of symbolism is so great that descriptions can seem monotonous, with each number or form referring to a scared prototype: thirteen crosses on the communion bread for the apostles; nine eggs atop the church for the nine saints; three concentric chambers in the church for the Trinity, and so forth. During a tour of the Orthodox museum in Addis Ababa, the guide showed me a single censer and explained how the orb that held the incense signified the womb of Mary, in which the flame was Christ’s divinity and the incense, his giving of himself. The smoke would rise from the orb as prayers do. He then pointed me to the three ornate chains (for the Trinity) that held the orb suspended. Each had eight bells, making twenty-four for the twenty-four priests of the holy kingdom (1 Chron. 24). He then showed me some bishop’s scepters and began to talk about how material objects can have power, using the example of Moses’s staff, which parted the Red Sea, but only because of the holiness of its bearer and the agency of God. He explained that holy items in general have power but that power is entirely dependent upon the spiritual condition of the person who handles them. But in cases of sufficient holiness, the results were spectacular: when

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monks wrote parchment books, he told me, they would test them by applying fire and immersing in water. If the books survived, they were known to be good. Density of material symbols does appear to enhance the spiritual power of an object. But it is crucial to understand how this power is conceived: always as activating a beyondness, which is a relationship with God. The symbols on the censer and similar objects have to be understood in indexical terms as things whose primary function is to draw disparate things into relation: to relate the item to God. This is why, with sacred symbols, resemblance, or repetition of certain key details—a number, or the shape of a cross—is sufficient. The symbols do not represent for the purpose of creating a logical or verbal communication, or for explicating an argument, but as devices of pure connection with the beyond. A proliferation of symbols creates a density of points of relation, all drawing themselves into relation with God. It should now be clearer why symbolic form and sanctified authorization tend to go together—both involve a drawing-into-relation. They engage things and persons with God in intrinsically subordinate fashion (the symbol is less than the signified); alternatively put, they activate and reveal a divine presence that was always there in potentia (Hanganu 2010). Consecration and symbolic form work together to address and give evidence for that which is beyond the material symbol and infinitely greater than it. The symbolic form and consecration of sacred things draws people toward it, as well as divinity: Eucharistic rituals and fonts of holy water give people strong incentives to gather in church spaces. In this sense consecration appears as a particularly intense example of how “thinging gathers” (Heidegger 1971: 172): consecrated things and substances bring human and divine actors or powers into relationship with one another over time. Acts of consecration draw things (robes, water, plates, and cups) into historical trajectories of sacred action; symbolic forms make them into, or reveal them as, relational entities. But for Orthodoxy, the terms of these relations are not equal. One party can only be hinted at or intimated by semiosis and can never be contained by the material. Acts of consecration, however, are acts of empowerment as well as representation. Controversies and questions about the state of matter in Orthodox practice revolve around the nuances of this duality. In all of these relations (or acts of drawing-into-relation) among people, things, and God, the state of the flesh is crucial. Bishops must be virgins as well as possessing the requisite ordination and anybody who engages with religious objects must have fasted and refrained from polluting action. Similar principles

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apply to the creation of religious objects: to make an icon, a person must fast and pray in silence, as one church painter in Zege told me, “so that the holy spirit passes through” (see also Johnson 2011). For one thing, this displays how all material creation and representation must be understood as proceeding from divine agency (Messay 1999); for another, it shows how to enter relations with saints and God, as both person and image must enter the correct disciplinary condition. When we think of religious things as primarily tools of drawinginto-relation (which is an other-relation or a relation with a beyond), their dependence on fleshly discipline becomes clearer. To round out our account of the relationship between semiotic beyondness, empowerment, and consecration, it is worth considering magical traditions, which have long occupied an ambiguous position at the edges of the Orthodox church’s aegis (Mercier 1997; Boylston 2012). The classical figure is that of the debtera, a term that denotes both a nonordained church singer-ritualist and a sorcerer who traffics with demons (Young 1975). A debtera is a person steeped in the esoteric knowledge of the church, who may apply that knowledge to nonsacred purposes—largely as a result of the fact that they have refused ordination. What is clear is that the magical and quasi-legitimate practices of debtera retain the beyondness associated with proper religious practice, though the beyond that they address may be demonic. What complicates matters is that, since demons are subordinate to God, any action that addresses them may still be construed as morally upright. Take the following statement from Mercier’s extended study of magicoreligious art: “Names and talismans were revealed together . . . the origin of every talisman is the cross, and, at the same time, that Christ’s cross is the visible form of a sign that is the Name of God” (Mercier 1997: 48–50). Talismans tend to serve the purpose of commanding demons and they are understood to address the demon directly, rather than the patient (Mercier 1997: 95). The form taken by talisman can be either writing on a goatskin scroll or paintings that combine text and figurative imagery (Mercier 1997; Malara, forthcoming)—but in each case it is the act of addressing—and invoking a superior authority with that address— that makes the items effective. As one debtera explains to Mercier, “Like a log in the fire that one has forgotten to put out, a prayer without a talisman will not be found the next morning. Without its seal, a royal edict has no force to compel” (Mercier 1997: 42, emphasis added). In practice, most lay people understand the work of debtera to extend beyond the valuable service of protecting people from demonic attack and into the realm

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of curses (irgiman). These curses frequently afflict the flesh; friends in Zege were fond of telling me how debtera could curse you with uncontrollable flatulence. Again, we return to the flesh. One debtera in Zege told me that he had not entered the priesthood because he did not want to keep to the rules—his friend helpfully interjected that he wanted to have premarital sex. Otherworldly knowledge— the esoteric knowledge necessary to address the beyond—combined with a lack of fleshly discipline is dangerous and potentially demonic. By violating the codes of continence and discipline of the flesh, debtera are imagined to attack others. But what they are not is idolaters. They do not mistake signs for the things themselves, but are experts in semiotic relations with the beyond.

Conclusion No one ever worshipped the material; only the life that has been fixed in it by the consecration. The image is only reverenced for the power that abides in it. —Hocart, Councillors and Kings, p. 244 Concerns about materiality revolve around how one relates to an authority and power understood to be beyond the material thing but engaged with or invested in it. The three domains of concern that I have identified—flesh, idolatry, and consecration—are connected in practice, because the consecration of things (that which makes them nonidolatrous) requires discipline of the flesh of those who interact with them, usually by fasting at a minimum. This principle is wideranging: painters must fast before painting icons and monks must fast before composing holy verses. This is a religious system in which it is a general principle that all knowledge and creativity come from God (Messay 1999). Human acts of creation then entail simply the preparation of the human flesh-spirit amalgam to be in a suitable condition to receive and become a channel for the divine creative power that actually makes things happen. This is the defining feature of the religious relationship between bodies and things. It may be overstating matters to say that humans are always simply vessels for divine action—ontological doctrines are not so fixed or consistent. But it is clear that, in any act of religious communication or creativity, the central point of concern around which these questions coalesce is the relationship between human flesh, the material substance as the point of beyond relation, and the creative agency of God, the original iconographer.

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The problem of nature worship as idolatry similarly revolves around the failure to notice the things of nature (tefet’ro, literally “the having-been-created”) as created by an agency beyond themselves. Relations to this beyond are built through human bodies, consecrated things, and the ritual actions and signs that empower and connect them. This empowerment/drawing together works through (1) the invocation or address of authority, by (2) acts and forms of analogical resemblance which represent (re-enact, identify with) historic acts of devotion. The received understanding of iconoclasm and idolatry is that iconoclasts see in idolaters a failure to recognize man-made things as man made: they treat their own creations as self-creating Gods (Latour 2002). Of course, this entails some questionable projections on the part of the iconoclast, because fetishists and idolaters are usually well aware of the place of the idol in a web of heterogeneous relations. It is possible to read Ethiopian material semiotic practice in a more radical light: idolaters and iconoclasts alike are those who fail to realize that humans themselves are representations, albeit privileged ones among the created things of nature. Human-made icons and religious objects would then be, in a certain sense and from a certain perspective, the same kind of things as human beings: created images—though humans are crucially differentiated by possession of a soul.2 I am not sure whether I can claim that this is the opinion of most Orthodox Christians, for whom the notion of human as image may or may not make sense. But there is certainly value in noticing that, for Orthodox Christians in Ethiopia, humans, animals, and materials alike are created things. But so are angels and spirits, which is further evidence that the distinction between material and immaterial is not the correct one to follow here (Teferi Abate, pers. comm.). What we learn from this perspective is that the material history and form of the created beings have implications for their spiritual status: flesh that has fasted and been baptized; images that have been blessed and that resemble (and therefore directly address) holy actors; tabots that resemble the ark of the covenant and the stone tablets, and that remain hidden from view, untouched by impure hands. The form and condition of created things enables them to be drawn back into relation with their creator. Semiotic density and historical reference—achieved through symbolic form, or fasting, or ritual consecration—pull attention away from things or bodies themselves and to relations with what is beyond them and is understood to have created them. Formal imitation and divine empowerment are part of a single process; but the part played by empowerment is vital—the transfer of divine blessing, making holy water

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into a healing substance, curing sinful bodies. It is not just the use of material signs to suggest the presence of an absent referent. Material objects have implications for human bodies and vice versa, each construed as a being subordinate to something else. Furthermore, they are understood to draw power—the actual potential to heal and harm, to curse and redeem—from that other-relation. The relationship between materiality and authority, then, hinges on how material things can be connected with or oriented toward that which is beyond them—and hence, by implication, more powerful. This entails formal resemblance, often repeated to the point of redundancy, and historically situated acts of empowerment, often achieved through heroic asceticism, or the institutionalized transmission of charisma. This approach to materiality and power is intrinsically hierarchical, as are the oppositional or amoral forms of magic that, while they violate church norms, participate in the same logic of hierarchical relations with powers beyond. There is a temporal dimension to this relationship: not just spatial relations among material things, but the relation of tangible objects to events and personages of the past. For this reason as well, we may do better to ask not what are the limits of matter against immateriality, but how, in specific religious ecologies, is it possible to make relations beyond what can be directly perceived. I want to bring out one more point by way of conclusion. Processes of consecration are never finished. Bodies and things are never fully or finally subjugated to God’s authority, and discourses of anti-idolatry and consecration are never the only viable options for dealing with the willfulness of life. A tabot, once consecrated, is not left alone in splendid isolation, but becomes the basis of the ritual feeding of the parish. Twice a year it is brought outside the church to bless a body of water, and the blessed substance is then distributed among the people (Boylston 2012). It serves the needs of a community of living bodies, and is therefore always engaged in the processes of life, growth, and reproduction— processes which, if mishandled, would be desecrating. The reorientation and drawing-into-relation of bodies, things, and the beyond, as described in this chapter, is not a one-way transformation from profane things into sacred ones. It is an ongoing process of the maintenance of authority.

Notes 1 As in many languages, the word for spirit (menfes) is cognate with those for breath (tinfash) and wind (nifas), which shows either that spirit is not conceived of as

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entirely immaterial, or that it is quite difficult to conceive of nonmaterial things without deep-lying physical metaphors. 2 The notion of humans as images can be found in John of Damascus, and the philosophically inclined work of Messay Kebede (as well as a lengthy post-Platonic patristic tradition that has certainly had significant influence in Ethiopia—Cowley 1989; Lee 2011). There is, likewise, an extensive Roman Catholic tradition of thought on the Imago Dei, in which the human resemblance to God (having been created in his own image) can be understood not as a claim that humans are divine, but that human existence is always a relation to God by virtue of resemblance (e.g., Moltmann 1985: 220).

References Amsalu, T. (2015), The Ethiopian Homily on the Ark of the Covenant, Leiden: Brill. Aymro W. and J. Motovu (1970), The Ethiopian Orthodox Church, Addis Ababa: Ethiopian Orthodox Mission. Binns, J. (2013), “Out of Ethiopia—A Different Way of Doing Theology,” International Journal for the Study of the Christian Church, 13 (1): 33–47. Boylston, T. (2012), The Shade of the Divine: Approaching the Sacred in an Ethiopian Orthodox Christian Community, London: London School of Economics and Political Science. Boylston, T. (2013), “Food, Life, and Material Religion in Ethiopian Orthodox Christianity,” in Michael Lambek and Janice Boddy (eds.), A Companion to the Anthropology of Religion, 257–73, Hoboken: Wiley-Blackwell. Boylston, T. (2015), “ ‘And Unto Dust Shalt Thou Return’ Death and the Semiotics of Remembrance in an Ethiopian Orthodox Christian Village,” Material Religion: The Journal of Objects, Art, and Belief, 11 (3): 281–302. Cowley, R. W. (1989), Ethiopian Biblical Interpretation: A Study in Exegetical Tradition and Hermeneutics, Cambridge: University of Cambridge Oriental Publications 38. Damascene, J. (St.) (1898), “Apologia Against Those Who Decry Images,” trans. M. H. Allies. Available online: http://legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/basis/ johndamascus-images.asp. Ephraim, I. (1995), “The Significance of Food in Hebraic-African Thought and the Role of Fasting in the Ethiopian Church,” in V. L. Wimbush and R. Valantasis (eds.), Asceticism, 329–42, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Fritsch, E. (1999), “The Liturgical Year and the Lectionary of the Ethiopian Church,” Warszawskie Studie Teologiczne, 12 (2): 71–116. Fritsch, E. (2011), “Qedase,” in O. X. Siegbert Uhlig (ed.), Encyclopaedia Aethiopica, Vol. 4, Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag. Gell, A. (1998), Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory, Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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Getatchew, H. (1988a), “A History of the Tabot of Atronesä Maryam in Amhara (Ethiopia),” Paideuma, 34: 13–22. Getatchew, H. (1988b), “The 49 Hour Sabbath of the Ethiopian Church,” Journal of Semitic Studies, 23 (2): 233–54. Getatchew, H. (1996), “The Missionary’s Dream: An Ethiopian Perspective on Western Missions in Ethiopia,” in H. Getatchew, A. Lande, and S. Rubenson (eds.), The Missionary Factor in Ethiopia, 1–17, Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Getnet, T. (1998), “Features of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church and Clergy.” Asian and African Studies, 7: 87–104. Hanganu, G. (2010), “Eastern Christians and Religious Objects: Personal and Material Biographies Entangled,” in C. Hann and H. Goltz (eds.), Eastern Christians in Anthropological Perspective, 33–55, Berkeley and London: University of California Press. Heidegger, M. (1971), “The Thing” in Poetry, Language, Thought, trans. A. Hofstadter, 163–184, New York: Harper Perennial. Heo, A. (2015), “Relic Technics and the Extensible Memory of Coptic Orthodoxy,” Material Religion: The Journal of Objects, Art, and Belief, 11 (1): 50–74. Hermann, J. (Forthcoming), “Sida et Religion En Ethiopie: Socio-Anthropologie Des Formes de Lutte Contre Le Sida” Unpublished PhD thesis, University of AixMarseille. Hermann, J. (2010), “Le Rituel de L’eau Bénite: Une Réponse Sociale et Symbolique à La Pandémie Du Sida,” Annales d’Éthiopie, 25: 229–45. Johnson, E. H. (2011), Patronage and the Theological Integrity of Ethiopian Orthodox Sacred Paintings in Present Day Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, London: School of Oriental and African Studies. Kaplan, S. (1986), “The Ethiopian Cult of the Saints: A Preliminary Investigation,” Paideuma, 32: 1–13. Kaplan, S. (2002), “Seeing Is Believing: The Power of Visual Culture in the Religious World of Aşe Zär’a Ya’eqob of Ethiopia (1434–1468),” Journal of Religion in Africa, 32 (4): 403–21. Kaplan, S. (2014), “The Christianization of Time in Fifteenth Century Ethiopia,” in M. Rubin and I. Katznelson (eds.), Religious Conversion: Experience and Meaning, 81–98, Farnham: Ashgate. Keane, W. (2005), “Signs Are Not the Garb of Meaning: On the Social Analysis of Material Things,” in Daniel Miller (ed.), Materiality, Durham: Duke University Press. Keane, W. (2014), “Rotting Bodies: The Clash of Stances toward Materiality and Its Ethical Affordances,” Current Anthropology, 55: (S10). Latour, B. (2005), Reassembling the Social, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Lee, R. (2011), Symbolic Interpretations in Ethiopic and Ephremic Literature, London: School of Oriental and African Studies. Levine, D. N. (1965), Wax & Gold: Tradition and Innovation in Ethiopian Culture, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Lévy-Bruhl, L. (1923), Primitive Mentality, London: Allen & Unwin. Luehrmann, S. (2010), “A Dual Quarrel of Images on the Middle Volga: Icon Veneration in the Face of Protestant and Pagan Critique,” in C. Hann and H. Goltz (eds.), Eastern Christians in Anthropological Perspective, 56–78, Berkeley and London: University of California Press. Malara, D. M. (forthcoming), Geometries of Blessing, PhD thesis, Edinburgh: University of Edinburgh. Mercier, J. (1997), Art That Heals: Image as Medicine in Ethiopia, New York and London: Prestel. Messay, K. (1999), Survival and Modernization: Ethiopia’s Enigmatic Present: A Philosophical Discourse, Lawrenceville: Red Sea Press. Moltmann, J. (1985), God in Creation, London: SCM Press. Pankhurst, R. (1987), “Some Brief Notes on the Ethiopian Tabot and Mänbärä Tabot,” Quaderni Di Studi Etiopici, 8–9:28–32. Pedersen, K. S. (1999), “Is the Church of Ethiopia a Judaic Church?,” Warszawskie Studie Teologiczne, 12 (2): 203–16. Reinhardt, B. (2016), “‘Don’t Make It a Doctrine’: Material Religion, Transcendence, Critique,” Anthropological Theory, 16 (1): 75–97. Rodinson, M. (1964), “Sur La Question Des ‘influences Juives’ En Éthiopie,” Journal of Semitic Studies, 9: 11–19. Spyer, P. (2001), “The Cassowary WIll (Not) Be Photographed: The ‘Primitive’, the ‘Japanese’, and the Elusive ‘Sacred’ (Aru, Southeast Moluccas),” in H. de Vries and S. Weber (eds.), Religion and Media, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Taddesse, T. (1972), Church and State in Ethiopia 1270–1527, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Ullendorff, E. (1956), “Hebraic-Jewish Elements in Abyssinian (Monophysite) Christianity,” Journal of Semitic Studies 1: 216–56. Ullendorff, E. (1968), Ethiopia and the Bible. Oxford: [S.I.] Published for the British Academy by the Oxford University Press. Wright, M. C. (2002), “At the Limits of Sexuality: The Femininity of Ethiopian Nuns,” Journal of Ethiopian Studies, 35 (1): 27–42. Young, A. (1975), “Magic as a ‘Quasi-Profession’: The Organization of Magical Healing among Amhara,” Ethnology, 14 (3): 245–65.

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The Bible in the Digital Age: Negotiating the Limits of “Bibleness” of Different Bible Media Katja Rakow

While doing fieldwork at a neo-Pentecostal megachurch in spring 2011, I observed a characteristic ritual that took place in every worship service at Lakewood Church in Houston, Texas. Before Joel Osteen delivered his message, he invited the worship service attendees to hold up their Bibles. Many followed his invitation and, while lifting up their Bibles, pastor and congregation in unison recited the following declaration: This is my Bible. I am what it says I am. I can do what it says I can do. Today, I will be taught the Word of God. I boldly confess, my mind is alert, my heart is receptive. I will never be the same. I am about to receive the incorruptible, indestructible, ever-living seed of the Word of God. I will never be the same. Never, never, never. I will never be the same. In Jesus’ name. Amen. (Transcript by the author)

Scanning through the huge auditorium of the megachurch containing 16,000 seats, I could see attendees holding up Bibles in all shades and styles. There were leather-bound Bibles in black, brown, or red; Bibles with flowery patterns in pink; small Bibles and big, heavy ones; old Bibles as well as brand-new Bibles. In between this sea of Bibles, from time to time, I spotted someone holding up an iPad or eBook reader. A year later, I went back for a second period of fieldwork at Lakewood Church. Attending worship services in spring 2012, I recognized a slight but remarkable change in the small ritual of declaration before the sermon. Whereas in 2011 very few people held up electronic devices, a year later, many more people were raising smartphones, iPads, or e-readers while they declared, “This is my Bible.” In that moment of declaration, these electronic devices became the Bible. They were not just a technology that enabled its users to read the digital version of the Word of God.

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For this short moment, the fact became irrelevant that the same device could be used in very different ways besides providing Bible verses. The ability to function as a medium through which the Word of God is accessible becomes—for that brief ritual of declaration—the defining quality of the smartphone or tablet. The potentially ambivalent multifunctionality of the electronic device gets suspended; it temporarily transforms into a material object with just one function: an object that attendees lift up while declaring, “This is my Bible.” The change in the small ritual practice preceding every sermon at Lakewood Church coincided with a significant rise in the use of electronic devices such as smartphones, tablets, and e-readers. According to data from the Pew Research Forum, in May 2011, 35 percent of Americans owned a smartphone, 8 percent had a tablet, and 12 percent were owners of an e-book reader. In April 2012, the number of smartphone owners had grown to 46 percent, 18 percent of Americans now owned a tablet and 18 percent had an eBook reader.1 The rise in ownership of such mobile electronic devices is likely to account for the increasing ubiquity of smartphones and the likes in church services. The change that I witnessed at Lakewood Church between March 2011 and March 2012 was part of the digital revolution sweeping through all areas of contemporary life. The increasing frequency of mobile devices now popping up in pews and pulpits plainly mirrors the prevalence of such technology in everyday life in the United States. It is the most recent example of a long history of adaptation of current cultural practices and technologies by religious actors. Such adaptations of new technologies do not go uncontested, although Evangelical and Pentecostal Christians in the United States usually belonged to the early adopters of new technologies, such as radio and TV (Hadden 1993; Kay 2009). The importance of studying processes of adopting new media formats and new technologies in religious practice settings lies in their relevance for the transformation, and thereby continuation, of religious ideas and practices (Meyer 2011: 60). This chapter on digital Bible uses will augment our understanding of how technological changes and innovations are negotiated and implemented in religious practices and contribute to the dynamic of religious traditions. The temporary transformation of an electronic device into a Bible might work for a number of attendees at Lakewood Church services; yet, for others, the physical qualities of a smartphone or tablet might restrict their use in religious practices. The shift from printed book to digital device, not only in everyday life but in church life as well, has not gone uncontested. While Christian publishers jumped on the bandwagon of digital publishing quite fast and announced the

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triumph of the digital Bible (Nelson 2011), others opened the discussion of the appropriateness of digital Bibles in religious practices. A closer look at the ongoing processes of negotiation about the suitability and use of different Bible versions shows that it depends on what religious actors intend to do with the material object. It seems to make a difference if they intend to read and study the text or if they are concerned about the liturgical, ritual, and devotional use of the Bible.2 My initial observation made at Lakewood Church invites us to think about the affordances created by the specific material properties of artifacts and how these play out in the adaptation and incorporation of new media and formats in religious contexts.3 Taking Timothy K. Beal’s notion of the cultural iconicity of the Bible that—although vaguely—hinges on the visual-material image of the bound book, this chapter will explore under which circumstances digital Bibles mediated through electronic devices are able to exude a feeling of “Bibleness” (2015: 210) in the eyes of their Christian users. According to Beal, the cultural iconicity of the Bible “projects a solid, bookish singularity, unity, oneness, and authority” (2015: 222), although in practice there exist various variations and versions of Bibles. The “Bibleness” of particular Bibles is warranted by the cultural iconicity of the Bible. Although the visual-material vagueness of cultural icons allows them to be stretched and expanded (Beal 2015: 209), it remains to be seen how much visual and material heterogeneity the cultural icon can accommodate before it breaks, as Beal describes it (2015: 222). In this chapter, I will take a closer look at the circumstances under which a digital device can act as a sufficient medium to make the Word of God present. That the question of the status of digital Bibles was debated at all signals a renewed awareness of the mediation process involved in accessing God’s Word. This new awareness of the material carrier was caused by the transition from one media format to another. Before the digital revolution, in most Evangelical and (neo-) Pentecostal circles, the status of the printed Bible as an established medium to make the Word of God and its divine power present was more or less taken for granted.4 Based on a “semiotic ideology” (Engelke 2007: 21) that understands Scripture and language as immaterial presence, the bound Bible was perceived as an immediate and direct form of access to God’s Word and divine presence. The transition into a new medium brought back an awareness of the materiality of the Bible and raised questions about the appropriateness and sufficiency of different material media to make God present through his Word. The debates about digital Bibles therefore address a renewed consciousness of the “problem of presence,” as anthropologist Matthew Engelke (2007) has termed it.

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The positions portrayed in this chapter negotiate which medium does count as a proper and authorized form of representation of the divine and therefore will shed light on the underlying semiotic ideologies that accept or disregard digital Bibles as a sufficient form of mediation. Focusing on digital Bibles poses a certain challenge in as far as digital media lack physical properties of their own and exist only in the “lingua franca of bits, of ones and zeros, . . . embodied in magnetic impulses that require almost no physical space” and “represent very different objects (for instance, words, pictures, or sounds as well as text)” (Rosenzweig 2011: 9). Further, the ones and zeros lack intrinsic meaning and need the combination of software and hardware to become accessible and meaningful to social actors (Rosenzweig 2011: 9). Electronic devices, such as desktop computers, tablets, eBook readers, or smartphones, provide the material interface between digital objects and their human user. If we speak of digital objects, we need to consider the specific properties of the materiality providing the interface between digital content and user and how these enable and constrain the adaptation in the context of religious practices. Since my first observation in 2011, a number of newspaper articles, Christian blog posts, and comments were published, which discussed the advantages and disadvantages of printed and digital Bibles. Most of the sources used for this chapter were written and published during the years 2011–2013.5 This timespan indicates the possible temporary peak of the discussion about the appropriateness of the digital Bible in pew and pulpit, which was stimulated by the significant rise in smartphone and tablet ownership since 2011. From these sources, I will sketch three modes of Bible usage in the context of contemporary Anglophone Evangelical and Pentecostal Christianity and discuss what might restrict or enable the adoption of digital versions in each practice setting. The three modes of usage considered here are commemorative, semantic-hermeneutical, and performative practices in relation to the Bible. I speak of a commemorative use when the printed Bible functions as a material carrier of memories and anchor of nostalgic feelings. Semantic-hermeneutical usages of the Bible refer to such practices as reading, Bible study, and interpretation where access to the text and the semantic meaning of the biblical text (and supplementary resources) are in the foreground.6 The performative usage of the Bible encompasses devotional, liturgical, and ritualistic practices, which are centered on the Bible as material object and/or cultural icon. Examining and comparing the physical qualities of the bound book and electronic devices, I will analyze how the physical properties restrict or enable different modes of usage in religious practice. On the basis of these observations,

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I will discuss how the materiality of printed and digital Bibles and their modes of usage relate to the cultural iconicity of the Bible and under which circumstances these are able to sufficiently create a “feeling of Bibleness” and therefore are accepted and incorporated into religious practice.

Commemorative practices: The Bible as repository for memories David Neff, former editor in chief of the American Evangelical magazine Christianity Today, remembers his days back at college when “the default physical form [of the Bible] was a black leather binding” (Neff 2012: 60). In his Christianity Today column, entitled “It Almost Looks Like a Bible: The Physical Form of Scripture, Not Just Its Words, Shapes Us” (January 2012), Neff explains the important role of the materiality of the Bible for family spirituality: “Placing the family Bible at the physical center of the ideal American home helped entrench the idea of the family as the main training ground in Christian living” (Neff 2012: 60). Emerging at the end of the eighteenth century, lavishly decorated family Bibles recorded family histories, carrying the dates of births, marriages, and deaths. Besides genealogical information, the heavy volumes functioned as a physical repository for family history in other practical ways as well; with pressed flowers, heirlooms, and other little keepsakes placed between the pages, the family Bible “became a revered possession that activated sentiment and memories” (McDannell 1995: 73). Thinking of the physical qualities of Bibles as the center of the devotional life of American families, Neff asks what consequences the shift from printed to digital medium might entail for family spirituality. His answer paints a rather gloomy picture of vanishing family spirituality in the wake of the vanishing printed book. Although both versions—the printed book and the digital text—share the ability to convey the Word of God, only the bulky volume of printed pages seem to be able to wear the signs of usage over generations. For Neff, the physical form of the leather-bound book is able to conjure up his childhood memories in a way an electronic device never could. This is mainly due to the fact that digital Bibles are “Bibles with no physical properties of their own. They borrow their frame from computers, iPads, and smartphones” (Neff 2012: 60). It is precisely the lack of physical properties that renders digital Bibles unsuitable as a material witness of family history or a nostalgic repository of family devotional life.

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In a similar manner, religious studies scholar Timothy K. Beal describes the vanishing of the traditional family Bible as evidence of the decline in printed Bibles. “The family Bible as we know it is already a thing of the past in most families. What was once a perfect product during its time has become kind of an artifact” (Beal, quoted in Spratling 2012). Echoing this observation, he starts his book The Rise and Fall of the Bible (2011) with a recollection of his childhood days: I remember Mom’s Bible especially well: the feel and smell of the dark red pebbly leather cover, the heft of it, the delicate paper, gray and silky soft at the corners from countless careful turns, the way it flopped over her hands when she opened it. Like other Bibles in our home, its value as a holy thing came not only from its quality of materials and craftsmanship, and not only from our familial faith in the words on its pages as the inspired Word of God, but also from years of daily, devotional attention. (Beal 2011: 1)

Beal’s recollection is coded in language pointing to the material qualities and sensorial perceptions of handling the printed book. He remembers how the “pebbly leather” and the “silky pages felt.” He recalls that the book was imbued with a kind of sacredness—a sacredness that is not only accounted for by the craftsmanship of the book and the fact that the pages contain the Word of God, but also by the many years of devotional usage in Beal’s family home. The image of the “red pebbly leather bound Bible” is the canvas onto which Beal paints a nostalgic picture of his youth. The leather-bound book is the material witness not so much of family history in general, but of his childhood days steeped in “devotional attention.” In comparison with the old family Bible, the transience of the material carrier of digital versions—may it be the smartphone, tablet, or e-reader—is unable to function as a material witness or nostalgic repository of family devotion and history in the same way an old printed book does. No one passes on an old iPhone the way one used to pass on an old book. Whereas an old Bible might be cherished and revered, especially for its old age and the accumulated personal value attributed to the material object, an old smartphone will be passed on because it has been replaced, most likely by a newer version with added functionality. Electronic devices usually lose their practical and economic value within just a few years, while books age well and accumulate—although not necessarily economic, but personal—value. The so-called duct tape Bibles analyzed by Dorina Miller Parmenter are a helpful illustration of the relation between memory and materiality. Bibles worn out by frequent use and held together by duct tape are thought to indicate the piety of its user and the important role the Word of God played in the life of its owner (Parmenter 2010: 188–94). At the same time, these Bibles and their

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material condition are a repository for memories about their owners and their lives. In one of Parmenter’s examples, a duct tape Bible was used in a memorial service for its deceased owner. The Bible was instantly recognizable for everyone attending the service due to its battered state. Therefore, this Bible was able to function as a material memento for the commemorated person, indicating a life lived deeply steeped in the Word (Parmenter 2010: 190). One of Parmenter’s other examples equates the rough appearance of a worn-out Bible with “a memorial of sorts—a visceral reminder of how God has taken the broken shards of a life and created something useful and good” (quoted in Parmenter 2010: 192). Material culture scholar David Miller points to the relation between memory and material things. Although people might associate memories as something immaterial—as a possession inside their heads—memories can also be treated as “sedimented possessions” bound to material things (Miller 2008: 91). The example of Brooke McGlothlin, an Evangelical blogger and book author, will illustrate this tangible connection between memory and materiality further. As McGlothlin describes in one of her blog posts, she was an early adopter of digital versions of the Bible on her Blackberry, which supplanted the tiny Bible she always carried in her purse. Since she got her iPad, she started even leaving her ESV Bible at home when going to church. However, then something happened to change her mind and that has her now taking her real Bible to church again: My grandmother died. And on that day of her funeral my mom handed me one of the most precious treasures I’ve ever had in my possession—her Bible. Inside, the pages are filled with notes that capture how the Word of God was living and active for her throughout her life. . . . As I held it in my hands and read her secret prayers for her grandchildren written out, her bold declarations of truth, her faith in the God who saves . . . I knew . . . I had nothing of this magnitude to pass on to my own children and grandchildren. And I wouldn’t if I continued to take notes on my iPad every time I studied the Bible. (McGlothlin 2013)

In comparison with a worn-out or inherited Bible marked with personal notes and prayers, a used and battered or duct-taped smartphone with a scratched surface could seriously impede the functionality of the device and render it unable to display and interact with the biblical text. Such a battered state of the electronic device might rather indicate the carelessness or misfortune of its owner than the owner’s piety or God’s care for one of his children. Moreover, the frequency of new versions of electronic devices and their operating systems accounts for their comparatively short lifespans and their inability to function sufficiently as a material memento of the past (Figure 4.1).7

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Semantic-hermeneutical practices: The Bible as access to God’s Word While some commentators bemoan the decline of the printed Bible in devotional contexts, others praise the advantages of digital versions for reading and studying the Word of God. All big Christian publishers have made the transition to digital publishing and offer electronic Bibles and related products alongside printed versions of the Scripture. For example, in the crucial period between 2011 and 2012, America’s largest Bible publisher, Zondervan, had a fourfold increase in sales of digital Bible products (Spratling 2012). The eBook version of Zondervan’s New International Version Bible regularly appeared in the top-ten-bestseller list of various e-bookstores (Nelson 2011: 22). Most Bible publishers have started to diversify their digital Bible content and now offer desktop solutions and mobile products for Bible study next to their eBook versions. The giant among the Bible applications is YouVersion’s freely available “The Bible App,” which was dubbed the “digital Gideon’s Bible” by Publishers Weekly in 2011 (Nelson 2011: 24). The application is developed and funded by LifeChurch. tv in Edmond, Oklahoma, and financially supported by various donors. A few years back, in 2010, it offered forty-one different translations in twenty-one languages (Kiss 2010). Today, YouVersion advertises its Bible app with 1,115 Bible versions and the support of 799 languages. On the website, the company counts every new installation of its application, which currently has over 190 million installations on smartphones and tablets. Bible applications offer readers not only different translations at one swipe, but also a lot of additional material, such as maps, illustrations, and videos. Moreover, they offer reading plans and invite the user to mark passages and save notes—not only for their personal use but also for sharing and discussing them with others in social networks. Users can read the text by themselves or choose the audiobook option and let the application read the text to them. The smartphone or tablet, which acts as an interface between user and application, is always at hand, as people usually carry it with them wherever they go. By default, the Word of God in its different modes of digital consumption is always at hand as well, wherever they are. Accordingly, YouVersion’s website displays the slogan “The Bible is everywhere” and explains further: “God is near, and so is His Word. As you wake up. While you wait. When you meet a friend. Before you go to sleep. When the Bible is always with you, it becomes a part of your daily life” (youversion.com, accessed September 7, 2015). In surveys, articles, and comments, time and again people praise the many practical advantages of digital Bibles and applications for Bible study, sermon

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preparation, or inspirational reading (Bertrand 2013; Lowder 2013; Ross 2012; Spratling 2012). A few years back, for a comparison of certain verses in different translations, the reader would have needed to look into different bound volumes. They would have needed those books at hand, as well as time and space to flip through the many pages, to look up the different versions and to put them next to each other. Even the first e-readers had limited abilities to display hyperlinks to supplementary material that enriched the Bible text for further studies, such as different annotations, references, maps, commentaries, and other explanatory resources. Compared with early e-reader versions of the Bible text, a printed and bound study Bible offered the advantage of leafing back and forth through the pages. Now, the hypertextuality of recent digital Bible versions overcomes the limitations of physical books and early e-readers when it comes to reading practices, Bible study, exegetical purposes, or preaching. The option to enlarge text lettering comes in handy, especially for usage in the pulpit (Ross 2012). A content analysis of fifty-one comments on a blog post entitled “Digital Bibles: Good or Bad Idea?” by Poncho Lowder8 provides an overview of arguments and opinions surfacing in the discussion about digital Bibles time and again. His guest post on the blog “Vyrso Voice: The Christian eBook Blog” (http://blog. vyrso.com) on August 5, 2013 invited readers to comment and share their opinion on the matter. The opinions expressed in the comments can be grouped into three categories: first, arguments pertaining to practicality, convenience, and preference for one or both Bible versions in personal use; second, arguments that indicate that the message is more important than the medium; and third, arguments that highlight the need to keep up with technological developments to stay relevant and to reach out to the next generation. (1) Personal preference and handling: Various commentators emphasized the convenience of digital Bibles on the go and commented on the easy access they provide to the Word of God and its various translations. In addition, they mentioned that the use of digital Bibles is easily embedded in their daily use of other digital devices. Others explicitly stated a preference for the printed version and emphasized the physical experience of holding and reading a printed Bible: I personally prefer my physical bible over my phone. I like to feel the pages and be able to write and highlight things that I found important or that spoke to me. But I also have a bible app that I use when I don’t have my bible with me. As a former bible college student it was nice not to have to carry a heavy bible to all classes and have my bible conveniently on my phone. But for personal

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devotional time I would not use my bible app. I find it distracting and harder to read for long periods of time on a small screen. (Comment 23)

Furthermore, the comments show that religious actors link preferences for one medium over the other to the different styles of handling that particular media require and enable. Printed and digital Bibles need specific, practice-generated knowledge, ranging from how to find books, chapter, and verse in the printed volume to how to operate a smartphone and navigate the diverse functions of a Bible application. The different modes of handling account for personal preferences, as the following comment illustrates: With the digital bible I can select a reading plan based on my needs at the time and get reminders every day to read it. I also like the fact that every day I get a verse that I can read first thing in the morning when I wake up and can customize the version. I have a regular bible and have tried to read it and to me its [sic] not the same, specially [sic] if I want to start a reading plan. I wouldn’t know where to start reading and the times I have tried, I don’t follow through because I forget. (Comment 16)

For others, the printed version is much quicker and easier to handle, less distracting, and more convenient for highlighting and taking notes. Some comments indicate an increase in the time spent with the Bible and an enhancement of their Bible experience through the crossmedial use of Bibles (printed, digital, and audio). The option of taking notes in both media differs, and thereby influences, which medium the user prefers. The book enables scribbling with a pen on the margins of the printed page, adding a very personal touch to the reading activity while marking this particular Bible in a unique way. Most Bible apps offer a note-taking feature via typing on a touchscreen, creating a digital note linked to the relevant Bible passage. Moreover, the note can be edited, re-edited, deleted, or shared with others in social networks. In summary, both media allow reading and note-taking, albeit in very different ways. (2) The message is more important than the medium: A substantial number of users argue that God’s Word is more important than the medium that delivers it. Some of these comments emphasize the need to read and get immersed in the Word of God more than the need to discuss the question of how to access the Bible: “Both are allowing people to dive into the Word, why does the medium used to deliver His words even matter?” (Comment 13). It shows that the message is rated higher than the medium.

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(3) Keeping up with technological developments for outreach activities: According to some commentators, today, it is much easier to spread the Word and to get the Bible into the hands of others due to the fact that digital versions are easily accessible through the broad use of smartphones and computers in today’s society. Furthermore, these users mention that digital Bibles are one way of using today’s way of communication to stay relevant to society and to reach out to current generations: “I believe the digital revolution is here to stay and we need to use any means necessary to reach the next generation for Jesus” (Comment 51). Supporters and endorsers point out that digital resources for Bible study offer, at one and the same time, different modes of engagement with the biblical text and supplemental content: individually or shared in a community, in various formats, and with diverse media. At the same time, all content and forms of engagement are integrated into one interface, one platform—be it the home computer, tablet, or smartphone. The visual design and the hypertextuality of digital information enables reading, accessing, and digesting information in a nonlinear way that differs from the typical linear way of reading a Bible page from left to right and from top to bottom. According to Walter Ong, printed texts convey “a sense of closure, a sense that what is found in a text has been finalized, has reached a state of completion” (Ong 2002 [1982]: 129). Print culture introduced title pages, which function as labels and thereby enable “the feeling for the book as a kind of thing or object” (Ong 2002 [1982]: 123) that locks form and content into a unity between two covers connected by a spine and adorned by a label or title. Following Ong (2002 [1982]: 129), printed books are supposed to convey textual content in a definite or final form that could be reproduced in form of thousands of visual and physical consistent copies. In contrast to this perceived final form of printed books, digital media seem to open up the text and break the perceived final unity of content and form by turning it into a “liquid” text, filling the digital space only “for a moment,” “constantly ready (and prone) to change” (Bauman 2006: 2). According to material religion scholar Brent S. Plate, the sense of closure associated with printed pages is visually created by the technology of type: perfectly regular lines and a text evenly justified at the margins compose a visual image of the page (Plate 2015: 131). Many texts displayed online or in applications still adhere to these general stylistic guidelines, although the lines are usually justified on the left, disrupting the visual sense of tidiness of the text. The colored hyperlinks open up the text, disrupt the linear flow of reading, and invite the user to venture beyond the current page.

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Figure 4.1   Grandma’s Bible and a BibleApp on smartphone. Photo by author.

Plate (2015: 131) has argued that the visual design of printed and scripted texts affects the emotional interaction with text, as well as the cognitive interpretation of words. Visual design processes are not only decorative embellishments that can be disregarded, but also “impact engagement with a text, well before readers grasp its semantic meanings” (Plate 2015: 129). How information on a page is arranged—both in digital and in print—will have consequences for accessing, seeing, grasping, and interpreting the information displayed in the visual image on an electronic screen or a paper page. If a page shows a single Bible verse, this text might be read and interpreted differently than it would be when read in context with the preceding and following verses. In sum, digital Bibles and Bible applications overcome the physical limitations of the printed book in offering a broad range of supplementary materials, functions, and forms of engagement. In both media, how information is displayed and how the visual image is formed structures how the reader engages with the biblical texts. Nevertheless, electronic devices have their material limitations as well and running out of power renders the device utterly useless, as Carl Lentz, pastor of Hillsong Church New York City, recently pointed out during a sermon at Hillsong Conference 2015 in Sydney, Australia. Lentz started to invite the

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audience to read with him from 3 Jn 1.1–11 when he suddenly stopped and asked: Who has a Bible tonight? Hold it up if you do. Look to your neighbor and say, “My Bible is so much better than yours.” It’s heavier; it’s real. And if your Bible is on your phone, I don’t wanna see it because if you need a word from God and, ah, your phone is dead, what you’ll gonna do then? Your Bible needs to have pages. (Transcript by the author)

To prove his point, Lentz read from his Bible instead of reading from the large LED screens displaying the relevant Bible verses. Lentz’ short comment expressed the idea that the printed book is always available and a reliable access to God’s Word whenever a believer is in need of it. To him, the printed version grants the believer direct and unmediated access to the Word of God, whereas electronic devices depend on other supplementary factors to provide access to the Bible (or other content), such as battery power, a charger, and a power source ready at hand. In the eyes of Carl Lentz, one of the greatest assets ascribed to mobile devices—their easy accessibility on the go—turns into an impediment in terms of their reliability and thereby marks digital Bible versions as insufficient carriers of divine presence.

Performative practices: The Bible as liturgical, ritual, and devotional object Carl Lentz, reading from the printed Bible in his hands instead of reading from the LED screen on stage, is rather an exception. During the aforementioned Hillsong Conference, most of the guest speakers entered the stage holding their Bible and then placed it on the pulpit. From time to time, they picked up the Bible, gesticulated with it, shook it, or opened it arbitrarily while they spoke about the importance of reading the Bible, knowing God, and hearing God speak through his Word. However, with few exceptions, such as Carl Lentz, almost none of the speakers actually read from the Bible that they had carried on stage. This observation is in no way exceptional, as I have encountered similar situations during fieldwork at megachurches in Houston, Texas, as well as in Singapore. Although bringing a printed Bible along, pastors usually read from the LED screens on stage. The primary function of the material Bible in such settings is to exercise its “cultural iconicity” (Beal 2015: 208) and to lend credibility and legitimation to the speaker, his role, and his words. Timothy Beal describes a cultural icon as follows:

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It is, rather, an immaterial, amorphous, inarticulate condensation of cultural meaning and value, a symbol whose outline is vague, impossible to pin down to a particular image or thing. The image of the closed black leather book, for example, is a common one for the cultural icon of the Bible, but the Bible’s cultural iconicity is not inextricably tied to that image. It could be brown or red, zipped or clasped, indexed or plain, open or closed, and so on. Indeed, this visual-material vagueness is essential to a cultural icon’s power. It gives it a flexibility that allows more people to identify with it; it allows it to stretch further before breaking. (Beal 2015: 209)

The Bible quotes on display in the auditorium of megachurches seem to stretch the visual-material vagueness of the cultural iconicity of the Bible to its limits. The proximity of a material Bible—a Bible visibly placed on the pulpit, pressed to the chest of the speaker, or held high above his head—is needed to warrant the “Bibleness” (Beal 2015: 210) of the digital words on the screen and the discourse of the speaker. Next to the performative use in contemporary megachurches, the material Bible plays an important role in other ritual and liturgical practices. An article from October 2011 in Publishers Weekly about large Bible publishers riding the digital wave asked if digital publishing will “relegate the black leather bound Bible to the dust heap of historical artifacts?” (Nelson 2011: 25) A representative from Common English Bible dispels those concerns by pointing to the relevance of the Bible as sacramental artifact and physical object. “Most people don’t use their iPad to pray,” he remarks (quoted in Nelson 2011: 25). Regardless of whether that is indeed the case, this remark points to devotional uses of the Bible that are not primarily concerned with hermeneutical endeavors or semantic meanings. Moreover, the comment indicates liturgical and ritual uses of the Bible that somehow hinge on the distinct materiality of the bound book and the “feeling of Bibleness” it warrants. In an USA Today article on digital Bibles, the director of Christian Worship for the Archdiocese of Detroit, Dan McAfee, expresses his unease about liturgical uses of electronic devices as follows: “It would be really strange to process an iPad down the aisle and place it on the altar” (quoted in Spratling 2012). He differentiates books for study and liturgical books and endorses e-Bibles for personal studies but not for use in the Holy Mass. He says, “The Bible is a sacred book—a one of a kind—not just a file among many files in an iPad” (quoted in Spratling 2012). For the Catholic representative, as for many other Christians, the Bible in its iconic form as bound book is more than just a book; it contains the Word of God. Therefore, it is something very different from

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any other book. The material unit of cover, binding, and pages that contain words to which a special meaning is attributed sets the Bible apart from other books and endows it with a certain power. According to Parmenter, “the slipperiness between the philosophical idea of the Word of God, words on a page that convey meaning, and the Word’s/words’ relationship to the book continue to contribute to the complexity and the power of the image of the Bible” (Parmenter 2010: 195). This powerful relationship between words, the Word, and the book becomes evident in Pentecostal and charismatic contexts, where religious actors use the Bible in healing services or other religious practices. Luke St. Clair, senior pastor of a Pentecostal Church in Anderson, Indiana, explains that he has “never taken [his] iPad and laid [it] on [his] sick children and declared healing by the authority and power of the Word.” He says that he has “never put [his] iPad on the ground and stood on it as [he] declared the promises of it’s [sic] content” to his congregation. Finally, he has never slipped the iPad under his pillow at night when he could not find peace, as he sometimes does with his Thompson Chain Reference Bible.9 The fact that the physical properties of an iPad do not allow for such a handling partly induces the preference for the book over the electronic device. The glass surface of the tablet is too fragile to step onto it. The concrete materiality limits the usage of it in certain religious practices. Moreover, it seems that the divine properties present in the material Bible are not transferable onto an iPad or smartphone either, as the preference for the bound book in healing rituals, situations of display, or in declarations of God’s promises demonstrates. Here, the efficacy of the performative practices hinges on the iconic image of the Bible as a closed or open bound book (Beal 2015: 211), which is easily and unmistakably discernible as such. The materiality of electronic devices carries ambiguity and is not able to embody the performative or iconic power of the bound book imprinted with the letters “Holy Bible” on its spine and cover. One last example may illustrate the ambiguity of digital content on electronic devices. In June 2014, Suzi Levine, now US ambassador to Switzerland, took the oath of office with her hand on top of a Kindle. The adoption of new technology to an old ritual of entering into a state office was widely reported in the press, who circulated a photograph of Levine placing her hand on a Kindle e-reader (for example Boren 2014; Fung 2014). Prompted by this development, Fox News Latino published an article by Hilary Vaughn entitled “Is a Digital Bible Less Holy?” (July 14, 2014) The article starts by pointing out that “the recently tapped U.S. ambassador to Switzerland was sworn in last month with her hand not on

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a paper Bible but on top of a Kindle” and goes on citing different voices that express concern about officials “choosing tablets over the printed Bible” (Vaughn 2014). While repeating familiar arguments praising digital devices for Bible reading and study, people quoted in the article voice their concern about the ambiguity of such devices. To them, a Kindle is not instantly recognizable as a Bible and may contain other content as well. Questions of multifunctionality and the most likely diverse (and especially secular, trivial, or offensive) content stored on e-readers were further discussed in comments relating to a post on Fox News’ Facebook page.10 Some Facebook users openly expressed their dislike of digital devices for official events such as assuming a public office. To them, the ritual of taking an oath on a Kindle was not as valid as an oath taken upon the Bible. To those commentators, the e-reader was unable to exhibit the “Bibleness” (Beal 2015: 210) of the cultural icon, which they thought to be important to warrant the sincerity and efficacy of the ritual. Close-up pictures of the event published in other media reveal an interesting detail. In the picture, Levine places her hand on a Kindle showing a digital version of the US Constitution. The fact that the entire discussion about the holiness and appropriateness of digital Bibles was triggered by an incident of an ambassador taking an oath on a Kindle that—more or less visible depending on the accompanying photograph to the news—displayed the US Constitution and not the Bible clearly illustrates the ambiguity of digital texts on electronic devices in ritual and performative contexts. While viewers and commenters on Fox News’ Facebook page could not see that tiny detail and—via an indication in the headline and content of the post—only could have assumed that the Bible was displayed on the Kindle. The pictured scene itself offered no reliable visual indicator to support or discourage this assumption. The Kindle could have displayed something very different—and in fact it had. The concerns voiced in the comments clearly related to the perceived ambiguity that in the eyes of the commentators marked the material carrier as an insufficient medium to, unmistakably and beyond any doubt, embody and present the Bible as witness to an oath of office.

From parchment to paper to pixel—just a change in medium? I have sketched three practice settings relating to the Bible and the advantages or disadvantages people ascribe to different forms of media. The first set of practices concerned the commemorative functions of Bibles. Discussing how

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the materiality of the bound book works as an anchor for nostalgic recollections and a material witness to family history, it became obvious that digital versions— which are accessible only through the materiality of electronic devices—become rapidly obsolete and therefore fail to exhibit a sufficiently durable materiality in order to function as material mementos of the past. The second complex of practice encompassed semantic-hermeneutical usages of the Bible, particularly reading and studying the text. Here, digital versions and applications provide more ways of engaging the text than a single printed book can offer. Comparing the physical properties and visual image of printed and digital texts showed that both forms require specific practical knowledge to handle and navigate the medium. Both media direct the reader and offer different reading experiences, which accounts for the personal preferences with regard to the preferred medium. The third set of religious practices focused on the liturgical, ritual, and devotional usages of the Bible. The section discussed the ascribed advantages and disadvantages of material and digital Bibles in such settings and showed that a certain preference for the printed book prevails. This is mainly due to the iconic image that the bound Bible embodies and the ambiguity and physical fragility of electronic devices, which fail to exude the same sense of “Bibleness” carried by printed versions. When it comes to strategies of legitimizing the use of digital Bibles, a dominant pattern emerges. People point to historical precedents, such as the movement from parchment to paper and the invention of the printing press. Likewise, the movement from paper to pixel is seen as just another change of medium, while the message remains the same. Contemporary Evangelical and Pentecostal Christians who endorse digital Bible versions express with the idea of an unchanging quality of God’s Word a “semiotic ideology” (Engelke 2007: 21) that renders the concrete materiality negligibly to an understanding of Scripture and language as immaterial presence. Contemporary Evangelicals and Pentecostals who voice concerns about the sufficiency and appropriateness of digital Bible versions deny the negligibility of the material carrier. To them, the ambiguity of digital devices does not allow embodying and displaying the Word of God beyond any doubt and thereby is unable to exude the feeling of “Bibleness.” In their perception, electronic devices stretch the cultural iconicity of the Bible beyond its breaking point. The case might be different if digital Bibles are seen as an extension of printed Bibles. Just as the “Bibleness” of particular Bibles is warranted by its cultural iconicity of the Bible

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(Beal 2015: 210), the printed Word of God warrants the feeling of “Bibleness” to electronic displays when these are accompanied by the more iconic bookish versions, as the case of pastors on stage has shown. This sense of “Bibleness” is also invoked by the small ritual declaration of “This is my Bible” at Lakewood Church mentioned at the beginning of the chapter. The pastor on stage holds up his bound Bible while leading his assembled congregation in the declaration. All smartphones, Kindles, and tablets raised in the auditorium during the short ritual assume their “Bibleness” through the bound Bibles raised next to them and a spoken discourse that unambiguously declares them to be the Bible. Like the printing revolution allowed for new ways and more individual ways of engaging with Scripture (Saenger 1997), the digital revolution might make the Bible more accessible for current generations, create new ways of spreading the Gospel, and result in innovative religious practices and discourses surrounding the Bible. More in-depth studies and ethnographic work are needed to get a comprehensive picture of the impact of digital technologies on lived Christianity and the way religious actors discuss, negotiate, appropriate, incorporate, or reject the effects of the digital revolution in their religious practice.

Notes   1 Data according to Pew Research Center: http://www.pewinternet.org/fact-sheet/ mobile/ (accessed January 12, 2017).   2 The Bible has a long history as an object of diverse religious practices, which are not primarily concerned with reading and interpreting the text (Horsfield and Asamoah-Gyadu 2011).   3 Although this article is concerned with digital technologies and new media formats in the narrow sense, such as websites, applications, and social media networks, I understand the term media (as in the plural of medium) in a much broader sense as referring to every materiality used to mediate and manifest religion (Stolow 2005; Meyer 2011).   4 One interesting exception is the case of the Friday apostolics in Zimbabwe, who reject the Bible due to its obvious materiality that as such cannot be spiritual (Engelke 2007).   5 With the exception of the articles and comments in relation to US ambassador Suzi Levine’s oath of office, which date from June and July 2014.   6 In many contemporary print versions of the Bible the biblical text is accompanied by supplemental materials, such as introductory commentaries, pictures, notes, and suggestions for applications of biblical knowledge to everyday life situations (Beal

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2015: 215–20). Therefore, digital and printed Bibles share this feature of added content although the ways the content is displayed and set into dialogue with the biblical text may vary across different media. To mention just a few examples, the last eight years saw, all in all, nine generations of iPhones, seven generations of Samsung Galaxy phones, and seven generations of the Kindle eBook reader (Kindle Fire excluded). At this time, Lowder was college pastor at City Bible Church in Portland, Oregon. He is cofounder of the Bible and Journal App Company and author of the Christian book Pursue God: How Do You Develop a Thriving Relationship with God (2011). He recently launched a new Planetshakers Church in Austin, Texas, where he functions as lead pastor. Luke St. Clair commented on a post entitled “Leather bound Bible vs. iPad” published by pastor Nate Whitley on his blog “A Life of Study.” The original blog posts and the comment by Luke St. Clair are no longer available online. It is another indicator of the potential transience and ephemerality of digital content and poses new challenges for historiography and research (Weller 2013: 1–19; Rosenzweig 2011: 1–27). All digital sources used for this article have been saved and archived by the author. The Facebook post entitled “Is a Digital Bible less holy?” posted on July 14, 2014 is accessible online: https://www.facebook.com/FoxNews/posts/10152322470606336 (accessed September 7, 2015).

References Bauman, Z. (2006), Liquid Modernities, Cambridge: Polity Press. Beal, T. K. (2011), The Rise and Fall of the Bible, New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt. Beal, T. K. (2015), “The End of the Word as We Know It: The Cultural Iconicity of the Bible in the Twilight of Print Culture,” in J. W. Watts (ed.), Iconic Books and Texts, 207–24, Sheffield: Equinox. Bertrand, M. (2013), “iPads in the Pulpit,” Bible Design Blog, August 22, 2013. Available online: http://www.bibledesignblog.com/2013/08/ipads-in-the-pulpit.html (accessed September 7, 2015). Boren, Z. D. (2014), “US Ambassador Suzi LeVine sworn in using Kindle e-reader,” The Independent, June 3, 2014. Available online: http://www.independent.co.uk/ news/world/americas/us-ambassador-suzi-levine-sworn-in-using-kindelereader-9477449.html (accessed September 19, 2015). Engelke, M. (2007), A Problem of Presence: Beyond Scripture in an African Church, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Fung, B. (2014), “A U.S. ambassador was just sworn in on a Kindle,” The Washington Post, June 2, 2014. Available online: https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/theswitch/wp/2014/06/02/a-u-s-ambassador-was-just-sworn-in-on-a-kindle/(accessed September 19, 2015). Hadden, J. K. (1993), “The Rise and Fall of American Evangelicalism,” Annals of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 578, 113–30. Horsfield, P. and K. Asamoah-Gyadu (2011), “What is it about the Book? Semantic and Material Dimensions in the Mediation of the Word of God,” Studies of World Christianity, 17 (2): 175–93. Kay, W. K. (2009), “Pentecostalism and Religious Broadcasting,” Journal of Beliefs & Values, 30 (3): 245–54. Kiss, J. (2010), “App of the day: YouVersion’s Bible app’, The Guardian, April 19. Available online: http://theguardian.com/media/2010/apr/19/app-bible (accessed September 7, 2015). Lowder, P. (2011). Pursue God: How Do You Develop a Thriving Relationship with God? Ventura: Regal Books. Lowder, P. (2013), “Digital Bibles: Good or Bad Idea?” Vyrso Voice: The Christian eBook Blog, August 5, 2013. Available online: https://blog.vyrso.com/2013/08/05/digitalbibles-good-or-bad-idea/(accessed September 7, 2015). McDannell, C. (1995), Material Christianity. Religion and Popular Culture in America, New Haven: Yale University Press. McGlothlin, B. (2013), “Why you should still read your Bible (and not just your iPad),” April 25, 2013. Available online: http://www.brookemcglothlin.com/blog/2013/04/ why-you-should-still-use-your-real-bible-and-not-just-your-ipad (accessed September 15, 2015). Meyer, B. (2011), “Medium,” Material Religion, 7 (1): 58–65. Miller, D. (2008), The Comfort of Things, Cambridge: Polity Press. Neff, D. (2012), “ ‘It Almost Looks Like a Bible’. The physical form of Scripture, not just its words, shapes us,” Christianity Today, January, 56 (1): 60. Nelson, M. Z. (2011), “Bibles and Sacred Texts 2011: As in the rest of publishing, it’s digital, digital, digital,” Publishers Weekly, October 17: 22–25. Ong, W. (2002) [1982], Orality and Literacy: The Technologies of the Word, London and New York: Routledge. Parmenter, D. M. (2010), “Iconic Books from Below: The Christian Bible and the Discourse of Duct Tape,” Postscripts, 6 (1–3): 185–200. Pew Research Center (2017), “Mobile Fact Sheet.” Available online: http://www. pewinternet.org/fact-sheet/mobile/ (accessed January 12, 2017). Plate, B. S. (2015), “Looking at Words: The Iconicity of the Page,” in J.W. Watts (ed.), Iconic Books and Texts, 119–33, Sheffield: Equinox. Rosenzweig, R. (2011), Clio Wired: The Future of the Past in the Digital Age, New York: Columbia University Press.

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Ross, B. (2012), “Digital vs. Print: Readers weigh in on Bible choices,” The Christian Chronicle, October 11. Available online: http://www.christianchronicle.org/article/ digital-vs-print-readers-weigh-in-on-bible-choices (accessed September 7, 2015). Saenger, P. (1997), Space Between Words: The Origins of Silent Reading, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Spratling, C. (2012), “Digital Bible pops up in more pews, pulpits,” USA Today, August 20. Available online: http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/news/religion/story/2012-0820/digital-bible/57157334/1 (accessed September 7, 2015). Stolow, J. (2005), “Religion and/as Media,” Theory, Culture & Society, 22 (4): 119–45. Vaughn, H. (2014), “Is A Digital Bible Less Holy? U.S. Officials Increasingly Sworn in On Tablets,” Fox News Latino, July 14, 2014. Available online: http://latino.foxnews. com/latino/lifestyle/2014/07/14/is-digital-bible-less-holy-us-officials-increasinglysworn-in-on-tablet/print(accessed January 26, 2017). Weller, T. (2013), History in the Digital Age, London and New York: Routledge. Whitley, N., “A Life of Study,” April 25, 2012. Available online: http://alifeofstudy. org/2012/04/leather-bound-bible-vs-ipad/ (accessed September 23, 2014).

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The Plausibility of Immersion: Limits and Creativity in Materializing the Bible James S. Bielo

The media turn has dramatically recalibrated the center of gravity in the study of religion to the forms and processes of religious mediation (Engelke 2010). A central question for this turn has been how religious actors use different kinds of materiality—from physical objects to technological apparatuses and the human sensorium—to construct and mediate religious experience, learning, and communication. The central theoretical conceit is that mediation is actually constitutive of religious worlds, not simply an incidental by-product or practical necessity (McDannell 1995; Morgan 2010). Religious actors use material forms to confront and address the central problems that animate their religious tradition(s), such as authority, belonging, and presence. The media turn puts to rest tired ideologies that resist, doubt, or deny the fact that religious life is fundamentally entangled in life’s gritty and polished materialities (Blanton 2015). Amid this celebratory moment surrounding the media turn, this book poses a pressing question: What limitations of material mediation emerge in religious life and how do adherents respond to the dilemmas that ensue from those limits? Material forms certainly enable forms of religious expression and experiences that are closed off or inhibited by discourse alone, but media and materiality are not totally free spaces of agency gone wild. Material religion can have its own forms of constraint. In this chapter, I explore some limits of materiality in the making of a biblical theme park. I ask how a team of creative artists negotiate materiality’s potential for failure when it comes to realizing a model of religious conversion. If the example of a biblical theme park seems too anomalous to be comparatively useful alongside more pervasive channels like bodies, objects, and technologies, think again. The phenomenon of materializing the Bible is widespread. There are more than 400 such attractions globally, ranging widely

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from biblical gardens to museums, theme parks, art collections, and replications. All of these attractions enact a shared imperative: to transform the written words of Scripture into a physical, experiential environment.1 Materiality is vital in this process of transformation, including attention to landscape, building materials, architectural design, and the elements used to index distinct genres of place (e.g., planting scriptural flora in biblical gardens). The primary case study for this chapter is Ark Encounter; a $150 million creationist project in the US state of Kentucky that opened to the public in July 2016. Drawing from ethnographic fieldwork with the creative team who conceptualized and designed Ark Encounter, I present an argument about how the team negotiates the limits of materiality.2 As an act of religious publicity, Ark Encounter is orchestrated by a particular and strategic model of conversion: plausibility-immersion. The team’s wager is that they can create a theme park experience that demonstrates the historical plausibility of the biblical story of Noah (Genesis 6–9) by using entertainment strategies that immerse visitors in a creationist vision of the past. However, various dilemmas of materiality threatened to disrupt their effort to realize plausibility-immersion. These dilemmas led directly to acts of design creativity among the team, revealing a creative process that is defined by the constant play of potential failure and creative response. The Ark Encounter team’s ever-churning engine of limits and creativity engages this book’s theme of “sufficing.” The material limits that accompany plausibilityimmersion index a live concern for Christians across cultural contexts: how to make the limited resources of religious life sufficient and renewable for every religious project—be it prayer, worship, charity, activism, or making a biblical theme park. A central provocation of this chapter is that because the potential for failure is realized through creativity-generating problems, confronting the limits of materiality is always eventually about uncovering the possibilities of materiality. In this way, limits are about establishing conditions for creative response, not constraints that neuter agentive action.

Kentucky’s ark On December 1, 2010, the governor of Kentucky held a public press conference to announce a new addition to the state’s tourism industry: Ark Encounter. The park is a joint venture between the young earth creationist ministry Answers in Genesis (AiG) and the for-profit Ark Encounter LLC. Founded in 1994,

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AiG is the same ministry that opened the $30 million Creation Museum in northern Kentucky in 2007 and is arguably one of the world’s most influential creationist ministries (Butler 2010).3 A direct descendant of the modern creationist movement, AiG upholds a rejection of evolutionary science and supports core creationist tenets (e.g., a roughly 6,000-year-old Earth, humandinosaur coexistence, and Noah’s flood as a real historical event that killed all but eight people). Creationists in the mold of AiG are exemplary fundamentalist Protestants, promoting commitments such as biblical inerrancy through every available cultural register (cf. Toumey 1994; Harding 2000). In a room filled with journalists, the governor was joined on stage by local politicians and Ark Encounter personnel. The press conference intended to clarify why a faith-based project was applying for the Kentucky Tourism Development Act’s sales tax reimbursement program. The brief questionanswer session was dominated by a legal frame, namely inquiries about Ark Encounter’s constitutional legitimacy. Is it a violation of the prohibition against state establishment of religion for a faith-based project to receive a tax payer-based economic incentive? However, some journalists took a different approach. Given the creationist argument that humans and dinosaurs coexisted and that Noah’s ark included pairs of selected dinosaur species (“kinds,” in creationist theozoology), one journalist asked if the recreated ark would feature live dinosaurs. Set on 800 acres (324 hectares) of Kentucky rolling hills—40 miles (64 kilometers) south of Cincinnati, Ohio—the park’s centerpiece is an all-wooden recreation of Noah’s ark, built to creationist specification from the text of Genesis 6–9. The completed ark required 1.5 million board feet (8259 cubic meters) of timber, stands 51 feet (15 meters) tall, 85 feet (26 meters) wide, 510 feet (155 meters) long, and contains more than 100,000 square feet (9290 square meters) of themed exhibit space. If the park is profitable, subsequent stages will be added to feature other materialized Bible recreations, such as the Tower of Babel and a “journey in history from Abraham to the parting of the Red Sea.”4 All told, the park is a $150 million planned project. Visitors to the park will progress through three decks on the ark filled with a mix of live animals, animatronic figures, interactive displays, multimedia exhibits, food vendors, and children’s play areas. Each deck is organized by a particular affective experience. The conjuring, mobilization, and circulation of affect is increasingly understood across the social sciences as vital in processes of making and remaking cultural life (Rutherford 2016). By aiming to induce a

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certain series of emotive states, the creative team seeks to engage visitors in a precognitive and prediscursive way, preparing them for the explicit presentation of the creationist worldview throughout the park. They want visitors to first respond viscerally and experientially, an achievement they understand as pivotal for successfully setting the conditions for conversion. Deck One centers on the drama of Noah and his family following the closing of the ark door. They are relieved to have escaped a terrifying storm, they have just witnessed mass death, and they are anxious about the weeks ahead. The creative team always talked about Deck One as the “darkest” of the decks, indexed sensually by low levels of lighting. The storm will be audible; visitors will hear sounds of wind, rain, thunder, and debris banging against the ark’s sides. Noah and his family will be comforting the animals and each other amid difficult conditions. Deck Two focuses on the tasks and challenges of living on the ark. Noah and his family are settled, going about their liminal living: the daily grind of tending the onboard garden, caring for the animals, and managing daily routines. The creative team envisions Deck Two as the primary “how-to” deck, addressing numerous “practical” issues about this biblical story. How did Noah and his family feed all the animals? What did they do with all the animal waste? How were air, water, and sunlight distributed? What did Noah’s workshop and library look like? By addressing these questions, Deck Two emphasizes the creationist claim that pre-Flood people were capable of incredibly sophisticated technology because of their long lifespans (in their literalist reading, Noah lived to be 950 years old). Deck Three continues themes from the first two decks and introduces several new experiences. More exhibits teach about animal kinds. More exhibits address how-to matters, such as what the passengers’ living quarters were like and what technology Noah used to build the ark. Deck Three also captures the salvific realization that God’s wrath has been expended; the storm is over, the waters have receded, the eight passengers have been spared, and the whole world is now theirs. This experience of awe then transitions into creationist teaching points about post-Flood life, such as the Tower of Babel dispersal of languages and people groups. Deck Three most intentionally teaches creationist typological hermeneutics, which interprets the Noah story as a type of salvation foreshadowing Jesus (Harding 2000: 231–34). As visitors move through these three decks, 132 exhibit bays (44 per deck) combine to present a creationist narrative about the steadfast faithfulness of

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Noah and his family, their salvation, and, ultimately, the evangelical Gospel. The iconicity of moving from darkness to light, from judgment to salvation, is very crucial for the creative team. They want visitors to experience this narrative progression as they walk and move, physically impacted by the affective force of sensory and material immersion. Through the story of Noah and his family, Ark Encounter teaches creationist history and theology and wages an ideological critique of evolutionary science.

The material limits of conversion Throughout my fieldwork with the creative team, they were convinced that Ark Encounter would attract multiple publics. They counted on committed creationists to be regular visitors: families coming for devotional leisure, pastors bringing their congregants for edifying fun, and homeschooling parents bringing their children for a field trip. However, as they discussed design elements and exhibit plans, the team’s focus and energy was usually targeted on a different set: non-creationists and non-Christians who will come because they are invited by a creationist, because they are curious, or because they want to mock creationism. For the team, Ark Encounter is primarily a $150 million testimony. It is missionization, massively materialized, and performed in the key of biblical literalism. The team understood their work as infinitely more complicated than merely presenting the basics of creationism to visitors. Their creative labor was organized by a particular and strategic model of religious conversion: plausibility-immersion. First, the team sought to demonstrate the historical plausibility of the Noah story. They begin with the premise that it was physically and technologically possible for Noah to have built the ark described in Genesis 6. The project claims to use the exact dimensions detailed in Scripture and only building materials that would have been available to Noah (viz., timber and iron). Through different exhibits the team portrays tools and techniques Noah might have used, though the project’s publicity materials repeatedly explain that modern construction technology (e.g., cranes) is pragmatically necessary (e.g., to complete construction within the timeframe required by building permits). However, plausibility alone is not enough. Noah’s story cannot merely be told; it must be felt. Again, the affective plays a vital role in the team’s model of conversion. For them, success is not simply figured as effectively articulating the

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details of creationist doctrine, it is about effectively engineering an experience that compels noncreationist visitors toward conversion. What was the pre-Flood world like, the one so wicked that God decided death was the only adequate judgment? What was it like to be surrounded by mass extinction? What was Noah's experience in building the ark and preparing for the weeks on board? How did it feel to be inside the ark when the door closed; to hear the fierce storm outside and the cacophony of animals? What was the experience of living on the ark day after day? And, what was it like when the dove did not return, to see the rainbow and be the center of God’s saving grace? An immersive experience promises to bridge the gap between plausibility and believability and the logic of immersive entertainment is the engine that propels the team’s creative labor. This conversion model of plausibility-immersion demonstrates how Ark Encounter performs a deep cultural entanglement of religion with entertainment. This is not merely an instance of two cultural formations coming into contact, or the partial borrowing of registers and resources. This is a thorough integration of dispositions from two social fields: modern entertainment and fundamentalist Protestantism. Immersion is the primary example of such integration, as it is a primary strategy and imperative in our modern culture of entertainment.

Entertainment imperatives The anthropologist Peter Stromberg defines entertainment as any kind of activity that allows consumers to become physically, emotionally, and/or cognitively “caught up” in a frame of role-play that transports the consumer away from the frame of everyday reality (2009: 2–3). Echoing scholars and pundits who observe a desire for “fun” pervading modern life, Stromberg suggests that our culture of entertainment has become “the most influential ideological system on the planet” (3). As modern consumers, we prioritize and gravitate toward forms of leisure that are interactive, participatory, engaging, and experiential, rather than passive and merely consumptive. Stromberg (2009: 8) argues that entertainment is not just dominant vis-à-vis other cultural forms, but that the logic and imperatives of entertainment have actually infused other cultural forms. “As Darwin argued for the survival of the fittest, we now have survival of the most entertaining. . . . The entertaining politician gets elected, the entertaining class gets the enrollment, the entertaining car is the one that sells, and over time a competition emerges to enhance entertainment value wherever possible.”

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Stromberg’s argument mirrors what some scholars call the “disneyization of society,” in which Disney-style entertainment colonizes other forms of consumer experience (Bryman 1999). Religious studies scholar David Chidester argues that Disney’s influence has created a widespread demand to “create imaginary worlds that evoke a thematic coherence through architecture, landscaping, costuming, and other theatrical effects to establish a focused, integrated experience” (2005: 146). This cultural attraction to immersion has been documented across a diverse range of institutions, from urban planning (Hannigan 1998) to restaurant dining (Grazian 2008). One cultural site where immersive entertainment has been adopted with a special fervor is museum education (Wallace 1996), marking what historian Vanessa Agnew (2007) calls an affective turn in public representations of history. For example, the US Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, DC is saturated by the immersive imperative. The overall frame for the museum’s design insists on invoking affective experience: “It would have to communicate through raw materials and organization of space the feel of inexorable, forced movement: disruption, alienation, constriction, observation, selection” (Linenthal 1995: 88). Numerous strategies collaborate toward this end: the use of “closed, blind windows”; featuring indexical material items such as canisters of Zyklon B; “intentionally ugly, dark-gray metal elevators”; narrow and crowded spaces; and distribution of a biographical card when visitors first enter the museum to transform the Holocaust from a mass, anonymous event to an individual, personalized experience (ibid.: 102, 116, 167, 171, 189). Ark Encounter draws creative inspiration from Disney and works to outcompete the immersive attempts of secular natural history museums. In doing so, this recreation of the biblical past exemplifies how religious cultural producers are not exempt from this new Darwinian contest. Indeed, more than simply not being exempt, they have embraced entertainment at least as enthusiastically as any other industry or social actor, if not more so. In turn, our analytical attention must be attuned to the ways in which entertainment strategies structure cultural production, and how imperatives like immersion are pursued and actualized through material channels. Ark Encounter’s organizing model of plausibility-immersion both continues and departs from an established tradition of conversion-via-Noah’s ark. Historian Larry Eskridge documents how American Evangelicals throughout the twentieth century attempted to excavate physical evidence of the ark through archaeological expeditions. These searches were united by the commitment

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that discovering the ark’s material remains would be a silver bullet for biblical literalism: “The revelation that Noah’s old ship yet rested upon the heights of Ararat would cause the skeptic to reexamine his doubt and unbelief . . . this great miracle would also serve to reveal to all the world who has been right all the while” (Eskridge 1999: 256). The creative team capitalizes on the symbolic power of the ark to convert, but they dramatically shift the focus from archaeological remains to role-play. The promise of conversion shifts from empirical evidence to experiencing Noah’s world in an immersive biblical environment. Additionally, demonstrating historical plausibility shifts from material silver bullets to materialized recreations of the creationist past. Achieving this immersion is where the success and failure of materiality hang in the balance. To be immersed in the creationist past is to be immersed in a past where a universal flood killed everyone on Earth except eight people. Six of these eight people, Noah’s three sons (Shem, Ham, and Japheth) and their wives, are the genetic ancestors for all modern humans. All of the world’s animals are the result of microevolution from the limited number of animal kinds brought on board the ark. In this past, the age of the Earth is roughly 6,000 years, not the roughly 4.5 billion years claimed by modern science. Human beings are a special creation of God, not the result of evolutionary processes. All animal kinds, including dinosaurs, coexisted with humans. Pre-Flood human lifespans were dramatically longer, Noah building the ark when he was 600 years old and living to 950. The play of this experience is about being immersed into a history, biology, and anthropology that exists in direct contrast to that of modern science. At its core, this immersive play is ideological; it works as an alternative to the scientific past of evolution. The creative team banks on park visitors becoming caught up in this past, igniting our capacity as homo ludens to engage in playful reverence for biblical miracle, history, and truth.

Entertainment and conversion Comparative anthropological work tells us that Christian models of conversion rest on commitments to divine agency. Christians in widely different cultural contexts find ways of saying much the same thing: only God transforms people. However, we also know that conversion is a sociocultural process that entails more than just what adherents have to say about it. In the anthropology of Christianity, the predominant focus in conversion studies has been around the trope of rupture.

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For example, there are excellent analyses of how continuities with a non-Christian past are managed alongside breaking away from that past (e.g., Robbins 2004), and of the “social costs” caused when familial and social networks confront new religious difference due to conversion (e.g., Gross 2012). Here, I take up a different focus: the nature of conversion as a human agentive process. While sincere commitments about the role of God in conversion are always present, conversion is always also a fundamentally social process. Through evangelistic projects, Christians creatively marshal strategies to foster spaces, moments, and opportunities that will create conditions for conversion. This is as true for Ark Encounter’s model of plausibility-immersion as it is for other proselytizing forms. Consider the example of Hell Houses: alternative Halloween experiences produced by evangelical, fundamentalist, and charismatic Christians (Pelligrini 2007). Congregations and ministries design choreographed theatrical performances that diagnose moral pathologies and offer the evangelical solution of born-again salvation. For example, visitors witness scenes such as a young woman confronted with the choice of abortion, a gay male dying from HIV/AIDS, a high school teenager on a shooting rampage, drug abuse, marital infidelity, suicide, and date rape. The model of conversion at work in Hell Houses is about inciting an emotional and visceral condition of fear among visitors, to literally scare them into religious change. As with Ark Encounter, material and sensory immersion are used to conjure affective responses. Consider, too, the example of Gospel magicians (Jones 2012). Like all illusionists, Gospel magicians deploy sleight-of-hand techniques and cunning. Unlike many illusionists, they do so in the service of a unifying narrative: the presentation of evangelical theology. For example, Gospel magicians turn tricks about playing card prediction into lessons about scriptural prophecy. The model of conversion at work for these magicians is that of enchantment, to wow audiences so much that they become open to sincerely listening to the evangelical message of born-again salvation. Plausibility-immersion joins fear and enchantment as a practiced, engineered model of conversion. Of course, much like attempts to present morally disturbing drama and perform feats of illusion, creating an immersive creationist past can fail. The demonstration of plausibility can come up short; the immersion into Noah’s world can fall flat. The potential for plausibility-immersion’s failure is directly tied to the limits of materiality in transforming the written words of Scripture into an experiential environment. What limits do the creative team confront in their attempt to successfully realize their model of conversion? Furthermore, how do they respond to these limits?

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The potential for/of failure The potential for failure among the creative team echoes a broader fact of religious life. Despite religion’s reputation as being a world replete with meaning, there is the ever-present possibility that religion will fail to deliver, to make sense of or provide the meaning hoped for. This theme is productively explored in The Limits of Meaning (Engelke and Tomlinson 2006), which gathers ethnographic case studies of ritual failure among Christians in varied cultural contexts. In this approach, meaning is not “a function or a product to be uncovered,” it is “a process and potential fraught with uncertainty and contestation” (Tomlinson and Engelke 2006: 2). Producing a biblical theme park, much like producing ritual meaning, is a process fraught with uncertainty. The Ark Encounter team worked from wellestablished creative and artistic imperatives, but the park’s design was ultimately emergent in the process of production. Pivotal choices that shaped the completed ark were made on a daily basis. The creative process was replete with forks in the road. Every team meeting included content and style decisions about the material and sensory elements of exhibits. Every piece of concept art represents a path taken, a path not taken, and every path has implications for future drafts and realized visions. The potential for plausibility-immersion to fail, in turn, resonates at every fork. This constant presence of potential failure highlights a tricky dynamic among the team. On the one hand, they were thoroughly confident in their ability to create the experience of plausibility-immersion that could foster the conditions for conversion. Still, they remained constantly aware of the many potential obstacles that filled their progression through the production process. Two of the artists, Travis and Jon, spoke of the potential for failure in early interviews.5 Travis articulated a difference between Ark Encounter’s success and failure, including some limitations of theme park as an experiential genre: I would feel successful in that respect if guests went there and felt more like they were walking onto a movie set rather than into a theme park. You know, where in a theme park everything’s so predictably spaced and there’s, “all your exits are marked and your fire hydrants are over here” [spoken in exaggerated, bored register]. You know, it’s just, it’s sort of making sure those things aren’t so, you have to have those, but making sure that they’re not so obvious that they pull you out of this experience. So, that when you walk into [the park] you feel like, you’re not seeing a bunch of people in Kentucky dressed up like Bible characters but that you’re seeing another culture. Almost like you just stepped into Morocco or India or something like that, you know. I hope. I mean, if everything goes well.6

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Similarly, Jon named several waiting pitfalls, from exceeding the commitments of biblical literalism to maintaining a family-friendly environment: Immersion is a huge part of the believability. Now, obviously, we are not so naïve to think that somebody’s gonna come into the park and think, “Oh, I’m back in Noah’s days today.” [no register shift] No, they’re gonna think, “Oh, this is like I’m going to Disney and Disney took me into the Pirates of the Caribbean and for ten minutes I’m looking at Jack Sparrow,” [no register shift] or whatever. . . . It leaves us creatives in a world where we can kind of dream up a world that is believable because it did exist. . . . For us as creatives it leads into a world that we can explore, we can create, we never want to, we’re never gonna go against what the plain written word is. But, there is that artistic liberty to envision a world that we can immerse somebody in. Of violence, of evil, a world that’s kind of similar to maybe what we are dealing with today. But, imagine a world where nobody is doing right. Only one or two people, only eight people are doing right and everybody else is out there, absolute hedonism doing whatever they want to do. Imagine a world like that. I can’t even imagine it. And, how do you pull that off in a theme park environment where you’re not going to offend anybody? It’s a tough task.7

The team was keenly attuned to the ways in which failure would be possible. Still, a central lesson of this chapter is that the potential for failure always opens to the possibilities of failure. Every design obstacle the team encountered required resolution. Obstacles are creativity-generating problems, not dead ends. To illustrate this dynamic of limits and creativity, with particular attention to matters of materiality, we can zoom in on an extended example from the team’s artistic labor. The example is the team’s initial concept art for the ark’s eight passengers, Noah and his family. This example illustrates some of the dilemmas and limitations that animated the team’s effort to realize the imperatives of plausibility-immersion.

Materializing Noah In February 2014, the necessary funds had been raised to break ground at the Ark Encounter construction site. Up until that time, the artists could only make limited progress on design details because they lacked finalized budgets and timelines. In the meantime, they devoted their creative labor to other projects (e.g., publicity materials and expanding exhibits at the Creation Museum). After

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the public announcement of successful funding, the design studio buzzed with renewed energy. They could finally return to designing Ark Encounter full time. The whole team agreed that the first order of business should be concept art for Noah and his family. Why? First, circulating images of the Ark passengers would be important as publicity materials, for two reasons. The team wanted a human face, Noah’s face, to be attached to the park experience as soon as possible for visitors to connect with and bringing these biblical characters to life is a teaser for journalists, scholars, and the park-anticipating publics. Releasing images of the characters is much like releasing a movie trailer, igniting the imaginations and expectations of visitors. Second, depicting Noah and his family addresses several key aspects of creationist plausibility. For example, what does a 600-year-old man reasonably look like in the pre-Flood world? The sooner the team address these questions through design, the better for their work on completing other creative elements. Third, the team talked regularly about the need to mix up the passengers’ poses and configurations across exhibits, as either static or animatronic figures. All eight characters will appear repeatedly throughout the three decks. Having all eight always in the same pose would be “too boring,” detracting from the fun of the experience. For reasons of publicity, plausibility, and immersion, releasing concept art for Noah and his family was the team’s first order of business once funding was secured. As we have seen, the process of bringing the ark’s passengers to life is fundamentally about materiality. How do they properly create the aged look of Noah? How do they create different poses and configurations for the characters? As this analysis unfolds, we encounter further material dilemmas: how to craft hair, skin tone, and dress, to name a few. These dilemmas highlight a tension inherent to Ark Encounter as materializing the Bible project. How do you recreate a biblical story when the textual details are so sparse? After all, Genesis offers absolutely no direct information about physical traits, dress, accoutrements, or other material forms. This tension is heightened for a team of creationists who are responsible to their creationist audience, accountable for upholding commitments to biblical literalism and authority. As Jon said, they must negotiate “artistic liberty” and “the plain written word.” In beginning to materialize the ark passengers, the team confronts the potential for failure. What if the characters don’t look convincing? They might come out looking too old, too young, too feeble, or too virile. What if the characters are not engaging for the audience? They might end up too drab, too

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predictable, too familiar, or too exotic. Failure to successfully materialize the ark passengers could potentially disrupt the conversion model. Plausibilityimmersion is more than the sum of its parts, but failing a central element like the main biblical characters threatens the efficacy of the entire project. We examine below the earliest publicity materials the team produced about recreating the passengers. Between May and September 2014, the team released twelve posts on the Ark Encounter blog: “Depicting the Ark’s Passengers.” This series introduces key details in the team’s decision-making process and the finalized concept art that was the base for how all eight characters eventually appear throughout the three decks (see Figure 5.1). “Depicting the Ark’s Passengers” combines images of concept art and explanatory text. The latter dwells most consistently on specific representational details for each character. The frame is established by two questions posed about Noah’s design in the series’ first post: “What did a six-hundred-year-old, preFlood man look like? What sort of clothing or shoes (or sandals) might he have worn?”8 Altogether, the following details are addressed in the series: clothing (primarily robes, footwear, headwear); age (amount of gray hair), skin tone, height, eye color, hair color, physical fitness (derived from diet and exercise), muscularity, and facial features (none are named, but presumably this refers to the sizes and shapes of noses, lips, cheekbones, chins, ears, and brow ridges).

Figure 5.1    Concept art for selected passengers, hanging in design studio. Photo by author.

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The team released a full-body image of Noah on May 30, 2014 (see far left side of Figure 5.1). This image was accompanied by an explanatory note about his age: “The reason [the lead illustrator] chose to moderate the number of gray hairs on Noah’s head was because at the time of the Flood, Noah was only about 63 percent of the way through his total lifespan—implying that perhaps the ‘melanogenic clock’ for pre-Flood man was much slower than it is today.”9 Part of the creationist narrative’s coherence hinges on the differences between pre- and post-Flood life. Elaborating this difference reappears in an explanation of the passengers’ lifestyle included with the depiction of Noah’s wife: “It’s likely that each of the women was in fairly good shape. Diets of that time were likely not high in sugars and saturated fats like we see today. Plus, they probably maintained an active lifestyle during the Ark-building years.”10 The other main dilemma recurring throughout the twelve posts is how to represent racial/ethnic diversity among the passengers. This is pivotal for creationists, because in their reading of the Bible as literal history all modern humans descend from Noah’s three sons (Shem, Ham, and Japheth) and their wives (who are unnamed in Scripture). In turn, the complete phenotypic variation that exists across modern populations should be traceable to the look of these six characters. Numerous details are marshaled to address this dilemma. For example, in the explanation of Japheth’s wife: “Since many of Japheth’s descendants settled in Europe, we need someone to display some of the typical European traits. Japheth’s wife can have lighter hair than the others on board. Everyone else will have brown eyes, but we can give her green eyes to show the origin of green eyes and blue eyes in our world today.”11 The genetic argument being made here makes intertextual reference to another Genesis story, the Tower of Babel. Following the release of the Noah concept art the team posted an introduction for the remaining seven characters that includes this explanation: “Combined, [the ark passengers] likely possessed much of the genetic variety present in humanity today, so they may have exhibited a vast array of characteristics. . . . A potential solution is to study the various people groups that scattered from Babel and attempt to trace them back to Shem, Ham, and Japheth. Genesis 10, known as the Table of Nations, explains where many of the descendants of these men settled.”12 In a later post detailing the depiction of Ham's wife they continue this explanation: “It seems like most of Ham’s descendants actually fall into the middle brown [skin color] category—Mizraim (Egypt), Put (Libya), and Canaan (Canaan) were probably middle brown based on images of the early peoples that settled these lands. Only Cush (Ethiopia) seems to have been pretty dark.”13 This argument reflects

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a broader creationist practice—freely mixing modern science (genetics), biblical literalism, and modern political geography (Egypt, Libya, Ethiopia)—and an important development within the creationist movement. In the wake of the Human Genome Project in 2001, genetic sciences became at least as popular among creationists (if not more) as fields such as geology and physics. The creative team’s publicity materials for the ark passengers capture a key dynamic in their process of cultural production. Ark Encounter is an act of biblical recreation, transforming the written words of Scripture into an experiential environment. Materializing the Bible celebrates the fundamentalist commitment to biblical authority, but it creates representational dilemmas. As the team confronts these dilemmas, they confront the limits of materiality. They must address all the physical details—from clothing to body type and phenotypic traits—in a way that simultaneously satisfies creationist expectations for a literal biblical history and the imperatives of plausibility-immersion. The potential for failure is renewed with every artistic and design decision. Of course, to what extent and for who their work is successful requires an ethnography of consumption at Ark Encounter. However, we learn from this analysis of production that every dilemma, every potential for failure is realized by the team as a creativity-generating problem. The potential of failure is the exacting and elaborated depictions of ark passengers.

Creativity: A conclusion This chapter has explored how the Ark Encounter design team confronts materiality’s potential for failure in their attempt to successfully realize the conversion model of plausibility-immersion. This potential is grounded in the limits of materializing the Bible, particularly in a materializing project that seeks to balance the demands of biblical literalism and the imperatives of immersive entertainment. The primary suggestion I want to offer from this analysis reflects on the relationship between limitations and creativity. As the team confronts the potential for failure and negotiates the limits of materiality, every design obstacle becomes a problem that requires creative resolution. In fact, the entire process of cultural production can be conceived as one creative-generating problem after another. Some problems are familiar, common to theme park professionals. For example, the dilemma of how to create a diverse, intriguing, and even surprising range of poses and configurations for

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the biblical characters strikes me as something any theme park designer might encounter. Recall Travis’s cautious eye on the predictability of theme park spacing and marking: “Making sure that they’re not so obvious that they pull you out of this experience.” Other problems are distinctive to creationist entertainment. For example, wrestling over the representational details of properly aging a 600-year-old man and depicting the phenotypic variation of modern humans through six individuals that we know of only through one (relatively sparse) textual account. Whether common to the theme park industry or creationist specific, these problems are grounded in materiality and they require resolution. While there is no guarantee of success, the team’s progress from early concept art to the completed Ark Encounter is a progression through problems. How does the team make decisions about resolving problems and producing creative solutions? Ultimately, they return to a set of dual imperatives derived from two social fields: fundamentalist Protestantism and immersive entertainment. On the one hand, they must satisfy their core audience, committed creationists. This means adhering closely to expectations about biblical literalism. On the other hand, they must satisfy the expectations of a public predisposed to get caught up in the kind of world-making that ties Star Wars to Lord of the Rings to various historical dramas. This is also a discerning public, accustomed to Hollywood and Disney quality. In moments of self-assessment, during team meetings, or in the design studio cubicles they consistently reminded each other that they must meet the immersive bar established by industry leaders. If they did not, they were certain that skeptics would remain skeptical, seekers still seeking, the lost still lost. There is the possibility that these dual imperatives will conflict with each other. When are the limits of materiality for biblical literalism at an impasse with those of immersive entertainment? This is a provocative question, but is not one my fieldwork yields an answer for. Throughout my ethnography of the team’s cultural production, they continually made these imperatives work cooperatively. They remained true to their literalist heritage and they leveraged entertainment demands in service of their literalism. This reflects both the team’s ever-churning engine of dilemmaresponse and the deep cultural entanglement of religion with entertainment. The comparative provocation of this chapter for studies in material religion is that any discussion of limits and failure should remain equally open to an analysis of creativity. If limitations are conceived as problems that religious actors must address, then our attention can and should encompass both the dilemmas arising out of materiality and the creative agency actors marshal and perform in response to those dilemmas. The question of the team’s success in

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creating the conditions for conversion through Ark Encounter is for a later day. However, for the process of production, I argue that the potential for failure and the limits of materiality always also points to the potential of failure and the possibilities of materiality.

Notes   1 Readers can explore these attractions through a digital scholarship project curated by the author: Materializing the Bible (http://www.materializingthebible.com).   2 The methodological details of this fieldwork were unconventional and not always ideal. I was not granted complete access to the team’s creative labor. I had to arrange each fieldwork visit weeks ahead of time. Over the course of 43 months (October 2011 to June 2014), planned visits were canceled or rescheduled by the team on numerous occasions, often with little advanced notice. Ultimately, I logged ~125 hours at the design studio. My primary forms of data collection were observing and interviewing the artists while they worked at their cubicles and recording team meetings. When possible, I would audio-record my informal interviewing with the artists at their desks. Because the offices were filled with concept art and other forms of material culture tied to their creative labor, I relied heavily on fieldwork photography (with a cache of more than 750 JPEG images). I also audiorecorded semi-structured interviews with each team member. The Ark Encounter website has also been a valuable data source, in particular the project blog that provides publicity-oriented updates on the team’s progress and arguments in support of creationist historical claims. I supplemented this fieldwork and textual archive with numerous visits to the Creation Museum, observations at other AiG events, and observations at other materializing the Bible sites.   3 There are at least forty-one creation museums worldwide, thirty of which are in the continental United States. AiG’s Creation Museum is to date the most ambitious in terms of square footage, cost, and design sophistication.   4 Source: https://arkencounter.com/about/(accessed January 7, 2016).   5 The core creative team was small, just four members. Jon is the lead illustrator and Travis the lead costume designer. They are joined by Kristen (the lead spatial designer) and Patrick (the creative director).   6 Audio-recorded interview with the author, December 2011.   7 Audio-recorded interview with the author, May 2012.   8 Source: https://arkencounter.com/blog/2014/05/24/noahs-character-design-thedesign-process-continues/(accessed January 6, 2016).

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  9 Source: https://arkencounter.com/blog/2014/05/30/a-noah-design-proposal-andour-lead-production-designers/(accessed January 6, 2016). 10 Source: https://arkencounter.com/blog/2014/08/14/depicting-the-arks-passengersnoahs-wife/(accessed January 6, 2016). 11 Source: https://arkencounter.com/blog/2014/08/20/depicting-the-arks-passengersjapheths-wife/(accessed January 5, 2016). 12 Source: https://arkencounter.com/blog/2014/08/05/depicting-the-arks-passengersintroduction/(accessed January 6, 2016). 13 Source: https://arkencounter.com/blog/2014/08/27/depicting-the-arks-passengershams-wife/(accessed January 6, 2016).

References Agnew, V. (2007), “History’s Affective Turn: Historical Reenactment and Its Work in the Present,” Rethinking History, 11 (3): 299–312. Ark Encounter (n.d.). Available online: https://arkencounter.com/ (accessed January 5–7, 2016). Blanton, A. (2015), Hittin’ the Prayer Bones: Materiality of Spirit in the Pentecostal South, Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Bryman, A. (1999), “The Disneyization of Society,” The Sociological Review, 47 (1): 25–47. Butler, E. (2010), “God is in the Data: Epistemologies of Knowledge at the Creation Museum,” Ethnos, 75 (3): 229–51. Chidester, D. (2005), Authentic Fakes: Religion and American Popular Culture, Berkeley: University of California Press. Engelke, M. (2010), “Religion and the Media Turn: A Review Essay,” American Ethnologist, 37 (2): 371–79. Engelke, M. and M. Tomlinson, eds. (2006), The Limits of Meaning: Case Studies in the Anthropology of Christianity, New York: Berghahn. Eskridge, L. (1999), “A Sign for an Unbelieving Age: Evangelicals and the Search for Noah’s Ark,” in D. N. Livingstone, D. G. Hart, and M. A. Noll (eds.), Evangelicals and Science in Historical Perspective, 244–63, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grazian, D. (2008), On the Make: The Hustle of Urban Nightlife, Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Gross, T. (2012), “Changing Faith: The Social Costs of Protestant Conversion in Rural Oaxaca,” Ethnos, 77 (3): 344–71. Hannigan, J. (1998), Fantasy City: Pleasure and Profit in the Postmodern Metropolis, New York: Routledge. Harding, S. F. (2000), The Book of Jerry Falwell: Fundamentalist Language and Politics, Princeton: Princeton University Press.

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Jones, G. (2012), “Magic with a Message: The Poetics of Christian Conjuring,” Cultural Anthropology, 27 (2): 193–214. Linenthal, E. (1995), Preserving Memory: The Struggle to Create America’s Holocaust Museum, New York: Columbia University Press. McDannell, C. (1995), Material Christianity: Religion and Popular Culture in America, New Haven: Yale University Press. Morgan, D., ed. (2010), Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief, New York: Routledge. Pelligrini, A. (2007), “ ‘Signaling Through the Flames’: Hell House Performance and Structures of Religious Feeling,” American Quarterly, 59 (3): 911–35. Robbins, J. (2004), Becoming Sinners: Christianity and Moral Torment in a Papua New Guinea Society, Berkeley: University of California Press. Rutherford, D. (2016), “Affect Theory and the Empirical,” Annual Review of Anthropology, 45 (1): 285–300. Stromberg, P. (2009), Caught in play: How Entertainment Works on You, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Tomlinson, M. and M. Engelke (2006), “Meaning, Anthropology, Christianity,” in M. Engelke and M. Tomlinson (eds.), The Limits of Meaning: Case Studies in the Anthropology of Christianity, 1–38, New York: Berghahn. Toumey, C. (1994), God’s Own Scientists: Creationists in a Secular World, New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press. Wallace, M. (1996), Mickey Mouse History and Other Essays on American Memory, Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

6

Humanizing the Bible: Limits of Materiality in a Passion Play Anna Haapalainen

Michael’s Church1 in Turku, Finland: this neo-Gothic church stands on top of a hill. It is a big church; there are seats for approximately 1,200 people. The colors inside are light and the mural motives are inspired by flora. In the apsis, a large stained glass window reaches the heights. There is no altar painting, but a large stone altar whose back wall is rising onto the back arch of the apsis. I have come to see an Easter play performed by the Michael’s Theatre. I have sat on these pews several times before during my fieldwork, but this is the first time that I have come to see a play performed here, although it is performed annually. There are a few plants, a vase, and a small overpass built from the altar to platform before the altar rail. I did not know what to expect when I went to see the Suffered under Pontius Pilate (2014) play. I was somewhat perplexed: the stage seemed bare. The play told about the death and resurrection of the Son of God, yet this Christian episode was scrutinized from the viewpoint of a Roman centurion and Pontius Pilate. After an hour the play ended and I left, pondering the empty stage, the relation between the script and the Scripture, the detailed costumes, and the embodied and humanized viewpoint performed to the audience. The Michael’s Theatre yearly production is usually a Passion play, save the millennium play and some Christmas plays before, and the script is always written based on the Bible. This chapter deals with the question that rose from my experience of seeing the Passion play performed by Evangelical Lutheran Michael’s Theatre group in 2014 and that I continued to examine during the Easter of 2016:2 How is the Scripture made alive—that is, believable and evangelizing—in a church play both for actors and for the audience? The central problem in this task is constituted by the difficulty of overcoming the temporal

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Figure 6.1    Michael’s Theatre group rehearsing at the Michael’s Church in Turku, Finland. Photo by Timo Jakonen.

gap between the biblical times of the New Testament and our time and the often vague relationship between transcendence and immanence. Joel Robbins (2012: 10) notes that Christianity is a tradition where the relationship between transcendence and the mundane is unstable and where Christians constantly struggle to fix the relation in different situational, changing, and reforming contexts (Robbins 2012; Keane 2007). In the Michael’s Theatre, the Bible adds to this struggle, as it does not provide enough information about the nuances of the feelings the biblical characters go through in the story of the resurrection for people to feel related to them, which constitutes a problem for turning the Scripture into a play script. Thus, the script is written, costumes are designed, and the play is directed, drawing not only on the Bible but also on various historical and popular culture sources. The chapter argues that focal to this process of making the Scripture alive is the condensing of the temporal divide—or limit—between the contemporary world and the world of Jesus as described in the Bible. Under scrutiny are three central mechanisms that enable the dissolving of this temporal distance: the rhythmic use of space in the stage performance, the choice of costumes, and the addressing of the audience through the change in the characters’ point of view. I argue that these mechanisms add up to an attempt to “humanize” the Scripture, that is, to

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make it alive to present-day people through aesthetic choices that allow people to connect with the biblical personage in their shared human experience. This requires that the audience both feels connected to the biblical characters, so that they are able to position themselves in the story, and recognizes the familiarity of the presentation of the characters’ habitus as being in line with a long Western Christian tradition of presenting the biblical characters. In this manner, through achieving such aesthetic authenticity, the play is considered able to condense the temporal divide and to mediate the Christian message and reach the audience. Analyzing church theater or Passion plays almost begs for the view of ritual theories. It is undeniable that a Passion play can be scrutinized in the frame of ritual or ritualization (on ritual see Grimes 2014; Stasch 2011; Ketola 2008; Handelman 2004; Kapferer 2004; Rappaport 1999; Bell 1997, 1992; Bourdieu 1977; Turner 1974; Gennep [1908] 1960; Goffman 1959). Despite the obvious connection, however, such an approach also partly restricts the in-depth analysis of the materiality of such practices, as it focuses on the meaning and function of a play as a shared ritual or ritualized action enforcing the social (Durkheim [1912] 1980). Therefore, rather than examining church plays within the framework of rituals I will here focus on the materiality of the plays as a form of making the Scripture alive, tangible, and adaptable through the process of humanization. According to Webb Keane (2007: 41), “one factor that has entered into the production of Christianity’s sheer complexity is precisely the recurrent conflict between purifying projects of transcendence and countermovements toward materialization, each provoking the other.” Instead of the performance itself, it is this recurrent conflict that forms the problem space for the discussion in this chapter. As David Morgan (2010: 8) notes, religion does not merely “happen in spaces or performances but as them.”

The backstage story This chapter is based on ethnographical and textual materials:3 in particular on the observations of The Road is Ready (2016) church play rehearsals during the spring 2016 (six times) and an interview of the pastor writing the play, as well as on the reading of several play manuscripts stretching from the year 1996 to date in order to form a cohesive image of the Michael’s Theatre. The total number of the Michael’s Theatre group to date is well over thirty people.4 They have a director, a costumier, a lighting manager, and other technicians, the majority of them professionals

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or semiprofessionals. During the early years of the theater the scriptwriters were professionals, but later on the pastor took over these responsibilities. The actors are in majority congregants or lay people with varying levels of knowledge about theater in general and acting in more detail.5 Some members of the cast are amateur actors participating in a variety of productions, while some of them are congregants taking part only in Michael’s Theatre productions. The actors participate in Michael’s Theatre productions for various reasons: for some it is form of devotion and for some it is a hobby.6 The pastor stated that their productions are first and foremost theater plays and only secondarily preaching: the Gospel is special “as it is.” Nevertheless, the plays are considered to have a potential to wake faith in the audience, although the generation of revelatory experiences is in “God’s hands.” Furthermore, the devotional element of acting in a play is, according to the pastor, “a matter between God and the individual.” In the year 2004, Turun Sanomat, a local newspaper, wrote an article about the Michael’s Theatre in which two actors were interviewed, one performing role of St. Peter and the other acting in smaller roles as “citizen” and “shouter.” They stated that “it [acting in a play] is a very interesting way to orientate oneself to the events of the Easter and a way to Evangelise” (TS March 4, 2004). The Michael’s Theatre is situated in a long tradition of Christian plays in Evangelical Lutheran Finland. The earliest forms of religious plays arrived in Lutheran Finland seemingly around the seventeenth century and were called Tiernapoika7 plays, having their roots in medieval mystery plays (KinnunenRiipinen 2000b: 23–4). The Tiernapoika play itself tells a story of the Three Wise Men arriving to see the newborn Christ and the King Herod persecuting all Jewish male infants. Tiernapoika plays are still performed in various Christian, as well as secular, Christmas parties and are a form of lay piety. In her analysis of medieval and contemporary Christian plays as form of lay piety, Jill Stevenson (2013: 19) notes that “[a play] remakes doctrine into material products.” From this perspective, Christian devotional plays can be understood as being something more than mere recitation of biblical events, but rather an attempt to make the doctrine tangible. Regardless of the long tradition of Tiernapoika plays, devotional plays in general were opposed to a large extent for a long time in Finland. In the eighteenth and the nineteenth centuries, the strong Pietistic ambiance in Evangelical Lutheranism bridled the adapting of Christian church theater as a form of devotion in the Finnish Evangelical Lutheran Church. Some echoes of this opposition were still heard as late as the first decades of the twentieth century (Kinnunen-Riipinen 2000b: 23–4). This lineage of rejecting

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the Christian plays is linked strongly to the Pietistic understanding that everything in the world is morally relevant (adiaphora) and everything either serves God or is connected to worldly human individualistic needs. If something does not “serve God” directly or distracts the believer’s connection to God, it is to be denied (Gestring 2004: 562–63). This approach has shed a shadow of doubt also on biblical or religious theater. A new rise of Evangelical Lutheran Christian theater dates to between the years 1950 and 1960. This devotional theater gained slowly a foothold, at first among the church’s youth and student organizations and later as an activity organized by the various congregations—dramaturgical elements were even merged into the sermons in masses and services. Up until the 1980s these church dramas were more or less Christian devotional theater resonating with the medieval tradition. In the later decades of the twentieth century, more experimental forms of Christian theater, dance, and grand multimedia peregrinations were introduced to the congregations. To date there are several somewhat larger and smaller church drama and theater groups active in Finland. A common nominative element between these groups is that lay (congregant) participation is important; however, they often employ professional directors, technicians, stage managers, or costumiers in the productions (Kinnunen-Riipinen 2000a: 20–57, 197, 217–38). The professionals do not have to be active congregation members. Their role is simply to uplift the artistic elements of the play, make the plays audience friendly, and introduce a professional (e.g., dramaturgical) contribution to the plays. This is also the case with Michael’s Theatre, as they do draw on the long Christian tradition, especially in aesthetic and visual methods of presenting the characters, but combine the newer forms of Christian drama in their performances. In following section I will take closer look on the ways— rhythm, space, script, and costumes—in which the Michael’s Theatre plays dissolve the temporal gap to bring together the worlds of past and present.

The church, the altar, the stage Michael’s Theatre does not use excessive sets in its plays. The guidelines for this decision were set during the first production when the director emphasized that the church, being beautiful and impressive, offers a perfect stage for actors.8 The church and the altar as the stage are undoubtedly religious spaces. Churches are built as “houses of God” where worship and atonement take place. There is the

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altar and altar area itself, pulpit, and the altar rail dividing the actual altar area from the frontal platform (see Figure 6.1). The altar is the focal point of the church; it is the most sacred space in the church and is where the majority of the sacraments are conducted. The altar rail separates the church space into two, dividing the area of the congregants from the altar itself. The stage is basically the frontal platform in front of the altar rail delimited by the stairs descending to the church hall at the outer rim of the platform. The platform is about 50 centimeters higher than the church’s floor and therefore a natural place for the stage. According to the pastor, it is, however, also challenging, mainly because all of the actors are not that familiar with the long-hemmed costumes and find moving while wearing them somewhat awkward. The costumes as well as the stage itself delineate the movement and how the actors are able to use the space. The audience is left without any visual stimuli about the environment of the events taking place in the Passion plays. They have to imagine Golgotha, Via Dolorosa, and all the surroundings of the biblical events. But, when the “frame” is sufficient, this lack of a physical set is not a problem. This speaks on behalf of the interpretation that the church space as it is forms a situational and circumstantial “being-in-touch” relation (Whitehead 2013). The church matters; it is not merely any given stage but provides sufficient background for performances and has the capacity to intensify it—to make it more tangible and visceral. When I asked the pastor if a play would be different when performed in a secular space, he answered, “Yes it would be. The frames would be different. It would require a more elaborate set. The church creates a certain frame.”9 Ernst H. Gombrich (1979) argues that the frame of an artwork being appropriate disables us to actually see the frame, but when the frame is inappropriate we become aware that it exists. Daniel Miller elaborates Gombrich’s argument and sees the frame as the central actor guiding our response to artwork. Frames have the power and capacity to simultaneously fade into the background and determine our behavior (Gombrich 1979; Miller 2005: 3–5). The church acts as a frame that is unnoticeable and yet powerful enough to emphasize certain elements and add to the authenticity of theater performance. Although much of the time it remains unmarked, there are still situations related to the space itself and the rhythmic changes in the play where the “hidden” frame becomes marked and visible. The space where the Passion plays are performed in Michael’s Church plays a significant role in generating in the actors and in the audience the feeling and experience of the Word of God as living word (Heb. 4:12; Engelke 2009: 155). The space (the frame) becomes “dense” by the actions conducted in that given space.

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The importance of space is demonstrated well by an incident the pastor told me about: an elderly congregation member had called him during the first production and said that they should not replace the traditional ahtisaarna10 (the sermons of the Holy Week) with a play, because the caller considered the act of performing a play to be “worldly” and thus not acceptable in the church. The pastor had told the person to come to the church and delineate with masking tape those areas where one could not read the Bible in the church. For the pastor the performance was a form of reading the Word of God (Engelke 2009: 151–55). The caller never came. Both—the pastor and the congregation member—treated the church as a special space but their understanding of its “specialness” differed. For the caller, the church as a place and the Holy Week tradition (sermons) linked to it formed a space that would have been contaminated by conducting a “worldly” performance in that named space. For the pastor, the substance of the devotion was (and is) prioritized over the form. For him, a performance is just another way to “read the Bible” or pass on the Gospel, and is thus an appropriate action to do in the church. The church as a frame may also demarcate the ways of presenting and performing the Scripture. This became clear, for instance, in relation to the question of nakedness in one of the church play productions in the year 2000. One of the characters was King David, who sees the beautiful Bathsheba bathing and asks her to meet him (2 Sam. 11:2). The verses in the Bible quite clearly express that Bathsheba is without any clothing and this created a problem for the play production because nudity was for considered something that should not be displayed in the church. This was a moment in which the church space as a frame became dense and present. The group solved this problem by deciding to “hint” at nudity by covering the actress’s body in a translucent yet modest and acceptable way. Although assigning to freedom of interpretation and performance, the theater group thought that a controversy over nudity would have drawn too much attention away from the play’s original motive; as the pastor stated, there is no need to be heedful with what they do, although there are limits that they cannot surpass. A play and its dramaturgy are always performed in a certain rhythm. The rhythm is linked to the church space in these plays in the way that it supports and adds to the performance by using specific spatial dramaturgy. Rhythms are constantly present in our everyday life. Henri Lefebvre (2004: 65–9) has noted that the “living body” and its rhythms are the ultimate reference point for the multitude of rhythmic variation in our lives. Elaborating on Lefebvre’s argument, Julian Henriques, Milla Tiainen, and Pasi Väliaho (2014: 25.) note that

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While aligning with power, it [rhythm] simultaneously points towards moments of excess, potentiality and hence struggle. And while manifesting itself as something subjectively felt, rhythm at once exceeds individual bodies and minds, carrying a promise of immanence in experience.

The Evangelical Lutheran Mass, for example, can be seen as a performance following its rhythmic dramaturgy: congregants and pastors move and act according to the liturgy of the Mass, seamlessly changing their status from repentance to atonement. Simon Shepherd (2006: 85) writes: “Rhythm is the fundamental way that performances produce these effects, with the actor’s body generating particularly powerful rhythms.” The movement as well as the stillness of the bodies taking part of performances do not happen without significance. The rhythms are emphasized also in the Michael’s Theatre Passion play as it strives for a rhythmic resonance between the actors, the stage, and the audience by specific spatial choices that are linked to the dramaturgy of the play. For example, during the year 2016, the rhythmic changes in the church space, especially the altar rail, were used in a manner that added up to the central points of the script (and of the Scripture). The rail provided a material (and in some of the cases also temporal) boundary where certain culminating transitions were emphasized. There was a small overpass built from the front platform to the altar area for Christ, Peter, and Judas to use in the scenes in which an alteration in the characters’ nature had to be emphasized: Jesus washing the feet of Peter, Judas betraying Jesus, Jesus praying in Gethsemane (Mount of Olives), the judgment of Christ, the Via Dolorosa, the crucifixion (see Figure 6.1), and the final scene where Jesus arrives to say his last lines. In many cases the overpass was used in the way that could be described as “still photo,” meaning that the character on the overpass was silent and stood there motionless.11 This “still photo” usage of the overpass created a strong tension between the still body of the character standing on the overpass and the moving, vivid bodies of the other characters. In particular, the scene where Judas was standing on the overpass with his back turned toward the audience as the high priests were plotting against Jesus in a very intense way. By this rhythmic and spatial choice, it was possible for the audience to feel the burden of Judas betraying his master and yet to see his central role in the story. The similar intensified rhythmic and spatial moments were the episodes of judgment, the Via Dolorosa, and the crucifixion, where Jesus stood on the overpass motionless (see Figure 6.1). They all emphasized Christ’s role as the final sacrificial victim, the lamb. Through pausing the movement on the overpass, the church, the altar, and the altar rail became visible and were given a separated role, even agency, in

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the storyline. The space and the material elements were not merely used because they were present. They were used in a specific way because they are what they are: part of nature (or supernature) and thus sufficient frames (Gombrich 1979; Miller 2005: 3–5; Mitchell 2015: 18) for pointing out the transitions in the modes of the characters and by that making the characters relatable.

The Scripture, the script, and the costumes The relation between a script and the Scripture is complex. The Bible is the main source for the scriptwriter, but the Bible is not just any source. It is important to recognize that for the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Finland (and thus for the scriptwriter) the Bible is a historical document as well as the announcement of God’s will and salvation; a book written by humans based on their own experiences and God’s direct announcement to all humanity.12 The Bible is thus perceived as material text accompanying immaterial qualities, as well as a simultaneously mythical and historical document (Asad 2003: 41–5). The act of writing the script is also a generative action where the transcendent is made visible and material. Webb Keane (2013) introduces the concept of “spirit writing,” by which he refers to action where the written (and thus material) sign has the power to connect with the transcendent by “materializing something immaterial or dematerializing something material.” Written word has physical properties possessing distinctively material qualities and forms with or to what a variety of things can be done (Keane 2013: 2). The scriptwriter and the actors perceive words in the Bible to be a “divine emanation,” that is, the word itself has already a divine presence where the form is already part of that presence (Keane 2013: 9). The script and the performance make the “Word of God” sensible and thus respond to the problem of presence in this “mode of semiotic transduction” (Keane 2013: 10). The pastor said, in relation to the scriptwriting process, that “in a church play the message is of course special as it is” by this marking the “living Word” that becomes materialized in the process of writing the script and is eventually sensible in the performance. Among believers, the Bible is understood to have qualities unlike any other book and because of its divine nature it is an active agent in any interaction with it. God’s presence in this world is exposed in the act of reading the Scripture.13 (Engelke 2009: 151) and a Passion play performance is an elaborate way to “read the Bible.” It is the act of reading in itself that makes the presence of God relived and reactualized over and over again in a cyclical process that is simultaneously progressive, retrogressive, and mimetic (Deschamp 2015: 212; Crapanzano 2000: 181; Mitchell 2015: 11–30).

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Even though the actual manner of the act of reading is subject to the content of the reading, the materiality of reading still counts. As Matthew Engelke argues when he speaks about the materiality of the Bible, “The material is also part and parcel of the message informing how that message ought to be received” (Engelke 2009: 170). Protestant tradition especially emphasizes the Bible “as part of ‘the living Word,’ ” and how the Word is “active” (Heb. 4:12); thus, the Bible as a book is not a mere parcel for the Gospel, but acts as an agent in the process of forming and defining a relationship between God and humans (Engelke 2009: 155).14 A performance is based on a play script, which is an interpretation and materialization of the biblical events. The materiality of the text and the social world it describes become intertwined with the moment of the performance (Engelke 2009: 155). The process of producing the script, based on the “living Word” present in the Bible, into a performance is an act to make the Scripture lived. The Bible is indeed the main source for the scriptwriter. A historical and mythological source that impacts on the ways it can be transformed into a play script, but it is insufficient in regard to details. The script is an interpretation of the biblical story spiced with historical documents and other textual sources. The theater group understands that interpretation is always needed, especially when talking about events in the Bible. As the pastor said, “because we cannot really know, we need to look all possible sources and try to figure out how it all went.” In writing the play script, the pastor attempts to transgress this difficulty by choosing the viewpoint of a layman or common folk, because he feels that he cannot really know what it was like for Christ. A limit emerges: from the pastor’s point of view, we as humans will never know how a person who is all human and all divine would feel or experience events. Because of the insufficiency of the information given by the Bible in regard to clothing, surroundings, emotional nuances, and more detailed description of the events, the script is written every year with the help of different contextual sources. The pastor stated about these additional sources: [They include] for example literature presenting in pictures clothing through the centuries: the Roman Empire and the time of Jesus can be found there. And Google knows, of course. When we first started, one of the sources that I had was a comic book called Asterix. There are a lot of Roman soldiers in it.

This requirement of alternative sources becomes more understandable when taking into consideration that the story behind the Passion play—crucifixion and resurrection—is the same year in, year out. In the year 2016 a local newspaper carried an article about the theater, which was titled “Always new, always the same” (Lilja 2.2016). This similarity-changeability axiom refers to the

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eternal “Word of God” and divine announcement compared to the requirement of producing new viewpoints to the ever-so-well-known “Passion of Christ.” It is a problem that occupies a central role in how the play comes about in practice. Every Passion play written, practiced, and performed has its context in the Bible, but also within the long visual tradition in Western Christianity and Passion plays. Christianities have produced iconographic, spatial, aesthetic, and performative tactics that are still relevant in the contemporary context of devotional plays and performances (Stevenson 2013: 19). There are specific and recognizable ways to present the characters and this tradition is respected within the theater group, as the pastor so colorfully put it, “When you are acting based on the text from the Bible, the challenge is . . . that you don’t [look like you] have a ‘bathrobe’ on.” The pastor refers to kindergarten Christmas play tradition where children acting the three wise men and Joseph are often seen wearing old bathrobes. The Michael’s Theatre does not want to be associated with these, but with the more ambitious amateur theater respecting the biblical context and tradition. The type of the costumes matter, because objects are not mere inanimate “objects,” but have stimulating roles (Whitehead 2008: 182). Designing and choosing the costumes is a question of doing; what is done with the prop and how the prop supports and makes the reality on stage alive. The material objects have a crucial role in the boundary-work transcending the temporal gap, since they have the potential to connect or disconnect what the group understands to be the combination of eternal announcement and historical facts (that is, the events described in the Bible) and the present moment. The material objects bridge the temporal gap through their quality of being-in-touch (Whitehead 2013). There are a certain number of aesthetic and authenticity demands that have to be met in order to make the performance “alive”—that is to make it recognizable, shared, and adaptable. The costumes are rather simple, but they are not to be only “authentic” but also “aesthetic.” One key aspect of the group’s understanding of aestheticism entangles with the idea of “harmony”—no one should stand out too much.15 The costumes have a significant role in the process of dissolving the temporal gap. For example, during the first dress rehearsal, the actor who played the part of Jesus arrived from the sacristy wearing a brown habit and a green belt. One of the other actors stated, “You are not dressed in white!” and the actor in the part of Christ said, “No, no . . . not yet. Now I am just a humble carpenter, who wears brown, [I am] not yet the Saviour. I wear white gown after my resurrection, we are not there yet.” The temporal limit between the moment of the play in contemporary world and the events that took place in the past is dissolved. The actor refers to both events simultaneously: he is not there yet in

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the play and the Christ is not there yet “in the scripture”—nearly 2,000 years ago. The clothes worn by the actor (brown habit or white garment) are not mere signs of the transition of the protagonist. They effectuate the transition. However, the costumes are not only helping the actors to be-in-touch—to recognize, make, and dissolve the temporal limit—but they are also the visual stimuli for the audience to experience the Scripture becoming alive. During my fieldwork, I noticed that contemporary objects and artifacts were not allowed on stage. Wearing glasses would interfere the “illusion on the stage,” whereas growing a beard would support the characters. “One really cannot be a passionate high priest when clean-shaven,” one of the cast members told me during a coffee break. Contemporary artifacts would make the process of dissolving the temporal gap more difficult and thus they need to leave the beards unshaven and glasses at the backstage. The Michael’s Theater group ceased to use any makeup or mask. This decision became explained to me when the director said to the actors during 2016 rehearsals: “We do not need make-up or mask. They would be fine, if this would be some form of ‘new theatre.’ This is church theatre; we do not need those gimmicks.” Makeup would be a step too far toward “any theatre.” The Michael’s Theatre group and pastor’s perspective is that these plays and performances are based on accurate historical events and in biblical times people did not use makeup. A great effort is put on the costumes since they are almost the only visual stimuli referring to the time, place, and culture in the times of Jesus. This temporal limit cannot be surpassed and/or dissolved in this group by any other way than sufficient referring to the Western visual tradition of presenting the biblical characters in Christianity. The aesthetic organization or process is immanent in its expressed actions. This means in the context of this Christian Passion play that the aesthetic processes constitute both the reality and truth of the eternal announcement and its historicity, as well as making it lived, felt, and tangible through this aesthetic process. This understanding of “aesthetic” recognizes agency in aesthetic processes and forms, because these processes and forms are “active in the creation of their realities and have effect or bring about changes in the circumstances of existence” (Hobart and Kapferer 2006: 7–9). Material violating of tradition would violate also the demand of authenticity and in the end it would violate the bridging of the limit by presenting an element that is not “accurate” or “authentic” enough. New forms of material expressions of costumes in these Christian theater plays would not be considered aesthetic, when Christian aestheticism in this Passion play tradition is in direct relation to authenticity. The Scripture, the script, and the costumes present slightly varying

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and co-constituting definitions of authenticity. The Scripture’s authenticity is linked to its nature as a historical document and the “Word of God”; the script’s authenticity is in not only its loyalty to the Bible but also in the deep understanding of “human nature,” and, finally, in being faithful to the Western Christian visual tradition, the costumes support the “illusion on stage.” All this aims toward (and supports) enabling the “humanization” of the Scripture.

“Us” and “Them” In the earlier sections of this chapter I have presented the ways in which the “humanizing” of the Scripture is supported by spatial and rhythmic choices, the script-Scripture relation, as well as the authentic aestheticism of costumes. In this section I will look more closely into the mechanisms of humanizing the Scripture in interaction between the actors as well as between the actors and the audience. For the pastor, the scriptwriter, “humanizing” in writing introduces the biblical characters as having similar emotions and experiences as humans today: I have always thrived to achieve it; I mean that I try to humanize it [Scripture] in a right way. It is not to be polished, it was lives lived, those people were real, they felt happiness, sadness, everything.

It is not only the sacred events, but it is also seeing, hearing, recognizing, and experiencing the similarity between human’s past and present. The story becomes material, visceral, in this emphasized humanization; as the pastor stated, “When you jump into the feelings and lives of those people who were there . . . the Easter becomes alive in another way than when it is read from the Bible or when you hear it from the pulpit.” The pastor makes a specific distinction between “active” and “passive” ways to reach the core of the events of the Holy Week. For him as well as the actors and hopefully for the audience, “Easter becomes alive” in what they are doing. The keyword here is “to do”: to use your body in a specific manner in performing the events of the Holy Week, to wear the costumes mimicking the garments worn in the biblical times; to say the words that are written for your character; and to interplay with other actors as well as the audience in order to make the story alive in a frame that intensifies the performance. To some degree, it can be said that the Michael’s Theatre is reproducing the idea of “word became flesh” on a yearly basis. A central feature in the processes of humanizing of the Scripture through human interaction is “similarity,” which is a key to dissolving the temporal,

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cultural, and spatial distance between contemporary people and people living in the times of Christ. This approach to the Scripture draws on the idea of the Bible as a historical document, as well as the idea that human emotions and motives are unchangeable and thus familiar to all humans despite the temporal distance. The focus here is on recognizability: the Michael’s Theatre group derives information from various sources to make the characters even more recognizable. The pastor described his effort to humanize the Scripture and to make the characters recognizable to the audience in the following way: I tend to choose a viewpoint: . . . Is it Mary and the fact that her son is killed, or is it the Roman occupation forces and the fact that for them one Jew hither and thither carries no meaning. However, it had an important meaning to someone: a mother lost her son, the people close [to Jesus], disciples; women and men, lost their master, and yet on the other side [Roman occupation forces] it was like “whatever.” . . . A majority of the script is based on the Bible, but then I write something like: what a Roman officer felt, when he had to kill this man [Jesus], and furthermore, I sometimes assume that Barabbas had killed a friend of this Roman officer, and now this innocent man [Jesus], who was considered to be a daydreamer, had to be crucified. . . . The event is always the same, but it is looked from different angles, from different viewpoints.

The playwright strives to be authentic with the Scripture but also elaborates the story by merging it with the human emotional spectrum so visceral to us all, thus making it recognizable and so easier to be identified with. Each year, a different point of view is selected. For example, the play Women by the Cross (2015) was written from the viewpoint of Mary of Magdalene and the Virgin Mary. The pastor told me during the interview that the play By the Well (2010) introduced gossiping citizens gathering around a local well where they talked “a bit about the marriage of Mary and Joseph, and wondered a bit about the fact that a child was on its way already.” The process of reaching the audience by provoking emotions and by promoting epiphany of similarity can be read also from the promotional texts of different plays. By the Cross (2013) was introduced on its own Facebook page by using a set of questions: What happened between those moments? What are the things that the disciples went through during the hours after the death of their teacher? How they managed to survive in a situation where their whole world was about to collapse? . . . How the life continued in its course in the palace of Pontius Pilate, and how well the high priests, who demanded the crucifixion, slept their nights?

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The use of questions is a very effective way to wake the feeling of similarity. A question provokes an answer that depends on readers’ own experiences. This entry from the play description provides an image of the chaotic, uncontrollable, and ever-changing world that is so familiar to all of us. It suggests that coping and managing oneself in this world is always subject to greater powers and the actions of a human being are not to be convicted without imagining oneself in similar position first. It bridges the gap between humans past and present. The Scripture does not become tangible only in the form of performance or a script, but also in bodies. The bodies “being-in-the-world” have a potential to shape the world (Engelke 2015: 36). Jill Stevenson presents a concept of Evangelical dramaturgy, which refers to the certain assumptions of interpretations, realism, enactment, spectatorship, and presence that enable the achievement of specific aesthetic, ideological and experiential effects (Stevenson 2013: 4). Earlier in this chapter I wrote about the usage of space and rhythmic choices and here I will return to them, but from a different viewpoint. Performances are a material sharing of space, which creates the resonance in and between the participants of actions conducted in that space (Shepherd 2006: 36–37). It is a question of combining the space, rhythm, and similarity of human nature in the interaction between the actors and the audience. For example, the way the altar rail and the overpass were used created tension between the actors (and their bodies) on stage and between the actors and the audience (and their bodies) in the same space and emphasized the emotional strain of the characters in specific moments in the story. At the end of the play “The Road is Ready” (2016) the rhythmic change was intentionally incorporated into the play: in the final scene, the status of the actors changed and the temporal gap was merged when the actors addressed the audience directly. They turned to face the audience and formed a rather motionless row. They talked to the audience as actors and congregants, dismantling the character by returning to the position of their present-day selves. In this change of rhythm and of the actors’ position, the biblical times and the present day merged, thus enlivening the message of the actors and of the play to the audience. The experiences and the testimony of the biblical characters were made to transcend the temporal gap and were brought to the realm of the audience’s lived experience. In this way, through the change of rhythm and the use of space, which created a similarity of humankind between the biblical characters and the audience, the play reached out to the audience with its message of Easter. Humanizing was, then, a central way in which the play delivered the Gospel and worked to affect the audience.

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Conclusion In this chapter I have argued that central in the process of making the Scripture alive is the condensing of the temporal divide between the contemporary world and the world described in the Bible. First, because of the lack of material set on stage, the church and the altar, and their rhythmic usage, generate powerful frames that have the capacity to emphasize the performance and make the transcendent visceral. Secondly, the Scripture is made alive through the use of aesthetic and thus authentic costumes and artifacts, which act as recognizable cues tracing back in time. Thirdly, the temporal distance between present and biblical times is dissolved by the humanization of the biblical characters through the underlining of the similarity of the human kind throughout ages. This all adds up to “humanizing” the Scripture; to making it “alive and lived” in order for it to have the potential to awake faith in people who participate in these performances. Through this interpersonal connection, the play’s potential to trigger faith emerges. The Michael’s Theatre group indeed shares the understanding that they deliver the Word of God in a form of a Passion play. This shows how despite the general “rejection” of materiality among Evangelical Lutherans, there is still materiality that is of the acceptable kind. Acceptable here refers to the question of the quality of materiality: the materiality in a performance is sufficient when it meets the requirements of authenticity and aestheticism that have the potential to dissolve the limit between biblical time and present time and thus to become “alive.” A play is an effective way to create connection between the participants (performers as well as audience). The rhythmic nature of a play, recognizability connected to visual tradition, humanization of the biblical characters, and multisensory experience of the story of the resurrection are affective forms of reading the Scripture. In a play, readers are not only those on stage but also those on the pews.

Materials Fieldnotes FN2014 Personal Fieldnotes. FN2016 Personal Fieldnotes.

Interviews 10102013 Interview of a pastor (Michael’s Parish), conducted on October 10, 2013.

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Plays The Road is Ready (2016), script Ismo Seivästö, based on the script written by Aulis Ruostepuro (1996) in honor of the twentieth jubileum, director Ilmari Kuivala. Suffered under Pontius Pilate (2014), script Ismo Seivästö, director Ilmari Kuivala. Women by the Cross (2015), script Ismo Seivästö, director Ilmari Kuivala. Passion Play (2008), script Matti Pennanen. Which One You Choose? (1998), script Matti Pennanen. The Road is Ready (1996), script Aulis Ruostepuro, director Aulis Ruostepuro.

Video By the Cross (2013) [Ristin juurella] DVD. Video recording of the year 2015 Passion play. Published by the Michael’s Theatre.

Texts Lilja 2.2016, Aina sama, aina uusi. Pääsiäisnäytelmässä tarina pysyy, näkökulma muuttuu. (Always the same, always new. In the Passion Play the story stays the same, but the viewpoint changes.) Lilja 2/2016—Turku and Kaarina Parish Union’s magazine, p. 10. Written by Roope Lipasti. Available online: http://nakoislehti.laatulehdet.fi/lilja/2016-03/#/article/22/page/1-1 (accessed April 2, 2016). Turkulainen 26.3.2015, Mikaelteatterissa pääsiäisen tapahtumat nähdään naisten silmin (in Michael’s Theatre the Easter events are seen through the eyes of women). Available online: http://www.turkulainen.fi/artikkeli/275046mikaelteatterissa-paasiaisen-tapahtumat-nahdaan-naisten-silmin (accessed November 23, 2015). TS 3.4.2004, Pääsiäisen ilosanomaa näyttämöllä (Easter Gospel on Stage). Turun Sanomat 3.4.2004, Viihde. Salla Tuomola.

Web sources BHBC Bible—the holy book of Christianity (Raamattu—Kristinuskon pyhä kirja), The Bible in Evangelical Lutheran Church of Finland, webpage provided by the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Finland. Available online: http://evl.fi/EVLfi.nsf/Documents/093654FA6DAF5D54C2256FEA003FD6ED ?OpenDocument&lang=FI (accessed June 20, 2016).

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By the Cross/FB Event. Pääsiäsiäisdraama Ristin juurella. (Easter play By the Cross.) By the Cross’s Facebook Event Page. Available online: https:// fi-fi.facebook.com/events/146753905492552/permalink/150515038449772/ (accessed February 19, 2016).

Notes   1 The Michael’s Parish prefers to use the translations “Michael’s Parish, Michael’s Church, and Michael Theatre” without the prefix “St.” mainly because the Finnish names are Mikaelinseurakunta, Mikaelinkirkko, and Mikael-teatteri without the prefix “saint” (pyhän). The parish and the church are named after the Archangel Michael.   2 The Michael’s Theatre group has all their meetings and rehearsals in the church— on the stage, on the altar—and they even have their coffee break in the church’s crypt. There are rather many practical reasons for this, for example they have to practice the voice delivery in demanding acoustical environment and familiarize themselves with the stage.   3 The analysis draws on the pastor’s interview, participatory observation, field notes (2014 and 2016), and one DVD recording of 2013’s performance, as well as free discussions conducted during the rehearsals, of which I have made notes. I have also studied play scripts (1996, 1998, 2008, 2014, 2015, and 2016) and some newspaper articles, promotion materials, and brochures. It has to be noted that my ethnographical observation had an effect on the theater group’s rehearsals. The participatory observation during the rehearsals was somewhat divided: during the actual go-throughs I merely acted as audience and sat on the benches, watching and making notes. Occasionally I moved around the church to see the play from different angles; however, I participated in the starting prayer, coffee break discussions and the “closing-circle” where the day’s rehearsal were shortly discussed, some instructions and feedback given, and at the end Aaron’s blessing (Num. 6:24-26) was said. The director as well as several cast members told me that my presence “helped them,” that there was a significant difference when compared to rehearsing in front of the empty bench rows.   4 In the 2015 production the total number of the theater group members was fifty people, including the choir.   5 In the 2016 play there were two actors (congregants) who had been part of this theater group since the first production. (in addition to the pastor). The majority of the group had participated in several productions, but there were also a couple of actors for whom this production was the first. At the beginning of the Michael’s

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Theatre the pastor collected the group of actors among of the active congregation members and employees, but in the run of the years this group has established its existence and gained actors also from other amateur theater groups and outside the congregation (FN2016). For some group members this yearly production is “lived religion” (on lived religion see McGuire 2008). It is a vernacular form of piety where lay agency is valued and crucial (on vernacular see McGuire 1992; Primiano 1995, 2012), yet communality in this theater group is fluid, flexible, and adaptable to different situations and lifestyles and thus it can be described as individualistic and postsecular communal activity (on postsecular and fluid communality see Frisk and Nynäs 2012; Taira 2006). The word tierna derives from the Swedish word stjärna, meaning star (leading the wise men to the whereabouts of the Messiah), where the word poika means boy (thus it can be translated as “Star Boy” play and one of the roles is the role of a boy holding a star). In addition to that there is also more practical reasons: an elaborate set on the altar would interfere with the other operations (masses and services) during the Easter week (10102013). The pastor used the word “frame” (kehys) in the interview. He did not refer solely to aesthetic qualities of the church, but also to its “specialness” as being sacred. Ahtisaarna is a certain type of sermon where the Passion of Christ and events of Easter are presented during the Easter week in chronological order. The Finnish word derives from Latin: actus. The scenes: Judas stood on the overpass back turned toward the audience when the high priests plotted against Jesus; the scene where Pilate condemned Jesus (Jesus stood on the overpass looking downwards); the Via Dolorosa scene, where Jesus stood on the overpass while the others sang a song describing the suffering of Christ; and the scene of the crucifixion (Jesus stood on the overpass) (FN 2016). “The Bible is holy book for Christians, because through it the God announces His will. Everything that the Church (ELCF) teaches should be evaluated in the light of the Bible. The people have written in the Bible everything they have seen, heard or believed. In that respect the Bible has human and divine sides” (BHBC). Even Martin Luther ([1525] 1958: 99) emphasized the meaning of reading (and hearing): “Of this I am certain, that God desires to have his works heard and read, especially the passion of our Lord.” Crapanzano attaches this circularity strongly to (fundamentalist) Evangelicals and their biblical literalism, but it can be discovered also from the Evangelical Lutheran understanding of the Word of God being ever-existing, always alive, and reachable in the act of reading the Bible (Crapanzano 2000: 181). Susan Harding argues that

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for “reader-believers” the Bible is alive and can be called “miraculous,” for it is “discourse which effects the world it speaks by constituting subjects who bring it about” (Harding 1992: 54). 15 The group has a costumier/designer who has designed all of the 150 different costumes they have. New costumes are still made, according to costumier’s designs, in a small local company, whenever they need them. Garments and robes portray more washed tones and shades: maroon, sienna, burned orange, dark olive, sandy brown, and powder blue. Whereas the citizens’ robes are plain and sewn in simple patterns from mundane fabrics, the officials and high priests’ robes are made from expensive materials, being far more detailed and flamboyant. Mary, Mother of Christ, is always wearing a bluish scarf or gown, another traditional marker rising from the Christian tradition.

References Asad, T. (2003), Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity, Cultural Memory in the Present, Stanford: Stanford University Press. Bell, C. (1992), Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bell, C. (1997), Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions, New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bourdieu, P. (1977), Outline of a Theory of Practice, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Crapanzano, V. (2000), Serving the Word: Literalism in America from the Pulpit to the Bench, New York: New Press. Deschamp, M. (2015), “An Embodied Theology. Body Images and the Imagination of God by Luther,” in Anne Eusterschulte and Hannah Wälzholz (eds.), Anthropological Reformations—Anthropology in the Era of Reformation, 209–28, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Durkheim, É. ([1912] 1980), Uskontoelämän alkeismuodot: australialainen toteemijärjestelmä, trans. Seppo Randell, Helsinki: Tammi. Engelke M. (2009), “Reading and Time: Two Approaches to the Materiality of Scripture,” Ethnos, 74 (2): 151–74. Engelke M. (2015), “The Coffin Question: Death and Materiality in Humanist Funerals,” Material Religion, 11 (1): 26–48. Frisk, L. and P. Nynäs (2012), “Characteristics of Contemporary Religious Change: Globalization, Neoliberalism, and Interpretative Tendencies,” in P. Nynäs, M. Lassander, and T. Utriainen (eds.), Post-secular Society, 47–70, New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers.

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Gennep, A. van ([1908]1960), The Rites of Passage, trans. M. B. Vizedom and G. L. Caffee, London: Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd. Gestring, A. (2004), “Pietistisches Weltverständis und Handeln in der Welt,” in H. Lehmann (ed.), Gesichte des Pietismus, Band 4: Glaubenswelt und Lebenswelten, 556–86, Göttingen: Vandehoek & Ruprecht. Goffman, E. (1959), The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, New York: Anchor Books. Gombrich, E. (1979), The Sense of Order, London: Phaidon Press. Grimes, R. L. (2014), The Craft of Ritual Studies, New York: Oxford University Press. Handelman, D. (2004), “Why Ritual in Its Own Right? How So?,” in D. Handelman and G. Lindquist (eds.), Ritual in Its Own Right: Exploring the Dynamics of Transformation, 1–32, New York and Oxford: Berghan Books. Harding, S. (1992), “The Gospel of Giving: The Narrative Structure of a Sacrificial Economy,” in Robert Wuthnow (ed.), Vocabularies of Public Life: Empirical Essays in Symbolic Structure, 39–56, London: Routledge. Henriques, J., M. Tiainen, and P. Väliaho (2014), “Rhythm Returns: Movement and Cultural Theory, Body & Society,” Special Issue: Rhythm, Movement, Embodiment, 20 (3 and 4): 3–29. Hobart, A. and B. Kapferer (2006), “Introduction: The Aesthetics of Symbolic Construction and Experience,” in A. Hobart and B. Kapferer (eds.), Aesthetics in Performance: Formations of Symbolic Construction and Experience, 1–22, New York: Berghahn Books. Kapferer, B. (2004), “Ritual Dynamics and Vietual Practice: Beyond Representation and Meaning,” in D. Handelman and G. Lindquist (eds.), Ritual in Its Own Right: Exploring the Dynamics of Transformation, 34–54, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Keane, W. (2013), “On Spirit Writing: Materialities of Language and the Religious Work of Transduction,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute, 19: 1–17. Keane, W. (2007), Christian Moderns: Freedom and Fetish in the Mission Encounter, Berkeley: University of California Press. Ketola, K. (2008), “Rituaalit,” in K. Ketola, I. Pyysiäinen, and T. Sjöblom (eds.), Uskonto ja ihmismieli. Johdatus kognitiiviseen uskontotieteeseen, 78–91, Helsinki: Gaudeamus. Kinnunen-Riipinen, L. (2000a), Kirkkoteatterin kiirastuli, Pieksämäki: Suomen Lähetysseura. Kinnunen-Riipinen, L. (2000b), “Teatteri kirkossa—vai kirkko teatterissa. Kirkkonäytelmä Suomessa 1980-luvulla 1960-ja 1970-lukujen kehitys taustanaan,” doctoral thesis: Helsingin Yliopisto. Lefebvre, H. (2004), Rhythmanalysis: Space, Time and Everyday Life, London and New York: Continuum. Luther, M. ([1525]1958), “Against the Heavenly Prophets in the Matter of Images and Sacraments,” in Conrad Bergendoff (ed.), Luther’s Works, 79–223, Philadelphia: Muhlenberg Press.

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McGuire, M. B. (1992), Religion: The Social Context, Belmont: Wadsworth. McGuire, M. B. (2008), Lived Religion. Faith and Practice in Everyday Life, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Miller, D. (2005), “Introduction,” in Daniel Miller (ed.), Materiality, 1–50, London: Duke University Press. Mitchell, J. P. (2015), “Ontology, Mimesis, and Divine Intervention: Understanding Catholic Visionaries,” in Michael Bull and Jon P. Mitchell (eds.), Ritual, Performance and the Senses, 11–30, London: Bloomsbury. Morgan, D. (2010), “Introduction. The Matter of Belief,” in David Morgan (ed.), Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief, 1–18, London and New York: Routledge. Primiano, L. N. (1995), “Vernacular Religion and the Search for Method in Religious Folklife,” Western Folklore, 54 (1): 37–56. Primiano, L. N. (2012), “Afterword: Manifestations of the Religious Vernacular: Ambiguity, Power, and Creativity,” in M. Bowman and Ü. Valk (eds.), Vernacular Religion in Everyday Life. Expressions of Belief, 382–94, London: Equinox. Rappaport, R. (1999), Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Robbins, J. (2012), “Transcendence and the Anthropology of Christianity: Language, Change, and Individualism” (Edward Westermarck Memorial Lecture), Journal of the Finnish Anthropological Society, 37 (2): 5–23. Shepherd, S. (2006), Theatre, Body and Pleasure, London: Routledge. Stasch, R. (2011), Ritual and Oratory Revisited: The semiotics of effective action, Annual Review of Anthropology, 40: 159–74. Stevenson, J. (2013), Sensational Devotion: Evangelical Performance in Twenty-First Century America, Ann Arbor, MI: The University of Michigan Press. Taira, T. (2006), Notkea uskonto, Turku: Eetos. Whitehead, A. (2008), “The Goddess and the Virgin: Materiality in Western Europe,” The Pomegranate, 10 (2): 16. Whitehead, A. (2013), Religious Statues and Personhood: Testing the Role of Materiality, London: Bloomsbury.

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The Death and Rebirth of a Crucifix: Materiality and the Sacred in Andean Vernacular Catholicism Diego Alonso Huerta

There is a pilgrimage toward the shrine of a crucifix in the Peruvian region of Lima called the Lord of Huamantanga that is believed to grant miracles to those who touch it. This belief is backed up by the mythical story of its creation and by the conviction that suffering along the way will enhance people’s chances of establishing a successful link with this particular Christ.1 Despite the fact that the original crucifix was burned down in 1870 during a storm, people from around the country continue to believe in its powers. The main question of this chapter shall then be: Why does this ritual persist even though the first crucifix was destroyed and replaced? Why is the replacement crucifix viewed as capable of the same miraculous deeds? My analysis focuses on the mimetic faculties that endowed the original crucifix to be granted agency to work miracles and the replacement to be held as sacred as the first one. My main argument is that this cult persists because the substitute crucifix’s sacredness is not based merely on the crucifix itself, but rather emerges from a dialectical relationship between the myth, the pilgrim’s devotion, and the material features. I propose that through a tripartite model that draws on the bodies of the pilgrims, the route they walk and appropriate, and the crucifix, the Lord of Huamantanga is recreated as a sacred object every time the pilgrimage is completed. Therefore, as long as the crucifix awaits at the end of the traditional route, it will be considered a holy entity regardless of its being a replacement. This study is based on participant observation and interviews that took place during the pilgrimage and feast in May 2012.2

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General information about Huamantanga Huamantanga (“falcon town” in Quechua) is a peasant community located around 3,400 meters above sea level, in the highlands of the Province of Canta in the department3 of Lima, Peru. Not too far away, also within this region but at sea level, we find the capital of the country (also named Lima). Huamantanga is a peasant community, “peasant” being a legal euphemistic term for a group of citizens that used to be referred to as “Indians” (Marapi 2012). “Indian communities” were established by the Spaniards upon their conquest and were later redefined as “peasant communities” in the Republic of Peru. Some traits have been passed down from the former to the latter: principally, their having a patron saint and their economy being based on reciprocity. Fiestas patronales (patronal feasts), celebrations that commemorate such idiosyncratic icons of communities, rely heavily on the villagers taking turns to pay for the expenses and portray how essential the saint is to their identity. As Peruvian anthropologist Alejandro Diez (2000) says: If [patronal feasts] used to serve as marks of calendar time and a social organisation oriented towards the group itself, now they reaffirm and increase the locality’s prestige, and reaffirm the identity of those who do not reside in the town any longer.4

It is important to take into consideration these economic, legal, political, demographic, and ritual implications in order to understand that the pilgrimage that I will discuss is embedded in a context of migration, emerging businesses, and a social organization that has grown to include the arrival of outsiders as an axis of its dynamics. The Lord of Huamantanga is regarded as the patron of this community and, as such, is celebrated with a patronal feast. In this particular case, the celebrations are extended to include a pilgrimage prior to it. This is not particularly peculiar, but what is outstanding is the amount of people from all over the country that engage in it. A proper quantitative research on the topic is still due, but my informants said that thousands of people from other parts of Peru took part in this pilgrimage. During the first night of my fieldwork in 2012, I saw a seemingly never-ending stream of lights marching along the mountains and interviewed people from different provinces north and south of Lima. Still, the majority of those I randomly interviewed along the way were from the region of Lima (most from the city of Lima). In the capital, pilgrims are usually integrated in groups they

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call hermandades (fellowships)—fifteen in total—that are articulated to their local parishes, and within which the participants organize the logistics for the pilgrimage. They also walk together or at least arrive together at Huamantanga, carrying symbols that identify them as a group. Although the exact number of pilgrims escapes me, what I can be certain about is that it vastly exceeds Huamantanga’s population of 1,265 (Webb 2011).

Mythical foundations of the ritual According to the legend, the original crucifix situated in the community of Huamantanga was carved by a mythical figure resembling Jesus around the time when the community was founded. Its materiality thus contributed heavily to developing its charisma in as much as the latter was allegedly transferred directly to it from its creator through the process of building it. In this section, I shall tell the story according to the discourse I reconstructed from my informants’ accounts.5 The events of the myth took place during the sixteenth century and started with a very common and concrete religious need: that of a crucifix for the newly constructed parish of the “indian community” of Huamantanga. A delegation of three men was sent to Lima in order to have it carved. This was a perilous journey that could endanger their lives if they did not proceed with extreme caution.6 During their journey they encountered a stranger riding a white horse on the route. The stranger made an offer they could not reject: he said he would carve it himself in the community, meaning that transportation would no longer need to be arranged for such a heavy object. And so, they all started their way back to Huamantanga along a route that is nowadays also followed by the pilgrims. Three key sites mark the route: Puquio de Socos (Spring of Socos)—also called Falsos Socos (Fake Socos)—El Taro, and Puruchuco. There is a spring in the first site, but it is believed that it was not there until the events of this story took place. According to the story, during their way back the travelers were becoming dehydrated by the time they reached this location. They were convinced that there was no water nearby and they had not had a chance to replenish their reserves as they had to change their plans abruptly. At this point, the stranger is said to have pointed toward an area behind a slope and claimed that they would be able to find water there despite the men’s certainty that the whole zone nearby (called Socos) was arid. Much to their surprise, they did find the spring that

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gave the name to this site. Legend says that the cross that nowadays stands in this location was erected by the stranger, clearly a gifted handcrafter, upon this alleged miracle. It is called Cruz Verde (Green Cross). The second place, El Taro, receives its name from a kind of tree. Once again, during the second day of their journey the tired travelers required rest and were in need for shelter from the sun. They were told by the stranger that they would find an enormous tree under whose shadow they would be able to rest, despite their conviction that no such place existed. They found it, however, and the stranger carved three crosses known today as Tres Cruces (Three Crosses). After some time, they carried on with their journey. Finally, as the night began to set again, the travelers were planning to stay in the town of Puruchuco. However, a young maiden appeared and told them that it was safe to carry on. They followed her instructions and continued walking. In this town, there is a cross that is said to have been built to commemorate the short stay of the three mythical men and the stranger, as well as the event of the maiden appearing to them and instructing them to continue: it is called Cruz Grande (Big Cross). Finally, the delegation and their guest arrived at Huamantanga, and the stranger withdrew to a small shack and asked not to be visited while carving the crucifix. He asked for his food to be left next to the door. It is believed that on the third of May, after an unspecified yet short number of days, the townsfolk could no longer hear any sounds from the shack and noticed that the white horse was gone. They thought they had been cheated and decided to break into the place. Outside they found all the food untouched; inside, an astonishingly beautiful crucifix. The surprised crowd feared they would not be able to pay for such a beautiful work of art and so decided to sell it to a nearby community. However, this was not possible, as a terrible storm broke out as soon as they took the crucifix out of their town. The same happened again when the archbishop of Lima demanded, to no avail, that the crucifix be transported to the capital city. The storm is believed to have been the divine will expressing that the crucifix had to stay in town. Consequently, a small church was erected over the small shack where the stranger had carved it. Nevertheless, there was a fire in 1870 and this church and the crucifix were burned. Another crucifix was built later on and placed in a new church in the same community. All the pilgrims I interviewed during my fieldwork were aware of this fact. Two figures are crucial in this narrative; namely, the stranger and the crucifix. As for the former, informants claim there is an explicit parallel with Jesus himself. The stranger is credited by the pilgrims with two miracles during the walk that

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saved their lives: first, giving them water; and second, giving them protection from the intense heat. It could be alleged that pointing at sites claiming that something would be found there could prove only that the stranger had a better knowledge of the surrounding areas than the travelers. Nevertheless, pilgrims are convinced that it was rather the ability to alter the landscape’s aridity and reshape it into forms that helped the common men continue with a journey that could have otherwise ended with their deaths. In a way, then, the helping hand of the stranger is regarded as the reason why the key sites of the route came into existence. This is fundamental for the ritual to emerge, as these are the same elements that endow modern-day pilgrims with the ability to perform the threeday walk (pilgrims do spend the night at Puruchuco). The crucifix is also an important element in the myth, especially throughout the latter part of the narrative. Furthermore, it can be argued that its charismatic, holy properties were transmitted to it from its creator through mimesis. Quoting Taussig (1993: xiii), the mimetic faculty endows a second element to draw on the characteristics of the first one to a point where it “may even assume that character and that power.” As I will explain in the following sections, mimesis is not limited to an act of representation based on copying traits from an original into a replica, but rather a production of new entities (Mitchell 2015). In this case, a sacred object was created that had miraculous capabilities, just as its creator did, according to the myth. Such capabilities are made explicit in the legend by the climatic alterations that took place whenever the townsfolk attempted to take it out of the community, even under the request of such an important authoritative figure as the archbishop of Lima. A divine power is, thus, evoked as an almighty entity whose will is for the crucifix to remain in that location. However, there is a complementary explanation as to why the crucifix could not leave the community. As Peruvian historian Luis Millones (1998: 52) tells, “in this process [evangelization], sacred images have an important role: they are the express reclamation of identity that rejects the homogenising tendencies that come from the capital.”7 Millones’s argument is not that sacred images resist such tendencies because they are Amerindian—in fact, many times they are not—but rather that evangelization itself provided communities with sacred images around which to develop a local identity. Therefore, the story not only legitimates the crucifix as powerful and divine, but also as idiosyncratic. Summarizing, this legend is crucial in order to understand at least two important material elements that are bestowed with sacredness nowadays: first, the crucifix, which is regarded as a miracle worker that encourages the

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pilgrimage; second, the route, which is the same one that the pilgrims follow today. Essentially, the stranger created them both: he created oases along the barren landscape that threatened the travelers’ lives and he directly carved the crucifix. A third element could be added; namely, the collectiveness represented by the three men walking together and by the townsfolk interacting with the brand-new crucifix all together. However, the myth per se does not seem to account for the new crucifix that replaced the burned one. Nevertheless, it is this replacement that is used nowadays for veneration, the one the pilgrims undergo so much pain just to touch for a few seconds.

The pilgrimage Based on participant observation, I will now illustrate the ritual by giving an ethnographic account of it as it was performed between April 30 and May 3, 2012. As I mentioned before, many pilgrims from Lima city organize themselves into fellowships, but there are also several people who engage in this pilgrimage independently. There are even some sportsmen who decide to do the walk because of the physical challenge it represents, as the terrain is arid and the time is tight in order to make it in time for the feast. Some pilgrims started the journey from the edge of the city of Lima, but the majority seemed to prefer to take a bus 27 kilometers further toward Huamantanga to a small hamlet called Santa Rosa de Macas (Saint Rose of Macas) and start from there. I took the bus rented by one of the fellowships. Despite Macas being the most common place to start walking, its role as such appears to have developed out of functionality rather than a mythical explanation, since it does not appear in any of the legends. Nevertheless, many pilgrims stopped by the parish church and prayed for their petitions to be granted after completing the pilgrimage, offering sacrifice in turn. At around one hour before midnight, we started walking toward the first stop in the route (Falsos Socos). After walking for about four hours, we reached the place and spent the night there. Some of the pilgrims were young, probably in their twenties; some of them were very old, maybe over sixty; some of them traveled alone; some of them in small groups. Some of them even carried babies. At six in the morning, I woke up and walked to Cruz Verde, where the priest leading the pilgrimage blessed all those who were able to make it in time. A small parish church was used by the pilgrims to light some candles, as illustrated in Figure 7.1. Walking during the night was difficult because the

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route was not clearly marked. Some of us got lost, and would have had to stay disoriented had we not gone back by following the caravan of flashlights. Also, it was required to climb two high hills, which involved circling them several times in ascending spirals, sometimes along very narrow corridors close to the edges of the cliffs. Nevertheless, walking during the day was much more demanding, as the heat was almost unbearable. On top of that, people were already tired because they had walked a very long distance and had slept barely around three hours. In spite of this, the vast majority of them decided to keep going. They endured and kept on walking. Two ideas were recurrent in their responses when I asked them why. The first one was how the miracle they wanted to get granted motivated them. It could be the health of an ill offspring, forgiveness for a terrible sin, or even a job. The second idea was that the more they suffered on the way, the most likely it was for them to receive help from this Christ, and the more intense the miracle would be. Suffering was regarded as penance and the more they suffered, the better. For these reasons, some of them chose to go barefoot and sometimes even crawling on their knees, even if they were sick or old.

Figure 7.1   Pilgrims praying at Cruz Verde. Photo by author.

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A group of pilgrims, however, could not manage to carry on and decided to go back. There were several cars waiting for those who decided to return at this point. There were also some other cars where food and beverages had been transported by informal entrepreneurs in order to be sold to the thousands of participants of this ritual. Further on, nevertheless, cars would not be able to reach the pilgrims, as the route drifted away from the main road. The two paths would not rejoin until they reached the town of Puruchuco, where those who would later decide to give up would wait for a car to take them to Huamantanga for the feast. Back at Cruz Verde, after the blessing, pilgrims followed the route described in the myth, resting where the legendary travelers had done so and often receiving further blessings at these key places. The first location was El Taro, the big tree. At this location, more improvised food and beverages stands were found. Just like the three mythical men, pilgrims were expected to make it to Puruchuco by twilight, for which they had to climb up a hill through a route known as subida de caracol (snail slope). Along it, some bushes could be found with curious thorn ramifications that were naturally shaped like crosses. These were picked up by several of the travelers. Unlike the three mythical men, however, most people spent the night in Puruchuco once they reached it, usually in their own tents since there was not enough space to accommodate all of them. Those seeking for more penance continued walking during the night, although the religious authorities strongly advised them to avoid this (especially bearing in mind that it was much higher than it was at the beginning of the journey). An interesting note is that Puruchuco’s economy is based on livestock farming, which implies that its population is most of the time on the fields. This makes the town usually look deserted, as I noticed during a visit some weeks after the ritual. During the pilgrimage, nonetheless, they had returned home, as it offered them the perfect chance to engage in extremely short-termed entrepreneurial activities such as feeding and giving shelter to the pilgrims. After leaving Puruchuco in the morning, we went through a footpath that is used during Easter to perform an enactment of the walk of Jesus prior to his crucifixion, according to the Bible. Due to this, fourteen white crosses with red ribbons could be found there. It led to a place called Lanchas where pilgrims again lit up candles in a small parish church. The final path to Huamantanga was easier to make. We left the town at dawn, walking on a rural road for cars. Pilgrims arrived in a very organized way, following the leaders of each fellowship, who waved their respective standards. They were greeted by the townsmen assigned for this task, called mayordomos. A Catholic priest had been in charge

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of leading the pilgrimage and blessing the pilgrims along the way. As the leader, he was formally received by the community, represented by its president alongside with the designated mayordomos. Newcomers were escorted by the local authorities to the church, where ten pictures depicted the original journey made by the three men and the stranger. There, they made enormous lines in order to touch the crucifix and ask for their miracle to be granted. An attitude of solemnity characterized the participants, who prayed and sometimes chatted with their neighbors in the line, whispering. Chatting stopped, nevertheless, as they drew closer to the space within the church where the crucifix was kept. In order to reach this shrine, pilgrims slowly followed those in front of them from the entrance to the altar, then to the side and up a staircase. The crucifix was displayed on a small, round balcony and could be seen from the ground as it was touched by crawling men and women of different ages and origins who had been told to take off their shoes upon the edge of the balcony. I also waited in line until it was my turn to touch it. As a former Catholic myself, it was easy to follow the lead as the gestures and attitudes of the participants felt familiar. I saw them whisper their prayers and imitated it when I finally reached the crucifix. My mind was filled with questions like “What should I ask for?” or “Should I even ask for anything at all?” and I can only wonder if these pilgrims who had seemed so sure about their petitions when I interviewed them did not question themselves in a similar way. The act of crawling around the edge of the balcony, touching the feet of the image of Jesus with a piece of fabric provided by local authorities in order to preserve it, asking for a miracle, and leaving did not take more than one minute per pilgrim. The feast following the pilgrimage lasted for three days. The first day opened with two music bands having a small competition and the locals segregating into small groups to dance. During the following days, several artistic and musical numbers were presented, including fireworks. Finally, on the morning of the third day, there was a mass held for the pilgrims at the main square, as they would not have fitted inside the church. Also, the final stage of the feast’s structure was to determine the next year’s roles for the members of the community.

The sacred route: A place of praesentia This account portrays the pilgrimage to the shrine of Huamantanga as an essentially embodied practice intrinsically related to the discourse of the myth.

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In such a way, the ritual constitutes a means of expressing and living out a memory of an imagined past through a performance that gives meaning to their actual practices (Tambiah 1979; Schechner 1988; Wilson 2010). However, the legend does not back up by itself the persistence of the ritual after the destruction of the original crucifix. I will argue that it was the historical interaction of the route, the collective bodies of the pilgrims, and both crucifixes which permitted an appropriation of space that granted the replacement properties analogous to those of its predecessor. Central to the persistence of the importance of the contemporary crucifix at Huamantanga is that it remains “alive” in a sense to the pilgrims; in other words, the crucifix and the pilgrims are present to one another. In the case of Huamantanga, this is a process intrinsically linked to people’s interaction with the pilgrimage route. According to religion historian Ora Limor (2006), the original concept of pilgrimage in Christianity was monastic in nature; that is, it was not required for one to move in space in order to reach God, as Pauline doctrine claimed that God was present everywhere. Limor sustains that it was throughout the fourth century that pilgrimages started to be based on the translocation of men and women to distant places. Pilgrimages to visit the relics of saints were later complemented by visits to the increasing tombs of martyrs throughout the third and fourth centuries.8 These were sites where the devotees both witnessed these holy figures’ potentia or power and engaged with their praesentia or presence (Mitchell 2015). Praesentia thus worked as a form of mimesis that drew on the properties of holy figures that were no longer alive and incarnated them within the remains of their bodies. However, the smallest objects associated with their lives and even their images or statues could also act as vessels for their presence (ibid.). It is important to note that the mimetic process involved in the embodiment of holy presence is not an act of merely copying: the sacred object, whatever it may be, is transformed into a new entity with which it is possible to interact both publicly and intimately throughout a shared presence. In the case of the pilgrimage to the shrine of Huamantanga, the process of creating such copresence is intrinsically linked to an interaction with space because participants construct a close bond with the route as they walk it, thus appropriating and sacralizing it (cf. Orsi 2008: 14.). Drawing on the work of Henri Lefebvre, Edward Casey (1996) suggests that subjectively appropriated space—which he calls place—is constituted by the gathering of what he calls lived bodies—bodies charged with culture—within concrete coordinates. Thus,

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all three elements (place, lived bodies, and culture) can only come into existence together and simultaneously due to place’s double nature as both material and imaginary or subjective. In other words, “just as there are no places without the bodies that sustain and vivify them, so there are no lived bodies without the places they inhabit and traverse” (ibid.: 7). Hence, space can be defined as an arena of “dynamic simultaneity” where ongoing departures and arrivals give rise to relations that temporarily determine it (Massey 2005). Over time, “here and now” are characterized for each person by the stories they articulate through these relations: it is this personalized “here and now” that is referred to as place. Space becomes relevant to the participants of the pilgrimage in question in as much as it evokes an emotive response in them that endows the route with a symbolic value reproduced over time. Individuals take with them into the route their despair, faith, physical pain, and hopes and continuously think about them, talk about them with others, and include them in their prayers. For three days, they engage in fleeting interactions with many other persons, but not for a single second do they stop perceiving diverse stimuli from the route. Additionally, the main stops along the route are landmarks shared with the narrative of the myth; thus, they bond the ongoing embodied experience of the pilgrimage with an imagined space that the devotees are already familiar with. The journey to the shrine of Huamantanga is therefore not just a means to reach a distant point; it is a journey to the land that the stranger and the three men walked and where pilgrims go through an emotionally intense moment in their lives. This draws the route closer to the participants of the ritual, transforming it into a very particular place for them. Moreover, the closer pilgrims feel to the path they walk along, the closer they feel to the Christ of Huamantanga when they reach the shrine. Knowing the legend—and in most cases, engaging in the same pilgrimage year after year— shapes the way pilgrims imagine the route, turning it into a place composed of familiar adversities that is directly linked to the crucifix in as much as the former leads to the latter. The materiality of the route followed by the pilgrims in Huamantanga resonates with the imagination of the one followed by the three men in the legend, allowing for pilgrims to reimagine it in accordance with other meanings that are bundled with it. The route is thus part of a continuity of sacred space that ultimately finds its utmost manifestation in the shrine itself but is by no means limited to it. While the Lord of Huamantanga is unquestionably a sacred object that manifests praesentia and potentia in a similar way to the relics of saints, it can also be argued

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that the route constitutes a material element channeling the Christ’s praesentia. In the myth, the holy figure of the stranger, who was capable of working miracles, revealed itself not only within but along the route; furthermore, pilgrims stop on key sites to engage in prayers to the Lord of Huamantanga several times during the three days of the pilgrimage. Therefore, bonding with the route is bonding with the crucifix, as pilgrims weave stories that transform space into sacred place.

Penance and the weaving of a collective memory Pilgrims transform space into place along the route to the shrine of Huamantanga and they do it mainly by exalting pain during the pilgrimage. They sometimes choose to walk barefoot or even crawl for all or most of the way. In spite of this, the original legend of the creation of the crucifix in Huamantanga does not seem to stress what the participants seem to hold most important for the pilgrimage: the role of penance as a medium to develop a closer relationship with the crucifix. The legend includes the route as a potentially dangerous realm, but only in as much as it allows the stranger to display his miraculous abilities in order to reshape it. Adversities along the way are shown as challenges to the three men’s human abilities and portray the stranger as someone beyond those limits, who was able to provide aid when they could not take care of themselves. However, there is no mention of the three men intensifying their pain during the walk or claiming that it should be regarded as a way of erasing sin or achieving a higher state of grace. I argue that the present-day pilgrims’ emphasis on suffering is a meaning that has been bundled a posteriori with the discourse of the legend. Nevertheless, this is not something external to the process of sacralization of the route and the crucifix but rather an essential part of it: suffering and pain motivate the participants of the ritual and are closely intertwined with the collectiveness of the pilgrimage, which works to reproduce the significance of the Lord of Huamantanga. In his study on Christian semiotics, Webb Keane notes how the bundling of different qualities together in an object shifts the “relative salience, value, utility and relevance” of these qualities across contexts (Keane 2005: 188). This applies to the route to Huamantanga, which is a material element that can be imbued with several qualities; for example, a perilous conjunction of adverse features that

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could endanger travelers’ lives or well-being or a solid geographical configuration that could only be reshaped instantly through miraculous deeds. In the myth, the former is implied only as a basis for the latter; yet, I argue that during the ritual the first quality becomes just as relevant as the second one because it implies the possibility of efficiently undertaking penance. However, what is the origin of this concern about penance and why is it suddenly so important? The emphasis laid on suffering can be understood from within the framework of the Catholic belief of attributing a positive value to experiencing physical pain as a means of purification, which is not exclusive to Latin American contexts. Dahlberg (1991) argues that a focus on the body and pain is typical of Catholicism, which claims that the divine is essentially embodied. The author also suggests that this trait can be contrasted with Protestant doctrine, which separates body from soul and exalts the latter over the former (see also Keane 2005: 200). Penance is also present in several other Catholic pilgrimages, such as the one dedicated to “Our Lady of Lourdes.” Dahlberg (1991) notes how nonsick pilgrims at Lourdes compete to take care of their handicapped or ill counterparts and how it is often an experience of bereavement that motivates participation in this ritual for the first time. Sickness is thus given a central place, but this happens in a dual way: as a sign of sin, it is negatively valued and a miracle cure is implicitly valued, but as a means of participating in the Passion [and making the pilgrims closer to Christ] it is positively valued as leading to the eradication of sin. (ibid.: 38)

As in Lourdes, in the pilgrimage to the shrine of Huamantanga pain is associated with sin in as much as illness is regarded as a problem that can be cured by intercession of Christ. However, it also leads to a mimetic process that resembles his Passion and recreates pilgrims as new entities whose petitions can be granted—as opposed to themselves prior to the ritual. Therefore, penance can be understood in this context as a form of relating to the adversities inherent to the route in order to interact with the praesentia of this Christ. The apparition of Mary to the seer Bernadette at Lourdes has also been used by Robert Orsi (2008) as an example of what he calls “abundant events.” These are, namely, events that are “characterized by excess, by the conflation of categories, by too much intimacy, exposure, and vulnerability” (ibid.: 14) and consequently trigger many more to happen. The apparition ultimately gave rise to the pilgrimage, but also to a set of social relations—“a network of routes, a kind of capillary of presence, filling water, relics, images, things, and memories”

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(ibid.: 15)—that allowed for other events to emerge, such as the bathing in the waters as a healing practice, the sale of souvenirs, the organization of pilgrims to take care of the sick ones, and so on (Dahlberg 1991). Drawing on these ideas, I claim that the myth of the Lord of Huamantanga is also abundant in as much as it has given rise to several events, conceptions, and interactions that have shaped the pilgrimage as it is nowadays. In the process, different qualities have been bundled together and associated with the materiality of the route, out of which its hazardousness as a favorable condition for achieving penance has been exalted. This has become the form of expiation par excellence in order to achieve the necessary status for interacting with the crucifix, for which suffering has also become abundant and fostered a deep connection between the pilgrims and the path they follow. Even though the legend does not account for penance, its prominence in the way in which the bodies of the participants have bonded with the route throughout history has caused these two material elements to become as crucial to the ritual as the crucifix itself. This could be understood as a form of incorporated memory, delineated by routinized practices inherent to the material bodies that are imitated from peers through constant repetition (Connerton 1989; Wilson 2010). As I argued in the last section, the route itself has been transformed into a place of divine presence. This is a result of the process of bundling that emerged from the abundancy of the revelation of the crucifix’s miraculous capabilities through the myth and that continuously kept changing its face, repetition over repetition through the years, in order for the ritual to develop into the way it currently is. Nevertheless, penance does not only make participants bond with the route but also with one another. According to Dahlberg (1991: 30), “the suffering body is taken from the margins of secular society and becomes the means of uniting temporary groups of strangers” and “the sick pilgrim comes to assume a symbolic identity of supernatural significance.” Earlier I mentioned that praesentia arose at the shrine of Huamantanga out of a dialectical relationship between the crucifix and the pilgrims, which could be referred to as copresence. Similarly, the bodies of the participants, understood as material elements, are also copresent to one another, although in a more intermittent way (Coleman and Eade 2004). The fleeting encounters between individuals give rise to a collective experience that works to recreate or reproduce the lasting significance of the crucifix and the route. Physical pain triggers in pilgrims an understanding of their bodies as resembling one another

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and is therefore the core component in the production and reproduction of a collective. According to Bruno Latour (2005: 65), “social” should not be conceived as a specific domain of reality characterized by ties between humans that are regarded as assembled a priori, but rather as “an association between entities which are in no way recognizable as being social in the ordinary manner, except during the brief moment when they are reshuffled together.” Such entities—or actants— which are in certain cases even nonhuman, render these shifting actions durable and long lasting by systematic repetition. This cooperative reassembling of actions may lead to the definition of “a shared definition of a common world” or “collective” (ibid.: 247), which is analogous to the collective incorporated memory I mentioned earlier. In the pilgrimage to Huamantanga, the pilgrims, the route, and the crucifix are actants that briefly occupy the same space and time and give rise to an experience of collective bodies that work to recreate the significance of the ritual. Shared suffering is central here, as pilgrims develop a bond with the route and other participants through the material practice of pain, weaving together their discourses about the legend and their corporeal participation in the ritual and thus acting as a vehicle for a collective memory to reproduce.

The recreation of the crucifix as a sacred object Pilgrims may hold the route as a site of presence of the Lord of Huamantanga, but they do not walk it on a daily basis throughout the year. The pilgrimage must take place specifically three days before the third of May and the area must be covered within this span. Hence, the pilgrimage happens not only within a sacred place, but also within a sacred time that allows participants to ritually experience the transcendent (Brereton [1987] 2005). Three categories of time can be used to analyze this ritual: chronos, kairos, and aion. Chronos encompasses the measurable, quantifiable passing of time that enables the succession and continuity of events (Valencia García 2007). Kairos refers to a dilated, qualitative “passing instant when an opening appears which must be driven through with force if success is to be achieved” (Spiora 2002: 18). It is thus a “pregnant moment on which all hangs in suspense” and “all conditions are propitious for conception” (Brereton [1987] 2005: 7992). Finally, aion accounts

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for “undifferentiable, unceasing time” (ibid.) or an “eternal present” (OhnukiTierney [1987] 2005: 208). The chronos of the pilgrimage lies in its periodicity year after year on the same date. This demarcates boundaries within which participants engage in sacred time and allows repetition, which I have previously characterized as a key factor in establishing a collective memory, to occur. However, the three days of pilgrimage are more deeply associated with kairos and the moment of direct communion with the Lord of Huamantanga’s praesentia while touching the crucifix is directly related to aion. Pain is not just a means to bond with the route; it is an experience that occurs within a kairotic moment in order to assure that a desired outcome will happen. In other words, there is a possibility that pilgrims will transform their bodies in order to become worthy of interacting with the Lord of Huamantanga, but it is also possible that they will not attain such a state in the end. In order to achieve success in the ritual, “force” must be applied—that is, pain must be actively guaranteed. Those who decide to give up and go back or take a car to Huamantanga fail in this process and therefore cannot engage in the final stage of the ritual. This last phase is where the pilgrimage’s aion happens. Pilgrims touch the crucifix for only a few seconds, but those few seconds are perceived as an “eternal present” in which the Lord of Huamantanga’s praesentia is witnessed. Kairos and aion can therefore be conceptualized as two different manifestations of liminality because both times account for moments of restructuration, leading to a redefinition of the participants’ status (Turner 1969). Kairos alludes to a liminal moment in which the possibility of successfully interacting with the crucifix is at risk and pilgrims must actively undergo a process of expiation in order to ensure it. Its liminality is characterized by its quality of being a “pregnant moment” at which two possible outcomes are possible. Penance is the mechanism by which pilgrims make use of their bodies in order to trigger the desired result, developing a close bond with the route and other participants in the process. Aion, on the other hand, only manifests itself when the individual pilgrims interact exclusively with the crucifix. Therefore, it is liminal because pilgrims change status once more: from an exalted state achieved by successfully completing the walk against all adversities to a state of realization that allows them to return to chronos after the prayer. This is the only moment in which the bodies of the participants and the crucifix as a material object physically interact.

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The interaction between pilgrims and the crucifix, however, is not merely physical, but also social. The posthuman turn portrays the world as “populated not by active subjects and passive objects but by lively and essentially interactive materials, by bodies human and nonhuman” (Bennet 2015: 224). Therefore, the liminality of the last moment of the pilgrimage also leads to a change in the status of the crucifix when its sacredness is experienced by the participants. Earlier I mentioned that the mimetic process by which praesentia is materialized into a sacred object was not to be regarded as an act of merely copying, but rather as the generation of a new incommensurable entity. This new entity is different from the holy figure and from the crafted collection of matter that would have existed in its place if this abundant event had not occurred. The Lord of Huamantanga is therefore an actant, different from other crucifixes in as much as its praesentia allows its devotees to access the eternal through their interaction. This means that the Lord of Huamantanga as such is created or recreated upon the interaction of the materiality inherent to the bodies of participants and the sacred object every single time someone completes the pilgrimage.

Conclusion Throughout the text, I have argued that the route to the shrine of Huamantanga is one of the most important material elements that enable this ritual to persist in time. Year after year, pilgrims return to this same space and transform it into place by articulating narratives around it, thus closely bonding with it. The repeated, shared experience of pain constitutes a material practice that ensures the lasting significance of the route, linking its corporeal appropriation with the imagined familiarity acquired based on the legend. This establishes the route as a sacred place that traditionally leads to the Lord of Huamantanga. Additionally, the exaltation of penance as a form of expiation has been bundled with the route’s perilous features, which were originally mentioned mostly to portray the mythical stranger that is said to have forged the original crucifix as a holy figure that could alter them at will. Penance is an element taken from Catholic theology, along with the notion of praesentia: roughly, the idea that Christ’s presence, in this case, would reveal itself only at a key site—the shrine at Huamantanga— and through its materialization into a sacred object, the crucifix. Due to these reasons, space is essential to understand this ritual, both because the abundant

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events that characterize it can only occur there and because human bodies deeply interact with the materiality of the route while appropriating it. Given that the route is understood as a place of praesentia and not just as a means to reach the shrine, pilgrims produce both themselves as Christ-like bodies worthy of witnessing the Lord of Huamantanga and the crucifix at the end of the route as the Lord of Huamantanga itself. This is because the liminality of the moment in which they interact with the route endows them with a higher state of grace, achieved through the exaltation of penance, and the liminality of the moment in which they later interact with the crucifix leads to an experience of sacredness with which they imbue the sacred object. This same process takes place year after year, reproducing the crucifix as holy every time the pilgrimage is successfully completed. This accounts for a mimetic process by which a new entity is created. The Lord of Huamantanga draws on characteristics of both Christ and the collection of wood and ceramic that is placed at the shrine, but is itself a third entity specific to the time and place where it interacts with the human actants that participate in this ritual. The Lord of Huamantanga, as an object of praesentia, bridges the immanent and the eternal with its materiality. I understand materiality not as a condition or a quality, but rather as a process; concretely, materiality is that process by which the Lord of Huamantanga (repeatedly) comes into existence as more than mere matter. The original and the replacement crucifixes are thus essentially the same Lord of Huamantanga. The complete obliteration of the crucifix is therefore arguable, since from the perspective of the devotees, the pilgrimage constitutes a complex process of material appropriation that reproduces the sacredness of the crucifix and the ritual at the same time. Therefore, as long as it sits at the end of that route, it will always be the Lord of Huamantanga, no matter what it is made of or who built it.

Notes 1 I am aware that “Christ” is not a count noun, especially written with a capital initial. However, I chose to phrase this sentence like that because it accounts for the versatility of the term when used by practitioners of Peruvian vernacular Catholicism, who find no contradiction in believing that although only one Christ is mentioned in the Bible, there are many apparitions around the world that constitute a “different Christ” each.

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2 Fieldwork was conducted in 2012. Sampling was based on convenience and started with contacting the leader of one fellowship in the district of Comas in Lima city. He then allowed me to join preparation meetings prior to the pilgrimage, in which I had the chance to interview several members. During the pilgrimage, I traveled in the bus rented by this fellowship to a settlement called Santa Rosa de Macas and then started walking alongside their leader, whom I interviewed once more. I then interviewed several other pilgrims along the route to Huamantanga and observed their interaction. Simultaneously, I experienced the difficulties of walking this barren, arid route under the scorching sun while listening to their own testimonies of pain and penance, which allowed me to have a more reflexive approach. The pilgrimage started on the evening of April 30 and ended on the dawn of the May 3 when the actual feast started. I also conducted participant observation during this festivity and contacted several townsfolk, whom I interviewed. One month after the pilgrimage, I returned to the community by car with the leader of the fellowship that I had contacted at the beginning. I stayed for three days and two nights in the community interviewing the townsfolk. 3 Peru is divided into twenty-four geopolitical categories called “departments,” each of which is further desegregated into provinces and districts. Huamantanga is a village within the district of the same name, province of Canta, department of Lima. The capital city of the country is located within a province with the same name in this same department. 4 My translation from: “si anteriormente servían como marcadores de tiempo y de una organización social orientada hacia el propio grupo ahora servirían para afirmar y elevar el prestigio de la localidad y para afirmar la identidad de las personas que ya no residen en el pueblo.” 5 It is important to consider that, as Sallnow (1991: 137) suggested, “The mere fact of a mass gathering at a sacred site is unlikely to indicate any unanimity of meaning or motive among the participants; on the contrary, it is more likely to reveal severely discrepant or discordant understandings of the significance of the cult . . . that might be articulated into contradictory and perhaps competing discourses concerning the shrine and its origins.” Hence, there is no established account of the myth, but rather certain key elements that are recurrent among the informants’ testimonies. 6 It must be noted that Andean geography can be extremely dangerous at some points. Back in the time of the myth, there were no cars or roads. The area between Huamantanga and Lima, except for occasional towns, was basically wilderness. Moreover, there was no reason to travel regularly between these two points. Therefore, it cannot be argued that dwellers of Huamantanga should have been familiar with the route or that it should have not posed a challenge for them to walk it.

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7 My translation from: “En este proceso las imágenes sagradas tienen un rol importante: son el reclamo expreso de identidad que rechaza las tendencias homogenizantes que provienen de la capital.” 8 Elsewhere I have argued that the latter half of the third century and the beginning of the fourth were particularly important in the forging of Catholic theology; both because the experience of martyrdom became more frequent during the last persecutions of Christians and because the Catholic Church was established and recognized upon the triumph of Constantine (Huerta 2015).

References Bennet, J. (2015), “Systems and Things: On Vital Materialism and Object-Oriented Philosophy,” in R. Grusin (ed.), The Nonhuman Turn, 223–40, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Brereton, J. ([1987] 2005), “Sacred Time,” in L. Jones (ed.), Encyclopedia of Religion, 7986–93, Detroit: Macmillan. Casey, E. (1996), “How to Get form Space to Place in a Fairly Short Stretch of Time: Phenomenological Prolegomena,” in S. Feld and K. Basso (eds.), Senses of Place, 13–52, Santa Fe, New Mexico: School of American Research Press. Coleman, S. and J. Eade (2004), ‘Introduction: Reframing Culture,’ in S. Coleman and J. Eade (eds.), Reframing Pilgrimage: Cultures in Motion, 1–26, New York: Routledge. Connerton, P. (1989), How Societies Remember, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Dahlberg, A. (1991), “The Body as a Principle of Holism: Three Pilgrimages to Lourdes,” in J. Eade and M. Sallnow (eds.), Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage, 30–50, London and New York: Routledge. Diez, A. (2000), “Fiestas patronales y redefinición de identidades en los Andes centrales,” in Naya, ciudad virtual de antropología y arqueología. Available online: http://www.equiponaya.com.ar/congreso2000/ponencias/Alejandro_Diez.htm (accessed September 5, 2015). Huerta, D. A. (2015), “Scouting Polypohony in Late Ancient Christianity: An Overview of Different Conceptualisations of Otherness Based on the Juxtaposition of Institutional and Non-institutional Voices,” MTh diss., University of Helsinki, Finland. Keane, W. (2005), “Signs are not the Garb of Meaning: On the Social Analysis of Material Things,” in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, 182–205, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Latour, B. (2005), Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network Theory, New York: Oxford.

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Limor, O. (2006), “ ‘Holy Journey’: Pilgrimage and Christian Sacred Landscape,” in O. Limor and G. Stroumsa (eds.), Christians and Christianity in the Holy Land: From the Origins to the Latin Kingdoms, 321–53, Turnhout: Brepols Publishers. Marapi, R. (2012), “Perú: identidades indígenas: De indio a campesino, de campesino a indígena,” La revista agraria, 141: 6–8. Massey, D. (2005), For Space, Los Angeles, London, New Delhi, Singapore and Washington DC: Sage. Miller, D. (2005), “Materiality: An Introduction,” in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, 1–50, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Millones, L. (1988), De la evangelización colonial a la religiosidad popular peruana: El culto a la imágenes sagradas, Sevilla: Fundación el Monte. Mitchell, J. (2015), “Ontology, Mimesis, and the Divine Intervention: Understanding Catholic Visionaries,” in M. Bull and J. Mitchell (eds.), Ritual, Performance and the Senses, 11–30. London and New York: Bloomsbury. Ohnuki-Tierney, E. ([1987] 2005), “Aion,” in L. Jones (ed.), Encyclopedia of Religion, 207–9, Detroit: Macmillan. Orsi, R. (2008), “Abundant History: Marian Apparitions as Alternative Modernity,” Historically Speaking, 9 (7): 12–16. Sallnow, M. (1991), “Pilgrimages and Cultural Fracture in the Andes,” in J. Eade and M. Sallnow (eds.), Contesting the Sacred: The Anthropology of Christian Pilgrimage, 137–53, London and New York: Routledge. Schechner, R. (1988), Performance Theory, New York: Routledge. Spiora, P. (2002), “Introduction: The Ancient Concept of Kairos,” in P. Spiora and J. Baumlin (eds.), Rhetoric and Kairos: Essays in History, Theory, and Praxis, 1–22, New York: State University of New York Press. Tambiah, S. (1979), A Performative Approach to Ritual, Oxford: Oxford University Press. Taussig, M. (1993), Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses, Routledge: New York. Turner, V. (1969), The Ritual Process, New York: Ithaca. Valencia García, G. (2007), Entre cronos y kairós. Las formas del tiempo sociohistórico, Barcelona: Anthropos Editorial Rubí. Webb, R. (2011), Perú en números 2011: anuario estadístico, Lima: Instituto Cuánto. Wilson, G. (2010), “Community, Identity, and Social Memory at Moundville,” American Antiquity, 1 (75): 3–18.

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8

Proving the Inner Word: (De)materializing the Spirit in Radical Pietism1 Elisa Heinämäki

At the end of the seventeenth century, religious trouble surfaced in the kingdom of Sweden. A man called Lars Ulstadius interrupted the Sunday service in Turku cathedral, proclaiming “the shame of the clergy” and exhorting the congregation to repent. In the confessional Lutheran state, this was unprecedented. It was the onslaught of a legal process and the first known instance of religious revivalism that has become known as Radical Pietism.2 Within the next decades, Pietismbased religious activity, more or less radical, attracted followers in both Finnish and Swedish sides of the kingdom. What caught the attention of the authorities was the refusal to attend the obligatory church services and, along with it, the rejection of sacraments and other shared practices, notably the Lord’s Supper. This defiance was met with disciplining attempts and legal measures.3 Radical Pietism emerged as a dissident reform movement in Lutheran Germany and Scandinavia in the late seventeenth century and found various expressions during the next few decades. Rejecting Lutheranism, which had become an orthodoxy and a public power structure, Radical Pietists insisted upon the individual relationship to God over and against the institutional and sacramental mediations thereof. In practice, a lot of its concerns centered upon the Spirit, experienced as a new birth in the heart of the believer. This experience was understood as inward and immaterial, opposed to “mere forms.” In its insistence on individual spiritual authority, Radical Pietism shared the more general Pietist concern for “the personally meaningful relationship of the individual to God” (Stoeffler 1971: 13).4 It had roots in earlier mystic and spiritualist traditions and was one example of a wider religious reform wave of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that dealt with “the unfinished business of the Protestant Reformation” (Martin 2003: 33).5

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In the scholarly discussions of last decades, the Protestant model of religion— centering on individual faith, understood as a spiritual reality—has received increasing critical attention as unconsciously shaping the whole modern conception of what religion is. What has been central in Protestantism, the criticism goes, has been taken as primary in religion per se, resulting in a onesided conception of religion that does not do justice to many non-Protestant forms of religion and a denigration of more ritual and material religious formations.6 The rising consciousness of this bias has gone hand in hand with a growing scholarly attention to and fascination with material dimensions of religion (such as religion as embodied practices, or the visual, auditory, and tactile dimensions of religion).7 One conclusion to draw from the criticism is to inquire into the material dimensions of Protestantism, obscured by its self-representations. In my view, this should not equal arguing that we got Protestantism somehow fundamentally wrong. There is a profound dematerializing thrust in Protestantism, and this is an important part of its cultural legacy. No is it so interesting to simply point out that there are material practices or rituals in Protestantism too (for instance, that there are ritual aspects in the Protestant relation to Scripture). Rather, the interesting endeavor is to inquire into the process of dematerialization itself. In the words of Birgit Meyer and Dick Houtman (2012: 8), “The point is to explore how, notwithstanding the indispensability of material means—things, but also images, bodies, and words—for religion to be tangible and present, religion got and gets dematerialized . . . in religious practice.” In this chapter, I will explore strategies of the Radical Pietist project of dematerialization. The analysis is based on diary accounts written by two prominent Radical Pietists in the Swedish (and Finnish) context, Peter Schaefer and Sven Rosén. This autobiographical material provides access to Radical Pietism as lived religion and to the active process of constituting oneself as a spiritual self.8 Bringing to bear the idea that “people do what they want to believe” (Morgan 2010a: 11), I will investigate how the reality of the Spirit is pursued and constructed in practice. This inevitably involves engaging with the material world. And as Daniel Miller points out, no pursuit of immateriality can get rid of materiality; rather, “some things and some people are seen as more material than others” (Miller 2005: 3) and the boundaries between the material and the spiritual are drawn (always also) within the material. I will ask, then, how the boundaries between materiality and immateriality are (re)drawn and (re)defined in the Radical Pietist endeavor; what kind of operations on the body and on material objects are involved in this boundary-work.

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In particular, I wish to highlight certain ambiguities inherent in the Spiritcentered religiosity that Radical Pietism represents. On the one hand, in the pursuit of the spiritual self, the presence of the Spirit needs to be localized and fixed. As the distinguishing feature of a reborn true believer, the presence of the Spirit becomes a ground for speech and action. On the other hand, as the necessity and uncertainty of this pursuit already implies, the reality of Spirit as Spirit is understood to be unrestrained and unpredictable. Its presence cannot be compelled by human action and, further, the point in identifying it is in releasing it so as to enable its benevolent effects in one’s words and deeds. Borrowing the terms of Jon Bialecki (2011), Radical Pietism thus exemplifies both the centripetal and centrifugal tendencies of the Protestant language practices: on the one hand, meaning is seen (and required) to stem from the inwardness of the individual, on the other hand, it is seen as emanating from an outside (divine) source and also aiming outward as material effects and signs. The analysis thus needs to grasp the ways of binding the Spirit in identifiable methods, the ways of unbinding the Spirit so as to disseminate its effects, as well as the ways in which these two are related. Before proceeding, a clarifying note about the focus of this article is perhaps in order. In my exploration of the Radical Pietist dematerialization processes, the concern is broadly speaking anthropological, rather than historical or theological. While I aim at an accurate and careful reading of historical sources, a reading that enriches our historical understanding of Pietism, my focus is not on the reconstruction of historical events and influences. Rather, to borrow Clifford Geertz’s (1973) term, I wish to provide a “thick description” of the ways in which Radical Pietism as a particular—spiritualist and “perfectionist”—kind of Christianity becomes habitable at the level of practices. I will start with a short account of theological ideas that can be found in Sven Rosén’s public writings and I will selectively point to more general trends in Pietist practices, but the main focus is on the micro level of everyday religion as evinced by the said autobiographical accounts.

Spirit as the ground Before delving into the autobiographical material evoked above, let us have a look at the more public side of the Radical Pietist spirituality through some polemical writings of Sven Rosén (1708–50), the other one of our protagonists. Rosén has been called “one of the finest figures” of Swedish Pietism (Montgomery 1995: 512). During the best-known instances of Swedish Radical Pietism in the 1730s in

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Stockholm, Rosén emerged as a prominent and active spokesperson (Linderholm 1911; Nordbäck 2008). In the context of a legal process against the radicals in 1736, Rosén wrote several lengthy memorials addressed for the Stockholm Church Consistory in defense of his and his fellows’ case. In looking at these texts, I will not enter into the course of the legal process. Rather, I am interested in the theological content of Rosén’s writings. They exemplify the official self-understanding and self-representation of Radical Pietism as Spirit-centered religiosity. In Rosén’s writings, the reality of the Spirit is depicted through the difference between the Inner and External Word. Whereas the External Word refers to the Word of God in its concrete, material instances, such as the Bible as a book, what is written in it, and what is preached from it, the Inner Word denotes the light of Christ and, above all, “the lively effects in the soul, whereby God communicates power and blessedness and reveals his will and his desire” (Rosén 1910: 3). The Spirit implants the Inner Word in the soul, where it can be heard and experienced through a silent, inner prayer: “In the inner divine service, happening in the hidden depths of the spirit, are included the inner movements of love, trust and joy in God as well as other good things that take place inside of the soul gripped, tried and inhabited by God” (ibid.: 28). The distinction between the Inner and External Word is a part of Lutheran theology. For Luther, “understanding [the Scripture] in the deeper sense presupposes . . . the obedience of faith before the external Word. Faith itself, therefore, is based on the unconditioned validity of the Word. We are bound to Scripture as an external authority” (Hägglund [1966] 1968: 221; see also Nordbäck 2009: 121–27). In Lutheranism, then, the External and the Inner Word are intrinsically intertwined. The spiritual Inner Word is seen to proceed only through some material form, although the material form is not sufficient for its emergence. This interconnectedness was reasserted in the Orthodox Lutheranism of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: the External Word was affirmed as the indispensable medium whereby the Spirit does its work (Hägglund [1966] 1968: 307–8). This is authoritatively articulated in the Augsburg Confession— declared as binding to all subjects in the kingdom of Sweden—that states (in articles 5 and 8) that the Word and Sacraments are necessary instruments of the Spirit. Although the Word and the Sacraments do not work mechanically, the Spirit does not proceed outside of these instruments. The Bible as a book, as a concrete object, is the primary locus of the External Word, and Radical Pietists were definitely Bible-readers. As has been pointed out, it was Pietism that really made Bible-readers out of the laity (Gawthrop and

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Strauss 1984) and the texts written by Radical Pietists are infused with biblical paraphrases and images. They tended to annotate their writings meticulously with Bible references as an assurance of authority. They also grant that the Spirit does not work contrary to Scripture (see Rosén 1910: 8). Thus, they exhibit absolutely no disregard for the scriptural letter. The Radical Pietist departure from Lutheran Orthodoxy occurred with the assertion, also found in Rosén’s memorials, that the Spirit does not depend on Scripture. The Spirit is seen as the source from where also the spiritual gifts emanate and from where the biblical scribes also drew (ibid.). Even though “these bright and healthy effects of God’s Spirit” (ibid.) do not contradict the Scripture, they are independent of it. The Spirit is like the wind that “blows where it wills” (ibid.; Jn 3:8), and Rosén asserts that oftentimes it moves the soul first and later provides the scriptural expression. “What the believing souls’ correspondence or communication, or the community of the Holy has to say, is a deep talk, that irrespective of the letter or the voice in the sphere of outer nature can be proclaimed to a powerful help, comfort and encouragement (Eph. 4.16, Col. 2.5, 1 Cor. 5. 34)” (ibid.). Thus, in opposition to Orthodox Lutheranism, Radical Pietists assert the unconditional primacy and independence of the Spirit and the immediacy of the encounters with it. Spirit is represented as the source and ground of meaning. It is to this reality that Sven Rosén appeals in his memorials in order to legitimize Radical Pietist religiosity, to represent it as superior to the “worldly” Church Lutheranism and to justify the disregard for the material aspects of religion. As pointed out by Carola Nordbäck (2008: 151–54; 2009: 142–46), a central background for Rosén’s conception of spiritual reality, and his sharp distinction between the inner and the merely external, is provided by Johann Arndt’s Four Books of True Christianity (1610). This immensely popular devotional work propagated a truly inward Christianity of the heart and opposed it to the mere letter. Arndt has been identified as a crucial early formulator of the heightened plea for personal piety within Lutheranism, who with his writings also provided a bridge between Lutheranism and late medieval spirituality (Shantz 2013: 25–30). The Arndtian legacy has been recognized as one of the main theological sources of Radical Pietism (Stoeffler 1973: 168). In his memorials, Rosén explicitly appeals to the “testimony of Johan Arndt,” who in True Christianity writes about “a hidden, inner, mere being, that has nothing to do with time and the world, and where the Holy Spirit gives his gifts”—in contrast with merely worldly erudition (Rosén 1910: 83). With his plea for inwardness, Rosén joins the Arndtian legacy and partakes in a shared Radical Pietist discourse.

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The Radical Pietist understanding of the Inner and the External Word can be conceptualized with the idea of Protestant semiotic ideology—semiotic ideology meaning a culturally specific understanding of how words can signify and notably of the relationship between the immaterial and material aspects of meaning—as formulated by Webb Keane. Keane spells out his idea with regard to Calvinism, but similar ideas are clearly shared by Radical Pietism. Fundamental in the Protestant semiotic ideology is the “view that signifying form is a superficial garb laid upon more fundamental, if immaterial, meanings” (Keane 2007: 64). Meaning is first and foremost spiritual: the spiritual meaning is primary with regard to material aspects of meaning, such as the words in their visual and auditory quality, and is seen as the causal force behind them. This ideology has been effective in shaping and legitimating Protestant worlds and subjectivities. However, it also involves inherent tensions. On the one hand, there is the problem of identifying the immaterial spirit; on the other hand, the material world needs to be reckoned with. We will now turn to an investigation of how these tensions become apparent in Radical Pietist autobiographical writings. It is in relation to them—in managing and evading them—that Radical Pietism becomes a lived reality.

(De)materializing the self through discipline Radical Pietist writings proclaim the possibility of the self to be reborn and transformed by the power of the Spirit. In the Protestant vein, this is understood to be an event that is independent of human efforts. The agency in question is that of the divine Spirit alone. However, the burning concern for the Spirit has the “fleshly” and “worldly” human nature as its locus and motivation. Human nature does not just disappear at one stroke by the intervention of the Spirit, but can be with the help of the Spirit gradually transformed. Formulated in the language of Johann Jacob Spener and other Pietist theologians, the event of the new birth is intrinsically linked with the process of sanctification, where human thought and actions become more and more imbued with the divine Spirit (Matthias 2004). According to the Pietist theological understanding, the new birth enables a transformation of human actions. In other words, it is the Spirit that gives the power to act differently in this world (ibid.). The presence of the Spirit cannot be compelled by human actions or material means; sanctification comes after one has given in to the Spirit and with its support. In his polemical writings evoked

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above, Sven Rosén subscribes to this order of things. He describes a process where outward, material means of approaching God are simply gradually given up until all that is left is a silent, inward prayer—as an empty space to be filled up by the Spirit. After this has happened, the gifts of the Spirit may shine forth, when, in the “hidden, inner, mere being,” “the Holy Spirit gives its gifts and drives them out in the powers of the soul, in wisdom, understanding, speech and skills” (Rosén 1910: 83). Attaining the inward state is depicted in abstract terms as a process of purification where material means are discarded one by one and the spiritual state respectively reinforced. The picture is different, however, if we look at the autobiographical writings of Radical Pietists. They stage the pursuit of the Spirit as an active, concrete, embodied effort. Peter Schaefer (1660–1729) belonged to the first known group of Radical Pietist dissidents in Sweden and Finland—the leader of this group was Lars Ulstadius, evoked at the beginning of this article—that was identified and persecuted by the authorities. Schaefer received a death penalty for heretical beliefs and practices; this was changed into a life sentence and Schaefer spent the rest of his life (1707–29) in prison (Kansanaho 1951–52; Laasonen 1995). Schaefer’s prison sentence did not mean a strict isolation and he exerted a considerable influence in Finnish and Swedish religious circles (Montgomery 1995: 509). This was managed both through personal contacts and through the circulation of his writings (Nordstrandh 1951: 179–82). While in prison, Schaefer (half-secretly) kept a diary that extends from 1707 to 1714. Thus, the diary is a very special document written in very particular circumstances. However, in the following, my assumption is that we can identify features that transcend the immediate prison context and shed light on the Radical Pietist practices of dematerialization. In the beginning of the diary, Schaefer reports the words that he has pronounced in the court: “The King’s magistrates may have my body but I won’t hand over my soul and my conscience” (Schaefer 1915: 45). Schaefer is familiar with the language of inwardness and the oppositions it entails. But, in fact, the diary text contains relatively little of the language of inwardness. It does manifest a noticeable concern for inner purity. Through Schaefer’s conviction of his prophetic powers, it also entails a relationship to God that is so intimate as to go almost without saying. But the language of inwardness is rather undeveloped and the diary contains little in the way of intricate soul-searching. Instead, Schaefer’s diary is all about the body. He writes about illnesses that cause painful suffering, about hunger, and about the food that he receives from people who are

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allowed to visit him. All of this requires no far-fetched interpretation: Schaefer is living in squalid conditions where he is nonetheless responsible for his own nourishment and is dependent on others’ donations for his survival. No wonder he writes about food. But there is more to food, hunger, and the body. Schaefer does not only crave food, he also abstains from it: fasting is a recurrent theme in his diary accounts. It is a central manifestation of his religiosity and he reports it with diligence. And fasting—no surprise here—is depicted as a struggle against bodily urges. It is a struggle against hunger but also against lust, triggered by female visitors and materialized most concretely as a nocturnal urge for masturbation. And as it happens, in Schaefer’s diary text his recurrent fasts are just as recurrently spoiled by the two impurities, eating and sexual desire: 10, 12, 14 November 1711. I took a strong resolution to fast for three days. After one day I spoiled everything./On Sunday I contaminated my body and had something to eat in the morning. I spoiled my prayer, my fast, the Holy Day and all that is Holy./I took on fasting again and spoiled it—after one day on fifteenth at six in the morning I had something to eat and contaminated my body. (Schaefer 1915: 74)

If Schaefer’s diary is all about the body, then, the body is confronted in a highly antagonistic mode. The body comes across as a willful object whose urges are a source of profound distress and it is targeted in a constant struggle. In this struggle, there is no more refined method than to start fasting again and again; there is also no “development” in the sense that Schaefer’s stubborn body would seem to become more domesticated through his efforts. On the contrary, the diary depicts an escalating despair, as Schaefer feels an increasing desire toward one of his female guests, Anna Wargentin. All his fasting cannot bring the dilemma into a solution. Sven Rosén, the author of the polemical texts discussed above, also kept a diary. This text is written in a very different situation from that of Schaefer: it stems from 1731 to 1732, when Rosén was in his early twenties and employed as a tutor in a noble family. The language used is also at some remove from that of Schaefer. It is a text of minute self-scrutiny and introspection, expressed in a rich vocabulary of inwardness. Rosén reports diligently his various emotional states as well as their movements, interpreted as presence of God’s Spirit or distance with regard to it. He is also engaged in an intense effort of repentance and reforming the self, constantly endeavoring toward the desired state of inwardness. At the same time, body is just as central as in Schaefer’s text. Just as anxiously as Schaefer, Rosén reports his bodily states, and the body is entangled in the same

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problems. Rosén is troubled by his desiring body and, like Schaefer, he confronts his body with fasting. In Rosén’s case, fasting does not come up so much as based on a resolution and kept (or not kept) for a longer period of time. Rather, the problem with food and the desiring body is staged with regard to the constant attention to God’s will. In general, God expects nonattachment to worldly desires, but this expectation is not met with formal practices like preset periods of fasting or fixed rules about eating. Because God communicates himself as Spirit and the Spirit comes and goes as it wills, Rosén is constantly alert to its movements and its inwardly experienced commands. This leads to complications in his daily life. The shared dinners at his master’s manor represent a constant dilemma for Rosén: can I eat or not, and how much? Does God want me to abstain? He reports his eating and abstinence: herring was served and Rosén took an extra bite, but did not eat it “for the sake of an inward prohibition” (Rosén 1948: 27); “At the meal God humiliated my food-craving inconsideration as I took a herring and could not eat it before the next course, and the same with bread” (ibid.: 60). In all, however, Rosén’s fasting is less of a violent fight than in Schaefer’s case: 8.10. 1731 I got an inward warning not to eat breakfast, which I had already begun. When I obeyed, I found peace and good inclination and my heart was warmed up, not as sweetly as before but more seriously. (Ibid.: 48–49)

In Rosén’s diary, then, abstaining from food does not come across as a constant violent struggle but is displayed as an act of obedience that is not tremendously difficult to accomplish. Even so, there is a lot of anguish involved, caused by bodily urges but often also by difficulties of knowing and hearkening to God’s will. The anguished relationship to embodiment and bodily urges, represented by both Schaefer and Rosén, is of course not confined to Pietism but stands in the long tradition of Christian asceticism. However, the negative attitude toward the body has also been identified as a pronounced feature in the Swedish Pietism, where the “crucifixion of the flesh” was very much expected (Nordbäck 2004: 218–19). While Schaefer’s routines, with the preset periods of fasting, retain the very core of Christian ascetic and penitential practices, Rosén’s habits bear a more particularly Pietist stamp: a constant monitoring of one’s inner states and an attempt to calibrate them to God’s will in this and that everyday context. This restless attention to detail can be seen to exemplify the Pietist conviction that there are no religiously irrelevant deeds and things—stated in theological language, there are no adiaphora, no “indifferent things.” Every deed is either self-serving and sinful or serving God; there is no neutral ground in between (Stoeffler 1973: 18–19).

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Despite the differences, both Schaefer’s and Rosén’s diary accounts betray a relationship to the body that evokes the memorable lines of Nietzsche (who knew a thing or two about Pietism!), in which the birth of the soul is imagined as the result of the self-afflicting actions of a miserable animal who, “for want of external enemies and resistance impatiently tears, persecutes, gnaws, disturbs, mistreats himself, this animal which is to be ‘tamed,’ which rubs himself raw on the bars of his cage (Nietzsche [1887] 1996: 65). For Nietzsche, the soul is a function of a self-tortured body. In Nietzschean terms, asceticism comes across as the suppression of bodily desires and potentials. It is a process of mortification of the body—the less there is body, the more there is Spirit. In a more contemporary vein, a Foucauldian take on Schaefer’s and Rosén’s actions is to present them as disciplinary practices through which a (spiritual) self is enabled and constructed. Following Foucauldian insights, the body in this kind of practices is not to be understood as repressed, suppressed, or denied, but rather as co-constituted with the soul: the pure soul is constructed through disciplining the body as obedient and pure. Still, in the Foucauldian approach, a fundamental Nietzschean insight is preserved: body and soul are intricately intertwined insofar as the soul is something that comes into being in and through bodily practices.9 This line of inquiry helps to spell out something fundamental about Radical Pietist fasting and relationship between body and Spirit. Spiritual self comes into being through an intense bodily effort. It is materialized—in the sense of being constituted—by performing operations on the body. These operations function as a dematerialization process: through them, a spiritual self is released. Dematerializing the Spirit—the constitution of the self as the receptacle of the Spirit—is a material, embodied process.

Body as a site of meaning making However, there is more to the body in the diaries than disciplinary practices. Schaefer’s and Rosén’s investment in the body exceeds the project of self-control. In their diary accounts, body also comes across as a site of meaning making. First of all, the body communicates. Bodily experiences are eagerly observed and interpreted. This is particularly notable in the case of Schaefer reporting his various bodily ailments. These ailments are understood as messages whose meaning needs to be spelled out. For example, an ear that has been aching all

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through the night is a “reminder of stubbornness [literally: hard-earedness] and laziness” and of a neglect with a request that has been presented to Schaefer (Schaefer 1915: 72). A toothache is a “mark of the detractors, Ps 52.1” (ibid.: 75). In these kinds of instances, the body is encountered as signs. The body communicates divine messages that one needs to decipher. Second, the experience of the Spirit is described to a large extent in embodied terms. Especially Rosén’s language of inwardness is a bodily language in the sense that the presence of the Spirit is described in a way that gives it an embodied quality: it is a felt state of glowing warmth or a kind of a damp and flowing feeling, often accompanied by tears. Its opposite, the absence of the Spirit or distance from it, is depicted as a coldness, dryness, stiffness, and heaviness. The embodied spiritual states are typically depicted in a detailed manner, where the exact location of a bodily experience is specified, for instance as a movement “in the left heart chamber” or as a lively warmth in the heart at the side of the present interlocutor (Rosén 1948: 120–21). Likewise, the shifting of the spiritual state is described in bodily terms: “Today I have felt in turns light and darkness, coldblooded hardness and right after heartwarmth. . . . I was praying in darkness and cold-blooded hardness until 10.30 pm, when a lovely warmth emerged” (ibid.: 96). While the Spirit is depicted as embodied, this embodiedness is set against a hierarchy between different kinds of embodiment. There is a bad, fleshly kind of embodiment, exemplified by mouth or brain; the good embodiment is located first and foremost in the heart, or more precisely, in a certain kind of feeling in the heart. “My prayer and reading are mouth chatter and brainwork, my heart is unmoved” (ibid.: 51), Rosén complains, whereas in a positive account, the warm heart comes to the fore: “When I was from 7 to 9 searching for something to read in the evening prayer, I experienced a hearty blaze (a lively, strong warmth in the heart, which grew stronger from time to time). The heart was praying and not the lips” (ibid.: 54). These entries make visible how different aspects of the body are categorized differently: some of them are of the Spirit, some of the flesh. In Rosén’s diary accounts, a hierarchy is thus created within the body. It is created between different body parts, but also, in the case of the heart, within a body part, between its differing felt states (cold and unmoved vs. moved, warm heart). Attaining the presence of the Spirit thus presupposes a boundary-work on the body, whereby the body is divided and given meaning: part of it as merely fleshly, part of it as (potentially) spiritual. It can be said that in this process, part of the body is spiritualized, taken as “no longer of the body.” At the same time, this way (part of) the body is made acceptable and the presence of the

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Spirit inhabitable. By dividing the body, Spirit is made real as a felt, embodied state—and in very concrete terms, as specifications such as “in the left heart chamber” make clear. As the third aspect of the body as a site of Radical Pietist meaning making, let us return to fasting, analyzed above in terms of disciplinary practices. In his diary, Peter Schaefer frames fasting recurrently as an act of remembrance. Schaefer engages in a seven-week-long, yearly fast that he calls “the fast of holy water” (ibid.: 44, 52, 60). This is done in order to commemorate what for him is a decisive event in his biography: an experience of God’s calling that according to him occurred during a long exile and triggered his return to Finland.10 Schaefer is also fasting in the memory of a more recent turning point: that of his life sentence (ibid.: 55, 90). Moreover, he also reports fasting in order to mark the memory of a remarkable political event, that of the battle of Poltava in the Great Northern War in June, 1709, which sealed the defeat of the Swedish army and the escape of King Carl XII to Turkey (ibid.: 55, 69, 100). This fateful event had made a striking impression on Schaefer, as it did on a lot of his contemporaries. Fasting “in the memory of,” Schaefer is involved in constructing a lasting significance of the said events. By fasting, these events are inscribed in the body as meaningful. The meaning of these events is (re)constructed and reinforced in and by bodily effort and pain. Furthermore, the meanings thus reinforced do not just involve Schaefer personally. By fasting in the memory of the battle of Poltava, he is also appropriating outward events and inscribing himself as a part of them. Thus, as the third aspect of body as a site of meaning making, body comes across as a site of memory. If above, repetition was related to Schaefer’s exasperation with his unsuccessful fasting, here we encounter another meaning of repetition: recurrent fasting as memory work.

How does one discern the Spirit? As has become clear, for the Radical Pietists, in the vein of Protestant language ideology, the ground of (religious) meaning is spiritual and resides in the Spirit. A person’s religious state is her spiritual state, a question of attaining “a hidden, inner, mere being that has nothing to do with time and with the world” (Rosén 1910: 83). The spiritual is immaterial and this immateriality is primary, independent, and outside of human agency. And yet, the Radical Pietists find themselves living in this world amid worldly things, wherein lays the context and motivation for their quest of spiritual

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reform. Hence, the question of identifying the Spirit in the world becomes of utmost importance. With reference to 1 Jn 4:1, Sven Rosén (1910: 78) calls forth the skill of discernment, of testing the spirits, in other words, of determining the origin of religious appearances. Rosén’s diary gives an idea of this activity at the individual level insofar as it portrays a constant monitoring of one’s inner state with regard to the Spirit. But the problem of discernment does not only concern one’s own inner spiritual state; it also, and crucially, involves recognizing that of others. For the Radical Pietists, this is a burning issue. Sharing the same Spirit is for them a central qualification and a fundamental characteristic of the bond between them, of “the spiritual community of believers” (ibid.: 27). On the other side of the coin, it is equally important to be able to discern that which is not of the divine Spirit. Thus, the question of discernment is also that of drawing and maintaining identity boundaries, constructing the “us” of the Spirit in contrast to the “others” of the world. Reference to the spiritual state is for the Radical Pietists a fundamental strategy of self-definition. It is also a fundamental legitimation for keeping a distance to the official church practices. With regard to those, the problem boils down to that of the spiritual state of the clergy. The “worldly” clergy, lacking the divine Spirit, becomes the main target for Radical Pietist polemics. The worldly clergy operates on the basis of “usurped spiritual authority” (ibid.: 33). If what happens in the church is based on fake authority, it cannot command participation or respect. Those with the Spirit can claim a sovereign freedom with regard to worldly orders (ibid.: 34, 48). One can see how high the stakes of discernment are: church attendance is obligatory according to the church law. Furthermore, the Augsburg Confession (article 8) specifies that the efficacy of the Word and Sacraments does not depend on the spiritual state of the clergy. Appeals to the Spirit stand out as highly political acts on a political field. How does one discern the Spirit, then? Identifying it on a personal level has its complications—we will get back to this—but if it is something immaterial, outside of the world and time, is it not impossible to do it with respect to others? How does one judge “not according to the appearance” (ibid.: 80) but according to the Spirit? This is possible because the presence of the Spirit in the soul is thought to have effects from where it can be inferred. Being filled with the Spirit flows out as increasing love, trust, and humility; it does not exempt one from everyday Christian virtues but rather makes them easy to accomplish (Rosén 1910: 9). The gifts of the Spirit also include increasing powers of the soul such as wisdom, understanding, speaking, and skills (ibid.: 83). Further, the one reborn in Spirit has a powerful effect on others and Rosén specifies these effects with

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biblical paraphrases. The light in her shines for others’ enlightenment (2 Cor. 4:6), she is able to preach with authority and not like scribes and Pharisees (Mt. 7:29) and to pour the ointment of God’s name on others’ hearts (Cant. 1:3) (Rosén 1910: 4–5). On the opposite pole, those (especially clergymen) lacking the Spirit are not able to kindle the love of God in the souls, cannot care for the living nor waken the dead, and lack the power of the (inner) prayer (ibid.: 104–6). This criteria presented by Rosén is experiential in nature. What is of the Spirit has a felt quality; it is as if Rosén is saying that one knows the Spirit by feeling the power of the Spirit. But Rosén does not contend with the elusive experiential criteria; discussing the “worldly priests,” he supplements the above criteria with more concrete ones. Worldly priests are attached to visible things, earnings, and revenues (ibid.: 82), they stick to their academic qualifications and other worldly merits (ibid.: 85–86), and they are committed to the rules and regulations about their post and thus constrict the free movements of the Spirit (which goes against the order of the Spirit: one should preach the Word if the Spirit so occasions, not confine it to preset situations which can only result in pretense and empty words); they also partake in worldly power as guardians of the church discipline and they persecute the true believers (ibid.: 104–08, 118–19). In these characterizations of the worldly priests, spiritual criteria turn into very concrete ones. One is no longer facing the problem of purely spiritual discernment; instead, certain outward characteristics are provided as criteria. It is not a question of experiencing whether such and such priest has the Spirit, but rather, from the fact that someone is an ordained priest with the duties and benefits that entails, one can conclude that he lacks the Spirit. This wavering between “spiritual” and more material criteria, or the question of how material criteria the Spirit can have, can be further illustrated by Rosén’s treatment of the clerical attire. With the official signs of their post, they are like wolves in sheep’s clothing; they disguise the secret of their evil “under the cloak of the orthodoxy” (ibid.: 116). Thus, appearances deceive; from what one sees one does not know the inner state. Right after, however, Rosén gives the conspicuous clerical clothing as “a warning sign and a reminder” (ibid.) of the lack of the Spirit. Thus, Rosén seems to suggest that the spiritual state can be inferred from the outfit. Were the Spirit truly independent, as the Radical Pietists argue, it would have no essential links to materiality. However, in practice, certain material things are interpreted as its essential indications. Of this, Rosén’s diary gives further

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examples. In his diary, Rosén wrestles with the habit of wearing a wig (a normal part of a gentleman’s attire at the time). In the Pietist religious circles, Rosén is reprimanded for his outfit and he reflects having started wearing it “out of pride” (Rosén 1948: 209). Struggling with the issue, Rosén ends up abandoning his wig, which he reports giving him “peace and more fortitude” and resulting in (spiritual) benefits (ibid.). A modest appearance is a necessary sign of a true believer. Discussing early modern religious concerns about certainty and deception, shared by Martin Luther and Teresa of Avila, Susan Schreiner (2003) points out the circularity in arguments about discernment. One needs to know how one can discern the spirit; the ability rests on having the Spirit, one discerns the spirit with the help of the Spirit, but knowing whether one’s experience is of the Spirit was the problem in the first place. In his zeal of new birth, Rosén is not exactly plagued by self-doubts about the divine origin of his own experience or that of his fellows. There is a circularity in his line of thought, however, insofar as the ability to discern the Spirit is said to stem from the Spirit itself (ibid.: 5), and insofar as the Spirit is represented as something “spiritually” experienced. In practice, though, his line of thought moves from the spiritual to more material criteria. Discerning the spirit turns out to be inductive reasoning where the Spirit is “read out” from concrete instances. Certain material things get to be treated as indexes of the Spirit. In both of its manifestations—in the circular argument about the spiritual origin of the Spirit and in the alleged insight into its material indices—the discernment of the Spirit, as practiced by the Radical Pietists, is a highly political activity. Presenting oneself as guided by the Spirit and at the same time as experts of the Spirit is an insolent way of claiming authority over and against the institutional power.11 On the other hand, reading institutional characteristics and outfits as materializations of the Spirit—or of its absence—indicates how the question of discernment is a part of a concrete struggle over possibilities and privileges.

Invisible and visible things We have discussed the discernment of the Spirit as it manifests itself in the world. But before concluding, let’s get back to the fundamental question: How does one know the Spirit in oneself? If the Spirit is the aspect where God’s will is communicated, how does it become present? Above, we looked at fasting as a practice that shapes, purifies, and spiritualizes the self. For Sven Rosén, fasting

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turned out to be a rather complex issue. Fasting fulfills the will of God in that it represents overcoming one’s worldly self through abstinence; but as God’s will is not simply to be read and observed but communicated through the Spirit in unprecedented ways, a constant alertness to its movements is required, as the problem becomes when and how exactly God wants the abstinence to occur. The issue is not only about fasting, but also about other practices. Praying is a central practice both for Rosén and in the wider Lutheran context. For Rosén, as in Pietism more generally, praying should originate as the inner prayer, kindled by the Spirit; so preset prayer formulas are unsatisfactory (Wallmann 2004). To an extent, Rosén represents the awareness of God’s will as a solely inner experience. It becomes known as “an inward warning” or “an inward certainty” through “the proof of conscience” (samwetsprof); in other words, as occurrences within one’s mind or, more exactly, heart. As we have seen, scrutiny of the inner state is a constant feature of Rosén’s diary. However, this is oftentimes not enough. Rosén also reverts to more concrete practices through which the spiritual message can be communicated. As regard to prayer, one commits oneself to pretense or hinders the movements of the Spirit with ready-made formulas, but one can still use books in a particular way. Rosén often relates how the prayer “came up” or “was sent” to him when reading a book, or when he leafs through a book with the particular aim of finding the spiritual inspiration for prayer. In other words, if the Spirit does not come to mind immediately, one can make use of more material channels through which it can be communicated. Another example of a similar kind of material form is lottery, using pieces of paper with biblical verses written on them and picking up randomly one of them. Rosén reverts to this notably when in doubt about eating and abstaining. During an illness, he writes: “At noon had oatmeal but doubting whether I should eat more drew lottery and got no” (Rosén 1948: 168). And a few days later: “Before dinner drew lottery in my uncertainty about whether I should eat or not, but as no clear answer occurred, I prayed for certainty, and when I drew again, got freedom for a course” (ibid.: 171). Consisting of biblical verses with a sometimes ambiguous meaning, the lottery is no mechanical guarantee for a clear divine message. Nonetheless, the Spirit can make itself known through this material medium and it can be enticed by reverting to it. The use of books and lottery tickets is a way for the immaterial Spirit to be materialized through concrete, material things. These things thus serve as the semiotic form for the supposedly immaterial meaning. In the pages of Rosén’s diary, these things as such merit no commentary. Making use of them is not taken as a ritual; it is not problematized in any way. For Rosén, these things are invisible

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as things. The fact that Spirit may need them to become present is not counted as making it any less spiritual. The thing does its job by effacing its thingness. Turning to Peter Schaefer’s diary for one last time, we encounter another kind of thing: the “bread of love.” With this preoccupation, Schaefer can be seen to join the (particularly Radical) Pietist practice of the love feast, a special gathering around a common meal, understood as a reinvigoration of Early Christian practices (Eller 2006). Throughout the years covered by the diary, this is one of Schaefer’s concerns. He arranges bread that he calls the bread of love to be baked for him, he sends it to his friends, and he shares it with them when they get to visit. In the vein of the Protestant language ideology, Schaefer renders this bread as an act of remembrance: it is made and eaten in the memory of the love uniting him with his spiritual fellows (Schaefer 1915: 50, 88). At the same time, it is obvious that the bread not only marks or signifies the (spiritual) event of love retrospectively; but it is also essential in maintaining bonds, creating new ones, and materializing love’s existence. Schaefer’s dissident beliefs and practices have cost him a prison sentence and, during his time in prison, his sense of mission develops. Schaefer imagines his imprisonment against the backdrop of fateful contemporary events, where the advancing Russian army threatens Sweden, engaged in the Great Northern war. In Schaefer’s apocalyptic narrative, his prison sentence turns into a chapter in a divine plan, where the misfortune becomes a necessary step toward a miraculous release that is also a decisive step in the wider historical course of events. Eventually, Schaefer reveals his vision to his closest friends. The shared meal is an essential element when the vision is communicated and a bond substantiated. 22 September 1712. Mother [Anna Wargentin, a special female acquaintance] heated up the mustard pike. The three of us ate together and I held the Agape Supper of Love of the believers of old times. . . . In the morning . . . in prayer we devoutly thanked God for his mercy and reinforced the threefold thread of love and concord and resolved to pray for my release and for our promised path. (ibid.: 125)

In this quotation, Schaefer renders the shared meal as the Lord’s Supper, but sharing a meal receives a further layer of meaning. In Schaefer’s vision, his fate and its significance are modeled on the story of Israel’s release from the Egyptian slavery. Schaefer is Aaron, his “spiritual father” Lars Ulstadius is Moses, and together they are to guide the chosen people, the true believers, from slavery to freedom. In Schaefer’s vision, a Passover meal is to function as a “form of preparation” for the decisive event. The meal is to be celebrated

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with blessed bread and wine, that I enjoy and hand out to others . . . so that side posts and the lintel of the soul are spread with the blood of Jesus Christ, and that the angel of murder walks past, and we are delivered from evil as the Lord strikes down the first-born of Egypt and the best part of the people with a terrible plague. (ibid.: 138)

In Schaefer’s imagination, sharing a meal extends from a simple act of communion into an element in an apocalyptic imagery. And these images do not just reside inside Schaefer’s mind but are concretely acted out on several occasions when he gathers with his friends. Following Simon Coleman (2000: 118, 125–7), this can be named dramatization, whereby stories from the Scripture are brought to existence amid one’s own life by a creative act of application. A shared meal becomes an element in a drama where the Word of God is made flesh. By eating together, sharing a piece of bread or fish, the drama retains a tangible, visceral character. If with Sven Rosén, things served their essential role but their thingness was effaced, with Peter Schaefer, things like bread become a visible centerpiece of lived religion.

Conclusion Schaefer’s dramatized vision of his mission was not fulfilled. His vision is complete with the exact time and place of his release. On the preordained night, October 18, 1712, he waits prepared, wearing clean clothes and new white wool socks and shoes (pinching his feet, as he reports), but nothing happens (Schaefer 1915: 145–46). Confusion, impatience, and restlessness follow. Schaefer is able to overcome his disappointment, however: “After a few days, it was reinforced in my heart, that on that day, eighteenth day of the tenth month in the year 1712, the foundation of my blessed release was laid: so that on the part of Spirit and Soul and Faith I am free of all imprisonment and confinement” (ibid.: 157). According to Schaefer’s interpretation, the release has in fact already happened, but in a mysterious, immaterial way. This spiritual release annuls his imprisonment and sets him free. We have followed the Radical Pietist quest for the Spirit, detecting different practices through which the presence of the Spirit is elicited. In doing this, we have reversed the basic Protestant way of representing things: instead of treating spiritual reality as the ground of meaning, we have looked at various ways in which the presence of the Spirit in the soul and in the world has been constructed. As we have seen, this included different kinds of operations on

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the body and on material things and drawing the line of demarcation between materiality and spirituality always also within the material. These operations include fasting as a disciplinary practice, whereby the spiritual self is enabled and constructed. They include different ways of embedding spirituality in the body: encountering the body as pregnant with signs to be deciphered and drawing the boundaries between the material and the spiritual in the body so as to articulate the Spirit as an embodied experience. They further include bodily repetitions as memory work as well as the indexicalization of the material effects of the Spirit in the practice of discernment. They include gaining access to the spiritual will of God with the help of material media, such as books and lottery tickets, and finally, representing a shared meal as an act of communion and a dramatization of biblical imagery. These can all be understood as ways of binding or delimiting what is understood as the elusive, unpredictable reality of the Spirit. Theologically speaking, the Spirit cannot be commanded, but through these practices, it is solicited and identified. At the same time, the presence of the Spirit is understood as a liberation of words and deeds. Becoming a reborn spiritual self engenders the possibility of spiritual gifts. It releases one into free and fruitful acting in the world—or, in Schaefer’s case, a glimpse of inner freedom amid confinement. Notwithstanding the energetic endeavor of concretely identifying the Spirit, there remains the possibility of its unpredictable ways; these two are intimately connected and provide each other’s energy. Materializing and dematerializing, binding and unbinding go hand in hand.

Notes   1 Acknowledgment: The article is based on a postdoctoral research project funded by the Academy of Finland.   2 The history of Ulstadius and his followers exists only in Finnish (Kansanaho 1951–2).   3 For brief introductory accounts on Swedish and Finnish Radical Pietism, see Lenhammar (2000: 70–72), Laasonen (1991, 250–2, 365–67), Laasonen (1995), and Montgomery (1995). For more detailed case studies, see Kansanaho (1951–52), Linderholm (1911), and Loimaranta (1941). For an up-to-date account in English, see Nordbäck (2008).   4 Defining Radical Pietism over and against the more moderate church or Conservative Pietism, or Pietism tout court, has been the subject of lively scholarly debate. While the two share a “common culture,” a quest for spiritual renewal,

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and a focus on individually meaningful and effective Christianity, Hans Schneider (2007: 3) states that the traditional view of Radical Pietism as distinguished by heterodox beliefs and, at the social level, separatist tendencies, still serves as a starting point for the characterization of Radical Pietism. In any case, as formulated by Douglas Shantz (2013: 148), “the boundary between Church Pietists and the Radicals was porous, with individuals migrating back and forth between the two camps, often making it difficult to determine where an individual belongs.”   5 For an introduction to Radical Pietism in English, see Schneider (2007) and Schantz (2013: 147–78). For recent research perspectives in German, see Breul, Meier, and Vogel (2010).   6 The now-classic account is Asad (1993: 27–54), although he does not explicitly frame the model of religion he criticizes as Protestant but rather a modern (postReformation) Western one.   7 The editors’ introductions as well as the articles in Morgan (2010b) and Houtman and Meyer (2012) serve as good entries to these discussions.   8 See Gleixner (2015) and Mori (2010) for (Radical) Pietist processes of self-construction.   9 See Foucault ([1975] 1991) for the idea of constructing docile selves through bodily discipline in modern penal and educational institutions and Foucault (1988, 1993, 2012) for technologies of the self in the Christian monastic context. For a critical application of the Foucauldian approach where questions about religion are foregrounded, see Asad (1993: 83–167).   10 The whole narrative about the exile can be found in Schaefer’s unpublished manuscript, Peter Hindrichson Schaefers Trosbekiännelse och Lefwerne.   11 Cf. Tomlinson and Engelke (2006: 16): “Appeals to indexicality are often claims to power. When divine signs are ‘natural,’ they are undeniable, and their enunciation (and perhaps their enunciators) may not be susceptible to challenge.”

References Asad, T. (1993), Genealogies of Religion: Discipline and Reasons of Power in Christianity and Islam, Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Augsburg Confession. Available online: http://bookofconcord.org/augsburgconfession. php (accessed September 30, 2015). Bialecki, J. (2011), “No Caller ID for the Soul: Demonization, Charisms, and the Unstable Subject of Protestant Language Ideology,” Anthropological Quarterly, 84 (3): 679–704. Breul, W., M. Meier, and L. Vogel, eds. (2010), Der Radikale Pietismus. Perspektiven der Forschung, Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht.

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Coleman, S. (2000), Globalization of Charismatic Christianity: Spreading the Gospel of Prosperity, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Eller, D. B. (2006), “The Recovery of the Love Feast in German Pietism,” in F. van Lieburg (ed.), Confessionalism and Pietism. Religious Reform in Early Modern Europe, Mainz: Verlag Philipp von Zabern. Foucault, M. (1988), “Technologies of the Self,” in L. H. Martin, H. Gutman and P. T. Hutton (eds.), Technologies of the Self. A Seminar with Michel Foucault, 16–49, Amherst: The University of Massachusetts Press. Foucault, M. ([1975] 1991), Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. A. Sheridan, London and New York: Penguin Books. Foucault, M. (1993), “About the Beginnings of the Hermeutics of the Self. Two lectures at Dartmouth,” Political Theory, 21 (2): 198–227. Foucault, M. (2012), Du gouvermenent des vivants. Cours au Collège de France, 1979–1980, Paris, Gallimard. Gawthrop, R. and G. Strauss (1984), “Protestantism and Literacy in Early Modern Germany,” Past and Present, 104: 31–55. Geertz, C. (1973), The Interpretation of Cultures, New York: Basic Books. Gleixner, U. (2015), “Pietism and Gender. Self-modelling and Agency,” in D. Shantz (ed.), A Companion to German Pietism 1660–1800, 423–71, Leiden and Boston: Brill. Hägglund B. ([1966] 1968), History of Theology, trans. G. L. Lund, Saint Louis: Concordia Publishing House. Houtman, D. and B. Meyer, eds. (2012), Things. Religion and the Question of Materiality, New York: Fordham University Press. Kansanaho, E. (1951–52), “Suomalaiset yltiöpietistit Lauri Ulstadius ja Pietari Schaefer,” in Suomen kirkkohistoriallisen seuran vuosikirja XLI–XLII, 101–213, Helsinki: Suomen kirkkohistoriallinen seura. Keane, W. (2007), Christian Moderns: Freedom and Fetish in the Mission Encounter, Berkeley, Los Angeles and London: University of California Press. Laasonen, P. (1991), Suomen kirkon historia 2. Vuodet 1593–1808, Helsinki: WSOY. Laasonen, P. (1995), Der Pietismus in Finnland im 17. und 18. Jahrhundert, in M. Brecht and K. Deppermann (eds.), Geschichte des Pietismus, Band 2: Der Pietismus im achtzehnten Jahrhundert, 523–41, Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht. Lenhammar, H. (2000), Sveriges kyrkohistoria. Individualismens och upplysningens tid, Stockholm: Verbum. Linderholm E. (1911), Sven Rosén och hans insats i frihetstidens radikala pietism, Uppsala: Almqvist och Wiksells boktryckeri. Loimaranta, E. (1941), Erikssonien mystillis-separatistinen like vuoteen 1945, Suomen kirkkohistoriallisen seuran toimituksia XLII, Helsinki: Suomen kirkkohistoriallinen seura. Martin, L. (2003), “Female Reformers as Gatekeepers of Pietism: The Example of Johanna Eleonora Merlau and William Penn,” Monatshefte, 95 (1): 33–58.

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Matthias, M. (2004), “Bekehrung und Wiedergeburt,” in M. Lehmann (ed.), Geschichte des Pietismus, Band 4: Glaubenswelt und Lebenswelten, 29–79. Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht. Meyer, B, and D. Houtman (2012), “Introduction: Material Religion—How Things Matter,” in D. Houtman and B. Meyer (eds.), Things. Religion and the Question of Materiality, 1–23, New York: Fordham University Press. Miller, D. (2005a), “Materiality: An Introduction,” in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, 1–50, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Miller, D., ed. (2005b), Materiality, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Montgomery, I. (1995), “Der Pietismus in Schweden im 18. Jahrhundert,” in M. Brecht and K. Deppermann (eds.), Geschichte des Pietismus, Band 2: Der Pietismus im achtzehnten Jahrhundert, 489–522, Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht. Morgan, D. (2010a), “Introduction: The Matter of Belief,” in D. Morgan (ed.), Religion and Material Culture: The matter of belief, 1–17, London and New York: Routledge. Morgan, D., ed. (2010b), Religion and material culture: The matter of belief, London and New York: Routledge. Mori, R. (2010), “Ich-Entdeckung unter Zwang. Die Suche nach dem Selbst,” in W. Breul, M. Meier and L. Vogel (eds.), Der Radikale Pietismus. Perspektiven der Forschung, 369–384, Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht. Nietzsche, F. ([1887] 1996), On the Genealogy of Morals, trans. Douglas Smith, Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Nordbäck, C. (2004), Samvetets röst. Om motet mellan luthersk ortodoxi och konservativ pietism i 1720-talets Sverige, Umeå: Umeå University. Nordbäck, C. (2008), “Children of God. Swedish Radical Pietists, 1725–1745,” in F. van Lieburg, and D. Lindmark (eds.), Pietism, Revivalism and Modernity 1650–1850, 131–60, Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars. Nordbäck, C. (2009), “Bokstaven och det levande Ordet. Sven Roséns radikalpietistiska tankevärld speglad via hans dagboksanteckningar,” in A. Persson and D. Lindemark (eds.), Från Sara Greta till Lilla Svarta Sara. Väckelsen I litteraturen och väckelsens litteratur, 119–61, Stockholm: Artos. Nordstrandh, O. (1951), Den äldre svenska pietismens litteratur. Stockholm: Svenska kyrkans diakonstyrelsens bokförlag. Rosén, S. (1910), Skrifter och bref av Sven Rosén, ed. Emanuel Linderholm, Uppsala and Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksells Boktryckeri A.B. Rosén, S. (1948), Sven Roséns dagbok, ed. Nathan Odenvik, Stockholm: Förlaget Filadelfia. Schaefer, P. (1915), “Kaksi Petter Schäferin päiväkirjaa,” ed. Martti Ruuth, in Suomen uskonnollisten liikkeiden historiasta asiakirjoja ja tutkimuksia, vol. 1, Helsinki: Suomen kirkkohistoriallinen seura. Schaefer, P., Peter Hindrichson Schaefers Trosbekiännelse och Lefwerne, unpublished manuscript, The National Library of Finland, Helsinki.

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Schneider, H (2007), German Radical Pietism, trans. G. T. MacDonald, Lanham, MD, Toronto and Plymouth, UK: The Scarecrow Press. Schreiner, S. (2003), “Unmasking the Angel of Light: The Problem of Deception in Martin Luther and Teresa of Avila,” in M. Kessler and C. Sheppard (eds.), Mystics: Presence and Aporia, 118–37, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press 2003. Shantz, D. H. (2013), An Introduction to German Pietism: Protestant Renewal at the Dawn of Modern Europe, Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. Stoeffler, F. E. (1971), The Rise of Evangelical Pietism, Leiden: Brill. Stoeffler, F. E. (1973), German Pietism during the eighteenth century, Leiden: Brill. Tomlinson, M. and M. Engelke (2006), “Meaning, Anthropology, Christianity,” in M. Engelke and M. Tomlinson (eds.), Limits of Meaning. Case Studies in the Anthropology of Christianity, 1–37, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Wallmann, J. (2004), “Frömmigkeit und Gebet,” in M. Lehmann (ed.), Geschichte des Pietismus, Band 4: Glaubenswelt und Lebenswelten, 80–101. Göttingen: Vanderhoeck & Ruprecht.

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The Return of the Unclean Spirit: Collapse and Relapse in the Baptist Rehab Ministry1 Igor Mikeshin

This chapter is an account of bodily transformation through moral transformation and vice versa. Bodily transformation of People with addiction is caused by and resulted in their radical conversion to the Russian Baptist version of Christianity, which, in turn, is based on bodily detoxification and remission. I argue that bodily remission is maintained by the continuous process of moral transformation that is effected in accepting, adopting, and interiorizing the biblical text as a narrative of conversion and Christian life. When this process fails and the rehabilitated addict relapses and morally collapses, this failure reveals how the limits of bodily materiality are augmented by the Russian Baptist biblical narrative. I base my chapter on the ethnographic fieldwork I conducted in the Russian Baptist rehabilitation ministry for addicted people. I stayed in three different rehabs as a full-time rehabilitant for continuous periods of time with explicit research intentions and visited many more with groups of missionaries or guests. I keep in contact with the people I stayed in the rehabs with in order to trace whether they stay in remission or relapse and whether they stay in faith (its Russian Baptist version) or collapse. The ministry called Good Samaritan was founded in 2004 by then deacon (now pastor) and former inmate Vladimir Ezhov in St. Petersburg, Russia. Nowadays, it has more than thirty rehabs in northwest Russia, one next to Moscow, and two in Northern Europe. In these rehabs people spend eight months in isolation from the outside world without access to television, the internet, or mobile phones, focusing on the study of Scripture and basics of Christian life. The program consists of a two-month rehabilitation and a six-month adaptation. Rehabilitation is devoted to the study of the New Testament, fifteen seminars on Christian dogma and Christian life, and reflections on the bygone

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sinful life. The second stage, adaptation, also includes everyday work assignments, to maintain the rehab and learn responsibilities and work discipline, and the study of the whole Bible. The regime and schedule in the rehab are very strict and mandatory for all present, including occasional researchers. There is a segregation of genders, spatial separation of different stages of the program, and a hierarchy of elders. The rehabilitants on the first stage are rarely allowed to go outside at all and most of the time they spend in the same room, studying Scripture or the basics of Christian life. The people coming to the program are initially not familiar with Baptism at all and many even have prejudices against the Baptists as some Western sect. When rehabilitants start learning the Bible, most of them confess to never having read it before, even though many of them identify themselves as Orthodox Christians. In the first stage, though, the brothers2 are only given the New Testament (freely distributed Gideon editions), for they are considered not spiritually mature enough to read the whole Bible with the Old Testament. The idea of rehabilitation, rather than cure or healing, addresses the psychosomatic nature of substance dependence, combining neurological and psychological elements (Volkow and Li 2005). Physical addiction caused by the presence of substances in the bloodstream is treated efficiently, at least in big cities such as St. Petersburg. There is a wide selection of detoxification programs offered by the system of state narcology and private clinics, of which many can be taken for free. Psychological dependence, however, remains for the rest of the addict’s life. The only way to sobriety is a lifelong remission. In this chapter, I will first address different ideologies and dogmatic approaches to rehabilitation in the region and identify a place of Good Samaritan. After that I will elaborate on conversion in Good Samaritan as a radical life transformation, both bodily and morally. I will further discuss this interrelation by looking at the cases when the transformation fails and people drop the program and leave rehab. Three stories of bodily relapse and moral and spiritual collapse with further analysis will sum up the discussion on the limits of bodily materiality in the process of moral conversion.

Rehab dogmatics and rehab ideologies Substance-use dependence is addressed in anthropology from various standpoints. Michael Agar started out with his book (1973) that focused on

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drug addicts as social groups with their specific language and value systems. Philippe Bourgois further developed this approach, calling the complex phenomenon of moral and economic interrelations and reciprocal mechanisms of survival a moral economy of the “community of addicted bodies” (Bourgois and Schonberg 2009). Eugene Raikhel and William Garriott put the concept of addiction into the framework of trajectories, arguing for closer focus not merely on theoretical approaches to addiction, but also directed change of meanings, ideas, substances, and people in time and space (Raikhel and Garriott 2013). Among the programs offered in St. Petersburg and the surrounding region, there are three main types of addiction treatment. Twelve Step anonymous groups emphasize acceptance and acknowledgment of helplessness before addiction, and teach life in remission. State narcology, besides simple detoxification standing for a sufficient treatment of addiction per se, also employs fear and the placebo effect as “prostheses for the will” (Raikhel 2013). Religious programs are diverse in the dogmatics they are based upon and ideologies of the rehab settings (Skoll 1992). These three directions of rehabilitation were studied by social scholars. First, a therapeutic approach when detoxification is a medical procedure, often court-appointed (Garcia 2010; Hansen 2013; Raikhel 2009). Secondly, Twelve Step programs with the emphasis on acceptance and identification of addiction (Raikhel 2009; Wilcox 1998). And lastly, various religious approaches, based on conversion as the main treatment (Al-Krenawi and Graham 1997; May 2007; Hansen 2013; Zigon 2011). Good Samaritan, the same as any other nongovernmental rehabilitation in the St. Petersburg area, has no medical license. Hence, the only way for detoxification is a prolonged abstinence by the means of isolation in faraway rehabs. The ministry thus mostly focuses on psychological dependence. Rehabilitants form a powerful moral basis (cf. Robbins 2004), a foundation teaching them how to live without using drugs even in the most psychologically challenging and painful moments of their lives. Moreover, a dense and solidary Baptist community, mostly consisting of former addicts, former inmates, and their close relatives, creates a favorable environment for them, switching them from their addicted past to the community of former addicts. Good Samaritan employs a particular dogmatic approach to rehabilitation. An Orthodox rehabilitation center called the Mill, analyzed in Jarett Zigon’s ethnographic study (2011), uses a different model. Zigon puts the Mill in the context of the Russian Orthodox moral teaching and neoliberal discourse of the post-Soviet Russia. Both the Mill and Good Samaritan are therapeutic

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communities operated by former addicts.3 However, there is a key dogmatic difference in these two approaches. Rehabilitation in Good Samaritan is based on a radical break with the addicted past, setting the whole life toward Christ and his will. The foundation of such approach lies in the sola fide principle (justification by faith alone) proclaimed by Martin Luther. According to this tenet, salvation does not require good works, as opposed to the Catholic dogma and, eventually, to the Russian Orthodox teaching as well. In Evangelicalism, good works are the consequence and evidence of salvation. Any born-again Christian who totally turns his or her life to Christ is supposed to start craving for God’s will, which eventually leads to the moral living. The Orthodox rehab is based on the opposite principle. Orthodox soteriology requires both faith and good works to obtain salvation. The doctrine of good works, according to Zigon’s understanding of the Orthodox morality (Zigon 2011: 73–93), implies that the rehabilitation process focuses on correction of the moral self, making the sin of addiction simply unthinkable (Zigon 2011: 63). Thus, the Mill teaches people to live a normal life, at least for the time of the program, which eventually should lead them to Christ (Zigon 2011: 148–58). The Baptist rehab, on the contrary, attempts to bring people to Christ, which should result in a Christian life of the convert. The differences in methods and techniques make various programs efficient for certain individuals and a universal solution to the problem of addiction is simply not possible. The Twelve Step program offers a total surrender to the problem, learning to live with it, and maintain a remission. Forced methods or methods focused on detoxification and social transformation emphasize the chemical aspect of addiction and peer pressure, thus ignoring other possible factors. Labor therapy and Orthodox moral training focus on the gradual moral transformation of addicts, leading them to come to Christ as a responsible decision of a transformed individual. Good Samaritan uses a different mechanism, based on the biblical narrative of Christian rehabilitation. It is centered on a radical break with the addicted past and starting life anew from scratch.

Radical conversion as moral transformation Anthropology regards conversion to Christianity as a process of moral transformation, going far beyond the mere change of religious affiliation. Four aspects are commonly stressed, namely self-identification, the meaning of

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being a Christian (Csordas 1997; Harris 2006); narrative of moral (Harding 2000; Barker 1993; Robbins 2004; Wanner 2007) and bodily transformation (Coleman 2006; Luhrmann 2004); liminality, the transitional period of changing state (Gow 2006; Meyer 1999; Priest 2003); cultural contexts (Hefner 1993; Wanner 2007; Zigon 2011; Vallikivi 2014); and social implications of conversion (Buckser 2003; Gross 2012; Vallikivi 2009). Conversion in the Russian Baptist community is a continuous process of radical self-transformation, characterized by narrative practices and bodily experience (cf. Harding 2000: 34–35; Wanner 2007: 149). In Good Samaritan, these narrative practices are totally based on a particular literalist reading of the Bible. There are different Evangelical communities that are self-described as “Bible-believing Christians” and who define their hermeneutics as literalist; hence, it is fair to say that there are multiple literalisms (Bielo 2009). Russian Baptist literalism is impacted by 150 years of marginalization and oppression of Evangelicals in Russia (Nikolskaia 2009; Sawatsky 1981); the Russian religious, political, sociocultural, and linguistic context; and especially the Russian Synodal Bible, which is very much poetic, rhythmic, but already more than 150 years old and far from being accurate (Tikhomirov 2006). Self is an intersubjective notion constructed with language (Csordas 1997). Hence, the transformation of the addicted sinner in Good Samaritan is a radical change of moral narrative. The addicted sinners, according to their testimonies in the rehab, live by worldly values, such as profit, comfort, and self-reliance. In the program they study, learn, memorize, and interiorize the narrative of Scriptures—its literalist reading according to Good Samaritan—as the language of communication, thought, and even everyday reasoning. Growing in faith in the context of Good Samaritan, thus, is the process of interiorizing the biblical text (cf. Coleman 2000). Evangelical conversion must not be always radical, permanent, and total (see, for instance, Glazier 2003); however, it is radical in Good Samaritan. Russian Baptist conversion generally follows a common Evangelical narrative of a radical break with the past and being born-again (Meyer 1998). The process of being bornagain is usually called a repentance (pokayanie). This term explicitly addresses the peculiarities of Russian Baptist conversion. The most emphasis is put not so much on being reborn, or totally breaking with the past. The essence of repentance is the admittance of one’s sins in a sinner’s prayer, of helplessness to fight them, and the total surrender of one’s whole life and will to Christ (cf. Robbins 2004). The body, nonetheless, is sinful, worldly, and always tempted to sin; as Andrey,4 the elder on rehabilitation, put it: “Your flesh will never repent.”

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Andrey’s own flesh was for a long time subjected to substance abuse and several prison terms. Even when a rehabilitant is converted and grows in faith by learning and adopting the Bible, his or her body remains weak and sinful; it experiences lust and worldly desires. According to the doctrine of Good Samaritan, moral collapse (padeniye) inevitably leads to bodily relapse (sryv) and vice versa, because those two correspond to the twofold nature of drug addiction (chemical and psychological) and twofold nature of humans (body and soul). The past sinful life is regarded as a total failure. All efforts of the addicted sinner to manage his or her own life are claimed wrong and delusional, for they all brought the addict to the rehab (cf. Robbins 2004; Zigon 2007). It is not necessarily implied that a sinner follows the will of Satan and worships him, but self-reliance, self-righteousness, and self-esteem result in total moral, material, and physical destruction of an addict: he or she becomes dependent, sick, poor, abandoned, despised, neglected, and rejected. All these failures are considered to point out the incapability of managing one’s own life. This means that without God’s help or God’s instruction in Scripture one simply cannot find the right way. One may feel like living a good, happy, and righteous life, but without Jesus this life will lead to defeat and collapse, if not in this life, then in afterlife, which is immutable and everlasting. Such worldly values as wisdom, experience, or education are devalued if their source does not come from God. Dogmatically, Russian Baptist repentance elaborates on another of Luther’s principles, solo Christo—justification through Christ alone. The principle states that salvation can only be granted through Christ and the only way is to accept his atonement sacrifice. In the book of Romans, the Apostle Paul summarizes this idea: “The wages of sin is death, but the free gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord” (6:23, NRSV). Hence, everyone is a sinner and the penalty for every sin is death alone. However, no one can be punished twice for the same misdeed. Thus, when one accepts Christ’s death on a cross, which is a substitutionary atonement for human sins, one is already redeemed. Russian Baptists are predominantly Arminians, adherent to the soteriology (doctrine of salvation) of sixteenth-century Dutch theologian Jacobus Arminius. As a response to soteriology of Jean Calvin, proclaiming predestined salvation of the elect and predestined condemnation of the nonelect, Arminians hold the belief in free will being responsible for salvation. One does not simply choose between accepting and rejecting Grace, but also may lose it afterwards due to temptations.

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The only sufficient and reliable way of learning the will of God for the Russian Baptists is learning his Word—the Bible. A study of Scripture is the major and predominant activity in Good Samaritan. The interpretation of the Bible in Good Samaritan is a specific case of lay hermeneutics (cf. Bielo 2009). The brothers, even the ministers most versed in Scripture, are all recent addicts. Aside from the all dogmatic and exegetic contexts that they are getting from head ministers, pastors, and supplementary literature, their interpretation is noticeably influenced by their own, very much tangible life experience. There is always a huge degree of contemporary Russian sociocultural context, prison and junkie culture, involved in the interpretation of the biblical text (Mikeshin 2015a). However, precisely this kind of hermeneutics constructs the narrative of Russian Baptist Biblicism, conversion to Christianity, and, consequently, rehabilitation in Good Samaritan.

Reasons to leave the rehab Substance abuse is a serious and complex problem. There are many rehabilitation programs helping people to recover from drugs. However, each addicted individual has his or her own sociocultural, physical, moral, and psychological background and there is no universal solution or mechanism to each and everyone’s problems. Many people try different programs—religious and secular, Twelve Step and psychological, and spiritual and therapeutic—and yet fail to maintain a more or less stable remission for a considerable period of time, or even fail to pass through the whole program until the end. Good Samaritan is no exception: many people leave the program early. There are no official statistics, although in some leaflets or online postings the ministry claims that “about eighty percent of those passing the whole program remain sober permanently.” This number is problematic. First, the ministry has only existed since 2004, and for the remission of an addicted person such period is not at all a guarantee against relapse. Secondly, such an important detail as “those who pass the whole program” makes a distinction. About one out of ten people, according to my rough and subjective estimations,5 passes through the whole program. Many only succeed after two or more attempts. The ministry keeps track of everyone once entered the program. Some do not have phone numbers, or hide or change them, but the ministers attempt to keep notes about as many people as they can. I also keep in touch with the people I met on the program via phone calls or online. Although one rarely admits

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starting using drugs or drinking again, it can be deductible from the clear signs of both collapse and relapse, namely online pictures, specific topics, cursing, smoking, or eyewitnesses. The reasons for most people leaving in the first two months of rehabilitation are commonly reduced to the strict rules and bad living conditions. People start complaining early, after sitting for one or several days reading from early morning until late night. During the stage of rehabilitation there is no free time, the schedule is tight and obligatory for all, and there is no fresh air, no physical exercise, or manual work, besides the daily cleaning for half an hour. Bad air circulation, cold or heat, very bad food in small amounts—all these things are too harsh even for those with extensive prison experience. The elders use these harsh conditions, initially unplanned, as a tool for training “humility and obedience,” relating to them as the most important features of a revived Christian (Mikeshin 2015b). There is a spatial segregation in the rehabs. Their strictness depends on the size of the premises and personality of a particular minister. In general terms, this segregation separates different genders and stages of the program—according to the different stages of spiritual growth—and also maintains hierarchy of rehabilitants and their elders. Through the spatial discipline there are proper living and working spaces assigned for women, men, or children (there are two rehabs housing addicted mothers with children), which also implicitly enforces the dogmatic notions of proper roles in the Christian family (ibid). “It was easier in prison,” Tolya, a thirty-year-old IDU (injection drug user) with four prison terms, said in my very first day at the rehab. “Why? There was much more freedom: a cell phone, parcels, drugs. I could drink tea at any time.” My first impression was also of a prison cell when I saw the two-tiered beds and heard the sound of the locking doors. However, even though I have no lockup experience, the brothers convinced me that a prison may not be as tight as the rehab: “This is the first time in my life that I wanna go back to prison,” said once Slava, another IDU with long prison experience, whom I met in another rehab that was much less strict. Most of former inmates constantly reflect on their stay in the rehab, comparing it with the regimes of the prisons they served their terms in: “When I get out—damn, I mean: when I pass the program.” This typical slip of the tongue belongs to Oleg, who served three terms for robberies. Basically, what differentiates a rehab from prison or jail is a free exit. As in the beginning of a program, there is a rule that a rehabilitant should notify of his intention to quit three days in advance. The elders and ministers try their best

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to persuade the brother back, using biblical quotes, phone calls to the family members, or just temporizing. Bad relations between a brother and elder, or between brothers on program, are another frequent reason to quit. This happens on every stage of the program. I once witnessed when, after a heated argument, one brother threw a chair at the wall and left the rehab two weeks before the end of his program. Thus, on every stage, but especially on rehabilitation, some brothers become “fed up” and quit. Loyal but impatient brothers provide yet another common reason. They are usually born-again already and more or less obedient to the rules and elders. However, they claim they now understand “the whole thing,” promise not to use drugs, drink, smoke, or curse anymore, but attend their local church, pray, and read the Bible regularly. The elders are usually skeptical about such early insights, viewing them as self-reliance. All or most of the addicts who leave the rehab early relapse soon. The ministers explain that such a person simply has not surrendered to Jesus with all his heart and hence cannot resist Satan and struggles with his own weaknesses. Passing through the whole program teaches obedience and humility, they claim, and for most of the brothers and sisters even eight months are not enough to learn how to live with God. The overall feeling of emptiness and no purpose in life, experienced by a psychologically dependent, is simply not replaced with any meaning. In the case of Good Samaritan, it is not replaced with Jesus Christ (cf. Tomlinson and Engelke 2006). The addicts are considered unable to manage their own lives. The abilities of their own bodies and minds are claimed limited by the human sinfulness and they can only be augmented by God. God by his grace provided humans with an instruction to life—his Word. If one accepts God’s Word fully and unconditionally, one is regarded as a converted and revived Christian and can thus expect moral and bodily changes. If one rejects or accepts God’s grace partially, the Baptist rehabilitation states, one morally collapses and eventually relapses.

Three stories of relapse The examples of three repentant, but impatient and unstable brothers in the program illustrate the connection between spiritual or moral collapse and bodily relapse. All three abstained from their substances of abuse but failed to completely and radically convert to the Christianity of Good Samaritan and soon relapsed.

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First is Fedya, then twenty-three, an IDU. Fedya grew up in the administrative center of one of the southwestern regions of Russia, an old town of 300,000 inhabitants. He started using drugs early in school and quickly turned to heroin. After middle school, Fedya learned the trade of a truck driver, but never worked anywhere for a long time because of his habit. His health diminished rapidly and he ended up in the rehab, where he first lived through severe dope sickness. Fedya blamed his depressive town for his addiction, along with few opportunities and bad company. He claimed that he had never really had a chance to live a normal life with regular job and healthy habits. A believer before the rehab, he willingly accepted dogma and teachings of the Biblicist Christianity and became very enthusiastic about his spiritual growth. Due to his young age and energetic nature, he soon got all the characteristics of a typical neophyte: exaggerating stories of his spiritual experience, tremendous self-esteem, and the sense of moral superiority over those at a lower stage of the program. Being a friendly person in general, Fedya treated the newcomers and the undecided as his personal protégés, despite their usual irritation. In the middle of the program, Fedya decided to quit, for he did not expect to undergo any more changes there. Despite the skepticism of experienced elders, he kept convincing them and himself: “I got it, brothers! I understand the whole thing. Now I know about God, about his work in my heart and in my life.” He also claimed total recovery from his drug addiction, for now he was in God’s hands. Fedya, as it often occurs, mentioned many unresolved problems at home. He craved forgiveness from his relatives for everything he did to them when addicted. He also wanted to see his grandmother, very old and sick, for she could not last his complete program. He made great plans for his future job, finding a wife, and having kids. He promised to attend the local church and read the Bible every day. He was also confident about abstaining from drugs, alcohol, and smoking. Later on, Fedya left the rehab despite all elders’ attempts to talk him out of it. He started off with finding the local church, making peace with his family, and looking for a job. He posted several biblical citations in his social media profile, a statement that he was through with his old habits and sinful life and an advertisement of Good Samaritan. When I later contacted him online, Fedya expressed great enthusiasm in his life and once again mentioned that the four and a half months that he had spent on the program were well enough and that he had even abstained three weeks before the rehab. Several months later, Fedya was still enthusiastic, but started cursing and smoking. Again, Fedya blamed the others. This time it was the company he worked with on the construction

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site. He, however, denied any relations to drugs, though he evaded talking about alcohol. In summer 2015, Fedya started using bath salts—strong and addictive synthetic opioids. Second is Zhenya, then twenty-five, a user of amphetamine who passed through the whole program. At the time when I first met him, he was an elder of the small male rehab. During his own program in the same rehab, he attempted to quit several times, but changed his mind. Sometimes his minister talked him out of it, sometimes it was his own decision. He never planned to stay long in the ministry, but he promised God to stay for several months to help the rehab. Zhenya had been a DJ before the rehab and that is how he got used to club stimulators, mostly MDMA (widely known as Ecstasy) and injected amphetamines. These drugs are particularly popular in the dance club culture, for they keep the user energetic, excited, and able to dance for a long period of time. Zhenya claimed he needed them to work long hours behind the DJ board. He also got used to energetic drinks and spontaneous one-night sexual affairs with women. Zhenya got married at nineteen, and his marriage only lasted for one year. Zhenya claimed it was a mistake; he had not loved that woman and, after all, he cheated on her multiple times. Eventually she initiated a divorce. He has described his further relations to women as follows: “When I divorced my wife, I got mad. I had two hundred and sixty-eight girls. I ticked boxes. At first, I sought revenge to all females around. But then I became interested in psychology of women and started actually helping them.” In the rehab, Zhenya discovered the Bible. He had never really read it before and claimed that he had been a harsh atheist. Zhenya soon acknowledged the Bible as the Word of God, but never totally accepted the Baptist dogma. He even mocked “those Baptists” for many customs and practices, blaming them for hypocrisy and pharisaism. Impulsive Zhenya, even despite being an elder, often could not hold his tongue and cursed about the Baptist ideas, proclaiming something like: “Those Baptists are total assholes (urody).” Among the Baptist topics Zhenya disagreed with, the most emotional and heated was their views on sex. Zhenya’s promiscuous past called for a rejection of too strict limitations on sexual relations. He became furious discussing, for instance, the requirement to marry only fellow believers: “In every Baptist church you’re being babbled that you can’t marry an unbeliever chick, for she’ll lead you into lechery. This is total bullshit! When I read an article of that [Baptist author on marriage and family], I wanted to come over and kick his ass!” After keeping his promise to God, Zhenya left his position as a rehab elder and found a job. He also tried to arrange his personal life and find a girlfriend, but got outrageous after

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several failures and breakups. Zhenya’s former elder told me that he suspected Zhenya’s relapse, judging from his online profile, personal communication, and what others told him. Soon after that, Zhenya started using alcohol and cigarettes, which is a clear sign of relapse, according to the Good Samaritan dogma. Third is Semyon. The story of Semyon is typical for a Russian middle-aged alcoholic. It includes military service, a brief prison term for a minor offence committed while intoxicated, several lost jobs, and a broken family due to his habit. Most of his life Semyon drove trucks and he used those skills later in the rehab. After the rehab, Semyon stayed with the ministry to serve God and help his brothers and sisters. He was one of the most skilled manual workers in the newly built house of prayer. Not very talkative, Semyon nevertheless always had a point at a Bible study and willingly participated in church life. After several months in the church, Semyon apparently got bored and lost control; some of his co-working brothers detected a smell and eventually he got drunk. Semyon easily agreed to come back to the same rehab he once passed his program in. After several days of hangover and disappointment about his relapse, Semyon quickly became involved in the rehab’s life and was soon employed back as a rehab’s driver and mechanic. He did not have to pass the whole program again, for generally in such cases—if a brother repents and expresses remorse—two months of rehabilitation are considered enough to strengthen his faith by refreshing the basics of the Bible and Christian life. Once in the rehab, when it was Semyon’s turn to share the revelations he got from Scripture, he first shared Mt. 4:5–6: Then the devil took him to the holy city and placed him on the pinnacle of the temple, saying to him, “If you are the Son of God, throw yourself down; for it is written, ‘He will command his angels concerning you,’ and ‘On their hands they will bear you up, so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.’ ” (NRSV)

Semyon went on to the verse 7 and his explanation: When I first read these words, I applied them to myself. “What on earth can happen to me, I thought, when I’m already in God’s hand? As long as I’m with God, I thought, I can’t be harmed, He’ll send his angels to bear me up and I won’t dash my foot against a stone.” But now I read further—the verse number seven—and it says: “Again it is written,” “Do not put the Lord your God to the test.” That’s what happened to me. I did not merely put my Lord to the test, I also failed to read further, when it says: “again it is written.” So I thought: “Nothing can happen to me, because it is written so,” but I failed to notice that “again it is written.”

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After rehabilitating for two months, Semyon returned to the house of prayer and went on with the construction work there.

Relapse and collapse What do these three stories have in common and what are their peculiarities? All three are the stories of repentance, further relapse, and the interrupted process of conversion. Aside from many successful stories, when a brother passed the whole program, remained in faith and active in the ministry, there are much more stories of failure. These stories are mostly typical, involving dropping the rehab program because of one of the reasons discussed earlier. The three stories are, however, much more remarkable, for they do not signify a rejection of the program, but incomplete acceptance in three different manners. Fedya totally accepted the rules, dogma, and moral teachings. He adopted both ideologies and mechanisms for their implementation. However, because of his young age and impatient character, Fedya could not wait until the end of a lengthy monotonous process of rehabilitation program; he felt like he “got the whole thing.” He learned and adopted the biblical narrative enough to identify his own moral failures, but not enough to correct them (cf. Zigon 2007). The six-month stage of adaptation is structured as reintegration of an addict into society. First in a small group of brothers, an introduction to a Christian lifestyle with everyday manual labor, interaction with brothers and sisters in faith and Bible study. Most of the ministers claim that even the eight-month program is commonly not enough, but at least it gives directions and purpose in life and helps with further adaptation, passing the brothers forward to their local churches. Fedya learned the basics in theory, but failed to learn methodology and application. Even so, Fedya might be considered converted. He genuinely repented, worked hard to change his life, and got rid of his street life habits, although it was not an easy task for him. He enjoyed reading the Bible and learning it, despite his poor reading skills and low literacy. He even passed the point of radical conversion, totally rejected his sinful past, and was preparing himself for misunderstandings and marginality at home. However, even though conversion in Good Samaritan is a radical break with the past and a change of life directions, it is still a continuous process. This process culminates in the act of breaking, repenting, and becoming born-again,

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but the further transformation of self, based on the particular interpretation of biblical narrative, takes time, effort, and patience. Fedya cut his time, reduced his efforts, and lacked patience. He made the most important step—surrendered to Jesus, admitted his sinful past, and rejected it—but failed to substantially support, maintain, and strengthen his faith in the Russian Baptist way— studying, learning, and adopting Scripture as the narrative of communication, thought, and reasoning. In Simon Coleman’s (2000) terms, Fedya internalized the Scripture, but failed to externalize it. Zhenya’s case has much in common with Fedya’s. He also failed to radically convert, but in a different dimension. While Fedya surrendered totally and unconditionally, yet failed to maintain this state, Zhenya did not convert radically. Zhenya’s partiality of conversion mostly manifested in the questions of sexual behavior, but also in other worldly values, such as the priority of a real job over the vague idea of serving God as a minister. Besides many other things, his promiscuous sexual habits called for a rejection of some of the dogmatic principles of the Russian Baptist Christianity. Promiscuity per se was not the main problem. It is Zhenya’s partial acceptance of the particular narrative—Russian Baptist biblical hermeneutics in the rehab settings—that led to inefficiency of the whole method. The Russian Baptist rehabilitation program only works—leads to the bodily transformation— if accepted totally, radically, and unconditionally. Such radicalism is not a guarantee of success, but incompleteness is a guarantee of failure. Semyon’s example connects the notion of the relapse of an addict with the narrative of collapse. When one returns to the sinful life, not necessarily injecting drugs right away, but anything associated with stepping out of God, one is considered collapsed. There is no way, it is claimed, of smoking or drinking alcohol, having occasional one-night affairs, or simply cursing and staying with God at the same time. First, such behavior is explicitly associated with collapse by the ministry dogmatics and the brothers who at least partially accept them would rarely deny their own bodily relapse and moral collapse. Secondly, the Good Samaritan program, no matter how efficient it is, only works in radical terms and partial rejection or partial relapse eventually leads to total collapse; and returning to bout drinking or injecting opiates is just a matter of time. Semyon neatly puts the idea of collapse into biblical terms. Although there are dozens of other remarkable biblical references used as an explanation and interpretation of relapse and collapse (for instance, Mt. 12:43-45, discussed

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in Mikeshin 2014: 35–36), Semyon’s example specifically addresses partial nonradical conversion, leading to failure. Semyon emphasizes two main ideas: putting God to the test and taking biblical instructions out of their context. Temptations or putting God to the test correspond to the particular version of Protestant soteriology adopted by Russian Baptism. As I have mentioned earlier, Russian Baptists adhere to the Arminian soteriology and hence believe that one can lose grace or reject it at any time. As soon as one stops craving for God’s will, they claim, one no longer accepts Christ’s sacrifice and is thus subject to eternal condemnation. Anyone who relapses and thus morally collapses goes back to worldly desires and abandons God’s plan for his or her life. The rehabilitation program in Good Samaritan is based on this soteriology. Such doctrine makes a salvation—moral and bodily transformation of self—a responsible act, a voluntary decision. Once repentant and passed the whole program, a rehabilitant is claimed not only born-again, but also a former addict. The understanding of a lifelong psychological dependence, employed by the addiction science, transforms into the narrative of being with God. As long as one is with God he or she has no addictions and is even disgusted with drugs. But as soon as one steps away (otstupit) from God, one immediately collapses. Semyon claimed that he had put his Lord to the test, thinking that nothing could happen to him as long as he had been in God’s hands. He had found biblical evidence, but stopped working and growing in faith. At some point, Semyon interrupted his own process of conversion, which was more advanced than Fedya’s or Zhenya’s, but still incomplete. Even radical conversion is a lifelong journey, as well as remission. The addicted sinners struggle with temptations of sin even while being sober and in faith for many years. The idea of taking biblical excerpts out of their context puts radical conversion into biblical terms. As I have said before, conversion in Good Samaritan is biblical: it is manifested in learning and adopting the particular interpretation of Scripture as the language of communication, thought, and reasoning. Thus, taking verses out of context is a partial and misleading way of such interpretation. Scripture can be used either in demagogical or legitimizing terms; just like Zhenya selectively picked out the thoughts he agreed and disagreed with. Radical conversion implies total acceptance of the biblical narrative as it is interpreted in the rehab. Some degree of flexibility still remains, for this narrative is vague and open to interpretation in respect to minor issues. Hence, Semyon

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had accepted the idea of being supported and taken care of by God, but failed to comprehend the conditions for that—obedience and constant spiritual growth. Partial hermeneutics led him to partial conversion and, eventually, to spiritual collapse and bodily relapse.

Conclusion Good Samaritan and the three stories of bodily relapse and moral collapse represent a remarkable case of the limits of bodily materiality in the process of moral conversion. Sinful flesh is opposed to the repentant self, or repentant soul, for body is considered corrupted, tempting to sin and weak. Conversion is a radical rejection of the rule of sin or vices in one’s life and the total surrender to God’s rule. However, it is a lifelong process of strengthening and growing one’s faith through the study of Scripture. The role of the biblical text is paramount not merely in the process of conversion, but also in every aspect of the life of a Christian. Learning, adopting, and interiorizing the language and narrative of Scripture is the essence of conversion and growing in faith. This narrative of biblical interpretation is constructed under the strong influence of Russian Baptist dogma, which is a complex discourse of Protestant theology and Russian sociocultural context, and the particular life experiences of the rehabilitants and their elders, packed with street, prison, and junkie context. Not only do stories of success play an important role in Good Samaritan dogmatics. The failures and collapses are also explained, understood, prevented, and, consequently, interpreted. The secular notion of relapse is echoed in the rehabilitation narrative with the concept of moral and spiritual collapse. Relapse, thus, is claimed to be a bodily component of this phenomenon. Both go hand in hand: relapse is a clear sign of spiritual collapse and the latter inevitably leads to the former. The perception of failure in terms of relapse and collapse reveals the tight interconnection of bodily and moral components of rehabilitation. Basically, the very process of rehabilitation is twofold, just as the nature of addiction is twofold. When both components are balanced—or the addicted person strives for such balance—the rehabilitation works. When moral background or bodily habits call for partial rejection of the narrative it fails. According to the rehabilitation dogmatics, the limited abilities of a human body to change and transform are augmented by God. The addicts are considered

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unable to rehabilitate and organize their lives on their own. Only God is deemed capable of turning a person into a former addict. This transformation and further growth in faith is done through learning and internalizing the Scripture. The bodily change alone can be only temporal and the psychological, moral, or spiritual nature of a sinful addict pulls him or her back to drugs. Slava, an IDU mentioned earlier, once put it: “I didn’t come here for cure. I came here to understand how to live further.”

Notes 1 A substantial part of my research has been supported by a grant from European Social Fund’s Doctoral Studies and Internationalization Program DoRa, carried out by Foundation Archimedes. I am also grateful to Toomas Gross for his feedback on my first draft and to the editors for their valuable remarks and comments. 2 All men are called brothers and all women sisters. I had very limited access to women. I was only allowed to talk to those who had passed the program already and only when I was not participating myself. 3 A therapeutic community is a conventional term describing an isolated rehab that is operated by the elders who passed the same program recently. 4 All names have been changed to pseudonyms. 5 The ministry and the ministers did not share their statistics with me and I have an impression that their data is unsystematic anyway.

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Meyer, B. (1998), “Make a Complete Break with the Past: Memory and Post-Colonial Modernity in Ghanaian Pentecostalist Discourse,” Journal of Religion in Africa, 28 (3): 316–49. Meyer, B. (1999), Translating the Devil: Religion and Modernity Among the Ewe in Ghana, Trenton: Africa World Press. Mikeshin, I. (2014), “How Jesus Changes Lives: Christian Rehabilitation in the Russian Baptist Ministry,” Suomen Antropologi: Journal of the Finnish Anthropological Society, 39 (4): 28–39. Mikeshin, I. (2015a), “ ‘Vozliubite chistoie slovesnoie moloko.. .’: Bibleiskii literalizm v baptistskom reabilitatsionnom sluzhenii,” Zhurnal sociologii i social’noi antropologii, 8 (3): 55–64 [Микешин, Игорь. 2015. “ ‘Возлюбите чистое словесное молоко...’: Библейский литерализм в баптистском реабилитационном служении,” Журнал социологии и социальной антропологии, 8 (3): 55–64.] Mikeshin, I. (2015b), “Decency, Humility, and Obedience: Spatial Discipline in the Baptist Rehab Centre,” Journal of Ethnology and Folklorisitics, 9 (2): 41–58. Nikolskaia, T. (2009), Russkii protestantizm i gosudarstvennaia vlast’ v 1905–1991, godah. Saint-Petersburg: Izdatelstvo Evropeiskogo universiteta v Sankt-Peterburge [Никольская, Т. (2009), Русский протестантизм и государственная власть в 1905–1991 годах, СПб: Издательство Европейского университета в Санкт-Пет ербурге.] Priest, R. J. 2003. “ ‘I Discovered My Sin!’: Aguaruna Evangelical Conversion Narratives,” in A. Buckser and S. D. Glazier (eds.), The Anthropology of Religious Conversion, 95–108, Lanham: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers. Raikhel, E. (2009), “Institutional Identification and Anonymity in Russian Addiction Treatment (and Ethnography),” in J. Borneman and A. Hammoudi (eds.), Being There: The Fieldwork Encounter and the Making of Truth, 201–36, Berkeley: University of California Press. Raikhel, E. (2013), “Placebos or Prostheses for the Will? Trajectories of Alcoholism Treatment in Russia,” in E. Raikhel and W. Garriott (eds.), Introduction to Addiction Trajectories, 188–212, Durham: Duke University Press. Raikhel, E. and W. Garriott (2013), “Tracing New Paths in the Anthropology of Addiction,” in E. Raikhel and W. Garriott (eds.), Introduction to Addiction Trajectories, 1–35, Durham: Duke University Press. Robbins, J. (2004), Becoming Sinners: Christianity and Moral Torment in a Papua New Guinea Society, Berkeley: University of California Press. Sawatsky, W. (1981), Soviet Evangelicals Since World War II, Kitchener: Herald Press. Skoll, G. R. (1992), Walk the Walk and Talk the Talk: An Ethnography of a Drug Abuse Treatment Facility, Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Tikhomirov, B. (2006), Perevod Biblii pod egidoi Rossiiskogo Bibleiskogo obschestva, Moscow: RBO. [Тихомиров Б. А. (2006), Перевод Библии под эгидой Российского

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Библейского общества, М.: РБО.] Available online: http://www.biblia.ru/reading/ new_translations/sinodal2.htm (accessed July 20, 2015). Tomlinson, M. and M. Engelke (2006), “Introduction,” in M. Engelke and M. Tomlinson (eds.), The Limits of Meaning: Case Studies in the Anthropology of Christianity, 1–38, New York: Berghahn Books. Vallikivi, L. (2009), “Сhristianization of Words and Selves: Nenets Reindeer Herders Joining the State through Conversion,” in M. Pelkmans (ed.), Conversion after Socialism: Disruptions, Modernisms, and Technologies of Faith in the Former Soviet Union, 59–83, New York: Berghahn Books. Vallikivi, L. (2014), “On the Edge of Space and Time: Evangelical Missionaries in the Post-Soviet Arctic,” Journal of Ethnology and Folklorisitics, 8 (2): 95–120. Volkow, N. and T.-K. Li (2005), “The Neuroscience of Addiction,” Nature Neuroscience, 8 (11): 1429–30. Wanner, C. (2007), Communities of the Converted: Ukrainians and Global Evangelism, Ithaca: Cornell University Press. Wilcox, D. M. (1998), Alcoholic Thinking: Language, Culture, and Belief in Alcoholics Anonymous, Westport: Praeger/Greenwood. Zigon, J. (2007), “Moral Breakdown and the Ethical Demand: A Theoretical Framework for an Anthropology of Moralities,” Anthropological Theory, 7 (2): 131–50. Zigon, J. (2011), HIV Is God’s Blessing: Rehabilitating Morality in Neoliberal Russia, Berkeley: University of California Press.

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Mimesis and Mediation in the Semana Santa Processions of Granada1 Sari Kuuva

These past few years, out of commercialism, they have put on processions wholly devoid of the seriousness and poetry of the Holy Week I knew as a child. . . . In those days the entire city was like a slow merry-go-round moving in and out of fantastically beautiful churches that were both fun-houses and the apotheosis of the theater. . . . I would like to ask Granada to restore that old-fashioned Holy Week and have the good taste to hide that hideous procession of the Last Supper and not profane the Alhambra—which is not and never will be Christian—with the jangle of processions where false elegance mocks good taste and the crowd breaks laurels, tramples on violets, and urinates by the hundred on the illustrious walls of poetry.2 (García Lorca [1918] 1998: 86–87, Translated by Christopher Maurer) In his text “Semana Santa en Granada” (1918), cited above, Federico García Lorca (1898–1936) describes the seriousness, poetry, and beauty of the Granadian Holy Week of his childhood.3 However, later in his text the poet criticizes the processions of Semana Santa that started in Granada in 1917. The poet considers the processions as false. While comparing the Holy Weeks of his childhood to the ones of his adulthood, García Lorca indirectly points out the problematics of authenticity. Besides the memories of his childhood, the rich history of Granada was extremely important for García Lorca, who was fascinated by the presence of the Alhambra and the Islamic past of Granada.4 Therefore, the Holy Week processions in 1917, which occupied even the Alhambra, appeared inauthentic to the poet. However, for the younger generation of Granadian people, who have seen the processions disapproved by García Lorca in their own childhood, it may be exactly these later processions that represent authenticity.

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Nowadays there are about thirty processions every year in Granada. The first procession starts on the afternoon of Palm Sunday (Domingo de Ramos) and the last one a week later, on Easter Sunday (Domingo de Ressurrección). The schedules and routes of the processions are similar every year. Usually, processions leave from their home churches and return to the same place later after visiting the Cathedral of Granada. The duration of a procession varies from four to twelve hours. However, the traditions of Semana Santa vary in Andalusia from region to region and town to town. As stated by Robert W. Schrauf, the Holy Week in Andalusia is celebrated officially in the church and unofficially on the streets. Regional Catholic parishes celebrate the prescribed liturgical functions on three days—Holy Thursday, Holy Friday, and Holy Saturday Night. In the official liturgies of the church, the principal events of Easter Week are Christ’s passion, death, and resurrection. On the streets, in the liturgies organized by the confraternities, the story involves a far more dramatic enactment of the Passion—the devout, vicarious, imitative acts of physical penitence (Schrauf 1997: 431–32). In the processions of Granada, the emphasis is in the themes of suffering, death, and sorrow, while the role of the resurrection is more moderate. The most Granadian Semana Santa processions have two pasos—one paso de Cristo, commemorating some moment from Christ’s passion, and one paso de María, featuring the suffering Mother of Christ under one of her titles as the Sorrowful Mother. There are almost sixty statues or figure groups, which are carried in the processions every year in Granada. The processions of different guilds and brotherhoods, each marching with their own statues, are linked together to form one mammoth demonstration (Barker 1957: 138–39; Mitchell 1990: 41–43). Some of the sculptures carried in processions have been made by Pedro de Mena (1628–1688) and José de Mora (1642–1724), the master sculptors from the seventeenth century. In addition to the crucifixion, one of the most popular themes in the processions has been Christ’s journey to the Calvary through the streets—the Nazareno. Sometimes the sculptures of Christ are accompanied by other biblical characters. Some pasos represent wider scenes of the Passional drama and there are figures, such as followers and disciples of Christ, angels, saints, rulers, and soldiers. Frequently represented events in Andalusian pasos are, for example, the Entry of Christ in Jerusalem, the Last Supper, the Prayer in the Garden of Olives, and the Kiss of Judas. Marian imagery and devotion is an essential part of Catholic imagination and Marian devotion has been extremely important in Andalusia. This phenomenon has been analyzed in relation to, for example, certain cultural aspects of Andalusia such

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as the role of maternal care in a macho culture. Sometimes the emotional and sensual character of the Andalusians has also been stressed (e.g., LópezGuadalupe Muñoz 2013: 21–43; Mitchell 1990: 161; Rodríguez G. de Ceballos 2009: 45–46; Schrauf 1997: 432–33). The Virgin Mary is one of those symbols whose forms and meanings are not fixed but vary between different cultures and historical periods (e.g., Kuuva 2016: 9–14; Vuola 2010: 9–75). Andalusian Semana Santa processions can be approached through a theoretical framework of lived religion, developed by Robert Orsi for his study The Madonna of 115th Street: Faith and Community in Italian Harlem, 1880–1950 (2010) and since adopted and discussed by numerous anthropologists and scholars of religion (e.g., Hermkens, Jansen, and Notermans 2009; Mitchell 2010; Morgan 2010b). As defined by Orsi, within the framework of lived religion, religion is approached as lived experience and all religious creativity is situated within history and culture. In this context, the material world is an essential medium of cultural practice. The goal is to clarify what people do with religious items, how they use them, and what they make of themselves and their worlds with them. The study of lived religion focuses on embodied practices and imagination and thus investigates the ways in which humans exist in and move through their built and found environments (Orsi 2010: xxxvii–xli). In his definition of lived religion, Orsi emphasizes religious creativity: “As people pray to, worship, and plead with the gods, the culture acts on the imagination and the imagination works on culture, to the possible transformation of both” (Orsi 2010: xli). In this chapter, lived religion refers to the religious practices in the context of Semana Santa processions—both in churches and in public places like streets. It is assumed that materiality mediates belief and material objects and practices both enable and enact it (cf. Morgan 2010a: 12; Morgan 2010b: 18–19). A key question of the chapter is: How does the materiality of the processions relate to the problematics of authenticity, mimesis, and mediation? Particular attention is paid to the work done on the limits of materiality, which aims to maintain interaction with divinity. Material aspects of processions are analyzed from three perspectives: authenticity, collectivity, and the senses. The Semana Santa experiences of Andalusian people are discussed both through literature and observations made in Granada during Easter of 2014. The material dimensions of Andalusian Semana Santa processions are approached through the theoretical concept of mimesis. In general, the concept of mimesis refers to the imitation or representation of certain aspects of the world—usually by showing or portraying objects, actors, actions, or events. For example, Semana Santa processions can be understood as a mimesis of historical events related to the Passion of Christ.

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In the context of “ontological turn” in contemporary anthropology, however, the creative aspects of mimesis have been emphasized and the distinction has been made between active mimesis and the more passive imitation. Because performances have the capacity to create presence, they have been categorized as generative rather than merely representative. Mimesis has also been seen as a space between sameness and otherness or between identity and alterity. Mimesis also has close bounds with the bodily, the sensuous, and the somatic, through which mediation between human beings and divinity is approached (e.g., Espirito Santo and Tassi 2013: 11–12; Flood 2014: 485; Mitchell 2015: 11–30; Taussig 1993: 78). Semana Santa processions in Spain and in Latin America have been studied by anthropologists, ethnographers, and folklorists. George C. Barker (1957), for example, has compared the Spanish passional processions with those held in the American Southwest. Timothy Mitchell (1988, 1990) has analyzed the passional aspects of Andalusian Semana Santa processions. There are also investigations that focus on the visual aspects of the religious statues that are carried along the streets of Andalusian towns during the Holy Week, on local histories of processions, and on the roles given to various actors in the processions (e.g., Bray 2009; López-Guadalupe Muñoz and López-Guadalupe Muñoz 2002; LópezGuadalupe Muñoz 2013; Schrauf 1997). Some authors have discussed Semana Santa as a part of their wider studies concerning Catholic cults (e.g., Hall 2004; Luengo Mena 2013). In addition to the literature directly focusing on Semana Santa processions, numerous authors have concentrated on the relationships between religion, performances, and material culture (e.g., Bull and Mitchell 2015; Espirito Santo and Tassi 2013; Meyer and Houtman 2012; King 2010; Miller 2005; Morgan 2010a; Peña 2011). Of these more general studies, David Friedberg’s analysis of spectators’ responses to religious images bears special importance for the present discussion. Friedberg notes that People are sexually aroused by pictures and sculptures; they break pictures and sculptures; they mutilate them, kiss them, cry before them, and go on journeys to them; they are calmed by them, stirred by them, and incited to revolt. They give thanks by means of them, expect to be elevated by them, and are moved to highest levels of empathy and fear. They have always responded in these ways; they still do. (Friedberg 1989: 1; on religious images see also Belting 1994)

Many effects and actions listed by Freedberg are also important in the context of Andalusian processional statues. Another important viewpoint in regard to the present analysis of processional statues is presented by W. J. T. Mitchell. According

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to Mitchell, physical and material pictures can be created and destroyed, while mental and immaterial images are not similarly creatable and destroyable. While the concept or idea of Christ or Virgin Mary can be understood as an image in Mitchell’s sense, all physical manifestations of the image, such as individual statues carried in processions, fall in the category of pictures (cf. Mitchell 2005: 85). In the beginning of the next chapter, a short excursion will be made into the Catholic and Andalusian visual culture and into the cultural and historical background of processions. Then, attention will be directed to the Spanish tradition of painted sculptures, to the statues carried in the processions, and to contemporary practices of Granadian Semana Santa processions. Material aspects of processions will be further discussed through the framework of lived religion and analyzed through the concepts of mimesis and mediation. In this context, attention will be directed to the relationship between processional statues and authenticity, to the decoration of the statues as collective task, and to the multisensory aspects of processions. As far as I know, Andalusian Semana Santa processions have not earlier been analyzed by combining the perspectives which open from the relationship of mimesis and mediation.

Cultural and historical background of Andalusian processions Although the visual culture of the Catholic Church is generally very rich and varying, in Andalusia it is excessive, even breathtaking. This can be observed, for example, in certain interiors of Granadian monasteries and churches, such as Cartuja, San Juan de Dios, and Virgen de las Angustias. In the context of these examples, even a certain kind of “horror vacui”—fear of empty spaces—can be observed. Every space imaginable is filled with decoration. One essential reason for the hyperbolic forms of Andalusian visual culture is probably the Moorish influence with its impressive ornamentation in places like the Alhambra. Spanish art started to develop into its particular, extremely realistic, direction during the Catholic renewal after the Council of Trent (1545–63). In this context, pictures were seen as pedagogic instruments used to communicate ideas in a largely illiterate society. The task of sacred art was to stimulate emotions and to make the viewer see the immanence of the sacred in everyday life. The baroque has been described as an art of transcendence, where religion is combined with art, poetry, and music (e.g., Bray 2009: 15–17; McDannell 1995: 9; Mitchell 2015: 22; Moffitt 1999: 126–40; López-Guadalupe Muñoz 2013: 21–43; Rodríguez G.

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de Ceballos 2009: 45–47). As Timothy Mitchell puts it, Andalusians still literally go for baroque during the Holy Week to make sure their processions eclipse the others in both splendor and pathos (Mitchell 1990: 1). Passional processions have their historical background in the activities of several different religious traditions. In Medieval Europe, flagellant brotherhoods practiced processions. While the Brothers of Light carried light tapers, the Brothers of Blood either carried heavy crosses or whipped themselves. There were also flagellants who marched barefoot, stripped to the waist, and wore black hoods in order to avoid recognition by the authorities of the church. Certain fanatical excesses finally led to a public reaction against the flagellants. Besides flagellants, the tradition known as Via Crucis (Way of the Cross) has also been connected to passional processions. In Via Crucis, crosses symbolizing the fourteen major events in Christ’s Passion were erected in or around the church edifice. The tradition was brought to Spain by members of the Franciscan Order in the sixteenth century when mystery plays were also performed on public squares in Spanish towns and cities. In the mystery plays, biblical scenes were originally re-enacted on crude platforms or large moveable carts. Gradually they were formalized into the floats nowadays known as pasos. The word paso literally means “step” and it derives from the notion that each paso represents a scene or sequence in the dramatic unfolding of the Passion of Christ (Barker 1957: 138–39; Mitchell 1990: 41–43). Initially, the figures on the pasos were made of papier-mâché, because it was light and relatively inexpensive. When the number and size of donations increased, statues in carved and polychromed wood started to be commissioned from the leading sculptors in Spain. This was done by the Spanish monarchy and nonmonastic and regular clergy, and by associations of lay members known as brotherhoods and confraternities. Statues were needed in cathedrals, churches, chapels, oratories, and hospitals.5 The members of confraternities organized their own religious services, for example in private chapels in parish churches and monasteries or in their own meetinghouses, where the images of their patron saints were also venerated (Bray 2009: 17–21, 26; Rodrígues G. de Ceballos 2009: 45–47). The seventeenth century was exceptional in Spanish art history because of the level of realism to which its artists aspired. The sculptors aimed to make their works as lifelike and realistic as possible. All young Spanish painters had to learn the art of painting wooden sculptures (pintor de ymagineria).6 The technique of painting the flesh tones was known as incarnation (encarnación), which literally means, “made flesh.” There were two ways of painting the tones of flesh,

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polimento (glossy) and mate (matte). Later even real hair, ivory teeth, glass eyes, and tears were used and the effect of coagulated blood was simulated. Andalusian masters of Passional images utilized many kinds of literature, from Apocrypha to theoretical books on mathematics, geometry, architecture, and perspective. There were also pious and devotional texts describing the scenes of the Passion in lively and impressive ways as they paid special attention to the expression of emotions. The imagineros studied the agony of Christ carefully in order to combine aesthetic appeal with commonly held beliefs. They analyzed the details, like the size and shape of the crown of thorns, the folds of the shroud, the height of the column Christ was scourged at, the number of floggers, the number and length of nails required for crucifixion, whether the right foot should be on the top or underneath the left, how much blood was spilled, and so on. As we can see, the making of the pasos has always strived to achieve a certain degree of realism—to be as authentic as possible. Andalusian imagineros were in touch with the popular sentiments, tastes, and beliefs and so tried to impress the local audience. Every confraternity, both historically and nowadays, has been highly vigilant of the popular acceptance or the rejection of their processional statues (Bray 2009: 17–26; López-Guadalupe Muñoz 2013: 21–43; Mitchell 1990: 139, 159, 161–63).

Contemporary Semana Santa processions: Mimesis and mediation Processional statues and the problem of authenticity Although the roots of Spanish passional processions can be traced back to the Middle Ages, processions in the contemporary form started in Granada only in 1917. The most Granadian confraternities were established in the beginning of the twentieth century and the most recent ones in the 1980s. Nowadays new statues are made, for example, when a new confraternity is established or when some patron has wanted to donate a new statue to his confraternity. In these cases, the new statues usually follow the spirit of their predecessors from the baroque era. The reason is that the baroque has established itself as the style of processional statues because of its exceedingly expressive features and Andalusian confraternities still want to follow the tradition. In other words, the statues still imitate the style that is understood realistic in its modes to depict the emotions and suffering and thus authentic. Juan Jesús López-Guadalupe Muñoz describes the Andalusian polychromic wood sculptures, carried in processions, as devotional nuclei, which are in

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the center of the celebrations of their confraternities (2013: 21–43). The idea of devotional nuclei resonates with Birgit Meyer’s concept of sensational form. According to Meyer, sensational forms are relatively fixed models for invoking and organizing access to the transcendental. Sensational forms offer structures of repetition to create and sustain links between believers in the context of particular religious regimes. Sensational forms are transmitted and shared; they contain particular practices of worship and play a central role in modulating them as religious moral subjects and communities (Meyer 2011: 29–30). Sensuality and material glory, essential factors of contemporary Semana Santa processions, have thus a firm tradition both in the Catholic religion and in the visual culture of Andalusia. The idea of devotional nuclei also finds resonance in the notion of mimesis. According to Jon Mitchell, mimesis is an essential feature in human generative, practical, and bodily encounters with their world, through which lifeworld is constituted. Processional statues are mimetic artworks which bridge the material and the immaterial world, or the natural and supernatural, in ways that resolve the inherent tensions within Catholic theology concerning the relationship between immanence and transcendence and the closeness and distance of God and the saints. The statues of saints are entities with their own ontological status. According to Mitchell, they both communicate and resolve duality, intervene in everyday life; they involve themselves in people’s lives by helping to solve problems or petitioning God on behalf of a particular person or group (Mitchell 2010: 264–65; Mitchell 2015: 18, 29). The notion of devotional nuclei and Mitchell’s definition of mimesis also have connections with Orsi’s concept of “media of presence.” According to Orsi, devotional images are used to act upon the world, upon others, and upon oneself and thus act as “media of presence.” It is believed that these objects “hold the power of holy figure” and “make it present” (Orsi 2005: 49). Granadian processional statues also can be understood as such media of presence, as described by Orsi and Mitchell. It seems evident that mediation of divinity is ensured by following the tradition. The extreme realism of the sculptures emphasizes the personhood of the saints and helps the audience to relate to them and their suffering and sorrow. The vivid emotional expressions of the statues are indeed important in order to provoke similar sentiments among the audience participating in the processions. Especially in the baroque sculptures, the emotions are powerfully and unambiguously expressed and they mimetically show the deeply human thoughts and feelings of Mary, Christ, and the saints. The Virgin Mary’s body is in most cases rather static, yet her face shows deep emotional turmoil. The

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sculptures of Christ, on the other hand, express emotions by posture as well as facial expressions. The statues’ mimetic expression of emotions is directly seen and felt by the audience, people who mostly are familiar with the representation conventions of the baroque. Thus, in this context mimesis is closely bound with the recognition and mediation of religious emotions. As stated by Mitchell, religious statues bring the saints into being by generating presence and power, which are confirmed through the performance of ritual, in this case a procession. Therefore, the statues function in many ways like social persons (Mitchell 2010: 264–66). As Mitchell formulates it: If the potentia of the saints’ statues can be attributed to their agency, their praesentia is achieved through performance. Statues are not merely looked upon, but also engaged with. This engagement is accentuated during festa, when statues are removed from their daily position in a glass-fronted niche of the church, and processed around the parish. During this time, statues become animated. They are spoken to directly, touched and made to “dance” along the streets—they are performed with, generating presence. (Mitchell 2010: 266)

In general, it can be stated that experienced authenticity of the statues crucially influences the atmosphere of processions and the experience of power and presence of divinity. Therefore, processional statues can be described as “media of presence,” through which divinity is mediated. Through the collective process of decorating, which will be discussed in the following section, the mediating power of the statues is further reinforced.

Decorating of the pasos as collective task In Granada, the members of confraternities use a lot of resources, such as time and effort, to decorate the statues during the weeks before processions.7 In this work, attention is drawn to key objects through ornaments and decoration, for example (e.g., Mitchell 2010: 268). The pasos of Christ are usually covered in red or purple flowers, and there are often also skillful flower arrangements in the pasos of the Virgin. In the paso of the Virgin the flowers are normally white, but exceptions do occur. In addition to real flowers, there are also flower ornaments made of wax. Furthermore, in the paso of Christ there are often candles or lanterns in each corner, while in the paso of the Virgin, there are usually tens of candles before the statue. An important part in the ornamentation of the pasos is the dressing of the Virgin (e.g., Mitchell 1990: 120–21). During Semana

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Santa, the church doors remain open while inside the processional objects are polished and decorated. In the chapels of the churches, the equipment needed in the processions, like clothes, flags, candles, lanterns, crosses and other material objects, is carefully organized for the processions and presented for the audience. The decorating of pasos is an important project in the social life of the confraternities. The organizing of a procession, as well as preparing the pasos and costumes for the processions, is demanding work and includes tasks for every member of a confraternity. The preparation of the procession objects and setting the flowers on the pasos are usually done collectively, but there are also members of the confraternities who have specialized in the clothing of the statues. The decorating of pasos can be seen as one form of lived religion—as a work that is done on the limits of materiality to ensure the power of God and saints. The decorating makes the statues powerful and present, but the process of decoration is also a form of lay veneration of the Virgin Mary, Christ, and the saints. The collectivity of the people participating in this veneration makes the statues present in an emphasized way; the statues’ personhood gains strength all the time. During the Holy Week, the Granadian audience has the possibility to see the statues being decorated for the processions in the churches. Unlike at other times, during the Holy Week processional statues are located in the churches in such a way that it is possible to walk around them. Before processions the members of Granadian confraternities meet each other in their churches near the pasos and interact with the statues (cf. e.g., Mitchell 2010: 267–68). In these gatherings, the statues are clearly treated as persons. For example, once during my fieldwork, when a tiny dog was brought into the Granadian church, this was loudly disapproved by the members of confraternity through the words El perro con Nuestra Señora (A dog with our Lady). These words showed the status of the statue of Virgin Mary as divine person concretely present in the church. As told by one Granadian informant, it can be easier to focus on the statues in the churches than in the processions, because during the latter, a multitude of things is happening on the streets simultaneously. However, the collectivity in preparing the pasos as well as spectating them serves the process of making the statues more “alive” to the Granadians. Through collective efforts, the divine power is mediating through the pasos both to individual people and to Granadian confraternities. The goal is to make the statues alive through their realistic outlook, ornamentation of the pasos, interaction with people, and movement in the processions. These features all emphasize the idea that the saints are present in their statues.

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Multisensory processions Processional statues are animated when they are carried along Andalusian streets. Certain rituals are repeated when the pasos go by or reach certain stations on their long routes. For example, fireworks can be seen when the paso of “Los Gitanos” is climbing back into its home monastery on the Sacromonte. Plenty of energy is used to ensure that everything goes well during processions. For example, the costaleros start to practice carrying the pasos months before the Holy Week. If the performances of saints are done badly, their presence comes into doubt and their power is diminished. This can also happen, for example, when bad weather prevents the procession from taking place (Mitchell 2010: 270). In general, the goal is to repeat processional acts in the same way year after year. Repetition is closely bound with the questions of authenticity and mediation. In processions, the paso is the most sacred object, associated with an aura of divine power. It is thought that proximity to the paso denotes privilege.8 Therefore, the senior Nazarenes have the honor of marching very near or even alongside the paso. The costalero carrying the paso imitates Christ carrying the cross. Because the paso is understood as a sacred object and its proximity confers a kind of intimacy with the divine, the position of the costalero is understood as a privilege and it has been assumed that costaleros have special intercessory powers with Christ and the Virgin whose images they carry. Therefore, people commonly ask for costaleros to pray for a particular intention while they are underneath the paso (Schrauf 1997: 433–35; see also Mitchell 2010: 270). In Andalusian Semana Santa processions, it is, thus, experienced that the material mediates divinity. As described by Jon Mitchell through his examples from Malta, the power of the saint is believed to flow directly from the presence of the statue, established through performance. The power of saint is experienced by those who physically engage with the statue, either by carrying it or by interacting with it in other ways such as talking, praying, touching, or gazing (Mitchell 2010: 270). When the paso goes by in Semana Santa processions of Granada, people on the streets frequently make the ritual sign of the cross and parents carrying children tend to stoop toward the paso to guide the child’s hand to touch it. Touch is one way through which the power of the holy person represented by the statue flows to the person who touches (Figure 10.1). Touch unbinds the power of the statue and lets it enter the person. It is a mode to be-intouch, to interplay, with the transcendent that is present in the statues and thus this religious act does not merely “happen in spaces and performances but as them,” as David Morgan (2010a: 8) notes.

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Figure 10.1   Catholic procession in Andalusia, Spain. Photo by Ari Häyrinen.

In Andalusia participation in a procession is considered as an act of penance in honor of the Passion of Christ. In processions, members of the brotherhoods march in uniform ritual garbs consisting of floor-length tunics, flowing capes, and high, cone-shaped hats. Different brotherhoods use various significant colors and other symbols of the brotherhoods can be seen in the processions. The penitents often wear a hood that covers their face in order to ensure anonymity. The idea is that God alone knows the sacrifice being made. Anonymity may help the participants of processions to concentrate on the situation and on the power and presence of the statue. Because the penitents march in the spirit of Jesus of Nazareth, they are called Nazarenos (the Nazarenes). In processions, the Nazarenes are organized into cohorts. Some of them carry large processional candles and others carry life-size crosses in imitation of Christ on his way to Mount Calvary. Sometimes the marchers, even nowadays, go barefoot or drag chains attached to their ankles to increase their sacrifice (Schrauf 1997: 432).

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In addition to costaleros and Nazarenos, there are also men dressed like Roman soldiers and women in dark dresses in processions, as well as horn players and drummers who march with the processions. While some pasos proceed in total silence, others are accompanied by marches. On their long routes, processions pass stations where the singers of saeta, a religious form of flamenco, perform. When the paso of the Virgin with the canopy is carried along the streets, leaves of flowers are frequently thrown on it from the balconies. Besides the scent of flowers and candles, the scent of incense can also be perceived during the processions, particularly when saetas are sung. During the processions that last for many hours, evenings tend to get dark and pasos take different positions around historical buildings. The historical city of Granada with its hills and narrow streets is an essential element in the processions. One important goal of the processions is the exaltation, purification, and sanctification of the profane, the everyday, by the divine and the supernatural. In the urban environment of processions, the urban space is sacralized through the ritual. Like the sacred art pieces of baroque, processions make the viewer see the immanence of the sacred as a part of everyday life (López-Guadalupe Muñoz 2013: 21–43; McDannell 1995: 25). During their long routes, heavy pasos are frequently laid down and lifted up and the paso of Mary in particular is sometimes rapidly raised, even thrown up and moved back and forth, causing the Queen of Heaven to move as if she were dancing. Furthermore, when seeing the statue of Mary, people occasionally shout guapa (beautiful, handsome, vital). People both aim to conform Mary in her great sorrow, which can be seen, for example, in the lyrics of saetas, and feel empathy for her. In the processions of most brotherhoods, Mary is anxiously following her son in every step on his way to the cross. It can be assumed that the statue of Mary functions as an essential figure through which to experience the torments of Christ, or the torments of human beings on a more general level. As described by Sally M. Promey, in Catholicism, a theory of incarnation mobilizes the material world—“divinity assumes a material body, invisible grace is rendered in visible and tangible signs, and the most holy sacraments take shape as divine investments in multisensory communication” (Promey 2014: 14). Multisensory communication is also essential in the context of Semana Santa processions, where the pasos are not solely decorated by visual and tactile elements but also with sounds and scents. From this perspective, the pasos moving in the processions could even be described as “multimedia of presence.” Recently, plenty of attention has been paid to problematics of senses in the fields like art history, anthropology, and the study of religion (e.g., Bull and Mitchell 2015: 1–10; Di Bello and Koureas 2010: 1–17; Meyer 2011: 29–31).

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Conclusion: Motions caused by processions The themes of authenticity, collectivity, and the senses discussed in this chapter through the concepts of mimesis and mediation can be seen as important threads in the lived religion of Andalusian Catholicism. These threads essentially link with the mimetic work done on the limits of materiality to ensure mediation between man and divinity. The importance of these threads was already emphasized by García Lorca in his writings related to Andalusian Catholicism and they are still crucial in the context of contemporary Andalusian processions. Sensational forms for decorating the statues of holy persons ensure authenticity and allow the access to the transcendence (cf. Meyer 2011: 29–30). Through collective actions the spirituality of statues unbinds and they become alive for people.9 Also, various motions can be understood as important sensational forms in the context of processions. As stated by Anna-Kaisa Hermkens, Willy Jansen, and Catrien Notermans in the introduction for the book Moved by Mary: The Power of Pilgrimage in the Modern World (2009: 8–10), Marian pilgrimages can be moving experiences in four different ways. First, they contain physical movements of pilgrims both to and at sacred spaces. Secondly, pilgrimages often arouse emotional movements such as experiences of transformations, healing, or relief. Thirdly, the statues and icons of Mary are sometimes moving themselves from one place to another. Fourthly, different kinds of social movements can also be linked with Marian pilgrimage. These types of movements can also be observed in the context of Granadian Semana Santa processions: both statues and people are physically moving, intensive emotions are experienced, and people from various cultures, social groups, and generations interact with each other. In addition to physical, psychological, and social movements, a certain kind of temporal movement can also be associated with Semana Santa processions. Temporal motions related to processions enforce the idea of movement as a sensational form that connects the human and the divine. During the Holy Week, the streets of Andalusian towns turn into the streets of Jerusalem. In this context, the holy time of the past (Jerusalem) is brought into the present moment (Granada) and the temporal gap is crossed. As described in this chapter, the work that is done on the limits of materiality aims to mimetically ensure the success of processions. If the pasos are authentically decorated and if the processions proceed correctly, the possibility of mediation is renewed. In this case, the materiality of statues and processions becomes unbound and enables interaction with the divine. When the statues became animated, people can be empowered through them. From this perspective,

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Andalusian Catholicism is closely bound with materiality and with the work done on the limits of materiality, such as decorating the pasos. Restrictions of materiality can be approached on a more or less concrete level. For example, some processional statues are old and need restoration. During processions, the statues are exposed to weather and other external threats. If it is raining too much, processions cannot proceed and the statues cannot be animated through processional acts. In Granada, the statues are sometimes covered by plastic if the rain starts during the processions, which essentially influences on the aesthetics of the processions. Furthermore, there can be some idealistic restrictions when it comes to abundance of materiality. Some nonCatholic tourists found the abundance of vivid and rich decoration as something that could interfere and even conceal the religious and devotional dimensions of the processions. However, the importance of materiality as an inseparable part of Catholic religion has generally been recognized in the recent study of religions (e.g., Hermkens, Jansen, and Notermans 2009; King 2010). In Andalusian Semana Santa processions, materiality is a multisensory surface between man and divinity. When several processions move simultaneously along the streets of Granada their sounds mix with each other and the beats of drums arouse associations with the beating heart. The combination of visual, auditory, tactile, and olfactory stimuli intensifies and stretches the experience of everyday environments and opens the possibility to collectively interact with divinity.

Notes 1 Kuuva has worked with her postdoctoral project “Dances of Life: Emotions in Art and Visual Culture,” funded by the Academy of Finland under Grant SA250800. In this project, she has investigated both the components of emotional expression in visual art and the culture and emotional experiences of the audience. Semana Santa processions in Granada has been one of her case studies. The study was also funded by the Niilo Helander foundation. 2 Estos últimos años, con un afán exclusivamente comercial, hicieron procesiones que no iban con la seriedad, la poesía de la vieja Semana de mi niñez. . . . Entonces toda la ciudad era como un lento tiovivo que entraba y salía de las iglesias sorprendentes de belleza, con una fantasía gemela de las grutas de la muerte y las apoteosìs del teatro. . . . Yo pediría a mis paisanos que restauraran aquella Semana Santa vieja, y escondieran por buen gusto ese horripilante paso de la Santa Cena y no profanaran la Alhambra, que no es ni será jamás cristiana, con tatachín de procesiones, donde

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lo que creen buen gusto es cursilería, y que solo sirven para que la muchedumbre quiebre laureles, pise violetas y se orinen a cientos sobre los ilustres muros de la poesía (García Lorca 1974: 942–43). 3 In addition to García Lorca, the Andalusian processions of Semana Santa have been described by more recent poets and novelists such as Antonio Muñoz Molina (2001), Enrique Seijas Muñoz (2000), and Elena Soriano Martí (2012). 4 The Alhambra, which has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1984, is a fortress and palace complex in Granada mainly constructed under the command of Moorish Emirates between the eleventh and fifteenth centuries. In 1492, after the conclusion of the Christian Reconquista, the Alhambra became part of the Crown’s property and turned into the Royal Court of Ferdinand and Isabella. After that the Moorish palaces were partially altered to Renaissance tastes and new buildings were built (e.g., Bermúdez López, 2011: 293–307). 5 The monastic clergy contained old contemplative and mendicant orders of Benedictines, Cistercians, Hieronymites, Carthusians, Augustinians, Franciscans, and Dominicans. Furthermore, there were both more recently founded orders, such as the Jesuits, the Theatines, and the Oratorians and older orders that were reformated in the wake of the Council of Trent, such as the Barefoot or Discalced Carmelites, the Trinitarians, and the Mercedarians. Each of these religious orders had their own distinctive characters (Rodríguez G. de Ceballos 2009: 46–47). 6 Francisco Pacheco’s (1564–1644) Arte de la Pintura (1649) is the most important source of information about the production of sculpture and painting in seventeenth-century Spain. 7 In Granada, there is great variation in the amount of decoration among the pasos and processional costumes of different brotherhoods. While some processions are materially very moderate, others are quite extravagant. For example, the procession called Silencio is only minimally decorated, while the materials of the costumes and other details in the Alhambra procession are very rich and expensive. While the former procession represents a more traditional penitence culture, the latter procession has a different focus and aesthetics. While Silencio proceeds at night time, the Alhambra procession starts at daytime and it is the only procession on Holy Saturday. Therefore, there is a tradition that most Granadian people aim to see the Alhambra procession and many of them follow the procession when it proceeds on the streets and finally climbs back to the hill of Alhambra. The only paso of the Alhambra procession is Pietà, Mary holding the dead body of Christ. The importance of the statue is significant, as it combines the two key figures of the Holy Week. 8 The pasos are usually carried on the backs of men who are referred to as costaleros. Traditionally the costaleros were hired but later the brotherhoods themselves have formed the teams of costaleros (cuadrillas). Two characteristic marks of the costalero

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are the faja and the costal. While the faja is a long cloth wrapped around the waist that acts as a girdle to support the back during the procession, the costal is a large, common bath towel rolled lengthwise and bent into a horseshoe shape and then worn around the neck to protect the neck and back from the wooden beams of the paso. Costalero has become the image of an extraordinary penitent of the Holy Week as he carries the tremendous weight of the paso on his shoulders, anonymously, underneath the paso, for several hours during the nocturnal procession (Schrauf 1997: 433–35). 9 Even the Pope has openly spoken in the support of Andalusian processions. For example, the comments of Pope Francis concerning processions were reprinted as a part of the Granadian official publication of Semana Santa, Gólgota, under the title, “El Papa a los cofrades.” The words of the Pope were commented on by Ángel Henares Maldonado. The Pope has emphasized the correct understanding of catechesis and the Gospel and stated that religious pictures should help people to understand their heritage without giving cause for scandal. For Pope Francis, living Easter means learning to go beyond ourselves and meet others in order to exit the periphery of existence. According to him, everyone participating in the church’s life unifies the community. As interpreted by Henares Maldonado, public worship is reaching out to others, making public catechesis, and carrying the visual Gospel. Through processions faith is transmitted to a wider audience. Therefore, the expressions of popular piety have an important task from the perspective of the Pope and the Catholic Church (Henares Maldonado 2014: 18–20).

References Barker, G. C. (1957), “Some Aspects of Penitential Processions in Spain and the American Southwest,” The Journal of American Folklore, 70 (276): 137–42. Belting, H. (1994), Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art, translated by E. Jephcott, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press (Bild und Kult—Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem Zeitalter der Kunst, 1990). Bermúdez López, J. (2011), The Alhambra and the Generalife: Official guide, trans. S. L. Carma, Granada: Patronato de la Alhambra y Generalife. Bray, X. (2009), “The Sacred Made real: Spanish Painting and Sculpture 1600–1700,” in X. Bray, A. Rodríguez G. de Ceballos, D. Barbour, and J. Ozone (eds.), The Sacred Made real: Spanish Painting and Sculpture 1600–1700, 15–43, London: National Gallery. Bull, M. and J. P. Mitchell (2015), Ritual, Performance and the Senses, London: Bloomsbury. Di Bello, P. and G. Koureas, eds. (2010), Art History and the Senses, Farnham: Ashgate.

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Espirito Santo, D. and Tassi, N. (2013), “Introduction,” in D. Espirito Santo and N. Tassi (eds.), Making Spirits. Materiality and Transcendence in Contemporary Religions, 1–30, London and New York: I. B. Tauris. Flood, F. B. (2014), “Bodies and Becoming: Mimesis, Mediation, and the Ingestion of the Sacred in Christianity and Islam,” in S. M. Promey (ed.), Sensational Religion. Sensory Cultures in Material Practice, 459–93, New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Friedberg, D. (1989), The Power of Images. Studies in the History and Theory of Response, Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press. García Lorca, F. ([1918] 1998), A Season in Granada. Uncollected Poems & Prose, ed. and trans. C. Maurer, London: Anvil Press Poetry. Gólgota. Revista official de la Semana Santa de Granada (2014), no. 56, April 2014. Hall, L. B. (2004), Mary, Mother and Warrior. The Virgin in Spain and the Americas, Austin: University of Texas Press. Henares Maldonado, Á. (2014), El Papa a los cofrades. Gólgota. Revista official de la Semana Santa de Granada, no. 56, April 2014: 18–20. Hermkens, A. K., W. Jansen, and C. Notermans, eds. (2009), Moved by Mary. The Power of Pilgrimage in the Modern World, Farnham: Ashgate. Houtman D. and B. Meyer, eds. (2013), Things. Religion and the Question of Materiality, 1–23, New York: Fordham University Press. King, E. F. (2010), Material Religion and Popular Culture, New York and London: Routledge. Kuuva, S. (2016), “Metabolism of Visual Symbols: Case Madonna,” The International Journal of the Image, 7 (2): 9–14. López-Guadalupe Muñoz, M. L. (2013), Imagénes elocuentes. Estudios sobre patrimonio escultórico, Granada: Editorial Atrio. López-Guadalupe Muñoz, M. L. and J. J. López-Guadalupe Muñoz (2002), Historia Viva de la Semana Santa de Granada. Arte y Devoción, Granada: Universidad de Granada. Luengo Mena, J. (2013), Liturgia, Culto y Cofradías. Manual de Liturgia para cofrades, Sevilla: Abec editores. McDannell, C. (1995), Material Christianity: Religion and Popular Culture in America, New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Meyer, B. (2011), “Mediation and Immediacy: Sensational Forms, Semiotic Ideologies and the Question of the Medium,” Social Anthropology/Anthropologie Sociale, 19 (1): 23–39. Meyer, B. and D. Houtman (2012), “Introduction,” in D. Houtman and B. Meyer (eds.), Things. Religion and the Question of Materiality, 1–23, New York: Fordham University Press. Miller, D. (2005), “Materiality. An Introduction,” in D. Miller (ed.), Materiality, 1–50, Durham and London: Duke University Press. Mitchell, T. (1988), Violence and Piety in Spanish Folklore, Philadelphia: University of Philadelphia Press.

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Mitchell, T. (1990), Passional Culture. Emotion, Religion and Society in Southern Spain, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Mitchell, W. J. T. (2005), What do Pictures Want? The Lives and Loves of Images, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press. Mitchell, J. P. (2010), “Performing Statues,” in D. Morgan (ed.), Religion and Material Culture. The Matter of Belief, 263–76, London and New York: Routledge. Mitchell, J. P. (2015), “Ontology, Mimesis, and Divine Intervention: Understanding Catholic Visionaries,” in M. Bull and Mitchell J. P. (eds.), Ritual, Performance and the Senses, 11–30, London: Bloomsbury. Moffitt, J. F. (1999), The Arts in Spain, London: Thames and Hudson. Morgan, D. (2010a), “Introduction. The Matter of Belief,” in D. Morgan (ed.), Religion and Material Culture: The Matter of Belief, 1–17, London and New York: Routledge. Morgan, D. (2010b), “The Material Culture of Lived Religion: Visuality and Embodiment,” in J. Vakkari et al. (eds.), Mind and Matter—Selected papers of Nordik 2009 conference for art historians. Jyväskylä, September 17–19, 2009, 15–31, Helsinki: Society of Art History. Muñoz Molina, A. (2001), Sefarad, Madrid: Alfaguara. Orsi, R. A. (2005), Between Heaven and Earth: The Religious Worlds People Make and the Scholars who Study them, Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. Orsi, R. A. (2010), The Madonna of the 115th Street: Faith and Community in Italian Harlem, 1880–1950, 3rd ed., New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Peña, E. A. (2011), Performing Piety. Making Space Sacred with the Virgin of Guadalupe, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London: University of California Press. Promey, S. M. (2014), “Religion, Sensation, and Materiality. An Introduction,” in S. M. Promey (ed.), Sensational Religion: Sensory Cultures in Material Practice, 1–21, New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Rodríguez G. de Ceballos, A. (2009), “The Art of Devotion: Seventeenth-Century Spanish Painting and Sculpture in its Religious Context,” in X. Bray, A. Rodríguez G. de Ceballos, D. Barbour; and J. Ozone (eds.), The Sacred Made Real. Spanish painting and sculpture 1600–1700, 45–57, London: National Gallery. Schrauf, R. W. (1997), “Costalero Quiero Ser! Autobiographical Memory and the Oral Life Story of a Holy Week brother in Southern Spain,” Ethos, 25 (4): 428–53. Seijas Muñoz, E. (2000), Andalucía de Pasión, Granada. Soriano Martí, E. (2012), La Semana Santa de mi vida, Editorial Seleer. Taussig, M. (1993), Mimesis and Alterity: A Particular History of the Senses, New York: Routledge. Vuola, E. (2010), Jumalainen nainen. Neitsyt Mariaa etsimässä, Otava: Helsinki.

Afterword Diana Espirito Santo

If there is one thing I have learned from reading the various fascinating ethnographies in this book is that there is nothing “special,” so to speak, about Christianity in its myriad forms. As the editors note, the poles of materiality and immateriality, immanence and transcendence, while foundational for Christianity, have been notoriously exaggerated by scholars, especially of Protestant denominations. Rather, a spectrum of relationships of ambivalence toward matter—played out in praxis—seems to play a greater role in understanding, say, mediation, than concepts of transcendence proper. Both cosmology and religious life seem to be organized around themes that concern people and their bodies, more than abstract principles or transcendent deities. Doubt, questions of sincerity, the visibility or tangibility of the divine, suspicion over spirit media and human (or demonic) interference, authenticity and lack thereof, the limits of the body and the implications of changing body-scapes, the making and maintaining of religious authority, understanding oneself as both divine and not, discernment, and the ontological effects of belief, and of words: all of these come under scrutiny in the often very different ethnographic chapters of this book. And they come under scrutiny because they are concerns for each author’s religious interlocutors. But none of these is strictly “Christian” in essence or direction. In the Introduction of Christianity and the Limits of Materiality, Opas and Haapalainen indeed argue for what has become a central motto in a more ontology-driven approach to anthropology: that materiality and meaning are not necessarily separate things; they often collapse. And if they are separate, they can be separate in very different ways. This does not preclude the intimate experience of god(s); perhaps very much the opposite. As Tanya Luhrmann has demonstrated in the North American Evangelical context where devotees learn to “hear” God’s voice through processes of absorption and prayer, “humans can experience divinity intimately,” and in such intimacy, “the internal mind and an external reality in some way participate in each other” (2007: 84). In likeminded ways, my own Cuban and Brazilian interlocutors learn to “incorporate” or become possessed

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by deities and spirits gradually, by attuning their motor and psychological skills to the deities’ specific phenomenological configurations. It takes time for them to hear the “voices” of their spirits. For them too, issues of the limits of materiality are especially relevant, central even. The difference between a novice and an expert medium, for instance, is often only the confidence that the information “received” through their bodies and minds comes from beyond, and not within them. In their Introduction to the seminal volume Learning Religion (2007), David Berliner and Ramon Sarró argue that “no matter how it is defined, religion has to do with reiteration: of words, actions, intentions or memories. How it repeats and replicates itself over time and space is what we ethnographers are here to find out” (2007: 3). But while this seemingly noble intention for ethnographers is food for (cognitivist) thought, in this brief Afterword, I will contend—I suspect along with the authors of the chapters of this book—that we need to at least develop this statement to include a view of religious practice in its myriad unpredictable, moving, expansive, and cosmologically and socially incorporative dimensions. This includes a relationship to things, objects, shrines, but also concepts of matter more transversally. What even Western Christianity and the Afro-American religions seem to have in common is precisely encounter, the destabilization and recreation of cosmologies in new settings, historical, geographic, institutional. But it is not a specific historical moment we should be looking at, but a creative process. Indeed, in Chapter 5, which deals with the establishment of a Noah’s Ark theme park, James S. Bielo argues that the limits of materiality are always about their possibilities; they establish the conditions for creative responses. The point is not to see a “linear and irreversible growth of unbridgeable temporal distance between past and present realities” (Palmié 2002: 5), separating, say, the once “pure” from the now “contaminated” religious form. Neither Christian nor Afro-American “pasts,” are ever over, or finished, and neither can we objectively or “truthfully” represent them historically. We need to see “encounter” not as a moment in time but as something constant, leading to continual negotiation and re-negotiation of cosmology and practice, as all the chapters show, from Amazonia to Russia. The other point here is that people craft their own solutions to the problem of divine presence, or the spirit of materiality; these are not pre-given but remade on the basis of constant personal and group contingencies, even if there are rigid standards, ideals, and doctrines. There is no “repetition” in the sense meant by Berliner and Sarró—of automaticity. One of the corollaries of this vision is that we can let the field dictate our theoretical and conceptual terms.

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In a short book from 2002 called Anthropology and the Will to Meaning: A Postcolonial Critique, Greek anthropologist Vassos Argyrou argues that anthropology tends not to a definition of the “other,” but to its “redefinition” with the ultimate aim of saving the “other.” According to Argyrou, this will to “ethnological salvation” manifests in three interrelated redemption practices (2002: 29), but it is the third that still persists. It has two origins: in the ethnological thought of the sixteenth century and in the universalistic anthropology of the Victorian age. In this strategy, the “other” would be here an incomplete manifestation of the Same, or Sameness, a stage in its natural development in the direction of complete realization, as if from a child to an adult. While we all know that evolutionism’s nineteenth-century paradigm is no good, Argyrou thinks that the idea of Sameness is so obvious, that it still walks (ibid.: 32–33). There have been many conceptualizations of this Sameness in the twentieth century; for instance, the idea that social institutions exist because they cover individuals’ needs, or that magical-religious systems could be understood as complexes of ideas and practices that calmed anxieties and fears on a personal and collective level. Or indeed, I would say, that materials and objects serve to “represent” the symbolic dimensions of society, often without the conscious knowledge of the participants of these same societies. Argyrou’s point is that there is a measure of circularity and paradoxicality in anthropological thought, which in effect is still with us. On the one hand, the anthropologist searches for difference. On the other, he tries to assimilate this difference to a whole, a Same World, Same Ontology, so that there really is not that much difference after all. This “Same World” is often wholly material, although it also takes a psychological dimension (in the notion of the Psychic Unity of Mankind, for instance). The notion that certain beliefs are false, according to Charles Taylor, is definitive of modernity itself, in which science usually has the last word. Furthermore, he argues, this is typical of a particular kind of humanism that came to exclude the spirit in things. For Taylor, “materialism itself is an ontological thesis” (2007: 574). Anthropologists have begun to transcend the boundaries of “explanatory” theories, based on notions that nothing exists except matter. They are increasingly releasing any preconception of what the “worlds” of their interlocutors (should) look like. One important component of this new anthropology is its recursive nature: difference is dealt with in its fullest possible way, and this difference then affects our own concepts and anthropological theories. There are many aspects to this new “turn” in anthropology—not all of them conceptual as such. I will

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explore here two that I see as especially relevant to this book and the underlying themes therein articulated. The first aspect concerns itself with self-orientations and bodily experiences, and attempts to formulate a language that is as true to the ethnography of human experience as possible. In consideration is the notion that bodies, and our experience-in-the-world as human beings, and persons, bring forth these same worlds. The environment here is not a material substratum for meanings or abstractions, but a place of wonder and enactment, which contains all manner of “beings”—divine or not, invisible and not. The second aspect has to do with the effects of media. One of the premises of this edited book is that Christian media often act far beyond what we would expect an object—or body—to. In short, media are not simply mediatory: in this book’s chapters, bodies can be morally transformed through conversion, for instance, devotional images act upon the world, a crucifix is made sacred through the movement of people, material things are sanctified by the way they are remembered, a “faith” organ inside the person can become “bad matter”— all of these instances require and imply mediation. But they also go beyond it. Substances matter—they can animate or destroy the possibility of the divine. Media can also go beyond itself, merging with selves and gods, providing models for relational possibilities beyond the devotee’s own space-time, creating productive instabilities of all kinds. I will argue that both aspects are common also to Afro-American religions, which I explore briefly in each.

Self in/as materiality How can we avoid understanding the “self ” as self-contained, “buffered,” interior to itself? In what way is materiality involved in its constitution? Are the limits of materiality, its edges, also the edges of the Self? In her chapter on doubt and Christian corporeality among the Yine of the Peruvian Amazon, Minna Opas argues that changes in the body can also change people’s perspective and even personhood. The “Self ” then, is something felt physically. The idea that God has inhabited an addict’s body in the Russian Baptist rehab ministry, discussed by Igor Mikeshin in Chapter 9, implies complete detoxification. Conversion is radical and evident only on the body (the extension of the soul). Fasting in orthodox Ethiopia, described by Tom Boylston in Chapter 3, creates formal resemblances to saints that make connections to them. We seem to have conceptions of body, Self, and soul in these texts that approximate them

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to what the editors have described in the Introduction as Thomas of Aquinas’s theology, “in which the soul was understood as the substantial form of body, which informed the human bodily composition” (xxxii). We are reminded of Pedersen’s and Willerslev’s recent arguments on the animist soul in North Asian ontologies, where they argue that the soul of the soul is another body, as also in Amerindian perspectivist contexts (2012). One of the first pioneers of a grounded understanding of the Self and its cultural development was undoubtedly Irving Hallowell (1955), an American anthropologist who worked with the indigenous Ojibwa people of Canada and who proposed the term “behavioral environment.” Arguing that self-awareness is the foundation for the functioning of any group, Hallowell described an environment not only in terms of its visible, tangible properties, but also in terms of a total behavioral field to which man ultimately responds. Among the Ojibwa’s animistic behavioral field, for instance, stones, trees, and thunder are animated; there exist gods, ancestors, and spirits one must take heed of; and man will adjust his behavior accordingly (1988: 75–89). There are “normative orientational processes,” such as object, spatiotemporal, and motivational orientations, provided differentially by different cultures, that are essential for the creation of sociality: tools, normative and moral precepts, systems of communication, religion, and so on. The psychological field where human actions are shaped is always culturally constituted (ibid.: 87). This means, among other things, that the responses people have are never reduced to the world of physical or geographical objects; and, importantly, that selves may be far more inclusive than we ordinarily conceive (ibid.: 92). Tim Ingold has taken Hallowell to heart, not simply in relation to the Self, but also to the material environment. Matter, for him, is intimately tied to the power of the imagination; and it cannot be divorced from the constitution of one’s Self. For Ingold, human beings “do not construct the world in a certain way by virtue of what they are, but by virtue of their own conceptions of the possibilities of being” (Ingold 2000: 177). Phenomenal experience, sensation, habitus, is culture; it is not organizationally subject to it. A properly “ecological” approach (a term inspired by Gibson’s theory of perception) takes as its Batesonian point of departure the whole organism-in-its-environment. Both Ingold’s own work with hunter-gatherers and his reading of Irving Hallowell’s classic ethnography of the Ojibwa lead him to expand his approach to the realms of animist ontologies, wherein people’s knowledge lies not in the accumulation of mental content but rather by “moving around in their environment, whether in dreams or waking

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life, by watching, listening and feeling, actively seeking out the signs by which (the world—and its denizens) is revealed” (2000: 99). The point here is that the environment of a particular organism is that which exists for it, and takes on meaning in relation to it; by the same token, the environment also comes into existence via the organism’s development in it (ibid.: 20). The animacy of the life world, he continues, is thus “not the result of an infusion of spirit into substance, or of agency into materiality, but is rather ontologically prior to their differentiation” (ibid.). Rane Willerslev, too, bypasses what he calls the Cartesian presumptions of the study of animism to put forward an analysis of Yukaghir personhood and spirit relations based on phenomenological concerns and mimesis, in which he sees perception as firmly grounded in people’s worldly activities (2007). Interesting to us here is that although the Yukaghir did acknowledge the existence of spirits, and associated them with aspects of the landscape and with animals, in general they were incapable of naming them, or giving any substantial information on individual characteristics. But whereas others take an “intellectual perspective” with relation to this fact, Willerslev takes a “dwelling perspective,” following Ingold. He relies on a phenomenological understanding of the flux of people’s everyday, prereflexive activities. It begins from the assumption that people’s practical engagement with the world is the crucial foundation upon which any intellectual understanding is based. Willerslev also takes from Heidegger the idea of the “tool”: tools are experienced as ready-to-hand elements in our everyday practical projects. Spiritual knowledge, for the Yukaghirs, is of this kind. Spirits are experienced as ready-to-hand, which is why they are so imperative to hunting operations. This type of phenomenological immediacy is present in a vital way in AfroAmerican religions. In his work on the Afro-Brazilian religion of Candomblé, which worships deities called orixás (2007), Marcio Goldman discards what he calls the “systematic form of teaching” model characteristic of cognitive science; “essentially hydraulic in kind, implying a ready-made content derived from another ready-made but full container, which—paradoxically enough—is not emptied in the process” (2007: 109). He argues that learning to be a ritual expert, is at the same time learning to be a particular kind of person, which takes her from a relatively undifferentiated being to a structured self. This multiplicity is manifest in the materials—stones, vessels, attributes, food and alcohol offerings, sacrificial blood—that are consecrated to each of the orixás she receives, and without which the orixá simply cannot exist on a human plane.

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A person is thought to simultaneously belong to and be composed of a main deity, an orixá, as well as a number of secondary ones, including a guardian angel, ancestors, and a soul. But the idea is that these are not given, but carefully pieced together throughout the process of initiation, which may take up to twenty-one years; thus the deities must also be made with the person, taking on a personalized form. The material dimension of this process is undeniable. In effect, the orixás become the vessels by which they are “made” by people. It is no coincidence that the main initiation ritual is called the feitura de cabeça, meaning the “making of one’s head.” It is thought the orixá is literally and physically “placed”—through certain consecrated substances in cuts on the crown—in the person’s head. But the work toward a complete “self ” is slow, arduous, and daily; and requires the labor of fuxicos (small, daily ritual operations) to come into existence. To “be,” Goldman suggests with respect to Candomblé, must be conceptualized along the lines of a continuum at the other end of which is an indifferentiation of being, a “not-being.” But this being would be impossible without matter. In a similar way, in her chapter on Ghanaian Pentecostalism, Marleen de Witte argues that spirit media make spirits real. According to her, approaching materiality through a notion of making is relevant also to Christianity. In both Goldman’s and Willerslev’s ethnographies then, selves cannot be seen essentially nor are they simply relational: they depend on the work of materials, environment, and active engagement to come into existence.

Ontological effects of media One of the central themes of a concern with the limits of materiality in this edited book is the question of the limits of media—their authenticity, capacity to convey and transmit, to stay “true” to God, and to have “enough” good physical qualities to mediate. We see this, for instance, in Katja Rakow’s chapter on “The Bible in the Digital Age,” where in Texas people both use and question the use of electronic devices as bibles—for some, they are not reliable as the “Word of God” because they run out of power. We see it also in Turku, Finland, through Anna Haapalainen’s text on the lack of a material set or props for the actors of the Michael’s Theatre. Here, material absence mediates better than presence in the Easter play the actors put on based on the Bible. But like the crucifix Diego Alonso Huerta discusses in his chapter on Andean vernacular Catholicism, we cannot always take a sacred object’s mediatory prowess for granted. In the

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case of the sixteenth-century Peruvian cross, its “miraculousness” needs to be constituted over and again by pilgrimages, as well as by recounting and remembering the myth of its construction. Similarly, in the Spanish Semana Santa setting of Granada, Sari Kuuva shows in Chapter 10 that religion needs to be lived, and that even powerful statues need to be reinforced in their power for mediation. Technologies and materials are indeed so fundamental to the experience of the divine—in its varied manifestations—that Elisa Heinämäki argues in her chapter that even the most radically “dematerializing” Pietists in Sweden and Finland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries needed to define the kinds of operations on bodies and objects that this required. Indeed, in the nineteenth century new forms of spiritualist “science” required precisely the validation of objects, techniques, and measurements to conjure their spirits and substances, mediums of proof. Invisible “materials” such as ether and magnetic fluid were discerned by experts and audiences as evidence of the existence of spirits and their designs. We could even preliminarily ask how, and why, invisible entities came to be excluded from our scientific imaginary, given that movements such as mesmerism, theosophy, and Spiritism were built precisely on modernist materialist foundations. This may be a question that remains without a clear-cut answer. But the interesting end of this equation is that technologies and material forms of summoning and measuring spirits were less mediums than tropes for the new imaginative capacities of mind and spirit. “Modern” machines, such as the telegraph, provided a practical analogue, as well as a material infrastructure, for sustaining contact with “other worlds” beyond the visible. Jeremy Stolow recounts the common story between the telegraph and spiritualism, arguing that the telegraph empowered a new class of spirit mediums to exchange knowledge and renegotiate their authority on a cultural, scientific, and political scale (2009). This is reflected, for example, in spiritualism’s increasing global consciousness. From their location in bourgeois living rooms in Western metropolises, spirit mediums summoned entities that represented a diversity of “other worlds”; not only spirit of great figures from the pantheon of Western history, such as Socrates, but also more exotic personalities, from places such as Tahiti, Baghdad, Algeria, Louisiana, and Egypt (2009: 84). Spirit mediums in the nineteenth century, much like the telegraph itself, crossed the “colonial divide,” and were deeply implicated in a new mode of imagining communities, commensurate with expanding telecommunication technologies. This lack of ontological constraint is exactly what American anthropologist Aisha Beliso-De Jesús reveals in a contemporary setting in Electric Santería (2015). Her argument is that transnationalized Santería, Cuba’s most popular

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religion of African influence, is, and in effect, has long been characterized by assemblages of what she calls “co-presences”—people, but also spirits and gods, extended through media. These co-presences are now spread spatiotemporally by technologies, such as DVDs, tapes, and the internet, in and between countries. She tells of an incident she bore witness to where Ochún, the deity of love and fertility, possessed a woman on a DVD recording of her initiation, watched by her family in Spain. At the same time, one of those watching was also possessed through mere exposure to this sight. Ochún had apparently been “called down” through the screen (2015: 41). In fact, a recorded ceremony can “transmit” the oricha and the muerto to the present, so that they can be experienced years after it has taken place. According the author, thinking of these beings in terms of electric waves requires a reconsideration of concepts of media and religion. Consultations are ever-more frequent online, or by phone or Skype, at a distance. This long-distance messaging and talking services extend people’s and deities’ corporeal capacities, collapsing time, space, and place. Beliso-De Jesús’s work points to the expansion of borders not just of practitioners’ imaginaries, but also the very ontology they are premised on: the deities. Many practitioners “feel” presences through electronic media. Armandito, one of her interlocutors, describes videos like batá drums, the sacred instruments used to call the spirits and gods—like a telephone that calls the orichas. Jay, an American priest, told her that he had to disconnect his phone and his television at night, because the spirits would not leave him alone. The idea is that technology is not something that just represents the fact, the ceremony, and the deity. It can create its presence in real time. Analytically, technologies and media themselves can be spirits or gods, have spirit effects, where possibilities for skepticism and doubt are equally relevant. This is a conclusion gauged also from this edited book’s chapters.

References Argyrou, V. (2002), Anthropology and the Will to Meaning: A Postcolonial Critique, London: Pluto Press. Beliso-De Jesús, A. (2016), Electric Santería: Racial and Sexual Assemblages of Transnational Religion, New York: Columbia University Press. Berliner, D. and R. Sarró (2007), “On Learning Religion: An Introduction,” in D. Berliner and R. Sarró (eds.), Learning Religion: Anthropological Approaches, 1–20, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books.

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Goldman, M. (2007), “How to Learn in an Afro-Brazilian Spirit Possession Religion, Ontology and Multiplicity in Candomble,” in D. Berliner and R. Sarró (eds.), Learning Religion: Anthropological Approaches, 103–20, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Hallowell, I. [1955](1988), Culture and Experience, Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Ingold, T. (2000), The Perception of the Environment: Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill, London: Routledge. Luhrmann, T. (2007), “How Do You Know That It Is God Who Speaks?,” in D. Berliner and R. Sarró (eds.), Learning Religion: Anthropological Approaches, 83–102, New York and Oxford: Berghahn Books. Palmié, S. (2002), Wizards and Scientists: Explorations in Afro-Cuban Modernity and Tradition, Durham: Duke University Press Pedersen, M. and R. Willerslev (2012), “‘The Soul of the Soul Is the Body’: Rethinking the Concept of the Soul through North Asian Ethnography,” Common Knowledge 18 (3): 464–86. Stolow, J. (2009), “Wired Religion: Spiritualism and Telegraphic Globalization in the Nineteenth Century,” in S. Streeter and J. Weaver and W. Coleman (eds.), Empires and Autonomy: Moments in the History of Globalization, 77–92, NY, Vancouver: University of British Columbia. Taylor, C. (2007), A Secular Age, Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press; Harvard University Press. Willerslev, R. (2007), Soul Hunters: Hunting, Animism, and Personhood among the Siberian Yukaghirs, Berkeley: University of California Press.

Index Abba S’om  86–7 absence  ix–x, 12, 16, 52, 80, 197, 201, 255 actant  177, 179–80 actor-network theory  88 addiction treatment  212–13, 216 addiction  21, 210–13, 215, 219, 224–5. See also under body adiaphora  145, 195 aesthetics  5–6, 19, 38; and aesthetic process 143, 151–3, 155–6; force 51, 244; and form 52; as quality 43, 159 n.9; and tradition 145, 156, 236, 245 n.7 affect and affectivity  19, 70, 124, 126, 128 Africa  2, 38–9, 46, 51–2, 257 agape  203 Agar, Michael  211 agency  15; in aesthetic process 152; creative 137; divine 38, 47, 50, 89, 91–3, 129, 192; human 50, 52, 198; materiality of 20, 45, 122; lay 159 n.6; things and objects 2, 39, 68, 88, 148, 163, 238, 254 agents  xv, 72, 78–9, 82, 130, 149–50; and action 123 Agnew, Vanessa  144 alcohol  62, 219–21, 223, 254 Alhambra  230, 234, 244 n.2, 245 n.4, 245 n.7 alienation  xii, 6, 128 alterity  17, 39, 69, 148, 167, 179, 233 Amazonia  56–7, 59, 61–2, 65, 73 n.7, 250 ambiguity  49, 57, 63–6, 115–17. See also doubt; uncertainty ambivalence  xii, 2, 4, 14, 16, 18, 64, 102, 249 ancestors  13, 129, 253, 255 Andalusia  231–7, 240–1, 243–4, 245 n.3, 246 n.9. See also processions angels  xiv, 93, 204, 221, 231; Archangel Michael 86 animation  52, 62 animism  xii, 253–4

Ankrah, Korankye  42 anointing  43–5, 48–9 anthropology; of Christianity 5, 7, 9, 22 n.3–4, 22 n.6, 129, 211, 213, 233, 242, 249, 251; of Luther 9, 11–12 Apostle Paul  215 Appadurai, Arjun  7, 22 n.1, 22 n.4 appearance  43, 47, 49–52, 57, 64, 66–7, 107, 199–201 Aquinas, Thomas  9, 253 Argyrou, Vassos  251 Ark Encounter (biblical theme park)  xiv, 6, 14, 17–19, 122–4, 126–8, 130–4, 136–8, 138 n.2, 250 Arminians  215, 224 Arminius, Jacobus  215 Arndt, Johann  191 arrogance (t’igab)  80 artifacts. See objects and artifacts Asad, Talal  7, 206 n.6, 206 n.9 asceticism  xi, 94, 195–6. See also penance audience  xiv, 18–9, 46–7, 113, 130, 133, 137, 141–6, 148, 152–6, 158 n.3, 159 n.11, 236–9, 244 n.1, 246 n.9, 256 Augsburg Confession  190, 199 Australia  112 authenticity  14–17, 19, 21, 41, 46, 48, 50–2, 71, 73 n.10, 143, 146, 151–4, 156, 230–40, 243, 249, 255 authority  ix, 15–16, 19–20, 44, 46, 50–1, 79–82, 91–4, 103, 115, 122, 133, 136, 187, 190–1, 199–201, 249, 256; and authorization 67, 89, 90; spiritual 44, 50–1, 187, 199, 201 autobiography  188–9; writing 192–3; diaries 4, 188, 193–202 Azande  72 n.5 Barber, Karin  38–40, 47, 53 Barker, George C.  233 baroque  234–8, 242

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Beal, Timothy K.  103, 106, 113–16 “being-in-touch”  1, 3, 146, 151 Bekoe, Nana  49 belief  x–xii, 4–5, 15, 17, 38–40, 45, 52, 62, 163, 175, 193, 203, 206 n.4, 215, 232, 236, 249, 251 believers  17, 21, 40, 43–4, 47–8, 50, 56, 61, 68, 71, 82, 113, 145, 149, 160, 187, 189, 199–201, 203, 219, 220, 237; un- 40 Beliso-De Jesús, Aisha  256–7 belonging  5–6, 122; negotiations of 6; un- 6 Berliner, David  250 Bernini, Gianlorenzo  xiv beyondness  79, 88, 90–1 Bialecki, Jon  189 Bible  xiv, 17, 101–2, 118 n.2, 118 n.6, 119 n.8–10, 159 n.12; as access to God’s Word 41, 108, 190–1, 216, 220; applications 108, 110, 112; authenticity of 19, 153; digital 14, 17, 19, 103–5, 109, 114–17, 255; family 105–7; format of xiv; historicity of 131, 154; iconicity of 103; literalist readings of 135, 214; and Luther 22 n.7; materiality of 4, 103, 114, 150; materializing the 124, 133, 136, 138 n.2; as medium 42, 116; as mythical and historical document 142, 147, 150; New Testament 142, 210–11; as object 113; Old Testament 10, 211; qualities of 17, 19, 105; reading of 147, 159–60 n.14, 211, 215, 218–19, 221–2; and SIL International/WBT 59; as source 18, 147–51, 156, 170, 180 n.1; use of 60, 64, 102, 104, 109–13, 115, 117; versions 18, 102–3, 117 “bibleness”  18, 103, 105, 116–18 biblical texts. See text and texts biblical theatre  6, 18, 130, 143–7, 150–2, 158–9 n.3–6; characters in 18–19, 128, 131, 133–5, 137, 142–3, 145, 147–9, 151–5, 231 bishops  87–90; Archbishop of Lima 166–7 bodily and bodiliness  12; changes 218, 223–6; condition 72; and detoxification 210; discipline 206 n.9; encounters 237; experiences 11, 20, 71, 73 n.10, 196, 205, 214, 252; imprint x; index

59; language 197; and mimesis 233; movements 44; perspective 64; practices 81, 84, 196; relapse 215, 218, 223–6; transformation 210–11, 214, 223–6; techniques 47, 51, 153; urges 194–5 body  x, 23 n.15, 60, 179, 249, 252; addicted 212; affectivity and 70; antagonism towards xiii, 7, 11; anointment and 49; and “being-in-theworld” 155; Catholic 62; as channel 121; Christian condition of 64, 80; collective 172, 177; communicating 79; disciplining the 21; and drawing into relation 83, 94; and embodiment/ disembodiment xii, xiv, 41, 81, 104, 115–17, 141, 172–3, 175, 188, 193, 195–8, 232; and enchantment 20; Evangelical 62, 71; fabrication of 65; glorification of xiii; and hierarchies 21, 50, 197; and Holy Spirit 38, 43–4, 47; human condition of 9, 20, 42, 57, 62, 64–6, 78, 80–1, 136, 180, 253; as image xii, 84; of Jesus ix; limits of 71, 205; living 147, 173; material image of xii; materiality of 3–4, 14, 16, 21, 38, 40, 41–2, 45, 176, 188, 242; as medium xiv; and mind 9, 12, 23 n.10, 39, 46, 218, 250; and need xi, 21; openness of 57, 64; and pilgrimage 18–9, 163, 178; Radical Pietist 188, 193–8, 256; and senses 44, 57, 63–4, 69, 71; sinful 215; as site of meaning making 198; as site of memory 205; as social ix; and soul ix, xiv, 2, 8, 9, 12, 39, 175, 215, 253; suffering 10, 176; and things 92–3; and transformation 21, 73 n.7, 83, 178; qualities of 52; and unbinding 20. See also corporeality books  41, 44, 102–6, 109–15, 117, 205; audio- 108; comic 150; e- xiv, 101–2, 104, 108–9, 119 n.7–8; holy 42; parchment 90; and reading 202; and “specialness” 149; types of 236. See also Bible borders  11, 12, 257. See also boundaries; limits boundaries  xii, 12–21, 178; and boundarywork 4–7, 12–21, 151, 197; between human body and soul 23 n.15, 205; and identity 199; and institutions 82;

Index physical 148; porous 13, 206 n.4; and theories 251; visible and invisible xiv; zone 8. See also borders; limits; materiality Bourgois, Philippe  212 Brahinsky, Josh  70 Brazil  249; and Afro-Brazilian religion 254 brotherhood  231, 235, 241–2, 245 n.7–8; flagellants as 235; and brothers 59, 60, 62, 211, 216–19, 221–23, 226 n.2; Brothers of Blood 235; Brothers of Light 235 “bundling”  19, 68–9, 174, 176 Calvin, Jean  215 Canada  235 candles  19, 168, 170, 238–9, 241–2 Candomblé  254–5 Canta, Province of  180, 181 n.3 Cartesian dualism  9; presumptions 254 Casey, Edward  172 Catholicism and Catholic  7–8, 11, 20, 46, 79, 114; Amazonian 57, 60–2, 65–6; Andalusian 231, 234, 237, 243–4; body 62; brotherhoods 231, 235, 241–2, 245 n.7–8; cults 233; culture 234; dogma 213; Dominican 59; fellowships 165, 168, 170, 181 n.2; hermandades 165; imagination 231; missionaries 59; Peruvian 170–1, 175, 180 n.10; pilgrimages 19, 175; processions 241, 246 n.9; and Reformation 23 n.9; theology 179, 182 n.8, 237; tradition 10, 43, 95 n.2; vernacular 163, 180 n.10, 255 charisma  44, 51, 70, 94, 165, 167 charismatic Christianity  7–8, 46, 58, 60, 130; churches 7, 43; Hillsong Church 112–13; Lakewood Church 101–3, 118; Word of Life 58. See also Pentecostalism; Protestantism; preachers Chidester, David  128 Chile; and Pentecostals  71 Christ  86–7, 180 n.1; agony of 236, 242; blood of 204; body of xiii; as character in a play 148, 151–2, 159 n.11; Christology 79; and cross 91; crucifix 163, 169; of Huamantanga 173, 180; light 190;

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imitation of 241; image of 10, 85, 234; nature of ix, 1, 79, 89, 150–1; passion of 151, 159 n.10, 231, 235, 241; presence of 8, 174–5, 179; relationship to 218; sacrifice of 224; salvation trough 215; sculpture of 231, 238, 240, 245 n.7; times of 154; union with xiii, 237; veneration of 239; will of 213–14. See also Jesus Christian plays  6, 14, 17, 19, 127, 129, 142–3, 146, 148–52, 154–6, 158 n.3–4, 159 n.6; Easter 141, 255; Christmas 141; lived 46; mystery 235; Passion xiv, 142, 143, 146, 148–52, 156; and sets/ stage 18, 131, 141–2, 145–6, 148, 151–3, 155–6, 158 n.2, 159 n.8, 255; tradition in Finland 144–5. See also theatre Christianity  xiii–ix, xi, 2, 15, 80, 191, 214, 219, 249; African 50; Amazonian 57, 59, 62, 64–6, 71–2; anthropology of 5–6, 57, 129, 213; and body xiv, 71; and Christianities 2, 7–8, 11, 22, 59, 62, 64–5, 151; and Christians ix, x, xiii, 1, 2–7, 14–15, 17–19, 21, 22 n.2, 38, 40, 48, 50, 52, 58, 60, 64, 123, 129–31, 142; and conversion 216; dualism in 1; ethnographic study of 12; evolution of xv; everyday 16; Ghanaian 50; and humanity 73 n.8; indigenous 59; and language practices 5, 58, 189, 193, 198, 203, 214; lived 22, 72, 118; materiality of 17, 39, 41, 51–2, 58, 67, 143, 255; and Mosaic Israelites 85; ontology of 23 n.9; and praxis 58; Reformed 23 n.9; Russian Baptist 210, 223; scholars of 40, 51, 249; in United States 102; vernacular 2; Western 151, 250; Word of Life 58. See also Catholicism and Catholic; charismatic Christianity; Evangelical Christianity; Lutheranism Orthodox Christianity, Protestantism; theology churches: Cathedral of Granada 231; Cornaro Chapel xiv; Michael’s 141–2, 146; San Juan de Dios 234; Virgen de las Angustias 234 clergy  81, 89, 187, 199–200, 235, 245 n.5. See also priests clothing  47, 68–9, 134, 136, 147, 150, 152, 204, 239, 345–6 n.8; costumes 18,

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47, 141–2, 145–6, 149–53, 156, 160 n.15, 239, 245 n.7; ritual garbs 241 co-constitution  2, 12, 24 n.15, 153 Coleman, Simon  58, 204, 223 collectivity  5–6, 12, 21, 70–1, 168–72, 174, 176–8, 232, 234, 238–9, 243–4, 251 colonization  56 confraternity  231, 235–9 consecration  16, 78–9, 87–94, 255 consubstantiality  61–3, 67, 69–70, 73 n.8 conversion  18, 122, 127, 129, 212, 222; in Amazonia 73 n.6; Baptist 214, 216; biblical text and 21, 210; conditions of 125, 130–1, 138; and entertainment 129–30; essence of 225; Evangelical 214; material limits of 126; moral 211, 225; nonradical 224; partiality of 223, 225; and plausibility-immersion 126, 136; process of 224–5; radical 210–11, 213– 16, 222, 224, 252; role of God in 130; strategic model of 123, 126, 130, 134, 136; social implications of 214; tradition of 128; and transformation 252 co-presence  69, 257. See also “bundling” corporeality  x, 20, 61–2, 65–6, 71–2, 177, 179, 252, 257. See also body cosmology  57, 69, 249–50 costalero  240, 242, 245–6 n.8 Councils: of Chalcedon (AD 451), 79; of Trent 234, 245 n.5 Crapanzano, Vincent  13, 159 n.14 Creation Museum  124, 132 creationism  xiv, 18, 123–7, 129–30, 133, 135–7, 138 n.2–3 creativity  92, 123; analysis of 137; -generating problems 123, 132, 136; God and 92; and limits 136; religious 232 cross  82, 166, 168, 170, 215, 239; Cruz Grande 166; Cruz Verde 166, 168, 170; cult of 85; exaltation of 86; as symbol 86–7, 90, 240; theology of 9–11; veneration of 85; and Via Crucis 235, 241–2. See also crucifix crucifix  xiv, 14, 17–19, 164–9, 171–4, 176–80; Lord of Huamantanga 164–9, 171–4, 176–80. See also cross crucifixion  87, 148, 150, 154, 159 n.11, 170 Cuba  249, 257; Afro-Cuban mediumship 39, 45–6

da Matta, Roberto  61 death  ix–xii, 12, 73 n.6, 105, 125, 127, 143, 154, 164, 193, 215, 231 debtera  91–2 deceptiveness  47, 66, 201 de-indexification  16, 56, 59 de Mena, Pedro  231 dematerialization  xii–xiii, 4, 20, 22 n.3, 149, 188–9, 193, 196, 205, 256 demons and demonic  38, 45, 49, 80, 91–2, 249 de Mora, José  231 desire  xii, 10, 47, 78, 80–1, 83, 127, 159 n.13, 178, 190, 194–6, 215, 224 “devotional nuclei”  236–7 Diez, Alejandro  164 discernment  49, 51, 70, 115, 137, 198–201, 205, 249, 256 disembodiment  xii, xiv, 41, 81, 104, 115–17, 141, 172–3, 175, 188, 193, 195–8, 232 divine  xiv, ix, 11, 49, 52, 83, 166, 249, 252; agency 47, 50, 52, 78, 90–1, 129; announcement 151; authorization 89; blessing 83, 93; calling 50; connecting with 21, 243; consumption 81; embodiment 175; emanation 149, 189; empowerment 93; experience 201, 256; faking 49; figures 81; human relations with 21, 61, 83, 95 n.2, 240, 243; inspiration 51; message 197, 202; investments 242; nature of ix, xi, 8, 79, 88, 149, 159 n.12, 192; person 239; plan 203; power 46–47, 50–52, 88, 92, 103, 150, 167, 239–40; practices 67, 82; presence 12, 42, 44, 51–2, 90, 103, 113, 149, 176, 250; properties 115; representation of 104; selfrevelation 43, 47; service 190; signs 206 n.11; spirit 199; touch 48; union xiv. See also holy, sacred dogma and dogmatics  210–13, 215–17, 219, 222; Baptist 220, 223, 225; Good Samaritan 221, 225; rehabilitation 225 doubt  4, 13, 14–16, 22, 40, 47, 52, 58–9, 63, 66–7, 69–72, 82, 116–17, 122, 129, 145, 201–2, 240, 249, 252, 257. See also suspicion; uncertainty; see under materiality; practice

Index doubting  4, 14–16, 22, 59, 63, 67, 202. See also doubt “drawing-into-relation”  83, 90–1, 94 drugs  xii, 130, 212, 215–16, 218, 220, 223–4, 236 duality and dualisms  x, 39, 42, 52, 70; in anthropology 9; Cartesian 9; as fleshiness and spirituality 80; in human 9; Protestant 52 Dumont, Luis  7 Easter  141, 144, 153, 155, 159 n.8, 159 n.10, 170, 255; procession 232, 246 n.9; Week xiv, 147, 153, 231, 233, 235, 239–40, 243, 245 n.7, 245–6 n.8 eating  65, 203–4; as communion 80–1, 89, 178, 204–5; and doubt 202; as impurity 194; Last Supper 187, 203, 230–1; rules about 195 elders  211, 217–19, 225, 226 n.3 embodiment  xii, xiv, 41, 81, 104, 115–17, 141, 172–3, 175, 188, 193, 195–8, 232. See also bodily and bodiliness; body; corporeality emotionality and emotions  11, 21, 37, 62, 127, 130, 150, 153–5, 173, 194, 220, 232, 234, 236–8, 243; and emotive states 125, 173; and interaction 112, 153–5; and interpersonal connection 156; and nostalgia 104, 106, 117 empowerment  83, 90–1, 93–4 encounters  176, 250; bodily 205, 237; fake 49; with God 67; ethnographic 113; obstacles 132; between Portuguese and West Africans 2; religious 52; with materiality 43, 45; with transcendent 3, 23 n.9, 61, 65, 165, 191 Engelke, Matthew  3, 5, 41, 68 entertainment  18, 127–8, 136–7; and conversion 129–30; creationist 137; culture of 127; ideology of 127; religious 137; and role-play 127, 129; and strategies 123, 128 epistemology  11, 16, 67; and ambiguity 57, 63–4 ; and Luther 23 n.7; postKantian 23 n.9 esoterism  91–2 Espirito Santo, Diana  16, 39 “ethical affordances”  3, 82–3

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Ethiopia  85–6, 93, 95 n.2, 135–6, 252; Orthodox Christians in 16, 78–80, 83, 85, 87–8, 93 ethnography  xii, 12, 37, 39–40, 59, 71, 118, 123, 131, 136–7, 143, 158 n.3, 168, 210, 212, 233, 249–50, 252–3, 255; and fieldwork 37, 40, 123, 210 Eucharist  ix, 81–3, 87, 89–90 Evangelical Christianity  102–4, 117, 213; in Amazonia xiv, 56–72, 72 n.3, 73 n.6, 73 n.8; American 105, 128, 249; and biblical literalism 159; and blogging 107; born-again 130; and communities 214; and conversion 214; and fundamentalism 130; and gospel 126; and narratives 214; North American 249; Peruvian 16; and Pentecostalism 104, 117; in Russia 214; and theology 130; in United States 102 evangelization  70, 167 evidence  70, 90, 106; biblical 224; of faith 16; empirical 129; ethnographic 71; good works as 213; invisible materials as 256; material 70; physical 128; of spiritual blessing 49; of the working of the Holy Spirit 52 evolutionism  251 experience  xiii–xiv, 1, 24 n.17, 65, 110, 123, 125–6, 130, 190, 232, 240; affective 19, 124, 128; of audience 152, 155; of authenticity 238; bodily 196–7, 214, 252; categories of xii; Christian 13, 15, 17, 175; collective 176–9; consumer 128; of divine 256; embodied 173, 205; emotional 244 n.1; and entertainment 18, 133, 137; existential 23 n.9; of faith 56, 58–9; fake 48; and fieldwork 40, 141, 181 n.2; of God 6, 11, 42, 73 n.10, 198; of healing 243; human xii, 6, 143, 149, 153, 215, 249, 252; as imitatio Christi 242; immersive 127, 129, 131; intimate 249; inward 195, 202; life 216, 218, 225; of martyrdom 182; multisensory 156; personal 38, 56, 66, 128; physical 16, 63–4, 67, 71–2, 109; of power 238; prison 217; and reading 117, 155; revelatory 144; religious 43, 46–7, 51, 122; restrictions of 150; of sacredness 180; in Santeria 257; sensory 38, 44, 47, 71, 244, 253; sincerity of 58; somatic 70;

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of Spirit 187, 197, 200–1; of spirits 254; spiritual 20, 219 Ezhov, Vladimir  226 fabrication  40, 47, 50, 52; of artifacts 10; of body 65 failure  64, 215, 224–5; in conversion 18; and creativity 137; as incompleteness 223; of materiality 129; potential of 122–3, 131–4, 136, 138; and plausibilityimmersion 130; of recognition 79, 93; as relapse 210, 221–2 faith healing  xiv, 70, 94, 115, 176, 211, 243 faith  8, 11, 15–17, 38, 45, 56–60, 62, 66, 71, 88, 107, 124, 144, 156, 173, 188, 190, 210, 221–3; authentification of 67; authorization of 67; constitution of 4, 17, 19; as device 45; experiences of 67; in God 107; growing in 214–15, 224–6; index of 64, 69, 72; justification of 213; live in 56, 66; materiality of xv, 4, 8, 14, 17, 61–2, 66; organ (ruwekinri) 56–60, 62–3, 68–9, 71–2, 252; physical signs of 16, 70; reauthetification of 67; recognition of 11; relegitimization of 67; transmitted 246 n.9 fake and faking  16, 38–41, 43, 46–52, 65, 73 n.10, 199 fasting  80–83, 85, 90–3, 194–6, 198, 201–2, 205, 252; as act of remembrance 198, 203; penance and suffering 169–70, 174–6, 178–80, 181 n.2 fetish  2, 49–50, 93 Finland  141, 145, 255. See also Lutheranism and Protestantism flagellants  235 flesh  x, xiii–xiv, 9, 16, 43, 78–81, 83–4, 87, 90–3, 153, 192, 195, 197, 204, 214–15, 225, 235. See also body; bodily and bodiliness; corporeality form  x, xii, 5–6, 44, 64, 104, 111–12, 187, 203, 239, 250, 255; aesthetic 52, 152; ambiguity of 66; boundary-work 4, 14; body and soul 9, 253; Christianity 7–8, 10–11, 22, 23 n.9, 249; and Christian theatre 145, 152, 156; and content 2, 50, 111, 143, 149; created things 93; cultural 127; devotion xiv, 144; divine

consumption 81; experience xiii, 122, 128, 130; expiation 176, 179; fasting 81; human 65, 85; landscape 167; lay piety 144, 159 n.6; magic 94; material ix, xv, 6, 38–40, 42, 49, 58, 62, 70, 82, 84, 122, 133, 138 n.2, 190, 202, 231, 256; media and mediation 16, 122; mimesis 172; morality 212; and non-Protestant religiosity 188; physical 65, 105, 111, 117, 122; processions 236; presence 21, 175; relationship 81, 103, 127, 146; semiotic 91, 192; sensational 3, 237, 243; symbolic 80, 90, 93, 232 Fox News Latino  115–16 frames  ix, 9, 23 n.7, 46–7, 105, 124, 127, 134, 146–7, 149, 153, 156, 159 n.  9, 198, 206 n.6; for design 128; and framework xiii, 5, 175, 212, 232, 234; and ritualization 143 Friedberg, David  233 García Lorca, Federico  230, 243, 245 n.2 Garriott, William  212 Geertz, Clifford  189; Geertzian symbolism 4 gender  ix, 211, 217 gestures  41, 44, 171 Ghana; Pentecostalism 13–15, 40–50, 255 Gibson, James J.; theory of perception 254 Glossolalia. See speaking in tongues God  xi, xiii, 20, 40, 50, 59–60, 73 n.8, 79, 81, 200; agency of 92–3; creation of 129; faith in 16, 56, 69; grace of 20, 60, 89, 127; will of 149, 159 n.12, 195, 198, 201–3, 205, 214, 216; experiencing 6, 249; relationship to 8, 12, 23 n.9, 43, 44, 49, 56–7, 61, 63–4, 70–1, 90–1, 94, 95 n.2, 144–5, 150, 172, 187, 191, 193–4, 215, 218, 221–6, 237, 239, 241; knowing of 9–10, 219; presence of 18, 42, 56, 67–8, 73 n.10, 82–7, 130; Word of 10, 11, 19, 41, 62, 101–3, 105–10, 113, 115, 117–18, 146–7, 149, 151, 153, 156, 159 n.13, 159 n.14, 190, 204, 220, 255; wrath of 125 gods and deities: Ochún 257; òrìşà/orixá 39, 45, 47, 254–5 Goldman, Marcio  254–5 Gombrich, Ernst H.  146

Index Gospel  19, 45, 118, 126, 144, 147, 150, 155, 246 n.9; and magic performance 130 Grañ, Mohammed: Jihad of 85 Gyamfi Boakye, Richard  45 Hallowell, Irving  253 healing  xiv, 44, 70, 94, 115, 176, 211, 243 hearing  xiii, xiv, 37, 62, 153; the Word of God 10, 113, 159 n.13 heart  10–11, 23 n.14, 47, 56, 63, 67, 73 n.9, 101, 187, 195, 197–8, 200, 202, 204, 218–19, 244 Heaven  x, 61, 73 n.6 Heidegger, Martin  254 Hell Houses  130 Henares Maldonado, Ángel  246 heresy  193 Hermann, Judith  82 Hermkens, Anna-Kaisa  243 historicity  xiv, 18, 123, 126–35, 152, 154, 236  history  xiii, xv, 19, 129, 232, 242; Biblical 124, 136; Christianity ix, xi; creationist 126, 128; family Bibles and families 105–6, 117, 118 n.2; Granada 230; historicity xiv, 18, 123, 126–35, 152, 236; and material 93, 128; pilgrim route 176; Spanish art 235; Ulstadius 205 n.2; West African coast 50; Western 256 holy; ash 80, 82–3; as Giwekikaluru Kpashiri 60–1, 63, 67–9; Land 81; water 78, 82–3, 87, 90, 93, 198; Week xiv, 147, 153, 159 n.8, 230–1, 233, 235, 239–40, 243, 245 n.7, 245–6 n.8. See also Holy Spirit Holy Spirit  13–14, 20–1, 42–5, 47–8, 60, 91, 190, 203; agency 192; baptism in 44, 48; binding of 20, 189, 200; and body 38, 192, 196–8, 205; consubstantiality with 61; (de)materialization of 187, 196, 201–2; discernment of 199–201, 205; experience of 187, 199, 200; and fixing 20; giving in to 192–3; God communicated as 195, 202; as ground of meaning 191; human connection to 69; as index 201; life in 20; 192, 193 power of 43, 45, 192, 200; and prayer 202; presence of 189, 192, 194, 197–9, 204–5; reality of 188–90, 205; and

265

religiosity 189–90; and scripture 45, 191; unbinding of 189, 204; work of 37, 45, 52, 60, 63, 67–9, 190–2. See also spirit; spirits; spiritual and spirituality Houtman, Dick  188, 206 n.7 Huamantanga  18–19, 163–166, 168, 171–181 human; nature of ix, xii–xiii, 1–2, 9, 12–13, 20, 57, 60, 65, 79, 93, 153, 155–6, 192, 215, 251 humanism  9, 251 “humanizing”  18, 141–2, 153, 155–6 icon; cultural 103–5, 113–18, 126, 164 iconoclasm  2, 10, 78, 83–5, 93 icons  xiv, 3, 42, 78, 91–3; veneration of 84, 243 identity  ix, 5, 62, 164, 167, 176, 199, 233 ideology  3, 5, 58, 67, 69, 80, 103, 117, 192, 198, 203 idolatry  10, 79, 83, 85, 92–4 images  x, xii, xiv, 9–12, 16, 18, 38, 41, 43–5, 51–2, 83–5, 91–3, 95 n.2, 103, 106, 111–12, 114–15, 117, 167, 171–2, 188, 191, 204, 233–7, 240, 245–6 n.8, 252; and Genesis 73 n.8, 133; and genetics 134–5. See also pictures imagination and imaginaries  62, 133, 173, 204, 231–2, 253; imagineros 236 immanence  3, 148, 152, 180, 234, 242; and transcendence 2, 4, 12, 14, 15, 39, 67, 142, 237, 249 immateriality  ix, xiii–xiv, 1–2, 4, 6, 11–14, 17–18, 20, 58, 62, 67–8, 70, 72, 78–9, 93–5, 103, 107, 114, 117, 149, 187–8, 192, 198–9, 202, 204, 234, 237, 249. See also materiality immersion; immersive experience 13, 17–18, 90, 110, 123, 126–37 Incarnation  85, 89, 235, 242 index and indexicality  59, 69, 72, 83, 90, 114, 123, 125, 128, 201, 205, 206 n.11 indigenous people  16, 46, 56–7, 59, 61, 71, 72 n.3, 164–5, 253 individuals and individuality  ix–x, xii, xiv, 6, 12, 48, 66, 70–1, 111, 118, 128, 137, 144–5, 148, 159 n.6, 173, 176, 178, 187–9, 199, 205–6 n.4, 213, 216, 234, 239, 251, 254

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Ingold, Tim  253–4 initiation  255, 257 interiority  71; and the exterior 58 intimacy  175, 240, 249 invisibility  ix, xiv–xv, 45, 56, 64, 84, 201–2, 242, 252, 256. See also visibility Islam  88, 230 Jansen, Willy  243 Jesus  ix, 9, 47, 87, 101, 111, 125, 148, 154, 165–6, 170–1, 204, 215, 218, 223; character (in a play) 151, 159 n.11; picture 49; world 142, 150, 152. See also Christ John of Damascus  95 n.2, 84 Kaplan, Steven  85 Keane, Webb  67, 82, 143, 149, 174, 192 Kebede, Messay  95 n.2 Kwaku Bonsam, Nana  49, 53 n.2 landscape  60, 85, 123, 167, 168, 254 language ideology  58, 198, 203; Protestant 5, 58, 189, 203. See also semiotic ideology Latin America  175, 233 Latour, Bruno  50, 177 lay; hermeneutics 91, 216; people 1, 12, 59, 144, 150; practices xi, 90, 144, 159 n.6, 239; participation 80, 145, 235 Lefebvre, Henri  147, 172 Lentz, Carl  112–13 Levine, Suzi  115–16, 118 n.5 Lima (city and region)  163–5, 168, 181 n.2–3, 181 n.6; archbishop of 166–7 liminality  xii, 125, 178–80, 214 limits  x–xiii, 5, 12–14, 122–3, 130, 142, 146–7, 150, 152, 220; “bibleness” 101, 114; body 71–2, 210–11, 225, 249; boundary-work 14, 20; and creativity 123, 132, 136–7; between denominations 8; and failure 137; human 13, 174, 218; inauthenticity 17; and the limitless 83–4; material 123, 126; materiality x, xiii–xiv, 1, 3–4, 6, 13–16, 18, 20, 39, 41, 52, 67, 78, 83, 94, 122–3, 130, 136–8, 141, 210–11, 232, 239, 243–4, 249–50, 252, 255; and materializing 136; meaning 5, 131;

media 255; Spirit 205; spirituality xiv; temporal 151–2, 156; understanding 13. See also borders; boundaries limitations and limiting  xii–xiii, 82, 115, 122, 132, 136–7; physical 109, 113 Limor, Ora  172 Lindhardt, Martin  71 linguistic and linguistics  4, 58, 72, 214 liturgy and liturgical  103–4, 113–14, 117, 148, 231 López-Guadalupe Muñoz, Juan Jesús  236 Lowder, Ponco  109, 119 n.8 Luehrmann, Sonja  84 Luhrmann, Tanya  249 Luther, Martin  7–8, 159 n.13, 201, 213, 215; anthropology of 9, 11–12; and Melanchton, Philipp 23 n.8; on religion 9 Luther’s theology  7–9, 11, 22 n.7, 23 n.8, 23 n.10–11, 190; body 9–11; the cross 9–11; Deus absconditus 9; heart 73 n.9; images 10–11; sola fide 213; solo Christo 215; totus caro 9; totus homo 9; totus spiritus 9 Lutheranism  187, 190–1, 202; in 17th century Finland 187; Finnish Evangelical 18, 141, 144–5, 148–9, 156, 159 n.14; in Germany 187; Orthodox 190–1; in Scandinavia 187; and theatre 143, 145; and Zwinglianism 8 magic  50, 91, 94, 130, 251 Malara, Diego  82 material culture  11, 107, 138 n.2, 233 materiality  ix–xii, xiv, 1–8, 12, 14–15, 17–18, 20–2, 22 n.2, 23 n.9, 41, 43, 45–6, 51–2, 57, 64, 71, 73 n.8, 78, 82–4, 88, 90, 93, 102, 104, 117, 118 n.3, 122–3, 132, 136, 143, 149–50, 152, 156, 173, 180, 188, 200, 205, 232, 236, 240, 244, 250–1, 256; abundancy of 1, 21, 176, 244, 254–5; effects of 7, 45, 62, 64, 70, 189, 205; and hierarchies 5, 6, 17, 19, 21, 50, 94, 197; limits of x, xiii–xiv, 3–4, 6, 13–16, 18, 39, 41, 52, 67, 112, 115, 122–3, 129–30, 136–8, 188, 205, 210, 232, 239, 243–4, 250, 252, 255; and nonmateriality 78, 95 n.1; problem of ix, 1, 8, 67, 84, 92, 123, 133, 137; religion xii, 2, 9, 16–17, 22 n.1, 41,

Index 88, 111, 122, 137, 188, 191; quality of 4, 14–15, 18–19, 43–4, 52, 62, 68–9, 82–3, 102, 104–6, 117, 149, 151, 156; 174, 176, 180, 200, 255; world 1, 5, 42, 58, 71, 188, 192, 232, 242, 251. See also dematerialization immateriality; material culture; materialization matter materialization  xiv, xv, 20, 39, 43, 62, 122, 126, 129, 133–4, 136, 138 n.2, 143, 149, 150, 179, 194, 196, 201–3, 205, 237. See also dematerialization matter  ix, xi, xii, xiv, xv, 2–4, 8, 14–21, 38–42, 45–6, 49–52, 68–9, 78–9, 82–5, 90, 94, 179–80, 249–53, 255. See also materiality Mauss, Marcel  7 McGlothlin, Brooke  107 meaning  104, 115, 131, 154, 173, 181 n.5, 187, 202–3, 212, 218, 251; and anthropology 22 n.3; being Christian 213–14; body as a site of 11, 196–8; concept of 4–5; cultural 114; inward 189; and language 5, 22 n.5, 44, 159; and materiality 2, 4–5, 11, 22 n.4, 39, 58, 192, 202, 204, 249, 252, 254; outward 189; religious 24 n.17, 198; and representations 84; ritual 131, 143, 172; semantic 104, 112, 114; Spirit as source of 191; and spirituality 192, 204; suffering as 174; symbolical 18, 232 “media of presence”  237–8, 242 media  xiv–xv, 14, 16–17, 19, 38–44, 46, 49, 52, 82–3, 102–4, 109–12, 116, 118 n.3, 119 n.6, 122, 174, 190, 202, 205, 232, 250, 252, 255–7; Bible as 14, 16, 17–18, 42, 102–3, 113, 116–17, 149–150; body as xiii–xiv, 14, 44; and boundary-work 14; circulation 49; device 44–5; digital xiv, 104–5, 111, 118 n.3; images as 11; multi- 145; pastors 48; popular 48; of presence 237–8, 242; product 44; and religion 41–2, 51, 103; social 219; spirit 16, 37–8, 41–3, 46, 52, 249; studio 47; technology 41–4, 51, 53 n.1, 102; theorists of 53 n.1; turn 122 mediation  21, 42–4, 46, 50–2, 53 n.1, 57–8, 67, 70, 103–4, 118 n.3, 122, 143,

267

187, 230, 232–4, 237–8, 240, 243, 249, 252, 255–6; religious emotions 238; divine power 239 medieval; Europe 235; Catholicism 8, 23 n.9; epistemology 11; spirituality 191; theatre 144–5; theology 2, 9, 23 n.14; traditions xiii; world 22 n.7 mediums and mediumship  14, 19, 83, 104, 109–10, 116–17, 118 n.3, 190, 250, 256; Afro-Cuban 39, 45–6; body as xiii, xiv, 44; digital 105; material 202, 232; penance as 174; spirit 42–3, 46, 256; Word of God as 102–3 memory; carrier or repository of 104–5, 107; collective 174–5, 177–8, 214, 230, 250; and fasting 198; incorporated 176–7; living out of 172; and materiality 106–7; memorials 191; work 198, 203, 205 mesmerism  256 metaphor  5, 60, 95 n.1 Meyer, Birgit  3, 6–7, 13, 40, 49, 188, 206 n.7, 237 miaphysitism  79 Middle Ages  10, 236 Miller Parmenter, Dorina  106 Miller, Daniel  4, 146, 188 Miller, David  107 Millones, Luis  167 mimesis and mimetic  149, 163, 167, 172, 230, 232–3, 236–8, 243, 254; concept of 3, 232, 234, 237, 243; and pilgrimage 19; points 21; presence 21; process 172, 175, 179–80 mind  12, 37, 68, 101, 107, 148, 171, 204, 218, 249–50, 256; and body 9, 23 n.10, 39, 46; relationship to heart 10, 73 n.9, 202 ministries; Answers in Genesis 123–4, 138 n.2–3; Baptist rehabilitation 21, 210, 213, 218, 223, 252; Good Samaritan 210–16, 218–25, 226 n.5 miracles  xiv, 47–8, 89, 129, 163, 166–7, 169, 171, 174–5 missionaries  210; Catholic 59 missionary organizations: Summer Institute of Linguistics/Wycliffe Bible Translators  59, 72 n.2; Swiss Mission 59

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Index

missionization  40, 126 Mitchell, Hildi  24 n.17 Mitchell, Jon  3, 24 n.17, 237–8, 240 Mitchell, Timothy  233, 235 Mitchell, William John Thomas  233–4 modern and modernity  ix–x, xiv, 8, 11, 13, 22 n.7, 23, 23 n.9, 49–50, 124, 127, 129, 135–7, 167, 188, 201, 206 n.9, 243, 251, 256; fear of matter 2; Protestant legacy 40; technologies 42–3, 126, 256; view of soul 23 n.14; Western 2, 39, 206 n.6 monasteries: Azwa Maryam 82, 83; Cartuja 234; Granadian 234–5, 240 money  44–5, 48 Moors  234, 245 n.4 moral; action 57, 65, 91; background 216, 225; collapse 210–11, 215, 218, 223–5; conversion 211, 225; economy 212; failure 222; foundation 212; living 213; narrative 214; nature 226; pathologies 130; position 81; power 80; precept 253; self 213; subject 237; superiority 219; teaching 222; technologies xi; transformation 21, 210–11, 213–14, 218, 224, 252 morality  52; and immorality 12; and magic 94; matter 85; Orthodox 212–13; Pietist 145; struggles about 51 Morgan, David  3, 62, 143, 240 Moses  87–9, 203 mosque  42 movement  2, 128, 239, 243; bodily 44, 146, 148, 243, 252; economical 12; inner 190, 194, 197, 243; toward philosophical consciousness 23 n.9; social 243; Spirit 195, 200, 202; temporal 243 movements  256; counter- 85, 143; creationist 124, 136; lay education 80; reform 187 Muñoz Molina, Antonio  245 n.3 music  41–2, 44, 171, 234 mystery plays  144, 235 mysticism  xii–xiv, 187 myths and mythical  18, 149–50, 163, 165–68, 170–1, 173–6, 179, 181 n.5–6, 256; and ritual 165, 167, 175 narrative; apocalyptic 203; articulation of 179; being with God 224; biblical

xiv, 21, 210, 213–14, 216, 222–5; collapse 223; conversion 21, 210; creationist 125, 135; about exile 206; exoticizing 50; fake Christians 38; moral 214; mythical 166–7, 173; on Orthodoxy 80; practices 214; progression 126; radical break 214; rehabilitation 225; rejection of 225; theological 130 nature worship  85, 93 Neff, David  105 Nietzsche, Friedrich  196 Nigeria  48 nonhumans  23 n.15, 57, 65, 177, 179 Nordbäck, Carola  191 Notermans, Catrien  243 oath  115–16, 118 n.5 object  47–8, 68, 78; and subject 39, 68, 179 objectification  3, 58, 68–9; and limits 13; and thingification 68 objects and artifacts  2–3, 5, 10, 12, 16, 20, 23 n.15, 41–5, 49, 50–2, 58, 68–9, 79–81, 85, 87–91, 94, 103–4, 106, 122, 151–2, 194, 232, 238–9, 242, 250–3; agency of 39, 88; Bible as 102–4, 106, 111, 113–14, 118 n.2, 152, 156, 172, 190, 232, 256; and “bundling” 174; and boundary-work 151, 188; crucifix as 163, 165, 167, 178–80; digital 104; power of 3, 38, 89–90, 237; processional 239–40; religious 42, 78, 89–91, 93; sacred 172, 177, 179–80, 240, 255; subjectified 68 Ojibwa  253 Ong, Walter  111 ontology  ix, 3, 9, 16, 39, 50, 71, 92, 237, 249, 251, 254–7; animist 253; Christianity 23 n.9, 46; Eucharist ix; gap between material and spiritual 42; modernist 50; North Asian 253; ontologization 65; spiritualizing 49; transformation of 45; turn 2, 233, 251; West African 46 orders (Christian)  59, 235, 245 n.5 Orsi, Robert  175, 232, 237 Orthodox Christianity  7–8, 11, 82, 84–5, 87–90, 93, 211–13; Ethiopian 16, 78–80,

Index 82–3, 85, 87–8, 93, 252; Lutheran 190–1; Russian 212–13; theosis in 8, 23 n.8 Orthodox Church  79, 91; Armenian 79; Coptic 79, 89; Ethiopian 79, 87; Syriac 79 Otabil, Mensa  47–9 Pacheco, Francisco  245 n.6 paganism  85 pasos (processual statues)  231, 235–6, 238, 240–2, 244 n.2, 245 n.8; decorating of 234, 238–9, 244, 245 n.7 Passion of Christ  10, 151, 159 n.10, 159 n.13, 175, 232, 235, 241 Pelkmans, Mathijs  67 penance  169, 170, 174–80, 181 n.2, 195, 241, 246 n.8 Pentecostalism  6–8, 37, 42, 48–9, 58, 70, 72 n.3, 102, 104, 115, 117; African 46; Assemblies of God 72 n.3; charismatic 13–16, 37–52, 255; Chilean 71; International Central Gospel Church 40; neo-Pentecostalism 17, 101, 103; practice 45; and prayer 37–8 performance  3, 24 n.17, 41–4, 48, 50, 52, 62, 130, 143, 145, 148, 155, 172, 233, 238, 240; Evangelical Lutheran Mass as 148; theatre 142–3, 145–7, 149–56, 158 n.3 performativity  104, 113–16, 151 personhood  57–8, 62, 65, 525, 254; statues 237, 239 perspectivism  64–6, 253 Peru  xiv, 16, 18, 56, 59, 61, 163–4, 180 n.1, 181 n.3, 252, 256 phenomenology  24 n.15, 250, 254 physicality  x, xiii, 6, 13, 16–18, 24 n.16, 37–8, 42, 44–5, 48, 52, 56–8, 60, 63–7, 69–72, 80, 95 n.1, 102, 104–5, 109, 111–15, 117, 122–3, 126–8, 133–4, 136, 146, 149, 168, 173, 175–6, 178–9, 211, 215–17, 231, 234, 240, 243, 252, 255 pictures  11, 40–1, 49, 84, 104, 116, 118 n.6, 150, 171, 217, 233–4, 246 n.9. See also images Pietisim  144–5, 187, 189–90, 195–6, 201–2, 256; Radical 20–1, 187–93, 195, 198–201, 203–4, 205 n.3–4, 206 n.5, 206 n.8 piety  106–7, 144, 159 n.6, 191, 246 n.9

269

Pilate, Pontius  141, 154, 159 n.11 pilgrimage  172, 176, 243; Catholic 19, 175; Huamantanga 19, 163–80, 181 n.2, 256; journey 4; and mayordomos 170; as mimetic process 19; as ritual 18; tradition 18 Plate, Brent S.  111–12 Pope Francis  246 n.9 power  xi–xiii, 5–6, 14–15, 19, 41–2, 46–7, 52, 79–80, 83, 94, 114, 146, 155, 187, 199–201, 206 n.11, 253; communicating 190; creative 92; demonic 38; divine 47–8, 88, 90, 92, 103, 167, 240; fetish 49; frames 146; God 20, 42, 79, 82–3, 86, 103, 115, 190, 239; gods 39; and healing 94; Holy Spirit 43–6, 193, 199–201; imagination 253; limits 13; and materiality 5, 15, 52, 83, 89; moral 80; objects and things 3, 13, 38, 43, 49, 62, 83, 87–94, 112, 114–15, 148–9, 155–6, 163, 165, 167, 172, 237–241, 243, 255–6; as potentia 172; in presence 47, 238; prophetic 193; questions of 6; and rhythms 148; signs 149, 206 n.11; spirit and spiritual xi, 38–45, 47–52, 82–3, 90, 92, 167, 192–3, 199–200, 238–240; structure 187; supernatural 48, 52; symbolic 129 practices  xiv–xv, 2–3, 11, 14, 16, 20, 24 n.17, 39, 43, 52, 58, 60, 62–3, 67, 70–1, 78–80, 82, 85, 87, 110, 136, 187–9, 199, 201–2, 204–5, 220, 250–1; Christian lay xi; commemorative 116; cultural 102, 232; disciplinary 196, 198, 205; embodied, 171, 188, 232; healing, 176; heretical 193; idolatry 10; language 5, 104, 189; liturgical 114; material 4–5, 17, 22, 38, 45–6, 50, 52, 58, 62, 65, 67, 72, 82–5, 88, 90, 92–3, 143, 176–7, 179, 188, 193, 196, 200–3, 205, 232, 234–5, 237, 249; narrative 214; pagan 85; performative 104, 113, 115, 172; reading 109, 117; religious 13, 17–18, 21, 38, 41–2, 46, 91, 102–5, 115, 117–8, 118 n.1, 188, 232, 250; ritual 19, 78, 102, 104, 195; spiritual 21. See also doubting; sufficing; unbinding praesentia  171–6, 178–80, 238

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prayer  20, 42, 44, 89, 91, 107, 123, 158 n.3, 173–4, 178, 190, 193–4, 200, 202, 214, 231, 249; beads 42; house 221–2; meeting 37 praying  37–8, 44, 60, 64, 71, 83, 91, 114, 148, 168–9, 171, 197, 202–3, 218, 232, 240; in tongues 47. See also glossolalia priests and priesthood  12, 42–3, 49, 87, 92, 200, 257; Catholic 20, 168, 170; high 148, 152, 154, 159 n.11, 160 n.15; Orthodox 81–3, 86, 88–9. See also clergy “problem of presence”  3, 103, 149 processions  6, 21, 231; in American Southwest 233; environment of 242; historical background of 234–6; materiality of 232, 234, 239, 241–2, 245 n.7, 246 n.8; as mimesis 232; multisensory aspects of 234, 240, 242–4; routes of 231, 242, 245 n.7, 246 n.9; Semana Santa (Holy Week) xiv, 230, 232–44, 244 n.1, 245 n.3; and statues 233–4, 236–8, 240, 244 profane  230; and sacred 4, 12, 94, 242 Promey, Sally M.  242 prophesy  42, 71, 130 prophet  42; powers of 193 Protestant; bias 46, 188; doctrine 175, 224–5; heritage 40, 52; language 5, 11, 58, 189, 192, 198, 203; legacy 2, 40, 46, 188; lens 6–8, 11; materiality 2, 6, 8, 11, 50–2, 58, 66, 70, 150, 188, 204; rationality 7 Protestantism  5–11, 21, 39–40, 58, 66, 88, 187–8, 192, 249; Calvinism 8, 192; fundamental 124, 127, 137; Radical Pietism 189, 205–6 n.4; study of 69, 23 n.89, 188, 206 n.6 Proust, Marcel  1, 21 Publishers Weekly  108, 114 purification  8, 175, 193, 201, 242 Quechua  164 Quran  42 Raikhel, Eugene  212 recognizability  107, 116, 151, 154, 156, 177 Red Sea  89, 124 referentiality  16, 58–9, 69–70, 72

rehabilitation  6, 21, 210–26, 226 n.4; and detoxification 210, 212–13, 252 relapse  21, 210–11, 215–18, 221–5 relationality  5, 12–13, 61–2, 65–6, 88, 90, 252, 271 religion; African traditional 38–9, 46, 51–2; Afro-American 250, 252, 254; lived 2, 22, 46, 67, 72, 118, 150, 152, 156, 159 n.6, 188, 192, 204, 232, 234, 239, 243, 256; making of 3, 16, 39, 40–7, 51–2, 81, 142–3, 152, 156, 239, 255 remission (bodily)  21, 210–13, 216, 224 repentance  81, 148, 187, 194, 214–15, 218, 221–2, 224–5 repetition  xiii, 3, 44, 83, 90, 94, 116, 126, 133, 176–80, 198, 205, 237, 240, 250 representation  xii, 6, 45, 52, 81, 83–5, 87, 90–1, 93, 104, 131, 134–5, 168, 191, 201–2, 205, 230, 251, 256–7; and history 128, 250; and mimesis 167, 232–3; and pasos 231, 235, 238, 240, 245 n.7; problems of 83, 136–7; Protestant way of 204; self- 188, 190 resurrection  xiii, 141–2, 150–1, 156, 231 rhythm  37, 44, 145, 148; and Bible 214; changes in 146–8; and dramaturgy 148, 155; human 147; and use of space 142, 147, 155; in plays 147–8, 153, 155–6 ritual and rituals  6, 18, 43, 50, 87, 89, 101–2, 115–16, 118, 131, 163–4, 168, 170, 175–6, 188, 254–5; efficacy 2, 116, 175, 179; failure 131; and myth 165, 167, 175; objects and things 16, 39, 47, 87, 89, 93, 103, 113–14, 116–17, 176, 180, 202, 238, 241; praxis 18–19, 24 n.17, 39, 42, 78, 93–4, 102, 104, 114, 118, 143, 172, 174–5, 177–8, 180, 238, 240, 242, 255; theories 143; time 177–8. See under meaning Robbins, Joel  142 Rosén, Sven  188–91, 193–202, 204 Rowlands, Michael  19 rulers  Emperor Zara Yaqob  85; Empress Helena 102 Russia  21, 203, 210, 212, 214, 216, 219, 225, 250; Baptism in 210, 214–16, 223–5, 252. See also Orthodox Christianity ruwekinri  16, 56–72, 72 n.4, 73 n.6, 73 n.9

Index sacralization  172, 174, 242 sacred  18, 91, 159 n.9, 163; action 90; art 234, 242; crucifix as 163, 167, 173, 177, 179, 180, 252; economy xi; events 153; images 167; instruments 257; objects and things 90, 106, 114, 172, 179, 240, 255; place and space 43, 146, 173, 174, 177, 179, 181 n.5, 243; power 83; and profane 4, 12, 94; prototypes 83, 88; route as 171, 173; symbol 90; time 177–8 Sacromonte  240 saints  xi, 79, 81, 85, 89, 91, 158 n.1, 164, 231, 235, 237–40, 252; power of 240; relics of 172–3; Saint Betre Maryam 82–4; St. John Damascene 84, 95 n.2; St. Peter 144, 148; Saint Rose of Macas 168; Saint Teresa of Avila xiii salvation  6, 81, 84, 87, 89, 125–6, 130, 149, 213, 215, 224, 251 sanctification and sanctity  79, 83, 88, 90, 192, 242, 252 Sarró, Ramon  250 Satan  56, 60, 69, 215, 218 Schaefer, Peter  188, 193, 194–8, 203–5, 206 n.10 Schrauf, Robert W.  231 Schreiner, Susan  201 science; addiction 224; cognitive 254; evolutionary 124, 126; genetic 136; and humanities 2, 12, 22 n.6; modern 129, 136, 251; social 2, 38, 124; spiritualist 256 Scott, Michael  78 Scripture  84, 89, 118, 123, 126, 130, 135–6, 149; and authenticity 152–4; and bodies 155; and God 103, 215; made alive 141–3, 150, 152–4, 156, 204, 210; performing 18, 147; physical form of 105, 108, 117; Protestant relation to 188, 190; relation to script 141–2, 148–9, 153; reading of 156; and Spirit 191; study of 211, 214, 216, 221, 223–5; use of 224 sculptures and sculptors  xiv, 231, 233–8, 245 n.6 secular  23 n.7, 46, 88, 116, 128, 144, 146, 159 n.6, 176, 216, 225 Seeger, Anthony  61 Seijas Muñoz, Enrique  245 n.3

271

self  80, 188, 190, 192, 194–6, 199, 213–15, 218–19, 225, 252–3, 255; boundaries of 13, 252; concepts of ix, 214, 252–4; constituting 93, 206 n.8, 253; and divine self-revelation 43, 47; moral 213; -reflection 66, 137, 194, 201; and soul ix, xiii, 252; spiritual 188–9, 196, 201, 205; technologies of 206 n.9; transformation 214, 223–4; worldly 202 semantic  44, 79; -hermeneutical 104, 108, 112, 114, 117 semiotic  90, 91; Christian 10, 174; density 93; form 202; practice 93; relations 92; transduction 149; work 87. See also sign semiotic ideology  3, 58, 67, 69, 72, 103–4, 117, 192. See also language ideology “sensational forms”  3, 237, 243 sensations  x, xii–xiii, xv, 6, 8, 62, 253; physical 11, 38, 44, 47–8, 51–2, 57–8, 60, 63–4, 67–9, 122; religious 46 senses  xiv, 1, 7, 11, 16, 38, 41–2, 44, 46, 51–2, 56–7, 59, 71, 79, 88, 111, 118, 232, 242–3; auditory 188, 192, 244; hearing xiii–xiv, 10, 11, 37, 62, 113, 125, 127, 153, 159 n.12–13, 166, 190, 217, 249, 250; olfactory 244; sight xiv, 257; smell xiv, 41, 106, 221; tactility 38, 56, 63–4, 66; touch xiv, 21, 43–4, 47–8, 51, 56–7, 62–4, 71, 93, 106, 109–10, 127, 148, 150, 163, 166, 168, 171, 173, 178, 238, 240, 257; vision and visual xiii–xiv, 18, 21, 103, 111–12, 114, 116–17, 146, 152, 188, 192, 233, 242, 244, 244 n.1. See also sounds; visibility Shepherd, Simon  148 shrine  37–8, 42, 163, 171–6, 179–80, 181 n.5, 250 sign  20, 48, 57–9, 67, 72, 79, 86–9, 91–4, 103, 105, 175, 189, 200–1, 206 n.11, 254; discourse about 86; faith 58, 67, 70–1; legitimate and illegitimate 70; material 149, 152, 242; physical 56, 71, 197, 205; and referent 16; relapse 217, 221, 225; ritual 240; secret xiii; signifier and signified 3, 87, 90; and signifying 6–9, 87, 192, 203, 222 sincerity  58, 60, 63–4, 66, 71, 116, 130, 249

272

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sins  10, 20, 80, 94, 169, 174–5, 195, 213–15, 224–5; sinful 9, 16, 94, 195, 211, 214–15, 218–19, 222–3, 225–6 society  ix, 51, 111, 222, 234; disneyization of 128; secular 176; symbolic dimensions of 251 Socrates  256 somatic  11, 14, 38, 45, 70–1, 211, 233. See also body, corporeality Soriano Martí, Elena  245 n.3 soteriology  213, 215, 224 soul  ix–xiv, 1, 12, 23 n.14, 93, 190–3, 196, 199–200, 204, 252, 255; and body ix, xii, xiv, 2, 8–9, 175, 193, 196, 215, 225, 252–3. See also spirit sounds  xv, 13, 16, 37–8, 41–44, 47, 51–2, 104, 125, 166, 217, 242, 244. See under senses space  3, 13–14, 21, 23 n.15, 42–3, 62, 66, 69, 90, 104, 109, 122, 124, 128, 130–1, 142–3, 145–9, 155, 170–4, 177, 179, 181 n.5, 193, 212, 217, 233–4, 240, 250, 252, 257; “problem space” 4, 13, 20; 58, 143; sacred 43, 146, 173–4, 242–3; secular 146 Spain  233–6, 241, 245 n.6, 256–7 speaking in tongues (glossolalia)  13, 37, 42, 47–8, 60, 70–1. See under praying “spirit media”  16, 37–8, 41–3, 52, 249, 255 spirit  2, 9; and action 48; and addiction 21; and aesthetic processions 241; body and 21, 38, 50, 80, 92; God as 84; interiority of 190; material mediation of 43; and matter ix–xii, xiv–xv, 2, 4–5, 8, 12, 14–16, 20–1, 38–42, 45–6, 48, 50–2, 78–80, 118 n.4, 188, 192, 200–2, 205, 250–1, 254, 256; media 16, 37, 38, 41–3, 46, 52, 249, 255–7; power 43, 49; relations 254; world 41, 43; writing 3, 149. See also charisma; Holy Spirit; spirits; spiritual and spirituality Spiritism  256 spirits; belief in 38; bringing into being 39; existence of 45, 50, 253–4, 256; faking 16, 41; limits of 13; immateriality of 78; interaction between people and 16, 42, 257; making of 16, 38–43, 45, 51–2, 93; materialization of 39; possession 250; power of 42; presence of 42; as thing 78;

word for 94 n.1; Zege 85–6. See also demons; Holy Spirit; spirit; spiritual and spirituality spiritual and spirituality: and addicts 211, 226; agents 78; authority 44, 187, 199; battle 49; beings xii, 4, 52, 203; blessing 49; change 14, 45; collapse 211, 218, 225; and communication 202; condition 56, 71, 81, 89, 93, 193, 197–200; experience xiii, 20, 219; family 105; father 203; gifts 60, 70–1, 191, 193, 199, 205; growth 217, 219, 225; healing xiv; immediacy 43; immateriality of 198; indigenous ideas of 46; knowledge 254; limits xiv; and meaning 192; 198; medieval 191; nature of 80; and ontology 49; power xi, 40, 48, 50–1, 90; practices 21; presence 45, 68; Radical Pietist 189–90, 199, 204; reality 42, 188, 191, 204; realm 45; and rehabilitation 216; reform 199, 205 n.4; resources 45; self 188–9, 196, 205; sins 20; solutions 48; statues 243; trickery 51; unrestrained 20; worlds 3. See also charisma; Holy Spirit; spirit; spirits spiritualist: Christianity 189; science 256; tradition 187 St. Clair, Luke  115, 119 n.9 Stevenson, Jill  144, 155 Stolow, Jeremy  256 Stirm, Margarete  10 Stromberg, Peter  127–8 subject and subjecthood  59, 68, 148, 172–3, 190, 214; Christianity as 7; constitution of 160 n.14; matter 68; and object 39, 68, 179; people as 68; Protestant 192; religious 52, 237; ruwekinri as 68 substance  xiii–ix, 9, 42, 45, 64, 79, 82–3, 92, 94, 147, 212, 252, 254, 256; abuse 211, 215–16, 218; authorization 79; communities 62; consecration 90, 255; corporeal 62; healing 94; material qualities of 82; as media 82; religious 78; sharing of 65; transformation 83; veneration 84; witchcraft 72 n.5 sufficing  4, 13–15, 17–19, 22, 57, 88–90, 103–5, 107, 113, 116–17, 123, 146, 149, 150, 152, 156, 190, 216

Index supernatural  38, 41, 43–4, 47–8, 52, 149, 176, 237, 242 suspicion  16, 40, 46, 48–51, 70, 249. See also doubt; doubting Sweden  187–90, 193, 195, 198, 203, 205 n.3, 256 symbols and symbolism  86, 89–90, 114, 165, 232, 235, 241; Geertzian 4 symbolic  18, 88, 251; culture 88; form 80, 88, 90, 93; identity 176; power 129; value 173; work 83 Tassi, Nico  39 Taussig, Michael  3, 167 Taylor, Charles  13, 251 technology  19, 23 n.15, 42, 44–5, 47, 53 n.1, 102, 111, 115, 122, 256–7; and the Ark 125–6; and Bible 101–2; changes of 102, 109, 111; devices 43; digital 101, 102, 118, 118 n.3; media 41–4, 51; moral xi; ontological transformation 45; revelation 49; self 206 n.9 technicity  43, 47, 50, 52, 143, 145 techniques  19, 44, 130, 235, 256; body 43–4, 47, 51, 153; consecration 79; rehabilitation 213 temple  42, 221 temporal and temporality; dimension 94; gap 18, 142–3, 145, 151–6, 243, 250; limit 148, 151–2; movement 243; solutions 3, 226; and spatial 253, 257. See also time testimony  38, 44, 126, 155, 181 n.2, 181 n.5, 191, 214 text and texts  40, 42, 58; biblical 21, 103– 5, 107–9, 111–12, 117, 118 n.2, 118 n.6, 124, 133, 135, 137, 151, 191, 210, 214, 216, 225; devotional 236; and emotions 112; explanatory 134; Federico García Lorca 230; and imagery 91; materiality of 149–50; as object 104; printed vs. digital 111–12, 116–17; promotional 154; Radical Pietist 191; Sven Rosén 189, 194; Peter Schaefer 193–4 theatre (church)  152, 142–145, 148, 151–4, 156, 158 n.1–2, 159 n.5, 255 theatrical  xiv, 48, 128, 130 theology  ix, xi, 7, 73 n.8; Aquinas, Thomas 9, 253; Arminius, Jacobus 215; Augustinian xiv; Catholic 95, 179,

273

182 n.8, 237; Christian 1, 7, 23 n.9, 68; creationist 126; Ethiopian Orthodox 8, 80, 83, 88–9; evangelical 130; Luther 7–11, 22 n.7, 23 n.11; Lutheran 190; medieval 2, 9; Pentecostal 43, 51; Protestant 8, 9, 225; Radical Pietist 189–92, 195; Reformation period 9. See also turns theosophy  256 “thingification”  3, 13, 59, 68–9 thing and things  4, 5, 12–13, 16, 20, 40, 45–6, 57–8, 62, 64, 80, 86–7, 90, 92–3, 106, 111, 114, 149, 175, 203–4, 218–19, 222, 250–1; co-constitution of 24 n.15; consecration of 88–90, 92–3; as created 93; hierarchical order of 6; invisible 45, 202–3; immaterial 78–9, 95 n.1; limits of 13; material ix, 19, 50, 62–3, 80, 83, 88, 92, 94, 107, 188, 200–2, 204, 249, 252; power of 3; as referent 72, 92; religious 2, 91, 195; and rituals 87–8; ruwekinri as 72; sacred 90, 94, 106; spirit as 78; spiritual 48, 80; suspicion over 49–50; and “thingification” 68–9; worldly 198 time  xi, xiii, 12, 20, 81, 142, 156, 177, 180, 191, 198–9, 203–4, 212, 217; aion 177–8; biblical 18–19, 142, 152–3, 155–6; calendar 164; chronos 177–8; collapsing 257; duration 13; end of xiii, 60; of the Flood 135; holy 243; of Holy Week 239; Jesus (Christ) 150, 152, 154; kairos 177– 8; liminal 178–80, 214; myth 181 n.6; profane 12; real 257; in rehabilitation 210–11, 213; sacred 177–8; space- 252. See also repetition; rhythm Tomlinson, Matt  5 Torah, the  42 tradition  17; Abrahamic 84; aesthetic 6; African religious 39, 46, 51; anthropological 5; biblical 151; Catholic 10, 43, 95 n.2, 237; Christian 2, 15, 39, 142–3, 160 n.15; Christian asceticism 195; Christian plays 144–5, 151–2; conversion 128; Hebraic 79; Holy Week 147; iconoclastic 78; magical 91; medieval xiii, 10, 145; miaphysitism 79; and Orthodox Christianity 80; patristic 95 n.2; pilgrimage 18; Protestant 40, 150; Reformed 23 n.9; religionist x; religious xiii–xiv, 41, 102, 122, 235;

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Semana Santa 231, 245; Spanish of painted sculptures 234, 236–7; spiritualist 187; Via Crucis 235; visual 151–3, 156, 237; Yoruba religious 38–9 transcendence and transcendent  xii, 3, 4, 143, 149, 234, 237, 240, 243, 249; beings 42, 249; experience of xii–xiii, 13, 177; and immanence 2–3, 12, 14–15, 39, 67, 142, 237, 249; and materiality 5, 13, 16, 39, 80, 84, 149, 156; and mediation 3, 21, 42, 57 turns (scholarly): affective 128; ontological 2, 233, 251; material xv, 2; media 122; neo-Pauline 22 n.6; posthuman 179; religious 22 n.6; theological 22 n.6 Tylor, Edward Burnett  xii, 4 Uganda  48 Ulstadius, Lars  187, 193, 203, 205 n.2 unbinding  4, 14–15, 19–22, 189, 205, 240, 243 uncertainty  15, 56–58, 63, 67, 72, 89, 131, 189, 202; epistemological 57, 63–4. See also doubt United States of America  17, 102, 138 n.3; Kentucky 123–4, 131 USA Today  114 value; of Bible 106; and bundling 174; claims 17; cultural 114; economic 106; entertainment 127; hierarchy of 50; material 88; matter 4, 14, 21, 50, 82, 173; media technologies 43; pain 175; practical 106; symbolic 173; systems 212; worldly 214–15, 223 veneration; decorating as form of 239; objects of 84, 87, 168, 235; and Stephanites 85. See also worship Virgin Mary  81–2, 87, 89, 154, 160 n.15, 234, 237, 239; apparition of 175; cult of 85; as female tree spirit 85; as Our Lady of Lourdes 175; and pilgrimage 243; as Queen of Heaven 242; statue of 238–40, 242–3, 245 n.7; as symbol

232; veneration of 239; as Virgen de las Angustias 234 visibility  ix, xii, 69, 91, 114, 146, 149, 200, 204, 249, 253; and invisibility xiv, 45, 64, 84, 201, 242, 252; and limits 13; and rhythm 148. See also invisibility; senses visual culture/tradition  151–3, 156, 234, 237 Viveiros de Castro, Eduardo  61, 65 Weber, Max  4, 6–8, 11 Western; approach to materiality 64; Baptism 211; Catholicism 20; Christianity 143, 151, 250; history 256; individuals 66; metropolies 256; model of religion 206 n.5; modernity 2; research on religion 7; thinking 39, 46; visual tradition 152–3 Willerslev, Rane  253–5 wind  94 n.1, 125, 191 witchcraft  45, 64, 68, 72 n.5 words  xii, 3, 11, 44, 47, 52, 104, 112–13, 188–9, 190, 192–3, 239, 249, 250; becoming flesh 153; and Bible 105–6, 115, 149; digital 114; empty 47, 200; liberation of 205; objectified 58; reading of 221; spoken 44–5; written 123, 130, 132–3, 136, 149, 153. See under God worship  37, 70, 92, 123, 145, 215, 232; in Candomblé 254; images 10, 84; language 4; leader 37; nature 85, 93; practices of 237; public 246 n.9; relationship to veneration 84; service 101. See also veneration Yine  16, 56, 61–72, 72 n.3, 252 Yoruba  38–40, 45, 47–8 Yukaghir  254 Yuval-Davis, Nira  5 Zege peninsula (Ethiopia)  78, 82, 85–6, 88, 91–2 Zigon, Jarett  212–13 Zimbabwe  41, 118 n.4

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