Islam, Christianity and the Realms of the Miraculous: A Comparative Exploration 9780748699063, 9780748699070, 9781474446303

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I A N R I C H A RD N ET T ON

ISLAM,

CHRISTIANITY AND THE R E A L M S OF THE

MIRACULOUS A C OMPARATIVE EX PL O R AT IO N

E D I N B U R G H S T U D I E S I N C L A S S I C A L I S L A M I C H I S T O R Y A N D C U LT U R E

Islam, Christianity and the Realms of the Miraculous

Edinburgh Studies in Classical Islamic History and Culture Series Editor: Carole Hillenbrand A particular feature of medieval Islamic civilisation was its wide horizons. In this respect it differed profoundly from medieval Europe, which from the point of view of geography, ethnicity and population was much smaller and narrower in its scope and in its mindset. The Muslims fell heir not only to the Graeco-Roman world of the Mediterranean, but also to that of the ancient Near East, to the empires of Assyria, Babylon and the Persians – and beyond that, they were in frequent contact with India and China to the east and with black Africa to the south. This intellectual openness can be sensed in many interrelated fields of Muslim thought: philosophy and theology, medicine and pharmacology, algebra and geometry, astronomy and astrology, geography and the literature of marvels, ethnology and sociology. It also impacted powerfully on trade and on the networks that made it possible. Books in this series reflect this openness and cover a wide range of topics, periods and geographical areas. Titles in the series include:

Arabian Drugs in Early Medieval Mediterranean Medicine Zohar Amar and Efraim Lev The Medieval Western Maghrib: Cities, Patronage and Power Amira K. Bennison Keeping the Peace in Premodern Islam: Diplomacy under the Mamluk Sultanate, 1250–1517 Malika Dekkiche Queens, Concubines and Eunuchs in Medieval Islam Taef El-Azhari The Kharijites in Early Islamic Historical Tradition: Heroes and Villains Hannah-Lena Hagemann Medieval Damascus: Plurality and Diversity in an Arabic Library – The Ashrafīya Library Catalogue Konrad Hirschler Book Culture in Late Medieval Syria: The Ibn ‘Abd al-Hadi Library of Damascus Konrad Hirschler The Popularisation of Sufism in Ayyubid and Mamluk Egypt, 1173–1325 Nathan Hofer Defining Anthropomorphism: The Challenge of Islamic Traditionalism Livnat Holtzman Making Mongol History Stefan Kamola Lyrics of Life: Sa‘di on Love, Cosmopolitanism and Care of the Self Fatemeh Keshavarz A History of the True Balsam of Matarea Marcus Milwright Ruling from a Red Canopy: Political Authority in the Medieval Islamic World, from Anatolia to South Asia Colin P. Mitchell Islam, Christianity and the Realms of the Miraculous: A Comparative Exploration Ian Richard Netton Conquered Populations in Early Islam: Non-Arabs, Slaves and the Sons of Slave Mothers Elizabeth Urban

edinburghuniversitypress.com/series/escihc

Islam, Christianity and the Realms of the Miraculous A Comparative Exploration Ian Richard Netton

This volume is for Sue, Deborah, Jonathan, Alex and Thea with much love.

Edinburgh University Press is one of the leading university presses in the UK. We publish academic books and journals in our selected subject areas across the humanities and social sciences, combining cutting-edge scholarship with high editorial and production values to produce academic works of lasting importance. For more information visit our website: edinburghuniversitypress.com © Ian Richard Netton, 2019 Edinburgh University Press Ltd The Tun – Holyrood Road 12 (2f) Jackson’s Entry Edinburgh EH8 8PJ Typeset in 11/15 Adobe Garamond by Servis Filmsetting Ltd, Stockport, Cheshire, and printed and bound in Great Britain A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN 978 0 7486 9906 3 (hardback) ISBN 978 0 7486 9907 0 (webready PDF) ISBN 978 1 4744 4630 3 (epub) The right of Ian Richard Netton to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 and the Copyright and Related Rights Regulations 2003 (SI No. 2498).

Contents

Foreword Abbreviations

vii xi

1 Miracles and Religion 1.1 Definitions 1.2 The Medieval Mindset: Milieu, Continuity and Contrasts 1.3 Narratology

1 1 6 25

2 Food 2.1 A Proto-miracle: Manna from the Desert 2.2 The Feeding of the Five Thousand: Christianity 2.3 Jesus, the Test and the Table: Islam 2.4 The Narrative Arena

27 27 31 41 46

3 Water 3.1 A Proto-miracle: Water from the Rock 3.2 Lourdes, Shrines and Healing 3.3 Zamzam, Shrines and Healing 3.4 The Narrative Arena

50 50 54 71 82

4 Blood 4.1 Proto-miracles: Blood and its Contrastive Christian and Islamic Domains 4.2 Bolsena 1263: Host > Blood 4.3 The Writing in the Blood: Sufi Blood and Hallajian Passion 4.4 The Narrative Arena

86 86 91 105 114

vi  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us 5 Wood and Stone 5.1 A Proto-miracle: the Ark of Gilgamesh and Noah 5.2 Ark of the Covenant: the Virgin in the House 5.3 The Angels of the Ka‘ba 5.4 The Narrative Arena

120 120 130 142 153

6 Cosmology 6.1 Proto-miracles: the Standing of the Sun and the Moon 6.2 The Miracle of the Sun at Fatima 6.3 The Splitting of the Moon in the Qur’an 6.4 The Narrative Arena

158 158 160 171 181

7 Envoi

184

Notes Bibliography Index

187 247 282

f oreword | vii

Foreword

The subject of miracles has seized both popular and scholarly imaginations from early times to the present. The year 2017 provided added interest with a major, and much-praised, exhibition and a major workshop. The exhibition, entitled Madonnas and Miracles, was held at the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge from 7 March to 4 June 2017.1 In the words of the catalogue, the exhibition ‘reveal[ed] the significance of the home as a site of religious experience in the period. From visionary “living saints”, who conversed with the divine in their chambers, to ordinary laypeople who prayed the rosary before bed, to those who read heterodox books by the hearth, men, women and children practised religion in the home in a variety of ways.’2 As the exhibition showed, the Italian Renaissance was in love with all things miraculous.3 On 23 May 2017 SOAS, University of London, held an excellent, thought-provoking, workshop entitled Seeing is Believing: Miracles in Islamic Thought. This well-attended workshop was sponsored by the British Association for Islamic Studies (BRAIS) and hosted by the Department of the Near and Middle East, SOAS. Its two conveners were Dr Ayman Shihadeh and Dr Harith Bin Ramli. The workshop’s subjects ranged far and wide from a consideration of what God can actually do through a discussion of the e­vidence for Prophetic miracles to an analysis of prophecy in Messianic times.4 This present volume of mine is the third in a comparative Islamic– Christian trilogy which seeks to present and explore various major aspects of these two world religions in dynamic contrast. The first volume focused on tradition; the second concerned itself with the mystical arena.5 This third volume completes the trilogy by an examination of the field of miracles in the Islamic and Christian traditions. vii

viii  |  i slam, chri sti ani ty an d th e mir a cul o us Bernard Lonergan’s seminal work Method in Theology6 may today appear somewhat dated. Nonetheless, it was valuable, and remains valuable, in that it presented a new and coherent series of taxonomies whereby the diverse fields of Christian theology might be inspected and rigorously interrogated. It did, however, focus primarily on method as its title implies. Lonergan stressed this methodological orientation when, referring to miracles, he wrote: ‘The possibility and occurrence of miracles are topics, not for the methodologist, but for the theologian.’ He thereby excuses himself from a full theological investigation of miracles in this work.7 This present volume of mine, as will become apparent in a reading of the text, also deploys a structural method, a narratological sieve, through which to analyse and compare the miraculous phenomena and narratives of which it treats. Thus, each chapter has a particular, and carefully structured, analytical ‘shape’ as follows: • outline of the miracle event: Proto-miracle/Christian miracle/Islamic miracle • critiques and attitudes towards the miraculous events: 1.  disbelief and scepticism 2. caution 3. belief 4.  memory and memorialisation: a. the theme of a memory of a ‘divine presence’ in the world b. the theme of a memory of wholeness c. the motif of water or other rituals d. the metatheme of faith and doubt e. the metatheme of Church/Islamic authority • the narrative arena In terms of narrative theory, chosen aspects of which will shortly be elaborated in the main text, this volume will interrogate the miraculous phenomena and narratives with which it deals from the following perspectives: • universality • multifacetedness

f oreword | ix • similarities and differences in content • themes and metathemes (> abstract topoi) and motifs and metamotifs (> concrete topoi) • repetition • types and antitypes • intertextuality • the protagonist • attitudes to the miracle • significance of the miracle • the narratological catalyst8 However, this volume is much more than just a dissertation on narratological method. It deploys that method to disclose the intertexts between the Islamic and Christian domains of the miraculous, and to disclose the theological grounds on which those miraculous narratives rest. Its primary focus is the literary and theological narration of the miracle, emphasising similarities and differences in motifs and themes, metamotifs and metathemes, all of which are grounded in Islamic and Christian theologies, whether those be popular, scholarly or both. The academic perspective of this work is thus narratological, anthropological and phenomenological. The narrations of miracles are presented as if they actually occurred, whether or not they did so in historical reality. There is no ‘faith perspective’ nor orientation. Furthermore, the miraculous narratives treated in this volume may be said to form an intertext with each other and possibly, but not necessarily, with other ‘miraculous events’ outside the phenomena treated here. In this way our volume seeks to avoid essentialism. In addition, the survey of what I characterise as the ‘proto-miracles’ which introduce each chapter are not intended necessarily to be the first of their kind, nor to reflect events not described in this volume; they are simply designed to be intertextual ‘introductions’ to the principal phenomena under discusssion. I have made various visits to places of pilgrimage and shrine, Islamic and Christian, both in Europe and in the Middle East, with a view to gaining a deeper understanding of why people associate certain miraculous events (especially healing events) with certain shrines, and why people of both the Islamic and Christian traditions perform the rite of pilgrimage to such shrines. On the Christian side the miraculous phenomena surveyed in this volume

x  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us are drawn from the Roman Catholic tradition which, despite present-day cautions and caveats, is generally more disposed to accept the possibility of miracles. This not to deny, of course, that there may be a wide disparity of attitudes towards the possibility and reality of miracles within the Catholic community itself. As Maya Mayblin reminds us: Although consciously self-cultivating Catholics . . . do exist, it is also fairly axiomatic that Catholicism as a marker of identity is not always and everywhere primarily about ‘belief’ or even practice over belief . . . Catholicism is open to identifications that index aspects of personhood beyond religious belief: kinship, territoriality, ethnicity, belonging; identifications that remain variously distanced, critical and uncertain with regard to Catholicism’s key propositional content.9

Of course, the same kind of wide diversities are easily apparent in the Islamic tradition/s as well. Thus the caveats and cautious approaches of both Christianity and Islam, often in ‘official mode’, will be noted throughout this volume. The Catholic tradition with regard to miracles contrasts mightily, of course, with the Protestant attitude, epitomised in the writings of the famous German theologian Rudolf Bultmann (1884–1976) who sought to ‘demythologise the New Testament’,10 thereby denying the possibility of Christ’s miracles.11 This volume of mine makes no such claims nor, conversely, any ‘faith statements’ either . It is solely concerned with the narrative of miracles, and an analysis of those miracles, from a phenomenological perspective together with an examination of how such narratives have become enbedded in popular, and sometimes official, aspects of Islamic and Christian theology and culture. I must record here my warm appreciation and thanks to Professor Carole Hillenbrand for accepting this volume into her splendid series. I am very grateful too for the excellent work of my copy-editor, Lel Gillingwater. Finally, once again, I am deeply indebted to the patience and forbearance of my family, in particular my wife Sue, as I laboured to produce this book. Thank you. This work is dedicated to them. Ian Richard Netton Emeritus Professor of Islamic Studies University of Exeter April 2018

Abbreviations

BSOAS CCC COED CSEL Dictionnaire

Bulletin of the School of Oriental and African Studies Catechism of the Catholic Church Concise Oxford English Dictionary, eds Soanes and Stevenson Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Dictionnaire des ‘apparitions’ de la Vierge Marie, eds Laurentin and Sbalchiero EAL Encyclopedia of Arabic Literature, eds Meisami and Starkey 2 Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd edn, eds Gibb et al. EI EICR Encyclopedia of Islamic Civilisation and Religion, ed. Netton EQ Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān, ed. McAuliffe NJB New Jerusalem Bible, ed. Wansbrough NJBC New Jerome Biblical Commentary, eds Brown, Fitzmyer and Murphy PB Pynson Ballad Q. Qur’ān RENT Routledge Encyclopedia of Narrative Theory, eds Herman, Jahn and Ryan SEI Shorter Encyclopaedia of Islam, eds Gibb and Kramers Yusuf Ali Qur’ān, trans. Yusuf Ali

xi

Other books by Ian Richard Netton Across the Mediterranean Frontiers (ed. with D. A. Agius) The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East (ed. with Richard Stoneman and Kyle Erickson) Allāh Transcendent: Studies in the Structure and Semiotics of Islamic Philosophy, Theology and Cosmology The Arab Diaspora: Voices of an Anguished Scream (ed. with Z. S. Salhi) Arabia and the Gulf: From Traditional Society to Modern States (ed.) Encyclopedia of Islamic Civilisation and Religion (ed.) Epistles of the Brethren of Purity: Epistles 43–45: On Companionship and Belief (ed. and trans. with Samer Traboulsi and Toby Mayer) Al-Fārābī and His School Golden Roads: Migration, Pilgrimage and Travel in Medieval and Modern Islam (ed.) Islam, Christianity and the Mystic Journey: A Comparative Exploration Islam, Christianity and Tradition: A Comparative Exploration Islamic and Middle Eastern Geographers and Travellers (4 vols) (ed.) Islamic Philosophy and Theology (4 vols) (ed.) Middle East Materials in United Kingdom and Irish Libraries: A Directory (ed.) Middle East Sources (ed.) Muslim Neoplatonists: An Introduction to the Thought of the Brethren of Purity (Ikhwān al-Íafā’) Orientalism Revisited: Art, Land and Voyage (ed.) A Popular Dictionary of Islam Seek Knowledge: Thought and Travel in the House of Islam Studies in Honour of Clifford Edmund Bosworth: Volume One: Hunter of the East: Arabic and Semitic Studies (ed.) Sufi Ritual: The Parallel Universe Text and Trauma: An East–West Primer

mi racles a nd reli g i o n  | 1

1 Miracles and Religion

1.1 Definitions

M

iracles are problematic! Global communications and religious diversity have made them more so.1 At the heart of the problem are the twin topoi of definition and the reality and possibility, or otherwise, of miracles. As noted in the Foreword, this volume does not attempt to engage with the latter problem. It will, however, survey some of the multifarious definitions, and attempts at definitions, of the word ‘miracle’. The brief survey which follows is by no means intended to be all-embracing and to cover all possible definitions. It aims only to provide a flavour of a complex field. So what is a miracle? Definitions are diverse and it is clear that ‘there is no one standard religious way of understanding the concept of miracle’.2 This is true even for theists. David Basinger summarises the problem neatly: Some assume that God directly manipulates the natural order at the time the event occurs. Others assume that God predetermines that nature will bring about the event. Still others assume that God makes us aware of fully natural events as signs of the divine presence and care for us.3

Robert A. Larmer defines a miracle as, inter alia, ‘an event that has religious significance in the sense that it can reasonably be viewed as furthering God’s purposes’.4 For Larmer, miracles do not violate natural laws;5 ‘events plausibly viewed as miracles can constitute evidence for the existence of a theistic God.’6 In late antiquity St Augustine of Hippo (c. 354­–430) provided the­ ­following definition: 1

2  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Sed contra naturam non incongrue dicimus aliquid deum facere, quod facit contra id, quod novimus in natura, hanc enim etiam appelamus naturam, cognitum nobis cursum solitumque naturae, contra quem deus cum aliquid facit, magnalia vel mirabilia nominantur. But it is not wrong for us to say that God does contrary to nature what he does contrary to what we know of nature. For we also call nature the usual course of nature known to us, and, when God does something contrary to it, these actions are called marvellous and miraculous.7

The Concise Oxford English Dictionary (COED) defines the word thus: ‘(1) an extraordinary and welcome event that is not explicable by natural or scientific laws, attributed to a divine agency.> a remarkable and very welcome occurrence. (2) an amazing product or achievement, or an outstanding example of something: a miracle of design’.8 The Dictionary traces the etymology to the Latin miraculum, ‘object of wonder’, from mirari ‘to wonder’, from mirus ‘wonderful’.9 Immediately, from these definitions, we see that miracles may inhabit a semantic world of wonder and divinity. A more consciously rational definition is supplied by Michel Chodkiewicz with particular reference to that great Sufi and mystical shaykh of Islam, Ibn al-ʿArabi (1165–1240): For Ibn ʿArabi as for most Muslim theologians, natural laws are simply statistical regularities, which man interprets in terms of the chain of cause and effect, but which cannot bind the Almighty. A miracle contravenes, not the nature of things, but our idea of them.10

Right at the other end of the spectrum, Richard Dawkins, with his wellknown scepticism, mocks the idea, articulated by Richard Swinburne, that ‘God is not limited by the laws of nature; he makes them and he can change or suspend them – if he chooses’.11 Dawkins clearly enjoys ‘David Hume’s pithy test for a miracle’ which he quotes with relish: ‘No testimony is sufficient to establish a miracle, unless the testimony be of such a kind, that its falsehood would be more miraculous than the fact which it endeavours to establish.’12 However, the Jesuit methodologist scholar, Bernard Lonergan, com-

mi racles a nd reli g i o n  | 3 ments that ‘Hume’s argument did not really prove that no miracles had ever occurred. Its real thrust was that the historian cannot deal intelligently with the past when the past is permitted to be unintelligible to him.’13 Daniel C. Dennett shares Dawkins’ scepticism about the reality or possibility of miracles in the normally understood sense of the word. He says: ‘The only way to take the hypothesis of miracles seriously is to eliminate the non-miraculous alternatives.’14 For at least one modern Christian theologian, John Macquarrie, modern science cannot countenance or even tolerate the traditional Christian belief in the miracle of the physical resurrection of Jesus: The way of understanding miracles that appeals to breaks in the natural order and to supernatural intervention belongs to the mythological outlook and cannot commend itself in a post-mythological climate of thought . . . The traditional conception of miracle is irreconcilable with our modern understanding of both science and history.15

Other New Testament scholars have shared in a tradition of scepticism about the miracle of the resurrection of Jesus, whether or not they have specifically denied it. Markus Vinzent, for example, in an unusual and startling book, Christ’s Resurrection in Early Christianity and the Making of the New Testament, is at pains to stress that the traditional doctrine of the resurrection ‘in the first two centuries . . . was soon of little theological importance and influence to the wider Church, except for Paul’.16 Vinzent suggests that Christianity owes its present emphasis on the doctrine of the resurrection of Jesus to the second century ad teacher Marcion of Sinope.17 Riposte and counter-argument have not been slow in coming. Referring to Dawkins’ quotation of David Hume (1711–76) which we have just cited, Thomas Crean notes: This assertion, as it stands, is quite true. But our author, like Hume, takes it to be equivalent to a second, very different statement: that miracles are so unlikely to occur that it is always more reasonable to suppose that those who report them are either in error or telling a lie, rather than telling the truth. This second statement, purely and simply begs the question. How, precisely do we know in advance the unlikelihood of a miracle’s occurring?18

4  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us It will be immediately evident from the above that a belief in the possibility and reality of miracles is a subset of belief, or not, in the possibility and reality of the existence of God, a subject on which there is a voluminous and increasing body of literature.19 Now, it is not the intention of this book to enter this particular debate, although it should be stressed here, right at the beginning, that there is a need to emphasise the obvious difference between definition and belief. As far as belief is concerned, this volume adopts a neutral, phenomenological stance. As for definition, we will not espouse any of the above single definitions. However, for the purposes of discussion, a miracle will be defined as an event, or series of events, which participate in many, if not all, of five senses as perceived by an external observer: (1) a sense that the event is attributable to divine intervention and that the Divine is an actor in that event;20 (2) a sense of wonder;21 (3) a related sense of the sacred and the numinous; (4) a sense of mystery;22 (5) a sense that a miracle is a sign.23 No comment nor judgement will be made as to the actual or ontological reality of what is sensed or perceived. The phenomena will be presented and discussed phenomenologically. It is true that the reader may sometimes be aware, with Plato, that all may not be as it seems and that sensory perception may not always yield actual truth or demonstrable reality in a scientific manner.24 In the words of Brian P. McLaughlin: ‘The ever present logical possibility of illusion makes beliefs acquired by perception fallible: there is no absolute guarantee that they are true. But that does not prevent them from sometimes counting as knowledge – albeit fallible knowledge.’25 All these caveats and parameters will apply, of course, whether we are considering the miracles of the Christian tradition or the ʿajā’ib (marvels, wonders),26 karāmāt (miracle by a saint)27 and muʿjizāt (prophetic miracles)28 in the Islamic arena of spirituality. Denis Gril in The Encyclopaedia of the Qur’ān defines a miracle as ‘supernatural intervention in the life of human beings’.29 He goes on: ‘When defined as such, miracles are present in the Qur’ān in a threefold sense: in sacred history, in connection with Muªammad himself and in relation to revelation.’30 Many scholars of the Islamic tradition have been keen to stress the fundamental differences between the muʿjizāt and the karāmāt. The Victorian

mi racles a nd reli g i o n  | 5 scholar and lexicographer, Edward William Lane (1801–76),31 for example, stressed in his famous Lexicon that a muʿjiza was ‘a miracle performed by a prophet; distinguished from karāma, which signifies one performed by a saint, or righteous man, not claiming to be a prophet’.32 L. Gardet is quite specific: The word comes to denote the ‘marvels’ wrought by the ‘friends of God’, awliyā’ (sing. walī), which God grants to them to bring about. These marvels most usually consist of miraculous happenings in the corporeal world, or else of predictions of the future, or else of interpretation of the secrets of hearts etc. The notion of karāma differs from that of muʿdjiza . . . Each includes a ‘breaking of the natural order of things’ (khārik· li ’l-ʿāda).33

Gardet stresses the public nature of a muʿjiza: it is prefaced with a proclamation by a prophet intent on demonstrating his superior miraculous powers. By contrast, ‘the karāma is a simple personal favour. It should be kept secret and is in no way the sign of a prophetic mission.’34 Gardet warns that ‘there is a risk of ambiguity if one translates both terms by “miracle” (of a prophet, of a saint)’35 and suggests that, if one keeps the translation of muʿjiza as ‘miracle of a prophet’, then a better translation of karāma would be ‘marvel of a saint’.36 Here too, in the Arabic and Islamic arena, the senses might deceive. Elsewhere, I have drawn attention to the possible credulity of that great Moroccan traveller, Ibn Battuta (1304–68/9 or 1377), who roamed the Islamic world and beyond between 1325 and 1354: The antics of a juggler in Khansā (Hang-Chow) made him feel physically ill: he claimed to have seen the juggler climb a rope after one of his apprentices and then, out of sight, dismember the boy and cast the limbs down to his audience. The act ended with the juggler putting the pieces of the dismembered corpse together and kicking the body into life again. It was left for a neighbouring qā∂ī to tell Ibn Ba††ū†a: ‘By God, there was no climbing or coming down or cutting up of limbs at all; the whole thing is just hocus-pocus.’37

But while the medieval Muʿtazilis rejected the possibility of karāmāt, Gardet shows that they were accepted by most Ashʿarites, all Sufis and the Shiʿa,

6  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us although there was also an awareness of the possibility of outright fraud and deception.38 It is clear from all this then that, while the Christian tradition does not make a semantic distinction between the miracles of prophets and those of saints, in the Christian and Islamic spheres of miracles we enter a world of spirituality imbued with the five senses which we have outlined above, those of divine intervention, wonder, the sacred and the numinous, mystery and semiotics. However, it is a fluid world where there is also a very possible danger of self-deception, illusion and outright fraud. 1.2  The Medieval Mindset: Milieu, Continuity and Contrasts In the medieval world, Christian and Islamic, there was not only religious belief but a will both to believe religiously and, when necessary, to suspend rational belief. Religion imbued the very core of each individual’s everyday life and what the fourteenth century might have characterised as a modicum of religiosity would be regarded in the twenty-first as a deep piety.39 There was daily Mass attendance,40 frequent pilgrimage,41 and no apparent difficulty in accepting the two42 or three43 heads of John the Baptist. Medieval Christianity was often a melange of cynicism, faith and superstition.44 The sale of indulgences was widespread.45 Thus we find a milieu which was ripe for a general belief in the possibility and reality of miracles. Illness and misfortune were regarded as the result of divine wrath though disease could be a test whereby the soul underwent a divine purification.46 With the plague of 1348, God was seen to have abandoned humanity.47 Misfortune in the political sphere might be interpreted as God’s punishment. The defeat of rulers such as Otto II of Germany in 982 in Italy was interpreted by contemporary chroniclers as ‘divine punishment for the incorporation of the see of Merseburg within Magdeburg’.48 The Church was powerful and, accruing more power, resented interference. The cult of saints and the rising popularity of the rite of pilgrimage to these saints’ shrines gave the Church even more power, wealth and jealously guarded privilege.49 Now the remedy for many of the illnesses, plagues, misfortunes and other evils which befell both noble, cleric and peasant lay in religion or, to be more precise, in the Church, which was the authoritative custodian and interpreter

mi racles a nd reli g i o n  | 7 of religion. And in the custodyship of the Church were diverse relics which were held to be the potential or actual source of countless miraculous cures.50 Jacques Le Goff puts it succinctly thus: in an age of huge material and political insecurity, people took refuge in the sole security of religion. There was security here below, thanks to the miracle. This might save the workman when he was the victim of an accident at work, like the masons who fell off the scaffolding and were supported miraculously by a saint in their fall or were resuscitated by a saint on the ground. Millers or peasants trapped by the millwheel might be saved from death by miraculous intervention.51

The saints were thus worth cultivating because of their ability to work a miracle at the intercession of a devout supplicant. Peter Brown notes that from the late antique period onwards the cult of saints became an integral and accepted part of the fabric of Christianity itself.52 Such problems as illness and lack of fertility required the intervention of the saints whom one ‘bribed’ by leaving a present at their tombs or the endowment of ecclesiastical buildings.53 The shrine of St Thomas à Becket (c. 1120–70) at Canterbury was but one of the more famous of the numerous shrines where intercession in the hope of a cure might be made. And it was a shrine which was ‘comprehensive in range’ in the number of miraculous cures achieved.54 In one miracle story associated with the shrine of St Thomas, a bird went beyond mere mimicry of the human voice and was perceived actually to pray at the tomb of the saint.55 The saints whose miraculous intercession was craved were not always quiet in their tombs. Towards the end of the eleventh century a hagiographer named Goscelin of St Bertin related that the dead body of St Mildred seemed to conceive a particular dislike of any who fell asleep beside her tomb in the Canterbury Abbey of St Augustine: the corpse is alleged to have risen up and hit a sleeping custodian as well as a pilgrim whom sleep had overtaken while he was praying before her tomb.56 Of course, stories of the miraculous, apocryphal or not, go back to, and reflect, the earliest days of the Christian tradition. In the gloriously illustrated fifteenth-century Book of Hours, produced by the Master of Mary of Burgundy, we find portrayed, for example, miracles connected with the

8  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Flight into Egypt by Mary, Joseph and the infant Jesus. Thus, a newly sown crop of corn springs up and becomes ripe as the Holy Family passes. Their passing by also precipitates the self-destruction of wayside idols.57 In another text the infant Jesus commands dragons, lions and panthers.58 However, it was the Middle Ages which saw the fullest flowering of what might be termed ‘a cult of miracles’. Belief in miracles, as we have seen, was shaped and fostered by the veneration of saints and the consequent reverence for, and veneration of, their relics.59 The proximity of relics lent immediacy and presence to the numinous. As Peter Brown neatly puts it in his magisterial volume The Cult of the Saints: ‘A sense of the mercy of God lies at the root of the discovery, translation and installation of relics.’60 He continues: ‘In the healing of the possessed [at the shrines of late antiquity], the praesentia of the saint was held to be registered with unfailing accuracy, and their ideal power, their potentia, shown most fully and in the most reassuring manner.’61 Of all the saints in the Middle Ages, the Virgin Mary was one of the most popular, if not the most popular of all. She was regarded as a mighty miracle worker and her numerous, miracle-working shrines were the foci of major pilgrimages throughout that period, shrines that might contain relics allegedly associated with her life on earth.62 Such relics as those collected at her major medieval pilgrimage shrine at Walsingham are excellent examples of this kind of relic collection whose presence enhanced the reputation of the shrine and drew pilgrims from far and wide. 1.2.1 Christian Scholars have wondered about the degrees of naivety which might inhabit the medieval mindset when it came to any consideration of the miraculous.63 However, it is, perhaps, appropriate not to apply contemporary scholarly standards and modes of evidence. We are reminded ‘that medieval miracle tales operated within a particular conceptual framework’.64 Jonathan Sumption’s words are useful here: If the majority of educated men . . . accepted the evidence for miracles, it was not because they were unduly credulous or irrational, still less because they cared nothing for the truth. It was rather because in assessing the evidence they applied criteria very different from those of David Hume.65

mi racles a nd reli g i o n  | 9 Deirdre Jackson concludes: Sumption’s statement still holds true today. When people flock to see weeping statues of the Virgin Mary, or claim to have experienced a healing cure at Lourdes, they do not judge these phenomena on the basis of scientific principles, but by a different set of standards, shaped by faith, hope, desire and devotion.66

Thus, when we look back from the vantage point of the twenty-first century and attempt to assess continuity from, and contrasts with, the Middle Ages, we can identify four distinct attitudes which have developed towards the idea of miracles: (1) disbelief and scepticism; (2) caution; (3) belief; (4) memory and memorialisation. We shall survey each of these attitudes here briefly, focusing on the Christian tradition. Disbelief in, or scepticism about, the possibility of miracles flourished in antiquity. Lucian of Samosta (b. c. 120), for example, held that anyone who claimed to be able to work miracles was a charlatan.67 Origen (c. 185–254) chose to disparage pagan miracles while vaunting the reality and real merits of those performed by Jesus even though he with his followers was accused of sorcery.68 St Augustine of Hippo (c. 354–430) held a similar view: The miracles that are reported to be worked in their temples are by no means worthy to be compared with those that are worked through the relics of our martyrs . . . Their acts were performed by demons (fecerunt autem illa daemones) . . . Our miracles, on the other hand, are performed by martyrs – or rather by God (vel potius Deus).69

Later, Baruch Spinoza (1632–77) held that, since God was immutable, so too ‘the natural order’ should similarly be regarded as immutable since it was ‘a necessary expression’ of the Divine.70 André Vauchez stresses that in all this there might be an element of authority and control, especially with the principal custodians of sacred knowledge, the episcopacy,71 whose jealous role regarding the custody and interpretation of sacred texts might be compared to that of the ʿulamā’ in the Islamic Middle Ages.72 Vauchez draws attention to the way in which the perceived laxity in the Church in the era preceding the Carolingian age was

10  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us replaced by increasing episcopal discipline over the Church.73 New relics were now subject to the overview of the bishops whose permission was required for the veneration of such relics and it was decreed that only episcopal assemblies, or a prince, might permit the movement of the bodies of saints from one venue to another.74 From earliest times miracles could be confused, or at least, identified, with magic.75 The goal and result might be the same but the former might be more dramatic in their accomplishment than the latter, whose primary focus was healing76 and a naked exhibition of the sublime power of God himself.77 In his seminal work, Religion and the Decline of Magic,78 Sir Keith Thomas surveys a gamut of magic, myth and miracle. The quest for ultimate salvation and eternity did not preclude a recourse to the supernatural as a cure for the terrestrial illnesses and evils of everyday life, a supernatural which was often as much imbued on a popular level with the magical as it was with the officially religious.79 Thomas observes that the best way to show pagans that the medieval Church was the only custodian of true doctrine was to work miracles and thereby demonstrate divine approval for that which was taught from the pulpit to the masses.80 The view was propagated as late as the seventeenth century that miracles were not contrary to nature.81 It was believed that the king’s touch had healing powers and the power of healing touch was claimed by lesser mortals than royalty as well.82 However, what was believed in the public or popular arena was not always held privately. Thomas tells us of a private remark by King James I (r. 1603–25) himself to the effect that, ‘since miracles had ceased, the whole ritual must be superstitious’.83 Generally speaking, however, Thomas stresses that there was little ‘explicit scepticism’ and that any doubts about, or disbelief in, the efficacy or operation of the miracle of the king’s touch would have been resticted to the educated clases and those of an anti-monarchical persuasion.84 It would be for the intellectual ferment resulting from the Renaissance, the rise of science and technology in the eighteenth century and man’s increasing ability to control the environment in which he lived,85 as Thomas vividly demonstrates towards the end of the second volume of his magisterial work, to dissolve decisively the common reliance on magical practices and

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 11 the overarching belief in miracles. Control was the goal and with the rise of the sciences, greater environmental undertakings were achieved and thus a greater control over the lived environment.86 However, the process was gradual and the flight to scepticism, and eventually outright disbelief, with regard to magic and miracles did not take place overnight. Just as the move to Protestant liturgy and thought in Reformation England was a more gradual process than was hitherto thought – a theme brilliantly illustrated in Eamon Duffy’s The Stripping of the Altars87 – so too was the gradual rejection of that comfortable medieval world of miracle and magic. But it must be stressed that this pattern was not inevitable88 nor universal89 nor, in the words of Jane Shaw ‘did it necessarily point in a teleological way towards ever-increasing scepticism’.90 We may conclude from her and others’ remarks that for many years, and into the Enlightenment, scepticism, doubt and belief remained ineluctably entwined. By the nineteenth century we find an even greater tendency towards outright disbelief and scepticism with regard to the reality and possibility of miracles. This is vividly illustrated in a passage which occurs early on in Dostoyevsky’s novel The Brothers Karamazov. An orthodox priest is asked to comment upon a story which has appeared in some volume of Lives of the Saints to the effect that a miracle worker is tortured and beheaded. He stands up after the execution, picks up his head and walks with it in his hands, kissing the head. The priest replies that the story is not true.91 In the novel Karamazov raises the story because he believes that its ­extraordinary – indeed, unbelievable – nature has been instrumental in making him lose his faith.92 Here we have a miracle story, related at secondhand by a Mr Miusov over a dinner table, which precipitates not just scepticism but outright disbelief, rejection and loss of faith. In the field of New Testament Studies the views of the German theologian Rudolf Bultmann have become famous. Anthony C. Thiselton observes: ‘Bultmann’s approach to New Testament interpretation both embraces ­historical–critical methods and simultaneously presupposes their inadequacy for the Christian faith.’93 Bultmann observed in a well-known essay: The miracles of the New Testament have ceased to be miraculous, and to defend their historicity by recourse to nervous disorders or hypnotic effects

12  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us only serves to underline the fact . . . It is impossible to use electric light and the wireless and to avail ourselves of modern medical and surgical discoveries, and at the same time to believe in the New Testament world of spirits and miracles. We may think that we can manage it in our own lives, but to expect others to do so is to make the Christian faith unintelligible and unacceptable to the modern world.94

Hume’s scepticism about the possibility of miracles has continued to pervade the mindsets of many, even in the Vatican, in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.95 This is evidenced, for example, in the sometime disparagement and suspicion of the miraculous stigmata of the Capuchin friar, St Pio of Pietrelcina (1887–1968), popularly known as Padre Pio.96 Sergio Luzzatto notes: Saints exist mainly to perform miracles. The story of Padre Pio cannot escape being, among other things, a history of these miracles – the healings, the apparitions, the conversions. Today it requires approaching these events as an anthropologist would, [the approach of the author of this book] making no distinction between reality and myth.97

Many, however, in the early days of the appearance of the friar’s stigmata, approached Padre Pio convinced he was an outright liar or fraud rather than through the lens of an anthropologist. After the sphere of outright disbelief, scepticism and rejection lies that of belief in the possibility of miracles but espoused within a framework of extreme caution. Let us examine three examples of that caution in action: Lourdes, the process of canonisation in the Catholic Church and the phenomenon of Medjugorje. The miracle cures which are claimed to happen at the Marian shrine of Lourdes in France are subjected to intense scrutiny ‘by impartial medical specialists and . . . the Catholic Church is famously cautious about her pronouncements on these cases. So it is that only a few score of such cures have reached official recognition during the last 150 or so years.’98 From the time of Pope Benedict XIV’s (r. 1740–58) famous document De Servorum, rigorous criteria have been laid down by the Catholic Church whereby a cure might be judged a miracle by the theologians.99

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 13 Secondly, the Vatican Congregation for the Causes of Saints requires evidence of healing miracles from intercession made by a believer to a recent (or ancient!) deceased before any beatification or canonisation can take place.100 It has not been the case for a very long time that the matter could simply be decided by a local cult, popular acclamation or the local episcopal hierarchy.101 Vauchez notes, with reservations, that ‘it is customary to date the beginning of pontifical canonization to 993’102 by Pope John XV (r. 985–96), but procedures became much more formalised and centrally controlled under succeeding popes like Gregory VII (r. 1073–85), Eugenius III (r. 1145–53) and Alexander III (r. 1159–81).103 Vauchez quotes a letter sent to King Kol of Sweden by Pope Alexander in 1171 or 1172, stating, with reference to the illicit cult of King Eric, killed while drunk, that ‘even if prodigies and miracles were produced through his intermediary, you would not be permitted to venerate him publicly as a saint without the authorization of the Roman Church’.104 Further centralising statements and controls were made and exerted by Pope Innocent III (r. 1198–1216)105 and, from the perspective of the deployment of posthumous miracles as a criterion for sainthood, the procedures for canonisation may be said to culminate in the document of Pope Benedict XIV to which we have alluded above. Even the prominent atheist Daniel C. Dennett recognises the extreme caution exercised by the Catholic Church with regard to the recognition and acceptance of individual miracles. He writes: Miracle-hunters must be scupulous scientists or else they are wasting their time – a point long recognized by the Roman Catholic Church, which at least goes through the motions of subjecting the claims of miracles made on behalf of candidates for sainthood to objective scientific investigation.106

In this present volume the visionary experience will be included as belonging to the sphere of the miraculous. Thus, and thirdly, under the heading of cautious approaches to those realms, we might note the extremely cautious approach adopted by the Vatican towards the alleged apparitions of the Virgin Mary at Medjugorje in Boznia-Herzegovina since 1981. No evidence of ‘any tricks, hoaxes or abuse of popular credulity’ was found by the Vatican Commission on Medjugorje, established in March 2012 under the aegis

14  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us of Cardinal Camillo Ruini.107 However, to date, the Catholic Church has refrained from giving a decisive verdict as to whether it accepts that there are elements of the supernatural in the events at Medjugorje which continue to unfold. Three of the original six visionaries who first claimed to see the Virgin Mary at Medjugorje in June 1981 still claim to be in receipt of daily visions of Mary in any part of the world in which they happen to be.108 To those who believe that such a diurnal embarras de richesses of visionary experience is somewhat excessive, to say the least, Fr Francis Marsden, a regular columnist in The Catholic Times, and a believer in the apparitional phenomena at Medjugorje, simply responds: ‘God’s ways are not our ways.’109 Thus, it is clear that by no means all have accepted and adopted the official Church position with regard to the claims of Medjugorge and agreed that they should wait for an official verdict. It is possible that Pope Francis may have been referring to the alleged miraculous visions at Medjugorge when he remarked that the Virgin Mary ‘is not a postmaster, sending messages every day’.110 Here we find expressed at the highest Vatican level that attitude of caution which characterises the official approach of those who are confronted with phenomena which are allegedly miraculous. This is reinforced by the data collected by the Stanford University graduate, Michael O’Neill: ‘Of the 2000 apparitions reported since [the Council of Trent in 1545–63] . . . sixteen of those have been recognized by the Vatican.’111 Robert A. Scott in his important work Miracle Cures, while adopting a cautious approach to claims of miraculous healing via the intercession of saints, nonetheless holds that such phenomena should not be dismissed out of hand. They are not, in his words, to be dismissed as ‘hogwash’. The mind may have an impact on the body and the claims of the devout who, having prayed for a cure, are blessed with the sought-after cure, have some validity. There is, in his view, scientific evidence to show that, despite the possibility of ‘exaggeration, wishful thinking, and shameless propaganda’, not to mention pure illusion, fervent prayer to this or that saint may have an impact on the body which might be quite dramatic in its ‘relief from suffering’.112 Large numbers of people in the West, despite all the massive advances in technology and communications, not least in the sphere of the internet and social media, in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, remain convinced

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 15 that it is possible for miracles to occur.113 Such attitudes have an ancient pedigree. For Thomas Aquinas (1225–74) a miracle might be defined as ‘the work of God against the order of nature’ but it was to be regarded, not as a violation of that order, but as a perfection of it.114 For theologians of Christology, a miracle could be classified as both a ‘sign’ and a ‘deed’.115 Critics have not been slow to raise objections to Hume’s classic conception of miracles as ‘violations’. Colin Brown holds that this particular emphasis of Hume’s takes no account of the possibility ‘of divine immanent activity in the ordering of events’.116 Others, too, have mounted a strong defence, not just of the possibility of miracles, but of their actuality and reality. They remain fascinated with the idea that God has actually ‘acted in history’ on various occasions in a miraculous fashion.117 For them, miracles prove God’s existence and, conversely, God’s existence may lead one to expect that miracles will occur.118 Indeed, for the believer, prophecy which has been fulfilled can be considered to be a miracle,119 the Incarnation of Christ is a miracle,120 Jesus’ empty tomb presupposes a miracle,121 that is, the miracle of a physical resurrection of Jesus.122 Evidence of the latter is confirmed by those who physically saw the risen Christ and the early New Testament record is to be accepted as historical fact.123 In all this, of course, belief is key. Some would go so far as to say that it is possible to believe in miracles without actually having any proof that miracles in history or the present have occurred.124 For such people ‘the case for miracles is strong’.125 Peter Crane, in his book Miracles and Modern Science: a Study in Credibility,126 concurs. For Crane, ‘there is no possibility here or anywhere else of giving certain proof that any reported miracle actually occurred’.127 Crane’s book does precisely what it states in the subtitle. He writes from the perspective of a convinced, believing Roman Catholic and it is certainly true that some, especially those who adhere to a sceptical position with regard to the possibility of miracles, may find his book somewhat tendentious. He is cited here as an example of those who are firmly convinced of the actuality and reality, not just the possibility, of miracles. For him, miracles reflect ‘other-worldly realities’.128 Their actual occurrence may be rare,129 something acknowledged, as we have seen, by even the most fervent partisans of the

16  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us reality of miracles, but for Crane, former naval electrical artificer and present electronics specialist with advanced degrees in science and membership of the Institute of Physics,130 there can be no conflict between the idea of miracles and science.131 They inhabit different, and quite distinct, spheres of inquiry132 and thus, for him, ‘the miracle is perhaps the one phenomenon, and the only one, which can be attributed to God without fear of contradiction from any source’.133 Once belief in miracles becomes rooted in an individual mind, community or faith tradition, a need to remember, memorialise and, in some sense, recapitulate that miracle may follow. The memorialisation or remembrance (anámnēsis) recalls a past, historical past, which is soaked in miracle and divine intervention, whether that be the celebration of Passover in the Jewish tradition, the sacrifice of the Mass in the Catholic or the recollection of salvation history itself: ‘Christianity further reinterpreted various aspects of Passover ritual. The unleavened bread and wine are the elements transformed by the Eucharist into the body and blood of Christ.’134 This anámnēsis is emphasised by James McCaffrey: ‘The Eucharist is the Passover made present again: the new Passover, the whole paschal majesty, the passion – death – resurrection of Jesus.’135 The whole incorporates offering136 and reconciliation.137 In all this, several miracles are memorialised: the divine intervention of the ten plagues in Egypt which are the ultimate catalyst for the Exodus;138 the Catholic sacrifice of the Mass, identified with the Passover as well as the primal sacrifice on Calvary, and made sacramentally present at each celebration;139 all of which are followed, in Christian belief, by the miracle of the resurrection of Jesus.140 This is salvation history writ in the language of miracles. As the Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC) puts it: ‘Primarily in the Eucharist, and by analogy in the other sacraments, the liturgy is the memorial of the mystery of salvation.’141 Whether one adopts a recapitulationist, ransom or sacrificial theory of the atonement,142 the incarnation for the believing Christian is a major miracle.143 Moreover, Jesus doubles the miraculous in his own being, on the one hand by possessing the two separate natures of divinity and humanity in the one person and, on the other, by being born as the result of a miraculous conception by the Virgin Mary.144 This miraculous incarnation is the key to the Christian’s future eternal salvation: ‘Salvation through divinisation

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 17 was brought about by the incarnation of Christ’145 and his miracles can be understood to flow from his perfect relationship with God.146 Typology can provide a dynamic gloss upon, and insight into, both memory and memorialisation. For the Christian, the Exodus is the type of ‘escape from sin’ for which the antitypes in the New Covenant are the incarnation, passion, death and resurrection of Christ, memorialised and re-presented day after day in the sacrifice of the Mass.147 This miracle and ‘economy’ of salvation148 for the Christian has been lauded down the ages, often via the medium of typology, with the Old Testament as its prime point of reference. For example, during the liturgy of the Paschal Vigil on Holy Saturday night, the hymn known as the ‘Exultet’ includes the following words: This is the Paschal Festival, in which that true Lamb is slain, with whose Blood the doorposts of the faithful are consecrated. This is the night in which Thou didst lead the children of Israel, our forefathers, out of Egypt . . . This is the night in which, destroying the chains of death, Christ arose victorious from the grave . . . O truly needful sin of Adam, which was blotted out by the death of Christ!149

The eloquent and eponymously named preacher, St John Chrysostom (c. 345/7– 407), has been praised as the most prolific author of the Patristic age, if we are to judge by his extant works, rivalled only by Augustine.150 With such a huge output, it is hardly surprising that some of his works should be better known than others, and that some should have fallen into obscurity. The following little-known homily is perhaps better known in the Orthodox Church than in other branches of Christianity. In this, we see the eloquent preacher articulate a moving typology of the miraculous atonement to which we have referred above. It is taken from the Homily on the Cemetery and the Cross (In Homiliam de Coemeterio et de Cruce): I will tell you something even more remarkable. Learn now [how Christ triumphed over the devil] and you will be even more amazed, for using the very weapons that the devil used to conquer us, Christ vanquished him! Once He seized his weapons, He triumphed over him, and listen now to

18  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us how He did it: a virgin, wood, and death were the symbols of our defeat. The virgin was Eve, for she knew not man. The wood was the tree [in Paradise], and death was Adam’s epitimion [penance]. But behold, a virgin, wood and death – the symbols of our defeat – became the symbols of our victory. For instead of Eve, we have Mary; instead of the tree of knowledge of good and evil we have the tree of the Cross; instead of Adam’s death, we have Christ’s death. Do you see how the devil is vanquished by the very weapons wherewith he vanquished us? By the tree, the devil vanquished Adam; by the Cross, Christ conquered the devil. That tree led to Hades, whereas the Cross led back from thence those that had been led there. And again, that tree hid the captive’s nakedness, whereas the Cross revealed to all the naked Victor from on high. Adam’s death condemned his descendants, whereas Christ’s death raised all that had preceded Him. ‘Who shall tell of the mighty acts of the Lord’ [Ps. 105:2]. Out of death, to which we were subject, we became immortal. These are the accomplishments of the Cross!151

In such wise does typology recall, for the believer in both Christianity and the miracles associated with that tradition, the heart of the faith, memorialised in the figure on the cross. For the Christian, the incarnation, which leads ineluctably to the cross, is the sublime miracle, transcended only by the miracle of the resurrection. 1.2.2 Islamic Islam, too, inhabits a world of miracles. If the miracle of the incarnation in Christianity may be said to be the inauguration of a world of miracles in the Christian tradition, then the revelation of the Qur’an for Muslims has a similar dynamic in Islam. The Qur’an is the primary or proto-miracle in that tradition. The Arabic word for a ‘verse’ in the Qur’an is āya but the word also means ‘sign’, ‘wonder’, ‘marvel’ and ‘miracle’.152 Bruce Lawrence lyrically observes that ‘as tangible signs, Qur’anic verses are expressive of an inexhaustible truth. They signify meaning layered within meaning, light upon light, miracle upon miracle.’153 At various points, the Qur’an challenges its critics to produce comparable verses. For example:

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 19 Say: ‘If the whole of mankind and Jinns were to gather together to produce the like of this Qur’ān, they could not produce the like thereof, even if they backed up each other with help and support.154

It has been pointed out that it was verses such as this which provided the foundation for Islam’s insistence that the Qur’an was indeed a miracle which was, in addition, confirmed by the prophethood of Muhammad.155 The Qur’an is considered to be ‘the supreme miracle’;156 it is ‘a glorious Qur’ān, (inscribed) in a Tablet Preserved (lawª maªfūÕ)’.157 The Qur’an which Muslims have on earth reflects a ‘heavenly prototype, “umm al-kitab”, literally, the MetaBook’ which transcends time and history.158 Richard Gramlich has noted that in Islam miracles are the province of the deeply religious, of one whom he characterises as ‘the religious hero’ (religiösen Helden), and are often the decisive element in his greatness.159 Thus a great prophet or pious person in Islam can signal their prophethood or piety by the means, or deployment, of miracles, a manifestation of God’s blessing (baraka) on humanity.160 The person and role of the Prophet Muhammad are, however, an interesting case. Numerous miracles are attributed to the Prophet, as David Thomas and diverse other scholars have stressed.161 These include, in particular, the revelation of the miracle of the Qur’an via the agency of Muhammad, the miracle of the splitting of the moon (to which we shall refer in more detail later in this volume) and the miʿrāj, Muhammad’s journey through the seven heavens (during which he meets diverse dead prophets and God Himself ).162 Yet Denis Gril notes that, while long-suffering prophets prior to Muhammad were provided with miracles to signal a divine confirmation and approval of the messages which they brought, Muhammad in the Qur’an is sometimes shown as being denied such signals of divine approbation.163 The Qur’an insists that Muhammad’s primary role is to be a ‘warner’ (nadhīr), not a producer of signs.164 Indeed, there is almost a note of exasperation as the text

20  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us instructs Muhammad to tell his opponents that he is a mere human, albeit an apostle (bashar rasūl ).165 Gril suggests that ‘Muhammad was not thought to have been granted any miracles in traditional sense as they were not, ipso facto, sufficient to convince unbelievers.166 Yet it is clear from al-Bukhari, for example, that evidence was both demanded by, and given to, the polytheists of Mecca (mushrikūn), most notably in that miracle of the splitting of the moon (inshiqāq al-qamar).167 The latter, however, is evidence from the tradition (ªadīth) literature. The Qur’an itself fails to parallel the tradition literature in a lengthy presentation of the well-known narratives of miracles performed by the Prophet.168 That applies to the miracle of the splitting of the moon, the miʿrāj and the opening of Muhammad’s chest.169 The picture that emerges then, after a survey of the above comments and citations from medieval and modern sources, is that it is the hadith literature which lauds Muhammad as a miracle worker rather than the text of the Qur’an itself.170 Be that as it may, it is the revelation of the Qur’an which remains the primary171 – many maintain the only172 – miracle in any hierarchy one might devise of miraculous phenomena in Islam. Leaving aside, then, this privileged position of the Qur’an in Islam as the miracle par excellence, for the moment, it is worthy of note that not all Muslim theologians down the ages have believed in the possibility and reality of miracles. Miracles in Islam have been claimed by some to lack ‘any essential importance’.173 David Thomas points to the position of the rationalist group of medieval thinkers in Islam known as the Muʿtazila and their scepticism about ‘wonders’ which they attributed to mere trickery.174 Earlier we drew attention to the way in which the famous Moroccan traveller Ibn Battuta was disabused of his credulity about a possible miracle in China.175 However, it was the Muʿtazila who were vehement in their opposition to the possibility of karāmāt. The Encyclopaedia of Islam (EI2) cites the Muʿtazili exegete al-Zamakhshari’s (1075–1144) interpretation of the following Qur’anic verse: He (alone) knows the Unseen nor does He make anyone

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 21 acqainted with His mysteries, except an apostle whom He has chosen.176

He states that the verse means that prophetic miracles do confirm the truth of the messages they bring but have no relevance or reference to other alleged miracles.177 Even some of those who adhered to the Ashʿarite school of theology did not demur from the harsh Muʿtazilite criticism of the karāmāt.178 Yet not all Muʿtazilis totally rejected the possibility of miracles, even though they might hedge that possibility with a number of careful caveats. Thus the prominent Muʿtazili theologian ʿAbd al-Jabbar (c. 932–c. 1023– 25) bucked the general Muʿtazili trend of outright hostility to miracles by establishing five criteria which allowed some event or action to be regarded as a miracle: these included the need for a divine origin or character of that event and the fact that it should manifest itself as something which fractures the natural order of things.179 The criteria are quite restrictive and severe but it is clear that, for ʿAbd al-Jabbar, Muhammad and the revelation of the Qur’an to him score very highly according to these criteria: miracles confirm Muhammad’s claims to being a prophet sent by God and the text of the Qur’an which he transmits is itself to be considered a miracle.180 Others, in our modern age, have tried to provide a ‘rational’ taxonomy for the interpretation of miracles: such miracles might, alternatively, be considered as an aspect of trickery on the part of the Divine; or a miracle might be any event to which one chooses to attach a particular ‘religious significance’; or the rational explanation might lie in the future for a seemingly miraculous event in the present.181 Such a taxonomy would not, of course, gain the approval of many Muslim believers, simply because it comprises attempts to explain away by rational means the nature of miracles rather than devoutly accepting their possibility as ‘unfettered’ acts of the Divine. With regard to the usages and deployment of alleged miracles as ‘proofevents’ of prophethood, the great medieval theologian Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (1058–1111) counsels caution. Thus the ‘cleaving of the moon’ (shaqq

22  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us al-qamar) should not be taken as proof of Muhammad’s prophethood since such events might be regarded as a kind of enchantment and make-believe (siªr wa takhyīl), albeit permitted by God. Al-Ghazali tells us that if you base your faith on a miracle, that faith might be undermined by any ambiguity and doubt (al-ishkāl wa ’l-shubha) pertaining to that miracle.182 Muslims down the ages have held that the Qur’an is a miracle. What has been debated, and either accepted or refuted or, at least, regarded with scepticism, is whether there can be other miracles outside the message of the Qur’an, performed through the agency of holy men or awliyā’. For many, in particular the Sufis, the example of the Qur’an has acted as a kind of trigger for the identification and acceptance of numerous other miracles throughout Islamic history. Distinctions may be made between karāmāt and muʿjizāt and the possibility of illusion may be acknowledged but Sufism, ta‚awwuf, has frequently been associated down the ages with the performance of miracles.183 Proficiency as a miracle worker fostered belief in the spirituality of a Sufi shaykh among would-be disciples and many shaykhs did indeed seem to have an extraordinary capacity to act in a way beyond the natural order of things.184 Thus ʿAbd al-Qadir al-Jilani (1077/78–1166), the eponym of the Qadiri Order of Sufis, not only had a reputation as a renowned healer185 but could also raise the dead.186 There were saintly women who could fly.187 There were Sufis who claimed to have undertaken miraculous ascensions into the heavens, leaving their bodies, and encountering all sorts of mystical beings.188 Yet others might have the capacity to immobilise those whom they perceived as possibly hostile by the infliction of ‘temporary paralysis’.189 Indeed, the briefest of studies of the medieval Islamic world discloses an arena replete with miraculous events.190 However, whether such miracles as we have just outlined did indeed serve to bridge ‘the gulf between the transcendent God . . . and the material world’,191 or merely serve to exacerbate that gulf, is a matter for debate. Regardless of that, however, acceptance of the reality of miracles in Islam has persisted into modern times and shows no signs of abating. It goes beyond the Sufi realm and can characterise the lives of ordinary Muslim people. Stories of miracles not only abound but are created and created anew. When Neil Armstrong landed on the moon in 1969, the press in Turkey claimed

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 23 that he heard the call to prayer;192 a Rifaʿi Sufi is alleged to have eaten a whole fluorescent tube in 2007;193 and, according to another story, a kalashnikov might be fired through the stomach of a shaykh but leave him unharmed.194 Thus, the acceptance of the possibility of a range of extraordinary miracles can gain not only acceptance among a group of the Muslim faithful but become an integral part of one’s Islamic social life.195 There is a dynamic conjunction of ordinary milieu and extraordinary event.196 Belief in the possibility of miracles and acceptance of their reality is thus a prominent thread in the fabric of contemporary Islam, especially in what might be described as its ‘popular’ or ‘folk’ manifestations. Even the very recitation of past miraculous events can be said to have a powerful efficacy. One such popular recitation is that of the miracle of Hazrat Bibi Fatima, that is, Janab Sayyida Tahira.197 The miracle is the kernel of an interfaith story concerning a Jewish bride who dies, is brought back to life and converts to Islam together with large numbers of her Jewish co-religionists.198 Listening to the account of this original miracle will provide safety from death and another miracle;199 failure to recite the account of the miracle, after vowing to do so, can bring great woe.200 From an anthropological perspective, the account of the original miracle, and those to which the account of it gives rise, have interesting references to the fetching of water,201 a search for water202 and the purchase of sweetmeats.203 Thus are the utterly mundane woven into accounts of the utterly extraordinary. This is a powerful text indeed for some Muslims living in the subcontinent. Nasra Hassan writes the following in a translator’s note to her private translation of this text: According to tradition in the sub-continent, only women may recite or hear this miracle, or otherwise participate in the gathering. The reciter should sit on the prayer mat after ablution, [and] perfume the book from which she is reciting. All the listeners should also be perfumed, as well as the prayer mat. The entire group should recite the salawat at the points noted in the printed version. A dish of sweetmeats should be placed nearby before the recitation. After the miracle has been recited, a prayer of thanks for the fulfillment of the vow should be made, two rakas should be made, and the group present

24  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us should eat the sweets. No male should be given the sweets. No male may even overhear or enter the room while the recitation is in progress. No male may be told the story.204

Like Christianity, Islam too participates in a process of anámnēsis whereby the prominent miracles of the past are recalled and made present for a contemporary generation. Some of the rituals (manāsik) of the Islamic pilgrimage (ªajj), and the observance of the month of Ramadan, bring such anámnēsis clearly into focus: pilgrims run between al-Safa and al-Marwa in emulation of the desperate search for water in antiquity by Hajar, resulting finally in the miraculous appearance of the spring of Zamzam.205 As we have seen, the Qur’an is regarded as the supreme miracle in Islam and its revelation is commemorated by the fasting month of Ramadan: Ramadhān is the (month) in which was sent down the Qur’ān, as a guide to mankind, also clear (Signs) for guidance and judgement (between right and wrong). So every one of you who is present (at his home) during this month should spend it in fasting.206

The Qur’an itself places much store by the remembrance of God207 and, of course, it is the Sufis who, as we saw, are frequently associated with the miraculous, and who, with their dhikr, undertake this remembrance most prominently. A final example of anámnēsis, worthy of note here, may be found in the famous Cloak Poem (Qa‚īdat al-Burda) by the Egyptian Sufi al-Busiri (1212–c. 1274) who was affiliated to the Shadhili Sufi Order. While the author was afflicted with paralysis he had a dream in which he saw the Prophet Muhammad. In the dream the Prophet covered him with his cloak (burda) and al-Busiri regained his health. In consequence the poem entered the popular imagination as a miraculous talisman.208

mi racles a nd reli g i on  | 25 1.3 Narratology For a subject like miracles, which is a universal topos within so many of the major world religions, numerous theoretical and methodological approaches suggest themselves. In a previous volume I chose to assess the Neoplatonic philosophical, theological and cosmological material through the lens of semiotics and structuralism.209 But other, and newer, modes of assessment and analysis immediately suggest themselves for the realms of the miraculous. One such is narratology. It is useful, firstly, to provide some definitions of the term together with a brief survey of the uses of such a methodology. The following passages which I quote here, were first deployed in an essay of mine as a methodological sieve whereby to analyse the Epistles (Rasā’il ) of the medieval Neoplatonic Arab philosophers who went under the name of the Brethren of Purity (Ikhwan al-Safa’) (fl. tenth–eleventh centuries ad):210 Narrative is universal. As H. Porter Abbott puts it: ‘Narrative existed long before people gave it a name and tried to figure out how it works. It comes to us so naturally that, when we start to examine it, we are a bit like Monsieur Jourdain in Molière’s Le Bourgeois gentilhomme, who discovered that he had been speaking prose all his life without knowing it’.211   Porter goes on to observe: ‘We think of [narrative] as novels or sagas or folk tales or, at the least, as anecdotes . . . We make narratives many times a day, every day of our lives . . . Given the presence of narrative in almost all human discourse, there is little wonder that there are theorists who place it next to language itself as the distinctive human trait’.212 Porter quotes Roland Barthes’ ‘landmark essay on narrative (1966)’.213 Here, in part, is what Barthes had to say: The narratives of the world are numberless. Narrative is first and foremost a prodigious variety of genres . . . narrative is present in myth, legend, fable, tale, novella, epic, history, tragedy, drama, comedy, mime, painting . . . stained-glass windows, cinema, comics, news items, conversation. Moreover, under this almost infinite diversity of forms, narrative is present in every age, in every place, in every society; it begins with the very history of

26  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us mankind and there nowhere is nor has been a people without narrative.214 Narrative can be multifaceted and appear within a framework as the classic frame story. Classic examples cited by Abbott are Boccaccio’s Decameron, The Thousand and One Nights [Alf Layla wa Layla] and The Canterbury Tales of Chaucer. As Abbott succinctly puts it: ‘An embracing narrative acts as a framework within which a multitude of tales are told.’215 At the very least, we can have a single narrative within the frame of a larger narrative.   We may find certain themes and motifs repeated, for emphasis, or other reasons in narrative.216 Now, there are numerous theories of narration and narratology217 but it is on the themes and motifs that we shall focus here.   Abbott lays it down as ‘a general working rule for the discussion of narrative, a theme is abstract and a motif is concrete. Beauty, nature, violence and love can be themes; roses, gardens, fists . . . can be motifs’.218   Now a certain al-Tanukhi (938 or 940–94), who was born and brought up in Basra,219 became a judge, Hanafi by legal School [madhhab] and Muʿtazili by faith,220 is the focus of a major monograph by Nouha Khalifa. In her examination of ‘elements of the journey theme in al-Tanūkhī’s spiritual stories’, Khalifa, naratologically, divides this theme into ‘four separate components – time; place; mode of transport; and nourishment’.221

The main elements of the above narratological framework, already alluded to and itemised in my Foreword, constitute the principal narratological tools by which I propose to interrogate the miracle narratives which follow in the rest of this volume. Particular emphasis will be placed on the identification and role in each narrative of the key elements of themes and motifs. Following the excellent methodology of Abbott, themes will embrace the abstract while motifs will signal phenomena which have a more concrete reality. In addition we shall sometimes stress these themes and motifs by characterising them as ‘metathemes’ and ‘metamotifs’. This is purely for the sake of emphasis.

f ood | 27

2 Food

2.1  A Proto-miracle: Manna from the Desert

T

he miraculous feeding of the followers of Moses in the desert with manna is common to both the Qur’an and the Old Testament. It is the proto-food miracle in Islam, Christianity and Judaism. In addition, for the Christian, the manna which came down on the Children of Israel in the desert has a special significance, typologically, as a type of the future Eucharist.1 In the Qur’an we read: And We gave you the shade of clouds and sent down to you manna and quails, saying: ‘Eat of the good things We have provided for you.’2

The text makes clear that the followers of Moses swiftly grew discontented with the monotony of their diet: And remember ye said: ‘O Moses! We cannot endure one kind of food (always); So beseech thy Lord for us to produce for us of what the earth groweth, – and its pot-herbs and cucumbers, its garlic, lentils, and onions.’3

27

28  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us The Old Testament Exodus text also includes a reference to quails in its narration. In this, the Israelite community complains about its lack of food to Moses and tells him that they might just as well have remained in Egypt where food was plentiful.4 God then tells Moses that he will shower them with bread which is to be collected every day by the people as a daily ration for their subsistence. This injunction is a test since God wishes to see whether the community will obey his laws and commands. The sixth day’s preparation of food, however, must be double the norm for the other days.5 Implicit, then, in the projected miracle of the manna is the key theme of testing and obedience. The event, as outlined in the Book of the Exodus takes place as follows: quails overfly the Israelite camp in the evening and the following day they find their camp covered in dew. The latter lifts, leaving a strange substance behind ‘as fine as hoarfrost on the ground’. The puzzled Israelites ask among themselves what this could be. Moses tells them that it is food which God has sent down to them for their sustenance in the desert.6 Moses then instructs his followers about the collection of the manna, noting that, in accordance with God’s command, only a day’s worth may be collected at any one time. Those who disobey and collect surplus for the morrow find their stocks riddled with maggots.7 On the sixth day, again according to God’s instructions, a double portion of the manna is collected in preparation for the next day, the Sabbath, when none will fall. But some disobedient people go out to seek manna on the Sabbath itself and are disappointed. Moses chides them for their disobedience and orders that all rest on the Sabbath.8 This mysterious and miraculous food is then given a name in the text: ‘The House of Israel named it “manna”. It was like coriander seed; it was white and its taste was like that of wafers made with honey.’9 The narrative of the miracle of the manna is much more extensive in the Old Testament than in the Qur’an. Nonetheless, the Qur’an, like the Book of the Exodus, does reflect the discontent of the followers of Moses in what might be characterised, narratologically, as ‘the theme of grumbling’. And, as we have noted, the Exodus account has an added typological significance in being a type of that future antitype, the Eucharist. Both Muslim and Christian exegetes have agonised at length over

f ood | 29 the exact nature of the primary motif in this miracle narrative, the manna (Arabic: al-manna) which came down from the heavens. The great Muslim exegete and historian, Abu Jaʿfar Muhammad b. Jarir al-Tabari (839–923), records eleven opinions, including the interpretation of the word as ‘resin’, ‘like ice’, ‘honey’, ‘thin bread’, ‘ginger’, and ‘a sweet drink’.10 His interests here appear to be primarily philological, laying out a whole stall of definitions and recording the differing opinions of the scholars as to why God furnished the people with quails and manna.11 It is of interest that al-Tabari too, dwells on the theme of testing with regard to the actual collecting of the manna: ‘If a man took more manna and quails than he needed to eat in one day, it went bad, unless they took on Friday food for Saturday, when it did not go bad.’12 (This statement, of course, reflects a Jewish Sabbath, rather than an Islamic day of prayer.) The theme of complaint or grumbling is also elaborated upon by alTabari13 as are the Exodus references to the theme of ‘forty years’.14 The latter theme is extended by al-Tabari to reflect a forty-year durability for both clothing and sandals.15 Contemporary commentators appear to be in broad agreement as to the origin and nature of manna, focusing on the tamarisk tree but differing in some of the detail. For example, the translator of the Qur’an, Yusuf Ali, notes that ‘the actual manna found to this day in the Sinai region is a gummy saccharine secretion found on a species of Tamarisk’.16 He goes on to observe that ‘it is produced by the puncture of a species of insect like the cochineal’.17 The New Jerusalem Bible (NJB) concurs: ‘Manna is formed from the secretions of insects living in Tamarisk trees, but only in Central Sinai; it is harvested in May–June.’18 Richard J. Clifford elaborates further: Manna is the honeylike dropping from the tamarisk tree of Palestine and Sinai, which the bedouin of the Sinai call mann. The droppings from the tamarisk are secretions from two kinds of scale lice, which suck large quanties of liquid from the twigs in Spring in order to collect nitrogen for their grubs. It contains glucose and fructose but no protein and cannot be harvested in quantity.19

Clifford also makes reference to the ‘folk etymology’ which derives the word manna from man hû, ‘What is it?’, more correctly stated in Hebrew

30  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us as mâ hû.20 The Islamic translator, Yusuf Ali, was also aware of this alleged etymology.21 From the perspective of narration, then, we may identify, within both the Old Testament and the Qur’an, together with their commentators, four primary themes: testing and obedience, discontent and complaint, sabbath/ holy day and forty years. The two primary motifs are the quails and the manna. And despite the overall interest by the exegetes in the manna and its possible etymologies, a good theological case could be made for suggesting that the overarching topos or metatheme is that of testing. The manna and the mode of its collection are designed to be tests.22 Clifford places the collection of manna test and its accompanying rules in the context of three closely related textual tests, identifying it as the second major one. For him, the first major one is at the bitter waters of Marah, the second is the manna test, and the third is the ‘lack of water’ test at Massah and Meribah.23 A further metatheme, then, may be identified as ‘trust in the Lord’. By such testing in the wilds of the desert, God wishes to learn where the loyalties of His chosen people really lie. He tests them but they should not attempt to test Him.24 From the narrative perspective we note the underlying emphases on food, drink and authority.25 In Morris West’s magisterial novel, The Devil’s Advocate,26 the statement is made by one of the characters: ‘I have never seen a miracle.’ The response comes: ‘Do you believe in them?’ The reply is a curt: ‘No.’27

We noted earlier that some might classify as a miracle any strange event to which one might choose to attach ‘religious significance’.28 Is the latter what happens when contemporary observers examine the descent of the manna on Moses and the People of Israel in the desert? Certainly, the various exegeses of the manna narrative adumbrated above by both Christian and Muslim commentators might lead us to think so. Yet Clifford remarks: ‘The Bible portrays manna as miraculous; it is not an everyday occurrence.’29 We return to our fundamental question about the exact definition and nature of miracles. This volume, as it speaks from a strictly neutral, anthropo-

f ood | 31 logical perspective, makes no judgement either for or against the miraculous nature of the manna in the desert. While acknowledging that many other Biblical phenomena of an allegedly miraculous nature, like the ten plagues of Egypt,30 have been subjected to a similar ‘rational’ exegesis by scholars, we will conclude this section by treating the manna account as a miracle from a narratological point of view, one which, from this perspective, may be regarded as ‘the proto-food miracle’ in the Christian and Islamic traditions. In the former, this miracle is the type of which Christ, who proclaims himself in the New Testament as ‘the bread of life’,31 is the antitype. In the latter, Islamic tradition, there is no such typology but rather an emphasis on God’s power and generosity as He feeds an ungrateful and fractious multitude. 2.2  The Feeding of the Five Thousand: Christianity The miracle of the feeding of the five thousand performed by Jesus is recorded in all four of the Gospels.32 The event takes place after news of the execution of John the Baptist by Herod reaches Jesus and the latter tries to withdraw to a secluded place with his disciples, perhaps intent on mourning John in private. However, a massive crowd follows him and the lack of food is remarked upon by the disciples and Jesus. The latter then takes the five loaves and two fishes which they have with them and miraculously multiplies them so that all are fed. The profusion of food is such that twelve baskets of scraps are collected when the meal is finished. From the perspective of typology and intertext, the exegetes are not slow to comment. The feeding of the five thousand in the New Testament constitutes, like the Eucharist, an antitype of the Old Testament types33 of both the provision of manna in the desert to Moses and the children of Israel, and the way that Elisha multiplies bread and oil.34 So important does the New Testament regard the miracle of the multiplication of food by Jesus that we find a second version in the Gospels of Matthew and Mark where seven loaves and a few fish are multiplied and given to a crowd of four thousand, after which seven baskets of scraps are collected.35 This version may be termed ‘the feeding of the four thousand’. Clearly what we have here is the same event but recorded in two different ways ‘which [both] depict the event in the light of OT precedents’.36 The NJB finds the numbers given in each narrative significant: ‘twelve baskets’

32  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us resonates with the twelve tribes of Israel and the twelve apostles; ‘seven baskets’ resonates with seven Canaanite gentile nations and the seven deacons.37 There is clearly a large degree of intertextual artifice and play at work here on the part of the evangelists. New Testament exegetes have relished the number ‘twelve’ as indicative of Israel while the number ‘seven’ refers us to the gentiles.38 The Gospel accounts are thus shown attempting to be all-inclusive: the miracle of the multiplication of the loaves and the fishes not only has a typological resonance, looking backwards to the manna in the desert and forwards to the establishment of the Eucharist at the Last Supper, but it is represented as a miracle with significance for the universal church, Jew and gentile alike. And, as one scholar puts it, the miracle of the feeding of the five/four thousand ‘anticipates the Messianic banquet in the Kingdom’.39 The very phraseology of Luke 9:15, where Jesus ‘blesses’, ‘breaks’ and ‘gives’ the food to the crowd, bespeaks a deliberate intertext in its powerful, direct reflection of the narrative of the future institution of the Eucharist at the Last Supper and the post-resurrection encounter of the two disciples with Jesus in Emmaus.40 One might ask how the fish fit into such intertextual and typological analysis. Harrington suggests that the references to fish in the Gospel narratives of the miracle may have been an ‘afterthought’ although he posits the idea that fish might possibly have been used in the celebration of the Eucharist in early Christianity in parallel to the quails in the Old Testament account of the manna in the wilderness.41 Of course, other interpretations are possible. The waters in and around Palestine were replete with fish and therefore they could stand as symbols of ‘the eschatological banquet’ according to another exegete.42 To summarise: an examination of the above New Testament narrations of the feeding of the five/four thousand by a miraculous multiplication of loaves and fishes discloses an embedded typology and intertext which at once looks forwards and backwards, Janus-faced and omnipresent. The Eucharist, which is considered by many Christians to be the same sacrifice as that of Calvary,43 is a central point on an intertextual chain or paradigm whose present reflects a transitory past and looks forward to an eternal future in an eternal Paradise. Thus the Old Testament provision of manna to the

f ood | 33 grumbling Israelites has its New Testament counterpart in the feeding of the five/four thousand whose exegesis is given by Jesus himself as he reflects on the ancestors of the Jews, who ‘ate manna in the desert’, and declares himself to be ‘the bread of life’.44 This is then reified in dramatic fashion at the Last Supper/Passover45 at which meal and sacrifice coalesce,46 giving rise to the Eucharist as anámnēsis, memorialisation.47 For the Christian all is confirmed by the post-resurrection narratives of the appearance of Jesus at Emmaus and, thereafter, miraculously signalled by a plethora of eucharistic miracles down the ages48 which, as it were, function as heralds of that final sublime miracle of the eschatological banquet in Paradise to which we earlier referred. If we were, therefore, to give our multiplication of loaves and fishes narratives a paradigmatic shape, it might suitably be represented as follows: Passover > manna > feeding of the 5,000/4,000 > ‘I am the Bread of Life’ > Last Supper and Institution of the Eucharist > Calvary > Emmaus > Eucharist/Mass as meal, sacrifice and anámnēsis > Eucharistic miracles > eschatological banquet in Paradise.

Thus, just as the present rituals (manāsik) of the Islamic pilgrimage signal an evocative past and an eschatological future,49 so too, the miracle of the feeding of the five/four thousand in the New Testament fulfils a similar function as the above paradigm clearly illustrates. In a more narrative form, past, present and future may be envisaged intertextually in the following statement: The Eucharist is the memorial of Christ’s Passover, the making present and the sacramental offering of his unique sacrifice . . . In the sense of sacred scripture the memorial is not merely the recollection of past events but the proclamation of the mighty works wrought by God for man. In the liturgical celebration of these events, they become in a certain way present and real. This is how Israel understands its liberation from Egypt: every time Passover is celebrated the Exodus events are made present to the memory of the believers . . . In the New Testament, the memorial takes on new meaning. When the Church celebrates the Eucharist, she commemorates Christ’s Passover, and it is made present: the sacrifice Christ offered once for all on the cross remains ever present.50

34  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Down the ages Christians have believed that miracles can bespeak, or give rise to, other miracles. Thus, there are those among the faithful who believe that the initial, proto- miracle of the Eucharist at the Last Supper, has given rise to a host of associated Eucharistic and food miracles over the centuries and even into the present.51 A very real physical hunger might provide a relevant catalyst. Jacques Le Goff notes that hunger could be omnipresent in the Middle Ages, and so it is hardly surprising that miracles such as those of the provision of manna to the Children of Israel and the feeding of the five/four thousand should catch man’s attention.52 Thus, during a severe famine in Campania, St Benedict of Nursia (c. 480–c. 550) miraculously provides his monastery with abundant flour.53 The apostle St James, hundreds of years after his death, mysteriously feeds an impecunious pilgrim with a miraculous loaf that reconstitutes itself every day.54 St Dominic’s (c. 1170–1221) brethren are visited by two mysterious strangers bearing bread in their cloaks which they deposit and then disappear.55 Le Goff emphasises that bread is at the heart of all these miracle narratives, recalling not just the miracles of Christ but the fact that bread was the staple food of the majority of people.56 It is thus no exaggeration to identify ‘bread’ as the metamotif in all that we have discussed and analysed in this New Testament multiplication of loaves paradigm. In the light of this, our metatheme may be identified as hospitality. In Judaic and Christian scripture, hospitality and bread, metatheme and metamotif, are inextricably linked.57 The Old Testament Abraham and Sarah entertain three strangers who may be angels or even a type of the Trinity itself58 at the oak of Mamre. They are provided with bread, a calf, curds and milk.59 The eating of unleavened bread is associated with the preparations and rituals of Passover.60 As we have seen, hospitality is, of course, a key element in the Gospel accounts of the feeding of the five/ four thousand.61 Again, we find this metatheme of hospitality in the celebration of the Last Supper and the inauguration of the Eucharist.62 Finally, and perhaps most dramatically from the perspective of narrative, it appears in the revelation of the risen Christ to the two weary disciples over a meal at Emmaus as Jesus ‘is made known to them in the breaking of the bread’.63 Here, in the

f ood | 35 latter, a further theme is introduced, that of recognition: ‘With that their eyes were opened and they recognized him, but he vanished from their sight.’64 Clifford Yeary emphasises the way in which Jesus takes control in the wayside inn at Emmaus and introduces – or rather, reintroduces – the theme of divine hospitality: ‘They offer him the hospitality of food and shelter when they arrive at their destination. [But] what happens next goes against the rules of hospitality, however, for it is their guest who takes the bread, says the blessing, and breaks it in order to serve his hosts.’65 Enfolding all in this post-resurrection Gospel account in Luke, for the Christian, is the metamiracle itself, the metatheme of the resurrection. The theme of hospitality – human this time rather than divine but precipitated nonetheless, by a divine miraculous intervention – may be found in the pious custom of the distribution of ‘St Anthony’s bread’ (actual bread or equivalent alms) to the poor on 13 June, the feast of St Anthony (c. 1190– 1231). A miracle story, whose hero is the saint himself, lies behind this custom: a twenty-month-old baby called Tomasino in medieval Padova drowns in a tub of water. His frantic mother implores St Anthony’s intercession and the baby recovers after the mother has promised to give the child’s weight in grain to the poor if he will revive the child. The hospitable distribution of ‘St Anthony’s bread’ to the poor in succeeding centuries marks this miracle.66 As Christian history developed, however, this seminal theme of ‘the breaking of the bread’ at the Last Supper, and how to interpret that key action, became a source of massive division throughout Christendom: what exactly did Christ mean when he pronounced the words over the bread, ‘This is my body?’67 Symbol, signification or ontological transubstantiation? As is well known, the Christian churches divided over the issue and thus the theme, ‘the breaking of the bread’, inhabits a semantic pool of hospitality, unity68 and, paradoxically, division.69 If the role of the sacred meal, classically, was to foster the ties of unity among those present, taking the Passover meal as paradigmatic,70 then we find that this ambition was torn asunder as the Protestant reformers reinterpreted the Eucharist in such a way that it remains to this day a sign of division in Christianity71 among Catholics, Orthodox and Protestants with further divisive interpretations developing within the body politic of Protestantism itself.72 Those who chose to espouse a traditional Catholic interpretation of the

36  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Eucharist, who conceived it as a miracle of transubstantiation, have been keen down the ages to ‘prove’ their miracle in some way or another, by means of other miracles which build upon the primary one of transubstantiation. This is despite the fact that the New Testament does not furnish us with a precise exegesis, either in the Last Supper narrative or later, of exactly what Jesus meant when he famously stated, ‘This is my body.’73 This striving for extra-textual proofs has given rise to a subgenre of miracles characterised as ‘Eucharistic miracles’. They were most usefully catalogued by a young Italian named Carlo Acutis, who died of leukaemia on 12 October 2006. In a short but devout life he used his passion for digital technology to build a website which featured a catalogue of all the Eucharistic miracles on which he had information that had taken place throughout the world down the centuries.74 Numerous examples of Eucharistic miracles, devoutly alleged and accepted by many of the Catholic faithful, exist. The following are just a few examples. All are articulated in the light of the classic Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation, couched in Aristotelian terminology, whereby the substance of the bread and wine at the celebration of the Eucharist are changed into the body and blood of Christ, while the external appearance and form, the accidents, remain the same.75 This doctrine of transubstantiation has been characterised as ‘the most controversial of miracles’.76 In the Eucharistic miracles which we shall now present and describe, it is claimed by the observers and participants that a change in appearance and matter is perceived as well. We shall identify the themes and motifs of these miracle narratives and seek to note their similarities and differences where appropriate. Our purpose, here and throughout, is to attempt to illuminate each miracle account in a new way by focusing on its narrative aspects. No attempt is made to evaluate the actuality or reality of that narrative. Scholars have differed as to the actual numbers of Eucharistic miracles which have been claimed to have occurred down the ages. Marsden, for example, after noting in traditional fashion that it is the ‘reality (substantia)’ of the Host which changes and not the ‘appearance (accidentia)’, accepts that there have been about forty or fifty ‘verified’ cases where the latter has been seen to change as well.77 However, Renzo Allegri counts ‘numerous’ such events78 and identifies as many as fifteen in the thirteenth century.79 Few or

f ood | 37 many, the following narratives provide a flavour of widespread belief in the reality of an extraordinary phenomenon. Lanciano (Ancient Anxanum) (c. 750) The town of Lanciano lies in Abruzzo in Italy. It lays claim to having ‘the first documented case’80 of a Eucharistic miracle. It is certainly one of the most famous. A monk belonging to the Order of St Basil was afflicted by doubts about the possibility of transubstantiation but, on one occasion when he celebrated Mass in the Church of St Legontian (Longinus), it was seen that, after the consecration, the Host had ‘changed into real flesh and the wine was changed into real blood’.81 Clinical investigations by modern science have been unable to explain this extraordinary occurrence82 even though the preserved materials were subjected to rigorous scientific tests in 1970–1 and 1981 and a full scholarly documentation was undertaken by means of photographs via a microscope.83 Professor Edoardo Linoli, who conducted the investigation in his capacity as the Director of Arezzo Hospital, concluded on 4 March 1971: ‘The “miraculous flesh” comes from the muscular striated tissue of the myocardium (heart) . . . the flesh and blood are human . . .’84 Needless to say, such conclusions greatly intrigued the world of medicine. In 1973 a commission of scientists was established by the World Health Organization to check the findings of Professor Linoli. After a full fifteen months of investigations the commission confirmed that the material was ‘living tissue showing all the clinical reactions found in living beings’ and confessed themselves completely unable to account scientifically for the phenomenon which they had reviewed.85 St Catherine of Siena (1347–80) St Catherine of Siena was one of the great visionaries and mystics of the Middle Ages. Tertiary Dominican and fierce interlocutor with the papacy of the day,86 later canonised by Pope Pius II in 146187 and, in the twentieth century, proclaimed one of the few female Doctors of the Church,88 she was the recipient of diverse mystical experiences on receiving communion at Mass: Wondrous things occurred during these Holy Communions. While it was still in the hands of the priest, the Sacred Host would move by itself and,

38  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us sometimes, abruptly fly from there and place itself on Catherine’s tongue. She often saw, as she solemnly declared, Jesus himself in the form of a small boy in the Host; the altar appeared to her gaze as though it were surrounded by angels and at times it seemed to be enveloped by flames as the burning bush did to Moses.89

Ferretti tells us that she even had the charism of being able to distinguish between ‘communion bread’, that is, an unconsecrated Host, and the real thing.90 Bordeaux (1822) The events at Bordeaux centre on a visiting priest, a certain Fr Delort, to a community of sisters, known as the Sisters, Ladies or Daughters of Loreto, to celebrate the liturgy of Benediction. After the first incensing of the monstrance, the priest raised his eyes and saw, not the Host in the monstrance, but the moving figure of a beautiful young man, aged about thirty, wearing a red sash, whom he took to be Jesus himself. The apparition was confirmed by the altar boy, John Degreteau, who also saw it and it only reverted to the appearance of a large Host at the end of Benediction. The priest who should have originally taken the Benediction service, Fr A. Noailles, founder of the Loreto Sisters, queried in a letter of 1822 why Jesus should have so spectacularly appeared during Benediction to the visiting priest and the altar boy: ‘Perhaps it was simply to revise the faith of a miserable priest like me, if that were possible.’91 However, belief in such Eucharistic miracles was not confined to the Middle Ages, nor post-revolutionary nineteenth-century France. Two notable modern examples from Buenos Aires in Argentina and Sokołka in Poland are worthy of record. Indeed, the latter case is known as Poland’s Lanciano. Buenos Aires (1996) According to one account of this alleged Eucharistic miracle, a certain Fr Alejandro Pezet, having celebrated Mass on 18 August 1996, was informed that a Host had been found lying on the floor at the back of the church. The Host was recovered and placed in water and then locked in the taberbnacle.92 The detail in this narrative can vary slightly: another suggests that the

f ood | 39 event began on 15 August as follows: a Host was accidentally dropped by a communicant. It was retrieved by the presiding priest but, because it had become dirty after dropping onto the floor, the priest did not want to swallow it, as would have been the expected norm, but put it in a small glass of water to dissolve it. The glass was locked in the tabernacle.93 Yet a third account has the priest discovering a Host discarded on a candleholder at the rear of the church.94 However, all accounts agree on what happened next: the priest opens the tabernacle a few days later and discovers a piece of bloody material instead of the Host.95 With the permission of the local bishop, Jorge Bergoglio (the future Pope Francis, r. 2013–), the material is photographed. These photographs provide clear evidence that what was the Host has now become ‘a piece of bloody flesh’.96 Later scientific analysis concludes that the sample which they have analysed is ‘human cardiac tissue, from the myocardium of the left ventricle’.97 On being informed of the origin of the sample, one of the analysts, Dr Frederick Zugibe, a highly experienced forensic pathologist and author of an acclaimed medical textbook in his field,98 exclaimed: ‘How and why can a consecrated host change its nature and become living human flesh and blood? This will remain an inexplicable mystery to science – a mystery totally beyond her competence.’99 Dom Antoine Marie OSB, who is fervently persuaded of the possibility and reality of Eucharistic miracles,100 comments: ‘Other experts have compared the lab reports written following the miracle of Buenos Aires with those produced for the miracle of Lanciano. These scientists, who did not know where the samples had come from, concluded from the reports that the two samples had come from the same person.’101 It is worthy of note that, as with the Lanciano event, one of the protagonists, not a priest this time but a Bolivian neurophysiologist by the name of Dr Ricardo Castañón Gómez, called in to investigate the phenomenon, moved from an initial atheism back to the Catholic faith, precipitated by this and other events.102 The metatheme of initial doubt followed by faith is therefore a powerful and dynamic feature in both narratives. From a narratological perspective it is also of interest that the intial discovery of the Host at the back of the church differs slightly in detail according

40  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us to which account one reads, but all accounts concur on the ensuing scientific analysis of the Host and the astonishing and inexplicable conclusions. In one account it is the Australian journalist, Mike Willesee, one of those who conveys the Host for analysis to New York, who reverts to his childhood Catholic faith when the results of the test are revealed.103 Thus we have several narratives which may be said to form a coherent whole, barring minor details, but which exhibit the dual metathemes of movement from doubt to belief on the one hand, and confirmation in physical, albeit inexplicable, form of an ancient doctrine on the other. Sokółka, Poland (2008) The narrative of the miracle at the Church of St Anthony of Padua in Sokółka on 12 October 2008 has many features in common with the narratives of the eucharistic miracles of Lanciano, Bordeaux and Buenos Aires. Anthropologically, we may identify the primary motif as the Host, transubstantiated in Catholic belief into Christ’s flesh; and the primary theme as a dramatic resurgence in faith by the lukewarm, the lapsed, the broken and many who seek a cure through the medium of the miraculous event.104 The narrative unfolds according to a traditional pattern which builds to a simple, coherent conclusion but, once again, exhibits discrepancies in some of the details according to which source one consults. According to one, it is a Fr Filip Zdrodovvski who celebrates the Mass at 8:30 a.m. on Sunday 12 October 2008, with a Fr Jacek Ingielewicz acting as a Eucharistic minister in the distribution of communion.105 In two other accounts it is the latter who says the Mass.106 A Host accidentally falls on the ground during communion, is recovered by the priest, placed in a vasculum (a small silver container), to which water is added, and the container is locked away in the sacristy safe.107 Our modern sources then differ as to who makes the discovery, whether it was a nun or the parish priest.108 The most dramatic account runs as follows: since the expectation was that the dropped consecrated Host would dissolve in the water in the space of a few days, a certain nun, Sister Julia Dubowska, would check on the vasculum every day to see if this had in fact happened. She opens up the safe in the sacristy on 19 October and is puzzled to encounter a smell of bread. She

f ood | 41 examines the Host in the vasculum and is dumbfounded to see at its centre something looking like ‘a bloody piece of living flesh’ no more than 1cm by 1.5cm across. Scientific analysis later reveals that this piece of material is living heart tissue which seems to have come from a body in its death throes, perhaps suffering a heart attack.109 In a most extraordinary and inexplicable fashion, ‘heart muscle tissue and bread’ have joined in a single structure110 in a way that any analysis under a microscope would easily have discovered if fraud had been involved.111 Of course, by no means all have been convinced that what are called ‘Eucharistic’ miracles are actual miracles in any of the senses adumbrated earlier.112 Some would relegate such beliefs to the realms of a kind of piety more characteristic of the popular devotions of the Middle Ages.113 They might point to the fact that Eucharistic miracles are often perceived to take place during times of tribulation in the Church.114 However, it is interesting to note that the Sokółka miracle takes place in 2008, that is, after the fall of communism in Poland in 1989, and the persecution of the Church in that communist era115 which gave rise to the murder of such charismatic popular priests as Fr Jerzy Popiełuszko in 1984.116 Thus the event at Sokółka cannot be accounted, or explained by, a popular reaction to an antagonistic government, and contexts for the miracle, if they be required, must be sought elsewhere. From the perspective of narratology, our metamotifs and metathemes remain constant and it is no part of this book to provide explanations for any of these and other miracles alleged either by the Christian tradition or, indeed, the Islamic. Our focus will remain phenomenological and anthropological, though always, where appropriate, with an interest in historical context. Those who wish to dispute the reality of what has been outlined above, of course, will wish to add ‘delusion’ and ‘fraud’ to our list of prominent metathemes. 2.3  Jesus, the Test and the Table: Islam The equivalent in a revelation text to the New Testament accounts of the feeding of five/four thousand occurs in the fifth chapter of the Qur’an, the Sura of the Table (Sūrat al-Mā’ida). The Qur’anic account is much shorter than the New Testament accounts. The latter might be characterised as ‘proof

42  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us texts’: in addition to their numerological aspects of four and seven baskets of left-over food, and their typological significance in the paradigms we have earlier established, these feeding narratives were designed to confirm the mission of Jesus. However, the Qur’anic account, which features a table laden with food miraculously brought down from Heaven by Jesus’ prayer, belongs to the realm of what might be termed a ‘double testing’: Jesus’ disciples are much in need of reassurance. Like many of the Eucharistic miracles in the Christian tradition, the Qur’anic account is precipitated by the theme of ‘doubt’. The disciples ‘test’ Jesus and challenge him to perform a food miracle; God, in turn, proclaims that he will ‘test’ their future faith once that miracle is performed. The Qur’anic account reads as follows: Behold! The Disciples said: ‘O Jesus, the son of Mary! Can thy Lord send down to us a Table set (with viands) from Heaven?’ Said Jesus: ‘Fear God, if ye have faith.’ They said: ‘We only wish to eat thereof and satisfy our hearts, and to know that thou hast indeed told us the truth; and that we ourselves may be witnesses to the miracle.’117

Accordingly, Jesus prays for the miracle of the table as described and challenged by the disciples and God agrees to answer the prayer of Jesus. But there is a solemn warning thereafter from God: anyone who then disbelieves after the miracle has been performed will be severely punished.118 Some modern scholars have not been slow to see this Qur’anic event as a possible, albeit indirect, parallel to the New Testament feeding of the five thousand.119 Geoffrey Parrinder draws attention to the way some Muslim exegetes actually amalgamated the two narratives. He cites the narration of the celebrated Muslim exegete ʿAbdallah ibn ʿUmar al-Baydawi (d. c.

f ood | 43 1286–1316) of a table of food borne down to the disciples on two clouds, a table laden with fish, salt, vinegar, herbs and five loaves of bread.120 A clear intertext could be elaborated from these details with the New Testament narrative and this is confirmed by Parrinder, who notes the literalism of some of the more popular Islamic accounts. He draws particular attention to the exegesis of another of the great medieval exegetes of the Qur’an, Muhammad ibn Jarir al-Tabari (c. 839–923) who, in one version which he narrates, gives prominence to the account of the feeding by Jesus of five thousand in place of the classic Qur’anic story of the descent of a table laden with food from the heavens.121 Here then, according to Parrinder, we end with a direct conflation of the Christian and Islamic narratives. From a literary as well as a theological perspective, there is also an interesting parallelism with verse 48/51122 of the same Sura of the Table: here it is the Book, the Qur’an itself, which is sent down (wa anzalnā ilayka al-kitāb), clearly as spiritual food. Jesus’ Miracle of the Table, of course, involves the bringing down of very real, physical food. The Qur’anic Miracle of the Table in Sura Five is also paralleled, in slightly different terms in the hadith literature. Alfred Guillaume held that this was the closest instance of an Islamic miracle imitating a New Testament one.123 Here in the hadith it is the Prophet Muhammad who works the miracle, or is the agent through whom the miracle takes place. The numbers fed are fewer than in the New Testament account and are given as seventy to eighty. Thus we may usefully term this miracle worked by the Prophet, to distinguish it from the New Testament and Qur’anic miracles, as ‘The Miracle of the Feeding of the Seventy or Eighty Men’. G. H. A. Juynboll, commenting on the hadith in which the event is recorded, reminds us that this important Prophetic miracle exists in a large number of different versions,124 but the ‘undeniable originator’125 of this account was the early jurist Malik b. Anas (d. 796). The narrative may be outlined as follows: a certain Abu Talha tells his wife that the Prophet Muhammad must be quite hungry since his voice sounds rather weak. Bread is produced but the Prophet arrives in a whole company of people and there is clearly not enough food to go round. However, the bread is crumbled and it is seasoned with clarified butter. Muhammad pronounces some words over it and a group of ten men are asked to come in and eat. When they have finished, another group enters

44  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us and eats and the process is repeated until about seventy or eighty men have been fed and are satisfied.126 Such stories do not stand alone. This narrative is part of a broader intertext which embraces the feeding of large groups of people by miraculous means from a small amount of food. Other accounts exist in the hadith literature where the number miraculously fed by the intervention of the Prophet rises to one thousand.127 They are also part of a smaller intertext within the Islamic tradition itself: for, as Juynboll surmises, did Malik plagiarise, or at the very least base, his own story on a similar earlier account by the biographer of the Prophet, Ibn Ishaq (d. 767), and omit, because of personal animus, any mention of his actual source?128 Juynboll draws attention to Ibn Ishaq’s Sīra where it is narrated that the diggers of a ditch, preparing to defend Medina in the famous forthcoming battle in 627, are supplied with dates. A small number are presented to the diggers by Muhammad, the diggers start their meal and the dates multiply until all are satisfied.129 The twentieth-century scholar of Islam, Alfred Guillaume, was not slow to level accusations of pretence and fraud at such miraculous claims. He held that the origin of such miracle stories in Islam were the Christian–Muslim controversies and debates over the figures of Muhammad and Jesus. He noted the classical argument that Muhammad was not sent as a miracle worker and that claims to such miracles as the multiplication of dates and bread by the Prophet completely contradicted this classical view. Guillaume refused to speculate as to the reasons for this kind of alleged imitation but did mention the very human need ‘for a visible manifestation of divine power’ as a possibility.130 Here we find then, and not for the first time, the metatheme of the divine presence in the world being stated as a major topos in the realms of the miraculous. It is a theme to which we will revert many more times in this book. These are interesting statements by Guillaume. He is clearly closed to the idea of further miracles being performed by Muhammad and keen to champion the classic Islamic view that the Prophet’s only miracle was to be the primary channel of the revelation of the Qur’an. The Prophet is lauded as ‘the great Arabian’, but the collectors of hadith are traduced as transmitters of fictional narratives.131 This view that Muhammad was not a miracle worker is, of course, held by many mainstream, traditional Muslims today.

f ood | 45 On a popular level, however, one cannot avoid the fact that the web is awash with accounts of modern Islamic miracles. Whereas, according to the Catholic Christian narratives adumbrated earlier, the bread of the Host miraculously and visibly becomes actual flesh, an Islamic paradigm has developed on a popular level whereby the word Allah assumes a primary significance, being perceived for example, inter alia, on a piece of bread.132 This is intriguing narratologically since, as Parrinder notes, the Qur’an refers to Jesus as ‘a word from God’ (kalima min Allāh).133 However, theologically, Parrinder counsels caution in the interpretation of this ‘word’ in view of the analogies which might, wrongly, be drawn with Logos doctrine at the very heart of the beginning of the Gospel of John.134 It is clear that, since incarnation is of the essence of the Christian doctrine of the Logos, the Qur’anic characterisation of Jesus as ‘word’ and the Logos of John cannot be identical. Nonetheless, Islam constantly proclaims itself as a religion of the text;135 thus the written word Allah has an especial, mighty and sacred significance for all Muslims. It comes as no surprise, therefore, to find that popular Islam claims the miraculous appearance of that word in a whole host of different, sometimes unexpected, settings. One website holds that the Islamic religion is a religion which is replete with miracles from its very beginnings right up to the contemporary period.136 Listing fifteen miracles, it records the word Allah written on cows, a baby’s forehead, leaves, an eggplant, a cloud formation together with the name Muhammad, a satellite shot of the continent of Africa and, most intriguingly from the food perspective of this chapter, a loaf of bread purchased in Lahore. The list also includes a photograph of a Baluchi tree which has assumed, or twisted into, the shape of the word Allah. Locals are strictly forbidden to sit on this tree!137 Neither the loaf of bread nor any of the other loci in which the word Allah has been discovered are deemed to have a sacramental or redemptive aspect such as is associated with the Christian Eucharistic miracles which we discussed earlier. All are, however, considered miraculous without question by the local populaces and sources of great joy and blessing. It is clear from all this that there is an obvious dichotomy between a classical mainstream view that Muhammad did not perform miracles and that the only miracle in Islam is being a channel for the revelation of the Qur’an, and a more popular view, deriving from, and dependent upon, the hadith

46  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us literature in origin, that Muhammad was a great miracle worker. Moreover, there have been diverse miracles in Islam down the ages and these persist into the modern era as the above cited website illustrates. If we were to try to establish a paradigm comparable to the Christian one which we adumbrated earlier, it would look something like this: Manna (Qur’an) > Miracle of the Table (Qur’an) > miraculous feedings by the Prophet (Hadith) > the miracle of the name Allah in bread.

There is an intertext to be identified here between the Christian and Islamic narratives comprising protagonists, texts, numbers fed, and past and present all loosely linked by the metatheme of hunger. In terms of the variant numbers fed, the Christian accounts depend on revelation (the Gospels), while the Islamic narratives draw from the traditions of the hadith literature. For Timothy Scott, ‘participation in the soteriological Eucharist is simultaneously a microcosmic cosmogony and eschatology’.138 For the Catholic Christian, the Eucharist is bread made flesh, the Word (Logos) made flesh. No such concepts attach to the word Allah in Islam. Nonetheless, as the Qur’an shows over and over again, this is the most sacred of words whose very essence is the declaration of the oneness of the Deity, Tawªīd. It is small wonder that man might yearn for some sign of the presence of the Unseen, even in a humble loaf of bread. For God is present in the East and the West.139 A pious Muslim, reading that God ‘produces for you corn, olives, date-palms, grapes and every kind of fruit’ as ‘a Sign’140 may not find it strange to find the name of Allah written on a loaf of bread in Lahore, nor demur from declaring publicly that this is indeed a miracle for the modern age, a miracle which we might observe or add is in complete accord and harmony with our Islamic paradigm adumbrated above. 2.4  The Narrative Arena The feeding stories in the New Testament and the Qur’an which we have outlined may all be characterised as universal topoi, aspects of the ­‘numberless . . . narratives of the world’ (to use Roland Barthes’ terminology which we quoted earlier), whose basic elements of themes and motifs, as we shall see, bespeak a common, universal narrative currency. In one sense, the accounts can stand alone and, narratologically, are not classic frame stories in the

f ood | 47 sense of the Arabic Alf Layla wa Layla (The Thousand and One Nights)141 or the Italian Decameron.142 In another, theological, sense, however, the New Testament accounts of the feeding of the five/four thousand stand within a broader, soteriological framework for the Christian of the entire New Testament narrative of salvation; while the Islamic Miracle of the Table may be viewed within a classical Sīra framework and also exhibit a soteriological and eschatological dimension: after the Sign of the table laden with food has been sent down, God insists that the observers of the miracle believe in Him and threatens dire punishment on those who resist and maintain their wilful disbelief.143 The context and pattern of narration of the principal New Testament and hadith accounts are quite similar and, indeed, simple: a lack of large quantities of food is perceived, only a few items of food are available, a protagonist takes charge and the food multiplies miraculously so that all are fed. But the narrative of the Miracle of the Table in the Qur’an differs radically in that it is a response to a challenge. Overall, however, we may identify the following metathemes held in common by the Christian and Islamic narrations: hunger (mainly physical but with an underlying spiritual aspect), doubt and faith, testing and obedience, trust and anámnēsis. The metatheme which sets the Christian accounts apart is that of sacrifice. The metamotifs are manna and bread with the latter diverging radically from Islam in the Christian tradition as it morphs into Eucharist and, in the Eucharistic miracles, flesh. Minor themes common to the main Christian and Islamic narratives include complaint and discontent, holy days, numbers (forty years in both traditions and 5,000/4,000, seven and twelve in the New Testament tradition), and hospitality. Minor motifs shared by both include quails, with the motif of fish playing an additional role in the New Testament and in the Islamic tafsīr literature. A classic aspect of narratological theory, as we saw earlier, is repetition. We find this both in the Christian paradigm, where the account of the feeding of a large number is repeated, in slightly different terms (five thousand and four thousand) in two of the four Gospels. In the Islamic paradigm, too, slightly different feeding stories appear in the hadith literature as supplements

48  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us to the narrative of the Miracle of the Table in the fifth chapter of the Qur’an, The Sura of the Table. Such repetition in both the Christian and Islamic traditions serves to emphasise narratologically the sublime power of God for the believers as well as confirm the mission and prophethood of the main protagonist. Both traditions also lend themselves neatly to typological analysis.144 In the Christian, the Eucharist constitutes an antitype to the type of the manna provided to the Israelites in the desert. In the Islamic, the Miracle of the Table is the antitype to that same provision of manna as articulated in the Qur’an. Manna, Eucharist and the Islamic Table food together form a fundamental intertext which then extends to, and embraces, the diverse other feeding events which we have outlined above. In all, the past is made present in real time and often looks forward to a future145 in the celestial destination of Paradise. Such feeding events are primary links in the intertextual paradigms which we have formulated for each tradition in Christianity and Islam. However, while the miraculous feeding narratives in the two religions have much in common, being the result of physical and, indeed, spiritual hunger, and manifesting, as we have observed, the power of God and the confirmation of prophetic mission, the significance of each event diverges hugely. The Islamic paradigm of feeding features a miracle of power and reassurance; those who observe gain knowledge, epistemologically and visually, of the extraordinary power of God. For the Christian, all this is true but the miracle of the feeding goes beyond that; ultimately, it is a foretaste of another miracle, that of the Eucharist, which is primarily ontological in the belief of the faithful. The Islamic miracle features a very visual theophany; the Christian miracles feature a dual theophany, the one overt and the other hidden; the multitudes witness the multiplication of the bread; the faithful believe in the divine presence, concealed in the accidents of the bread and wine. We turn finally to a consideration of the catalyst for these various miracles. In the twelfth chapter of the Qur’an, the Sura of Joseph, the catalyst for the action, as I have shown in a previous essay, is the dream.146 With regard to the feeding miracles in Christianity and Islam, as elaborated in the later Eucharistic miracles and appearances of the word Allah in or on food, the

f ood | 49 initial impulses of physical or spiritual hunger or ‘asking’ and ‘testing’ may be precipitated by catalysts as diverse as ‘doubt’ (perhaps the most common),147 a Christian–Jewish dispute148 and even, perhaps most exotically, a love affair. Such was the case in the Miracle of Alatri in 1228: a young woman, needing what she thought might become a kind of ‘love potion’ with which she might draw the attentions of a man with whom she was in love, took the Host out of her mouth after receiving it in communion and was dismayed to find that it had turned into human flesh.149 Whatever the catalyst, however, it was recognised in both Christianity and Islam that it was God who was the originator, the cause, the one who ‘acted’ in the miracle even though that miracle might appear via a human agency. Kenneth Woodward draws our attention to this when he cites the great medieval theologian and Sufi, Abu Hamid al-Ghazali (1058–1111) as saying: ‘Allah changed the customary course of events through the agency of Muhammad more than once.’150 The original Arabic reads: ‘Fa-qad kharaqa Allāh al-ʿāda ʿalā yadihi ghayr marra.’151 Now the verb kharaqa can be rendered much more powerfully than in the translation which we have just cited. Thus, we might better read the phrase as: ‘God tore apart customary usage by his [that is, Muhammad’s] agency several times.’ This emphasises much more strongly the real, mighty agency of God combined with the dynamic channel of the miracles who was the Prophet Muhammad. From a narratological perspective, then, it is clear that the overarching metatheme in all these food miracles is the power of God, articulated and reified through his incarnation in the Christian tradition, and through his Prophet Muhammad in the Islamic. It is a power which is not channelled through magicians, soothsayers or astrologers; it cannot be accessed by their tricks and auguries but only by divine revelation and instruction.152

50  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us

3 Water

3.1  A Proto-miracle: Water from the Rock

W

e saw earlier that the narratives of the miraculous feeding of the followers of Moses in the desert with manna are common to both the Qur’an and the Old Testament. The same is true of the miraculous production of water from a rock by Moses.1 Once again, the appearance of the water is what might be characterised as a ‘grumbling and testing’ miracle. The encamped community of Israel find no water to drink at Rephidim. In their thirst they complain to Moses, asking him why he led them out of Israel only to let thirst overtake and kill their families and animals.2 A thoroughly exasperated Moses seeks God’s help and is instructed to strike a rock from which water will flow. Moses does so and the thirst of his fractious followers is quenched. Clearly fed up, Moses calls the place Massah and Meribah, words which mean respectively ‘tried’ and ‘contention’3 because of the argumentative nature of his people and the way they persisted in testing God.4 The New Jerusalem Bible (NJB) comments that ‘this is another instance of the theme of discontent in the desert’5 and reminds the reader of a previous water miracle by Moses at Marah where the water is undrinkable because it is so bitter: Moses takes a piece of wood shown to him by God, casts it into the water and this then changes from bitter to sweet.6 The NJB also reminds us that the miracle of the water at Massah and Meribah is relocated in The Book of Numbers to a place called Kadesh.7 In this account Moses and Aaron call everyone together before a rock and, addressing them angrily as ‘rebels’, Moses asks whether he should go ahead and get the rock to produce water. Moses then takes the branch and hits the 50

water | 51 rock twice with it. Copious amounts of water flow forth and the discontented Israelites, together with their animals, quench their thirst.8 This then is another important narrative repetition, akin to the repetition of the narrative of the feeding of the five/four thousand in the Gospels. In the Old Testament it is clearly done for emphasis, emphasising both the power of God, again, as well as the exasperation of Moses. In addition, the accounts serve as ‘signs’ and ‘confirmations’ of the rightness of Moses’ leadership and mission as the Children of Israel wander towards the Promised Land. However, the Numbers version of the water miracle at Massah/Meribah/ Kadesh goes beyond the Exodus account. Immediately after the narrative in The Book of Numbers, Moses and Aaron are told that ‘because you did not believe that I could assert my holiness before the Israelite ‘eyes’, they will not enter the Promised Land.9 Why are these two prophets being punished in the text after all they have done? What have they done wrong? The NJB comments that this is a mystery and surmises that perhaps ‘Moses showed a lack of faith in striking the rock twice’.10 Other explanations are certainly possible11 but if the above surmise is correct, then here again we have the theme of doubt and lack of trust entering a miracle narrative either before or during the performance of the actual miracle. Mark S. Smith stresses Moses’ role in these complaint narratives as a ‘prophetc mediator’ between God and the people he leads and the role that geography plays in the narrative from a thematic perspective: Egypt represents the themes of servitude and death; the desert is a place where the theme of ‘divine care’ comes to the fore; and Sinai is the locus par excellence of the theme of revelation.12 Smith also points out that there are different kinds of testing: after the episode at Marah God specifically states that he will test the Israelites: if they obey his commandments and laws then they will remain free from the sort of plagues he visited on the Egyptians. He charaterises himself as ‘Yahweh your Healer’.13 Smith notes, too, that the testing of man by God and God by man were themes often associated with shrines and sanctuaries.14 Here then, we note the emergence from these biblical texts of some key themes and motifs which will assume an even greater primary importance in this volume as we proceed: we have the motif of ‘shrine’ as a site of the divine

52  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us presence; that divinity is garbed not just in the theme of ‘testing’ but with that of ‘healing’ as well.15 These themes and motifs assume a dominant role in the narratology of miracles, those metathemes par excellence of this book. As with the manna narratives, the Islamic account of Moses striking the rock for water in the Qur’an is more succinct than the Old Testament narratives in Exodus and Numbers, and lacks any characterisation of God as ‘Healer’. The Qur’anic account runs as follows: And remember Moses prayed for water for his People: We said: ‘Strike the rock with thy staff.’ Then gushed forth therefrom twelve springs. Each group knew its own place for water. So eat and drink of the sustenance provided by God, and do no evil nor mischief on the (face of the) earth.16

The verse is revealed in a context of ‘challenge’ and ‘testing of God’17 and thus its significance in terms of theme is similar to that of the Exodus/Numbers accounts. However, the motif of ‘the twelve springs’ is more akin to the reference, in Exodus after the bitter > sweet water miracle at Marah, to ‘the twelve springs and seventy palm trees’ of Elim18 than the Exodus/Numbers narratives themselves. There is, however, a repetition of the Qur’anic account, albeit a fleeting one, in Sura 17, and it is worth repeating it here because of its stress on ‘testing’ and ‘doubt’: They say: ‘We shall not believe in thee, until thou cause a spring to gush forth for us from the earth.19

Obedience to the laws of God, as in the Exodus narrative, is essential, as we see in the Qur’anic narrative, here and elsewhere, and often consequent upon testing and the production of miracles. Al-Tabari, in his exegesis of this verse,

water | 53 confirms this idea, first stressing the sublime power of God whose miracle it was: the quails, manna and springs ‘of sweet, fresh water’ appear ‘by the power of Him to whom glory and tribute belong’.20 Al-Tabari concludes: Then, together with permitting them what he had permitted, and blessing them with the agreeable life He had blessed them with, He commanded them not to spread corruption in the land, or arrogantly do mischief there, and said to them: ‘And do not transgress upon the earth working corruption.’21

We can also recall here again the severer Qur’anic statement to which we alluded above in which, after the promise of the Miracle of the Table, God enjoins sincere belief; failure to believe will result in dire punishment.22 Anthony Johns, surveying the references to water in the Qur’an stresses its profound role ‘in the divine economy of creation’.23 For Johns, water, in all its diverse kinds, usages and symbolisms, occupies pole position in the natural world of the Qur’an: ‘It brings the dead earth back to life and is thus an image of God’s power to resurrect the dead.’24 In connection with the latter, he cites the powerful verse from the Qur’an in Sura 41 in which the same God who waters the earth with rain and revives it can also raise the dead to life,25 ‘for He has power over all things’ (Innahu ʿalā kull shay’ qadīr).26 From all this, we can develop a paradigm of themes, applicable equally to the Christian and Islamic traditions, which may be represented as follows: Complaint > testing > God’s power > satisfaction > obedience to God’s law > physical and spiritual healing.

This last theme emphasises then, a healing not just from physical thirst, want and privation but also, as Yusuf Ali neatly puts it, a healing of the ‘spiritual life . . . God’s messenger [Moses] can provide abundant spiritual sustenance even from such unpromising things as the hard rocks of life’.27 The dominant metamotif in the Old Testament and the Qur’anic narratives is, of course, water, but other, slightly more minor motifs, figure strongly in both these accounts. They include rock, the staff/branch with which Moses strikes the rock together with the circumambient desert. The initial desolation of the latter is transformed by God’s miracles into a school of divine instruction, knowledge and obedience.

54  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us 3.2  Lourdes, Shrines and Healing Setting the Scene: Text and Context It is clear from the last section that Moses is the chief protagonist, the hero, in the miracle of the water from the rock. Now, many New Testament scholars hold that Matthew views Jesus as ‘the new Moses’ whose life, as it were, is designed to mirror that of the Old Testament prophet, but who brings a new covenant in place of the Old Testament Mosaic model.28 Jesus in the New Testament is associated with many events in which water is of primary significance and in which it plays a major role as a motif par excellence. There are events which have a sacramental, spiritual significance; there are those which powerfully demonstrate the huge power of God; and there are those which emphasise this power through healing miracles, a metatheme in the overall New Testament corpus. We may review each of these aspects briefly in turn. Christ’s baptism with water by John in the river Jordan29 represents the proto-sacrament whose matter in sacramental theology is identified as the water.30 And while Jesus is baptised theologically in the Holy Spirit,31 albeit literally with water, baptism for all other people is held to wash away the stain of original sin in a healing of global significance.32 Baptism destroys sin and regenerates the soul.33 In the New Testament, speaking to the Pharisee Nicodemus who consults Jesus secretly by night, Jesus emphasises the role of water whose use in baptism will provide a miraculous, spiritual passport to eternal salvation. He tells Nicodemus that it is impossible to enter the Kingdom of Heaven unless one has been ‘born through water and the Spirit’.34 A similar statement is made by Jesus to the Samaritan woman at the well. He reminds her that drinking water from her well will not stop her thirsting again. However, he has a kind of water which will quench all thirst for ever and imbue the person who drinks with ‘a spring of water, welling up for eternal life’.35 There is a neat typology at work here though clothed with a different significance. The NJB reminds us that the Patriarchal and Exodus narratives in the Old Testament often portray meetings or gatherings around actual or potential sources of water: that water is a symbol of life from God. However,

water | 55 in the Gospel, the Samaritan woman whom Jesus meets at the well is promised water which ‘signifies the Spirit’.36 There are several instances in the New Testament where Jesus deploys water to demonstrate the power of God. Thus, his disciples, rowing hard against an opposing wind in a boat on the Sea of Galilee, are terrified to see Jesus walking on the water. He gets into the boat and the wind abates.37 On another occasion, Jesus falls asleep in a boat which is hit by a squall. The boat starts to take on water; the disciples awake Jesus who promptly calms the stormy sea and wind. Luke records the awe and astonishment at Jesus’ power over the waters and they ask each other who this man Jesus can be since he is obeyed even by the seas and the wind.38 At the wedding feast in Cana in Galilee, Jesus changes water into wine.39 However, what is of most interest in this brief survey of Christological events associated with water is the fact that Jesus also uses water in his healing miracles. Water in the New Testament can thus be a motif of the metatheme of miraculous healing. The Gospel of John narrates how Jesus encounters a blind man over whose eyes Jesus puts a paste which he makes from earth and spittle. He then tells him to go and wash in the Pool of Siloam. The blind man obeys and immediately recovers his sight to the astonishment of his neighbours and those who had previously only known him as one who was blind.40 Here water becomes a catalyst for sight and Jesus swiftly builds on this, telling the Pharisees and others who object to what he has done that his mission in the world is to heal the blind and blind the sighted.41 This ‘hands-on’ approach42 to healing has drawn the attention of Deirdre Jackson, who stresses the significance of washing in the Pool of Siloam since this was a source of water for the temple altar in Jerusalem during the annual Festival of Tabernacles (Sukkot).43 There is thus a clever, albeit perhaps subliminal, link enacted by Jesus between the waters of the old dispensation and his healing miracle of the new. Another notable miracle performed by Jesus takes place in the vicinity of a pool in Jerusalem known as the Pool of Bethesda, a ‘miraculous’ pool, which had a reputation for curing whoever entered the water first after it had been disturbed by an angel.44 Again, the water of the pool may be said to belong to that antique paradigm which so often endows water with the

56  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us capacity to heal45 and often builds a series of ‘curative rituals’ around certain wells, pools or other sites of water.46 Here, at Bethesda, it was clearly the ritual stirring by the angel which would precipitate the miracle for the first entrant of the water. We may also stress here that the motif of the angel is highly significant in the realms of the miraculous and we shall have diverse occasions in this volume to present and discuss a variety of angelic interventions, tasks and missions undertaken at the bidding of the Divine. However, at Bethesda, Jesus does not deploy an angel as an instrument of the miraculous. He encounters a sick man unable to enter the pool first because of his infirmity. Jesus even chooses to dispense with the use of the pool’s water; the hallowed site is sufficient. He simply tells the man to pick up his mat and walk, and he does so.47 From all the above we can see that the New Testament adumbrates a series of narratives and sayings which allude to the quenching of both spiritual and physical thirst, the latter betokening a spiritual healing as when Jesus proclaims: ‘Let anyone who is thirsty come to me! Let anyone who believes in me come and drink!’48 Water is the image, the sign, the means and, indeed, the metamotif of the narratives. As we have seen, it is also associated with physical healing as in the story of the healing of the blind man at the Pool of Siloam. The paradigm that develops may be articulated and extended as follows: Moses > John the Baptist > Jesus > spiritual and physical healing > sacrament of Baptism > Mary.

We have not previously discussed the last item, the motif of Mary, in the above paradigm and so we shall now turn to develop the person and role of Mary. This will be within a context which lauds the metatheme of healing, the metamotif of water and the metatheme of the power of God. All these aspects embrace a spiritual as well as a physical dimension. All are to be identified and located at such famous Marian pilgrimage sites as Lourdes and it is on this that we shall now focus. The Lady and the Water: Aquerò In Act 1 of Goethe’s Faust, Dr Faust proclaims: ‘Of all her children faith loves miracle best.’49 Perhaps there are few places on earth where this is more

water | 57 true than the great basilica and grotto-shrine in the town of Lourdes, which nestles in the foothills of the Pyrénées on the French side. When Bernadette Soubirous (1844–79)50 saw a series of apparitions of the Virgin Mary in 1858 the little village was home to only about 4,000 people.51 Today the numbers who have visited on pilgrimage, and continue to visit, rank in the millions. The shrine has achieved worldwide fame as a place of healing and spiritual nourishment.52 Yet it was not always thus: at first, Lourdes’ fame lay in the idea that it was just a site of apparitions to a young girl, Bernadette.53 So what happened? How did a small peasant village, via a series of apparitions to an adolescent, uneducated girl, become transmuted, not only into a mere ‘local source of grace’,54 but into what National Geographic Magazine dramatically characterised as ‘the Virgin’s miracle factory, with more than 7,000 miraculous cures claimed since the mid-1800s’?55 While the article goes on to acknowledge that the Catholic Church has only recognised sixty-nine of these 7,000 claimed miracles as authentic (later upgraded to seventy)56, this metamorphosis of Lourdes into what is considered by most people as a global, and commercial,57 phenomenon, is nonetheless extraordinary. Milieu and context for miracles and apparitions are both important and significant. The following remarks are designed to provide a narrative context and phenomenological frame within which to assess the event of Lourdes. For it is a truism that every miracle and every apparition has a social, political, cultural and historical context which frame, and can, indeed, illuminate, those seemingly incomprehensible phenomena. In her classical apparitions Mary is often perceived to appear to people with no inclination to visionary experiences58 and who are often uneducated.59 This was certainly the case with Bernadette. The recipient of the vision may be a child or adolescent, and female.60 Bernadette was an adolescent girl of fourteen at the time of her apparitions. Life may be lived in relative ignorance, simplicity, illness and poverty, summed up, indeed, in the phrase ‘on the margins’.61 Bernadette’s father drank and was frequently unemployed. Her family lived in poverty62 and by the age of nearly twelve Bernadette found herself having to work as a shepherdess to alleviate some of that poverty. In addition, she was afflicted with asthma and malnourished.63

58  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Communities in which apparitions take place may feel isolated, neglected or even abandoned.64 Poverty, hunger and incipient famine all played their roles in the Lourdes of Bernadette’s childhood;65 the cholera epidemic there of 1855 took many lives.66 In the face of such disasters, Mary would appear to be an assured succour, especially in times of war and its aftermath.67 Although many apparitions might take place in distant rural environments,68 like Lourdes, that small village cannot have been completely unaware of the revolutionary ferment which swept at times across nineteenth-century Europe, such as the 1848 revolutions in France, Germany and Italy.69 Lourdes was never so cut off as to prevent access by large crowds, police and soldiers at the site of the apparitions as the outside world became aware of the unfolding events in the village.70 Norman Davies has drawn attention to the profound shock of the episcopacy at this revolutionary wave and the way that they took refuge in deeply traditional and conservative attitudes which were not dispelled until the inauguration of the Second Vatican Council in the 1960s.71 Davies sees Bernadette as part of a Catholic paradigm of traditional piety which regarded itself as a bastion against the advance of nineteenth-century secularism.72 For him, she ‘belonged to a timeless community, where water was venerated . . . [and where] the caves and grottos of the Pyrenean wilderness were still held to be the haunt of fairies. She even called the apparition petito demoisella – a phrase sometimes used for fairy.’73 Davies here thus, gently but clearly, expresses the profound scepticism about the reality of the apparitions which many in Bernadette’s age felt and vocally expressed.74 Miri Rubin has usefully reminded us how the events at Lourdes constituted a profound challenge to the status quo: state, science and the law were challenged as was the Catholic Church as it sought an uneasy modus vivendi with the state. All this took no account of popular upsurges in Marian piety with visionary experiences at their heart.75 Because the visionary experience may be considered an aspect of the realms of the miraculous, and because such experiences may themselves bring forth miraculous phenomena, it is useful at this point, before investigating the narrative of Bernadette Soubirous more fully, to pause and ask: what did the Catholic Church believe, then and now, with regard to apparitions? What

water | 59 exactly were apparitions and were they held to have an ontological objective reality? A number of interpretations, together with diverse reservations, by ecclesiastical authorities are available.76 The following is interesting and instructive but it should be noted that it is only one view among many and should not be regarded as definitive. A Jesuit scholar who has studied the phenomena of such apparitions in considerable depth, Fr Giandomenico Mucci, holds that, although such visions assume a public aspect, they do not transpire in the objective material world but in the subjective mind of the visionary. ‘At Lourdes, the Madonna was not really in the grotto. She was in the mind of Bernadette, who was touched by a special grace,’ he explained. That does not mean that an apparition is a mere fantasy, but it does explain why other witnesses fail to see Mary in the same way. This subtle distinction has been an important one for Catholic scholars through the centuries.77

In contrast to this, Maunder notes that ‘in Catholic doctrine, it has been possible for apparitions to be both miraculous and material’.78 Bernadette Soubirous’ visions of the Virgin Mary are paradigmatic and represent a prototype on which many other Marian visions have been modelled, consciously or unconsciously.79 Narratologically, Robert Scott identifies three key features of the paradigm: the apparition of Mary takes place in a single location; it features at its heart a beautiful young woman; it is only seen by the putative visionary.80 We might add to this paradigm two further features: in the early-modern and modern periods, Marian apparitions are usually to the uneducated who might be children and/or belong to the peasant class.81 The apparition usually, but not always, speaks. We have the cases of the silent 1879 apparitions at Knock in Mayo, Ireland82 and the equally silent 1968–71 Zaytun, Old Cairo, apparitions.83 We may contrast these with the messages that are transmitted by the apparitions at, for example, Lourdes, Fatima, Garabandal and Medjugorje.84 Secrets, often of an apocalyptic nature, may form the substance of such messages.85 However, it is by no means the case that water is always involved, though

60  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us frequently miracles of a healing nature and other similar phenomena may follow. A shrine is often later built near or on the site of the apparition.86 As we have seen, and it is worth stressing again, historical context provides an obvious substratum for the event of the apparition or the miracle, and secular governments could make good use of religious phenomena to bolster their own authority after setbacks. Thus the government of Nasser in 1968, after the defeat of Egypt by Israel in the 1967 War, suggested that the apparition of Mary in Zaytun ‘was a sign from God of an imminent victory’.87 Bernadette Soubirous was born in 1844 in a mill called Boly. She was born into an extremely poor household with a father who was to suffer unemployment and even imprisonment. Despite this, she was an intensely pious child, albeit with hardly any proper religious education.88 The latter observation by Laurentin is important in view of the canards which circulated after the apparitions, both in her own age and up to the present, as we shall see. Between 11 February and 16 July 1858 Bernadette claims to have seen the beautiful lady, whom she characterised in the local patois as aquerò (that thing),89 eighteen times.90 Perhaps the most interesting of all these apparitions, from an anthropological perspective because of its focus on water – the key metamotif of this chapter – was the ninth apparition on Thursday, 25 February 1858. Bernadette is seen to scrabble in the muddy, watery soil of the grotto, reject it several times before finally managing to drink some of the foul water.91 The celebrated mariologist René Laurentin cites Bernadette’s explanation for the seemingly extraordinary – some suggested, mad – sequence of events: Aquerò told me: ‘Go and drink at the spring and wash yourself in it.’ Not seeing any water, I went to the [river] Gave. But she indicated with her finger that I should go under the rock. I found a little water, more like mud: so little that I could scarcely cup it in my hand. Three times I threw it away, it was so dirty. On the fourth try I managed to drink it.92

This is literally the fons et origo of the great shrine at Lourdes as it is today, and the miracles, physical and spiritual,93 which have been claimed from bathing in its waters. The first ‘water-healing’ miracle was declared on Monday, 1 March

water | 61 1858 by a certain Catherine Latapie (Chouat) whose paralysed fingers, after a fall from a tree, were healed after being put into the stream started by Bernadette.94 Not all agree, however, that Bernadette was the original cause of the appearance of the water. A spring is alleged to have been present at that location before the visionary experiences of Bernadette.95 On 8 December 1854 Pope Pius IX (r. 1846–78)96 solemnly defined as an infallible dogma the Immaculate Conception of Mary.97 Eamon Duffy observes: ‘Heaven evidently approved, for four years later, at Lourdes, the visionary lady identified herself to Bernadette Soubirous by declaring: “I am the Immaculate Conception.”’98 Warner adds: ‘[Pius IX’] dogma was ratified, in the true spirit of the Counter-Reformation, by the appearance of the Virgin in person.’99 This dogma of the Roman Catholic Church, frequently confused with that of the Virgin Birth, held that, in the words of Pope Pius IX, the Most Blessed Virgin Mary, at the first instant of her conception, by the singular grace and privilege of almighty God, and in view of the merits of Jesus Christ, the Saviour of the human race, was preserved immune from all stain of original sin.100

This belief, and its opponents, were by no means new101 but it was given renewed prominence and authority by Pius’ solemn declaration and the words of the Virgin, four years later, to Bernadette Soubirous. It is to this that we shall now return. During the apparition of 25 March 1858, Bernadette insisted that the apparition reveal who she was. The reply, incomprehensible to Bernadette herself, was extraordinary: Que soy era Immaculada Councepciou ‘I am the Immaculate Conception.’102

The words certainly stunned Dean Peyramale in his rectory when she reported them to him, stumblingly, having memorised them on her return from the grotto.103 It was he, the parish priest and Dean of Lourdes, who had insisted that Bernadette interrogate the Vision as to her identity, otherwise there would be no building of any chapel such as the apparation had previously demanded.104 Many scholars accept that Bernadette had no idea what the words which

62  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us she repeated to Dean Peyramale meant, and accept her statement as a kind of ‘proof’ of the reality of what she claimed to see.105 Marina Warner, however, strikes a dissenting note when she suggests that Bernadette might have heard the phrase from the nuns who taught her catechism in preparation for her First Communion.106 Warner does, however, accept the absolute sincerity of Bernadette’s statement about the Immaculate Conception and that Bernadette believed that she was genuinely the recipient of a powerful visionary experience.107 Earlier, we identified four distinct attitudes towards the concept of miracles: (1) disbelief and scepticism; (2) caution; (3) belief; and (4) memory and memorialisation. This is a suitable paradigm within whose framework we might consider the water visions and miracles of Lourdes. Certainly, it is clear that attitudes over the decades have ranged through all four aspects of the paradigm. They will be considered here briefly in the order of their listing above. Almost from the beginning of Bernadette’s apparitions becoming public, there was deep scepticism and doubt. Was the girl a total fraud who put on ‘comedies’ in the grotto?108 Hostility towards Bernadette and her alleged apparitions ran the gamut of school through to clergy and to the local police.109 The Catholic Church was able, in the long run, to ‘manage’ Bernadette and the phenomenon of Lourdes by confining the girl in a convent as a nun. But there was always a lurking embarrassment behind all this and indeed, other classical apparitions, together with a fear of giving credence to an alternative, popular magisterium.110 The same might be said to be true of the phenomenon of Medjugorje in our own age where the alleged visions of the Virgin Mary have given rise to much popular piety on the one hand and accusations of gross fraud on the other.111 From a narratological perspective, the great nineteenth-century, anticlerical and anti-Catholic, French novelist Émile Zola (1840–1902) remains the archetype of disbelief and scepticism as far as the events at Lourdes were concerned. He made a trip to that town in 1892. Travelling by train, he encountered a young woman of eighteen years suffering from advanced lupus and tuberculosis. After bathing in the spring waters of Lourdes she was healed. Zola, a witness to the event, refused, however, to believe that this was

water | 63 the result of a miracle. Later he would write a novel about Lourdes in which he gave full rein to his scepticism about the possibility of miracles at the shrine.112 We shall return to this novel in a short while. Zola had found the whole idea that Mary had appeared in a small grotto near Lourdes in 1858 utterly ridiculous. He could not countenance the idea that the town had become a source of miraculous healings. With a fervent desire to gather ammunition with which to rebut all these miraculous claims, Zola made this visit to Lourdes in August 1892. ‘But the unexpected happened: [as we have just noted] he witnessed a miracle.’113 And that was not all: he was also present at another cure in Lourdes from terminal tuberculosis. Yet Zola still refused to accept a miraculous explanation, observing: ‘Were I to see all the sick at Lourdes cured, I would not believe in a miracle.’114 For Zola, the explanation had to be much more mundane: all was the result of ‘autosuggestion in an hysterical religious atmosphere’.115 The second cure features in his 1894 novel Lourdes in which, contrary to actual life, the ‘healed’ patient relapses.116 Challenged, Zola claimed an author’s prerogative to change the facts in a work of fiction.117 The Catholic Church, through its Lourdes Medical Bureau, has always been extremely cautious about accepting that anyone has actually been cured miraculously as a result of bathing in the waters at the Lourdes shrine. Thousands of unofficial claims of miraculous cures have been made down the decades but, as we observed earlier, official Church recognition has been given to far fewer.118 This reflects the early caution with which the claims of Bernadette herself were treated. The Catholic Church feared both ridicule and a blow to its tentative authority in an age of scepticism, growing atheism and revolution. It was only after a full four years that the local Catholic hierarchy felt able to issue a more positive gloss on the events that had overtaken the hitherto obscure little town of Lourdes.119 Finally, on 18 January 1862, the local Bishop of Tarbes, Bishop Lawrence, felt sufficiently convinced and emboldened to issue the following official statement: ‘We judge that the Immaculate Mother of God truly appeared to Bernadette.’120 In such wise did the waters of Lourdes with their miraculous charism move into the mainstream of Catholic devotion, while always, of course, accompanied by the caveat that such revelations

64  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us and ­miracles belonged to the province of private revelation and there was no doctrinal compulsion on anyone to accept them. Narratologically, in the whole story of Bernadette, her apparitions and the waters of Lourdes, we may identify two major topoi: the metatheme of doubt transmuted into belief (though not, of course, in the case of Émile Zola!), and the metamotif of water. Furthermore, as Sarah Jane Boss neatly points out, the latter is part of a Lourdes Empedoclean quartet in which we find water, fire (candles), earth (grotto rock) and air (outdoor processions) are omnipresent.121 A 2015 edition of the popular magazine National Geographic, as we saw earlier, lauded Lourdes as the Virgin Mary’s ‘miracle factory’.122 It drew attention to the huge scale of the underground basilica, the millions of visitors who go to Lourdes every year and the grotto where Bernadette reputedly inaugurated the spring in whose waters, miraculous in the eyes and beliefs of the pious visitor, cures are sought by countless thousands.123 Priests and laity alike position the claims of miracle healings and miraculous waters in a theology of ‘sound Marian doctrine’124 and all is underpinned by the omnipresent belief of the pilgrims that at Lourdes Mary once proclaimed herself to Bernadette as ‘The Immaculate Conception’.125 The Lourdes narrative which thus unfolds, with a surface simplicity masking deeper theological, literary and anthopological truths, may thus be viewed as divisible into diverse sub-narratives whose leading ethos may be devout belief, myth,126 caution and scepticism or, as in the case of Zola, outright disbelief. It has also spawned several fictional narratives among which rank prominently: Émile Zola’s Lourdes (1894)127, Franz Werfel’s The Song of Bernadette (1941)128 and Michael Arditti’s Jubilate (2011).129 The first, as we have noted, is by a convinced anti-Catholic; the second is by a deeply sympathetic Jewish author; and the third may be described as a novel of doubt and hope. Above all, however, the narrative of Bernadette and her ‘water apparitions’ in real time betokens two types of memory and memorialisation: there is the memory of ‘the “presence” of the divine in the world’,130 epitomised in the apparition of the Virgin and the purity of the visionary Bernadette, later a nun and a type of alter-Mary,131 within the context of a growing Marian cult.132 Secondly, there is also the memory of wholeness, wholeness of body and soul, former health of body, mind and

water | 65 spirit, memorialised in the healing rituals and waters of Lourdes which, very occasionally, will restore that memory of sound health, that wholeness, in a miraculous metamorphosis, to a broken body; or perhaps, more often and less dramatically, provide a spiritual healing for a torn or tormented soul.133 These themes of ‘divine presence’ in the world, and wholeness, are treated in very different ways in the three novels by Zola, Werfel and Arditti. They are accompanied by the motif of the bath-water rituals134 and the dominant metathemes of belief and doubt, and Church authority. We will briefly examine these topoi as they appear in the three novels. Zola’s Lourdes F. W. J. Hemmings tells us that Zola was genuinely puzzled by the phenomenon of Lourdes. Were the pilgrimages there simply ‘a publicity stunt concocted by the Roman Catholic Church?’135 He needed to find out, hence his visits. His resulting 1894 novel Lourdes does allow him to give some rein to his sceptical anti-clericalism and anti-Catholicism.136 For him, Bernadette Soubirous was the victim of hallucination.137 But the novel is not stridently anti-clerical in its tone throughout,138 though Zola has no truck with the idea that miracle cures might take place in Lourdes.139 It is also important to note, with Hemmings, that there was a background of religious revival which would not have pleased the sceptical Zola.140 The hero – or, better, anti-hero – of Zola’s novel is the Abbé Pierre Froment, a ‘doubting’ priest.141 Reflecting on his seminary years as the train journeys to Lourdes, Pierre asks himself how he has been able to acquiesce to the harsh rule of blind faith for so long and believe all that that faith taught without question.142 His doubt thus contrasts dramatically with the faith of his fellow-travellers in the third-class train compartment,143 and this drama of faith and doubt constitutes a primary leitmotiv, a major theme, of the entire novel. All are enveloped, willingly or unwillingly, with the memory of ‘divine presence’, a theme made present, dynamically present, to the believer by the very ambience of Lourdes itself as it proclaimed itself to the world as the custodian of Bernadette’s apparition; and even more powerfully when, for the believer, God intervened, produced a healing miracle, and the Divine bent down to touch and enter the afflicted, terrestrial world.144

66  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us The water rituals of immersion in the healing waters are enacted145 in a search for a wholeness which has become a distant memory;146 for at the service at the grotto it seemed that the three Lourdes hospitals had disgorged veritable ‘chambers of horrors’ (salles d’épouvante).147 A cure is claimed148 but Pierre’s faith is completely lost.149 Reason alone must now be his ‘Maîtresse souveraine’.150 When he encountered the seemingly inexplicable, it was Reason who whispered that there must be some natural explanation for the phenomenon before him, but he could not bring it to mind.151 Finally, over all in the novel hangs the authority of the Church, slow at first to accept the reality of Bernadette’s water visions,152 but later embracing the grotto and all it stood for with enthusiasm.153 Zola cynically but typically observes in his novel that there was a continous flow of gifts at the grotto, akin to a river of gold,154 all of which Zola was only too well aware would enrich the Church. The eventual acceptance by that Church of the events at Lourdes contrasts vividly with the reaction to Zola’s novel which was met with outrage by the Catholic Church and very swiftly placed on the Index of Forbidden Books.155 This is not surprising given Zola’s extremely antagonistic and derogatory remarks about the dogma of the Immaculate Conception in the last pages of the novel.156 Werfel’s Song of Bernadette Franz Werfel’s novel, The Song of Bernadette, could not be more different from that of Zola. The Song is a hagiographical hymn of faith; any doubt that is articulated comes from the mouths of those who initially reject the messages of Bernadette and refuse to believe her, or obstruct her.157 George Weigel, in a modern Foreword to a new edition of Werfel’s book, has observed: ‘On rereading The Song, what struck me most about Werfel’s craft was how deeply this Jewish writer, who had long been interested in Catholicism but who had never converted, had entered into Catholicism’s sacramental imagination about the world.’158 But for Werfel himself, Bernadette’s ability to communicate ‘to the downtrodden something of that compassionate consolation which flooded her being whenever she saw the lady again’ was a much ‘greater miracle than the discovery of a spring’.159

water | 67 The narrative of The Song is extremely simple and follows a straight line from some introductory paragraphs about Bernadette’s father, François Soubirous, through to Bernadette’s death, and her later canonisation by Pope Pius XI on 8 December 1933. In lucid, ordered prose it presents Bernadette’s family’s early life,160 her youthful ignorance of her faith,161 her first162 and later apparitions,163 the hostility, scepticism, scorn and outright disbelief she encountered,164 and her later, last years in the convent at Nevers.165 The whole text is infused with a recollection and memory of the supernatural and the Divine. This is articulated in different ways in references to early catechism and preparation for first Holy Communion classes,166 the sublime, preternatural beauty of the ‘Lady’ who Bernadette sees167 and the startling references to the Immaculate Conception; Bernadette certainly does not understand this phrase168 but the clergy like Dean Peyramale were acutely aware of it since it was only four years since the dogma had been solemnly proclaimed by Pope Pius IX.169 This latter proclamation of the dogma was in itself a revival, an emphasis upon or memory of something that had long been held to be true by many of the faithful for centuries.170 Indeed, the whole narrative of Lourdes fitted into a wider context of revived Marian devotion with the memory of the Virgin Mary being brought once more to the fore by such devotees as Louis-Marie Grignion de Montfort (1673–1716).171 One of Werfel’s characters in The Song notes: ‘Everywhere in this land you see the principle of the adoration of Mary.’172 A discussion of a possible heraldic device precipitates a memory of possible origins, whether Christian or pre-Christian.173 Chris Maunder has emphasised how this resurgent Marian cult in Europe constituted Catholicism’s reply to the seemingly atheistic precepts of the French Revolution and how Marian devotion became a weapon of choice against the waves of Republicanism and rationalism which swept Europe.174 The apparitions at Lourdes in 1858 occurred at a particular moment in time and within a particular intellectual context: Catholicism versus freethinking.175 We see all this dramatically played out in Zola’s novel Lourdes but it is also the context and background, albeit writ more discreetly, of Werfel’s Song, many of whose characters, major and minor, articulate a memory of

68  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us either outright atheism or pure disbelief. As in Zola’s Lourdes, therefore, faith and doubt assume a primary importance throughout Werfel’s narrative and constitute an enduring leitmotiv and metatheme in his text. Lourdes is about wholeness and the memory of wholeness, spiritual wholeness for the many, and an aspiration to physical wholeness for the lame, injured, sick and afflicted. Werfel movingly describes the first miracle cure, that of the child of Croisine Bouhouhorts, after the child is bathed by its frantic mother in the spring.176 While the ‘water rituals’ which were later to develop in Lourdes are too early for Werfel’s narrative, the healing nature of the spring is lauded: ‘Many bore earthen vessels on their heads to carry home the water of the spring of grace.’177 Water, as in Zola’s novel, remains a metamotif in Werfel’s text and serves to bind the events in Werfel’s novel together in the same way that it actually bound the events in Bernadette’s short life and bound her to her apparitions. The link between water and apparition is a key theme in life as in fiction. Werfel in his novel makes this plain as he cites the words of the Lady: ‘Go to the spring yonder and drink and wash yourself.’178 Finally, we note the appearance in the novel, as in actual life, of the theme of Church authority. It is embodied in the stern figure of Dean Marie Dominique Peyramale;179 it is embodied in the figure of Bishop Bertrand Sévère Laurence, the Bishop of Tarbes;180 and it is embodied in the aura of the papacy itself with its four-year-old dogmatic proclamation and which hangs as a kind of shadow with authoritarian weight over the whole of Werfel’s novel.181 Indeed, this dogma of the Immaculate Conception is both a key and a key theme in the narrative, both real life and fictional, since for the believer it unlocks belief after much doubt.182 Finally, the Catholic Church, with all its magisterial authority, claims its own. Although, in the words of René Laurentin, ‘Bernadette does not seem to have ever questioned her desire for a religious vocation,’183 Werfel’s narrative makes the Bishop of Montpellier, Mgr Thibaut, altogether more proactive and calculating. Listing various alternatives and scenarios to account for the apparitions alleged by Bernadette, he gives as number three: You have been visited by the Most Blessed Virgin’s special grace, little Soubirous. Miracles issue from your spring . . . You must disappear . . .

water | 69 because we can’t let a saint loose in the world . . . Therefore, little Soubirous, the Church must take you under its guardianship.184

And the Church does precisely that, in the novel as in life, overseeing the insertion of Bernadette into the Convent of Saint-Gildard in Nevers. Here she remained for the rest of her life.185 Arditti’s Jubilate Michael Arditti’s Jubilate has been claimed to be ‘the first serious novel about Lourdes since Zola’.186 It is a book about Catholic Lourdes written by an outsider, an Anglican author,187 which features as one of its heroes Vincent, another outsider who is a lapsed Catholic and who makes film documentaries.188 Alexander Lucie-Smith believes that ‘as an Anglican, Arditti looks at Catholicism from the outside, with the sharpness of observation that those of us on the inside might have lost’.189 His co-hero Vincent O’Shaughnessy’s ‘avowed intention is to explode the myth that this is a place of miracle cures’.190 The theme of doubt is thus embodied in one of the main characters throughout the novel which is, however, fundamentally, a love story.191 In the course of the narration there is a probing, often painful, exploration of ‘questions of faith, loyalty, love and theodicy’.192 Vincent is gradually forced to re-examine his early assumptions about all these questions.193 As Anna Arco puts it: ‘While Vincent is interviewing members of the Jubilate group [of pilgrims to Lourdes] for his film, he realises questions of faith are not as simple as they first appeared.’194 The other hero of the novel, Gillian Patterson, who has a passionate love affair with Vincent in Lourdes, has come to Lourdes with her brain-damaged husband Richard.195 Despite the trauma of her uninhibited husband, and his need for care, Gillian remains a Catholic, but her loyalties are torn ‘between God, her husband, her mother-in-law, her new lover and herself.’196 Rivka Isaacson sums up the situation as follows: Jubilate’s secular sermon might be that the true miracle of Lourdes is ­neither medical nor religious; it is rather that the juxtaposition of people’s generosity onto a background of kitsch seems to hearten, amuse and inspire visitors to face whatever hardship lies ahead.197

70  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Nonetheless, our five memory topoi of four themes and one motif are still much in evidence in Arditti’s narrative. As with Zola and Werfel’s novels, there is an all-pervasive memory of ‘divine presence’ in the world, particularly the little enclosed world of Lourdes, despite the ugly kitsch on sale in the shops.198 There is the memory of Gillian’s husband Richard’s former wholeness.199 The water rituals of naked immersion in the freezing water of the baths are described through the character of Gillian for whom they are a source of questioning and mystery.200 The themes of faith and doubt dominate the text of the novel. We have already noted the inquisitive doubt and scepticism of the documentary film-maker, Vincent.201 Are the water rituals of Lourdes for Vincent ‘simply a balm that does little to treat the deep-rooted pain of those who go there in search of a miracle’?202 There is the dogged, unfaltering – even if slightly confused – faith of Gillian.203 Contrasting with both is the unquestioning, slightly unnerving and very traditional, firm faith of Gillian’s mother-in-law.204 Over all hangs the shadow-authority of the Church, apparent in every nook and cranny of Lourdes, saying Mass, controlling the pilgrims, organising processions and holding out the hope of healing, spiritual or physical, in the town’s healing waters. Arditti’s text contains a vivid description of a procession into the Pius X Basilica for Benediction with numerous wheelchairs, brancardiers, multilingual voices, priests and a ‘Cardinal of Cracow’.205 Just as the Church took control of Bernadette and her apparitions in her own lifetime, so Arditti holds that it has control, often overt and at least covert, in the town of Lourdes. At the end, it seems that it is the Church and its moral authority which wins: after bathing at the baths, Gillian tells her devout mother-inlaw, Patricia, that she has decided never to leave her handicapped husband, Richard. She declares that she came to Lourdes in search of a miracle and has, in fact, found one. As she succinctly puts it in Arditti’s text: ‘I’m cured of my delusion; I’m ready to resume my life’.206 For her it is a miracle of and for the mind, a spiritual miracle, and quite the opposite of the physical miracle that she had hoped for, for her husband. The waters of Lourdes have produced an unexpected but still, for Gillian, satisfying result.

water | 71 3.3  Zamzam, Shrines and Healing Setting the Scene: Text and Context The most notable healing miracle with water featured in the Qur’an has Job (Ayyub) as its central protagonist: Commemorate Our Servant Job. Behold he cried to his Lord: ‘The Evil One has afflicted me with distress and suffering!’ (The command was given:) ‘Strike with thy foot: Here is (water) wherein to wash, cool and refreshing, and (water) to drink.’207

Yusuf Ali comments: The recuperative process having begun, he was commanded to strike the earth or a rock with his foot, and a fountain or fountains gushed forth – to give him a bath and cleanse his body; to refresh his spirits; and to give him drink and rest. This is a fresh touch, not mentioned in S.XXI208 nor in the Book of Job,209 but adding beautifully to our realisation of the picture.210

Deirdre Jackson stresses how Job’s recovery here, consequent upon his drinking and bathing in the miraculous spring, was the result of his patience and constant trust in Allah.211 The Islamic tradition presents us with a transformed Job whose own wife does not recognise him.212 Jackson notes that this miraculous healing of Job transformed the figure of Job among the masses into a mighty intercessor for healings from leprosy and diseases of the skin, and that his gushing spring, wherever that might actually be, retained its healing properties.213 The Qur’anic verse, And We gave him (back) his people and doubled their number, as a Grace [raªma]214

72  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us from Ourselves, and a thing for commemoration [dhikrā], for all who have understanding215

building upon its two predecessors,216 thus supports at its heart an exegesis whose key components are the motif of water and the theme of healing, in addition to the primary theme of memory (dhikrā) which dominates both this Qur’anic section on Ayyub217 as well as the following section on Ibrahim, Ishaq and Yaʿqub.218 The Damascene chronicler, Ibn Kathir (c. 1300–73),219 makes much play with the theme of non-recognition of Job after he is healed and transformed after his sufferings: God clothes him in splendid attire and his wife finds him sitting in a corner. Unable to recognise her husband, she asks where the suffering person who was previously there has gone. She expresses the fear that perhaps he has been eaten by wolves or dogs. She goes on talking to him for a long while until a clearly exasperated Job asks her what her problem is. He tells her that he is in fact Job, but she accuses him of making fun of her. He, however, insists and stresses that God has healed his formerly afflicted body and restored it to its normal state.220 This theme of non-recognition resonates powerfully with other parts of the Qur’an from a narrative perspective: when Joseph’s brothers meet him in Egypt after Joseph’s elevation to power, they do not recognise him.221 Ibrahim at first identifies a star, the moon and the sun as his Lord (rabb) before finally recognising God Himself.222 Ibn Kathir also records a miraculous ‘water and wealth exegesis’ for the Job story in Q.38:41–3. Beginning with the injunction in verse 42, ‘Strike with thy foot’223 (Urku∂ bi-rijlik), Job does as God commands and a rushing spring appears. He is ordered to wash in it and drink the water. He is promptly cured from the agonies and pain of his illness with which he had been afflicted and his body is made whole again. That is not all: God now endows him with massive wealth, which appears to rain down upon him like locusts fashioned out of gold.224 A. H. Johns has characterised the Job story in the Qur’an ‘as a reward narrative . . . with an emphasis different from that of the story of Job in the Bible’.225 While that is undoubtedly true, there is also, at the very least, a reso-

water | 73 nance and intertext with the Old Testament story of the army general of the king of Aram whose name was Naaman and who suffered from a particularly nasty disease of the skin. The prophet Elisha commands him to wash seven times in the river Jordan and promises that, if he does so, his flesh will be restored to wholeness. Naaman finally obeys ‘and his flesh became clean once more like the flesh of a little child’.226 It is noteworthy that in some versions of the Islamic tradition, it is the angel Gabriel (Arabic: Jibril) who is the messenger of the saving news that if Job washes in, and drinks from, the spring then he will swiftly make a miraculous, complete recovery.227 There is thus a marvellous, prefigurative narrative here regarding the role of Gabriel, whom we will shortly encounter again in the story of Hajar (Hagar) and Ismaʿil. Of course, Gabriel in both these accounts reflects a massive Islamic intertextual narrative with regard to the role of this angel which embraces, inter alia, the revelation of the Qur’an and the Islamic annunciation of the forthcoming birth of ʿIsa to Maryam.228 Interestingly, Gabriel does not play a role in Ibn Kathir’s narration and exegesis of the Job story. The Qur’anic paradigm and metatheme which emerges, of water having healing power in addition to its normal functions and properties229 is, of course, articulated with a physical emphasis only. There is no baptismal element, no cleansing from the stain of original sin as in the Christian tradition,230 nor any concept of the New Testament idea that ‘no one can enter the kingdom of God without being born through water and the Spirit’.231 Job’s Qur’anic healing is thus primarily a physical healing with water, though the Arabic texts do show that he is certainly in receipt of God’s blessing and infinite mercy. It would be wrong to use the term ‘grace’ here since this belongs to the theological register of the Christian tradition but an analogy may at least be drawn: for the angel Gabriel in one account identifies himself to Job by name and tells him that he brings happy news of forgiveness, or remission from God (maghfira Allāh).232 What might be characterised as a divine spiritual blessing here has a profound physical healing effect on the body of Job. The Qur’anic and Islamic folk story (Qi‚a‚) association of some waters with miraculous healing powers is apparent in the hadith literature as well. The Qur’an might insist that Muhammad was not a miracle worker but his

74  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us future biographers clearly felt a real need to clothe his life with elements of the miraculous.233 These would provide concrete proofs of his prophethood but were also signs that the supernatural was an integral part of the Islamic faith.234 The great jurist Malik ibn Anas (d. 796), for example, relates a water miracle performed by the Prophet Muhammad as follows: the time for the ʿa‚r prayer arrives and the people with Muhammad look around for water in order to perform their pre-prayer ablutions; they are unable to find any. The Prophet orders that some water be brought and tells his companions to use that, miraculously multiplying the small amount of water in the container until all have washed satisfactorily. Malik states that he actually saw water flowing out of the fingers of the Prophet.235 Al-Bukhari records that more than eighty people thus performed their ablutions,236 and a commentator and translator lauds this as a miracle of Muhammad.237 Al-Bukhari also records an occasion when the Prophet was able to command rain to fall and then halt the downfall.238 Kenneth Woodward suggests that such miracles which demonstrate that Muhammad is able to command nature itself should not be viewed in the same light as Jesus’ ‘nature’ miracles as we find them in the New Testament. Jesus wrought his miracles to confirm that He was divine as well as human; Muhammad’s ‘nature’ miracles are best viewed as ‘miracles of compassion’.239 The Prophet is again shown to be in complete control of nature and water, combined with a striking compassion and care for his followers, in the following narrative by the early scholar and chronicler of the campaigns and raids (maghāzī) of Muhammad, Abu ʿAbd Allah Muhammad ibn ʿUmar al-Waqidi (c. 747–c. 823) in his famous Book of Military Campaigns (Kitāb al-Maghāzī): the people halt at a source of water near al-Hudaybiyya which is perceived to be somewhat scant. Drawing an arrow, Muhammad gives the order that it be plunged into the source of the water. A rivulet of water miraculously appears and the thirst of all the people is duly sated.240 In another, variant account the Prophet spits into a bucket of water and commands that it be poured into the well and that the water be stirred up with an arrow. The well miraculously overflows with water and all are satisfied.241 Control and compassion thus emerge as major themes from all these accounts.

water | 75 The Angel and the Water The story of Hajar (Hagar) and Ismaʿil (Ishmael) is common to many of the folk narratives of the prophets (Qi‚a‚ al-Anbiyā’) who preceded Muhammad. Here I will follow, and briefly outline, the narrative of Ibn Kathir. Firstly, however, it is useful to begin with what the Qur’an has to say about these two seminal figures in what we might term the ‘proto-history’ of Islam. Unlike Hajar, Ismaʿil is mentioned by name in the sacred text but the references are brief: God ‘has covenanted with Abraham and Ismaʿil that they should sanctify My House for those who compass it round, or use it as a retreat, or bow, or prostrate themselves (therein in prayer)’.242 The Qur’an draws specific attention to Ismaʿil and Ibrahim as the builders (or re-builders) of the Kaʿba: And remember Abraham and Ismaʿil raised the foundations of the House.243

Ismaʿil is one to whom God has given ‘favour above the nations’.244 He is characterised as both ‘an apostle (and) a prophet’ (rasūlan nabīyan);245 and he is lauded among those who are patient (min al-‚ābirīn).246 Apart from these references we find that the Qur’an itself tells us little more about Ismaʿil.247 It does not identify him as Ibrahim’s chosen victim for sacrifice.248 As we shall see, it is left to the tradition literature, encapsulated for example in the Íaªīª of al-Bukhari, together with the folk narratives of the Qi‚a‚ al-Anbiyā’ and many others, to flesh out our portrait of Ismaʿil. Furthermore, the ‘water miracle’ performed by the angel Gabriel for Hajar and her son Ismaʿil is unQur’anic, but it is a key feature of the tradition which developed. Ibn Kathir furnishes us with one of the classic accounts,249 deriving much of it from al-Bukhari:250 Ibrahim’s wife Sara (Sarah) has been barren for twenty years. So she tells her husband to sleep with the slave girl Hajar in the hope that Ibrahim might at last have children. Hajar duly becomes pregnant and vaunts her pregnancy over Sara who becomes so angry that she complains bitterly to her husband; he tells her to act with Hajar as Sara thinks fit. In fright, Hajar runs away and goes off to a spring (fa-nazalat ʿinda ʿaynin),251 presumably some distance from the family house. Already we see a ‘water’ motif intrude into the narrative and it is clear that the spring here

76  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us represents safety, at least from thirst. But, almost as a precursor to the main ‘water miracle event’, an angel appears to her, telling her not to be afraid: God will bring much good from the child she has conceived. She will bear a son and is commanded to name him Ismaʿil. All this comes to pass. But Sara’s jealousy increases to the extent that Ibrahim finally feels constrained to lead Hajar and Ismaʿil away from the family home; despite Hajar’s protestations, Ibrahim abandons mother and child in the present-day vicinity of Mecca. Hajar’s supply of water is used up, so, frantic for herself and her child in fear that they might both die of thirst, she runs between the mountains of al-Safa and al-Marwa, searching for help and water. Suddenly, an angel, identified in other texts as Gabriel,252 appears, digging with his wing or heel ‘at the place of Zamzam’ (ʿinda maw∂iʿ Zamzam). Water appears and Hajar and her son quench their thirst, saved by the action of that angel.253 There is a powerful intertextual resonance here with the actions of the young Bernadette in the primitive grotto at Lourdes. She is commanded by the Lady whom she sees to drink at a spring which she cannot yet detect. She is forced to scrabble in the mud and dirty water until she gains a little water which she can actually swallow. That minimal flow will later become a great spring.254 In Ibn Kathir’s account it is the angel who does the digging with his wing or heel, producing water which Hajar proceeds to gather in her hands, eventually filling up a container with water until it overflows.255 In other accounts, however, and even more significantly for comparative purposes with Bernadette, it is Ismaʿil himself who scrabbles in the earth at the direction of the angel, until the water flows,256 using his finger or toe (bi-i‚baʿihi).257 Later on, the well disappears and is lost to history until its rediscovery, excavation and repair by the Prophet’s paternal grandfather, ʿAbd al-Muttalib (sixth century ad) as the result of a dream.258 Of course, ancient narratives may vary. It is of interest that a minority tradition characterises Zamzam as Ibrahim’s well and declares that it was Ibrahim who actually dug it.259 Such a variant narrative, of course, would completely undermine the whole miraculous nature of the majority account of the well’s origins with Hajar, Ismaʿil and Gabriel.

water | 77 From all this, then, we may establish a grand paradigm which runs as follows: Moses > Job > Hajar and Ismaʿil > Zamzam > Muhammad.

Each figure connects intertextually with its successor for the common topos, or rather metamotif, is water and the common metatheme is the miraculous production of that water. Zamzam, and its healing properties analagous to those of Lourdes, is the final, divinely produced telos or goal. Miracles have been associated with the Well of Zamzam from ancient times. The internet is awash with accounts of such miracles. It was earlier believed that the waters of the well rose miraculously in the middle of the Islamic month of Shaʿban. The Hispano-Arab traveller, Ibn Jubayr (1145– 1217), records the event in 1183 as follows, though it is clear from his text that he attributes the miracle of the rising of the water to ignorant credulity rather than actuality; care was needed, however, that one did not publicly profess one’s scepticism of the claims of a miraculous nature for whatever took place, because of the popular violence towards such a sceptic which might result:260 On Friday the following day, a strange circumstance occurred in the Haram. It was that there was not a boy in Mecca but did not come early to it; and congregating all in the dome of Zamzam they cried with one voice, ‘Recite the tahlil’ [‘There is no God but God’] . . . Men and women were crowding round the dome of the blessed well because they thought, rather on the affirmation of the ignorant than the wise, that the water of Zamzam rose on the night of the middle of the month of Shaʿban . . . Their aim in this was to gain the grace of that blessed water whose rise was evident. The water distributors stood on the orifice of the well, drawing water and pouring it on the heads of people by throwing it from a bucket. Some received it on the face, others on the head or elsewhere, and often the water would go far from the force of the thrust from their hands. The men nevertheless called for more, and wept, while the women on their side rivalled them in weeping, and competed with them in prayers . . .261

Obvious analogies may be drawn here with the present-day immersion by pilgrims in the waters of Lourdes together with all the emotion and prayers engendered at that site by that immersion.

78  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Ibn Jubayr records the miraculous healing properties of this water as well as its miraculously delightful taste: A singular feature [fī amrihi ʿajab]262 of this water is that when you drink it on its issuing forth from the bottom of the well you find it, to the sense of taste, like milk coming from the udders of a camel. In this miracle of God Most High is evidence of His care and blessing that needs no description. ‘It serves the purpose for which it is drunk [huwa li-mā shuriba lahu] . . .,’263 as said the Prophet – may God bless and preserve him. ‘God, with His grace and favour, granted that all who thirst for it should drink therefrom.’ One of the tried effects of this blessed water is that if perchance a man should feel a touch of sickness or langour of the limbs, either from many circumambulations (of the Kaʿbah) or from the performance on foot of the lesser pilgrimage or for other reasons causing fatigue, and pours this water on his body, he will on the instant find relief and be enlivened and that which afflicts him will pass away.264

A major difference, of course, between healing in the waters of Zamzam and healing in the waters of Lourdes is that any sought-after healing is not the primary purpose nor intention of the entire Islamic pilgrimage, whereas, very often, pilgrims have visited Lourdes, from its very inception as a pilgrimage site, in search of physical or, at the very least, spiritual cures. Ibn Jubayr does record, however, that some spiritual aspects of the waters of Zamzam were sought by visitors to the Kaʿba as well. For when the Kaʿba was washed with the waters of Zamzam and ‘the water poured from the Kaʿbah many men and women hasted to it, seeking blessedness by laving their hands and feet in it, and often collecting it in vases they had brought for the purpose’.265 The great Maghribi traveller Ibn Battuta (1304–68/9 or 1377) was also well aware of the miraculous properties claimed for Zamzam. He noted in his famous Travelogue (Riªla): ‘We drank of the water of Zamzam, which, being drunk of, possesses the qualities which are related in the Tradition handed down from the Prophet (God bless and give him peace) . . .’ [wa sharibnā min mā’ Zamzam, wa huwa li-mā shuriba lahu ªasabamā warada ʿan al-nabī].266 The general attitude which lies behind so many of the miracles associated with the waters of Zamzam is, as noted above,267 encapsulated in the classic

water | 79 hadith mā’ zamzam li-mā shuriba lahu (The water of Zamzam effects the purpose for which it is drunk). This is explained by Mujahid:268 ‘If you drink the water of Zamzam in search of a cure, God will cure you. If you drink it out of thirst, God will quench your thirst. And if you drink it because you are hungry, God will satisfy you.’269 We see here, in this explanation by Mujahid, a particular emphasis on the role of intention (niyya), a concept which has a primary role in Islamic worship and law.270 And from these foundational texts, we may derive at least three kinds of ‘water miracles’: water as food and drink, water for healing and the miraculous proliferation and increase of water. An excellent example of the first, of water as miraculous food, is to be seen in the following story. The protagonist is a well-known Companion of the Prophet named Abu Dharr al-Ghifari (d. c. 652–3).271 He is discovered by the Prophet in the precincts of the Kaʿba and asked how long he has been there. He replies that he has been there for thirty days and nights. The Prophet asks who has fed him over this period and Abu Dharr replies that he has existed just on Zamzam water (mā kāna lā †aʿām illā mā’ zamzam). That is not all. Rather than this regime having a deleterious effect on his body, Abu Dharr says that he has actually put on weight! The Prophet exclaims: ‘[The water] is blessed! It is certainly food which fills one up’ (Innahā mubāraka. Innahā †aʿām †uʿm).272 However, it is the healing properties of Zamzam water for which it is most famous. These cures can include miraculous recovery from fevers and headaches.273 Particularly startling and dramatic is the following narrative of a cure from cancer. A Moroccan woman named Layla al-Halu suffered from a cancer from which she became very ill and in great pain. The cancer metastasised and spread throughout her chest. Her doctors in Paris gave her three months to live. Before returning to her home in Morocco, and at the suggestion of her husband, she went to Mecca to perform the minor pilgrimage (ʿumra). While there she existed on a daily regime of Zamzam water, bread and a single egg. Her severe pain lessened and she returned to Paris to see her doctors once more. To their amazement they found that the cancer had disappeared. She became convinced that she had been cured as a result of drinking the Zamzam water. Yet that was not the end of the story. The pain recurred and she­

80  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us underwent debilitating chemotherapy. But a second miracle was claimed: she believed that she was visited in a dream by a bright light which she knew to be the Prophet Muhammad himself. He stroked and pressed her head and told her that all would ultimately be well. The cancer finally disappeared for good.274 Scholarly commentators believed that a miracle, or dual miracle had occurred. Citing the above-mentioned hadith about a devout and focused intention accompanying the drinking of Zamzam water, one scholar observed that she had visited Mecca with a pure intention and drunk the Zamzam water in the hope that God would cure her through its agency. Her fervent prayers were accepted and God healed her. The hadith thus underlined and disclosed the very real, miraculous powers of the waters of Zamzam when coupled with the sincere intention of a supplicant. However, this narrative of a cure from cancer stresses that it is God who actually cures, God who is the agent behind the miraculous waters of Zamzam and thus, it is God who is the miracle worker rather than the water per se.275 As the commentator succinctly puts it: ‘The will of Allah Almighty desired this pure water to act on this illness and cure it.’276 A final example of miraculous events associated with Zamzam water concerns the fact that the water never seems to dry up, having flowed for well over a thousand years; the water levels of the spring/well remain the same. Such phenomena are regarded as deeply miraculous by pious Muslims. We may compare with the New Testament accounts of the feeding of the five and four thousand where there is a seemingly endless supply of loaves of bread until all are fed. Here at Zamzam there is an undiminishing, constantly replaced, flow and supply of water to the astonishment of all who have witnessed it down the ages. Modern research shows that taste and salt composition remain the same and all who have tasted it vouch for its drinkability. The well has never needed to be treated with chemicals and remains free of ‘biological growth’.277 Clearly, for the believing Muslim, the waters of Zamzam present not just a single miracle but a whole complex, intertextual and interlocking web of miracles. The extended development of the basic story of the finding of Zamzam by Ibrahim and Ismaʿil which we find in Ibn Kathir’s narrative belongs to the later folkloric, Qi‚a‚ al-Anbiyā’ tradition and the tafsīr rather than the

water | 81 Qur’anic text itself. The latter does not provide any parallel to Ibn Kathir’s narrative and its references to Ibrahim and Ismaʿil as a pair who act together are limited to a single set of verses.278 By contrast with the spring of Salsabil in Paradise,279 Zamzam is not mentioned in the Qur’an. Thus, there is no obligation on the Muslim faithful to believe in narratives such as those of Ibn Kathir. Nonetheless, it remains true that the majority of Muslims hold the water of Zamzam280 in very high esteem and many regard it as a miracle with miraculous properties.281 Ibn Kathir’s narrative is certainly infused with a sense of ‘divine presence’. For example, Hajar, upset at the prospect of being deserted by Ibrahim in a waterless valley wilderness, asks Ibrahim whether he is doing this at God’s command. Ibrahim affirms that this is the case and Hajar is thus filled with hope that God will not allow her to die in that place in consequence.282 Here then, most powerfully, is a belief in the theme of God acting mercifully and his very real presence in the world and desire to act in that world. The ‘wholeness’ of family life which Hajar had possessed with Ibrahim, and whose child Ismaʿil she has borne,283 is thus rudely and suddenly ruptured. Only the memory of this remains in the constant and thirsty presence of the infant. But that wholeness is restored in a completely different fashion by God. The angel tells her that she should not fear perishing in that desolate valley. Her son Ismaʿil will rejoin his father and (re)build the Kaʿba (literally, ‘the House of God’, Bayt Allāh) in that place.284 Thus the projected pairing of father and son as builders of the Kaʿba suggest a coming together of this part of the family and, although we are not told by Ibn Kathir about the future of Hajar, we may safely suppose that she returns, at least temporarily, with her infant son to Ibrahim. As we can see, the motif of water is powerfully articulated in the narrative of Ibn Kathir and the frantic running by Hajar between Safa and Marwa prefigures one of the key ªajj rituals.285 In her initial questioning of Ibrahim the metatheme of faith and doubt is portrayed: there is initial doubt followed by profound faith in God (underlined by the message of the angel) when she learns from Ibrahim that he is acting under God’s command. Embedded in all this is the overall metatheme of God’s authority and His articulation of the divine plan for the building of the Kaʿba, through the mouthpiece of the angel.

82  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us 3.4  The Narrative Arena In sum, then, we have a total of five narratives which we have surveyed and analysed: there are the twin narratives of Bernadette and Hajar with Ismaʿil which take place in what might be termed ‘real time’, though it might be more accurate to characterise the Hajar/Ismaʿil narrative as occurring in ‘prehistory’. The ‘real life’ narrative of the story and significance of Bernadette is then fictionalised in the three novels adumbrated above by Zola, Werfel and Arditti. Two immediate and similar narratological paradigms present themselves. In Ibn Kathir’s account, an angel (Jibril) appears and digs with his wing or heel for the purpose of producing water with which to satisfy Hajar and Ismaʿil’s thirst; water appears and, down the centuries, it is said to assume a variety of properties including, most notably here for comparative purposes, healing. At Lourdes, according to the non-fictional and fictional accounts of Laurentin and Werfel, the Virgin Mary asks Bernadette to dig, for purposes unknown to her, water appears and, again, the water swiftly becomes associated with healing. These narratives have some profound internal similarities in terms of themes and motifs. The dramatis personae in both accounts, who may be characterised as metamotifs, are celestial beings from another world; in each case there is searching and digging for another metamotif, water. The Islamic account focuses on the theme of thirst which is satisfied by the discovery of Zamzam, a spring later endowed with the theme of healing. Early on, at Lourdes, this theme of healing comes to the fore. There are differences, of course. The ‘intention’ behind the production of Zamzam is the very practical one of saving Hajar and Ismaʿil from dying of thirst. The request by the Lady, Aquerò, to Bernadette to drink from a spring which cannot yet be detected is completely opaque in intention at first. There are similarities and divergences in the respective accounts of the motif of the building. In both accounts buildings result. Bernadette receives the following command from the Lady whom she sees: ‘Go and tell the priests that people are to come here in procession and to build a chapel here.’286 Obeying the same impulse to mark and ‘signify’ places of sacred action, we find over the centuries the appearance and elaboration of very different types

water | 83 of building in Mecca from the perspective of structure, which now cover the Well of Zamzam and the sites of Safa and Marwa.287 Ibn Kathir’s ‘pre-history’ account of the exile of Hajar and Ismaʿil, and the ensuing discovery of the waters of Zamzam, is much less structured from a temporal point of view than the fictional narratives of Zola and Arditti, and the ‘real-time’ narrative of the apparitions of Bernadette. The jealousy and ill-feeling of Ibrahim’s wife Sara towards Hajar precipitates their being cast out of the family home but our text does not position the running of Hajar between Safa and Marwa, the appearance of the angel and the digging for water in a particular time frame. The impression is given that all these seminal events take place in a single day, although the actual time frame may well have been greater given that Hajar, in her desperate search for water, climbs the mountain (jabal) of Safa, descends, crosses a valley (wādī), climbs another mountain, the mountain of Marwa, and repeats these actions seven times.288 Bernadette’s eighteen apparitions took place between 11 February 1858 and 16 July of the same year. Within that time frame there was a special fifteen days of apparitions for the Lady had requested of Bernadette: ‘Would you have the graciousness to come here for fifteen days?’289 However, the specific numbers involved, eighteen and fifteen, have no mystical nor semiotic significance. When we turn to the fictional accounts by Zola and Arditti, a much greater play is made with the theme of time, and this is done in a deliberately artificial way. Writing of Zola’s 1894 novel, Lourdes, Angus Wilson commented: As a work of art, Lourdes has much of Zola at his best in it. The train packed with hideously diseased people, the agony of the jolting, the stifling heat, the devoted nuns and priests, the vital faith that makes the singing of the Offices an intense happiness despite the horror around – all this is unforgettable.290

Yet, overall, Wilson was not impressed by the novel: The brilliance of these opening chapters is unfortunately swallowed up in scattered action, meaningless detail, and melodrama that is too little prepared to be convincing. Already one feels that mechanical atmosphere

84  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us of the writer who is too tired to make his vision coherent, who cannot find energy to force the scattered elements into a whole.291

It is true that Lourdes does not, and cannot, rank, for example with Zola’s brilliant Rougon-Macquart cycle of novels.292 Lourdes (1894) is the first of Zola’s Trois Cités cycle of novels of which Rome (1896) and Paris (1898) constitute the other two, all written towards the end of his life in 1902, each reflecting Zola’s constant hostility towards the Catholic Church.293 That said, however, Wilson’s verdict may be somewhat harsh. Zola’s Lourdes does have a very interesting temporal structure. It is carefully articulated in five principal and lengthy chapters, each covering a single day (journée). The individual chapters are then themselves divided into smaller, untitled sections. The device is a useful frame, resonating as it does with a modern pilgrimage to Lourdes which might take place within the short space of less than a week, incorporating all the intensive rituals – water and otherwise – which have become associated with that pilgrimage. Above all, the novel is narrated in a linear fashion by one authorial voice. By contrast, Arditti’s novel, Jubilate, while also narrated over a period of five days (Monday, 16 June to Friday, 20 June of an unspecified year) – in conscious imitation of Zola? – has two narrators, Gillian and Vincent, whose voices alternate in separate chapters. Gillian’s story is told backwards, beginning on the Friday, 20 June, and moving back to the Monday, 16 June, while Vincent’s is linear, beginning on that latter date and moving forward to the Friday. Each short chapter is titled with the name of one of the protagonistnarrators (Vincent and Gillian) and the particular day of the week on which the action in that chapter takes place. The narratives which we have explored, whether they be the ‘real-time’ narrative of Laurentin’s biography of Bernadette, the ‘pre-history’ narrative of Ibn Kathir or the fictional narratives of Zola, Werfel and Arditti, deal in universal themes and motifs. The search for healing from sickness, often through the miraculous agency of water, is the metatheme or leitmotif par excellence. The narratives are multifaceted and often bespeak a quest for spiritual as well as physical healing. Divine agency, through the intermediary of the Lady or the angel, provides a hidden pathway to that healing. Repetition, as it were to reinforce the message, has a key role: there are eighteen apparitions of the

water | 85 Virgin Mary to Bernadette; Hajar runs seven times between Safa and Marwa. Hajar, of course, in her running is a type for the antitype of the running of all modern pilgrims as they move between Safa and Marwa each year during the ªajj. The early miracles at the grotto during Bernadette’s lifetime are a type for the antitype of the claimed miracles at the grotto of Lourdes today. There are no frame stories as such in the narratives which we have explored and yet, in a very real sense, each narrative ‘frames’ an overt or hidden quest for a species of salvation. Our narratives also frame a multiplicity of themes and metathemes, motifs and metamotifs, which we have identified above: all feed into a greater intertext in numerous world religions where the possibility of miracles can dominate and enchant the believing mind. The arch-protagonist for the believer in these ‘water miracles’ is, of course, God and this is acknowledged to be so in both the Islamic and Christian traditions. Those who might be termed ‘the agents of the miracle’ are Aquerò and the angel Gabriel. While there may be less doubt and scepticism on the Islamic side, the miracles claimed in Christianity, as we have seen, are often the source of much scepticism and, indeed, outright disbelief or, as in the case of Zola, fervent hostility. The miracles which we have surveyed above find their primary significance as exhibitions of God’s omnipotent power, care and desire for wholeness for the believer, and his continual intervention in a world perceived by many to be in a state of flux and chaos. Water in this chapter has figured as the primary narratological catalyst for the miracles we have described, resultant upon the thirst of Hajar and Ismaʿil on the one hand and the blind obedience of Bernadette on the other. However, it is worth noting with Arditti’s heroine Gillian in Jubilate that the modern miracle, even in the presence of the healing waters of Lourdes, may for both believer and sceptic take many forms: ‘We came looking for a miracle and I’ve found one.’ It is delusion she is cured of, not physical sickness.294

86  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us

4 Blood

4.1  Proto-miracles: Blood and its Contrastive Christian and Islamic Domains

I

n our previous chapters we have presented narratives of what we term ‘proto-miracles’ by way of setting the scene for our main accounts of the miraculous in Christianity and Islam. These ‘proto-miracles’ comprise narratives common to both the Christian and Islamic traditions whose origins may be located in the Old and New Testaments and the Qur’an. However, this will not be the case in our chosen accounts of ‘protomiracles’ which focus on blood, even though, as previously, such accounts will serve as prologues or prefaces to the principal narratives of the chapter, namely the events of Bolsena in 1263 and an account of a Sufi ‘blood tradition’. The reasons are clear: the principal theo-anthropological domain of blood in Christianity is sacrifice.1 This is articulated most powerfully in the Catholic Christian tradition which holds that, at the celebration of the sacrifice of the Mass, the blood and wine are transubstantiated into the body and blood of Christ in what is regarded in essence as the same sacrifice of Calvary and not a repetition.2 However, the principal theo-anthropological domain of blood in Islam is creation and the revelation of God’s power in that creation.3 God dynamically and powerfully calls attention to the fact that He has created man out of a blood clot (khalaqa al-insān min ʿalaq).4 In Christianity, the blood which flows from the side of the dead Christ exhibits the ‘essence’ of the God-Man; in Islam, the blood clot (ʿalaq) exhibits the ‘essence’ of God’s power and man’s simple, undivinised humanity. The 86

blood | 87 first segues neatly into the events at Bolsena which we shall shortly describe, where the emphasis is on wine becoming blood as part of a sacrifice. The second segues into our story of a Sufi novice where the product of his intense prayer is blood. Obviously, in the mainstream Islamic tradition, the account of Longinus piercing the side of the dead Christ does not, and cannot, figure for the simple reason that, for Islam, Jesus remains uncrucified and someone else is crucified in his place.5 In sum then, this section of proto-miracles on the theme of blood presents two overall contrastive paradigms: Christian: Jesus > sacrifice > blood > death > flow of blood > miracle of healing of Longinus > Lanciano and Bolsena6 > Eucharistic miracles. Islamic: God > miracle of creation > blood clot (ʿalaq) > man > Sufi novice.

The Christian Domain We can identify three proto-miracles which set the scene ultimately for our classic paradigm of ‘change into blood’. The first is a New Testament example of miraculous change of liquid substances; the latter two form part of that broader intertext which relates to blood: • There is firstly what we might term from a narratological perspective an elementary pre-paradigm of water > wine. • Then there is the healing of Longinus. • Finally there is the miraculous flow of blood from the body of the dead Christ. All these, in turn, prefigure our principal, post-New Testament Christian paradigm of bread > blood which we will survey and analyse in the next section on Bolsena. This shares in a broader intertext whose principal narratological dynamo is ‘change of substance’ in a mysterious and miraculous way. In addition, by means of this intertext, we can link our present motif of blood to that of the bread whose miraculous properties we surveyed in a previous section. We will discuss each of the above-mentioned three miracles here. Water > Wine  Jesus’ attendance at a wedding feast in Cana where he performs his first miracle by changing water into wine is very well known. The

88  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us wine runs out and Jesus’ mother, Mary, draws his attention to this fact. Jesus seems at first to tell his mother to let him alone since his ‘hour has not yet come’, seeming to imply that it is not yet the moment for him to start performing miracles but, in fact, referring to his future ‘glorification’.7 But Mary, almost knowing in advance what will happen, instructs the servants at the feast to carry out any instruction Jesus might give. The latter duly gives orders for the six jars of ablutions water to be filled; this is done and the man who presides over the feast is called upon to taste the water: it has now turned into wine! The president tells the bridegroom: ‘Everyone serves good wine first and the worse wine when the guests are well-wined; but you have kept the best wine till now.’8 Commenting on this passage, Joseph Ratzinger (the future Pope Benedict XVI, r. 2005–13) notes that the miracle which Jesus performs at Cana does not, prima facie, seem to gell or harmonise with his later miracles.9 Jesus produces a massive glut of wine for what is just ‘a private party’.10 But Ratzinger then reminds us that ‘the sign of God is overflowing generosity’ and that such ‘abundant giving is his “glory”’.11 Intriguingly, Ratzinger also draws our attention to a possible intertext with Dionysus, the god of wine: we might see at the heart of the Cana narrative a transformation of the Dionysus myth even if such an interpretation was far from the mind of St John.12 Regardless of origins, however, Pheme Perkins stresses the symbolic nature of the whole story and, while an initial reading of the miracle might lead us to focus on such major themes as ‘glory’, ‘power’, ‘generosity’ and, on the part of Mary at least, ‘faith’,13 the primary motifs, of course, are self-evidently the water and the wine. Blood Flow and Healing The Gospels do not name the centurion who guarded Jesus at the crucifixion14 nor the (same?) soldier who pierced Jesus’ side with a lance.15 Identifying the two, medieval tradition names this figure Longinus. He suffers from poor eyesight, but this is completely restored after he touches his eyes with hands covered in Jesus’ blood. The legend has it that he becomes a Christian and dies a martyr’s death.16 Indeed, medieval scholars like David of Augsburg (d. 1272) and Dionysius the Carthusian (d. 1471) identified a double miracle.17 The Gospels relate

blood | 89 that when Jesus’ side was pierced with the lance ‘immediately there came out blood and water’.18 The fact that blood was recorded by John as having flowed from the body was regarded by David and Dionysius as miraculous because it was impossible for blood to flow from a dead body.19 Both St John and the early fathers interpret the miracle verse typologically: the Old Testament prophet Zechariah (fl. 520 bc) had earlier stated: ‘They will mourn for the one they have pierced as though for an only child . . .’20 John writes: ‘And again, in another place scripture says, “They will look to the one whom they have pierced.”’21 Ratzinger reminds us that the double flow of water and blood was perceived by the early fathers as an image of the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist ‘which spring forth from the Lord’s pierced side, from his heart’.22 Here then, from John, through the early fathers and the medieval scholars to the modern Joseph Ratzinger, we find an intertextual conjunction of water and blood together with an attempt from earliest times to interpret this miracle typologically and, indeed, sacramentally. For the medieval and modern Church, this is a narative of a dual miracle focused on the twin topoi and motifs of blood and water, ineluctably conjoined: Longinus’ poor eyesight is cured and blood flows with water from a dead body. These are the metathemes of the narration which constitute a dual miracle. As Caroline Walker Bynum powerfully notes, Longinus may be accounted ‘the facilitator of redemption’ since it is he who pierces the side of Christ with a spear, thus precipitating the flow of the blood which saves us.23 The Islamic Domain Blood is at the very heart of the Qur’an. The angel Gabriel/Jibril commands the Prophet Muhammad in the famous Meccan Sura 96: Proclaim! (or Read!) In the name of thy Lord and Cherisher who created – created man, out of a (mere) clot of congealed blood.24

90  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us The verse has an intratextual resonance with one in an earlier sura in which it is revealed that We made the sperm (nu†fa) into a clot of congealed blood (ʿalaqatan).25

Harun Sahin draws our attention to the way that modern scholars have argued from these two verses that we can detect an early outline of the development of embryology which is slowly being brought to light in our modern scientific age.26 Sahin notes, however, that another scholar, M. Bucaille, rejects ‘blood clot’ as the traditional translation of ʿalaq. For Bucaille, the correct translation is ‘egg’.27 Nonetheless, if we adhere to the traditional translation of ʿalaq as ‘blood clot’, then it is clear that, in itself as a very early stage in life, however interpreted, and from the dynamic circumstances of the actual first revelation of the Qur’an, that the ʿalaq is both sanctified and possessed of a particular quality; that quality, though clearly well short of the divine, nonetheless inhabits the sphere of the sacred. The renowned anthropologist Mary Douglas reminds us that ‘blood, in Hebrew religion, was regarded as the source of life, and not to be touched except in the sacred conditions of sacrifice’.28 Contrasting with this, of course, is the reverse side of the anthropological ‘coin’ whereby blood is regarded as a pollutant.29 This was true of the Jewish,30 the Christian31 and the Islamic traditions.32 In the latter, that attitude still persists with regard to the exemption from fasting during Ramadan for menstruating women33 and the full execution of the pilgrimage rituals.34 Thus we find in Islam a notable dichotomy: blood, in the primary form of the ʿalaq is sacred as a life force; but blood is also a pollutant and renders one ritually impure. That said, the Qur’an makes it very clear that deliberate shedding of blood is to be feared and, indeed, avoided. When God tells the angels that He is going to create a khalīfa (namely, Adam) on earth, they fearfully ask: ‘Wilt thou place therein one who will make mischief therein and shed blood (wa yasfiku al-dimā’ )?’35

It seems that the angels had good reason to be apprehensive if we are to accept al-Tabari’s tafsīr: he tells us that the first inhabitants of the earth were the jinn

blood | 91 who were, indeed, responsible for bloodshed and killing:36 ‘And the angels knew from God’s knowledge that there was no greater sin before God than the shedding of blood.’37 According to another tradition quoted by al-Tabari, God foresees that Adam will be a shedder of blood and ‘the angels found it distressing that God should place someone on earth who would disobey him’.38 The Islamic domain thus exhibits here a text whose primary motif, indeed metamotif, is blood in diverse forms, whose themes are the sacred and the profane, to use Mircea Eliade’s evocative title.39 For the Muslim, all are enveloped in a dual miracle: the miracle of the revelation of the Qur’an and the miracle of man’s primeval, and continuing, emergence from an ʿalaq. 4.2  Bolsena 1263: Host > Blood The events at Bolsena in 1263 constitute and illustrate a post-New Testament paradigm in which the accidents of the sacramental bread, the Host, used during the celebration of Mass are visibly seen to drip blood, blood that for the believer is the actual blood of Christ. At Bolsena, as with the miracle of Lanciano surveyed above, the initial catalyst of the miracle is the nagging doubt of the priest-celebrant about the reality and truth of the doctrine of transubstantiation to which he is required to adhere. Such proofs of host > blood were embraced enthusiasically by the faithful. As André Vauchez puts it: ‘Les Laïcs suivirent avec enthousiasme et entourèrent d’une dévotion particulière des hosties qui s’étaient mises à saigner entre les mains d’un prêtre incrédule (Bolsena, 1264 [sic.]) ou sous les coups d’un juif profanateur . . .’40 We shall return shortly to the latter dimension of host > blood as a direct result of perceived profanation or threat of those allegedly hostile to the Church and/or its believers, but let us firstly survey in a little more detail the famous miracle of Bolsena. At the heart of this kind of blood miracle lie the twin catalytic themes of doubt and profanation or threat. Bolsena today is a small town of some 4,083 inhabitants (in 2014)41 not far from the city of Orvieto in Umbria. The city gets its present name from the Latin urbs vetus (Old City).42 As early as 590 it had been an episcopal seat43 and it became a famous residence of later thirteenth-century popes.44 It has not always gone by that name. In 990, when the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sigeric, went on pilgrimage to Rome, and to receive the pallium

92  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us at the hands of the Pope,45 the town went by the name of Santa Cristina.46 The latter was a third-century Christian martyr who had been born in the town. When she converted to Christianity her enraged father secured her heel with a rope, weighted it with a great rock and hurled his daughter into the Lago di Bolsena.47 However, the rock was seen to rise to the surface bearing the marks of her feet. It was later enshrined in a chapel dedicated to the memory of Cristina. A fourth-century church erected there underwent rebuilding in the eleventh century.48 Thus Santa Cristina/Bolsena was a site of miracles, and probable pilgrimage to its Chiesa di Santa Cristina, long before the more famous Eucharistic miracle of Bolsena in 1263. With the narrative of Santa Cristina, from an anthropological perspective, we have a miracle which exhibits the dual motifs of water in a lake and a rock which floats: water and stone. Nature seems to be defied. Just as, later, in the Eucharistic miracle, the impossible would seem to happen with the Host changed in the minds and eyes of the beholders into something which drips blood,49 so in ancient Santa Cristina the laws of gravity are defied as the imprinted rock floats to the surface. God seems to make the impossible possible in the astonished eyes of the beholders. In 1263 a Bohemian priest named Peter of Prague was on pilgrimage to Rome and celebrated Mass in Bolsena.50 He had long been afflicted by doubts about the reality of transubstantiation at the consecration at Mass of the two elements of bread and wine.51 On pronouncing the words of consecration, the astonished priest found that the elevated Host was dripping blood which marked his vestments and fell to the floor.52 It is interesting how the drama and dynamic of the miracle are narrated in slightly different ways by modern commentators according to their chosen degree of verbal emphasis. For Charles Freeman, the Host ‘drips’ blood.53 For Alison Raju, the ‘blood was gushing out of the consecrated host’.54 Francis Marsden is more restrained: ‘The host bled in the hands of the priest Peter of Prague’.55 Thus are the narratives of miracles enhanced and endowed with greater immediacy or, alternatively, treated with some restraint according to authorial taste and belief. There are variations too in the modern narratives as to where the blood actually lands. As we have seen, Freeman tells how the Host drips onto the floor.56 The stained vestments become a ‘major relic’ in Orvieto Cathedral

blood | 93 and the floor of the chapel of the miracle is still stained red and can be viewed by the modern visitor today.57 However, in the account of Joan Carroll Cruz, the ‘blood started to seep from the consecrated Host and trickle over [Peter’s] hands onto the altar and corporal’.58 This account is paralleled by that of Renzo Allegri in which ‘drops’ are perceived to ‘fall’ after a profuse bleeding of the Host, but the drops stain the corporal and altar linens.59 This corporal now has a place of honour in Orvieto Cathedral, where it may be seen in a jewelled casket in the Cappella del Corporale,60 a chapel which dates from about 1350.61 What was the reaction of the priest, Peter of Prague, to the miracle which he witnessed? In each major account we see a movement from doubt through fear to faith and belief. But the narratives again differ slightly. According to one, the shaken priest, shocked out of his disbelief, tried to conceal the blood, broke off from saying Mass and sought transport to Orvieto where the Pope, Pope Urban IV (r. 1261–4), was in residence.62 Another version has Peter initially hiding the bloodstained vestments and linens in the sacristy before he realises that the miracle cannot be hidden.63 In yet another modern version of the miracle, Pope Urban is an actual witness to the miracle64 while in other accounts he is simply resident in Orvieto at the time and is brought news of what has happened.65 After investigation, the event is accepted as miraculous by the Church,66 and both Orvieto Cathedral and the Chiesa di Santa Cristina become foci for visitation and pilgrimage in the centuries which follow.67 Indeed, Orvieto Cathedral becomes the ‘house of the miracle’ since, according to some accounts, it was built at the request of Pope Urban himself as a shrine for the Bolsena corporal.68 Not all, however, are in agreement with this account. Michele Mattioni holds that the cathedral at Orvieto was already under construction by the time the miracle of Bolsena took place in 1263.69 In turn, the architectural historian, Bernhard Schütz, disagrees with Mattioni: he claims that the building of the cathedral, starting in 1290, was a direct response to the miracle at Bolsena.70 Whatever the actual truth of the matter, it is clear that the large influx of pilgrims wishing to view the miraculous sacred corporal had rendered the old cathedral too small and thus the foundation stone of a new and larger edifice was laid by Pope Nicholas IV (r. 1288–92)71 on 15 October 1290.72

94  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Urban IV’s devotion to the Eucharist73 led him in 1264 to institute the feast of Corpus Christi by means of a papal bull entitled Transiturus de hoc mundo.74 It has been claimed that the blood miracle of Bolsena acted as a catalyst for this proclamation75 but Bynum holds this claim to be apocryphal: neither contemporary art nor contemporary texts prior to the fourteenth century, nor Urban’s bull itself, make reference to the miraculous events at Bolsena.76 The miracle of Bolsena kindles faith from doubt. Blood, however, could signal in a very real semiotic sense for the believer, God’s purposes in other ways. It could signal, for example, as we shall briefly itemise, a protest against profanation and abuse of the sacred species. Our primary miraculous blood paradigm thus far in this chapter may be characterised as Host > blood. But diverse others may be identified as well. These include: • • • • •

profanation/abuse of Host > blood identification with Christ > stigmatic blood healing sought > blood of the martyr coagulated blood > liquified blood chalice for wine > blood

In three magisterial volumes77 Caroline Walker Bynum has analysed in particular the first of these paradigms. The blood, as she stresses, is always a sign of presence,78 but also of salvation and redemption: the early Middle Ages viewed Longinus as a sinner who repented, sought forgiveness from Jesus on the cross and received healing by direct contact with His blood.79 Longinus is thus, in Bynum’s phrase, not just a ‘facilitator of redemption’,80 physically and spiritually, for himself but by his actions he allows the salvific blood of Christ to become available for all mankind,81 From this protypical Longinus account might be derived a specific, narratological Longinus paradigm, whose component parts can be specifically identified as follows: Christ’s presence > blood > Longinus > profanation by piercing > healing > personal and universal redemption and salvation.

blood | 95 Such a paradigm may underline much of what follows but its direction may move from ‘redemption and salvation’ to a dramatic epiphany. As Bynum succinctly puts it, blood is a herald of ‘both presence and violation’.82 The Paradigm of Profanation/Abuse of the Host > Blood This particular paradigm is often associated with widespread anti-semitic attitudes towards the Jews.83 The essence of the story is that a consecrated Host comes into the possession of a Jew who abuses the Host with sharp instruments and blood flows.84 Jews were accused of ‘host crucifixion’.85 The Jewish theft of a consecrated Host might also precipitate the flow of blood.86 From a narratological perspective it is significant that a frequent theme in many of the stories about Jews desecrating a consecrated Host is that they are unable to destroy it after such a desecration.87 Behind, and parallel to, such anti-semitism was the cult of the Virgin Mary, at least as it developed in eleventh–twelfth-century England. Mary was endowed with characteristics of mercy and queenship but also characterised as a ‘bane of the Jews’ and one who sought to convert and punish them. Jews were accused of ‘desecrating images, blaspheming against Mary and assaulting her followers’.88 Such hatred of the Jews even expressed itself in the propagation of blood libels according to which they were accused of ritually murdering Christian children in order to use their blood.89 Interestingly, however, in what is both a Marian and Eucharistic miracle, one which is in total contrast to the anti-semitic strain of the above accounts, Mary, in a popular and powerful narrative, saves a Jewish boy from death: having carelessly received Holy Communion alongside his Christian companions, he is cast into an oven by an enfuriated father. But Mary allows the boy to remain completely unharmed by the flames.90 The father is executed and the boy and the boy’s mother convert to Christianity.91 Identification with Christ > Stigmatic Blood From medieval times at least, it has been understood that the priest ‘acts in persona Christi Capitis’.92 At ordination the priest, an ordinary man, is transformed and becomes an ikon of Christ himself who is characterised as ‘the eternal priest’.93 He is sacramentally aligned to Christ in his priesthood.94

96  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us However, the idea of the priest as an alter Christus assumes a particularly vivid aspect on those very rare occasions when the priest becomes a stigmatic. The wounds of the passion of Christ appear in the body of the priest and, while the blood of the latter remains human blood – it is not believed to change into the actual blood of Christ in the way that Catholic belief holds that the wine at Mass becomes the blood of Christ after the Consecration – it symbolises and parallels in a mystical fashion the passion and death of Christ himself. The miraculous nature of some stigmatic phenomena has been debated.95 The most famous stigmatic of the twentieth century, Padre Pio Forgione of Pietrelcina (1887–1968), later canonised on 16 June 2002 by Pope John Paul II as St Pio, was the subject of much intense speculation and suspicion concerning the origin and nature of the wounds which appeared in his body.96 It is, of course, the famous medieval saint of Assisi, St Francis (1182– 1226) who ranks as the archetypical alter Christus by virtue of his miraculous stigmata.97 Though not a priest, and remaining a deacon,98 he embodied the finest sacerdotal virtues of purity, humility and brotherly love. Woodward suggests that, above all other people, Francis marked a movement in Christian spirituality towards a concentration on Christ’s humanity. Thus, to be Christ-like was to copy in a really literal way the very human aspects of the life and works of Jesus.99 However, extremely few human beings are marked with the stigmata, least of all in the miraculous fashion in which it was bestowed on Francis. Around the time of 15 September 1224, the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, on Mount Alverno, Francis, in ecstatic prayer, saw in a vision a six-winged seraph with a crucifix between his wings.100 The vision disappeared and Francis found that the five wounds of the passion of Christ on the cross began to appear on his body: For the marks of nails began to appear in his hands and feet, resembling those he had seen in the vision of the man crucified. His hands and feet seemed bored through in the middle with four wounds, and these holes appeared to be pierced with nails of hard flesh; the heads were round and black, and were seen in the palms of his hands, and in his feet in the upper part of the instep. The points were long and appeared beyond the skin on

blood | 97 the other side, and were turned back as if they had been clenched with a hammer. There was also in his right side a red wound made by the piercing of a lance; and this often threw out blood, which stained the tunic and drawers of the saint.101

Here then, it is ecstatic prayer, rather than doubt as at Bolsena, which precipitates the blood miracle. And, whereas at Bolsena, the blood flows from the Host, signifying the actual body of Christ in the form of bread, on Mount Alverno the blood issues from a human who has become a veritable ikon of the passion.102 Healing Sought > Blood of the Martyr Blood for healing, and the search for it, was a common topos of the Middle Ages.103 With regard to the saints, Deirdre Jackson suggests a taxonomy of three types of healing miracle: ‘Those performed by the saint directly, those performed by proxy and those performed posthumously.’104 She identifies examples of all of these in the life of the famous Abbot and Bishop of Lindisfarne, St Cuthbert (d. 687).105 Some of the most striking, perhaps because their modality is the most strange, are the posthumous miracles performed by a saint after his death. The martyred saint especially became a focus of particular veneration. Jackson draws our attention to a liturgical Office written by a contemporary of St Thomas à Becket named Benedict. This Canterbury monk had been present at the brutal killing of the archbishop on 29 December 1170.106 In this Office Benedict expresses his wonder at both the number of Becket’s miracles and their excellence: he was particularly impressed by the miraculous restoration of eyes and genitals to suppliants who had lost them.107 Unlike Cuthbert, Becket had no miracles or signs attributed to him prior to his death,108 except in popular retrospective hagiography: one such account has him eating with the pope and duplicating Jesus’ miracle of Cana three times.109 The brutal murder changed everything: the first blow to Becket by the sword of the knight Reginald Fitz Urse took off the top of Becket’s head. Finally, a helper of the four knights by the name of Hugh of Horsea ‘put his foot on the victim’s neck, thrust the point of his sword into the open skull and scattered blood and brains on the floor’.110 It was an extremely savage and messy murder which produced much blood.

98  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a nd th e mir a cul o us Afterwards, and as the reality of what had occurred sank in, rags were dipped in Becket’s blood and some of it was collected in small containers.111 A cult began, though Barlow stresses that not all accounted Thomas’ murder as martyrdom from the moment it happened.112 The essence of the cult was blood, a martyr’s blood.113 The first miracle occurred as early as six days following the murder. Rags stained with Becket’s blood were applied to the eyes of a blind woman called Britheva who became able to see again.114 Other miracles swiftly followed: applying or even drinking the blood of the martyred archbishop resulted in cures of a paralysed tongue, a person struck down with fever, a dying man and the swollen legs of Matthew of Canterbury’s wife, a woman named Godiva.115 The blood from the Host at Bolsena in a slightly later age (1263) seems at first sight somewhat removed from the blood shed by Becket in 1170. The first was designed to be a remedy for doubt. The second, the miraculous healings resulting from the drinking of Becket’s blood or the application of material soaked in that blood, bore immediate witness to the sanctity of the saint and the grievous wrong inflicted on him by King Henry II (r. 1154–89), wittingly or unwittingly, and the four knightly murderers. However, from an anthropological and narratological perspective, this metamotif of blood bespeaks a supernatural domain of power well beyond the physical properties of that substance. Differences, of course, still remain despite this unifying aspect of sanguinary divine power: Bolsena produces divine blood from the Host according to popular Catholic belief; the martyred Becket sheds human blood from his body whose product is, nonetheless, divine healing. Coagulated Blood > Liquefied Blood The miraculous liquefaction of blood from its coagulated state signifies and asserts life, indeed, eternal life.116 The most famous liquefaction of blood, said to take place every year up to this day in Naples, is the liquefaction of the blood of the early fourth-century martyr, St Januarius, on his feast day of 19 September.117 Failure of the blood to liquefy is regarded as a sign of impending disaster.118 While a procession with the relics of St Januarius through the streets of Naples is said to have calmed a violent eruption of Vesuvius in 1631,119 Thavis tells us that non-liquefaction down the ages has been fol-

blood | 99 lowed by plagues, wars, earthquakes, epidemics, political conflict, droughts, an invasion by Turkey, not to mention the fact that thirteen archbishops of Naples died after such non-liquefaction.120 Here, if anywhere, is a dynamic example of blood which, in popular Neapolitan belief at least, has miraculous powers. The hierarchs in the Vatican, however, in the last few decades have been more circumspect and some have preferred to characterise the event as it occurs on any of its three ‘liquefaction feast days’ as a ‘prodigy’ rather than a ‘miracle’.121 Despite official Vatican scepticism though, mixed with the seeming sensitivity of modern popes like Benedict XVI (r. 2005–13) and Francis (r. 2013–) kissing the ampoule of St Januarius’ blood when they visited Naples in 2007 and 2015 respectively, Thavis succinctly notes that ‘in general, the Vatican has learned not to mess with Saint Januarius’.122 The phenomenon of the liquefaction of the blood of St Januarius at Naples shares in the metatheme of an exhibition of sacred power, a characteristic also, as we have seen, of the event of Bolsena and the post-mortem healings in the blood of the martyred Archbishop Becket. Narratologically, the liquefaction also exhibits the wider theme of protection. St Januarius has become the revered patron and protector of the city of Naples. Failure of his blood to liquefy is taken by some as a personal insult to the city, a withdrawal of protection. A liquefaction accomplished is a dynamic sign that all is well and that St Januarius continues in his designated primary protective role.123 Chalice for Wine > Blood Caroline Walker Bynum notes the medieval topos whereby blood suddenly appears in the chalice in place of wine:124 ‘Subito in dicto calice miraculose verus sanguis oculis corporeis visibilis apparuit’125 (‘Suddenly in the aforesaid chalice, true blood miraculously appeared, visible to bodily eyes’).126 She stresses, however, that these sorts of what she calls ‘chalice miracles’ did not follow the usual major pattern of Eucharistic miracles in which blood would be seen to drip or pour from a consecrated Host as evidence to a miscreant, disbeliever or desecrator of the truth in Catholic tradition of the miracle of transubstantiation.127 We have briefly surveyed five blood paradigms in addition to the primary

100  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us one of Host > Blood. In each of these we can identify what might be termed a ‘middle figure’ or element which is ‘the catalyst of need’. Narratologically this is the real engine of change. We might contrast it with the Joseph story as it appears both in the Book of Genesis and the Qur’an where it is the dream which is the catalyst for advancing the narration.128 There is a need for and by the Host to assert its true sacred identity and majesty to the profaner and desecrator by pouring real blood. There is a need for the would-be saint who meditates fervently on the passion of Christ to so identify with Christ that he or she becomes a stigmatic. There is a need to show to the assassin and the simple pious person alike that the slain martyr is indeed a saint whose soul is indubitably in Heaven, by the production of healing miracles. Those who might doubt that the coagulated blood in a phial is indeed that of a saint need reassurance and they have their doubts laid to rest when that coagulated blood liquefies. Finally, the wine in the chalice which spontaneously becomes blood is again a sign of reassurance to the Catholic doubter and sceptic of the truth of transubstantiation. Narratologically, then, the theme of ‘need’ is cited between the two polarised themes of ‘doubt’ and ‘belief’. Other themes of power, sacredness and admonition are never far behind. As Bynum succinctly summarises: ‘Blood did not appear randomly.’129 Blood miracles, then, served to quell doubt. But they had political, financial and social ramifications as well.130 In any consideration of such blood phenomena, and indeed, all other miraculous phenomena as well, context is all. Referring to the devotion, particularly among the older generation of Neapolitans, to St Januarius, John Thavis notes that this devotion arises not from the pious enlightenment by that saint of the people in their doctrines, nor from an increase in hope nor from the expectation of a juster community but simply because he delivers miracles. He fulfils a need.131 Apparitions, too, fulfil a similar need, a need for reassurance, comfort, safety in addition to confirmation of those doctrines held to be true by the faithful. The visions at Fatima, for example, which took place between 13 May and 13 October 1917, had as their hideous backdrop, as Chris Maunder reminds us, the horrors of the First World War, with political unrest, food riots and many of the youths of Portugal finding themselves in the thick of the fighting in that war. Mary’s appearance was a consoling

blood | 101 presence, one who brought news that that terrible war would soon be over.132 The First World War, with all its horrors, bloodshed, chaos and unrest, did come to an end in the year succeeding the Fatima apparitions, on Armistice Day, 11 November 2018. But 1917 itself had also been a spectacularly horrible backdrop to Fatima in other respects as well, with the outbreak of the Russian Revolution and the bloody Battles of Arras, Ypres and Passchendaele.133 Wartime need for comfort and reassurance can be paralleled by peacetime need for confirmation that deceased persons, revered in their lifetimes for their sanctity, are indeed in Heaven, usually by means of formal canonisation of that person. This is particularly true of founders of religious orders. For example, the canonisation cause was opened in France in 2016 by Bishop Joseph de Metz-Noblat of Langres of Mother Marie-Adèle Garnier (1838–1924): she founded in 1898 at Montmartre, Paris, a Benedictine congregation of nuns, known formally as the Adorers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and colloquially as the Tyburn Nuns because of the presence of one community’s convent near the old execution site at Tyburn in London. It is claimed that on one occasion durng Mass Mother Garnier witnessed the consecrated Host become visible bleeding flesh.134 The metamotif of blood thus looms large in all these accounts. From Bolsena in 1263 and its primary blood paradigm, through the other blood paradigms which we have adumbrated, into the present age, we find a constant leitmotiv of life and power. For the believer, God is alive in the world and a primary theophany at certain times of need takes the form of blood. Within that foundational paradigm of wine > blood, exercised and energised by every priest at every Mass in the eyes of the believer, there is an eternal and ongoing redemption for which the lance of Longinus stands as precursor.135 Mechtild of Magdeburg in the thirteenth century powerfully and clearly supported this idea, stating that Christ’s wounds would continue to bleed until the end of time until sin itself had ceased to be.136 Theologically and narratologically, then, blood is the arch-symbol, sign and metamotif of eternal salvation. It is little wonder that its profanation, or alleged profanation, in terms of the sacred species at Mass should have engendered the profound horror of the pious believer in the Middle Ages,

102  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us and that a need to prove the reality of the presence of Christ in the Eucharist to the sceptic and the doubter was omnipresent. Such theological need, of course, opened the way for the incautious, over-pious or just plain fraudulent to embellish the primary event as perceived in its unadorned state with much myth and legend. One might create the primary event of the ‘miracle’ in an outright medieval fraud,137 or, indeed, in a modern one.138 Thus a certain South Korean Catholic named Julia Youn Hong-sun received communion and then claimed that the Host had become flesh which bled inside her mouth.139 She was later excommunicated.140 It is useful, finally, to sieve the blood miracle events adumbrated above through our four ‘gradations of attitude’ of disbelief and scepticism, caution, belief, and memory and memorialisation. We have already stressed that the miracle, whether it was the Host turning into flesh or suddenly dripping blood, was designed to be a catalyst for the curing of doubt, doubt as to the reality of transubstantiation, doubt which could afflict even the pious and the theologically learned.141 Equally, however, firm faith might be the catalyst for a miraculous vision with the wounds of Christ at its heart. A popular narrative recounts what has become characterised as ‘St Gregory’s Mass’. According to this story, Pope St Gregory I (r. 590–604)142 had a vision during Mass of Christ bearing the marks of the passion, a vision which gave rise to numerous artistic depictions such as that produced by Simon Bening in about 1535–40.143 In such paintings we see the blood from the wounds of Christ flowing into the chalice, portraying what has been called ‘the quintessential Eucharistic tale’.144 Narratologically, we have in this story a union of vision and the appearance of chalice blood. For Eamon Duffy, Pope Gregory I was possibly the greatest pope who ever lived and certainly, the greatest in late antiquity.145 Gregory’s humble monastic piety had led him to try to refuse the papacy when, as just a deacon by rank, he was elected to succeed Pope Pelagius II (r. 579–90)146. It comes as no surprise, then, to find such miraculous phenomena as ‘St Gregory’s Mass’ associated with Pope St Gregory. Duffy puts it succinctly: ‘The piety revealed in his Dialogues is colourful, receptive to miracles and marvels, readily moved to awe’.147 In Gregory, vision, sacred blood and chalice merge in a narratological whole, the metatheme of vision embracing neatly the twin

blood | 103 topoi or metamotifs of blood and chalice; all are given a further dimension in physical artistic expression by such as the artist Simon Bening. Gregory’s devotion and piety were not of a sophisticated and intellectual nature148 despite his acumen and huge practical abilities in a multiplicity of areas.149 Temperamentally then, he would have been predisposed to vision and miracle and inclined to belief in such phenomena like many adherents of popular strains of Christianity, before and after him.150 Others, however, were not so sure. The 1451 decree of the papal legate sent to Germany, Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa (1401–64), Archbishop of Brixen, vehemently inveighed against and, indeed, forbade, the display and adoration of ‘red hosts’ which were believed to be stained with Christ’s own blood.151 Nicholas was acutely aware of how ordinary people might be deceived152 and hostile too, to the sale of indulgences153 and those pious devotions which were centred on the alleged physical manifestations of sacred blood.154 It is clear that this Nicholas of Cusa attacked fraud, and perceived fraud, wherever he encountered it. He was also one of three major fifteenth-century scholars who questioned and demolished the authenticity of the so-called ‘Donation of Constantine’ which had previously been held to date from the fourth century.155 Thus, pious acceptance and belief might feature in the hearts of the faithful, high and low, but such attitudes were matched by senior hierarchs like Nicholas of Cusa with profound doubt, scepticism and, indeed, disbelief. Such phenomena as Hosts which turned to flesh and chalices which manifested not wine but blood were held to belong to the domain of fraud. Their alleged miraculous efficacy was likewise held to be fraudulent and, along with the sale of indulgences and superstitions of all kinds, was, in the view of Nicholas and other like-minded reformers, to be stamped out. The ‘blood phenomena’ adumbrated above, whether in the chalice or by means of liquefaction as with St Januarius, gradually became down the ages the objects of doubt or, at the very least, caution, in the eyes of official Catholicism. Popular belief and acceptance, still present in some quarters, has given place to official scepticism, almost derision, among some hierarchs. John Thavis quotes the Jesuit Professor Giandomenico Mucci as stating: ‘The Vatican has never pressed for an investigation of this “miracle” [the liquefaction of the blood of St Januarius] because there’d be a revolution in Naples.

104  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us In Naples they believe more in the blood of San Gennaro than in the Holy Trinity.’156 Butler’s Lives provides a classic note of caution which pertains to the present day. The comments are applicable to all the blood phenomena which we have surveyed above, despite their somewhat old-fashioned articulation and being couched within a particular Catholic faith tradition. The passage occurs directly at the end of the entry for St Januarius: Miracles recorded in holy scripture are revealed facts, and an object of faith. Other miracles are not considered in the same light; neither does our faith rest upon them as upon the former, though they illustrate and confirm it; nor do they demand or admit any higher assent than that which prudence requires and that which is due to the evidence or human authority upon which they depend. When such miracles are propounded, they are not to be rashly admitted; the evidence of the fact and circumstances ought to be examined to the bottom and duly weighed; where that fails, it is part of prudence to suspend or refuse our assent. Also if it appears doubtful whether an effect be natural or proceed from a supernatural interposition, our assent ought to lean according to the greater weight of probability, and God, who is the author of all events, natural and supernatural, is always to be glorified. If human evidence set the certainty of a miracle beyond the reach of any doubt, it must more powerfully excite us to raise our minds to God in sentiments of humble adoration, love and praise.157

However, perhaps it is memory and the human capacity for memorialisation which have kept alive, both in medieval and modern times, the ‘blood miracles’ which we have surveyed. As we have seen, memory is an integral aspect of the sacrifice of the Mass. The miraculous appearance of flesh and blood from the bread and wine powerfully reinforces the theme of ‘divine presence’158 in the world and, for the beholder, settles in a most startling and dynamic way, the doubts of the doubter. The theme of wholeness is apparent in the way the faith of the sceptic is ‘made whole’ once again on the one hand, and apparent in the miraculous transformation of the bread and the wine into flesh and blood in the eyes of the believer. The ‘veil of the sacrament’ is thus removed for the beholder and Christ’s whole body and blood are dramatically put on view.

blood | 105 The motif of the water rituals which we discussed in a previous chapter are replaced by the motifs of bread and wine, offered in sacrifice by the priest. We have examined the metathemes of faith and doubt on the one hand, but the metatheme of Church authority on the other is rarely slow in making itself apparent when such alleged miraculous phenomena come to the public gaze. As the custodian of ‘correct belief’, the Church might alternately involve a Nicholas of Cusa, for example, and issue a condemnation; or it might show its approbation; or, as in the case of the liquefaction of the blood of St Januarius, it might prefer to preserve a discreet silence.159 4.3  The Writing in the Blood: Sufi Blood and Hallajian Passion In this section we encounter two miraculous blood phenomena in which writing appears in the blood which is shed. In the first instance, it is blood shed freely, albeit involuntarily, as a result of extreme meditation and prayer. An analogy is clearly the bloodflow of devoutly prayerful stigmatics like St Francis and Padre Pio. In the second, the bloodshed is involuntary, inevitable and the consequence of extreme barbaric torture. The writing which appears in the blood proclaims both the sanctity of the agent and the omnipresence of the Deity. In a very real sense, there is the scribal intervention of a divine agency. The Sufi novice, whose story will be recounted below together with that of the mystic al-Hallaj, produces from his own body direct signs of the reality of God and may himself be accounted a living sign in his own body. All this is true of al-Hallaj as well. Both bear a sanguinary and all too real witness to the Qur’anic verse: Soon will We show them Our Signs in the (furthest) regions (of the earth) and in their own souls (Sa-nurīhim āyātinā fī ’l-āfāq wa fī anfusihim).160

The Blood of the Sufi: Prayer >Blood Sahl ibn ʿAbd Allah al-Tustari (818–96) ranks among the greatest Sufi shaykhs of the ninth century ad.161 His name derives from his birthplace Tustar in Khuzistan, Persia, but he died in exile in Basra in 896.162 He is always associated with the permanent need for repentance,163 a factor which precipitated his exile164 even though he tried to avoid theological polemic.165

106  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Annemarie Schimmel characterises him as one who ‘retired into the sweetness of his inner life and found there the peace that the disturbed outer world could not give him’.166 She quotes the equally great Sufi of Baghdad, Abu ’l-Qasim ibn Muhammad al-Junayd (d. 910), as praising him as ‘the proof of the Sufis’,167 and she remarks on his ‘highly interesting’ theory of saintliness: ‘He spoke of a pillar of light formed from the souls of those who are predestined to become saints.’168 Alexander Knysh draws our attention to the primary emphasis that al-Tustari placed on the practice of dhikr, the recollection of the Deity.169 The miraculous blood story which we shall shortly relate, at the centre of which is Sahl’s disciple, powerfully illustrates this. Nile Green observes that Tustari started the idea of associating dhikr with the heart, the latter being the true seat of knowledge: its purification would let in the primal light of God Himself.170 Sahl bequeathed no writings to posterity and so it was left for others to collect and propagate what he had said and taught.171 One of these was ʿAli b. ʿUthman al-Jullabi al-Hujwiri (d. 1073 or 1077), born in the Ghaznan suburb of Hujwir, now in Afghanistan,172 who is famed for having expounded the earliest Persian account of the Sufi path173 under the title of Kashf al-Maªjūb (The Unveiling of the Hidden).174 In it he writes as follows: [Sahl al-Tustari] used to bring his disciples to perfection in self-­mortification (mujāhadat). It is related in a well-known anecdote that he said to one of his disciples: ‘Strive to say continuously for one day, “O Allah!O Allah! O Allah!” and do the same next day and the day after that,’ until he became habituated to saying those words. Then he bade him to repeat them at night also, until they became so familiar that he uttered them even during his sleep. Then he said: ‘Do not repeat them any more, but let all your faculties be engrossed in remembering God.’ The disciple did this until he became absorbed in the thought of God. One day, when he was in his house, a piece of wood fell on his head and broke it. The drops of blood which trickled to the ground bore the legend ‘Allah! Allah! Allah!’175

There is a dual intertextual resonance here with the Christian tradition. Al-Tustari’s insistence on repentance, a topic repeated in al-Hujwiri’s Kashf,176 recalls John the Baptist’s cry in the Judaean desert: ‘Repent, for the

blood | 107 kingdom of Heaven is close at hand.’177 Metánoia (repentance, change of mind) is at the heart both of the message of the Baptist and al-Tustari and, indeed, that of Christ Himself: ‘There will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner repenting than over ninety-nine upright people who have no need of repentance.’178 Just as the Sufi novice’s concise but intense litany, repeating the name Allah, brings forth blood, so too, in the Christian tradition, intense prayer and meditation may produce the same, or even more dramatic, effects. We have noted this in the case of famous stigmatics like the medieval St Francis of Assisi and the twentieth-century St Pio (Padre Pio) of Pietrelcina. Christ’s agony in the Garden of Gethsemani, where ‘his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood’,179 provides another startling example. Michael F. Patella notes that some people, when suffering from very extreme stress, may exhibit the signs of what is called in medical parlance ‘hematidrosis’, that is, sweating blood, and it is surmised by some that Jesus was actually subject to this condition in the Garden as he prayed in terror to be excused from his forthcoming passion.180 Finally, we note, again from an intertextual perspective, the repetition of a litany which evokes and embraces memory. In the Sufi novice’s case, it was the remembrance and repetition of the name of the Deity Himself, combined with an injunction from his master, in effect, to be still. Nicholson paraphrases the extended passage from al-Hujwiri’s Kashf which we quoted earlier:181 ‘“Now,” said he [the Sufi master], “Be silent and occupy yourself with recollecting them.” At last the disciple’s whole being was absorbed by the thought of Allah.’182 This whole passage powerfully resonates with the hesychasm of the Eastern Christian Orthodox Churches with their emphasis on the silent recitation of short litanies like the Jesus Prayer183 and on ‘stillness’ (Greek: hesychia).184 Much of this was taken over into the Western Christian tradition by the Benedictine monk John Main in his popular works on meditation.185 The Passion of al-Hallaj: Blood > Voice and Writing The story which we have cited above about Sahl al-Tustari and his novice assumes a further significance when we realise that the famous mystic Abu ’l-Mughith al-Husayn b. Mansur al-Hallaj (857/8–922) was initially a pupil and disciple of al-Tustari. However, al-Hujwiri notes that, having been Sahl’s

108  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us pupil, al-Hallaj suddenly upped and left, without firstly seeking Sahl’s permission, in order to join the circle of another great Sufi by the name of ʿAmr b. ʿUthman Makki (d. 996).186 Later, we are told that he also left Makki, in the same way without permission, and tried to become a pupil of the famous Sufi of Baghdad, Abu ’l-Qasim ibn Muhammad al-Junayd (d. 910) who refused to take him.187 Thereafter he was also refused by all the other Sufi shaykhs.188 Modern commentators have remarked on this early ‘flightiness’ (restlessness?) of the young Hallaj and his somewhat cavalier attitude towards authority.189 That magisterial expert on al-Hallaj, Herbert Mason, observes that this series of flighty episodes, and the consequent reaction of the shaykhs of the day, reflects both the desire for pupil loyalty by each shaykh and their suspicions about Hallaj’s obviously impulsive nature and disinclination to join any form of ‘established Sufism’.190 Al-Hallaj’s restlessness is evident in his wide-ranging travels; we find him visiting Iran, Central Asia and India.191 Eventually, he ends up in Baghdad where he is executed in a most brutal fashion in 922.192 Al-Hallaj’s most notorious saying, and the one for which he has been variously praised, explicated or excoriated, was Anā ’l-Óaqq, a phrase which, translated literally means ‘I am the Truth’. Schimmel’s rendition is more emphatic: ‘I am the Absolute [or Creative] Truth [or the True Reality]’.193 In an extended passage in the Kitāb al-˝awāsīn (The Book of ˝ā’ Sīn),194 al-Hallaj wrote: If ye do not recognise God, at least recognise His signs. I am that sign, I am the Creative Truth (ana ’l-haqq), because through the Truth I am a truth eternally. My friends and teachers are Iblis and Pharaoh. Iblis was threatened with Hell-fire, yet he did not recant. Pharaoh was drowned in the sea, yet he did not recant, for he would not acknowledge anything between him and God. And I, though I am killed and crucified, and though my hands and feet are cut off – I do not recant.195

Al-Hallaj proclaimed Anā ’l-Óaqq to the Sufi Abu Bakr al-Shibli (d. 946), an erstwhile friend, in the al-Mansur Mosque.196 So the fundamental question is this: what exactly did al-Hallaj mean? Was he saying that he had become completely one with God?197

blood | 109 In the Qur’an God is proclaimed as al-Óaqq thus: Allāh huwa al-Óaqq.198 The phrase has been variously translated as ‘God is the Reality’199 and ‘God is the Truth’.200 Leaving aside the possibility suggested by one author that the notorious allocution attributed to al-Hallaj may have been apocryphal201 – a minority view – we are confronted by one of the most mysterious of the ‘ecstatic utterances’ (sha†aªāt)202 in Islamic mystical literature. Mojaddedi concurs, characterising this as ‘the most notorious of all theopathic (ša†aªāt) recorded in the history of Sufism’.203 So what exactly did al-Hallaj mean? Was he really claiming Divinity for himself or was it the case that he wished to show that God was speaking through him and using him as a mouthpiece? Carl Ernst, inter alia, inclines to the latter view.204 There has been considerable division among Muslim scholars from early times as to whether al-Hallaj was guilty of blasphemy.205 Annemarie Schimmel draws our attention to the views of the hostile opinion towards al-Hallaj propagated by the tenth-century Baghdadi cataloguer and bookseller, Ibn al-Nadim (d. c. 990–8).206 He wrote: [Al-Hallaj] laid claim to every science, but nevertheless [his claims] were futile [wa kāna ‚ifran min dhālika] . . . He was ignorant, bold, obsequious [wa kāna jāhilan, miqdāman, mutadahwaran] . . . Among his adherents he claimed divinity, speaking of divine union [wa yaddaʿī ʿinda a‚ªābihi al-ilāhiyya wa yaqūl bi ’l-ªulūl].207

For Schimmel this neatly ‘articulates the conventional reading of Óallāj’s personality’.208 Beyond noting these views, however, this is not a debate into which I propose to enter more deeply. What concerns us here with regard to our major theme of blood miracles and blood > voice and writing is the startling and miraculous aftermath of al-Hallaj’s bloody execution. Before we move to this, two points may be stressed. It is true that many of al-Hallaj’s contemporaries,209 together with several modern scholars, have suggested that zandaqa (unbelief, freethinking, blasphemy)210 was the cause of al-Hallaj’s execution. But many also realise that the politics of the age played a major role as well.211 Secondly, it is salutary to note the emollient verdict pronounced upon al-Hallaj by al-Hujwiri:

110  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us The Íúfí Shaykhs are at variance concerning him. Some reject him, while others accept him . . . Others, again, suspend their judgement about him . . . Therefore we leave him to the judgement of God, and honour him according to the tokens of the Truth (ªaqq) which we have found him to possess.212

Al-Hujwiri’s deployment of the word ªaqq is intriguing and it is perhaps significant that, in the translation by Nicholson cited above, the translator chooses to capitalise his translation as ‘Truth’. We turn now to the actual Passion of al-Hallaj, as narrated by the great Persian mystic and poet, Farid al-Din Muhammad b. Ibrahim ʿAttar (d. c. 1190–1230).213 He is held to have played a major role in increasing the speed by which al-Hallaj became a figure of veneration and praise.214 Two primary sources will be deployed and narrated here. The IlāhīNāmā (Book of God) of Farid al-Din ʿAttar portrays al-Hallaj on the gallows having had his hands cut off. He proceeds to smear his face with the blood which gushes forth. When he is asked why he does this and reminded that the ritual ablution performed in blood renders the prayer invalid, al-Hallaj replies that the discoverer of love’s secret must, perforce, carry out the ritual ablutions required before prayer in blood.215 Here it is not a case of prayer > blood in a miraculous manner but there is still a powerful association of prayer and blood in this text from a narratological perspective. It is, however, in ʿAttar’s Tadhkirat al-Awliyā’ (Memorial of the Friends of God)216 that we find al-Hallaj’s passion delineated in full. The text tells us that everyone agreed that al-Hallaj should be executed because he had claimed to be ‘The Truth’.217 Some, however, do seem to have been aware of the possibility that al-Hallaj was using ‘ecstatic utterances’ and drew attention to a possible esoteric sense of what al-Hallaj had said. However, al-Junayd had no tolerance for the possibility of such esotericism and was vehement in his calls for al-Hallaj to be killed.218 That was the general view which prevailed. Accordingly, al-Hallaj’s hands and feet were amputated and his eyes were gouged out. Before his ears and nose were cut off, al-Hallaj prayed, in words intertextually redolent of Christ’s words on the cross in which he prayed to the Father that his crucifiers might be forgiven because they did not know what they were doing:219

blood | 111 ‘O God,’ he cried, lifting his face to heaven, ‘do not exclude them for the suffering they are bringing on me for thy sake, neither deprive them of this felicity. Praise be to God, for that they have cut off my feet as I trod Thy way. And if they strike off my head from my body, they have raised me up to the head of the gallows, contemplating Thy majesty.’220

Narratologically, from the perspective of miraculous blood > voice and writing, the next passage from ʿAttar’s Tadhkirat al-Awliyā’ is the most significant: Even as they were cutting off his head, Hallaj smiled. Then he gave up the ghost . . . From each one of his members came the declaration, ‘I am the Truth’ . . . So they burned his limbs. From his ashes came the cry, ‘I am the Truth’, even as in the time of his slaying every drop of blood as it trickled formed the word Allah. Dumbfounded they cast his ashes into the Tigris. As they floated on the surface of the water, they continued to cry, ‘I am the Truth.’221

Writing and cries flow from blood. Here the narrative gives us a victim who is at the same time a victim-celebrant, fully immersed in the celebration and offering of his own death and martyrdom. Semiotically, the narrative thus achieves a parallel, though only of a kind, with the sacrifice of Calvary. Forgiveness for his torturers is sought as al-Hallaj’s blood is poured forth, and while there is no soteriological dimension as in the classical Christian interpretation of Christ’s death on the cross,222 the manner of al-Hallaj’s death has led many scholars to draw comparisons between Jesus and this Islamic mystic. Did he have the Christian narrative in mind as he prepared to celebrate and undergo his own death?223 Further comparisons are possible as well, though they should be treated more from a narratological perspective rather than a theological. Just as Christ’s sacrifice on the cross in the Catholic Christian tradition is ­re-presented, made present and memorialised on the altars at the celebration of the Eucharist (and as the same sacrifice),224 so the martyrdom of al-Hallaj in the modern taʿziya/taʿziyih (Miracle or Passion Play)225 in Iran is made present to a modern audience today. In a taʿziyih entitled Mansur Hallaj, Shams of Tabriz and Mulla of Rum, a twentieth-century addition to the taʿziyih repertoire,226 al-Hallaj is

112  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us executed, blood pours forth from his throat onto the earth and the words Anā ’l-Óaqq are formed in the blood.227 The mulla who has condemned him collects up the blood which has been shed in a small flask and returns home with it. Thinking that it is poison, the despairing daughter of the mulla, who is paralysed, decides to commit suicide and drinks from the flask. Instead she finds herself cured and later, pregnant, rather than dead in consequence.228 The mulla comes to the realisation that the blood of alHallaj must be miraculous and that al-Hallaj has been falsely and unjustly condemned.229 The taʿziyih drama, then, piles miracle upon miracle as a result of the flow of the blood of al-Hallaj. There is the primary miracle which we encountered in ʿAttar’s narrative of the appearance of the words Anā ’l-Óaqq in the blood and voice of the martyr. But in this drama there is a triple miracle as a result of the drinking of the blood: the afflicted daughter is cured; she becomes pregnant by the blood without knowing how; and the mulla, who has been so quick to condemn al-Hallaj, is persuaded by these miracles of the innocence of the martyr. When we turn to the attitude of the bystander towards the blood miracle of Anā ’l-Óaqq, we find that the arena of disbelief and scepticism pertains not to the reality of the blood miracle but the period preceding the miracle. The bystanders – or, at least, some – doubt the very possibility of what al-Hallaj is saying, choosing, wilfully or unknowingly, to misinterpret it as a claim to divinity itself and thus grieviously blasphemous. As ʿAttar shows in his narrative, however, some do exhibit caution, do accept the possibility of an ecstatic utterance, and the idea that it might be God speaking through al-Hallaj, using him as a mouthpiece to proclaim His Reality (Óaqq) to a careless and unheeding humanity Al-Hujwiri’s statement cited above shows the Sufi shaykhs of his own age running the gamut in their view of al-Hallaj from rejection, through to suspension of judgement to acceptance. The taʿziyih entitled Man‚ūr Óallāj to which we have referred shows all types of disbelief, scepticism and caution morphing into a wondering belief as the mulla beholds the effect of the draught of blood on his sick daughter. In consequence, he proclaims the innocence of al-Hallaj and absolves him from all blasphemy or free-thinking. In this episode we discover an intertext which focuses on post facto belief:

blood | 113 something, a dramatic event or even a miracle, occurs and belief follows indifference or unbelief. Thus in the Christian tradition, the death of Jesus on the cross is followed by the rending of the veil in the Temple, tombs opening, the resurrection of many from the dead and an earthquake. The centurion and his fellow guards, all traumatised by what they see, proclaim: ‘In truth this man was son of God.’230 An obscure Roman soldier is thus brought to identify divinity in wrecked humanity.231 In the case of al-Hallaj, ikon and possible mouthpiece of divinity, ʿAttar’s account provides us with terrifying post-mortem signs as well: his dismembered body cries Anā ’l-Óaqq; his ashes and his blood bear the same message, even as the former float upon the Tigris.232 Thus the very blood and ashes of al-Hallaj encapsulate a dynamic and physical memory of the Divine. The role of memory and memorialisation has been the primary theme in al-Hallaj’s life which is lived as a physical ikon or ‘memory’ of the divine presence in the world. It is blood which creates a memory of wholeness as the martyr seeks a complete and perfect purification in his ritual ablutions.233 After its execution, al-Hallaj’s body retains its memory of wholeness (that is, the wholeness which comes from being a mouthpiece of the Divine) as it delineates in blood, voice and ash the immortal wholeness of the Divine through the phrase Anā ’l-Óaqq.234 The casting of his ashes into the River Tigris is an unritualised act of despair and fear by the executioners. Here we do not have the motif of a formal water ritual, connected with this great river, which memorialises an action or miracle performed in the near or distant past in the history of alHallaj himself, nor that of his compatriots and executioners. But we do have an unforseen water miracle of another kind: Now Óallāj had said: ‘When they cast my ashes into the Tigris, Baghdad will be in peril of drowning under the water. Lay my robe in front of the water, or Baghdad will be destroyed.’ His servant, when he saw what had happened, brought the master’s robe and laid it on the bank of the Tigris. The waters subsided, and his ashes became silent.235

From a narratological perspective, then, this is not the account of a perennial water ritual. If ritual be sought in the narrative, it lies in the manner of the narrative where the repeated emphasis on the phrase Anā

114  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us ’l-Óaqq assumes an incantatory quality as al-Hallaj takes on the mantle of God’s sublime mouthpiece, and blood gives rise to miracles in blood and ash. Al-Hallaj does not appear to doubt his mission. Whether self-chosen or inspired, he knows what he is and proclaims loudly that he is the captive of God and salvation’s sentinel.236 If he so wishes or rather, when he so wishes, he looses the fetters of 300 of his fellow prisoners with a single miraculous sign and cracks the walls of the prison with another.237 Miraculous signs thus provide ample physical evidence of his miraculous ikonic nature to those who will but look. God empowers him as the captive of God to subvert and, indeed, transcend the authority and the power of the state as it is present in Baghdad in its caliphs, wazirs, governors and judges. The state’s power and authority, our metatheme here, with all its gory executioner’s apparatus, overthrows al-Hallaj physically, but God, through the blood and ashes of al-Hallaj, has the last word: Anā ’l-Óaqq. 4.4  The Narrative Arena Christian Narrative From a narratological perspective, the metamotif of blood has a universal significance in all traditions, whether it be in the Christian or the Islamic traditions. The ‘blood of the martyr’ was a dominant motif in the early Christian Church. Martyrdom was also associated with another universal metatheme, love, extreme love of God. This was clearly emphasised by St John Chrysostom (d. 407) in his Homily of praise on the holy martyrs Juventinus and Maximinus who were martyred under Julian the Apostate: they so longed to be united with God that they sought martrydom even in the absence of formal persecution.238 Overwhelming love of God so drove the would-be martyrs that they happily confronted severe torture and ultimate death.239 The motif of blood is at the heart of this and, as we stressed earlier, the Catholic Mass is considered by the believer to be a miraculous blood sacrifice which represents the blood sacrifice of Calvary in bloodless form.240 Thus, while the basic outlines of the narratives of Bolsena and other similar phenomena may be simple in style, albeit with occasional ornamentation and differences in detail, the whole universal metamotif of blood in the Christian tradition is multifaceted in actuality and symbolism. Very impor-

blood | 115 tantly, this metamotif in patristic and hagiographical theology bespeaks another metatheme, that of love for the Divine. Repetition, too, plays a significant role as in the physical repetition of the celebration of the Mass/Eucharist/Communion Service in the various branches of the Christian Church and the narratological repetition of the occurrence of ‘blood miracles’ from the Middle Ages to the present. In terms of ‘type’ and ‘antitype’, Calvary is both prototype and type; Eucharistic celebrations and Eucharistic miracles may be characterised as antitypes. In the Christian tradition, then, an intertext may be perceived, at the heart of which is the dominant metamotif of blood whose, albeit rare, physical articulation may be in the ‘blood miracles’ which we have surveyed above. In the miraculous realm, the onlooker may ask who, then, is the real agent or protagonist? Who really performs the miracle? Clearly, for the believer, it is God Himself who acts at Bolsena and the other famous sites of Eucharistic blood miracles. But it is by the agency of a priest and often, via the agency of doubt. Doubt is the catalyst for the blood miracle and, as we shall suggest in a short while, the elements of a possible paradigm are here. Attitudes to the alleged miracle are usually more than just binary, ranging from full belief and acceptance through a spectrum of caution and doubt to total disbelief. The doubting priest often serves as the narratological catalyst or ‘engine’ for the narrative of the blood miracle. The significance of the miracle lies in its demonstration for the faithful of the reality of the sacrament and the sublime power of God. In the light of all this, we may articulate the following simple, anthropological paradigm: Doubting priest > need for reassurance > ritual sacrifice > blood miracle > restored belief.

By way of total ritual contrast, here with a huge emphasis on the metamotif of blood, we may note that, whereas in the Christian sacrificial Eucharist, the intention of the celebrant is to ‘bring’ Divinity down into the realms of humanity and achieve a miraculous ‘closeness’ or even ‘union’ with the Divine, in Polynesian religion the reverse is the case.

116  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Alfred Gell puts it neatly: Most important Polynesian ritual operated in precisely the inverse sense to Christian communion, i.e. the intention was to cause the divinity to leave (some part of ) the world, rather than to induce the divinity to enter (some part of ) it.241

In consequence, rituals, perceived to have ‘miraculous’ or ‘magical’ properties of desanctification were performed for high-ranking Polynesian individ­ uals.242 Thus, an element of the ‘miraculous’ entered both Christian Catholic and Polynesian rituals; but the intention and intended consequence were vastly different. Islamic Narrative For Islam too, blood has a powerful significance though not, of course, in any sacramental sense. The metamotif of ‘the blood of the martyr’, in particular for the Shiʿa, from the earliest days of the Battle of Karbala’ at which the grandson of the Prophet Muhammad, al-Husayn, was killed, in ad 680, has exercised a powerful hold on the Islamic Shiʿite imagination.243 It continues to do so into our present age. Memory has played a huge role: for more than a thousand years the Shiʿa community around the world has celebrated the tragic death of alHusayn with huge emotion.244 Martyrdom, and its associated blood-letting, has conferred on the Shiʿite community what has been termed ‘a whole ethos of sanctification’.245 The soil of Karbala’ is regarded as sacred and small cakes of its clay are held to have healing properties.246 Here it is the clay of the former battleground which heals rather than water from a spring or blood itself. But behind the clays of Karbala’ lies the blood itself of that battlefield. Numerous miraculous events are associated in Shiʿite Islamic tradition with the death of al-Husayn. They have been usefully summarised by Veccia Vaglieri and a few are noted here: • The sky darkened or reddened. • There was a rain of blood. • An angelic gift of earth from Karbala’ became blood.

blood | 117 • • • •

Animals and fish wept at the news. The severed head of al-Husayn exuded perfume. Qur’anic verses were recited by the severed head. Those who had injured al-Husayn encountered eventual illness, tragedy or disaster.247

If we compare the immediate cosmological phenomena which appeared on the death of al-Husayn with the immediate aftermath of the death of Christ on the cross in the Christian tradition,248 there is an obvious intertext: the darkening of the sky, the eclipse of the sun, the sighting of the stars at midday as al-Husayn died at the hands of his enemies create a miraculous cosmological picture of the entire heavens in torment at the death of one of its favourite sons.249 All this maps intertextually and narratologically onto the Gospel accounts of the immediate aftermath of Christ’s death on the cross. However, the Shiʿite accounts of the death of al-Husayn go beyond the basic intertext adumbrated above. The Gospels do not portray the corpse of Jesus in vengeful or healing mode as it is taken down from the cross and placed in the tomb. There are no miracles of healing or vengeance.250 The corpse does not speak. Dramatically, from the narratological point of view, the reverse is the case with the corpse of al-Husayn: the blood of the martyr has miraculous properties as does his severed head. Blindness is healed by contact with that blood; blindness is inflicted on al-Husayn’s murderers by dreams of that blood.251 And while the head of al-Husayn might be perceived by some to be analagous to the dead body of Jesus, lying in the arms of his mother Mary as depicted in so many pietàs,252 the Islamic tradition departs from any intertext that might be built on such facile imaginings by portraying the head of alHusayn miraculously reciting verses from the Qur’an.253 We see from all this that blood, particularly for Shiʿite Islam, has a universal aspect, articulated in the physical form of martyrdom, which gives birth to a plenitude of multifaceted narratives. For the Sunni narrations we saw that al-Hallaj joyfully embraces death and the fervour of the Sufi novice produces writing in blood on the ground. The overriding topos here is the metatheme of love of the Divine and the metatheme of the desire to be one with God. This metatheme of a perceived actual ‘identification’ with the

118  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Divinity yields the overarching metamotif of blood. Love produces blood and that love is literally written out in blood in the case of the Sufi novice. The multifaceted nature of this simple paradigm and its intertextual nature is immediately evident if we compare with the narration in John Chrysostom’s homily on the martyrs Juventinus and Maximinus to which we alluded earlier. In all this, then, there is a repetition of the metatheme of love and the metamotif of blood, the latter a source of miracle and frequent wonder, awe or fear. The concept of martyrdom also has a universal and intertextual dimension. It is powerfully articulated in Professor Mahmoud Ayoub’s magisterial and seminal volume, Redemptive Suffering in Islam. In this he takes care to distinguish what he means by redemption and distinguish it from any Christian definitions and theology.254 For him the two are quite distinct. Acknowledging that ‘all suffering can be in some way redemptive’,255 that the Shiʿa regard the passion and death of al-Husayn as ‘a source of salvation’,256 and that ‘redemption in Shīʿī piety must be understood within the context of intercession’,257 Ayoub goes on to state succinctly that redemption broadly signals ‘the healing of existence or the fulfillment of human life’.258 In a nutshell, for him redemption is ‘fulfillment through suffering’.259 The narratology of suffering, then, as we have seen, may well involve the metamotif of blood. That blood may be the product of love and the whole may be clothed in a miraculous dimension and aura. We might even hazard that, for the purposes of our narrative investgations and analysis, love is the type of which miraculous blood assumes the role of antitype. Of course, the whole idea that the sacrifice of the Shiʿite imams, and in particular the sacrifice of al-Husayn might be perceived as a ‘surrogate suffering [which] saves mankind from the impact of God’s justice in all its severity’260 should not be pushed too far as we try to establish a narratological, or even theological, intertext. Halm draws attention to Henri Corbin’s idea, cited and approved by Ayoub, that we may characterise the imamology of the Shiʿa as a species of ‘Islamic Christology’.261 Halm accepts the closeness of the two concepts of ‘surrogate suffering’ but insists that we really must not obscure the very real differences between the two traditions:262 Islam, whether in its Sunni or Shiʿi forms, has no concept of original sin in the Christian sense: ‘The passion of

blood | 119 the Imams fits only the punishment incurred by the believer for individual wrong.’263 Our narrations, whether they be those about the Sufi novice, al-Hallaj or al-Husayn, show, once again, that the chief protagonist is God. These figures are all agents of the miraculous, vessels as it were, which disclose and confirm the power of God via these miraculous phenomena which we have outlined. The catalysts, or ‘engines in the narrative’ in each of these cases are extreme love of God combined with a desire or intention for union of some kind with Him or, at the very least, a place in Paradise beside Him. The significance of each miracle or martyrdom, articulated in diverse productions of blood, to an often hostile umma, is that the love and desire which motivate Sufi and martyr alike, are worthy of respect and belief that the Divine Reality which they seek is true.

120  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us

5 Wood and Stone

5.1  A Proto-miracle: the Ark of Gilgamesh and Noah In 1850 Sir Austen Henry Layard (1817–94), famed as the scholar who discovered Nineveh and lauded as one of the founders of the study of the archaeology of the Near East,1 discovered a pile of cuneiform tablets in the palace of the Assyrian King Sennacherib (r. 705–681 bc) at Kouyunjik near Mosul in modern-day northern Iraq.2 Layard was unable to read cuneiform and also slightly unaware of the true nature of the extraordinary treasure trove which he had discovered, although he did regard them as ‘precious’, and he sent them off to the British Museum.3 What he had in fact discovered in the tablets were survivors from the Royal Archival Library of Assyria, characterised as history’s first proper library, which had been organised by King Ashurbanipal of Assyria (r. 668–627 bc).4 It was left to a scholar named George Smith to translate and bring to light from the trove of the tablets some of the great Babylonian epic which we know today as The Epic of Gilgamesh.5 Professor Andrew George quotes E. A. Wallis Budge’s description of Smith’s palpable excitement as he began to read the Gilgamesh Deluge tablets: He said: ‘I am the first man to read that after two thousand years of oblivion.’ Setting the tablet on the table, he jumped up and rushed about the room in a great state of excitement and, to the astonishment of those present, began to undress himself!6

The reaction might have been excessive, but it was certainly forgivable since it is clear that George Smith had uncovered a work which can be ranked as one of the greatest in world literature: it is one which, with its twin themes of 120

wood a nd stone | 121 ‘fear of death’ and the search for immortality, couched within an archetypical narrative of a huge primordial flood, has enchanted and resonated with scholars, great poets and ordinary people alike since the first ancient record of those themes on those cuneiform tablets.7 Before we proceed further, it is worth stresing here that, in this section, ‘miracle’ will be precisely defined as a direct intervention by a deity or angel in the affairs of humanity. The novelist Jeanette Winterson concurs: ‘A miracle is an intervention that cannot be accounted for rationally,’8 that is, by a human reason that takes no account of a divine dimension. Thus, in what follows, as we trace the Gilgamesh, Genesis and Qur’anic accounts of the Storm, Deluge and Flood, the miracle is not perceived here to lie in the actual physical occurrence of the Storm, Deluge or Flood, nor in the subsequent calming of those phenomena. All that could have occurred perfectly naturally according to the laws of nature: many peoples globally adhere to, and pass on, belief in a great primordial flood.9 It is likely that all their Flood narratives are actually reflective of a single global cataclysm.10 The miracle lies in the direct intervention by deity or angel in the laws of nature; one or the other commands the wind and the waves, directs the building of an ark of refuge and salvation and even assists in the building of that ark. The salvation ensured and assured for Noah and his family, together with their livestock, is the direct result of a miraculous divine intervention in the view of the Gilgamesh, Genesis and Qur’anic naratives. Jeffrey John also reminds us that we need to seek the meaning in any miracle rather than becoming fixated on the question of whether it actually happened, or happened in the way that the ancient narratives would have us believe.11 Regardless, then, of its possible historicity, this allows us to consider miracles from a literary as well as a theological perspective. As Jeffrey John neatly puts it: a miracle may be defined as ‘a literary creation with a theological purpose’.12 Thus the story of the feeding of the five thousand theologically aims to inform us that the figure of Jesus is to be considered as ‘a new Moses’ and shows, narratologically both an intertext and a typology with the Old Testament Moses and the production of manna in the desert.13 By all this I wish to stress the narrative dimension of miracle stories where a deity or an angel may assume the role of a kind of deus ex machina,

122  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us a dimension which, to my mind, is at least as important as the theological, bearing in mind the orientation of, and emphasis on, narratology in this volume of mine. Throughout, of course, we will also continue to maintain the phenomenological and anthropological approach with which we began. We may identify three main protagonists in The Epic of Gilgamesh: firstly, there is the eponym of the story itself, King Gilgamesh, born of a goddess and ruler of Uruk according to legend but lacking the charism of immortality.14 Uruk was an old and great city in the southern regions of Babylonia.15 Then there is Uta-napishti who ranks as a Babylonian equivalent of the biblical Noah. He ruled the kingdom of Shuruppak, was not drowned in the Deluge and was later given the gift of immortality.16 Shuruppak was another old city which was to be found between Uruk and Nippur.17 Finally, there is Ea who is identified as ‘the god of the freshwater Ocean Below’.18 Gilgamesh’s story embraces a long journey whose goal is to track down his ancestor, Uta-napishti, who holds the secret of eternal life which he has gained from the gods, having been preserved from destruction during the great Deluge. In Tablet XI we learn that Gilgamesh finds him and asks how he discovered this eternal life.19 Uta-napishti then relates to him the famous proto-Flood story. The gods decide to send down a great Flood over the earth. Ea bids Utanapishti to build a boat in which to save himself, and gives precise directions about the dimensions of the boat.20 The construction of the boat in the Epic is described in some detail.21 Property, silver and gold, livestock and family are loaded and a miraculous provision of bread and wheat is promised from the Sun God.22 The boat is sealed and a great storm arises, frightening even the gods at the resulting Flood.23 Many are drowned.24 On the seventh day the storm and the Flood come to an end.25 Doves and swallows are sent out searching for dry land but to no avail.26 Finally, a raven is dispatched which does not return, indicating that land and food have been discovered.27 In thanksgiving Uta-napishti offers sacrifice to the gods.28 Ea castigates his fellow gods for causing the Deluge.29 In recompense for his sufferings during the great Flood, Uta-napishti and his wife are made gods and thus receive immortality and eternal life.30 Gilgamesh returns to his city of Uruk, unsuccessful in his quest for

wood a nd stone | 123 immortality. As with all men, death will seize him in the end.31 He is left feeling despairing and utterly hopeless, wishing that he had not encountered Utanapishti after all.32 Tablet XI is truly and mournfully ‘Immortality Denied’.33 Later we read in the Sumerian poem of Bilgames (that is, Gilgamesh)34 that our hero, after his death, is made a judge in the Underworld where the dead reside.35 Here he will govern and judge.36 The destiny of Gilgamesh has thus been to be an earthly king but never to achieve the sort of eternal life he craved and for which he set out on his long journey, seeking the immortal Uta-napishti.37 Yet, of course, an eternity, an immortality of sorts, has been gained, albeit not one of his choosing as he presides as judge in the Land of the Dead. The narrative of Gilgamesh, and the related narratives of Noah (variously Noe and Arabic Nuh) and his ark (fulk) in the Old Testament Book of Genesis and the Qur’an embrace a common paradigm which may broadly be delineated as follows: Divine decision, will or wrath > divine authority and command > boatbuilding and its dimensions > help by word (or supernatural advice) > and/ or deed (assisted by angels/men) > storm and flood > calm > testing the waters with birds > miraculous salvation > thanksgiving and sacrifice.

It is true, of course, that the endings of the Gilgamesh Epic and the Old Testament/Qur’anic narratives are quite different. Genesis portrays a fractured relationship between God and man which is restored in the aftermath of the Flood.38 However, Gilgamesh goes home disappointed, deprived of his longed-for immortality. It is Uta-napishti who gains this in the Gilgamesh Epic and, as we have noted, it is he who is the equivalent of Noah in the Babylonian myth. Noah himself in the Old Testament Genesis account is not endowed with immortality and dies at the extreme age of 950.39 Our paradigm adumbrated above may be characterised as illustrating an ancient ‘proto-miracle of salvation’. It is achieved in a boat, ark or fulk made of • ‘resinous wood . . . reeds and pitch’ (Genesis)40 • ‘ropes of palm fibre . . . pitch . . . tackle’, with ‘the carpenter carrying [his] hatchet, the reed-worker carrying [his] stone, [the shipwright

124  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us bearing his] heavyweight axe’ thus signalling the use of wood and reeds (Gilgamesh)41 • ‘broad planks and caulked with palm-fibre’ (Qur’an).42 All our texts thus portray a very material ark (fulk),43 boat or ship (safīna)44 made of wood which is also, miraculously, a sign45 and ‘ship of salvation’.46 In summary, the Flood/Deluge narratives in our three linked traditions – Gilgamesh, Old Testament and Qur’an – coalesce in a single narrative of divine will, decision or wrath (the catalyst), followed by a miraculous, supernatural intervention, assistance and ultimate salvation. Tablet XI of Gilgamesh does not tell us about the reasoning of the gods when they strike the earth with the great Deluge47 but the Genesis and Qur’anic accounts are in no doubt. In a very powerful verse in Genesis, which must be interpreted judiciously,48 God, seeing the prevailing wickedness and corruption on earth, threatens to exterminate the human beings whom he has created and states his regret at this creation.49 In the Qur’anic Sura of Nuh, the warnings brought by that prophet are rejected: the people disobey Nuh and persist in the worship of false gods.50 The wrath of God/the gods is thus unleashed in each tradition, and divine authority and power are epitomised in terrifying commands. In Gilgamesh, Adad, the god of storms is portrayed ‘bellowing’ in ‘a dark cloud of black’.51 In Genesis, God’s commands and addresses are encapsulated within a chiastic narrative52 whose most powerful sentiment reads: ‘I am now about to destroy [the human beings] and the earth.’53 In the Qur’an, Nuh actually prays for the unbelievers (al-kāfirīn) to be wiped out54 and God drowns the rejecters of His signs in the great Flood.55 Noah and his people enter an ark under the divine command and authority of a deity variously named Ea, Yahweh, Allah.56 In the Flood narrative the miracle of salvation is twofold: God directly, and miraculously, saves the just; and the devastating Flood spares Noah and his family. This ark, as we have seen, in each of the three traditions under discussion – Gilgamesh, Old Testament and Qur’anic – has been built to precise measurements and dimensions: these are fulsome in their detail in the Gilgamesh and Genesis accounts but less so in the Qur’an.57 Miraculous supernatural agency is often at work. There are miraculous,

wood a nd stone | 125 divine, precise directions as to the composition of the ark in Genesis.58 There is miraculous, divine, direct supervision and inspiration as Nuh builds his ark in the Qur’anic account.59 And Ea’s concern for the physical salvation of Uta-napishti in Gilgamesh is all too evident in his boatbuilding commands:60 the boat should have a protective roof and be of equal length and breadth.61 Gilgamesh portrays Uta-napishti being aided in the boatbuilding by carpenters, reed-workers, shipwrights, young and old, rich and poor alike.62 The Genesis account does not detail the labourers and builders of the ark in detail but concentrates on those who enter.63 The same is true in the Qur’anic narrative, which prefers to stress the post-mortem eternal salvation of the believers.64 However, a further touch is added in the Shiʿite tradition in which the angel Gabriel helps Nuh to build his ark.65 We shall elaborate further upon the role of the angel at the end of this chapter. Here it is sufficient to note with Mahmoud Ayoub the gentle agency of Gabriel as he provides Nuh with a blueprint for the construction of the ark and the necessary nails.66 In the Shiʿite tradition Ayoub powerfully demonstrates that the whole Flood narrative is typologically linked to the future 680 Battle of Karbala’, thereby linking all of human history in a massive intertext with this seminal battle.67 Agency in shipbuilding may thus be divine or angelic depending on one’s tradition or source. The fundamental Flood narrative is multivalent and dynamically intertextual. The actual Storm, Deluge and Flood are described in some graphic detail in the Gilgamesh narrative,68 but the Genesis account is much sparser though still deeply powerful with its references to the bursting forth of springs, the opening of heavenly sluices and the dense rainfall over a period of forty days.69 The Qur’anic narrative is much more restrained,70 with perhaps the following brief verse figuring as its most evocative description of the Flood: And We caused the earth to gush forth with springs. So the waters met (and rose) to the extent decreed.71

Birds with which to test the levels of the water and the possibility of land are sent forth from the ark in both the Gilgamesh and Genesis narratives,72 but this detail is absent from the Qur’anic account whose references to Nuh and the Flood are altogether sparser and more concerned with the theological concept of the salvation of those who believe in God. Again, a sacrifice of

126  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us thanksgiving is offered in the Gilgamesh and Genesis accounts, but this detail is also absent from the Qur’an.73 It is in the post-Qur’anic myth of Nuh that we find further examples of the miraculous agency and intervention of both God and angel, together with an elaboration of the basic Qur’anic account. Thus, in such accounts, it is God who dictates the exact dimensions of the ark to Nuh,74 while Gabriel gives instructions to Nuh as to how he should build the ark.75 This postQur’anic tradition elaborates on the sparse narrative of the Qur’an itself and provides some exotic detail about the appearance of the ark whose various features resemble, respectively, a peacock, vulture, dove, the tail of a cock, falcon and eagle.76 Here, then, the bird motif is associated with the shape of the ark rather than, as in the Gilgamesh and Genesis accounts, with birds being sent out to seek out food and possible landfall. However, the latter is not totally absent from the post-Qur’anic tradition. In the narrative of the twelfth-century folklorist al-Kisa’i, a dove (ªamāma) and a raven (ghurāb) are deployed to inspect and test the retreating waters.77 Here, too, we learn how high the waters rose at their peak: some believe that they achieved a height of fifteen cubits above the tallest mountain in the world while others give the much higher figure of eighty cubits, indicating a massive inundation which few could have survived.78 Such authors also give the angels a leading and dynamic role in the Flood story. Before the catastrophe begins, the medieval historian Abu ’l-Hasan al-Masʿudi (c. 896–956) tells us that Gabriel brings Adam a box or coffin (tābūt) containing the remains (rimmatuhu) of Adam, presumably for safekeeping in the ark during the Deluge.79 Intriguingly, al-Kisa’i differs over the contents of the box: for him it contains Adam’s carpentry tools (ālāt al-nijāra).80 The actual great Flood begins when God commands Gabriel to have the waters released and to strike them with the ‘Wing of Anger’ (janāª al-gha∂ab); Gabriel does so and thereby releases the great cataclysm.81 Meanwhile, other angels raise the Kaʿba to the sky above the earth to save it from the unleashed Flood.82 Fear of this impending Flood (al-†ūfān) so terrifies the formerly White Stone of the Kaʿba that it becomes black from fear, thus assuming its present designation of ‘the Black Stone’ (al-ªajar al-aswad).83 These last details are of some significance in any consideration of the building of the

wood a nd stone | 127 Kaʿba because of the diversity of opinion as to who was actually the first builder of that structure. For al-Kisa’i at least, as he indicates here and earlier in his narrative, the Kaʿba was in existence before the age of Ibrahim and Ismaʿil. For him it is Adam who is the first builder of the Kaʿba.84 H. W. F. Saggs prefers to call the Gilgamesh story and, by extension, all the Flood stories ‘an epic rather than a myth because its main participants are predominantly human rather than divine in their characteristics’.85 Regardless of whether one agrees with this assessment or not, it is clear that the Flood narratives reflect for the theist, on a global and cataclysmic scale, the consequences of a radical breakdown in the relationship between God/ the gods and created humanity as a result of sin. It is, to use a term which was originated by Gaston Bachelard (1884–1962) and developed by Michel Foucault (1926–84), a massive epistemic break86 which can only be healed by a global punishment whereby that relationship is once again established.87 We have little cause to disbelieve or doubt that, in antiquity, a great Flood of some kind did take place. There is an abiding memory in most traditions of such a flood88 and memory has played a major role in the preservation and, indeed, transmission, of the Flood traditions. This memory goes back to a Flood story which predates even the Gilgamesh Epic.89 Could it be, as Eric Cline tentatively suggests, that this story finds its real origin in ‘a folk memory of the end of the Ice Age’, albeit infused with much ‘mythology’?90 It certainly reflects a cataclysmic reality. Ovid in his Metamorphoses delights in transmitting an account of a major Flood, inflicted by the gods91 featuring Deucalion, Promethius’ son, who plays the role of Noah in Greek mythology.92 It is highly likely that there is a common source for both the biblical narrative of Noah and the Flood of Deucalion.93 Myth mixes with reality, however: it has been confirmed, for example, that a king by the name of Gilgamesh actually existed,94 albeit highly mythologised.95 A common source theory, then, for all the Flood narratives is generally accepted by scholars,96 but two final questions remain where there is not so much agreement: what exactly was the Flood and where did it occur?97 Secondly, short of a miracle, it would be fascinating to learn with Saggs ‘how Noah managed single-handed to build a ship of about the tonnage of the QEII’.98 We may, in what follows, survey some suggestions as to the

128  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us s­ olution to our first question. The answer to the second query as to how Noah managed to build such a huge ship does indeed belong to the realms of the miraculous: here the supernatural in the shape of the Divine or helpful angels like Gabriel seem to play a prominent role.99 Some have tried to tie the great Flood to the myth of Atlantis,100 suggesting that part of Atlantis once lay where the modern island of Malta lies today, and that the Mediterranean Sea as we know it is the result of a primeval inundation.101 Others as early as Aristotle rejected the Platonic account of Atlantis as pure myth, unreflective of any reality and deliberately recounted as such.102 Thus Johansen warns: ‘Those who are tempted to read the Atlantis story as a historical document need to bear in mind the extent to which it has been constructed by Plato to suit his own philosophical purposes.’103 Opposing this, yet others have linked the volcanic eruption on Santorini in antiquity, and the ensuing destruction, with the myth of Atlantis.104 If Atlantis ever actually existed, this last identification is worthy of some consideration since Plato’s Timaeus actually refers to the destruction of Atlantis inter alia by ‘floods’ (kataklusmān).105 ‘And the island of Atlantis was similarly swallowed up by the sea and vanished.’106 Many ancient authors did accept Plato’s account as true.107 Other candidates as original sources for the great Flood narrative are the two great rivers of the Tigris and the Euphrates in what is modern Iraq. The NJB is quite dogmatic about this, noting that the Flood narrative in Genesis draws on folk memories of catastrophic floooding in the Tigris and Euphrates valley, later magnified by tradition into a global event.108 Contrasting with this, Morven Robertson holds that the only candidate for the location of Atlantis which accords with the antique data is the Po Valley and the Venetian plain.109 For him the city was inundated by the sea and destroyed in consequence of catastrophic natural phenomena which occurred as the Bronze Age came to a close.110 Underlying all these accounts and hypotheses is an acceptance of, and belief in, the historicity of a great Flood event which occurred in antiquity combined with scholarly differences and caution as to the exact origins, causes, nature and location of that Flood. It is accepted, furthermore, that the whole narrative has become steeped in myth and legend. When we examine the role of memory as the vehicle of the metamotif

wood a nd stone | 129 of the Flood and Storm narratives, we find numerous familiar themes and motifs. The Flood story bespeaks the theme of the universal desire for wholeness in terms of a search for salvation. In the Genesis and Qur’anic accounts it is physical salvation from death by drowning that is sought. In the Gilgamesh account there is a quest for immortality, reminiscent of the Alexander Cycle and Alexander’s search for the Water of Life which bestows immortality.111 The theme of wholeness, that is, of the intrinsic ‘goodness’ of man which makes him ‘whole’,112 is embodied in the goodness of those like Noah who are saved in the ark. The universal memory of a great Flood transmits the memory of that goodness to a later age and, as we have seen, reconstitutes the fractured links between God and man. The theme of a divine presence in the world is common to all three accounts: Gilgamesh, Genesis and the Qur’an. God/the gods keep a keen eye on the human world and are dismayed when corruption appears and seeks to destroy the link between God and man which is clearly cherished by the Divine. Man forgets the latter at his peril. Though these gods might indulge later in an almost ritual destruction of the earth by water, the motif of an actual water ritual is replaced in our narratives by the motif of the measuring and cutting of wood, followed by that of sacrifice at least in the Gilgamesh and Genesis accounts.113 These sacrifices both confirm the metatheme of the authority of the Deity and exhibit a renewed faith in the power and future benevolence of that Deity who powerfully promises, following a pleasing sacrifice,114 that ‘never again will I curse the earth because of human beings’.115 This metatheme of the power of God/the gods is an important one. While nature might precipitate a storm, flood or deluge at any time, the ‘water miracle’ in the Gilgamesh, Genesis and Qur’anic accounts lies in the theme of divine intervention: God commands the Flood to start rather than leaving terrestrial nature to follow its own path in its own time. What is interesting, however, here, narratologically from the perspective of divine power is the fact that in the Genesis and Qur’anic accounts God is portrayed as omnipotent,116 but in Gilgamesh, as Cook emphasises, the metatheme of divine power appears to have limits: the gods actually exhibit terror when they see the uncontrollable Flood which they have unleashed.117 Nonetheless, the semiotics of storm, deluge and flood in our three texts manifest the very

130  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us real miraculous power,118 whether infinite or limited, of the Divine coupled with a theodicy which, at least in Genesis and the Qur’an, insists on punishment for corruption and sin by means of such terrifying phenomena.119 5.2  Ark of the Covenant: the Virgin in the House This section and that which follows it might loosely be characterised together as A Tale of Three Arks and a Cube. We identify here an ‘ark paradigm’ which merges spirituality, metaphor and actual buildings and which, in terms of basic semiotics, bespeaks loci of protection, salvation and later, in the case of the Kaʿba (Arabic for cube) and the Little House at Walsingham, pilgrimage. The shape of our paradigm is simple and reveals three arks morphing into these two great pilgrimage shrines and centres: Noah’s Ark > Original Ark of the Covenant > Mary, robed with the sun > Mary, the New Ark of the Covenant > Walsingham, the House of Mary > the Kaʿba.

Miracles of one kind or another are associated with each. The topos or metamotif of a ‘protective ark’, whether it be a structure which houses Flood refugees, or God’s commandments, or assumes the shape of an apocalyptic Co-Redemptrix,120 or a cube which signals the circumambulation of the angelic hosts round the throne of God in Heaven,121 links the miraculous and the mundane, the angelic co-builder and the human constructor. The original Ark of the Covenant, of course, was built by Moses and the Israelites at the express command of God as a housing for the ten commandments.122 Intertextually, as with the Noachic ark, this most sacred Ark of the Covenant is made of wood, in this instance ‘acacia wood’.123 Here we have a literal, material housing for God’s commands. In Islam too, the Qur’an tells us that the Ark of the Covenant (al-tābūt) associated with Moses is also a sign of God’s divine authority and kingship (āyat mulkihi) as well as sakīna, a word traditionally translated as ‘calm’, ‘tranquillity’, ‘security’.124 This ark is borne by angels.125 The word sakīna is significant here. It may also be translated as ‘immanence of God, presence of God’,126 and this rabbinically derived definition will resonate with many of the narratives which we have surveyed thus far and which we will survey and analyse in the future.127 For ancient Judaism, the

wood a nd stone | 131 Ark was all-important, signalling as it did the very presence of God among the people of Israel.128 When we turn to the Christian tradition, we find Mary being revered as the New Ark of the Covenant.129 Indeed, she has been lauded from earliest times as ‘Ark’.130 Thus the deacon St Ephrem (c. 306–73), famed as one of the great doctors of the early Syrian Church131 who rejoiced in the title of ‘La Lyre du Saint-Esprit’,132 called Mary ‘the sacred ark, whereby we are saved from the deluge of sin’.133 St Ambrose (340–97), the initially reluctant Bishop of Milan and baptiser of St Augustine of Hippo (c. 354–430),134 wrote as follows: The prophet David danced before the Ark. Now what else should we say the Ark was but holy Mary? The Ark bore within it the tables of the Testament, but Mary bore the Heir of the same Testament itself. The former contained in it the Law, the latter the Gospel. The one had the voice of God, the other His Word. The Ark, indeed, was radiant within and without with the glitter of gold, but holy Mary shone within and without with the splendour of virginity. The one was adorned with earthly gold, the other with heavenly.135

Elaborating on the same theme, Chrysippus of Jerusalem (c. 405–79), a writer on Church matters and custodian of the Holy Cross in the Jerusalem Church of the Holy Sepulchre, lauded Mary in the following words: An ark truly royal, an ark most precious is the ever-virgin Mother of God, an ark which received the treasure of entire sanctification. Not that ark wherein were all kinds of animals, as in the ark of Noe, which escaped the shipwreck of the whole drowning world. Not that ark in which were the tables of stone, as in the ark that journeyed in company with Israel throughout the desert; but an ark whose architect, inhabitant, pilot and merchant, companion of the way, and leader, was the Creator of all creatures, all which He bears in Himself, but by all is not contained.136

A modern scholar, Marina Warner draws attention to Luke’s implicit typological association in his Gospel, of Mary with the Ark of the Covenant in the vocabulary he deploys in his account of the Annunciation.137 Just as the angel Gabriel tells Mary that she will be overshadowed by the power of God in the Gospel of Luke, so we find in the Book of Exodus that the ‘Tent of Meeting’,

132  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us which contained the Ark of the Covenant, is overshadowed by a cloud from which the majesty of God fills the Tent.138 The theme of Mary as ‘Ark of the Covenant’ has been devoutly and endlessly repeated. We find it again, for example, in the Catechism which also, intriguingly, links the whole ‘Ark of the Covenant’ topos with a particular pair of verses in the Book of Revelation:139 Then the sanctuary of God in heaven opened, and the ark of the covenant could be seen inside it . . . Now a great sign appeared in heaven: a woman, robed with the sun, standing on the moon, and on her head a crown of twelve stars.140

A pre-twelfth-century format of the Bible without chapter divisions allows an identification of the woman as ‘Mary, the Ark of the Covenant’,141 but this identification is not shared by all142 and there are certainly other possibilities as well.143 A popular Marian Litany vaunts Mary as Foederis arca (Ark of the Covenant)144 while a simple prayer book, designed for the use of pilgrims to Walsingham, characterises Mary as ‘the Ark of God’s own promise’.145 This same prayer book lauds Mary in the following terms: ‘With her “yes” she opened the door of our world to God Himself; she became the living Ark of the Covenant, in whom God took flesh, became one of us and pitched His tent among us.’146 A Walsingham Litany identifies her as the ‘Woman clothed with the sun, Woman crowned with stars’147 in a clear reference to the apocalyptic vision of John.148 These latter references to Walsingham and its prayers, resonant as they are of our overall intertext of the Ark and the Book of Revelation of John, are cited here deliberately; for Walsingham and its miraculous milieu is the substance of this present section which surveys and analyses the miracles which have flowed from ‘the Virgin in the House’. The little village of Walsingham in Norfolk became the proud possessor in the early Middle Ages of what was to become one of the most popular shrines to the Virgin Mary in the whole of England,149 rivalled perhaps only by Canterbury, and with a fame that placed it among the great pilgrimage shrines of medieval Europe, like Santiago de Compostela and Rome and even beyond, like Jerusalem.150 It became famed too, as a site of miraculous

wood a nd stone | 133 healings and rejoiced in the title of ‘England’s Nazareth’.151 Of these four great shrines of Jerusalem, Rome, Santiago and Walsingham, the latter was the only one specifically dedicated to the Virgin Mary.152 This metamotif of the shrine at Walsingham as ‘England’s Nazareth’ was particularly important, theologically and narratologically for Walsingham. The title occurs towards the end of the famous 1465 Pynson Ballad,153 to which we will allude in more detail: In the is belded newe nazareth a mancyon.154

Stella A. Singer, in a powerful article, has argued that the location of the shrine at Walsingham, and what she terms its ‘allegorization of place’,155 constituted a major threat to the later Tudor regime. It was beyond the centre of Tudor power in Westminster. She observes that the threat of Walsingham lay in its sanctity of place, its ‘devotional geography’ which could not be easily ruled from that centre.156 In addition, East Anglia in the Middle Ages was not always the most quiescent and subservient of areas politically157 and this would certainly have been a major factor in the eventual dissolution and destruction of the Walsingham shrine in August 1538.158 Before this latter event, however, Walsingham had been visited by the high and the low, the scholarly and the ignorant.159 King Henry VII (r. 1485–1509) came to Walsingham on pilgrimage in 1487, two years after his victory over Richard III (r. 1483–5) at the Battle of Bosworth Field.160 His son, Henry VIII (r. 1509–47), characterised by Gillett as ‘an ardent devotee’, came too.161 It has been suggested that the devotion of the latter monarch may have been the need to pray for a longed-for male heir.162 These visits by Henry VIII were immortalised in a three-volume Victorian novel by one Agnes Strickland (1806–74), published in 1835 and little known today: it went by the somewhat ponderous title of The Pilgrims of Walsingham; Or Tales of the Middle Ages: A Historical Romance.163 Perhaps most notable among all the scholars who visited the pre-Reformation Shrine at Walsingham was the great humanist Dutch scholar, Desiderius Erasmus (1466/9–1536), who came to Walsingham in 1509 and 1511.164 He wrote a famous and moving prayer to mark his visits,165 despite his scepticism, intellectual snobbery and dislike of some aspects – especially the more ­superstitious – of the shrine.166

134  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us A Context for Miracles We may briefly identify five major historical phases in the history of the shrine at Walsingham, a village which, it might be noted, comprises the two joined villages of Great Walsingham and Little Walsingham.167 1. Pre-1061  This is the period five years before the Norman Conquest. The present shrine, in Gary Waller’s words, has ‘multiple stories’168 which are of particular fascination in view of this present volume’s emphasis on narratology. Waller hazards that Walsingham may well have been a spiritual, possibly pagan, locus well before the building of the famous Christian shrine.169 He notes that the area had been settled by Iron Age peoples, Romans and Anglo-Saxons,170 and emphasises that some have noted in the Pynson Ballad a linking of Walsingham to an origin prior to 1066.171 2. 1061: The Year of the Lady Richeldis de Faverches  In 1061, five years before the Battle of Hastings and the Norman Conquest, a certain aristocratic widow named Richeldis de Faverches, who lived in Walsingham, had a vision or dream. Commentators differ as to the exact nature and interpretation of what she experienced. Was it a dream, a vision or even a threefold vision?172 The Pynson Ballad tells us that it was the last: This visyon shewed thryse to this devout woman.173

It continues: In spyryte our lady to Nazareth hir led.174

Richeldis is shown in her vision the Holy House of Nazareth and commanded to build a replica in Walsingham. The lines cited above then continue: And shewed hir the place where Gabryel hir grette. Lo doughter consyder to hir oure lady sayde. Of thys place take thou suerly the mette another lyke thys at Walsyngham thou sette unto my laude and synguler honoure. All that me seke there shall find sucoure.175

The Pynson Ballad then goes on to detail how the final site was chosen, the way the building was moved by angelic hands and the miraculous cures

wood a nd stone | 135 which ensued at the shrine. We shall survey each of these important topoi in a short while. This Pynson Ballad is a primary feature in the whole visionary narrative. It is the hinge on which so much of the later legend turned and from which so much of the later myth developed.176 The tradition holds that a narrative of the Walsingham vision was recorded in the Pynson verse Ballad in about 1465.177 A unique printed four-page copy of this twenty-one-verse ballad is to found in the Pepys Library of Magdalene College, Cambridge.178 It was published in the last decade of the fifteenth century,179 but was composed, as classically accepted, in about 1465.180 We don’t know the name of the author, but the work takes its name from Richard Pynson, who printed it in the age of the Tudors.181 Gary Waller and others have queried the dating of the foundation of the actual shrine, placing this in the middle of the twelfth century rather than the commonly and traditionally held dating of 1061, and thus cast doubt on the traditional dating of the Pynson Ballad.182 Waller stresses that this ballad is a unique source for the foundational narrative of the Holy House and there are no other sources prior to Pynson which provide a miraculous account of this House’s beginnings.183 It is clear that, whatever the individual beliefs of the academic historian or the pious pilgrim, the whole history of Walsingham has become embellished with diverse ‘invented traditions’.184 Here, then, is an aspect of that scepticism and caution to which we will allude again shortly when we consider the various attitudes of both scholar and pilgrim to the perceived phenomena of Walsingham. 3. The Heyday of the Holy House  By the beginning of the fifteenth century Walsingham had developed into a major national shrine. It was not just a question of wealth; the shrine had embedded itself in the very spirit and psyche of the English people from every part of the country.185 Even if the appeal of Canterbury as a pilgrim shrine might be said to have waned somewhat by the beginning of the fifteenth century, the shrine at Walsingham (together with the great European shrines and Jerusalem) preserved its appeal for the pious pilgrim186 right up to the time of the Dissolution of the Monasteries and the destruction of related shrines.187 Milieu and context, plague and historical calamity all played their role in bolstering the appeal of shrines such as Walsingham.188 The outbreak of

136  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us rebellion brought Henry VII to pray at the shrine.189 The protection of the Virgin Mary at Walsingham from disasters such as the fourteenth-century Black Death might be sought in pilgrimage to Walsingham.190 Such vicissitudes as this terrible plague were often perceived as signs of God’s anger and people therefore went on pilgrimage in an effort to avert that anger and bathe in His mercy.191 Pilgrimage involved penance192 and judicious suffering was a means whereby sinful man could not only cleanse himself from his sins193 but also turn away God’s wrath and preserve the supplicant from the much greater suffering of the plague. 4. Dissolution, Desecration and Destruction  Against a backdrop of such intentions and the manifold hopes for succour, cures, miracles and safeguarding from other diseases and harm at a shrine which was admittedly, by the time of the Reformation, clothed in a potent garb of legend, myth and tradition, the 1538 dissolution, ensuing desecration and destruction of the shrine at Walsingham came as an immense shock to the people of England. This shock is most dramatically and dynamically captured in the Elizabethan poem, attributed with some reservations194 to Philip, Earl of Arundel (d. 1595), on ‘The wracks of Walsingham’. Its last two moving verses read as follows: Weep, weep O Walsingam, whose dayes are nightes, blessings turned to blasphemies, holy deedes to dispites. Sinne is where our Ladye sate, Heaven turned is to helle; Sathan sitte where our Lord did swaye, Walsingam, oh, farewell!195

The end came in 1538. The statue of Our Lady of Walsingham was taken from the shrine and burned by Thomas Cromwell’s reformers at Chelsea.196 On 4 August 1538 the royal commissioner, Sir William Petre, took the surrender197 by Prior Vowell in the Chapter House of the Priory.198 The Priory and Holy House were torched, the treasury was sacked and its contents were despatched to Cromwell.199 Centuries of pilgrimage were brought to an abrupt end.

wood a nd stone | 137 5. The Great Revival  H. M. Gillett encapsulates what happened next in a succinct but powerful phrase: ‘For three centuries Walsingham slept.’200 The revival came in the nineteenth century, inter alia partly as a result of that century’s general interest in antiquarianism and archaeology,201 partly as a result of the English Roman Catholic revival202 and partly as a result of the Anglo-Catholic movement in the Church of England.203 The latter, which became characterised as the Oxford Movement, may be said to have reached its zenith on 15 October 1931, when Walsingham witnessed the opening of a new Anglican shrine.204 Figures such as Fr Alfred Hope Patten (1885–1958) loom large in the history of the Anglican revival in Walsingham.205 From the installation in 1922 of a statue of Mary in the parish church through to the translation of that statue in 1931 to the newly built Holy House, whose dimensions and measurements matched the pre-Reformation original, Hope Patten’s devotion and hopes for a revival were ubiquitously manifested in physical form.206 On the Roman Catholic side an Anglican convert to Rome, Charlotte Boyd (1838–1906), in the closing years of the nineteenth century, purchased the Slipper Chapel at Houghton St Giles, very close to the village of Walsingham, and began to have it restored.207 This was the origin or rather, rebirth, of an eventual Catholic shrine at Walsingham where today two shrines of Our Lady of Walsingham, Anglican and Catholic, compete for the attention of the pious pilgrim. After an initial lack of interest by the Catholic community in this Slipper Chapel project and shrine, a Catholic guild by the name of the Guild of Our Lady of Ransom208 in 1897 organised the first formal Catholic pilgrimage to be made to Walsingham since the destruction of the original shrine; one of the participants was Charlotte Boyd who was to die nine years later in 1906.209 On 27 December 2015 the Catholic Slipper Chapel Shrine was raised to the status of a minor basilica by Pope Francis.210 The twin shrines in Walsingham reflect precisely a Christian Church which has been divided upon itself since the Reformation.211 The gradual healing of such divisions, however – a spiritual healing rather than a miraculous physical healing – was reflected in the visit by the then Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Robert Runcie, in 1980 to the Catholic Slipper Chapel where he offered prayers that Christianity might once again be united.212

138  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us The gesture served to remove some of the centuries-old mutual suspicions between the two Churches.213 Today, pilgrimages of all kinds come to Walsingham. Pilgrims travel by car, coach and even on foot. The medieval traditions of the latter have not been forgotten. One of the most famous of the walking pilgrimages, which goes from London to Walsingham, is the annual event undertaken by a group known simply as the Walsingham Walkers. This walk was inaugurated, and led for many years, by the redoubtable Mgr Laurance Goulder (d. 1969) in 1952. It has continued into the present century in an adapted form, and oft altered routes, under different leadership with varying numbers of committed walkers.214 Attention has been drawn here to this particular, well-documented walk since it has, from its earliest days, mirrored a medieval ascetical tradition of ‘hard pilgrimage’, attempting to duplicate, insofar as has been possible, the ancient pilgrim routes to Walsingham and embracing the foot-weary hardships of the road together, at least in its early days, with overnight accommodation of the most rudimentary kind.215 In 1897, on the occasion of the blessing of a statue of Our Lady of Walsingham, the then reigning Pope, Leo XIII (r. 1878–1903) famously observed: ‘When England goes back to Walsingham, Our Lady will come back to England.’216 The first part of his observation has certainly proved prophetic for the phenomenon of pilgrimage has brought England back to Walsingham in our own age as a result of an increase in Marian devotion in part of the Anglican Church and much of the Catholic Church. The twin shrines are not embraced primarily as sites for potential miraculous healings in the same way that Lourdes is visited today. For such phenomena and hopes we must return to the Middle Ages. The Miraculous Milieu Our previous excursus, which explored the historical background to the Shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, was necessary because it provides the fundamental context within which miracles associated with Walsingham in medieval times were narrated and flourished. The shrine at Walsingham became a shrine of and for miracles.217 This is powerfully stressed in the Pynson Ballad:

wood a nd stone | 139 And syth here our lady hath sheyd many myracle innumerable nowe here for to expresse to suche as visyte thys hir habytacle ever lyke newe to them that call hir in dystresse. Foure hundreth yere and more the cronacle to witnes hath endured this notable pylgrymage where grace is dayly shewyd to men of every age.218

From the traditional Walsingham narrative we may identify four miraculous topoi: (1) the metatheme of the vision; (2) the theme of angelic help; (3) the motif of the miraculous springs of water; (4) the metatheme of miraculous healings. 1. The metatheme of the miraculous triple vision of the Lady Richeldis has at its heart a miraculous supernatural instruction to build.219 The Holy House is thus built by heavenly authority. As Pynson puts it: In spyrte our Lady to Nazareth hir led and shewed hir the place where Gabryel hir grette. Lo daughter consyder to hir oure lady sayde of thys place take thou suerly the mette another lyke thys at Walsyngham thou sette.220

2. The theme of miraculous help by angels is one to which we draw particular attention and on which we place considerable emphasis since it is a theme common also to the building of Noah’s ark and the Kaʿba in the Islamic tradition as well as to the narrative of another great Marian shrine, that of Loreto near Ancona in Italy in 1291.221 In the case of the latter, tradition holds that the house of the Virgin Mary in Nazareth was actually transported by angels to Loreto.222 The scene of this miraculous transportation has been beautifully captured in the mid-sixteenth-century painting of The Translation of the Holy House of Loreto by Vincenzo Pagani.223 In this painting, against a blue maritime backcloth in which a ship sails in the distance, three winged angels bear a simple one-storey structure aloft. Above the house hovers the Virgin and child and the painting is captioned: ‘In civitate iustitia domus mea’.224 All

140  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us may be said to form a dynamic intertext with angelic help as the narrative ‘glue’. Pynson details a double miracle here: the Lady Richeldis, seeking a site on which to build, is shown two spots of land which have remained dry while elsewhere All this a medewe wet with dropes celestyall and with sylver dewe sent from hye adowne.225

This was the result of a ‘myracle of our lady’s grace’.226 The Lady Richeldis chooses one of the two dry spots and attempts to build on it, but is unable. She has, apparently, chosen the wrong one.227 But in the night, angels move the house to where it is intended by the Virgin Mary to be. This movement of the house by angels is the second part of the double miracle: Oure blyssed lady with hevenly mynystris Hir sylfe beynge here chyef artyfycer areryd this sayd house with aungellys handys and nat only reryd it but set it there it is that is two hundred fote and more in dystaunce from the fyrste place bokes made remembraunce.228

3. Part of the foundation narrative of many sites which later become the focus for pilgrimage is the phenomenon of miraculous springs.229 This is certainly true of Marian shrines.230 Such gushing springs are endowed with miraculous charisms.231 This leitmotiv of the miraculous appearance of a spring or well with healing powers resonates strongly with the narrative of the well of Zamzam in Mecca and the spring at Lourdes. Now it has been emphasised that the Pynson Ballad does not mention the sudden miraculous appearance of water at the command of the Virgin Mary.232 However, Erasmus does make reference to such a miraculous story: ‘They saye that the fowntayne dyd sudenly sprynge oute of the erthe at the commaundement of our lady.’233 4. It was, of course, the metatheme of miraculous healings from the waters of Walsingham that dominated so much of the medieval narrative of Walsingham. We start again, for our narratological ‘evidence’ with Pynson:

wood a nd stone | 141 Many seke ben here cured by our ladye’s myghte dede agayne revyved of this is no dought. Lame made hole and blynde restored to syghte. Maryners vexed with tempest safe to port brought, defe wounde and lunatyke that hyder have fought and also lepers have recovered have be by oure lady’s grace of their infirmyte.234

The Ballad goes on to tell us that a pilgrimage to Walsingham could also exorcise one from demonic possession as well as ‘gostely temptacion’,235 that is, the frustration of evil temptations.236 In such wise does the medieval reputation of Walsingham’s waters for such healing miracles join that shrine to an intertext of such healings stretching from Lourdes to Mecca.237 Scholars have noted with interest the Christocentric nature of most of the healings mentioned in the above verse with its New Testament echoes.238 Equally interesting is the inclusion in the list of a reference to Mary as a refuge, protector and safeguard of sailors from storms at sea.239 There are distinct echoes here of Mary’s famous antique designation, included in antiphon and hymn, as Stella Maris, Star of the Sea.240 When we turn to a consideration of critiques of, and attitudes towards, the shrine at Walsingham, and the miracles claimed for that shrine, under our usual fourfold paradigm of disbelief and scepticism, caution, belief and memory and memorialisation, we find that they are neatly subsumed in or, at least, paralleled by, Gary Waller’s own tripartite list of ‘adulation and reverence, skepticism and revulsion’.241 We have seen this first facet, adulation and reverence, in much of our narrative coverage of the origins, heyday and later renewal of the shrine at Walsingham. Loyalty and adherence to what Walsingham represented persisted long after the destructive events of the Reformation.242 Erasmus’ scepticism and cynicism, especially with regard to the Virgin’s milk allegedly preserved in a phial in the shrine at Walsingham, usefully illustrate the fact that legend and myth had become inextricably woven into the main Walsingham narrative.243 The hostility of the reformers who tore down the shrine provides ample evidence of disbelief in that shrine, its miracles and all that the shrine stood for in the way of traditional Marian devotion.

142  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Fundamentalist Protestants have evinced a similar hostility and disbelief into our own era.244 The role of memory and memorialisation cannot be disentangled from the Walsingham story. The theme of a ‘divine presence’ in the world was underlined by the miracles which occurred at the shrine.245 The theme of a wholeness remembered was to be seen in the sick and the lame miraculously healed at the shrine. The motif of water as a ritual artefact of healing was present in the shrine wells. Metathemes of faith and doubt are illustrated in the faith of the believer and pious pilgrim which coexisted beside the intellectual scepticism of Erasmus, while the doubt of the reformer during the Reformation spawned hatred and destruction. Over all hung the metatheme of a Marian injunction and authority to build, later supplanted in a most brutal fashion by the memory of a king whose henchmen unleashed a nationwide injunction to destroy monastery, convent and shrine. Yet memory continued to play a key role. The memory of Walsingham, as we have noted, continued after the Dissolution.246 There is today – even though Walsingham is no longer set in a miraculous landscape – a continuity of the past into the present in both Anglican shrine and Roman Catholic minor basilica.247 Just occasionally the memory of the past intrudes into the imaginations of the present as when, in the 1930s, two nuns beheld two figures near Walsingham whom Hope Patten identified as Erasmus and Colet.248 5.3  The Angels of the Kaʿʿba Muhammad reconquered his native city of Mecca in 630.249 The Kaʿba was purified of the idols it housed. Muhammad circumambulated the Kaʿba seven times on his female riding camel. Then, his biographer Ibn Ishaq (d. 767) tells us that he demanded the key to the Kaʿba from ʿUthman b. Talha. He entered and found therein a dove constructed from aloes wood (ªamāma min ʿīdān). He smashed this idol with his own hands and flung it outside.250 The famous traditionist al-Bukhari (810–70) tells us that there were 360 idols round the Kaʿba and that pictures of Ibrahim and Ismaʿil, with divining arrows in their hands, were carried out of the Kaʿba.251 It has been suggested,

wood a nd stone | 143 however, that the number of 360 idols may be a fantasy252 and the figure given probably represents a large quantity. Thus began Islam’s cleansing and reclamation of what swiftly became its central focal point for prayer and pilgrimage, the Kaʿba. Gerald Hawting reminds us that there are only two references by name to the Kaʿba in the Qur’an253 but a diversity of other vocabulary serves to indicate the same cube-shaped structure.254 One of the key verses, which contains one of these alternative words used in the Qur’an for Kaʿba, that is, al-Bayt (literally, the House), runs as follows: And remember Abraham and Ismaʿil raised the foundations of the House (al-qawāʿid min al-bayt) (with this prayer): ‘Our Lord! Accept (this service) from us: For Thou art the All-Hearing, the All-Knowing.’255

While this seems to indicate that Ibrahim and Ismaʿil were the first builders of the Kaʿba, some ambiguity in interpretation of related Qur’anic verses was recognised from the early centuries of Islam onwards according to which Adam might have pride of place as the first builder of the Kaʿba.256 The two views are encapsulated in the narratives of al-Kisa’i and Ibn Kathir respectively. Both make reference to miraculous angelic help and both view the Kaʿba as the product of divine authority. In al-Kisa’i’s account, God commands Adam to build the Kaʿba. Adam is provided with angelic help in its construction.257 A little later the angel Gabriel is commissioned to teach Adam the rites proper to the pilgrimage (manāsik al-ªajj).258 Many years later Hajar and Ismaʿil chance on the Kaʿba and find that it is broken into a myriad of pieces because of the Noachic flood (ka-annahu ribwa min āthār al-†ūfān).259 Ibrahim is commanded to rebuild the Kaʿba but he is perplexed as to what its dimensions should be. God therefore sends a cloud and indicates that the foundations of the Kaʿba should not be larger than the perceived dimensions of that cloud.260 As was the case with Adam, the angel Gabriel is

144  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us then called upon to teach Ibrahim and Ismaʿil the rites of the ªajj (thumma ʿallamahumā Jibrīl al-manāsika).261 What has developed then, is a literary topos whereby the Kaʿba has been built in antiquity by Adam, destroyed or very badly damaged in the great Deluge, and then rebuilt by Ibrahim and Ismaʿil. This has been repeated by diverse classical and modern commentators.262 This narative is attractive but its reliability was questioned even in early Islamic history.263 Ibn Kathir, for example, was in absolutely no doubt that there was no evidence in the hadith literature for the Kaʿba having been built before the life of Ibrahim.264 That being the case, however, did not prevent miracles being associated with this building of the Kaʿba by Ibrahim and Ismaʿil. In a section of the narrative which resonates powerfully, and forms an intertext, with the Walsingham narrative, God orders Ibrahim and Ismaʿil to build the Kaʿba, but they confess that they do not know where its location should be. So God sends a wind, shaped with two wings and a serpent head, called al-Khajuj which sweeps and clears an area around the old foundations of an original first Kaʿba (fa-kanasat lahumā mā ªawla al-kaʿba ʿan asās al-bayt al-awwal). Here at least Ibn Kathir seems to contradict his earlier statement and acknowledge that there was an earlier Kaʿba prior to that built by Ibrahim and Ismaʿil.265 They follow the outlines of these old foundations with their pickaxes and dig out a new foundation for the Kaʿba.266 It is not only the miraculous and divinely sent wind which assists. Angelic help is not far behind. Ibrahim asks Ismaʿil to fetch the Black Stone (al-ªajar al-aswad) to incorporate in the building. Ismaʿil finds it in a corner and asks his father who brought it to them. Ibrahim replies: ‘Someone a lot more energetic than you!’ (Man huwa ansha† minka!).267 This mysterious figure has been identified as the angel Gabriel.268 The Kaʿba, whether built firstly by Adam, or initially built by Ibrahim and Ismaʿil as supposed by many,269 thus breathes the air of miracles in its construction, divine and angelic. Down the generations it has inspired awe and admiration from countless pilgrims. Thus the Andalusian traveller Ibn Jubayr (1145–1217),270 visiting Mecca in 1183, likened the Kaʿba to ‘an unveiled bride who is solemnly led in procession to the Paradise of Delight’.271 The later Maghribi traveller Ibn Battuta (1304–68/9 or 1377)272 was similarly

wood a nd stone | 145 awestruck in 1326 and deployed a similar bridal image, no doubt influenced by the earlier work of Ibn Jubayr.273 Later Victorian and twentieth-century travellers were no less impressed by their first sighting of, and visit to, the Kaʿba. The great Victorian explorer Richard Burton (1821–90) was unable to suppress his awe in 1853: None felt for the moment a deeper emotion than did the Haji from the far-north [himself]. It was as if the poetical legends of the Arab spoke truth, and that the waving wings of angel, not the sweet breeze of morning, were agitating and swelling the black covering of the shrine.274

Lady Evelyn Cobbold (1867–1963), during her visit to Mecca in 1933, was no less impressed, though her vocabulary was slightly more restrained: approaching the Kaʿba she describes it as ‘the goal for which millions have forfeited their lives and yet more millions have found their heaven in beholding it’.275 For Cobbold, as for Ibn Jubayr and Ibn Battuta, the Kaʿba, miraculously constructed, is truly the House of God on earth, a real symbol of the celestial Paradise which awaits the believer, adorned in one corner by the famous Black Stone which Cobbold vividly characterises as ‘the corner-stone in the Divine order of the Universe’.276 Narratologically, in our consideration of the Kaʿba, and building on all that we have surveyed above, two vital topoi deserve our attention: the role of the ikon and the role of the angel. Both will now be considered here. The Ikon in the Kaʿba The presence of an image of Mary and Jesus (Maryam and ʿIsa) in the Kaʿba at the time of the conquest of Mecca by Muhammad in 630 is attested by diverse authors, classical and modern.277 The image is variously characterised in the Islamic Arabic sources as a sūra278 (picture, figure or statue)279 and a timthāl280 (statue, scultured image).281. It was an image which was clearly ornamented or decorated in some way (muzawwaq).282 Oleg Grabar suggests that it may have been executed by a non-Arab or have been a piece ‘of local folk art’.283 Al-Waqidi and al-Azraqi do not tell us what kind of ikon it was, nor give it a name. There is hardly any real description except in one significant place:

146  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us ‘I perceived in it [the Kaʿba] a decorated image of Mary [and] sitting in her lap was her son Jesus [similarly] decorated’ (Adraktu fīhā timthāl Maryam muzawwaq, fī ªijrihā ʿĪsā ibnuhu qāʿid muzawwaq).284 We are told also that there was ‘the picture of the angels’ (‚ūrat al-malāʾika) on the interior wall of the Kaʿba.285 Another text reads ‘the pictures [or images] of the angels (‚uwar al-malāʾika)286 in the plural. It is highly likely that this was a Byzantine ikon, a possible by-product of trading links, and there is one pictorial candidate which fits the meagre description above: the ikon in the Kaʿba might have been an early version of what is characterised today as the ikon of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour. I stress here that this is a possibility only: there is no hard evidence. The most notable example of this ikon dates from 1495. It had originally been located in a Cretan church where even then its age was acknowledged, and it is to be found today in the Church of Saint Alphonsus belonging to the Redemptorists in Rome.287 The Orthodox Church knew this ikon as ‘the Virgin of the Passion’ or ‘the Virgin of the Thumb’ and considered it to be ‘a theological variant of the Hodegetria’.288 In this famous picture, which is indeed richly ornamented in all reproductions, the Virgin Mary is shown with Jesus seated on her lap. Two angels show to the infant the instruments of his future passion and a sandal is seen to drop from the child in fright. His face is turned away from Mary as he beholds the two archangels, Michael on the left holding the spear, sponge and crown of thorns and Gabriel on the right holding the cross and nails.289 Legend has it that the original of the ikon now in Rome in the Chiesa of San Alfonso was painted by St Luke but this is, perhaps unsurprisingly, disputed.290 As we have already noted, the information provided in the Arabic sources about the ikon of Mary and Jesus found by Muhammad in the Kaʿba is tantalisingly meagre. If it was not an early example of the ikon of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour (or Help), it could well have been a glykophilousa (sweetly kissing) ikon in which Mary is portrayed in a loving pose with the infant291 or another hodegetria (the one who shows the way).292 We are not told in the Arabic sources whether Jesus’ face in the Kaʿba ikon faced away from Mary (as is traditional in the ikon of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour) or, as in so many other ikons, was represented facing towards the Virgin.293 Nonetheless, the presence of this picture in the Kaʿba should not really

wood a nd stone | 147 astonish us, given the contemporary Christian presence in Arabia and the ubiquity of trade. Furthermore, from early times to the present day Christians have portrayed Mary in a variety of forms. Anthropologically, what she holds in such representations is of interest, whether it be the child Jesus confronting the instruments of the passion (as in the ikon we have been discussing of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour) or a knotted cord or rope, as in the picture of Our Lady Who Unties Knots, in the Church of St Peter Am Perlach in Augsburg. In the latter, the depiction of the child Jesus is replaced by one of angels.294 In all cases, however, in whatever form and in whichever place, whether the Kaʿba in Mecca in late antiquity, the Chiesa of San Alfonso in Rome or the Church of St Peter Am Perlach in Augsburg, the pictures and ikons of Mary have always signalled the proximity of the divine presence in the world. Indeed, theologically, in the Catholic Christian tradition, they connote Mary as a prime instrument for intercession and salvation but, in the Protestant traditions, as a sign of division since such traditions reject the Marian doctrines of the Catholic faith. The motivation of whoever placed or painted the ikon of Jesus and Mary in the Kaʿba is unknown. If that person were Christian, however, the picture might possibly have signalled or represented some kind of ‘divine presence’ in the same way as the idols of Hubal and Manat for the pagans of Mecca, and served as a focus for veneration and intercession. The alternative, of course, is that it was placed there as pure decoration. What we can identify and analyse much more easily is the contemporary historical milieu in which this ikon of Jesus and Mary in pre-Islam came to be found in the pagan Kaʿba in the first place, alongside a variety of other ‘gods’ and ‘goddesses’. As we have noted, the Meccans had endowed the latter with supernatural and intercessory powers and thus worthy of veneration295 (and later destruction by Muhammad).296 In the same way, some Marian ikons and pictures down the ages have been endowed with miraculous charisms of supernatural interventions, healings and the granting of heartfelt desires.297 But how was it possible that in the same pre-Islamic Kaʿba, pagan idols and a Christian picture both shared a sacred space and, individually, signalled a kind of ‘passport’ to the Divine via intercession and veneration? Christianity broke early onto the Syro-Arab, Mesopotamian and Arabian scenes. There was ample opportunity for knowledge of, and contact with, Christianity. J. Spencer Trimingham draws attention to St Paul’s statement

148  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us in the Epistle to the Galatians: ‘Instead, I went off to Arabia, and later I came back to Damascus.’298 He probably went south to the lands of the Nabataean Arabs.299 Gradually Christianity in one form or another became known in pre-Islamic Arabia. Trimingham claims, however, that it never established deep, permanent long-lasting roots,300 but Robert Hoyland disagrees: he suggests that between the fourth and the sixth centuries ad Christianity became well established in parts of Arabia.301 In this period there were two major conduits for knowledge about Christianity for the non-Christian Arab: there was trade with Christians to the north of the Peninsula and there was the enduring war between Sasanian Zoroastrian Persia and Christian Byzantium. The Qur’an makes an important primary reference to the latter in its thirtieth Sura, Sūrat al-Rūm,302 a chapter name variously translated as ‘the Chapter of the Byzantines’,303 ‘the Chapter of the Greeks’,304 ‘the Chapter of the Romans’305 and ‘the Chapter of the Roman Empire’:306 Alif, Lām, Mīm, The Roman Empire [al-Rūm] has been defeated – in a land close by [fī adnā al-ar∂].307

The last line in this Qur’anic quote is significant in its indication of awareness of the proximity of Christian Byzantium to Arabia in the age of Muhammad. Of course, the Christian Byzantine Empire was not the only large Christian territory adjacent to Arabia: Ethiopia/Abyssinia with its Monophysite brand of Christianity lay just across the waters of the Red Sea to the south-west of Arabia.308 The Abyssinians invaded the south-west of Arabia in the third century and established their rule over this area for some time. It is highly likely that Christianity reached this area in consequence of this invasion, resulting in the baptism of the King of the Himyarites in around 360.309 Arabian Najran, too, became a centre of the Christian faith310 and, indeed, the focus for a notorious massacre of Jewish opponents in 523.311 Aside from individual countries and regions, individual Christians occasionally figure prominently in the Islamic narrative. Tradition holds that it was a Coptic Christian who erected a flat roof supported by six pillars of wood over the pre-Islamic Kaʿba sometime around the beginning of the

wood a nd stone | 149 seventh century.312 The Christian Yemeni ruler, Abraha, marched on Mecca in about 570, the year in which the Prophet Muhammad was born.313 The future mission of the young Muhammad was identified by a Christian monk named Bahira.314 Muhammad’s initial revelations were confirmed to Khadija, Muhammad’s wife, as worthy of acceptance by her Christian cousin, Waraqa ibn Nawfal.315 Finally, we note the intriguing statement of Uri Rubin: ‘Christians as well may have venerated the Kaʿba, towards which some of them reportedly used to pray.’316 Was this because they knew about the images of Jesus and Mary in that Kaʿba? It is impossible to know. Whether through country, region or person, then, Christianity was well known in Arabia in the age of Muhammad, even if not always understood and articulated in the strictly Chalcedonian fashion of 451.317 The Qur’an is certainly familiar with Christian theology, aspects of which like Trinitarianism,318 the Sonship of God319 and the death of Jesus on a cross320 are strongly rebutted, though in one part at least, there is an emollient acceptance of Christians and their right to practise their faith.321 The Kaʿba, the Ark and the Throne: an Angelic ˝awāf The figure of Mary provides a major intertextual link: she links the Ark of the Covenant of the Old Testament with the New by being identified as the New Ark of the Covenant. She links the Kaʿba in Pre-Islam as a kind of pagan ‘ark’ – albeit temporary – by being represented as part of an image of Jesus and Mary in that Kaʿba. We thus have before us an intertextual and narrative paradigm which might usefully be represented in diagrammatic form as follows: (Jewish) Ark of the Covenant > (New Testament Apocalyptic) Mary as New Ark of the Covenant > (Pagan) pre-Islamic Kaʿba as ‘ark’.

In each case the Ark is a symbol of the sacred. In the Old Testament narrative, the Ark, beautifully furnished, contains the tablets of the Law, the Decalogue.322 Evoking the realms of the supernatural and the miraculous, models of ‘winged creatures’ made out of gold form part of the ‘mercy seat’ which is to be placed on top of the Ark.323 The NJB identifies these angelic-type figures as corresponding to the karibu of the Babylonians: these were spirits in half-human, half-animal shape whose task was to guard the entrances to

150  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us prominent structures like palaces and temples and were generally identified as sphinxes in the Bible.324 But there is another possible identification for what the NJB translates as ‘winged creatures’:325 they may be identified with the cherubim,326 with the seraphim, one of the brightest of the traditional Dionysian ninefold order of angels;327 they could be represented with the head of a human, the wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, protecting the heavens, and with the Ark serving as a kind of earthly throne for Almighty God.328 In a mode reminiscent of the Islamic angelic †awāf round the Kaʿba, to which we will shortly allude, the cherubim circle the throne of God in the terrifying vision of the prophet Ezekiel.329 Thus we see that the topoi or motifs of angels and physical thrones form a narratological and integral part of the Jewish Ark.330 That angelic aspect is true of Mary’s antique designation as the New Ark of the Covenant331 and the Islamic Kaʿba, and the motif of the angel and Mary is embedded, too, in the Book of Revelation, also known as the Book of the Apocalypse, of St John. Textually, the theme of Mary and the angelic is a constant narratological topos. The Book of Revelation opens with an angelic revelation to John.332 He is commanded to write to the angels of seven churches.333 There are seven angelic trumpeteers.334 In a very powerful verse the text tells us that by the throne of God stand ‘four living creatures’: each has six wings and is characterised as being a mass of eyes.335 The NJB identifes these supernatural beings as having responsibility for the material world.336 They are fiery angels who go by the name of ‘watchers’ (merkabah) and whose origins may well lie in ‘the Jewish idea of the cherubim’.337 Later in the text we learn that Mary, the New Ark of the Covenant, ‘robed with the sun, standing on the moon . . . [wearing] a crown of twelve stars’,338 is confronted by a fearsome dragon but this beast is overthrown by the Archangel Michael and his angels339 and the dragon goes off to vent its anger elsewhere.340 Elsewhere, the intertextual association of Mary and the angelic is made just as explicit in the Annunciation to Mary of the forthcoming birth of Jesus by the angel Gabriel in the Gospel of Luke and Sūra Maryam in the Qur’an.341 We have suggested that, in the pre-Islamic period, the Kaʿba may be said to have functioned as a kind of pagan ‘ark’, filled as it was with diverse

wood a nd stone | 151 ‘gods’ and ‘goddesses’, together with images of Jesus, Mary and angels. Its purpose, of course, was quite different from that of the Old Testament Ark. Mary is thus one intertextual link to some of what we have surveyed. Another primary narratological link from the Kaʿba to the Ark of the Old Covenant to Mary as the Ark of the New Covenant is the motif of the angel. Mary links the pre-Islamic Kaʿba to the Old and New Arks; however, it is the motif of the angel, as we shall show below, which links the Islamic, purified Kaʿba to these two Arks. In the Islamic tradition we encounter the Islamic Kaʿba, inter alia, as a metaphor for the Divine Throne,342 situated on earth directly beneath the Throne of God in Heaven;343 as the closest place on earth to Heaven;344 as ‘the navel of the earth’ (surrat al-ar∂)345 as well as the highest place on earth,346 indeed, as the centre of the entire universe;347 and as a marker of the place where the angels at God’s command bowed down to Adam.348 Above all, the Islamic tradition holds that the Kaʿba is a place where the circumambulation (†awāf ) of the annual pilgrimage to Mecca deliberately replicates the circling of the angels in Heaven of the Throne of God.349 Such a replication of the angelic circling was performed by Adam.350 Ibn Kathir tells us that there is a heavenly Kaʿba called al-Bayt al-Maʿmūr (the House Inhabited)351 which is entered each day by 70,000 angels who go there to worship God.352 Once again we see this association of the angelic and a Kaʿba, whether it be a divine archetype or one constructed on earth by human hands, albeit with angelic help or advice.353 The Kaʿba, its celestial and earthly archetypes and prototypes, its construction and its builders, have given rise to much legend, myth and embellishment to the extent that it is difficult to disentangle sacred reality from sacred fiction. Some caution or, perhaps better, ambiguity is apparent even in the early narratives. A particular aspect of this revolves around the immediate or later destruction of the ikon of Jesus and Mary in the Kaʿba by the Prophet Muhammad. According to one report in al-Waqidi’s narrative, the Prophet commanded that all the pictures in the Kaʿba should be erased except the image of Ibrahim. (Even this is commanded later to be erased.) But an immediately succeeding account shows Muhammad seeing the ikon of Maryam (Mary) and placing his hands on it (thumma ra’a ‚ūra Maryam fa-qad wa∂aʿa yadahu

152  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us ʿalayhā). But the command that follows is to preserve the picture of Ibrahim but erase all the others.354 There is a double ambiguity here: there are conflicting and contradictory commands about the projected fate of the image of Ibrahim. Secondly, the Prophet’s action in placing his hands on the ikon of Maryam goes unexplained. Was he singling out this ikon for immediate destruction or, as Hillenbrand suggests,355 attempting to preserve it, for reasons known only to himself? In al-Azraqi’s acccount, the Prophet also places his hand on the ikon of Maryam and all the images in the Kaʿba are erased except that of Maryam.356 It is clear that there are two conflicting traditions here.357 Geoffrey Parrinder comments: ‘Whether this story is true or not, there is no doubt that the Prophet showed the utmost respect for Jesus and his mother.’358 Furthermore, despite hugely differing theological views on the nature of Jesus between the Christian and Islamic traditions, the Qur’an also shows a profound respect for both these figures;359 however, we note the later hadith prohibition on the representation of the human form,360 a prohibition which would certainly have covered Jesus and Mary. Once more, in terms of the ways in which attitudes and critiques of the Kaʿba narrative of the ikon have developed, it is memory which plays a dominant role. The theme of a divine or supernatural presence in Heaven and in the world is heralded and signified by the angelic presence around the celestial Kaʿba and Throne of God, and the angelic facilitation of the building of an earthly Kaʿba. It was further reinforced, at least for pre-Islamic Christians, by the presence in the Kaʿba of the ikon of Jesus and Mary. The motif of the pilgrimage water rituals, whereby the miraculously copious and healing waters of Zamzam are drunk361 in proximity to the Kaʿba, serves to reinforce the metatheme of the faith of the pious pilgrim for whom the Kaʿba – miraculously inspired and built – represents an ultimate metatheme of Islamic authority for monotheism as it was purged of its idols by Muhammad and dedicated monotheistically to the one God. In this manner the previous polytheistic ‘inhabitants’ of the Kaʿba were deprived of the charisms and symbolism of any ‘divine’ authority. The earthly Kaʿba embodies the theme of a memory, and memorialisation, of wholeness whose archetype is the celestial Kaʿba. The memory of the ikon of Jesus and Mary, long since destroyed or, at least, removed from

wood a nd stone | 153 the Kaʿba, serves as a reminder of the prosopographical and prophetic links between Islam and Christianity as well as the fact that this latter religion is accorded the status of Ahl al-Kitāb (People of the Book).362 In Islam Jesus is not divine but he is still revered as a great prophet.363 5.4  The Narrative Arena When we come to consider the narratological and comparative arena for wood and stone, and their association with the realms of the miraculous, five universal topoi immediately stand out from our earlier analyses: angels, flood stories, houses or arks as shrines for the Divine and/or supernatural, memory and pilgrimage. It is well known and appreciated that the word ‘angel’ derives from the Greek angelos meaning ‘messenger’ or ‘envoy’.364 The gods in most theistic traditions have their messengers whether they be divine like the Greek Hermes365 or without the charism of divinity like the Christian and Islamic Gabriel (Jibril).366 Such angels are signifiers of the supernatural and, by the will or explicit command of God, they can perform miraculous deeds which may take the form, as we have seen, of facilitating the building of a structure dedicated to the Divine. Each theistic religion appears to have its Ark, House or Shrine in which the Divine may be said to be ‘housed’ or, at least, remembered and venerated. Such shrines trigger memories of the Divine and in or near their sacred precincts miracles may be enacted for the supplicant or visitant. The latter may perform a specific pilgrimage to such sites and shrines which enfold and preserve, corporeally in terms of ornament, and spiritually in terms of worship and prayer, the memory of the Divine for a, perhaps, sceptical pilgrim who seeks reassurance, if possible by means of a miracle, that there is a God. Shrines and foci for pilgrimage like the two Christian shrines at Walsingham, the Chiesa di San Alfonso in Rome with its miraculous picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, and the Islamic Kaʿba all breathe the universal air of the sacred, the supernatural and, on occasion, the miraculous. In the ubiquitous and almost universal flood stories which so many world traditions preserve, we find certain narratological common elements: the wood and stone dwellings of a sinful world are destroyed in a great Deluge and Flood by a wrathful God. But there is a miraculous salvation for an elect

154  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us few in a wooden ark. The good are saved and free again, once the storm has abated and the flood waters have subsided, thus allowing the survivors to build in wood and stone once more. In all this, as we have so frequently stressed, the role of memory in the narration is key. Shrines are a direct reminder of the presence of God for the believer. Miracles performed at such shrines reinforce the faith of the believer and cancel the doubts of the sceptic. Flood stories are dynamic reminders of an Almighty God who can be provoked to anger. Memories of a devout past may also be made present in early modern fictional narratives as in the once highly popular fiction of Agnes Strickland (1806–74) whom Gary Waller characterises as ‘Walsingham’s Victorian Chaucer’,367 following her own self presentation.368 Her 1825 novel The Pilgrims of Walsingham369 was intended to do for Walsingham what Chaucer’s Canterbury’s Tales did for Canterbury’s shrine of St Thomas à Becket.370 The novel presents a fictional narrative of an actual historical visit by King Henry VIII and his Queen, Catherine of Aragon, to the Shrine of Walsingham. This is perceived as a place of miraculous fulfilment if the waters of its famed wells are drunk. As Agnes Strickland puts it in her characteristically ‘cloying elevated style’:371 When all orthodox ceremonials had been performed at our lady’s shrine, the pilgrims proceeded to the ‘Wishing Wells’ with eager alacrity, each devoutly persuaded of the efficacy of the potent draught in procuring the heart’s dearest wish. King Henry was the first who approached this farfamed fount of hope, where, kneeling he swallowed an overflowing bumper of the water, and wished with all the energy of his soul that a son might be born unto him, who might live to succeed him on the throne of England. This wish was fulfilled in the person of the early-lost Edward the Sixth.372

Katherine of Aragon is about to make the self-same wish but then changes her mind and prays instead that her daughter Mary might become queen, a prayer later answered on the accession to the throne of Mary I (r. 1553–8).373 In the narrative of Strickland the ‘holy wells’ are transformed into ‘Wishing Wells’, becoming a source of miraculous power and fulfilment to those who drink their waters.374 In Strickland’s fiction the miracles are apparent and fulfilled in the birth of Edward VI (r. 1547–53) and the accession

wood a nd stone | 155 of Mary in 1553. The devotion of Henry VIII to Walsingham, no doubt sustained by his urgent need to pray for a son and heir, has not escaped the notice of more recent novelists. Philippa Gregory in her novel Three Sisters, Three Queens refers to a visit by Henry to the shrine at Walsingham in which he prays that Our Lady will bless his Queen Katherine with a child.375 When Katherine does become pregnant again, one of the heroines of Gregory’s narrative, Princess Mary, attributes this to that previous pious intercession to Our Lady of Walsingham.376 Memory must also surely play a role in the strange alleged sighting of the ghosts of Erasmus and Colet near Walsingham in the 1930s.377 Simon Coleman charaterises this vision as ‘a meta-commentary’ linking the old and revived shrine.378 The glorious past is given vivid immediacy in the present.379 A ‘private vision’ validates a very ‘public shrine’ in a fusion of ‘imagination, history and reconstruction’.380 Finally, we note the dynamic and all-powerful role of memory in the rituals (manāsik) of the Islamic pilgrimage, whether in the evocation of the actions of Ibrahim, those of Hajar and Ismaʿil or the Farewell Sermon of Muhammad. The ªajj can truly be said to be memory itself.381 The narratives of wood and stone, and thus Ark and Shrine, are multifaceted. They differ in detail but, as we noted earlier, they have many similarities and links. In a sense they may all be considered as ‘frame stories’ whose purpose is to provide an individual locus for the sacred. We have noted the Marian links between Mary as the New Ark, Walsingham and the Kaʿba. We have noted the angelic links between Noah’s Ark, the Ark of the Covenant in the Old Testament, Mary as the New Ark, Walsingham and the Kaʿba. The identification and marking out of sacred ground may differ from text to text. Thus the Walsingham Pynson Ballad gives us two acres of dry land in the middle of a dew-covered meadow while al-Kisa’i presents a divine cloud which indicates the acceptable dimensions of the projected Kaʿba. The building of the initial shrine at Walsingham is facilitated by miraculous means and involves an actual process of building. By contrast, the Holy House at Loreto is physically moved by angels from Nazareth to Loreto in Italy.382 But both Walsingham and Loreto articulate a sense of the sacred, however the buildings are believed to have appeared originally. As such,

156  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us miracles flow from them to simple pilgrim, supplicant and Pope, such as Paul II (r. 1464–71), alike.383 Specific differences adorn the narratives of Atlantis, Gilgamesh and Noah (Nuh), but each is united by the metamotif of water and Flood together with the metatheme of initial destruction of the many followed by the ultimate salvation, by divine intervention, of the few. It is clear that there is an intertext to be detected in all the shrine narratives as well as the Flood stories, which are linked by such motifs as angels, arks and shrines which we have surveyed. These themes and motifs repeat themselves in different ways down the ages. The initial visits by Erasmus and Colet to Walsingham in 1511 and 1514 are ‘re-envisioned’ in their apparition in the 1930s.384 The Shiʿa link, or rather ‘back-project’, the Battle of Karbala’ in 680 to the Flood of Noah: the Ark is severely shaken in the Deluge and Noah is informed that this is because the Ark is sailing over the location of Karbala’ where, in the distant future, al-Husayn will be martyred.385 Ayoub concludes that ‘in this way all of history enters into sacred history by participating in its central event’.386 Repetition may be envisaged, too, in another form from a narratological and, indeed, theological perspective, and that is the identification of types and antitypes. The Atlantis narrative is the type for the Gilgamesh and Judaeo-Christian-Islamic antitypes of the Flood. The Ark of the Covenant in the Old Testament may be characterised as the type for which Mary, the New Ark, and the Islamic Kaʿba are the antitypes. All contribute to the possible formation of intertextual paradigms such as Walsingham > Kaʿba (as a temporary pagan ‘ark’ in pre-Islam)

as a shrine paradigm. This in turn may be elaborated as follows: Old Testament and Islamic Arks > Mary as New Ark of the Covenant > Mary whose picture is in the Kaʿba > Kaʿba > Walsingham as Marian Shrine.

The protagonists or catalysts are a triad of God, an angel and/or Mary, either acting individually in time and space, or on their own. The consequences of their actions may inspire belief or incredulity according to inclination, time, desire and religious background but the significance of supernatural actions in terms of shrine building and pilgrimages to those shrine dwellings of wood

wood a nd stone | 157 and stone may be measured in terms of monetary gain on the one hand and an enduring sense of the Divine on the other. Above all, there is a hope that such wood and stone structures may yield miracles. The catalysts may be a Flood, which brings cleansing and redemption, a vision, such as the Pynson Ballad tells us was seen by the Lady Richeldis, or the actions of ‘ordinary’ human beings like Hajar and Ismaʿil which likewise result in Islam’s major focus of pilgrimage. Of course, not all wood and stone structures in the Christian and Islamic traditions are associated with the realms of the miraculous. Not all are paradigmatically or intertextually linked. However, those which we have surveyed and analysed demonstrate that through water, flood, wood, stone, angel and human, the divine presence in both these traditions manifests itself in diverse ways and through the occasional perceived miracle, sustains the believer and bewilders the sceptic.

158  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us

6 Cosmology

6.1  Proto-miracles: the Standing of the Sun and the Moon Judaeo-Christian n the Old Testament Book of Joshua, the people of Israel, led by Joshua, make a treaty with an important town called Gibeon. The Gibeonites are then besieged by an alliance of their enemies, but Joshua comes to their aid.1 He implements an astonishing cosmological pact between Israel and God in which he is able to command the sun and the moon: Joshua tells the sun to stand still above Gibeon and commands the moon to do the same over the Vale of Aijalon. The sun and the moon obey, with the sun not setting for nearly the entire day.2 The power exhibited is, of course, God’s but Joshua here performs as an instrument of divine power. J. R. Porter notes that the sun god, Shamesh, may well have been worshipped in the sanctuary at Gibeon and locates the origins of the theme of the stilling of the sun and the moon in an ancient poem which had originally been directed to the astral deities of Canaan but was now deployed by Joshua in his address.3 The NJBC stresses that warfare narratives frequently feature cases in which the Divine suddenly exerts a magisterial control over the elements4 and that biblical poetry often gives us instances where astral phenomena like the sun and the moon join forces with God to fight on the side of Israel.5 The NJBC adds that, for some at least, we are in the presence of a real miracle and not just a solar eclipse: it believes that the various attempts to interpret what happened as such an eclipse are ‘misguided’.6

I

158

cosmolog y | 159 Islamic Joshua does not appear by name in the Qur’an. However, scholars have identified possible references7 of which perhaps the most intriguing is the identification of Moses’ ‘companion’, ‘servant’ or ‘youth’ (fatā) with Joshua as Moses seeks ‘the junction of the two seas’ (majmaʿ al-baªrayn) in the Sura of the Cave.8 In the Islamic account of Ibn Kathir, who cites what is clearly an Old Testament source (dhakara ahl al-kitāb), Joshua (Yūshaʿ) b. Nun crosses the River Jordan with the Israelites and arrives at the city of Jericho (Arīªā), a well-fortified and heavily populated city. He lays siege to it for six months after which, one day, his army encircles the city, blowing trumpets and shouting ‘God is most great’, thereby precipitating the total collapse of the city walls.9 Again we see a powerful divine agency at work in this capture of the city of Jericho. Then miracle builds upon miracle: Joshua invokes God and asks Him to prevent the sun setting and the moon rising until the conquest of Jericho is accomplished. This is done by God.10 Ibn Kathir confirms his narration by citing a hadith from Ibn Hanbal to the effect that only once in human history has the sun ever been prevented from setting and that was for Joshua (Inna al-shams lam tuªbas illā li-Yūshaʿ. . .).11 In the account of al-Kisa’i there is an additional, intermediate agency of an angel: the angel whose task it is to guard the sun is ordered by God to hold the sun still in one place until Joshua’s battle is over.12 The reason that Joshua wishes to prolong the daylight hours is that the Sabbath is approaching, the start of which would mean that the battle had to stop as an aspect of Sabbath Day observance. It has been suggested that there is a clear Haggadic influence in the text here.13 In both the Judaeo-Christian and Islamic narratives we are confronted with the shared metatheme of celestial phenomena being commanded by a human agent, albeit with the power originating in a divine source. There is, to use Islamic pilgrimage terminology, a wuqūf or ‘standing still’ on a cosmic scale over the cities where this ‘standing still’ takes place – Gibeon in the Old Testament, Jericho in the accounts of Ibn Kathir and al-Kisa’i. Different cities are thus the witnesses to this miraculous astral phenomenon in the Judaeo-Christian and Islamic traditions.

160  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us However, in the Old Testament, it is the fall of the City of Jericho which assumes central stage in Joshua 6. Here we find parallels with the Islamic account in the Old Testament narrative’s themes of a blowing of horns, a war cry and the encircling of the city of Jericho.14 To use Islamic pilgrimage terminology once again, there is a kind of proto-†awāf or circumambulation which contributes to the ritual – and miraculous – destruction of the walls of the city of Jericho. In addition, and unlike the narratives of Ibn Kathir and al-Kisa’i, the Ark of the Covenant features prominently in the circumambulation of the walls of the city of Jericho.15 In all these narratives, then, we may identify several major themes and motifs, some held in common between the two traditions and others not. There are the miraculous themes of the ‘standing still’ of the sun and the moon, and the circumambulation of the walls with its miraculous consequences. There are the motifs of trumpet and ark, both of which signify divine presence and ultimate divine agency. Trust in God, miracle and ritual merge in one dynamic whole whose terrestrial, terrifying consequence is truly on a cosmic scale. Joshua in both the Judaeo-Christian and the Islamic narratives is beset by neither disbelief nor caution when confronted by the cities of Gibeon and Jericho. He believes in God and the power of God who has already delivered the Israelites into the Promised Land. The memory of divine presence in the world, and the overarching authority of God, marches with – indeed, is symbolised by – the motif of the ark itself in the Judaeo-Christian narrative. In a similar way, many centuries hence, the Kaʿba would symbolise for Muslims the presence and authority of God in and over the world. 6.2  The Miracle of the Sun at Fatima For the more devout among the Catholic community in Portugal, 2017 was a momentous year. It was the centenary of a series of visionary events – the apparitions of the Virgin Mary to three little shepherds (os três pastorinhos) – which occurred at the Cova da Iria near the village of Fatima16 and which precipitated in the course of time the construction of one of the world’s most famous pilgrimage shrines, rivalling Lourdes, Rome and Jerusalem. Of particular interest for this volume is the date of 13 October 2017, for that date marked the hundredth anniversary of what became known as the Miracle of the Sun.

cosmolog y | 161 The Visionary Milieu: Portugal 1917 It is no exaggeration to say that the visionary experience of the three peasant children at Fatima – Lucia, Francisco and Jacinta – took place against a background of global, national, personal, political and religious chaos and disorder.17 The first of the six major apparitions of the Virgin Mary occurred on 13 May 1917; the last, which embraced the Miracle of the Sun, was on 13 October 1917.18 The backcloth to all this celestial experience was stark: globally, the First World War was still raging. On 31 July 1917 the Third Battle of Ypres (Passchendaele) began.19 In March 1917 Tsar Nicholas II (r. 1894–1917) was overthrown and on 16 April 1917 Lenin entered Petrograd together with Leon Trotsky. The Russian Revolution had begun.20 Nationally in Portugal the turn of the nineteenth century into the twentieth witnessed the assassination of one monarch, Carlos I (r. 1889–1908), the eventual withdrawal of the last Portuguese king, Manuel II (r. 1908–10) to England and a revolution on 5 October 1910 which turned Portugal into a republic.21 Religiously the Republican revolutionaries manifested a massive anti-Catholic and anti-clerical hostility.22 Lucia, ten years old at the time of the apparitions, was born on 22 March 1907; her then nine-year-old cousin Francisco was born on 11 June 1908; and seven-year-old Jacinta was born on 11 March 1910.23 From a personal and individual perspective, poverty, debt and the spectre of war were constants in their young lives.24 These, then, were children from families under pressure, but children who would later be canonised as saints.25 Perspectives and emphases vary among commentators as to an appropriate contextualisation – historical and social – of the phenomenon of Fatima. They range from the consoling and the sympathetic to the slightly cynical to the secular. Thus Chris Maunder, noting the age of extreme turbulence into which the visionaries had been born and in which they lived, with Portuguese men dying during the war in Western Europe, stresses the consolation that the visions of Mary would have brought, locally and nationally, especially with Mary’s promise that this war was coming to an end.26 The Great War did end in 1918, but with a harvest of 10,000 dead and wounded Portuguese soldiers from the battlefields of Europe.27 For Norman Davies the apparitions may be characterised as opportune. He observes, in a not unsympathetic but slightly cynical note, that on 3 May

162  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 1917 the reigning Pope, Benedict XV (r. 1914–22) had asked for some sign of peace from Mary and this was followed after only ten days by the phenomenon of Fatima.28 Miri Rubin perceives Fatima as a reaction against modernity,29 and Marina Warner concurs. For her the visionary experiences stood in stark opposition to official atheism.30 As with other major Marian apparitions, most commentators agree that the miraculous events of Fatima accord with no known science nor logic.31 In what follows, as elsewhere in this volume and following Chris Maunder32 (but contrary to the usage of Anselmo Borges),33 I make no distinction between the words ‘apparition’ and ‘vision’. Both, in addition, because of their related circumstances and associated phenomena, are held to belong to the realms of the miraculous and thus are included here. The Angel of Peace In the classical Fatima narrative miraculous vision precedes miraculous vision. Marvels are attached to both. A threefold angelic vision precedes a sixfold Marian series of visions. In the first, Holy Communion is miraculously given to the visionaries by the angel; in the second, the sun is seen to dance by more than 70,000 people. Before all this, however, there is a silent visitation. Narratologically, the events at Fatima develop slowly, step by step, gradually introducing all the dramatic elements of what will become a series of miraculous visitations into the everyday lives of the children, usually in a manner calculated not to terrify them. One day in 1915 the children start to pray the rosary but their eyes are suddenly caught by an extremely white, almost transparent, figure floating above the trees. The children are frightened but they continue with their prayers and the figure eventually disappears. Lucia later tells her mother that the figure looked like someone with a sheet wrapped round them.34 However, the Fatima story begins properly – and verbally – in early or mid-1916 with the first apparition in a series of three of an angel who identifies himself as ‘the Angel of Peace’, and who serves, as it were, in the narrative as a kind of precursor to the Marian apparitions which will follow. The three children have been playing among the rocks near the village of Aljustrel when they see this angel who identifies himself and teaches the chil-

cosmolog y | 163 dren a short prayer. In a second apparition in mid-2016 the angel demands prayer and sacrifice. But it is the third apparition of the angel, as summer turns to autumn, which is the most dramatic and extraordinary. The angel appears bearing a Host and chalice, with blood dripping from the former into the latter, and gives the children communion. They are left delighted but physically exhausted in the days that follow.35 This is how Lucia described that first full encounter with the Angel of Peace: After having taken our lunch and said our prayers, we began to see, some distance off, above the trees that stretched away towards the east, a light, whiter than snow, in the form of a young man, transparent and brighter than crystal pierced by the rays of the sun. As he drew nearer, we could distinguish his features more and more clearly. We were surprised, absorbed, and struck dumb with amazement. On reaching us, he said: ‘Do not be afraid. I am the Angel of Peace. Pray with me.’36

Here, as in so many of the miraculous accounts which we have surveyed, the figure of the angel is a recurring – almost essential – motif in the fabric of the narrative. These angels in the miracle stories are not always provided with names, though, of course, in both the Christian and Islamic traditions and their miracle stories, the name of Gabriel/Jibril figures large. In the Fatima narrative the angel does identify himself in the second angelic apparition as ‘The Angel of Portugal’37 and Guardian Angel of that country. Some commentators also identify him with the Archangel Michael.38 The Lady of Light On 13 May 1917 the first of the now world-famous six Marian visions to the three young shepherds occurred. These were clearly the events for which the precursor Angel of Peace had been preparing the children. Mary appears to the children radiantly clad in dazzling white. She tells them not to be afraid, says that she is from Heaven and asks them to come to the same place on the thirteenth day of every month at the same time over a period of six months. In the course of the succeeding apparitions, messages of prayer for peace, repentance, reparation, sacrifice, conversion, suffering, future salvation and damnation, praying the rosary, a terrifying vision of Hell, the need for the

164  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us consecration of Russia to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, together with three notorious ‘secrets’, are given to the three children. These constitute metathemes in the whole narrative which, in terms of its prophecies, becomes an eschatological tour de force. Then, in the July, August and September apparitions, Mary promises to perform a great miracle in order to persuade all to believe.39 This is the famous Miracle of the Sun and it lies at the heart of the Fatima narrative. The Miracle of the Sun Just as the ‘standing’ (wuqūf ) at ʿArafat on the ninth day of the Islamic month of Dhū ’l-Óijja is the climactic day of the pilgrimage, full of expectation and sacred promise of future salvation,40 so the ‘standing’ of the huge crowd who accompanied the three children to the Cova da Iria on 13 October 1917 inaugurated the climactic event in the children’s spiritual journey and visionary experience. It has been estimated that approximately 70,000–100,000 people assembled with the children in eager expectation of witnessing a miracle, news of the promise of which had spread like wildfire. Some had come to sneer and mock, to confirm their scepticism or atheism. Others were motivated by curiosity; yet others by a deep piety which yearned confirmation by a supernatural event. The sun was seen to tremble, spin and whirl, change colour, ‘dance’ across the sky and then hurl itself, zigzaging, towards the earth and the now terrified crowds. None of the three children witnessed what became known as the Miracle of the Sun. Instead, they were granted a vision of St Joseph with the child Jesus together with the Virgin Mary appearing consecutively as a woman in white robes, mantled in blue, then as Our Lady of Sorrows and finally as Our Lady of Mount Carmel.41 For the three children that day was special and memorable, not for the Miracle of the Sun which they did not see, but for the appearance of St Joseph, the child Jesus and the Virgin Mary in various garbs, together with the final messages brought by Mary: she identified herself in this last apparition as ‘the Lady of the Rosary’ and commanded the building of a chapel in her honour on the site of the apparitions. She forecast the end of the First World War and urged repentance. Then, in Lucia’s own words, ‘opening her

cosmolog y | 165 hands, she made them reflect on the sun, and as she ascended, the reflection of her own light continued to be projected on the sun itself . . .’42 Lucia and her two cousins may not have witnessed the Miracle of the Sun but thousands of others did. They included the massive assembly of people – atheists, sceptics and believers – at the apparition site itself as well as observers up to twenty-five miles away.43 It was seen and commented upon, inter alia, by the father of two of the little seers, Jacinta and Francisco, who was known as Ti-Marto but whose full name was Manuel Pedro Marto.44 Another witness was Professor Dr Almeida Garrett, Professor of Natural Sciences at Coimbra University.45 The fact that all were able to gaze at the sun without discomfort, blindness or even slight injury hugely impressed and intrigued another witness to the actual event, Domingo Coelho, an eminent eye specialist.46 An English non-Catholic, later convert, also witnessed the Miracle of the Sun and recorded her impressions.47 However, of all the witnesses to this event, perhaps the most amazed were the journalists of the secular anti-clerical Portuguese press. Several had come to sneer, to disprove and to indulge a profound scepticism about the claims of the children.48 The most astonishing thing about their reports was their general attempt at some objectivity and factuality, whether they appeared in Portugal’s largest circulation newspaper, Diario de Noticias (Daily News), with its report on Monday, 15 October 1917,49 the secular Lisbon newspaper, O Dia, reporting on 17 October 1917,50 or the Republican, anti-Catholic government newspaper, O Seculo (The Century), which reported on 15 October 1917. This latter newspaper had sent its journalist Avelino de Almeida to the site of the final apparition and he had witnessed the Miracle of the Sun, about which he then wrote in such an unrestrained fashion that he incurred the wrath and hostility of the Lisbon authorities.51 The front cover of the edition of O Seculo on Monday, 15 October bore the now-famous picture of the three children standing in an uncomfortable-looking group, appearing quite severe.52 Almeida’s lengthy article was not just factual and objective in terms of what he saw, but almost enthusiastic. He wrote: Before the astonished eyes of the crowd, whose aspect was biblical as they stood bareheaded, pale with fright, eagerly searching the sky, the sun

166  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us t­ rembled, made sudden incredible movements outside all cosmic laws – the sun ‘danced’ according to the typical expression of the people . . . [This] naturally made a great impression, as people worthy of belief assured me, on the freethinkers and others without any religious conviction who had come to this now famous spot on the poor pastureland high up on the serra.53

Aftermath: Developing a Modern Eschatology Donal Anthony Foley claims that a major significance of the events of Fatima was that it served to revivify Catholicism in Portugal after years of atheistic hostility and persecution.54 Politically and religiously, the atheistic and anticlerical republic was followed by the 1928–68 dictatorship of Dr Antonio de Oliveira Salazar (1889–1970) which, while being pro-Catholic,55 fostered and encouraged a highly traditional form of Catholicism in Portugal which looked askance at more liberal expressions of the faith like the reforms of the Second Vatican Council (1962–5).56 For many believers, however, the primary significance of Fatima was ‘apocalyptic’ and ‘eschatological’.57 At the heart of the modern eschatology for many devotees of Fatima lay the now-famous notion that the Virgin Mary, during her six apparitions to the three children, had entrusted to them three secrets. The existence of the three secrets, whether revealed or hidden, confirmed and justified the faith of the believers both in their own Catholic faith and the reality of the apparitions themselves. It is not the task nor the intention of this volume to examine and delve into the theories, counter-theories and conspiracy theories about these secrets, so many of which revolve around the command of the Virgin to the children that Russia should be consecrated to her Immaculate Heart. Suffice it to say that the whole subject of these secrets has spawned a veritable literary industry, some of which is grotesque, and much of which belongs to the realms of speculation, fantasy and fantastic prophecy, rather than to the realms of the possibly miraculous or, at the other end of the spectrum, ordinary reality.58 What is perhaps of greater interest, especially from an anthropological perspective and the primary focus of this volume as it surveys the realms of the miraculous, is to examine the various attitudes of a range of people, scholars and organisations towards Fatima and its much-vaunted Miracle of the Sun. We will do this through the lens of our critical paradigm, deployed

cosmolog y | 167 several times already, in which critiques and attitudes are examined under the four headings of disbelief and scepticism, caution, belief, and memory and memorialisation. The latter aspect will identify, narratologically, the leading themes and motifs in the Fatima story. The phraseology of David Birmingham in his Concise History of Portugal epitomises the scholarly distance of those who reject the events at Fatima as real and miraculous. He refers to ‘the mystical cult of Fatima’, the evolution of a ‘myth’ and mentions ‘pilgrims’ in the same sentence as ‘the superstitious’.59 Elsewhere there is a scathing reference to ‘the magical powers of Fatima’.60 Fr Professor Anselmo Borges of the Portuguese Missionary Society accepts that the children of Fatima had some kind of religious experience, but he draws attention to the missionary activities of priests contemporary with the children who went around preaching frightening sermons on Hell and the penalties of sin; he notes the framing by the children of their visionary experience in ‘childhood terms’: in consequence, he rejects the traditional acceptance and interpretation of the claimed miraculous phenomena, especially its ‘proof miracle’, the Miracle of the Sun. For him, the thousands of observers of the latter had some kind of ‘collective vision’ but it was not ‘a real fact’. Otherwise there would have been an explosion of the entire solar system. No one in the rest of Europe witnessed this Miracle of the Sun.61 Bob Thiel is just as dogmatic but he speaks from a scriptural perspective. One should not believe in alleged apparitions of Mary for none are forecast in the Bible. For him, the phenomena of Fatima are entirely unscriptural.62 From a scientific perspective Richard Dawkins confessed himself unable to explain the Miracle of the Sun and ‘how seventy thousand people could share the same hallucination’,63 and he thus aligns himself, scientifically, with the theological doubts of Borges64 and the scriptural doubts of Thiel. The opponents of their views, who accept the Miracle of the Sun as a reality, reject the idea of a collective hallucination or ‘mass hysteria’ by those at the Cova where the apparitions took place and observers up to twenty-five miles away.65 Instead, they propagate the idea of a supernatural ‘solar phenomenon’.66 Devotees of Fatima reject, too, the idea put forward by Fr Stanley Jaki to the effect ‘that ice-particles in the clouds in the region of the sun may well have acted to refract the rays of the sun and break them

168  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us up into the colors of the rainbow’,67 thereby confusing the great mass of spectators. Chris Maunder in his volume, Our Lady of the Nations, toys with the idea of children’s play and their fantasies, factors which would certainly have predisposed outsiders to look with profound suspicion on the stories of the children and the messages which they claimed came from the Virgin Mary.68 It is interesting that the oldest child, the ten-year-old Lucia, herself at first doubted the true source of her visions.69 Theologians too have expressed deep misgivings about some aspects of the apparitions.70 Now Catholic Church authorities themselves, both in the past and in the present, have been extremely wary about giving credence to claims of miracles and apparitions. It has been stressed that claims to having experienced such phenomena belong to the realms of private revelation as opposed to ‘public revelation’; the latter is said to have ended with Christ in the New Testament.71 Private revelations form no part of the deposit of faith and no Catholic, nor anyone else, is obliged to believe in them.72 Nonetheless, it is accepted that on very rare occasions throughout history, the Virgin Mary may show herself in a vision to certain people, but all claims to such visionary experiences are to be treated with the utmost caution, especially since the Second Vatican Council.73 Claims to such experiences are not dismissed out of hand. Over the years the Church has established a series of guidelines and parameters against which all claims of apparitions are to be judged.74 A subtext to all such investigations is that it is acknowledged that private revelations may actually reinforce the faith of the believer.75 As knowledge of the spiritual anthropology and sociology of alleged apparitions has grown, however, together with a deepening awareness of the frequent context of such apparitions as one of Church ‘struggle for existence’,76 Church caution about apparitional claims has increased. This has particularly been the case in the claims about the phenomena of Medjugorje:77 the Catholic Church has long been formally silent about the Marian apparitions alleged to have occurred there notwithstanding claims of miracle events, both physical and spiritual. Keith Tester has noted that the apparitions throughout history which the Church has actually accepted, and whose cult have been promoted, are often those which ‘tend to be friendly to the ecclesial concerns of the day’.78

cosmolog y | 169 In the case of Fatima, after a lengthy official silence, Bishop Correia da Silva of Leiria issued a statement in 1930 which concluded: We hereby: 1. Declare worthy of belief, the visions of the shepherd children in the Cova da Iria, parish of Fatima, in this diocese, from the 13th May to 13th October, 1917. 2. Permit officially the cult of Our Lady of Fatima.79

In addition, the Bishop accepted as a reality – albeit ‘unnatural’ – the phenomenon of the Miracle of the Sun.80 There has never been a shortage of people who believe in and accept the miraculous phenomena and revelations of Fatima. These range from the three children, the O Seculo correspondent, the mass of witnesses to the Miracle of the Sun through to countless pilgrims in our own age who flock in large numbers to Fatima as they do to Lourdes.81 The Fatima narrative has been endorsed by popes and written into the liturgical calendar.82 Pope John Paul II (r. 1978–2005) in particular had a special and personal devotion to Our Lady of Fatima because he believed that its secrets referred to the attempted assassination of him in 1981.83 In another Fatima miracle he also held that the bullet designed to kill him had been miraculously deflected within his body to a non-fatal area by the Virgin of Fatima herself.84 For the believer all was confirmed by miraculous cures.85 For Donal Anthony Foley the Miracle of the Sun was ‘the greatest miracle’ in the history of the Church since the time of Christ.86 Attention has already been drawn to the fact that apparitions often tend to occur in areas where the Church is under threat or persecution. Portugal in 1917 provided an ideal context in which the latter was present and where there was a need felt by many for the theme of ‘divine presence’ to reassert itself in an atheistic and secular milieu. In the Fatima apparitions that divine presence was not replaced by Mary. Careful study of her apparitions, together with those of the angel, show that she acts as a simple conduit to the Divine. From a narratological and paradigmatic perspective, we can say that, consciously or unconsciously, Lourdes, the archetype, is ‘remembered’ by Fatima which, in turn, is ‘remembered’ in our own age by the phenomena at Medjugorje. The ‘present’ of Fatima harks back to the ‘past’ of Lourdes and

170  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us the ‘future’ of Medjugorje. Indeed, Eduardo Torres notes that ‘the Fatima phenomenon looked like a re-edition of Lourdes’; it was ‘a crowd event’ like Lourdes.87 The contemporary Portuguese press in 1917 was not slow to draw the analogy. One newspaper actually talked of ‘the re-edition of the Lourdes miracle’.88 Comparisons were drawn, too, between Lucia of Fatima and Bernadette of Lourdes.89 The paradigm which we have identified finds its culmination at Medjugorje. Just as Fatima embraces features of Lourdes, so Medjugorje embraces features of Fatima, most powerfully in the motif of a spinning sun.90 Mary is alleged to have told Mirjana and the other Medjugorje children that her actions at Medjugorje were a completion of those at Fatima.91 The theme of a memory of wholeness for the Catholic faith here assumes a dual aspect. Lourdes and Fatima signal a need to return to wholeness, via prayer and repentance,92 of the faith in a world which is perceived to have lost sight of God. Medjugorje for the believer signals a completion of the mission of the Virgin which is made ‘whole’ by the final messages transmitted at that site. It is true that at Fatima the motif of water, which figures so powerfully in the Lourdes narrative as well as that of Hajar and Ismaʿil, is largely absent. It is replaced by the motif of light and, in particular, the metamotif of the sun. However, the metathemes of faith and doubt are present in the Fatima narrative, as in that of Lourdes, and again, what we might term ‘anthropological tools of validation’ are deployed to convince the disbelieving, the doubting and the sceptical. The primary validating tool deployed at Fatima for the apparitional phenomena was, of course, the Miracle of the Sun. It is perhaps no accident that papal authority for, and confirmation of, the Fatima story was reinforced many years later in the twentieth century by Pope Pius XII (r. 1939–58), who himself witnessed the ‘dance of the sun’ from the Vatican gardens on 30 October 1950, two days before he solemnly defined the dogma of the Assumption.93 The witnessing of the sun miracle by Pius XII was interpreted by him as divine approbation for his proclamation of this dogma of the Assumption of Mary into Heaven just as Lourdes served, many years earlier, to represent a similar kind of approbation for the

cosmolog y | 171 definition in 1854 of the dogma of the Immaculate Conception of Mary by Pope Pius IX (r. 1846–78).94 Behind all this stands the metatheme of Church authority. Miracles and miraculous apparitions or visions may appear to transfer a seat of earthly temporal and spiritual power and order to a higher celestial sphere. They may thus represent a threat to a worldly or otherwise-occupied episcopacy and hierarchy. They may represent a threat, too, to a secular or atheistic state which seeks a maximum control over the lives and even thoughts of its citizens in a sometimes Orwellian fashion. However, at other times, and after due discernment as we have noted, private revelation – which can be accepted or rejected at will by the faithful – may be considered a useful adjunct to faith by an anxious hierarchy as it seeks to extirpate heresy or incalcate ‘correct’ belief in a sometimes credulous flock. 6.3  The Splitting of the Moon in the Qur’an The Qur’an readily discloses a world of āyāt (signs, miracles).95 This Arabic word has a diversity of meanings.96 Its first Qur’anic usage was as a sign of the power of Almighty God as He showed Himself at work in his creation and the course of history; later it came to mean ‘a miraculous sign apt to prove the truth of the prophetic message’ and, later, a simple Qur’anic verse.97 These signs or miracles are created by God both in ourselves and on the furthest reaches of the perceptible universe.98 To the latter category belong the stars, the sun and the moon. These celestial phenomena as they appear in the Qur’an are alternatively endowed with, or articulated by, what might be termed ‘gentle’ and ‘violent’ verbs. Thus The Sun runs his course for a period determined . . . And the Moon – We have measured for her mansions (to traverse).99 So I do call to witness the ruddy glow of sunset; the Night and its Homing; and the Moon in her Fulness.100 Furthermore I call to witness the setting of the Stars.101

Thus the Qur’an pictures the sun, the moon and the stars running the course pre-ordained for them by God: their associated verbs are ‘gentle’ and betoken

172  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us regularity and order. These are powerful celestial phenomena and, as such, they may be used for emphasis in powerful and dynamic oaths. For example: By the Sun and his (glorious) splendour; by the Moon as she follows him.102

The exact exegesis of such ‘celestial’ oaths has been regarded as problematic.103 However, we may note in passing that the sighting of the New Moon marks important dates in the fast of Ramadan and the month of pilgrimage.104 When we turn to the vocabulary of the Last Day in the Qur’an, and its associated cosmology, a much more violent set of verbs comes into play betokening a complete breakdown of the natural order. Thus a picture is painted of a time when the stars become dim, when the heaven is cleft asunder (furijat).105 When the sun (with its spacious light) is folded up; when the stars fall, losing their lustre.106 When the sky is cleft asunder (infa†arat); when the stars are scattered.107

It is this appalling violence of the Last Day that, according to one interpretation, is the context for the Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon. According to another, equally popular interpretation, this miracle was performed by the Prophet in his lifetime to demonstrate the truth of his message to the unbelievers and simply recorded briefly thereafter in the Qur’an. However, this idea that the Qur’anic reference is specifically to a miracle performed by Muhammad is more strongly supported in the tafsīr and hadith literature108 than by the bald Qur’anic citation. We shall refer to both interpretations in what follows. Suffice it to say that the Arabic verbs furijat and infa†arat, both of which Yusuf Ali renders as ‘cleft asunder’, may be said to belong to the same family of ‘verbs of violence’ as the Arabic verb inshaqqa which we shall see the Qur’an deploys in its very brief reference to the splitting of the moon: all bespeak the same rupture of the natural order.109 The ‘familial’ nature of these verbs is also emphasised by Yusuf Ali who chooses to render inshaqqa also as ‘cleft asunder’.110 Our primary text for the narration of the Miracle of the Splitting of the

cosmolog y | 173 Moon comprises a single half verse in the Qur’an111 in its fifty-fourth sura which is entitled Sūrat al-Qamar (Sura of the Moon). The Arabic verse reads as follows, together with Yusuf Ali’s translation: Iqtarabat al-sāʿa wa-’nshaqqa al-qamar. The Hour (of Judgement) is nigh and the moon is cleft asunder.112

While the first part could clearly be interpreted as a reference to the Last Day and Last Judgement, as many commentators and translators suggest, it is the second half which specifically concerns us here, although the first part could clearly be interpreted as providing the context for the escatological interpretations. All translators are agreed on the sense of the Arabic verb inshaqqa which is rendered variously as • • • • • • • •

cleft asunder113 (the equally archaic) rent in twain114 split115 split asunder116 split apart117 split open118 cleft in two119 has been cleaved.120

Badawi and Abdel Haleem concur and their own preferred translation of inshaqqa is ‘split in two’.121 It is clear that the Qur’anic verse signals something profoundly miraculous and terrifyingly eschatological. Narratologically, the reference to the splitting of the moon shares in the semiotics of violent apocalypse and is distinct, semantically, from much of the more ‘serene’ or ‘gentle’ Qur’anic vocabulary of the sun, moon and stars as they are delineated in God’s careful ordering of the universe. The Qur’anic exegete Ibn Kathir is a major source for the consideration of the splitting of the moon as a mighty miracle worked by the Prophet Muhammad himself. Drawing on various narrative chains he relates how the Prophet was talking to a group of people at Mina near Mecca before the

174  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us hijra and he was challenged to perform a miracle as a sign (āya) that he was truly a prophet. The Prophet then pointed at the moon which was seen to divide into two parts which then came to rest over each side of Mount Hira’. He tells them to take careful note (ishhadū!) of what he has done but several of those present dismiss what they have seen as magic or an optical illusion. Nonetheless, just as the Miracle of the Sun at Fatima is seen by people some distance from the main site of the apparitions, so too it is claimed that travellers outside Mecca have witnessed the splitting of the moon as well.122 This then, according to Ibn Kathir and his sources and chains of transmission, represents the ‘reason for the revelation’ (sabab al-nuzūl ) of Q.54:1 with its reference to the splitting of the moon. Some accounts of the miracle and eschatology of the splitting of the moon are briefer than those collected and collated by Ibn Kathir. They may be stark in their simplicity. Thus, the two classical exegetes known as Jalalayn (the two Jalals) – Jalal al-Din al-Mahalli (1389–1459) and Jalal al-Din alSuyuti (1445–1505)123 – wrote as follows: The Hour has approached means the Day of Judgement (al-Qiyāma) is near. The moon has split means that it has split into two halves.124

Jalalayn do, however, provide a useful exegesis of the verse which follows Q.54:1. This verse reads as follows: But if they see a Sign [āya], they turn away, and say, ‘This is (but) transient magic’ [siªr].125

Those who see are identified as the ‘unbelievers of the Quraysh’ (kuffār Quraysh) and the ‘sign’ (āya) is no mere sign but a ‘miracle’ (muʿjiza) wrought by the Prophet.126 Jalalayn thus give us the most rudimentary of definitions. Their exegesis provides elementary information but there is no elaboration of the basic statement provided in the first verse of the Sura of the Moon such as we find in Ibn Kathir. Chains of transmisssion are also absent as is any attempt to harmonise the two sections of this first verse. The evidence of that great collector of tradition, al-Bukhari, is equally

cosmolog y | 175 scant and factual rather than interpretive. The people of Mecca, during the actual life of the Prophet, request a sign/miracle (āya) from him and so he shows them the splitting of the moon (fa-arāhum inshiqāq alqamar), advising them to take note and be witnesses to others of what has happened.127 However, perhaps of greater interest in terms of order of importance is the listing by al-Ghazali of Prophetic miracles in Book 20 of his magnum opus The Revival of the Religious Sciences (Iªyā’ ʿUlūm al-Dīn). In a listing of forty-five Prophetic miracles performed by Muhammad, al-Ghazali places the splitting of the moon in pride of place as number one. The text is brief and without commentary or any genuflection towards the idea that this miracle of the Splitting of the Moon might also have an eschatological dimension as well as, or instead of, the popular interpretation as a Prophetic miracle. This very important listing occurs in a chapter whose title might loosely be translated as ‘An Illustration of the Miracles and Signs of the Prophet which demonstrate the veracity of the Revelation he received’ (Bayān muʿjizātihi wa āyātihi al-dālla ʿalā ‚idqihi): God violently interrupted the natural order via Muhammad several times: [for example] when he split the moon for him in Mecca when Quraysh asked him for a miracle (āya). Fa-qad kharaqa Allāh al-ʿāda ʿalā yadihi ghayr marra; idh shaqqa lahu alqamar bi-Makka lamā sa’alathu Quraysh āya.128

What is significant here is not just the prime position given by al-Ghazali to this miracle in his listing of Muhammad’s miracles but the stress on the agency of God as the true performer of the miracle. This is a stress absent from some of the other texts we have reviewed above. Al-Ghazali’s listing includes food and water miracles, together with miraculous cures, and thus inserts itself into, and resonates with, the general arena of the miraculous with its diverse, intertextual dimensions, both Islamic and Christian. As we have already seen, there are also food, water, prophetic, eschatological and cosmological miracles in the Christian tradition. Al-Ghazali stresses in the middle of his listing that knowledge about such matters as miracles and signs and their workings cannot be gained through the

176  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us usual channels or by divination and soothsaying, but only via the instruction of God and his revelation (bi-iʿlām Allāh taʿālā lahu wa waªyihi ilayhi).129 Miracles are said to confirm revelation and prophethood and al-Ghazali thus works and writes within a great tradition.130 What is perhaps unexpected is the primacy given to the Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon in his listing. The classical doctrine that Muhammad did not perform miracles, apart from being the conduit of the revelation of the Qur’an, has been generally recognised down the ages.131 The Qur’an itself is at pains to stress the absolute humanity of Muhammad.132 In addition, he is neither a poet nor a soothsayer (kāhin).133 The Qur’an stresses the utter omnipotence of God but He does refrain from performing miracles through the agency of Muhammad since the opponents of the latter would still remain unconvinced about the messages and revelation which he brought.134 Other scholars have suggested that the idea that Q.54:1 refers to a miracle wrought by the Prophet himself before he made his famous hijra to Medina in 622 belongs more to the realms of folklore rather than actuality. For such scholars, the attribution of the splitting of the moon to Muhammad is to accept a later tafsīr of the Qur’an which has no basis in reality and for which contemporary evidence is entirely lacking. The essence of Q.54:1 is a forthcoming apocalyse of some kind.135 This latter idea that Q.54:1 is a reference to a future event which will occur in escatological time, for example on the Last Day, is shared by many exegetes.136 However, at least one, while acknowledging the possible subjective nature of what might have been perceived by Muhammad’s interlocutors, suggests that the reality was a strange kind of eclipse of the moon which deceived all who witnessed it into thinking that some kind of miraculous event had occurred.137 The NJB emphasises that genuine prophets will always be able to work miracles and signs in the name of the Deity whose revelation and messages they transmit.138 Miraculous signs betoken authority and confirm mission and prophethood.139 Narratologically, Q.54:2, in which it is stated that miracles or signs will be interpreted by the unbeliever as mere magic, may be said to participate in what might be termed a universal, scriptural ‘rejection of the sign paradigm’. This paradigm has two aspects: a sign may be given by God but rejected by the unbeliever; or the request for a sign may actually be refused, sometimes with some asperity.

cosmolog y | 177 As we have already stressed, the Qur’an inhabits and discloses a world which manifests the signs of God to all,140 but it is also certainly aware that signs and miracles may be rejected by an unbeliever141 or interpreted as mere magic by the cynical onlooker or scoffer.142 In the New Testament Jesus shows himself well aware of the former. The words and deeds, articulated and performed in the name of the Father, bear witness to the truth of what he says but those who are not part of his flock reject them.143 As we have seen, the Quraysh challenge Muhammad to produce a miracle and he obliges, according to this interpretation, with the splitting of the moon. But when, in the New Testament, Jesus is asked for a sign by various people, Jesus berates their lack of belief and opaquely indicates that the only sign they will be given is his future resurrection.144 Thus, according to the paradigm, a sign may or may not be given, it may be delayed and, even if it is given, it may not be received and accepted. This latter attitude of total disbelief or profound scepticism is a fundamental element of the paradigm and, as we have seen, played a major role in the Lourdes and Fatima narratives as well as the fiction of Émile Zola. Other interpretations for strange and incomprehensible phenomena may be sought as well in the realms of meteorology or sorcery and magic.145 However, not all modern commentators have rejected out of hand the idea that the Splitting of the Moon was a Prophetic miracle. Some have been more cautious and, in modern parlance, ‘hedged their bets’, by providing both views and, sometimes, just allowing the readers to make up their own minds. Thus Nasr’s Study Quran provides both explanations, though it does give more space to the idea that this splitting of the moon was a Prophetic miracle.146 The modern Qur’an scholar, Muhammad al-Ghazali, also cites both possible interpretations but does note that what he characterises as ‘the apparent message’ of Q.54:1 is eschatological and refers to the destruction of the universe on the Last Day.147 Yusuf Ali’s own caution leads him to suggest three possible explanations. He introduces the idea of metaphor and allegory and suggests a possible applicability for all three of his interpretations: the moon may well have appeared cleft in two to the Prophet and those around him; the past tense deployed in the Qur’anic text could very well denote the future ­eschatological

178  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us event of the Last Judgement; the verse may even bear a metaphorical sense.148 Despite all this, however, popular devotion to the figure of the Prophet has frequently transcended the classical view that the Prophet did not work miracles. The Study Quran, despite being totally even-handed in its treatment of the two possible main interpretations of Q.54:1, does nonetheless note that most commentators do perceive these initial verses of Sūrat al-Qamar as indicating a Prophetic miracle.149 Hussein Abdul Raof interprets the splitting of the moon literally with no overtones of metaphor or allegory, though he is careful not to attribute the agency of the miracle directly to the Prophet himself. The subtext here is clearly that it is God who splits the moon as a dynamic confirmation of Muhammad’s prophethood.150 However one interprets Q.54:1, it is clear that the text has a profound eschatological significance and implication, if only because of the reference in the very first words to al-Sāʿa, the Hour, that is, of the Last Judgement. In this it shares in the eschatological cosmology of the Miracle of the Sun at Fatima. That latter event terrified the onlookers and presaged a day when, in the words of the New Testament, ‘the sun will be darkened, the moon will not give its light, the stars will fall from the sky and the powers of the heavens will be shaken’.151 The splitting of the moon in the Qur’an, the signs of the Last Day both in the New Testament and the Qur’an, and the Miracle of the Sun at Fatima may all thus be held to belong to the same eschatological intertext. In the Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon, of course, from a narratological perspective, the primary motif is the moon itself. This motif assumes an added significance in the modern exegesis of the Turkish scholar Harun Yahya (b. 1956). He accepts the splitting of the moon as a Prophetic miracle from God,152 thus aligning himself with numerous other exegetes, classical and modern, but he goes far beyond that in his interpretation. For him the first landing by men on the moon in 1969 was forecast by Q.54:1.153 He sees further evidence of this by an analysis of the words in this first verse according to their abjad values. For him these yield the date 1969.154 All this illustrates the capacity of this verse to be interpreted in a multiplicity of ways down the centuries while placing the motif of the moon in

cosmolog y | 179 primary position and underlining the idea that the Qur’an is a universal text for past, present and future ages.155 In his exegesis, however, Yahya ignores the eschatological dimension of Q.54:1, especially its first words, and chooses to concentrate on the Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon, expounded with a highly modern tafsīr as we have seen. Nor do he, and other believers in the reality of the Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon, explain the lack of a dramatic physical impact on the rest of the celestial and terrestrial universe.156 The same criticism may be levelled at the phenomenon of the Miracle of the Sun at Fatima. Here, as elsewhere in this volume with its primary phenomenological and anthropological orientation, it is not our task to assess the reality, actuality, fabrication or falsity of an alleged miraculous narrative. What is of primary interest is the narrative itself with its multiple articulations, pathways and covert or overt intertext. The theme of the memory of divine presence in the world is overwhemingly present in the operation of the miracle. The Divine confirms the a­ uthority of the prophethood of the messenger by miracles. The stress may be on the ultimate agency of God Himself, operating through His messenger, or it may focus simply on the works of the prophet whose actions may inspire awe for himself, terror at the miracle and, ultimately, an acknowledgement that God works in, and manifests His divine presence through, the agency of His prophet. The prophet brings a message, for example the message of the Qur’an, which in the case of Islam is the completion of all revelations and thus makes final and whole God’s revelation to mankind down the ages.157 All this is confirmed in popular belief by such miracles as the Splitting of the Moon. As with the Fatima narrative, the motif of the water ritual is replaced by the metamotif of light, in the case of Q.54:1 the light of the moon. As we have seen, the metatheme of faith and doubt is much in evidence. The scribes, pharisees and crowds in the New Testament beg Jesus for a sign to confirm their wavering faith or squash an ever-present doubt. The Quraysh beg Muhammad for a sign in confirmation of his messages and to allay their fears and doubts. Muhammad then, according to the popular interpretation of the bare bones of the Qur’anic narrative in Q.54:1, takes control or, rather, God takes control through him. Muhammad’s authority, message, mission and prophethood are established in front of the Quraysh with the Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon.

180  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us We may conclude this section with a brief look at the comparative eschatologies of Fatima’s Miracle of the Sun and the Qur’anic Splitting of the Moon. Fatima has a dimension which may be said to embrace a past, present and future eschatological paradigm. The same is true of the Qur’anic narrative. The phenomena of Q.54:1 look back to a past of previous divine destructions on earth like the flood of Noah and the devastations wrought on the peoples of Salih and Shuʿayb.158 They remind mankind in the present of God’s power and majesty by the actual splitting of the moon, if we follow the popular exegesis. They are associated in the one verse with the future Last Day and the end of the world. Indeed, one way of looking at this verse about the splitting of the moon is to say that this is an eschatological event in present time, that is, the Age of Muhammad, brought forward from the future159 by the presence and prophethood of Muhammad. In this interpretation the future scheduled event mystically occurs in the present. In another interpretation the splitting of the moon is yet to happen. Commentators note that the perfect form of the verb inshaqqa (to split, be cleaved) could be read with the future sense of ‘will be cleaved’160 in line with the Qur’anic usage of a past tense indicating the future.161 However one chooses to translate, what is clear is that in this verse, past, present and future merge in an eschatological and miracle-infused paradigm. The events of Fatima encapsulated a message of repentance and conversion from sin in order to avoid future dire punishments from God. Some Fatima scholars are of the opinion that still not enough has been done by mankind in the way of repentance and conversion to avoid a future devastating chastisement.162 The Miracle of the Sun according to such commentators was designed to confirm the reality of the apparitions and the messages transmitted by the Virgin Mary during the apparitions. The overall context of Q.54:1 in Sūrat al-Qamar bespeaks a similar ethos of warning and punishment and thus we can say that the theme of potential punishment, both temporal and eschatological, is at the heart of the messages of Fatima and the splitting of the moon narratives. Sūrat al-Qamar warns that those who oppose the Prophet, like those who preceded him and opposed previous prophet-warners, will be severely punished. This is what happened to the people of Noah and Thamud, Lot and Pharaoh.163 Salvation will be for the righteous.164

cosmolog y | 181 Any listing then, of comparative themes in the Miracle of the Sun and the Splitting of the Moon narratives will include those of war, punishment, sin, conversion, repentance, reparation and the ultimate triumph of good over evil. Embedded in the narrative is the metamotif of light in its various individual motifs of the sun and the moon. 6.4  The Narrative Arena Both the Fatima and the Qur’anic narratives signal the universal metatheme of salvation and the eschatology which frames that final judgement, parousía and salvation. The cosmological metamotifs front a narrative whose fundamental themes include repentance and metánoia.165 The sun and the moon are universal signs of God’s power and miraculous creative benevolence on earth. His signs are all around, without in the universe and within men’s very souls.166 They are part of the whole universal order of the earth and, as such, give the earth hope and life.167 As we have seen, the destruction of such celestial bodies will be universal signs of the end of time, the Last Day and a final judgement which will consign part of humanity to eternal bliss in Paradise and part to eternal damnation in Hell. The narratives of the sun at Fatima and the moon at Mina near Mecca, in their similar and multifaceted dimensions, may thus be said to frame the fundamental soteriological narratives of Islam and Christianity, different in essence though these are. Salvation history for the Christian is mediated via a Divine Redeemer; salvation history for the Muslim is mediated via a Divinely Revealed Text, the Qur’an. But both soteriologies are characterised by a similar eschatology whose details may awe and terrify. The respective miracles of sun and moon are witnessed in both cases not just by the visionaries – the three children of Fatima on the one hand and the Prophet Muhammad on the other – but by the crowd as well. Indeed, the motif of the crowd who are present at such phenomena, whether they be the Quraysh, the scribes and pharisees asking for a sign from Jesus or the huge crowds at the Fatima Miracle of the Sun, is significant.168 By their presence they further validate the miracle which is universalised rather than being perceived as an individual hallucination, fantasy or fraud. The miracle is now ‘owned’ by the crowd and is no longer the solitary preserve of the agent of that miracle, whether considered to be Divine or human.

182  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us At Fatima and Mecca present and future merge in a terrifying whole as cosmology seems to make present in the narrative the terrors and judgements of the future Last Day. The entire universe in both cases seems to be brought into play to emphasise, as it were, the need for repentance as an adjunct to salvation and to threaten the destruction of body and soul in Hell for the unbeliever.169 We have already identified diverse themes and motifs from the narratives of the sun and the moon at Fatima and Mina near Mecca. Common is the theme of the power of God as He works a miracle via the presence, request or even, agency, of the Virgin Mary (Fatima) or Muhammad (Mina). Common too, as noted several times, is the metamotif of light as it derives from both the sun and the moon, as is the theme of each miracle as a confirmation of messages conveyed to visionaries and prophet. Both miracles feature the theme of the ‘violence’ of this confirmation as the moon splits and the sun dances in the sky to the terror of the beholders. At Fatima the Miracle of the Sun is preceded overtly by celestial injunctions to themes of reparation, repentance and ultimate salvation but also a possible damnation, as we see in the terrifying 15 July 2017 apparition at which the Fatima children are shown a vision of Hell.170 At Mina the much shorter Qur’anic text implicitly warns, but already accepts, that many will reject the sign and miracle shown to them with consequent damnation.171 The narratological trope of an eschatological intertext in which moments can be identified where past, present and future seem to merge can be broadened further if we include in its fabric other miracles attributed to Muhammad together with the large number of apparitions of the Virgin Mary alleged by the devout down the centuries.172 That larger intertext discovers its impetus and origins in the eschatological warnings to be found in the New Testament and the Qur’an. Here numerous types and antitypes of warnings, eschatological signs and miracles and celestial phenomena build upon and reflect each other. In all, the aspect of the arch-protagonist is rarely absent, creating a dual agency in which God, the true agent of the miracle, acts covertly or overtly through his earthly prophet. As we have seen, the narratives allow a variety of attitudes to the miracle which is claimed: there are those who believe on seeing, those who disbelieve

cosmolog y | 183 even though they see, and those who disbelieve regardless. In both the Sun and Moon narratives above, we have surveyed attitudes of disbelief and scepticism, caution and belief. The significance of the claimed miracle remains the same, however, as emphasised several times already: it is to instil, foster and strengthen belief and confirm celestial revelations, whether those revelations belong to the public (Qur’an) or private (Fatima) arena. But in the process, the narratological catalyst of the miracle which is designed to foster such belief presents a nature which is perceived to be ‘broken’ or ‘altered’: the moon splits; the sun dances.

184  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us

7 Envoi

D

ifferent scholars in their diverse disciplines – theological, anthropological, historical or other – favour different taxonomies whereby to classify, assess and interpret the phenomena of their chosen specialisms. Clarity of understanding is, or should be, the telos of all such divisions and complex taxonomies can be the foe of clarity. By ‘drilling down’ as in the magisterial work of Bernard Lonergan, Method in Theology, a lucid taxonomy may profoundly illuminate the anthropological, theological or other endeavour.1 Thus Lonergan, for example, in his own quest for theological clarity and illumination identifies ‘eight functional specialities in theology, namely, (1) research, (2) interpretation, (3) history, (4) dialectic, (5) foundations, (6) doctrines, (7) systematics, and (8) communications’.2 Throughout this volume we have adopted (1) a phenomenological and anthropological perspective, and constructed (2) a simple taxonomy of miracle narratives comprising food, water, blood, wood and stone and cosmology, while (3) deploying an elevenfold narratological sieve as a critical tool by which to identify major themes, motifs, metathemes and metamotifs. Islamic and Christian miracle traditions have been surveyed and analysed in tandem, thereby highlighting similarities, analogies and differences. Thus our elevenfold narrative sieve interrogated its material from the perspectives of universality, multifacetedness, similarities and differences in content, themes and motifs, repetition, types and antitypes, intertextuality, the protagonist, attitudes to the miracle, significance of the miracle and, finally, the narratological catalyst which furnishes the ‘engine’ of the narrative.3 Each chapter has begun with what I have termed a ‘proto-miracle’ before outlining a key pair of Islamic and Christian miracle narratives focused upon a single anthropological topos. The miracles chosen in all three sections are 184

envoi  | 185 designed neither to be inclusive nor exclusive. Each chapter concludes with an assessment ‘in the narrative arena’. Attitudes surveyed in the text to putative miracles include those of the ‘insider’ and the ‘outsider’. Memory and memorialisation play a massive role in most of the miracle narratives which have been treated in this text. The final taxonomy with which we shall conclude this narratological investigation into the realms of the miraculous in the two traditions of Islam and Christianity comprises a trio of this role of memory and hope together with the theme of Divine Presence. Every miracle – real, perceived, alleged, false or invented in the eyes of the observer or interlocutor – partakes of the field of memory. It is built from elements which have gone before.4 This is not just the case with the Eucharistic miracles in the Christian tradition which we have surveyed, though these may cetainly be said to be archetypes of memorialisation in narrative theory as it pertains to liturgy in particular and theology in general. Memory, all memories, may directly reflect, or unconsciously model, past events, persons and structures. The metathemes of the power of God, healing and the agency of Jesus, Mary and the Prophet Muhammad, together with the metamotifs of angels and light as dynamically articulated and displayed in the miracle narratives which we have analysed, constitute an interlocking intertext of memory and memorialisation. Memory may thus justly be accounted a metatheme par excellence in any consideration of the narratology of miracles. Above all, narrative itself is memory. In the context of the miraculous, the memory of the past is encapsulated and enshrined in the present miracle – real or alleged – which in turn may signal a future salvation. Memory in the narrative of the miraculous thus embraces a past, present and future. Every miracle narrative is also a narrative of hope, regardless of its actuality in the present world or merely in the mind of the visionary. This is because every miracle, fundamentally, seeks to bolster, confirm or even just initiate, faith of some kind or another.5 Hope is present, for example, in searches such as those for Atlantis or the final resting place of the Ark of the Covenant.6 Some might say that in such endeavours it would be the discovery of such ancient places and artefacts that would constitute the miracle for the myth would be transmuted into an astonished reality. Hope is thus sustained by

186  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us the metatheme of historical memory and both are integral to the domain of the miraculous. In these miraculous realms, the final metatheme on which we will focus is that of the divine presence in the world which is exhibited so powerfully in the miracles surveyed in this volume. This divine presence reflects the real agency of the miracle both theologically and narratologically. For the believers a miracle is a species or aspect of actual theophany. For the sceptics it is a symbol of theophany to which they cannot relate. Miracles are divine signs or signals which point to a world beyond this world and to which all are summoned in Christianity and Islam. That summons, of course, may be freely accepted or freely rejected. George Bernard Shaw once famously remarked that ‘a miracle is an event which creates faith’.7 He went on: ‘That is the purpose and nature of miracles. Frauds deceive. An event which creates faith does not deceive: therefore it is not a fraud, but a miracle.’8 For Shaw, it was ‘life itself’ which was ‘the miracle of miracles’.9 Naratologically, the description or proclamation of a miracle at the very least creates a space for reflection. I will leave the last word to St Augustine of Hippo (354–430)10 as we consider the meaning and significance of miracles and also their narration. For in the latter they are multifaceted and multivalent: Let us interrogate the miracles themselves . . . Let us not delight ourselves with the mere outside, but also explore its depth. This [miracle] which we admire on its outer side, hath something within . . . If we were anywhere inspecting a fair piece of writing, it would not be enough that we should praise the writer’s skillful hand, that he formed the letters even, equal and graceful, unless we should also read what he by them would make known to us; so, he who does but look at the thing done in this miracle, is delighted by the beauty of the deed, and moved to admiration of the Artificer; but he who understands does, as it were, read it.11

For the phenomenologist and anthropologist, as for the believer to whom Augustine addresses the above words, the realms of the miraculous constitute a world of signs which phenomenologist and believer alike may ‘read and understand’, albeit in very different ways.12 The Qur’an succinctly concurs.13

notes | 187

Notes

Notes to the Foreword 1. See the stunning catalogue of the exhibition, Corry et al. (eds), Madonnas and Miracles. 2. Ibid., p. 1. 3. Ibid., esp. pp. 137–55. 4. See the Programme leaflet, Seeing is Believing. For further details of this leaflet, see Bibliography: Workshop. 5. Netton, Islam, Christianity and Tradition; Netton, Islam, Christianity and the Mystic Journey. 6. Lonergan, Method in Theology. 7. Ibid., p. 226. 8. The key elements, units and sources of this taxonomy derive principally from Abbott, Cambridge Introduction to Narrative, esp. pp. XV, 1–2, 28, 95–9, 236, 237, 240, 242, 243, 256–61; RENT, pp. 186–8, 299–300, 322–3, 597–9; and Barthes, ‘Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narratives’, esp. pp. 51–3. 9. Mayblin, ‘The Lapsed and the Laity’, p. 504. 10. Thiselton, ‘Biblical Interpretation’, p. 292; Brown, ‘Issues’, p. 285. 11. See Bultmann, ‘New Testament and Mythology’, p. 5; Bultmann, Jesus Christ and Mythology, esp. pp. 15, 37–8, 61; Nagasawa, Miracles, p. XV. Notes to Chapter 1 1. Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, pp. 1–2; Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 1. 2. Basinger, ‘What is a Miracle?’, p. 32 and passim; see also Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 3. 3. Basinger, ‘What is a Miracle?’, p. 32 and passim; see also Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 3.

187

188  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 4. Larmer, ‘The Meanings of Miracle’, p. 36 and passim; see also Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 3. 5. Larmer, ‘The Meanings of Miracle’, p. 50; Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 3. 6. Larmer, ‘The Meanings of Miracle’, p. 50; Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 3. 7. Augustine, Contra Faustum (Against Faustus), 26.3 (my emphases). For this Latin text see Sancti Aureli Augustini, CSEL, Vol. XXV, Sect. V1, Pars 1: De Utilitate Credendi . . . Contra Faustum, p. 731. (I am indebted to Professor Morwenna Ludlow of the Department of Theology and Religion, University of Exeter, for help in locating this text). For the translation quoted here, see Teske (trans.), Answer to Faustus, pp. 389–90. See also Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, Vol. 2, p. 44; Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 9; Brown, ‘Issues’, pp. 275–6. 8. Soanes and Stevenson (eds), COED, p.911, s.v. ‘miracle’. 9. Ibid.; see Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, pp. 334–5. 10. Chodkiewicz, Seal of the Saints, p. 73 n. 49 (my emphases). For more on Ibn al-ʿArabī, see Netton, Allāh Transcendent, pp. 268–306. 11. Swinburne, Is there a God?, cited in Dawkins, The God Delusion, p. 82. See also Dennett, Breaking the Spell, p. 30. 12. Dawkins, The God Delusion, pp. 116–17. See also Brown, Cult of the Saints, pp. 13–15. For the original text from Hume, see Hume, An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Chapter X, ‘Of Miracles’, p. 83. See also Nagasawa, Miracles, pp. 19, 71–83. 13. Lonergan, Method in Theology, p.222. 14. Dennett, Breaking the Spell, p. 57. 15. Macquarrie, Principles of Christian Theology, p. 248 cited in Cottingham, Why Believe?, p. 80. For a survey of Jesus’ miracles, see Blackburn, ‘The Miracles of Jesus’, pp. 112–30. 16. Vinzent, Christ’s Resurrection, p. 226 and passim. 17. Ibid. 18. Crean, A Catholic Replies, p. 53. 19. In addition to the works cited above by Swinburne, Dawkins, Dennett and Crean, we may note the following, admittedly small, selection from a voluminous body of relevant literature: Darwin, On the Origin of Species; Browne, Darwin’s Origin of Species, esp. pp. 77, 104; Cornwell, Darwin’s Angel; Crean, Letters; Flew, There is a God; Hahn and Wiker, Answering the New Atheism; Leonard, Where the Hell is God?; Markham, Against Atheism; McGrath and McGrath, The Dawkins Delusion?; McGrath, Dawkins’ God; Poole, The ‘New’

notes | 189 Atheism; Ward, The God Conclusion; Ward, Why There Almost Certainly is a God. 20. See Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, Vol. 1, pp. 200, 224; ibid., Vol. 2, p. 44. 21. See McGrath, Dawkins’ God, pp. 149–51;Ward, The God Conclusion, p. 139. 22. See McGrath, Dawkins’ God, p. 154. 23. See Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, pp. 9, 13; Larmer, ‘The Meanings of Miracle’, p. 50; Benedicta Ward, ‘Miracles in the Middle Ages’, p. 150; Del Colle, ‘Miracles in Christianity’, p. 239; Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, Vol. 1, pp. 200, 206. See also Q.41:53. We may compare this list with that of Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 17. 24. See Plato, Phaedo, 65e–66a in Plato, Last Days of Socrates, pp. 126–7. For the original Greek text, see Plato, Phaedo, ed. Rowe, p. 34. See also Gosling, Plato, Chapter X, ‘Complaints about the Senses’, pp. 158–75; Hare, Plato, pp. 37, 46. 25. McLaughlin, ‘Perception’, pp. 665–6. See also Lawrence-Mathers and EscobarVargas, Magic and Medieval Society, pp. 53, 78–9, 125–6. 26. See Dubler, ‘ʿAdjā’ib’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 203–4. 27. Wehr, Dictionary, s.v. ‘karāma’, p. 822; Macdonald, ‘Karāma’, SEI, p. 216 (which notes that the word is non-Qur’ānic); Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, s.v. ‘Karāmāt’, p. 219. 28. Wehr, Dictionary, s.v. ‘muʿjiza’, p. 592; Wensinck, ‘Muʿdjiza’, SEI, p. 389 (which also notes that the word is non-Qur’ānic); Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, s.v. ‘miracles’, pp. 270–1; Gril, ‘Miracles’, EQ, Vol. 3, pp. 392–9. 29. Gril, ‘Miracles’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 392. 30. Ibid. 31. Hopwood, ‘Lane, Edward William (1801–1876)’, EICR, p. 363; Ahmed, Edward Lane. 32. Lane, Arabic–English Lexicon Part 5, ¤ād-ʿAyn, p. 1961, s.v. ‘muʿjiz > muʿjiza’. 33. Gardet, ‘Karāma’, EI2, Vol. 4, p. 615. 34. Ibid. 35. Ibid. 36. Ibid. 37. Netton, ‘Myth, Miracle and Magic’ in Netton, Seek Knowledge, p. 106; Ibn Ba††ū†a, Riªla, p. 641; Gibb, Ibn Battūta, pp. 36, 296–7. 38. Gardet, ‘Karāma’, EI2, Vol. 4, pp. 615–16; see also Wensinck, ‘Muʿdjiza’, SEI, p. 389. 39. Mortimer, Time Traveller’s Guide, pp. 64–5.

190  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 40. Ibid. 41. Ibid. 42. Gies and Gies, Life in a Medieval City, p. 109. See Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, pp. 241–2. 43. Mortimer, Time Traveller’s Guide, p. 75. 44. Ibid., pp. 74–5. 45. Ibid., p. 75. 46. Ibid., pp. 190, 194. 47. Ibid., p. 200. 48. Whitton, ‘Society of Northern Europe’, p. 134. 49. See Mayblin, ‘The Lapsed and the Laity’, p. 514. 50. Mortimer, Time Traveller’s Guide, p. 270; Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, passim. 51. Le Goff, Medieval Civilisation, p. 253. 52. Brown, Cult of the Saints, p. 1 and passim. See also Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, pp. 333–409. 53. Whitton, ‘Society of Northern Europe’, p. 134. See also Brown, Cult of the Saints, pp. 38, 75, 77–8; Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, pp. 349–65; Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, pp. 58, 161–2 and passim; Vauchez, Sainthood, pp. 444– 77, 481–98; Benedicta Ward, ‘Miracles in the Middle Ages’, pp. 156–60, 162. 54. Barlow, Thomas Becket, p. 333. For the cult of saints and their relics, see Gies and Gies, Life in a Medieval City, pp. 108–10. See also Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, pp. 1–8; Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, pp. 52, 71, 74–5. 55. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 43. 56. Clanchy, Early Medieval England, p. 72. 57. Alexander (Intro. and Text), Master of Mary of Burgundy, illustrations 87–8 and preceding text. 58. See Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 28. 59. See Brown, Cult of the Saints, pp. 88–94 and passim; Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?; Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust; Vauchez, Sainthood. 60. Brown, Cult of the Saints, p. 92. 61. Ibid., p. 107; Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, pp. 239–332; Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, pp. 94–107, 108–19. 62. Benedicta Ward, ‘Miracles in the Middle Ages’, p. 154. See also Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 6. 63. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 43. 64. Ibid. 65. Ibid., pp. 43, 144 n. 40, citing Sumption, Pilgrimage, p. 65.

notes | 191 66. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 43. 67. Garland, ‘Miracles in the Greek and Roman World’, p. 89. 68. Ibid., p. 88; Del Col, ‘Miracles in Christianity’, p. 237; Paget, ‘Miracles in Early Christianity’, pp. 138–42. 69. Augustine, City of God, Book XXII.X, [Latin–English Text], Vol. VII, pp. 254–5; Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 11. 70. Pannenberg, Systematic Theology, Vol. 2, p. 45. 71. Vauchez, Sainthood, p. 19. 72. For an extended discussion of authority and interpretation of the text in medieval Islam, see Netton, Islam, Christianity and Tradition, pp. 72–88 and passim. 73. Vauchez, Sainthood, p. 19. 74. Ibid. 75. Knapp, The Dawn of Christianity, p. 197. 76. Ibid; see also pp. 198–202. 77. Ibid., pp. 88, 197. 78. Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic. 79. Mantel, ‘Introduction’ to ibid., p. XVI. 80. Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, Vol. 1, p. 24. 81. Ibid., p. 104. 82. Ibid., pp. 186–98. 83. Ibid., p. 191. 84. Ibid. 85. Ibid., Vol. 2, pp. 631, 622–50. 86. Ibid., p. 637. 87. Duffy, Stripping of the Altars. 88. Shaw, Miracles in Enlightenment England, p. 180. 89. Ibid., p. 181. 90. Ibid. 91. Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov, p. 39. 92. Ibid., pp. 39–40. 93. Thiselton, ‘Biblical Interpretation’, p. 292. 94. Bultmann, ‘New Testament and Mythology’, Vol. 1, p. 5. 95. Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, pp. 2, 10; Levine, ‘Philosophers on Miracles’, pp. 291–308 esp. pp. 292–3; Brown, ‘Issues’, pp. 281–3; Hume, Enquiry, ‘Section X: Of Miracles’, pp. 79–95. 96. Castelli, Padre Pio Under Investigation; Luzzatto, Padre Pio, esp. pp. 88–115; Rega, Truth About Padre Pio, pp. 1–15.

192  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 97. Luzzatto, Padre Pio, pp. 4–5. 98. Crane, Miracles and Modern Science, pp. 8, 110. See also Del Colle, ‘Miracles in Christianity’, p. 242; Hvidt, ‘Patient Belief’, pp. 312–13; Scott, Miracle Cures, 170–1 who notes: ‘In the century and a half since the shrine was created, a total of [only] sixty-six miracle cures have been declared.’ See also Antoine Marie, Letter (18 December 2012), p. 2. The number has now increased to 70. 99. See Cardinal Prospero Lambertini (the future Pope Benedict XIV), De Servorum, Liber IV, Cap. VIII, No. 2 of 1734. Hvidt (‘Patient Belief’, pp. 312–13) provides a very brief English summary of this Latin text and notes (ibid., p. 325 n. 13) its full printing details in 1840 (see my Bibliography under Benedict XIV). Contrary to Hvidt’s assertion (p. 312), Pope Benedict XIV reigned in the eighteenth century (from 1740 to 1758) and not the sixteenth. 100. See above n. 99; Norget, Napolitano and Mayblin (eds), Anthropology of Catholicism, p. 218; Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 35. 101. See Vauchez, Sainthood, pp. 13–21. 102. Ibid., p. 22; Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, p. 59. 103. Vauchez, Sainthood, pp. 23–5. See also Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, p. 147. 104. Quoted by Vauchez, Sainthood, p. 25; see also Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, p. 58. 105. Vauchez, Sainthood, p. 27. 106. Dennett, Breaking the Spell, p. 26. 107. Inside the Vatican Magazine Staff, ‘ Decision Near on Medjugorje?’, p. 16. 108. Ibid. 109. Marsden, ‘Our Troubled World’, p. 9. 110. Inside the Vatican Magazine Staff, ‘Decision Near on Medjugorje?’, p. 17. See also Sawicki, ‘Each Debate is Good’, p. 38 in which Cardinal Gerhard Müller stresses the private nature of the visions and revelations at Medjugorje and that ‘the truth of Revelation does not depend on later phenomena and visions’. 111. Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 45; Foley, Medjugorje Revisited. For the Council of Trent, see O’Malley, Trent. 112. Scott, Miracle Cures, p. XVIII (my emphasis). 113. Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p.2. 114. Ibid., p. 9. See Del Colle, ‘Miracles in Christianity’, pp. 246–7. 115. Garland, ‘Miracles in the Greek and Roman World’, p. 75. 116. Brown, ‘Issues’, p. 283. 117. Geivett and Habermas, ‘Introduction’ to Geivett and Habermas (eds), In Defence of Miracles, p. 9.

notes | 193 118. Ibid., p. 22. 119. Newman, ‘Fulfilled Prophecy as Miracle’, pp. 214–25. 120. Feinberg, ‘Incarnation’, pp. 226–46. 121. Craig, ‘Empty Tomb’, pp. 247–61. 122. Habermas, ‘Resurrection Appearances’, pp. 262–75. 123. Ibid., p. 275. 124. Geivett and Habermas, ‘Conclusion: Has God Acted in History?’, p. 277. 125. Ibid., p. 280. 126. Crane, Miracles and Modern Science: see Bibliography. 127. Ibid., p. 2. 128. Ibid., p. 29. 129. Ibid., p. 117. 130. Ibid., p. VII. 131. Ibid., p. 119. 132. Ibid. 133. Ibid. 134. Smith, Exodus, p. 58. 135. McCaffrey, ‘Faith and the Eucharist’, p. 34. For longer discussions of memory, see O’Loughlin, Eucharist, pp. 17–21, 118–21, 123–44, 145–90. 136. CCC, p. 305 # 1354. 137. Ibid. 138. Exodus 7:14–12:32; Smith, Exodus, pp. 39–54. See also Trevisanato, The Plagues of Egypt. 139. CCC, p. 307 ## 1366, 1367, 1330. 140. See, for example, Luke 24:1–53. 141. CCC, p. 252 # 1099, p. 139 # 611. 142. Brümmer, Atonement, p. 67. 143. Feinberg, ‘Incarnation’, pp. 226–46. 144. Ibid., p. 226. 145. Brümmer, Atonement, p. 67. 146. Ibid., p. 91. 147. See Howe, ‘Late Medieval Christianity’, p. 137 148. CCC, p. 268 # 1168. 149. Dukes (rev.), ‘Exultet’, in Daily Missal, pp. 598–9. 150. Saint John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis 1–17, trans. Hill: ‘Introduction’, p. 3. 151. Sanidopoulos, Mystagogy. Available at (last accessed 27 May 2015); for the original text in Greek and Latin, see Migne, Patrologiae Cursus Completus [Series Graeca], Vol. 49, pp. 395–6. See also John Chrysostom, Homilies on Genesis 1-17: Homily 16, pp. 220–1. For triumph over death via martyrdom, see Mayer and Neil (Introduction, trans. and annotated), St John Chrysostom, p. 30 and passim. 152. Wehr, Dictionary, p. 36, s.v. ‘āya’; Lawrence, Qur’an, p. 8. 153. Lawrence, Qur’an, p. 8. See also, inter alia, Graham and Kirmani, ‘Recitation and Aesthetic Reception’, p. 130; Abrahamov, ‘Theology’, p. 431. 154. Q.17:88; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 719–20. 155. Martin, ‘Inimitability’, EQ, Vol. 2, p. 527. 156. Gril, ‘Miracles’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 392. 157. Q.85:21–2; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1717. 158. Lawrence, Qur’an, p. 15; see also Thomas, ‘Miracles in Islam’, pp. 203–6. 159. Gramlich, Die Wunder der Freunde Gottes, p. 15. 160. Esposito, Oxford Dictionary of Islam, p. 37, s.v. ‘Barakah’. 161. Thomas, ‘Miracles in Islam’, pp. 203–4. See also Twelftree, ‘Introduction’, p. 7; Khan (trans.), Mukhta‚ar Íaªīª al-Bukhārī: ‘The Miracles of Prophet Muªammad’, pp. 15–17. (This volume is hereafter referred to as al-Bukhārī.) 162. Al-Bukhārī, ‘Miracles’, pp. 15–17. 163. Gril, ‘Miracles’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 397; see also Rubin, ‘Prophets and Prophethood’, p. 244. 164. Q.29:50. 165. Q.17:93. 166. Gril, ‘Miracles’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 392. See also Lawrence, Qur’an, p. 86. 167. Al-Bukhārī, p. 709, bāb 37 # 1518. 168. Beverley, ‘Muhammad’, p. 423. 169. See ibid. 170. See ibid. See also Geivett and Habermas, In Defence of Miracles, p. 204. 171. Beverly, ‘Muhammad’, p. 423. See also Peters, God’s Created Speech, p. 276. 172. Geivett and Habermas, In Defence of Miracles, p. 204. 173. For example, Du Pasquier and Winter, Unveiling Islam, p. 53. For a magisterial and important article on the subject, see Jonathan Brown, ‘Faithful Dissenters’, pp. 123–68. 174. Thomas, ‘Miracles in Islam’, p. 212. 175. See above n. 37; Netton, ‘Myth, Miracle and Magic’, p. 136; Ibn Ba††ū†a, Riªla, p. 641; Gibb, Ibn Battúta, pp. 36, 296–7.

notes | 195 176. Q.72:26–7; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1630. 177. See Gardet, ‘Karāma’, EI2, Vol. 4. 178. Ibid. See Brown, ‘Faithful Dissenters’, pp. 137–40. 179. Peters, God’s Created Speech, p. 98; see nn. 316–21 on this page which cites the original Arabic source as follows: ʿAbd al-Jabbār, Sharª al-U‚ūl, pp. 569­–71. 180. Peters, God’s Created Speech, p. 99. 181. Bigliardi, ‘Interpretation of Miracles’, pp. 282–3. 182. Al-Ghazālī, al-Munqidh, p. 44. For al-Ghazālī, see Watt, ‘Al-Ghazālī’, EI2, Vol. 2, pp. 1038–41; Watt, Muslim Intellectual, passim. For Sufi ‘wariness of the karāmāt’, see Keeler, Handout to Presentation on ‘Karāmāt’, pp. 2–3. 183. Gardet, ‘Karāma’, EI2. For ‘Differences between the muʿjiza of the anbiyā’ and the karāma of the awliyā’, see Keeler, Handout, p. 2. For a variety of excellent studies on karāma, see Aigle (ed.), Miracle et karāma, passim. 184. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 205. For ‘Allowability of karāmāt’, see Keeler, Handout, p. 2. 185. Kugle, Sufis and Saints’ Bodies, pp. 70–1. 186. Ibid., p. 71. 187. Ibid., p. 104. 188. Ibid., pp. 136–80. 189. Ibid., p. 300 n. 31. 190. See Brown, ‘Faithful Dissenters’, esp. pp. 125–30, 132 n. 40 (for an excellent listing of primary source material), 135–7 and passim. 191. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 137. 192. Clark, ‘Miracles in the World Religions’, pp. 204, 304 n. 14. 193. Clarke, ‘Cough Sweets and Angels’, p. 408. See also p.413 and passim. 194. Ibid., p. 416. 195. Ibid., p. 420. 196. Ibid., pp. 420–1. 197. Malik, Muʿjizat Ha∂rat Bibi Fā†ima. (I am most grateful to Mrs Nasra Hassan of Vienna for drawing my attention to this text and for providing a private translation of it from the Urdu.) 198. Malik, Muʿjizat, pp. 3–6. 199. Ibid., p. 2. 200. See ibid., p. 13. 201. Ibid., p. 2. 202. Ibid., p. 9. 203. Ibid., pp. 3, 13.

196  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 204. Nasra Hassan, translator’s note to private translation of Malik, Muʿjizat, 28 April 1993, Vienna. 205. Netton, ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’, p. 129 and nn. 117–19. 206. Q.2:185; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 73. 207. See, for example, Q.29:45. 208. Bosworth, ‘Al-Bū‚īrī’, EAL, Vol. 1, p. 163. See also Basset, ‘Burda’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 1314–15. 209. Netton, Allāh Transcendent. 210. See Netton, ‘Narratology as Philosophy’; Netton, Muslim Neoplatonists; Ikhwān al-Íafā’, Rasā’il. 211. Abbott, ‘Preface’, Cambridge Introduction to Narrative, p. XV. 212. Ibid., p. 1. 213. Ibid. and p. 214; Barthes, ‘Introduction to the Structural Analysis of Narratives’, pp. 251–2. 214. Abbott, Cambridge Introduction, pp. 1–2; Barthes, ‘Introduction’, pp. 251–2. 215. Abbott, Cambridge Introduction, p. 28. 216. Ibid., pp. 95–9. 217. Ibid., and passim. See also, for example, discussions of these in Herman et al. (eds), RENT; Onega and Landa (eds), Narratology; Sturgess, Narrativity. 218. Abbott, Cambridge Introduction, p. 95. See the very clear and succinct definitions on pp. 237, 242. 219. Khalifa, Hardship and Deliverance, pp. 8, 11. 220. Ibid., p. 19. 221. Ibid., p. 34. Notes to Chapter 2 1. See Netton, ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’, p. 114 and John 6:48–58. 2. Q.2:57; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 30–1. 3. Q.2:61; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 32. 4. Exodus 16:1–3. 5. Exodus 16:4–5; trans. NJB, pp. 100–1. 6. Exodus 16:13–15; trans. NJB, p. 101. 7. Exodus 16:16–21. 8. Exodus 16:22–30. 9. Exodus 16:31. 10. Cooper (trans.), Commentary on the Qur’ān by . . . al-˝abarī, Vol. 1, pp. 328–9. 11. Ibid., pp. 330–2.

notes | 197 12. Ibid., p. 332. 13. Ibid., pp. 347–51. 14. Exodus 16:35; Cooper (trans.), Commentary, p. 331. 15. Cooper (trans.), Commentary, p. 332. 16. Yusuf Ali, p. 31 n. 71. 17. Ibid. 18. NJB: Exodus, p. 101 n. 16a. See also Smith, Exodus. 19. Clifford, ‘Exodus’, pp. 50–1. 20. Ibid., p. 50. See also Smith, Exodus, p. 69 and the text itself at Exodus 16:15 where the people ask ‘What is that?’ 21. Yusuf Ali, p. 31 n. 71. 22. Exodus 16:4. See Smith, Exodus, p. 71 and p. 69. 23. Clifford, ‘Exodus’, pp. 50–1. See Exodus 15:23–5; 16:4–31; 17:1–7. 24. Clifford, ‘Exodus’, p. 50. 25. Ibid. 26. West, Devil’s Advocate, published in 1959. See Bibliography. 27. West, Devil’s Advocate, p. 50; see also p. 30. 28. See the previous chapter n. 181. 29. Clifford, ‘Exodus’, p. 51. 30. See, for example, Trevisanato, Plagues of Egypt, passim. 31. John 6:35. 32. Matthew 14:13:21; Mark 6:30–44; Luke 9:10–17; John 6:1–15. 33. For types and antitypes, see my article ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’, esp. pp. 114–23. 34. NJB, p. 1633, n. 14c; 2 Kings 4:1–7, 42–4. See Viviano, ‘The Gospel According to Matthew’, p. 658. 35. NJB, p. 1633 n. 14c; Matthew 15:32–9; Mark 8:1–10. 36. NJB, p. 1633 n. 14c. See also Harrington, ‘The Gospel According to Mark’, p. 613; Yeary, Welcome, pp. 27–8; O’Loughlin, Eucharist, p. 49. 37. NJB, p. 1633 n. 14c; Viviano, ‘Matthew’, p. 659; Harrington, ‘Mark’, p. 613. 38. Harrington, ‘Mark’, p. 613; Viviano, ‘Matthew’, pp. 658–9. 39. Viviano, ‘Matthew’, p. 658. 40. Kerris, ‘The Gospel According to Luke’, p. 699. See also Reid, The Gospel According to Matthew, p. 81; CCC, p. 300 # 1335. 41. Luke 22:19; 24:30; Harrington, ‘Mark’, p. 610. 42. Patella, The Gospel Acording to Luke, p.64. 43. CCC, p. 307 # 1367; John Paul II, Ecclesia de Eucharistia, p.11; Selman, Sacraments, p. 119.

198  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 44. John 6:31–5; trans. NJB, p. 1756. 45. See John 13–17; Matthew 26:17–29; Mark 14:12–25; Luke 22:1–38. 46. See Martos, Doors to the Sacred, pp. 248, 239–315. 47. CCC, p. 305 # 1354, p. 306 # 1362. 48. See pp. 37–41. 49. Netton, ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’, passim; see CCC, p. 317 # 1402 for the Eucharist as ‘also an anticipation of the heavenly glory’. 50. CCC, pp. 306–307 ## 1363, 1364; McCaffrey, ‘Faith and the Eucharist’, p. 34. See also O’Loughlin, Eucharist, pp. 58, 129–34. 51. See n. 78 below. 52. Le Goff, Medieval Civilisation, p. 238. 53. Ibid., p. 238. 54. Ibid., pp. 238–9. 55. Ibid., p. 239. 56. Ibid. 57. See Yeary, Welcome, passim. 58. See NJB, p. 37 n. 18a. 59. Yeary, Welcome, pp. 3–4, citing Genesis 18:1–15. 60. Yeary, Welcome, pp. 11–15, citing Exodus 12:1–30. 61. Yeary, Welcome, pp. 27–34. 62. Ibid., pp. 35–51. 63. Ibid., pp. 51–53, citing Luke 24:13–35. 64. Luke 24:36, cited in Yeary, Welcome, p. 52. 65. Yeary, Welcome, p. 52. 66. Gamboso (ed.), Book on St Anthony’s Miracles, pp. 82–3. For the life of San Antonio of Padova, see Gamboso (ed.), Life of St Anthony and Gamboso, Life of St Anthony. (Fieldwork at the shrine and Basilica of San Antonio in Padova was undertaken by the author on 2–3 July 2017.) 67. Yeary, Welcome, p. 42 citing Matthew 26:26–9, Mark 14:22–5, Luke 22:15– 20; 1 Corinthians 11:23–5. 68. See John Paul II, Ecclesia de Eucharistia, pp. 29–37 ## 34–7. 69. Martos, Doors to the Sacred, pp. 239, 240–315. 70. Ibid., p. 243. 71. Ibid., pp. 280–5. See John Paul II, Ecclesia de Eucharistia, pp. 35–6 ## 43–4; O’Loughlin, Eucharist, pp. XV, 32. 72. Martos, Doors to the Sacred, p. 285. 73. Ibid., p. 239.

notes | 199 74. Official website of the Carlo Acutis Association and the Cause of Beatification of the Servant of God Carlo Acutis, available at (last accessed 24 April 2017); Gori, Un giovane; Gori, Eucaristia. 75. See CCC, pp. 299–300, # 1333, pp. 309–310 ## 1373–7; Marsden, ‘In Eucharist’; John Paul II, Ecclesia de Eucharistia, p. 13 # 15; Paul VI, Mysterium Fidei, esp. pp. 34–5; DVD Hostia. 76. Misiura, ‘Vatican and Science’, p. 20. 77. Marsden, ‘In Eucharist’. 78. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 38. Eucharistic miracles are detailed at length in Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles. 79. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37. 80. Misiura, ‘Vatican and Science’, p. 20. For important primary and photographic documentation for the Eucharistic miracle of Lanciano, see Sammaciccia, Eucharistic Miracle of Lanciano, esp. pp. 73–119. For the ancient name Anaxanum and its transformation into Lanzanum, see ibid., pp. 19–20. 81. Misiura, ‘Vatican and Science’, p. 20; Sammaciccia, Eucharistic Miracle of Lanciano, pp. 17, 18, 23, 37. See also Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 38; Marsden, ‘Eucharistic miracle’, p. 7; Peter Smith, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, pp. 6–7; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, pp. 3–18, which contextualises the Lanciano miracle among a large number of other Eucharistic miracles. 82. Misiura, ‘Vatican and Science’, pp. 20–1. 83. Ibid., p. 20. 84. Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 2. See also Peter Smith, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, pp. 6–7. 85. Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 2. See also Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 38. 86. See Tanner, The Church in the Later Middle Ages, p. 94. For a popular hagiography, see Ferretti, Saint Catherine of Siena. 87. Tanner, Church in the Later Middle Ages, p. 94. 88. Ferretti, Saint Catherine of Siena, p. 145. 89. Ibid., pp. 100–1. 90. Ibid., pp. 101–2. 91. Anon., Catholic Life, ‘The Miraculous Benediction’, pp. 16–18; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, pp. 185–193. 92. Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 1. 93. Marsden, ‘In Eucharist’, p. 7.

200  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 94. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, pp. 38–9. 95. Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 1; Marsden, ‘In Eucharist’. 96. Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 1. 97. Marsden, ‘In Eucharist’; Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 1. 98. Marsden, ‘In Eucharist’. 99. Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), pp. 1–2. 100. Ibid., p. 4. 101. Ibid., p. 2. 102. Marsden, ‘In Eucharist’. 103. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 39. 104. Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 3. 105. Piotrowski, ‘Sokółka’, p. 25. 106. Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7; Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 3. 107. Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7; Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 3; Piotrowski, ‘Sokółka’, pp. 25–6. 108. Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7. 109. Piotrowski, ‘Sokółka’, p. 26; Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7; Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 3. We may compare this event with the very similar, and most recently alleged, Eucharistic miracle which is claimed to have taken place in St Hyacinth’s Church, Legnica, which is in the Lower Silesian region of Poland, on 10 April 2016. See Piotrowski, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, pp. 4–9. 110. Piotrowski, ‘Sokółka’, p. 28. See also Antoine Marie, Letter (27 March 2016), p. 3; Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle, p. 7. 111. Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7. 112. Piotrowski, ‘Sokółka’, p. 29. 113. See O’Loughlin, Eucharist, pp. 141, 38 n. 54. 114. See Sammaciccia, Eucharistic Miracle of Lanciano, p. 7. 115. See Cornwell, The Pope in Winter, pp. 45–8. 116. Ibid., pp. 101–2. 117. Q.5: 115–16; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 278–80. 118. Q.5: 117–18. 119. See, for example, Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, p. 87; Nasr et al. (eds), Study Quran, p. 335. 120. Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, p. 87; Nasr et al. (eds), Study Quran, pp. 335–6.

notes | 201 121. Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, p. 88. 122. Q.5:48 in Nasr et al. (eds), Study Quran, p. 300; Q.5:51 in Yusuf Ali, p. 258. 123. Guillaume, Traditions of Islam, pp. 135–6. 124. Juynboll, Encyclopedia of Canonical Óadīth, p. 288. 125. Ibid. 126. Ibid., pp. 287–8; Malik ibn Anas, Al–Muwatta, pp. 390–1 # 49.10.19; Burton, Introduction to the Óadīth, pp. 98, 189. For the original Arabic, see Mālik Ibn Anas, Kitāb al–Muwa††a’, Vol. 2, pp. 252–3. See also Woodward, Book of Miracles, pp. 199, 185; al-Ghazālī, Iªyā’, Vol. 2, p. 384. 127. See, for example, al-Bukhārī, Íaªīª: Kitāb al-Maghāzī # 4104 in Khan (trans.), Translation, Vol. 5, pp. 262–3. 128. Juynboll, Encyclopedia of Canonical Óadīth, p. 288. 129. Guillaume (trans.), Life of Muhammad, pp. 451–2; Juynboll, Encyclopedia, p. 288. For the Arabic text see Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 3, p. 218. The same miracle is recorded in Ibn Kathīr, Sīra, p. 338. 130. Guillaume, Traditions of Islam, p. 138. 131. Available at (last acces­ sed 26 July 2016): see the article ‘Muhammad’s Miracles’ on p. 5, which cites numerous Qur’anic verses emphasising that Muhammad was not a miracle worker. (While this list is of interest, it is clear that p. 6 of this article has clearly been modified by someone hostile to Islam.) 132. Pakistan, ‘Are You a Believer’; available at Islam> (last accessed 9 August 2016): see photograph no. 9. 133. Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, p. 45 citing, inter alia, Q.3:39; see also ibid., pp. 46–8. 134. Ibid., pp. 45, 47–8. 135. Q.46:2 and passim. 136. Pakistan, ‘Are You a Believer’. 137. Ibid. In the Christian tradition we might compare the Filipino rose petals (with healing properties) in which images of the face of Christ or the Virgin and child are perceived: see de la Cruz, Mother Figured, pp. 132–6. 138. Scott, ‘Remarks’, p. 25. 139. Q.2:115. 140. Q.16:11; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 658. 141. See Hatoum (Introd.), Alf Layla wa Layla. 142. See Boccaccio, Decameron. 143. Q.5:118.

202  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 144. For more on types and antitypes, see Netton, ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’, esp. pp. 114–23. 145. Ibid., esp. p. 131. 146. See Netton, ‘Towards a Modern Tafsīr of Sūrat al-Kahf’, esp. p. 75. 147. See, for example, Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, pp. 3, 25, 121. 148. Ibid., p. 122; see also pp. 122–31. 149. Ibid., p. 326; see also pp. 32–40. 150. Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 185 (my emphases), citing (p. 395 n. 13) Zolondek, Book XX of al-Ghazālī’s Iªyā’, p. 13. See also Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 187. 151. Al-Ghazālī, Iªyā’, Vol. 2, p. 383. 152. See ibid., p. 385. Notes to Chapter 3 1. Exodus 17:1–7. 2. Exodus 17:3; trans. NJB, p. 102. 3. Exodus 17:4–7. 4. Exodus 17:7; trans. NJB, p. 102. 5. NJB, p. 103 n. 17a. 6. Ibid.; see Exodus 15:22–5. 7. NJB, p. 103 n. 17a; see Numbers 20:1–11. 8. Numbers 20:10–11; trans. NJB, p. 201. 9. Numbers 20:12; trans. NJB, p. 201. 10. NJB, p. 201 n. 20c. 11. See ibid. See also L’Heureux, ‘Numbers’, p. 87. 12. Smith, Exodus, pp. 71–2. 13. Exodus 15:25–26; trans. NJB, p. 100 (my emphases); Smith, Exodus, p. 71. 14. Smith, Exodus, p. 71. 15. Exodus 15:26; trans. NJB, p. 100. 16. Q.2:60; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 31–2. Compare Q.38:41–3. See Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 243; Ibn Kathīr (trans. Azami), Stories, pp. 407–8. Q.2:60 is echoed in the Shiʿite tradition, with ʿAlī as the protagonist in place of Mūsā: see al-Shīrūwānī, Kitāb Manāqib Ahl al-Bayt, pp. 203–8. (I am indebted to Mrs Yasmin Amin for this last reference.) 17. See Q.2:55, 61. 18. Exodus 15:27; trans. NJB, p. 100. 19. Q.17:90.

notes | 203 20. Cooper (trans.), Commentary, pp. 345–6. 21. Ibid., p. 346. 22. Q.5:118; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 279–80. 23. Johns, ‘Water’, EQ, Vol. 5, p. 462. 24. See ibid. 25. Ibid. See Q.41:39. 26. Q.41:39; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1298. 27. Yusuf Ali, p. 32 n.73. 28. ‘Introduction to the Synoptic Gospels’, NJB, p. 1607. See also Reid, Gospel According to Matthew, pp. 8–9. 29. See Matthew, 3:13–17. 30. See Selman, Sacraments, pp. 51–2. 31. Ibid., p. 84. 32. Ibid. See also Guzie, Sacramental Basics, pp. 81 ff. Mary in Catholic tradition, alone of all humans, was born free of the stain of original sin. See CCC, p. 93 ## 417, 418 (original sin), p. 110 # 491 (Immaculate Conception of Mary). 33. Selman, Sacraments, p. 87 citing CCC # 1262 [see CCC, p. 286]. 34. John 3:5, NJB, p. 1748. 35. John 4:13–14, NJB, p. 1751. 36. NJB, p. 1751 n. 4a. 37. Mark: 6:45–52; see John 6:16–21. 38. Luke 8:22–5. 39. John 2:1–10 40. John 9:1–9. 41. John 9:39. 42. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 53. 43. Ibid., pp. 57–8. 44. NJB, p. 1753 n. 5c. See Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 58. 45. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 51. 46. Ibid., pp. 52 ff. 47. John 5: 1–9. See Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 58. 48. John 7:37–8, NJB, p. 1760. 49. Goethe, Faust, p. 28, line 66; Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 171. 50. For a standard biography, see Laurentin, Bernadette. 51. Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 57. 52. Ibid., p. 53.

204  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 53. Ibid. 54. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 48. 55. Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 54. 56. Ibid.; Anon, ‘Lourdes recognises its 70th miracle’. See also Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 170–1; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 82; Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 36. 57. See Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 47, 53–4, 94–8. 58. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 87. 59. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 81. 60. Ibid., pp. 50 ff., 64 ff. 61. Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 58–60. 62. See Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 17–19, 27–9. 63. Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 60. 64. Ibid., p. 57. 65. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 19. 66. Ibid., pp. 15–16. 67. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 19, 60. 68. Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 57. 69. See Davies, Europe, pp. 803–5, 823–4. 70. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 72. 71. Davies, Europe, p. 797. 72. Ibid., p. 798. 73. Ibid., pp. 798–9. See also Boss, ‘Deification’, p. 198. 74. See Laurentin, Bernadette, passim. 75. Rubin, Mother of God, p. 414. 76. See Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 40–9. 77. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 81. 78. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 43 ff. 79. Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 51. See also Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 20. 80. Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 51. 81. Ibid., p. 50; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 81; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 64–7. 82. Johnston, When Millions Saw Mary, p. 19; MacCulloch, Silence, pp. 218–19; Dictionnaire, pp. 493–4. 83. Johnston, When Millions Saw Mary, passim; Castle, ‘Faith Confirmed’, p. 23; Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 55; Dictionnaire, pp. 154–8. 84. See Laurentin, Bernadette, passim; Scott, Miracle Cures, passim; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, passim.

notes | 205 85. See Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 61–3; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 20–1, 29 ff., 197; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 52–76. 86. See Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 45. 87. See Mellor, ‘Islamizing the Palestinian–Israeli Conflict’, p. 514. 88. Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 26, 9–29. 89. Ibid., pp. 48, 60; Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 51, 59; Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, p. 255. 90. Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 31–90; Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 51; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 79–80. 91. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 59. 92. Ibid., p. 60; Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 51–3; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 79–80; Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, p. 255. 93. See Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 59; Antoine Marie, Letter, (18 December 2012), p. 4. 94. Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 66–7. 95. Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 51–3. 96. For Pio Nono, see Duffy, Ten Popes, pp. 93–103; Duffy, Saints and Sinners, pp. 310–30; Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes, pp. 309–11, s.v. ‘Pius IX’. 97. See Duffy, Saints and Sinners, pp. 316–17; Boss, ‘Deification’, passim. 98. Duffy, Saints and Sinners, p. 317. 99. Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, p. 255. 100. Pius IX, Ineffabilis Deus (8 December 1854) in Denzinger, Enchiridion, pp. 574–5 # 2803; also trans. and cited in CCC, p. 110 # 491; see also ibid., pp. 109–10 ## 490, 492, 493; Ott, Fundamentals, pp. 199–202. 101. See Ott, Fundamentals, pp. 201–2; Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, pp. 241–60; Duffy, Saints and Sinners, p. 316. 102. Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 81–2; Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, p. 255. 103. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 82. 104. Ibid., p. 81. 105. Ibid., p. 83; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 80. See also Werfel, Song, pp. 298–300. 106. Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, p. 256. 107. Ibid. 108. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 41 and passim. 109. See ibid., pp. 41, 44–55, 67–70, and passim. 110. See Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 176. 111. For the continuing controversy over Medjugorje, see, inter alia, Foley,

206  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Medjugorje Revisited; Anon, ‘Schönborn Says’, p. 27; Anon, ‘Francis Expresses Doubts’, p. 12; Anon, ‘The Jury’s Still Out’, p. 3; Lamb, ‘Francis Casts Doubt’, p. 25. See, finally, Davis, ‘Is Rome Changing Course on Medjugorje?’, pp. 20–1. 112. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 195; Johnston, ‘Belief and Unbelief 1’, pp. 2–3: available at (last accessed 22 August 2016). See also Hemmings, Émile Zola, pp. 262–3. 113. Johnston, ‘Belief and Unbelief 1’, p. 2. 114. Ibid., p. 3. 115. Ibid. 116. Ibid. 117. Ibid. 118. Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 55; Johnston, ‘Belief and Unbelief 1’, p. 2; Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 170. 119. Del Colle, ‘Miracles in Christianity’, p. 242. 120. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 112. 121. Boss, ‘Deification’, p. 201. 122. Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 55. 123. Ibid. 124. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 12. 125. Ibid.; Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 55. 126. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 22. 127. Zola, Lourdes, ed. Jacques Noiray. 128. Werfel, Song. The original German edition was published under the title of Das Lied von Bernadette in 1941 in Stockholm. See also the 2005 DVD of the 1943 film entitled The Song of Bernadette, starring Jennifer Jones and William Eythe which won four Oscars in 1943 including best actress (Jennifer Jones). See finally the DVD Lourdes (2009). 129. Arditti, Jubilate. 130. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 15. 131. For her vocation as a nun, see Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 123–8. 132. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 12. 133. See Orth, ‘The Virgin Mary’, p. 59. 134. See ibid., p. 55 for a brief but vivid pilgrim description of ‘the freezing immersion’ which is, nonetheless, characterised as ‘a bracing moment of deep peace’. 135. Hemmings, Life and Times of Émile Zola, p. 154.

notes | 207 136. Ibid., pp. 184, 238, 263, 297, 299–300. 137. Ibid., p. 262. Noiray, ‘Preface’, to Zola, Lourdes, p. 9. 138. Hemmings, Life and Times of Émile Zola, p. 265. 139. Ibid. 140. Ibid. 141. See Zola, Lourdes, ed. Jacques Noiray, passim. 142. Ibid., p. 54. 143. Ibid., pp. 32–50 144. Ibid., p. 200. 145. See ibid., pp. 192–3. 146. The sick are vividly described in ibid., pp. 375–6. 147. Ibid., p. 375. 148. Ibid., p. 403. 149. Ibid., p. 548 150. Ibid., p. 573. 151. Ibid. 152. Ibid., p. 232. 153. Ibid., p. 240. 154. Ibid., p. 241. 155. Hemmings, Life and Times of Émile Zola, pp. 159, 272 156. Zola, Lourdes, pp. 567–8. 157. Werfel, Song: see, for example, the chapter entitled ‘Open War’, pp. 167–85. 158. Weigel, ‘Foreword’ to Werfel, Song, p. X. 159. Ibid., p. XI. 160. Werfel, Song, pp. 3–18. 161. Ibid., pp. 19–24. 162. Ibid., pp. 53–61. 163. Ibid., pp. 104–358. 164. For example, ibid., pp. 176–85 and passim. 165. Ibid., pp. 460–569. 166. Ibid., pp. 19–24. 167. For example, ibid., p. 98. 168. Ibid., pp. 298–9. 169. Ibid., p. 299. 170. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 12. 171. Ibid., p. 18. See Werfel, Song, p. 215; see also De Montfort, Treatise on the True Devotion.

208  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 172. Werfel, Song, p. 29. 173. Ibid. 174. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 18. 175. Ibid. 176. Werfel, Song, pp. 283–6. 177. Ibid., p. 293. 178. Ibid., pp. 226–7. 179. See, for example, ibid., pp. 207–18. 180. For example, ibid., p. 207. 181. See ibid., p. 299. 182. See Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 82–4, 112; Werfel, Song, pp. 298–9, 340–5, 558–69. 183. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 125. 184. Werfel, Song, p. 389. 185. Ibid., pp. 460–569; Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 123–241. 186. Available at (last accessed 14 September 2016). 187. Available at (last accessed 14 September 2016): Lucie-Smith, ‘Author with an Outsider’s View’. 188. See Arditti, Jubilate, Passim. 189. Lucie-Smith, ‘Author with an Outsider’s View’. 190. Available at (last accessed 14 September 2016): Peter Stanford, [Review of] ‘Jubilate by Michael Arditti’. 191. Lucie-Smith, ‘Author with an Outsider’s View’; Arditti, Jubilate, passim. 192. Available at (last accessed 14 September 2016): Arco, ‘Jubilate by Michael Arditti – review’. 193. Ibid. 194. Ibid. 195. Arditti, Jubilate, passim. 196. Available at (last accessed 14 September 2016): Rivka Isaacson, [Review of] ‘Jubilate By Michael Arditti’. 197. Ibid. 198. See, for example, Arditti, Jubilate, pp. 27, 85, 310–11.

notes | 209 199. See, for example, ibid., pp. 27, 131. 200. Ibid., pp. 26–7. 201. Ibid., passim. 202. Stanford, [Review of] ‘Jubilate’. 203. For example, Arditti, Jubilate, p. 27. 204. For example, see ibid., pp. 311, 290, 147. 205. See ibid., pp. 84–5. 206. Ibid., p. 28. 207. Q.38:41–2; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 1226–7. 208. S.XXI is Sūrat al-Anbiyā’, The Chapter of the Prophets, where Job is mentioned in vv. 83–4. 209. In the Old Testament. See Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, pp. 58–61. 210. Yusuf Ali, p. 1227 n. 4200. 211. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 61. 212. Ibid. 213. Ibid. 214. Raªma is better translated as ‘mercy’ rather than, as Yusuf Ali has it, ‘grace’ which pertains more to a Christian register of sacramental theology. 215. Q.38:43; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1227. 216. Q.38:41–2. 217. Q.38:41, 43. 218. Q.38:45. 219. For Ibn Kathīr, see Irwin, ‘Ibn Kathir’, EAL, Vol. 1, p. 341; Laoust, ‘Ibn Kathīr’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 817–18. Laoust (p. 818) has characterised Ibn Kathīr’s tafsīr as ‘essentially a philological work . . . [and] very elementary’ but it is, nonetheless, an important source for the account of the splitting of the moon which is analysed in depth in Chapter Six of this volume. 220. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 180. 221. Q.12:58. 222. Q.6:76–9. 223. Trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1227. 224. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 181. See also al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 189; al-Thaʿlabī, Qi‚a‚, p. 141. 225. Johns, ‘Job’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 51. 226. 2 Kings 5:1–14; trans. NJB, p. 474; Jeffery, ‘Ayyūb’, EI2, Vol. 1, p. 795. 227. Jeffery, ‘Ayyūb’, EI2, Vol. 1 p. 796. See, for example, al–Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 189. Compare al-Nīsābūrī [known as al-Thaʿlabī], Qi‚a‚, p. 141.

210  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 228. Q.19:16–22. See Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Pt. 1, pp. 236–7; Ibn Isªāq, Life, p. 36; Webb, ‘Gabriel’, EQ, Vol. 2, pp. 278–9; Pederson, ‘Djabrā’īl’, EI2, Vol. 2, pp. 362–4. 229. See Abdel Haleem, ‘Water in the Qur’an’, pp. 29–41. 230. See CCC, p. 91 # 405. 231. John 3:5; trans. NJB, p. 1748. 232. See al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, pp. 188–9. 233. Williams, Muhammad and the Supernatural, p. 1. 234. Ibid., p. 208. 235. Mālik ibn Anas, Al-Muwatta, trans. Bewley, p. 12 no. 33; see also Juynboll, Encyclopedia of Canonical Óadīth, p. 288. For the original Arabic, see Mālik ibn Anas, Kitāb al-Muwa††a’, p. 42 no. 29. See also, Guillaume, Traditions, pp. 136–7; Woodward, Book of Miracles, pp. 186, 198; al-Ghazālī, Iªyā’, Vol. 2, p. 384. 236. Al-Bukhārī, Mukhta‚ar Íaªīª, Arabic–English text, ed. and trans. Khan, p. 124, no. 148. 237. Ibid. 238. Ibid., p. 286, no. 552; Burton, Introduction to the Óadīth, p. 99; Woodward, Book of Miracles, pp. 197–8. 239. Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 197; Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 58. 240. Faizer (ed.), Life of Muªammad, p. 288. For the Arabic text see al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, Vol. 2, p. 587. (I am grateful to my doctoral student Ranyh Alatawi for drawing my attention to this account.) 241. Faizer (ed.), Life of Muªammad, p. 289; al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, Vol. 2, p. 588; al-Bukhārī, Mukhta‚ar Íaªīª, p. 774, no. 1637; Burton, Introduction to the Óadīth, p. 98; al-Ghazālī, Iªyā’, Vol. 2, p. 384; Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 186. 242. Q.2:125; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 52–3. 243. Q.2:127; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 53. 244. Q.6:86; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 313. 245. Q.19:54; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 779. 246. Q.21:85. 247. Firestone, ‘Ishmael’, EQ, Vol. 2, p. 564. 248. Ibid. 249. See Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, pp. 108–10; Ibn Kathīr, Stories, pp. 158–62. 250. See al-Bukhārī, Mukhta‚ar Íaªīª, pp. 665–71 # 1415. 251. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 108; Ibn Kathīr, Stories, p. 159.

notes | 211 252. For example, see al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 143; al-Thaʿlabī, Qi‚a‚, p. 72. 253. See above n. 249. The account by Ibn Kathīr may be compared with those of al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, pp. 142–5 and al-Thaʿlabī, Qi‚a‚, pp. 69–75. 254. See above p. 60 and Dictionnaire, p. 562. 255. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 110. 256. Al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 143. 257. Ibid. See also Wensinck, ‘Ismāʿīl’, SEI, pp. 178–9; Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, p. 193, s.v. ‘Ismāʿīl (Ishmael) 1’. 258. Hawting, ‘Disappearance’, p. 44; Watt, ‘ʿAbd al-Mu††alib B. Hāshim’, EI2, Vol. 1, 80; Buhl, ‘ʿAbd al-Mu††alib’, SEI, p. 7; Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, p. 15, s.v. ‘ʿAbd al-Mu††alib ibn Hāshim’. 259. Hawting, ‘Disappearance’, p. 52. 260. Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p.119. 261. Broadhurst, Travels, pp. 140–1; Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p. 118. 262. Broadhurst, Travels, p. 120; Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p. 101. 263. Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p. 101/Broadhurst, Travels, p. 121 cites here the classic ªadīth (mā’ zamzam li-mā shuriba lahu) which lies behind much of the miraculous narrative associated with the water of Zamzam. See Ibn Māja, Íaªīª Sunan, Vol. 2, p. 183 # 3062/2484; Ibn Māja, Sunan Ibn-I-Mājah, Arabic– English version by An‚ārī, Vol. 4, p. 310 # 3062 which notes that this ªadīth is extremely well known but its reliability is disputed with scholars variously holding it to be ‚aªīª, ªasan and even ∂aʿīf. See also Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-Buldān, Vol. 3, p. 148, s.v. ‘zamzam’; Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p. 58; Broadhurst, Travels, pp. 76, 374 n. 50; Ahmad and Ibrahim, The Water of Zamzam, pp. 27–31, 34. 264. Broadhurst, Travels, pp. 120–1; Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p. 101. 265. Broadhurst, Travels, p. 138; Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p. 116. 266. (My emphases) Ibn Ba††ū†a, Riªla, p. 130; trans. Gibb, Travels, Vol. 1, p. 188. The key ªadīth phrase, wa huwa li-mā shuriba lahu, quoted above is explained by H. A. R. Gibb citing the same ªadīth as mentioned by Broadhurst. See Gibb, Travels, Vol. 1, p. 188 n. 3. 267. See above n. 263. 268. One of the tābiʿūn or ‘followers’, that is, of those Companions (‚aªāba) who knew the Prophet personally. See De Vaux, ‘Tābiʿ’, SEI, p. 557. 269. See, for example, Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-Buldān, Vol. 3, p. 148, s.v. ‘zamzam’ (my trans.); Broadhurst, Travels, p. 374 n. 50. 270. See Wensinck, ‘Nīya’, SEI, pp. 449–50. 271. Robson, ‘Abū Dharr’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 114–15.

212  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 272. Muslim, Íaªīª, Vol. 4, pp. 1921–2 # 2473 (Bāb Fa∂ā’il Abī Dharr). See Ahmad and Ibrahim, Water of Zamzam, pp. 32–3. Compare al-Bukhārī, Mukhta‚ar Íaªīª, pp. 692–4 # 1470 for another conversion account of Abū Dharr to Islam. 273. See Ahmad and Ibrahim, Water of Zamzam, pp. 24–6. 274. Ibid., pp. 40–2. 275. Ibid., pp. 42–4. 276. Ibid., p. 43. 277. Moinuddin Ahmed with research by Tariq Hussain (Their source: ; Credit: Al-Islaah Publications): ‘Scientific Facts of the Zamzam Well. A Magnificent Miracle by Allah. [A Research Conducted by a Group of European Scientists]’ (last accessed 9 November 2016 at ). 278. See Q.2:125, 127. 279. Q.76:18. 280. Ahmad and Ibrahim, Water of Zamzam, p. 52. 281. Ibid., p. 4. 282. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 109. 283. Ibid., p. 108. 284. Ibid., p. 110. 285. Ibid., p. 109. See Netton, ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’; see also Meridian International Communications, The Guests of God (videotape). 286. Laurentin, Bernadette, p. 67; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 87; Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 53. 287. See Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, pp. 341, 431, s.vv. ‘Íafā and Marwah’, ‘Zamzam’. 288. See Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 109. 289. Laurentin, Bernadette, pp. 44, 45–79 and passim. 290. Wilson, Emile Zola, p. 124. 291. Ibid. 292. See ibid., pp. 24–68 for a general survey. 293. See ibid., pp. 124–5; Schom, Emile Zola, pp. 152–60; Noiray, ‘Preface’ to Zola, Lourdes, pp. 8, 11–12. 294. Arditti, Jubilate, p. 28.

notes | 213 Notes to Chapter 4 1. Waugh, ‘Blood and Blood Clot’, EQ, Vol. 1, p. 237. 2. See CCC, pp. 299, 307 ## 1333, 1367. See also Ott, Fundamentals, pp. 379–83. 3. See Q.96:2. 4. Ibid. 5. See Q.4:157; Lawson, Crucifixion and the Qur’an; Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, pp. 105–21. 6. For Lanciano, see Chapter Two; for the association of Lanciano with Longinus and his lance, see Sammaciccia, Eucharistic Miracle, p. 20. 7. See Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: From the Baptism, p. 251. 8. John 2:1–10; trans. NJB, pp. 1746–7. See also CCC, p. 361 # 1613. 9. Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: From the Baptism, p. 250. 10. Ibid. 11. Ibid. 12. Ibid., pp. 253–4. See also Perkins, ‘The Gospel According to John’, p. 954. 13. Perkins, ‘The Gospel According to John’, p. 954. 14. See Matthew 27:54; Mark 15:39; Luke 23:47. 15. John 19:34. See also Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week, pp. 224–6; Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 318 n. 3, 319 n. 16. 16. Sammaciccia, Eucharistic Miracle, p. 20; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 3; Bynum, Christian Materiality, pp. 248–9. 17. Bynum, Christian Materiality, pp. 248–9; Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 170–1. 18. John 19:34; trans. NJB, p. 1787. 19. Bynum, Christian Materiality, pp. 248–9. 20. Zechariah 12:10; trans. NJB, p. 1588; Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week, p. 219. 21. John 19:37; Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week, p. 219. 22. Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week, p. 226. See Bynum, Wonderful Blood, p. 18. 23. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 181–2. 24. Q.96:1–2; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1761 (my emphases). 25. Q.23:14; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 876. 26. Sahin, ‘ʿAlaq’, pp. 27–8; Yahya, Allah’s Miracles in the Qur’an, pp. 152–63. 27. Sahin, ‘ʿAlaq’, pp. 27–8 citing Bucaille, The Bible, The Qur’an and Science. 28. Douglas, Purity and Danger, p. 121. 29. See ibid., pp. 61–2.

214  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 30. See Leviticus 12:1–7, 15:19–33. 31. See Douglas, Purity and Danger, pp. 61–2. 32. See Q.2:222. 33. Al-Bukhārī, Mukhta‚ar Íaªiª, p. 144 # 210. See also Bousquet, ‘Óay∂’, EI2, Vol. 3, p. 315. 34. Al-Bukhārī, Mukhta‚ar Íaªiª, p. 142 # 203. See also Ibn Baz, Hajj, ʿUmrah and Ziyarah, pp. 39–40. 35. Q.2:30; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 24. 36. See Cooper (trans), Commentary, pp. 209, 212. 37. Ibid., p. 219. 38. Ibid., pp. 221, 222. 39. See Eliade, Sacred and the Profane. 40. Vauchez, ‘Le Miracle’, pp. 45–6. 41. Raju, Via Francigena 2, p. 264. 42. Schütz, Great Cathedrals, p. 384. 43. Ibid. 44. Ibid. 45. Ibid., pp. 17, 295; see also pp. 33, 264. 46. Ibid., p. 264. 47. Ibid. 48. Ibid., p. 265. 49. See Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, p. 187. 50. Ibid.; Raju, Via Francigena 2, p. 265; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 64; Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37; Schütz, Great Cathedrals, p. 384. 51. Vauchez, ‘Le Miracle’, p. 46; Raju, Via Francigena 2, p. 265; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 64; Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, p. 187; Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37. 52. Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, p. 187. 53. Ibid. 54. Raju, Via Francigena 2, p. 265. 55. Marden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7. 56. Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, p. 187. 57. Ibid., pp. 187–8; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 65. 58. Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 64. 59. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37; Shütz, Great Cathedrals, p. 384. 60. See Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37; Shütz, Great Cathedrals, p. 384. See also Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 64.

notes | 215 61. Schütz, Great Cathedrals, p. 384. 62. Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 64. For Pope Urban IV see Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes, pp. 194–6. 63. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37. 64. Raju, Via Francigena 2, p. 265. 65. Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, p. 187; Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 64. 66. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 64. 67. Raju, Via Francigena 2, p. 265; Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, p. 65. 68. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37. For a general architectural survey of Orvieto Cathedral, with magnificent colour photographs, see Schütz, Great Cathedrals, pp. 384–93. 69. Mattioni, Cathedral of Orvieto, p. 6. For photographs of the Cappella del SS. Corporale, see pp. 39–45. (The sixty-four photographs are black and white and of poor quality.) 70. Schütz, Great Cathedrals, p. 384. 71. For Pope Nicholas IV, see Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes, pp. 205–6. 72. Schütz, Great Cathedrals, p. 384. 73. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37. 74. Ibid., p. 36. 75. Allegri, ‘Signs from God’, p. 37; Marsden, ‘Eucharistic Miracle’, p. 7; Cruz, Eucharistic Miracles, pp. 64–5; Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes, p. 196. 76. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 340 n. 62. 77. Bynum, Christan Materiality; Bynum, Holy Feast; Bynum, Wonderful Blood. 78. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, p. 63. 79. Ibid., pp. 181–2. 80. Ibid. 81. Ibid. 82. Ibid., p. 63. 83. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p.259; Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 48, 80–1, 241. 84. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 63, 69, 149; Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 144; Bynum, Holy Feast, p. 64. 85. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, p. 68. 86. Ibid., p. 59. 87. Ibid., p. 149.

216  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 88. Ihnat, Mother of Mercy, p. 182 and passim. 89. Ibid., pp. 14, 166, 186. 90. Ibid., pp. 148–9. 91. Ibid., p. 149. See Livius, Blessed Virgin, pp. 322–3. 92. CCC, p. 346 # 1548. 93. Selman, Sacraments, p. 167. 94. Ibid., p. 166. See also Martos, Doors to the Sacred, p. 502. 95. See Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 113. 96. See Castelli, Padre Pio. 97. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, p. 129; Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 116; Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 30. 98. Butler, Lives, Vol. 3, p. 1200. 99. Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 167. 100. Butler, Lives, Vol. 3, p. 1207; Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 167; Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 113; St Bonaventure (1217–74), ‘Life of St Francis’ in Cousins (trans), Bonaventure, p. 305; Brother Thomas of Celano, St Francis of Assisi, para. 84. 101. Butler, Lives, Vol. 3, p. 1208, (my emphases) following the account of St Bonaventure; Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 167, following the account of Thomas of Celano, Francis’ first biographer. For the original Latin texts, see Bonaventure, ‘Life of St. Francis’, p. 306 and Thomas of Celano, St. Francis of Assisi, paras 94–5. 102. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 116. 103. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, p. 156. 104. Jackson, Marvellous to Behold, p. 75. 105. Ibid. 106. Ibid., p. 71. 107. Ibid. 108. Barlow, Thomas Becket, p. 3. 109. Woodward, Book of Miracles, p. 166. 110. Barlow, Thomas Becket, pp. 310–11. 111. Ibid., p. 312. 112. Ibid., p. 311. 113. Ibid., p. 334. 114. Ibid., p. 335. 115. Ibid. 116. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 257; Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 144, 169.

notes | 217 117. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 21; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 35–41; Butler, Lives, Vol. 3, pp. 1124–5, s.v. ‘St. Januarius’. 118. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 35–6. 119. Ibid., p. 36; Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 21. 120. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 36. 121. Ibid., pp. 38–40. 122. Ibid., p. 39. 123. Ibid., p. 37. 124. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 159. 125. Baronio Raynaldus, Annales ecclesiastici 1198–1534, Vol. 19, No. 23, cited in Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 347 n. 107. 126. Trans. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 159. See also Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 53, 87. 127. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 92–3. 128. See Genesis 40–1; Q.12, esp. vv. 36–41, 43–9. See Netton, ‘Towards a Modern Tafsīr’, p. 78. 129. Bynum, Wonderful Blood, p. 78. 130. See ibid., pp. 249–58, 144, 149; Bynum, Christian Materiality, pp. 139–40, 144. 131. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 38. 132. Maunder, ‘No More Secrets’, p. 7; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, passim. 133. For coverage of the year 1917, see, inter alia, Grant and Overy, World War 1, esp. pp. 204–61; Gilbert, First World War, Vol. 2, esp. pp. 371–483. 134. Anon., ‘A New Saint?’, p. 10. 135. See Bynum, Wonderful Blood, pp. 181–2. 136. Ibid., p. 181. 137. Ibid., pp. 33, 37, 57–8, 391 (s.v. ‘Frauds (alleged)’). 138. See Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 90–2. 139. Ibid., p. 91. 140. Ibid. 141. See, for example, Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, pp. 368–70. 142. For this important Pope, who bears the title ‘The Great’, see Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes, pp. 65–8; Duffy, Saints and Sinners, pp. 65–77; Duffy, Ten Popes who Shook the World, pp. 49–57. 143. Bartlett, Why Can the Dead?, pp. 370–1. 144. Ibid., p. 370.

218  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 145. Duffy, Saints and Sinners, p. 78. 146. Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes, p. 66. For Pelagius 11, see ibid., p. 65 and Duffy, Saints and Sinners, pp. 67–8, 71. 147. Duffy, Saints and Sinners, p. 68 (my emphases). See also Duffy, Ten Popes who Shook the World, p. 55: Gregory described himself as servus servorum Dei (Servant of the Servants of God). 148. Duffy, Saints and Sinners, p. 68. 149. Ibid. 150. Ibid. 151. Bynum, Christian Materiality, p. 15. 152. Ibid. 153. Duffy, Saints and Sinners, p. 198. 154. Ibid. 155. MacCulloch, Reformation, pp. 81–2. See also, for the ‘Donation of Constantine’, MacCulloch, History of Christianity, pp. 351, 579. 156. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 40. 157. Butler, Lives, Vol. 3, p. 1125. The same caution is applied by the Church to apparitions. See Dictionnaire, pp. 12, 20–1. 158. For varying discussions of ‘presence’ and ‘immanence’, see Orji, ‘Hermeneutical Clarification’, pp. 653–75; Lonergan, Method in Theology, pp. 7–8, 109–11. 159. See Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 40. 160. Q.41:53; trans. Yusuf Ali, pp. 1302–3. 161. Radtke, ‘Sahl al-Tustarī’, EAL, Vol. 2, p. 676. 162. Ibid. 163. See al-Hujwīrī, Kashf, p. 381; Kashf – Nicholson (trans.), p. 296. 164. Massignon, ‘Sahl al-Tustarī’, SEI, p. 488. 165. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 56. 166. Ibid. 167. Ibid. 168. Ibid., p. 56. See Massignon, ‘Sahl al-Tustarī’, SEI, p. 789. 169. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, p. 86. 170. Green, Sufism, p. 34. 171. Radtke, ‘Sahl al-Tustarī’, EAL, Vol. 2, p. 676; Massignon, ‘Sahl al-Tustarī’, SEI, pp. 488–9. 172. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, p. 133. 173. Ibid., p. 132.

notes | 219 174. Al-Hujwīrī, Kashf; Kashf – Nicholson (trans). The name of the Russian editor of the Persian text has been variously transliterated as Zhouski, Zukovsky and Žukovskij. 175. Kashf – Nicholson (trans.), p. 195. For the original Persian text, see al-Hujwīrī, Kashf, p. 245. See also Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 169; Nicholson, Mystics of Islam, p. 46. 176. Al-Hujwīrī, Kashf, pp. 378–86; Kashf – Nicholson (trans.), pp. 294–9. 177. Matthew 3:2; trans. NJB, p. 1612. 178. Luke 15:7; trans. NJB, p. 1715. 179. Luke 22:44; trans. NJB, p. 1727. 180. Patella, Gospel According to Luke, p. 143. Other stigmatics have exhibited different phenomena. An example was Marthe Robin (1902–81) who claimed to take no food but the Eucharist for more than fifty years: see Teague, ‘Suffering with Jesus’, pp. 28–9. 181. See above n. 175. 182. Nicholson, Mystics of Islam, p. 46. 183. Smith, Palmer, Sherr and Ware, Philokalia, pp. 104–5. 184. Ibid., pp. IX, 164–89. 185. See Main, The Way of Unknowing. 186. Kashf – Nicholson (trans.), p. 151; al-Hujwīrī, Kashf, p. 190; Mojaddedi, ‘Óallāj’, pp. 589–92. 187. Ibid. 188. Ibid. 189. See, for example, Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, p. 145 s.v. ‘Al-Óallāj, Óusayn ibn Man‚ūr’; Green, Sufism, p. 39; Massignon, ‘Al-Óallāj’, p. 346; Mason, ‘Óallāj and the Baghdad School of Sufism’, p. 71. 190. Mason, ‘Óallāj and the Baghdad School of Sufism’, p. 71. 191. Green, Sufism, p. 39. 192. Ibid., pp. 39–40. For his life, death and significance, see Mason, Al-Hallaj, pp. 1–52 and passim; Mason, ‘Óallāj and the Baghdad School of Sufism’, pp. 64–81; Massignon [Gardet], ‘Al-Óallādj’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 99–104; Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, pp. 72–82; Massignon, ‘Al-Óallāj’, pp. 346–9. However, one of the most extensive and important examinations of al-Óallāj remains Massignon’s 4 vol. La Passion de Óusayn ibn Man‚ūr Óallāj, which has been characterised as ‘one of the finest works of comparative mysticism of the century’ (Anawati, ‘Philosophy, Theology and Mysticism’, p. 371). It was translated by Herbert Mason under the title of The Passion of al-Óallāj.

220  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 193. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 66. See also Mojaddedi, ‘Óallāj’, pp. 589–92. 194. I have rendered ˝awāsīn with a singular translation. Literally the word means ˝ā’ Sīns in the plural. Massignon draws our attention to the fact that these are two of the mysterious letters of the Qur’ān which appear at the beginning of Q.26 (‫)طسم‬, Q.27 (‫ )طس‬and Q.28 (‫)طسم‬: see Massignon, Kitâb al-Tawâsîn, p. 1. I am grateful to my colleague in the Institute of Arab and Islamic Studies, University of Exeter, Dr Lenny Lewisohn, for helping me to unravel the complexities of this word. See also Seale, ‘The Mysterious Letters of the Qur’an’, pp. 26–46 esp. p. 33. 195. Trans. Arberry, Sufism, p. 60. For the original text, see Massignon, Kitâb alTawâsîn, pp. 51–2. See also, Mojaddedi, ‘Óallāj’, pp. 589–92. 196. Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, pp. 75, 64–5. 197. Ibid., p. 75. 198. Q.22:6. 199. Yusuf Ali, p. 852. 200. Nasr (ed.), Study Quran, p. 832 which also admits the possibility of Yusuf Ali’s rendition above. Arberry (The Koran Interpreted, Vol. 2, p. 28) translates as ‘The Truth’ as does Abdel Haleem (The Qur’an, p. 209). 201. Cooper, ‘Al-Óallāj’, EAL, Vol. 1, p. 266. 202. Ibid. For a full coverage of the sha†aªāt, see Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism. 203. Mojaddedi, ‘Óallāj’, pp. 589–92. 204. Ernst, Words of Ecstasy in Sufism, pp. 10–11, 44–5. 205. See Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, pp. 81–2. 206. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 65; Kimber ‘Ibn al-Nadīm’, EAL, Vol. 1, pp. 355–6; Fück, ‘Ibn al-Nadīm’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 895–6. 207. Dodge (trans.), Fihrist, Vol. 1, p. 474; Ibn al-Nadīm, Kitāb al-Fihrist, Vol. 1:2, pp. 675–6. 208. Schimmel, Mystical Dimensions of Islam, p. 65. 209. See Ernst, Words of Ecstasy, p. 110. 210. Arberry, Sufism, p. 59. 211. See Ernst, Words of Ecstasy, pp. 108–109; Knysh, Islamic Mysticism, p. 77; Green, Sufism, p. 40; Massignon [Gardet], ‘Al-Óallādj’, EI2 , Vol. 3, p. 102. 212. (My emphases) Kashf – Nicholson (trans.), p. 150; al-Hujwīrī, Kashf, pp. 189–90. 213. See Ritter, ‘ʿA††ār’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 752–5 for this dating and a general survey

notes | 221 of his life and work. No precise death date is possible: Nott (trans.), Conference, p. 137; Schimmel, ‘Foreword’ to Boyle (trans.), Ilāhī Nāma, p. XII. 214. Mojaddedi, ‘Óallāj’, pp. 589–92. 215. ʿA††ār, Ilāhi Nāma, trans. Boyle, p. 103. For the original Persian see ʿA††ār, Ilāhi Nāma, p. 86. Compare ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 517: trans. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, p. 270. 216. See Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics. Despite Arberry’s choice of translation of awliyā’ as ‘saints’, I prefer the more accurate Islamic register of ‘friends of God’ in view of the Christian associations of the word ‘saint’. 217. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, p. 266; ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 514. 218. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, p. 267; ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 514. 219. Luke 23:34. 220. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, pp. 269–70 (the quotation is from p. 270); ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 517; Arberry, Sufism, p. 60; Ernst, Words of Ecstasy, p. 69. 221. Trans. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, pp. 270–1; ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 517 (my emphases). 222. See CCC, pp. 140–1 # 616. See Brümmer, Atonement; Ray, Atonement Muddle. 223. Arberry, Sufism, p. 60. 224. CCC, pp. 306–7 ## 1362–7. 225. See Anver and Chelkowski, ‘From Rūmī’s Mathnawī to the Popular Stage’, p. 188; Strothmann, ‘Taʿziyya’, SEI, pp. 590–1. For the taʿziya with particular reference to al-Óusayn, see Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, pp. 148–80, 251–3; Halm, Shiʿism, pp. 139–42. 226. Anver and Chelkowski, ‘From Rūmī’s Mathnawī to the Popular Stage’, p. 192. 227. Ibid., p. 193. 228. Ibid., pp. 193–4. 229. Ibid., p. 194. At least one Western scholar has immortalised the last days of al-Óallāj. See Mason, The Death of al-Óallāj. Mojaddedi, ‘Óallāj, Abu ’l-Mog¯it ¯ Óosayn’, pp. 589–92, notes: ‘The attention given to [al–Óallāj] by modern Western scholars seems to have helped inspire a revival of interest in the story of Óallāj’s life and his poetry among Arab authors too.’ He cites the play by Íalāª ʿAbd al-Íabūr entitled Ma’sat al-Óallāj, trans. by K. I. Semaan under the title Murder in Baghdad. 230. Matthew 27:51–4; trans. NJB, p. 1658. In Mark 15:39 it is just the centurion who makes this transition to belief. Luke 23:47 records him as giving praise to God and stating ‘Truly, this was an upright man’ (trans. NJB, p. 1730). Other

222  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us texts translate the centurion as saying: ‘This man was innocent beyond doubt’ (see Patella, Gospel According to Luke, p. 151). See also Ratzinger/Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week, p. 224. 231. Sabin, Gospel According to Mark, p. 147. 232. ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 517. 233. Ibid. 234. Ibid. 235. Trans. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, p. 271; ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 517. 236. Trans. Arberry, Muslim Saints and Mystics, p. 268; ʿA††ār, Tadhkirat, p. 515. 237. Ibid. 238. St John Chrysostom, Cult of the Saints, pp. 91–2. For the original text with facing Greek and Latin pages, see Migne (ed.), Patrologia Cursus Completus: Series Graeca: S. Joannes Chrysostomus, Tomi Secundi, Pars Posterior, Vol. 50, pp. 571–2. 239. ‘Introduction’ in St John Chrysostom, Cult of the Saints, p. 29. 240. CCC. p. 307 ## 1365–6. 241. Gell, ‘Closure and Multiplication’, p. 293. (Gell’s essay here is an abridged version of an essay by the same title which originally appeared in de Copper and Iteanu (eds), Cosmos and Society in Oceania, pp. 21–56. 242. Gell, ‘Closure and Multiplication’, p. 293. 243. For Karbalā’, see Momen, Introduction to Shiʿi Islam, pp. 28–33. See also Vaglieri, ‘Al-Óusayn’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 607–15; Halm, Shiʿism, pp. 13–16; Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, pp. 97–139. 244. Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, p. 8. 245. Momen, Introduction to Shiʿi Islam, p. 33. 246. Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, p. 220, s.v. ‘Kerbala’. 247. Vaglieri, ‘Al-Óusayn’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 612–13. 248. Matthew 27:51–4; Mark 15:38; Luke 23:44–5. 249. Compare ibid. 250. See Matthew 27:57–61; Mark 15:42–7; Luke 23: 50–6; John 19:38–42. 251. See Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, p. 132. 252. Ibid., pp. 132–3. 253. Ibid., p. 133. 254. Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, p. 23. Compare Brümmer, Atonement, passim. 255. Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, p. 15. 256. Ibid. 257. Ibid.

notes | 223 258. Ibid., p. 23. 259. Ibid. 260. Halm, Shiʿism, p. 137. 261. Ibid., referencing Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, p. 199 who cites (p. 282 n.6) Corbin’s article entitled ‘De la philosophie prophétique en Islam Shīʿite’, pp. 49–116. 262. Halm, Shiʿism, p. 137. 263. Ibid. Notes to Chapter 5 1. George, ‘Introduction’ to [reprint of] Layard, Discoveries, p. XV. 2. Ibid., p. XIX; George (trans.), ‘Introduction’ to George, (trans.), Epic of Gilgemash, p. XXI (hereafter referred to simply as Gilgamesh). 3. George, ‘Introduction’ to Layard, Discoveries, p. XIX. 4. Ibid. 5. Ibid; George, ‘Introduction’ to Gilgamesh, p. IX. For a popular account of the story of Gilgamesh, shorn of scholarly apparatus and line breaks, see Sandars, ‘The Epic of Gilgamesh’ in Storm, Myths and Legends, pp. 62–99 and Sandars, Appendix: ‘The Epic of Gilgamesh: Note on the Text’, pp. 599–603. 6. George, ‘Introduction’ to Gilgamesh, p. XXII. 7. Ibid., p. XI. 8. Winterson, Christmas Days, p. 291 (my emphases). 9. Keller, Bible as History, p. 45 10. Ibid. 11. See John, Meaning in the Miracles, passim. 12. Ibid., p. 5. 13. Ibid. 14. George, ‘Glossary of Proper Names’, Gilgamesh, p. 204. 15. Ibid., p. 207. 16. Ibid. 17. Ibid. 18. Ibid., p. 204. 19. Gilgamesh, p. 86. 20. Ibid., p. 87. 21. Ibid, pp. 88–9. 22. Ibid., p. 89. 23. Ibid., pp. 89–91.

224  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 24. Ibid., p. 90. 25. Ibid., p. 91. 26. Ibid. 27. Ibid., p. 92. 28. Ibid. 29. Ibid., pp. 92–3. 30. Ibid., p. 93. 31. Ibid., pp. 93–8, esp. p. 95. 32. Ibid., p. 86. 33. Ibid. 34. Ibid., p. 203 (‘Glossary of Proper Names’). 35. Ibid., pp. 98, 204 (‘Glossary of Proper Names’). 36. Ibid., p. 155. 37. Ibid., p. 194. 38. Cook, Genesis, p. 27. See Genesis 7:21. 39. Genesis 9:28–9. 40. Genesis 6:14. 41. Gilgamesh, p. 88. 42. Q.54:13; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1456. 43. See Q.11:38. 44. Q.29:15; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1032 who nonetheless prefers the translation of safīna as ‘ark’ as do Abdel Haleem (Qur’an), Arberry (Koran Interpreted) and Khalidi (Qur’an). Nasr (Study Quran) prefers ‘ship’. 45. Q.29:15. See Yusuf Ali, p. 1456 n. 5140. 46. See Ikhwān al-Íafā’, Rasā’il, Vol. 4, p. 18; Traboulsi et al. (eds and trans.), Epistles: On Companionship and Belief, pp. 80 (English trans.), 40 (Arabic text). See also Netton, Muslim Neoplatonists, esp. pp. 105–8. 47. Gilgamesh, p. 87 48. See Clifford and Murphy, ‘Genesis’ in NJBC, p. 14 where God’s ‘regret’ is placed in inverted commas. The NJB, p. 25, notes and observes that ‘God’s ‘regret’ is a human way of expressing the fact that tolerance of sin is incompatible with his sanctity’. 49. Genesis 6:7; trans. NJB, p. 24. 50. Q.71:1–28, esp. vv. 21–3. 51. Gilgamesh, p. 90. 52. See Clifford and Murphy, ‘Genesis’ in NJBC, pp. 15–16. 53. Genesis 6:13; trans. NJB, p. 24.

notes | 225 54. Q.71:26 55. Q.7:64; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 358. 56. Gilgamesh, p. 87; Genesis 7:1; Q.7:64; 11:37, 40–1. 57. Gilgamesh, p. 88; Genesis 6:14–16; Q.11:37. 58. Genesis 6:14–16. 59. Q.11:37; see trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 523. 60. Gilgamesh, p. 87. 61. Ibid. 62. Ibid., p. 88. 63. See Genesis 6:18–7:16. 64. See, for example, Q.11:40. 65. See Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, p. 31. 66. Ibid., pp. 31, 261 n. 27. 67. Ibid., p. 32. 68. Gilgamesh, pp. 90–1. 69. Genesis 7:11–12. 70. For example, see Q.26:120, 37:82. 71. Q.54:12; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1456. 72. Gilgamesh, pp. 91–2; Genesis 8:6–12. 73. Gilgamesh, p. 92; Genesis 8:20–1. 74. Al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 92; Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 60. 75. Al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 92. 76. Ibid. 77. Ibid., p. 98. 78. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, pp. 92–3. 79. Al-Masʿūdī, Murūj al-Dhahab, Vol.1:1, p. 51. 80. Al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 92. 81. Ibid., p. 95. 82. Ibid., pp. 95–6. 83. Ibid., p. 96. 84. Ibid., pp. 57–8. 85. Saggs, Babylonians, p. 310. 86. See Bachelard, Formation of the Scientific Mind, p.237; Foucault, Order of Things, esp. pp. 55, 235, 401, 422. 87. See Cook, Genesis, p. 27. 88. See Keller, Bible as History, p. 45; Clifford and Murphy, ‘Genesis’ in NJBC, p. 15; Robertson, About Atlantis, p. 17; Mifsud et al., Malta, pp. 36–7. See also

226  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Cline, From Eden to Exile, pp. 17, 21, 27, 34–5; Shorter, Towards a Theology of Inculturation, p. 107. 89. George, ‘Introduction’ to Gilgamesh, p. XIX. 90. Cline, From Eden to Exile, p. 28; Porter, Illustrated Guide, p. 33. 91. Ovid, Metamorphoses, trans. Raeburn, pp. 17–22: Bk 1 lines 253–350. For the original Greek text, see Ovid, Metamorphoses Books I–VIII, [dual Greek– English edn], trans. Miller, pp. 20–6: Bk 1 lines 253–350. 92. See Hornblower and Spawforth (eds), Oxford Classical Dictionary, p. 460, s.v. ‘Deucalion’. For a popular retelling of this Greek flood story, see ‘Deucalion’s Flood’ in Graves, Greek Myths, Vol. 1, pp. 136–8. 93. Graves, Greek Myths, Vol. 1, p. 138. 94. Saggs, Babylonians, p. 350; see also p. 310; Gilgamesh, p. 4. 95. George, ‘Glossary of Proper Names’ in Gilgamesh, p. 204; Keller, Bible as History, p. 52; Gilgamesh, p. 4. 96. Saggs, Babylonians, p.402; Cook, Genesis, p. 6; Rogerson, Introduction, pp. 32, 29–31; Coogan, Old Testament, pp. 18, 21, 37–8. 97. Keller, Bible as History, p. 59 suggests ‘the Fertile Crescent’. 98. Saggs, Babylonians, p. 402. 99. See pp. 139–40. 100. Ramage, Atlantis, pp. 34 (Ramage: ‘Perspectives Ancient and Modern’), 88, 98 (Fredericks: ‘Plato’s Atlantis: a Mythologist Looks at Myth’). 101. See Mifsud et al., Malta, esp. pp. 48–60 and the website Atlantipedia, available at (last accessed 1 March 2018). This identification is rejected by Robertson, About Atlantis, p. 29; Ramage, Atlantis, p. 37 (Ramage: ‘Perspectives Ancient and Modern’), 142 (Vitaliano: ‘Atlantis from the Geologic Point of View’). 102. See Johansen, ‘Introduction’ to Lee and Johansen (trans., annot., and Introd.), Plato: Timaeus and Critias, pp. IX, XIII–XIV, XXVII–XXX; Ramage, Atlantis, esp. pp. 23, 26, 29 (Ramage: ‘Perspectives Ancient and Modern’), 105 (Fears: ‘Atlantis and the Minoan Thalassocracy’); Robertson, About Atlantis, p. 14; Mifsud et al., Malta, p. 10. 103. Johansen, ‘Introduction’, p. XXIX. 104. Hornblower and Spawforth (eds), Oxford Classical Dictionary, pp. 208, s.v. ‘Atlantis’; Ramage, Atlantis, pp. 39–41 (Ramage: ‘Perspectives Ancient and Modern’), 67–73 (Luce: ‘Sources and Literary Form of Plato’s Atlantis Narrative’). 105. Hornblower and Spawforth (eds), Oxford Classical Dictionary, pp. 208,

notes | 227 s.v. ‘Atlantis’; Ramage, Atlantis, pp. 39–41 (Ramage: ‘Perspectives Ancient and Modern’), 67–73 (Luce: ‘Sources and Literary Form of Plato’s Atlantis Narrative’). See Plato, Timaeus 25c–d in Bury (trans), Plato: Timaeus, Critias, Cleitophon, Menexenus, Epistles, [dual Greek–English edn], pp. 42 (Greek text), 43 (English trans.); Lee and Johansen (trans.), Timaeus 25c–d in Timaeus and Critias, p. 16. 106. Lee and Johansen (trans.), Timaeus 25d in Lee and Johansen (trans.), Timaeus and Critias, p. 16. The destruction of Atlantis is also covered by Plato in his Critias Dialogue: Critias 108e in Bury (trans), Plato: Timaeus, Critias . . ., pp. 264 (Greek text), 265 (English trans.); Lee and Johansen (trans.), Critias 108e in Lee and Johansen (trans.), Timaeus and Critias, p. 97. 107. Mifsud et al., Malta, p. 12. 108. NJB, p. 25 note c. 109. See Robertson, About Atlantis, p. 27. 110. Ibid., p. 55. 111. See Stoneman et al. (eds), Alexander Romance, passim. See also Renard, ‘Alexander’, EQ, Vol. 1, pp. 61–2; Anon, ‘Al-Iskandar’, SEI, pp. 175–6; Abel, ‘Iskandar Nāma’, EI2, Vol. 4, p. 128; Stoneman (trans.), Greek Alexander Romance, esp. pp. 119–21: Bk 2:39. 112. See Genesis 6:9. 113. See Gilgamesh, p. 52; Genesis 8:20–1. 114. Porter, Illustrated Guide, p. 122. 115. Genesis 8:21; trans. NJB, p. 26. 116. For example, Genesis 6:13, 17; Q.2:284. 117. Cook, Genesis, p. 25. Gilgamesh, p. 90. 118. John, Meaning in the Miracles, p. 3. 119. Ibid., p. 79. See Marshall, ‘Punishment Stories’, EQ, Vol. 4, pp. 318–22. 120. Though many pious enthusiasts, for example in the Philippines, would like it, the actual title of Mary as Co-Redemptrix has not been conferred on her formally and dogmatically by the Catholic Church: see Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 13, 109, 114–21; de la Cruz, Mother Figured, pp. 149, 211, 267 n. 3. 121. Hawting, ‘Kaʿba’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 78. 122. Exodus 25:16; trans. NJB, p. 112; see also Exodus 25:8–22, 37:1–9. 123. Exodus 25:10. 124. Q.2:248; see Firestone, ‘Shekhinah’, EQ, Vol. 4, p. 590. 125. Ibid.

228  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 126. Wehr, Dictionary, p. 418, s.v. ‘sakīna’. 127. However, Firestone notes that if sakīna is indeed derived here (Q.2:248) from the Hebrew and Arabic word shekhīnā, meaning a ‘divine “indwelling”’, then there are problems in trying to fit the definition to other occurences of the word sakīna in the Qur’an (see his article ‘Shekhinah’, EQ, Vol. 4, pp. 589–90). 128. Castelot and Cody, ‘Religious Institutions of Israel’, NJBC, p. 1261. 129. Ray, ‘Mary, the Ark of the New Covenant’, Catholic Answers Live, October 2005, available at (last accessed 3 April 2017). 130. See Livius, Blessed Virgin, esp. pp. 74–7, 474, Index, s.v. ‘The Ark’. 131. Bowden and Attwater, Miniature Lives, pp. 273–4; Daix, Dictionnaire des Saints, pp. 130–1; Butler, Lives, Vol. 2, pp. 759–66. 132. Daix, Dictionnaire des Saints, p. 130. 133. Livius, Blessed Virgin, p. 74. 134. Bowden and Attwater, Miniature Lives, pp. 554–5; Daix, Dictionnaire des Saints, pp. 58–9; Butler, Lives, Vol. 4, pp. 1530–58. 135. Livius, Blessed Virgin, p. 77 and for primary sources. 136. Ibid., p. 74. 137. Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, pp. 11–12, 32. 138. Ibid; Luke 1:35, NJB, trans. p.1687; Exodus 40:34, NJB, trans., p. 133. 139. CCC, p. 570 # 2676; Revelation 21:3. 140. Revelation 11:19–12:1, NJB, trans., p. 2040; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 16. 141. Ray, ‘Mary, The Ark of the New Covenant’, Catholic Answers Live. 142. See Collins, ‘ The Apocalypse (Revelation)’, NJBC, p. 1008; see also NJB, p. 2041 note j. 143. See Cory, Book of Revelation, p. 56. 144. See ‘Litany of the Blessed Virgin’ in Dukes, Daily Missal, p. 51; Liber Usualis, pp. 1858, 1860; Denis, Reign of Jesus Through Mary, p. 312. 145. Family Publications, Walsingham Prayer Book, p. 56; Catholic Westminster Hymnal, p. 88. 146. Walsingham Prayer Book, p. 33. 147. Novena, p. 14. 148. See Revelation 12:1. 149. Walsingham Prayer Book, p. 5; see Gillett, Walsingham; Dickinson, Shrine; Janes and Waller (eds), Walsingham in Literature; Waller, Walsingham; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham; Stephenson, Walsingham Way; Baker, Walsingham

notes | 229 Abbey. Fieldwork in Walsingham was undertaken by the Ian Richard Netton in 2014, 2015, 2016 and 2017. See DVDs The Story of Walsingham (2011) and Richeldis de Faverches (2012). 150. Novena, p. 1. 151. Walsingham Prayer Book, pp. 15, 45, 63. 152. Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 19. 153. The Ballad is printed in full, in its original language, in (1) Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 74–7; (2) Dickinson, Shrine, pp. 125–30; and (3) rendered into modern English in Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, pp. 73–7. In what follows, references to this Ballad will be, respectively, to the abbreviated forms Pynson/ Gillett, Pynson/Dickinson and Pynson/Rayne-Davis. 154. Pynson/Gillett, p. 77; Pynson/Dickinson, p. 129. 155. Singer, ‘Walsingham’s Local Genius’, p. 23. 156. Ibid., and pp. 23–34, esp. pp. 29–30. 157. Ibid., p. 30 158. Ibid., p. 33 and passim. 159. See Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 26–36; Waller, Walsingham, p. 4. 160. Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 31–2; Dickinson, Shrine, pp. 41–2; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 33; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, p. 43; Singer, ‘Walsingham’s Local Genius’, p. 27. The visit is recorded in the historical fiction of Philippa Gregory, The White Princess, pp. 194–5. 161. See Gillett, Walsingham, p. 9; Dickinson, Shrine, pp. 42–3; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, pp. 33–4; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, pp. 43–4; Singer, ‘Walsingham’s Local Genius’, p. 27; Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 11. 162. Dickinson, Shrine, p. 43; see Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 34; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, pp. 33–4; Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 11. 163. See Waller, Walsingham, pp. 132–50 and p. 132 n. 1 for bibliographical details of this novel and my Bibliography. For another fictional reference to Henry VIII’s visit to Walsingham, see Philippa Gregory, The King’s Curse, p. 116. 164. Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 41–52; Waller, Walsingham, pp. 65–85; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, pp. 47–9. Dickinson, Shrine, p. 47 gives the dates of his visit as 1512 and 1514. See also ibid., pp. 100–1 for Erasmus’ description of the interior of the shrine. For a survey and analysis of the life of Erasmus, see MacCulloch, Reformation, pp. 97–105. See also Duffy, Reformation Divided, pp. 19–49. 165. The prayer is recorded in Gillett, Walsingham, p. 44; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, pp. 21–2, 85; Walsingham Prayer Book, p. 9.

230  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 166. See Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 21; Waller, Walsingham, pp. 65–85 esp. pp. 76–7; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, p. 49. See also Dickinson, Shrine, pp. 55–7. 167. Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 5; Janes and Waller, ‘Introduction’ to Janes and Waller (eds.), Walsingham in Literature, p. 4. 168. Waller, Walsingham, p. 10. 169. Ibid. 170. Ibid. 171. Ibid., p. 11. 172. See Gillett, Walsingham, p. 1; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 15; Waller, Walsingham, p. 1; Janes and Waller, ‘Introduction’, pp. 5, 6; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, pp. 21–2; Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 8. 173. Pynson/Gillett, p. 75; Pynson/Dickinson, p. 126. 174. Pynson/Gillett, p. 75; Pynson/Dickinson, p. 125 175. Pynson/Gillett, p. 75; Pynson/Dickinson, p. 125; Pynson/Rayne-Davis, p. 73. For outlines of the whole vision/dream narrative, see, first and foremost, the Pynson Ballad. See also Waller, Walsingham, p. 13; Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 1–10; Rayne-Davis, Walsingham, pp. 15–17; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, pp. 21–3; Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 8; Janes and Waller, ‘Introduction’, pp. 5–6. 176. See Waller, Walsingham, p. 10. 177. Gillett, Walsingham, p. 5. 178. Dickinson, Shrine, p. 124; Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 5; Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, p. 38; Janes and Waller (eds), Walsingham in Literature, p. 38; Waller, Walsingham, p. 1. 179. Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 5; Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, p. 38; Waller, Walsingham, p. 1; Dickinson, Shrine, p. 125. 180. Ibid. 181. Waller, Walsingham, p. 1. 182. Ibid., p. 16. 183. Ibid., p. 10. 184. Ibid., pp. 10–11. 185. Dickinson, Shrine, pp. 33, 24; Gillett, Walsingham, p. 10. 186. Duffy, Stripping of the Altars, p. 191. 187. Ibid. 188. Ibid. 189. Gillett, Walsingham, p. 39.

notes | 231 190. Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 27. 191. Stephenson, Walsingham Way, p. 36. For the Black Death, see Ziegler, Black Death, esp. pp. 22–5 for God’s wrath. 192. Stephenson, Walsingham Way, p. 36. 193. Ziegler, Black Death, p. 25. 194. See Waller, Walsingham, pp. 98–101. 195. Philip, Earl of Arundel, Rawlinson Mss Poet. 219, Bodleian Library, Oxford; Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 78–9, see also ibid., p. 66; Dickinson, Shrine, p. 68; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, pp. 67–8; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 42; Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 9; Waller, Walsingham, pp. 98–101. 196. Waller, Walsingham, p. 36; Gillett, Walsingham, p. 63; Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 7; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 39; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, p. 66. 197. Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 62, 53–64; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, pp. 39–40. 198. Dickinson, Shrine, p. 66. 199. Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 40; Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 11; Dickinson, Shrine, p. 71; Waller, Walsingham, pp. 93–4. 200. Gillett, Walsingham, p. 65. 201. Ibid., p. 67. 202. Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 2. 203. Ibid., p. 9. 204. Yates, ‘Walsingham and Interwar Anglo-Catholicism’’, p. 131, see also pp. 132–46. 205. Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p.10. See also Stephenson, Walsingham Way, passim; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, pp. 51–2; Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 32. 206. Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 11; Dickinson, Shrine, p. 68. 207. Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 46; Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 32. 208. For this Guild, See Judkins, Walsingham Walk, (Laurence Goulder, ‘Introduction’), esp. back inside cover; Rayne-Davis, Walsingham, p. 47. 209. Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 47 and pp. 46–52. 210. Gamble, ‘Walsingham Becomes Minor Basilica’, p. 30. 211. Baker, Walsingham Abbey, p. 32. 212. Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, pp. 49–50.

232  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 213. Ibid., p. 50. 214. See Guild of Our Lady of Ransom, Walsingham Walk 1952–2001; Judkins, Walsingham Walk; Ryden, Porter of Petitions. 215. See Judkins, Walsingham Walk, pp. 17–18. 216. Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, pp. 46–7. 217. See Waller, Walsingham, pp. 27–9. 218. Pynson/Gillett, p. 76; Pynson/Rayne-Davis, pp. 75–6. 219. See Gillett, Walsingham, p. 1; Walsingham Prayer Book, pp. 15, 45. 220. Pynson/Gillett, p. 75 (my emphases). 221. See Gillett, Walsingham, pp. 2–5; Singer, ‘Walsingham’s Local Genius’, p. 24; Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, pp. 39–40; Waller, Walsingham, pp. 16–17, 166. 222. Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, pp. 174–5. The feast of the Translation of the Holy House of Loreto was celebrated on 10 December (Butler, Lives, Vol. 4, p. 1568). 223. See Corry, Howard and Laven (eds), Madonnas and Miracles, p. 151. 224. Ibid. 225. Pynson/Gillett, p. 75; Pynson/Rayne-Davis, p. 74. 226. Ibid. 227. Pynson/Gillett, p. 76; Pynson/Rayne-Davis, p. 75. 228. Ibid. (my emphases). See Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 6; Dickinson, Shrine, p. 95; Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 16; Stephenson, Walsingham Way, p. 23. 229. Waller, Walsingham, p. 24. 230. Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, p. 45. 231. Waller, Walsingham, p. 24. 232. Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, p. 45. 233. Ibid. Gillett, Walsingham, p.50; see Walsingham Prayer Book, p. 45 which cites a pilgrim hymn containing the story; Dickinson, Shrine, p. 92. 234. Pynson/Gillett, p. 76; Pynson/Rayne-Davis, p.76. 235. Pynson/Gillett, p. 77; Pynson/Rayne-Davis, p. 76. 236. Gillett, Walsingham, p. 39. 237. See Rayne-Davis and Rollings, Walsingham, p. 91; Walsingham Prayer Book p. 46; Dickinson, Shrine, pp. 92, 94. 238. Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, pp. 40–1; Waller, Walsingham, pp. 28, 29. 239. Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, p. 40.

notes | 233 240. Gillett, Walsingham, p. 39; see Liber Usualis, pp. 273, 277, 1259, 1261, 1262; Walsingham Prayer Book, pp. 32, 62. 241. Waller, Walsingham, p. 5. 242. Gillett, Walsingham, p. 64. 243. See Waller, Walsingham, esp. pp. 76–8, 65–85; Carroll, ‘Pilgrimage at Walsingham’, pp. 42–3. 244. See Janes and Waller (eds), ‘Introduction’, p. 13. 245. See Waller, Walsingham, p. 29. 246. See esp. ibid., pp. 91–114. 247. Ibid., p. 12. 248. Coleman, ‘Engaging Visions?’, p. 87. 249. Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Pt 4, pp. 389 ff. 250. Ibid., pp. 411–12. 251. Khan (trans.), Sahîh Al-Bukhārī, Arabic–English, Vol. 5, p. 353: Kitāb al-Maghāzī: Óadīth nos 4287, 4288. For al-Bukhārī, see Robson, ‘Al-Bukhārī’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 1296–7; Rippin, ‘al-Bukhārī’, EAL, Vol. 1, p. 162. 252. Bowerstock, Crucible, p. 34. For Hubal, Manāt, al-ʿUzza and Allāt, see ibid., pp. 50–1. 253. Q.5:98, 100 (Yusuf Ali); Hawting, ‘Kaʿba’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 76 (Hawting’s numbering of Qur’anic verses differs here from that of Yusuf Ali). 254. Hawting, ‘Kaʿba’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 76. 255. Q.2:127; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 53. 256. See Wensinck, ‘Kaʿba’, SEI, p. 196; see Hawting, ‘Kaʿba’, EQ, Vol. 3.p. 78. 257. Al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, pp. 57–8. 258. Ibid., p. 61. 259. Ibid., pp. 142–3. 260. Ibid., pp. 144–5. 261. Ibid., p. 145. 262. See Nasr, Study Quran, p. 58 n. 127 on Q. 2:127; Wensinck, ‘Kaʿba’, SEI, p. 196; Gaudefroy-Demombynes, Muslim Institutions, p. 83; Glassé, ‘Kaʿbah’ in Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, p. 214; Abdel Haleem, ‘The Importance of Hajj’, pp. 30–1; Porter, Art of the Hajj, p. 94; Cobbold, Pilgrimage, pp. 185, 212. 263. See Nasr, Study Quran, p. 58 n. 127 to Q.2:127. 264. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 118. 265. Ibid., p. 120. 266. Ibid.

234  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 267. Ibid. 268. Ibn Kathīr, Stories, trans. Azami, p. 177. 269. See Bowersock, Crucible, pp. 45, 49–50, 113. 270. For Ibn Jubayr, see Pellat, ‘Ibn Djubayr’, EI2, Vol. 3, p. 755 and Netton (ed.), Islamic and Middle Eastern Geographers and Travellers, Volume Two: The Travels of Ibn Jubayr. 271. Ibn Jubayr, Riªla, p. 58. 272. For Ibn Ba††ū†a, see Miquel, ‘Ibn Ba††ū†a’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 735–6 and Netton (ed.), Islamic and Middle Eastern Geographers and Travellers: Volume Three: The Travels of Ibn Ba††ū†a. See also the DVDs Journey to Mecca: In the Footsteps of Ibn Battuta (2011) and Roads to Mecca (2011). 273. Ibn Ba††ū†a, Riªla, p. 130; Gibb, Travels, Vol. 1, p. 188. 274. Burton, Secret Pilgrimage, p. 388 (my emphases). 275. Cobbold, Pilgrimage, p. 183. 276. Ibid, p. 184. 277. See al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, Vol. 2, p. 834; al-Azraqī, Ta’rīkh Makka, Vol. 1, pp. 187–190; Doughty, Travels, Vol. 2, p. 502; Lings, Muhammad, p. 300; Cresswell, Early Muslim Architecture, pp. 2, 97; Rubin, ‘Kaʿba’, p. 318; Donner, Muhammad, p. 241; Hillenbrand, Islam, p. 37. 278. Al-Azraqī, Ta’rīkh Makka, Vol. 1, p. 189; al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, Vol. 2, p. 834. 279. See Wehr, Dictionary, p. 530, s.v. ‘Íūra’. 280. Al-Azraqī, Ta’rīkh Makka, Vol. 1, p. 187. 281. See Wehr, Dictionary, p. 892, s.v. ‘Timthāl’. 282. Al-Azraqī, Ta’rīkh Makka, Vol. 1, p. 187; see Wehr, Dictionary, p. 386, s.v. ‘Muzawwaq’. 283. Grabar, Formation, p. 80. 284. Al-Azraqī, Ta’rīkh Makka, Vol. 1, p. 187. 285. Al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, Vol. 2, p. 834. 286. Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 4, p. 413. 287. See Sister Mary Agatha, ‘Our Mother of Perpetual Help’, available at (last accessed 28 April 2017); Londoño, Our Lady of Perpetual Help. 288. Tradigo, Icons and Saints, pp. 188–9; Londoño, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, p. 7. 289. Available at (last accessed 28 April 2017). For the

notes | 235 iconography and history of this ikon, see Tradigo, Icons and Saints, pp.188–9; Ferrero, Story, esp. pp. 93–116; Connell, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, pp. 1–3. 290. See Ferreira, ‘Mysterious Story’, available at (last accessed 28 April 2017); Redemptorists, New Novena Devotions, p. 4; Connell, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, pp. 4, 6; Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, p. 175. 291. Collins, Glenstal Book of Icons, p. 51; Ferrero, Story, p. 68. 292. Ibid., pp. 55–59; Ferrero, Story, pp. 60–3; Connell, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, pp. 4–7. 293. Fieldwork was undertaken by Ian Richard Netton at the shrine of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour in the Church of San Alfonso in Rome on 4 July 2017. 294. Fieldwork at the Picture of Our Lady Who Unties Knots was undertaken by Ian Richard Netton in the Church of St Peter Am Perlach, Augsburg on 1 July 2017. For details of this famous picture, see Roll, St. Peter am Perlach, pp. 23–5; Meier, Mother Mary Undoing the Knots. 295. See Buhl, ‘Al-Lāt’, SEI, p. 287; Hawting, ‘Idols and Images’, EQ, Vol. 2, pp. 481–4; Fahd, ‘Hubal’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 536–7. 296. See al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, Vol. 2, p. 834, Vol. 3, pp. 873–4; Hillenbrand, Islam, p. 37; Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 4, pp. 411, 417. 297. See Londoño, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, pp. 8, 42–6; Redemptorists, New Novena Devotions, p. 4; Connell, Our Lady of Perpetual Help, pp. 16–17, 19–26. 298. Galatians 1:17: NJB, p. 1925; Trimingham, Christianity, p. 42. 299. NJB, p. 1925 note l. 300. Trimingham, Christianity, esp. pp. 308–11 and passim; see also Donner, Muhammad, pp. 30–1, 241–2; Hillenbrand, Islam, pp. 27–8. 301. Hoyland, Arabia and the Arabs, p. 147. 302. Trimingham, Christianity, p. 258; see El-Cheikh, ‘Byzantines’, EQ, Vol. 1, pp. 265–9; Howard-Johnston, Witnesses, pp. 436–45. 303. Nasr, Study Quran, p. 984; Abdel Haleem, Qur’an, 257; Khalidi, Qur’an, p. 326. 304. Arberry, Koran Interpreted, Vol. 2, p. 105, Dawood, Koran, p. 192. 305. Pickthall, Qur’ân, p. 295. 306. Trans. Yusuf Ali , p. 1051. 307. Q.30:1–3; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1051. 308. See Trimingham, Christianity, pp. 288–9; Ullendorf et al., ‘Óabash, Óabasha’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 2–8.

236  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 309. Doe, Southern Arabia, pp. 14–15. 310. Ibid., pp. 28–9; Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 1, pp. 31–4; Trimingham, Christianity, pp. 195, 289. 311. Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 1, pp. 33–4; Bowersock, Crucible, pp. 16, 66, 103. 312. Ettinghausen and Graber, Art and Architecture of Islam 650–1250, p. 18. See also Creswell, Short Account, pp. 1–3. 313. Beeston, ‘Abraha’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 102–103; Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 1, p. 45; Doe, Southern Arabia, pp. 29–30. See especially Q.105. 314. Abel, ‘Baªīrā’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 922–3; Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 1, p. 182. 315. Vacca, ‘Warak·a’, SEI, p. 631; Ibn Hishām, Sīra, Vol. 1, p. 238. 316. Rubin, ‘Óanīfiyya and Kaʿba’, p. 291 n. 111. 317. See Procopius, Secret History, pp. 111–12; Kelly, Early Christian Doctrines, pp. 338–43; Donner, Muhammad, p. 11; Holland, In the Shadow of the Sword, pp. 185–8. 318. See Q.5:76; Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, pp. 133–41. 319. For example, Q.5:14; Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, passim. 320. See Q.4:157; Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, pp. 105–21; Lawson, Crucifixion, passim. 321. See Q.5:85. 322. Exodus 25:16; see the whole of chapters 25–6, ibid., for the furnishings of the Ark. 323. Exodus 25:17–21. 324. Exodus, NJB, p. 113 note i. 325. See Exodus 25:17–22, NJB, pp. 112–13. 326. Smith, Exodus, pp. 96–7 (trans. and commentary on Exodus 25:17–22); see also Bussagli, Angels, pp. 204–8; Rees, From Gabriel to Lucifer, pp. 4, 105, 109, 112; Godwin, Angels, p. 20. 327. For the Cherubim, see Rees, From Gabriel to Lucifer, pp. 105–18; Godwin, Angels, pp. 26–8. For the classical Order of Angels, see Rees, From Gabriel to Lucifer, p. 39; see also Godwin, Angels, p. 23. 328. Smith, Exodus, pp. 96–7 (trans. and commentary on Exodus 25:17–22). 329. See Rees, From Gabriel to Lucifer, p. 131 citing Ezekiel 1:4–28. 330. The motif of the cherubim appears again in Exodus 37:6–9 in the description of the actual building of the Ark by Bezalel. 331. See Foley, Marian Apparitions, pp. 212–14, 192. 332. Revelation 1:1.

notes | 237 333. Revelation 2–3. 334. Revelation 8:2–10:7. 335. Revelation 4:6–8; trans. NJB, p. 2034. 336. NJB, p. 2035 note h. 337. Cory, Book of Revelation, p. 32. 338. Revelation 12:1; trans. NJB, p. 2040. 339. Revelation 12:3–9 (my emphases). 340. Revelation 12:17. 341. See Luke 1:26–38; Q.19:17–21 (Sūra Maryam). In the latter the angel is unnamed but the majority view is that it was Jibrīl (Gabriel) who is the Islamic angel of the Annunciation to Mary: see Nasr, Study Quran, p. 768; Webb, ‘Gabriel’, EQ, Vol. 2, p. 278. See also Rees, From Gabriel to Lucifer, pp. 146–7, 138–40; Bussagli, Angels, pp. 560–614; Godwin, Angels, pp. 43–5. 342. Hawting, ‘Kaʿba’, EQ, Vol. 3. p. 78. 343. Ibid. 344. Wensinck, ‘Kaʿba’, SEI, pp. 196–7. 345. Yāqūt, Muʿjam al-Buldān, Vol. 4, p. 463, s.v. ‘Kaʿba’; Hawting, ‘Kaʿba’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 78; Wensinck, ‘Kaʿba’, SEI, p. 196. 346. Wensinck, ‘Kaʿba’, SEI, p. 196. 347. Wensinck, ‘Kaʿba’, SEI, p. 197. 348. Porter (ed.), Hajj, p. 21; see Q.2:34. 349. Nasr, Study Quran, p. 58, note on v. 127; Wensinck, ‘Kaʿba’, pp. 196, 198; Esposito, Oxford Dictionary of Islam, p. 314, s.v. ‘Tawaf’. 350. Hawting, ‘Kaʿba’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 78. 351. Q.52:4: trans. Nasr, Study Quran, p. 1283. As well as a heavenly Kaʿba, it is suggested that this may be a reference to the earthly Kaʿba itself (see ibid., note on v. 4). See also Corbin, Temple and Contemplation, p. 222. 352. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 120. 353. For a further elaboration of traditions associated with the building of the Kaʿba, see Corbin, Temple and Contemplation, p. 215. 354. Al-Wāqidī, Kitāb al-Maghāzī, Vol. 2, p. 834 (my emphases). 355. Hillenbrand, Islam, p. 37. 356. Al-Azraqī, Ta’rīkh Makka, Vol. 1, p. 189. See Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, p. 66. 357. See Guillaume, Life, p. 552 n. 3. 358. Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, p. 66. 359. See ibid., passim, but esp. pp. 20, 60–6.

238  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 360. See Grabar, Formation, p. 75. 361. See Burton, Secret Pilgrimage, pp. 388–90. 362. See Q.2:62. 363. See Parrinder, Jesus in the Qur’ān, passim. 364. See Liddell and Scott, Intermediate Greek–English Lexicon, p. 4, s.v. ‘angelos’. 365. For Hermes see Hornblower and Spawforth (eds), Oxford Classical Dictionary, pp. 690–1, s.v. ‘Hermes’. 366. See above n. 341. 367. Waller, Walsingham: Chapter 6: ‘Walsingham’s Victorian Chaucer: Agnes Strickland’s The Pilgrims of Walsingham’, pp. 133–50. 368. Ibid., p. 132. 369. Strickland, Pilgrims of Walsingham. 370. Waller, Walsingham, p. 132. 371. Ibid., p. 134. 372. Strickland, Pilgrims of Walsingham, p. 348; see Waller, Walsingham, p. 149 373. Strickland, Pilgrims of Walsingham, p. 348; Waller, Walsingham, p. 149. See also Gregory, The King’s Curse, p. 175. 374. Waller, Walsingham, p. 149. 375. Gregory, Three Sisters, Three Queens, pp. 326, 373. 376. Ibid., p. 358. 377. Coleman, ‘Engaging Visions?’, p. 87. 378. Ibid., p. 86. 379. Ibid., p. 87. 380. Ibid. 381. See Netton, ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’ and Ibn Baz, Hajj. 382. See Freeman, Holy Bones, Holy Dust, pp. 174–5. 383. Ibid., p. 175. 384. See Coleman, ‘Engaging Visions?’, p. 87. 385. Ayoub, Redemptive Suffering, p. 32. 386. Ibid. Notes to Chapter 6 1. Joshua 10:1–12. 2. Joshua 10:12–13; trans. NJB, p. 296. 3. Porter, Illustrated Guide, p. 71; Coogan, ‘Joshua’, p. 121. 4. Coogan, ‘Joshua’, p. 121. 5. Ibid.

notes | 239 6. Ibid. For a more secular, and non-miraculous, interpretation, see Kraemer, ‘Solar Eclipse’, p. 22. 7. For example, see Nasr, Study Quran, pp. 29 (Q.2:58), 287 (Q.5:23), 824 (Q.21:85), 1111 (Q.38:48). 8. Q.18:60; Nasr, Study Quran, p. 749. 9. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 286. 10. Ibid., pp. 286–7. 11. Ibid., p. 287. 12. Al-Kisā’ī, Tales, trans. Thackston, p. 260. For the original Arabic text, see al-Kisā’ī, Qi‚a‚, p. 241. 13. Ibn Kathīr, Qa‚a‚, p. 287; Heller, ‘Yūshaʿ B. Nūn’, SEI, p. 646. 14. Joshua 6. 15. Ibid. 16. See Marsden, ‘Why Church Was Cautious’, p. 9. 17. See Pearlman, Fatima, p. 39. 18. For succinct summaries of the content of each apparition, see Borelli, Fatima, pp. 42–95; De Oliveira, Fatima Commented, pp. 35–65; Fincham, ‘Our Lady of Fatima’, pp. 20–2; Dictionnaire, pp. 316–46. 19. See Grant and Overy, World War 1, pp. 208, 240–5; Gilbert, First World War, Vol. 2, pp. 446–8. 20. Grant and Overy, World War 1, pp. 210–11; Gilbert, First World War, Vol. 2, pp. 459–61; Pearlman, Fatima, pp. 38–9. 21. Birmingham, Concise History, pp. 127, 147–51; Davies, Europe, p. 804; Pearlman, Fatima, pp. 39–40. 22. Johnston, Fatima, p. 23; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 25–8; Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, p. 5; Baldwin, Fatima, pp. 13–14; Pearlman, Fatima, p. 40; Burke, ‘Into the Future’, p. 44; Birmingham, Concise History, p. 147; Kucharcyk, ‘Portugal – Freemasonry – Fatima’, pp. 28–31. 23. Johnston, Fatima, p. 23; Pearlman, Fatima, p. 142. 24. Pearlman, Fatima, p. 65. 25. See Marsden, ‘The Children Chosen’, p. 9; Anon, ‘Fatima Seers’, p. 13; Pearlman, Fatima, pp. 42–53; Baldwin, Fatima, pp. 14–16. 26. Maunder, ‘No More Secrets’, p. 7; Kondor (ed.), Fatima in Lucia’s Own Words [hereafter referred to as Kondor/Lucia], p. 182. 27. Birmingham, Concise History, p. 152; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 23. 28. Davies, Europe, p. 917. See also Thiel, Fatima Shock!, p. 18. 29. Rubin, Mother of God, p. 418.

240  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 30. Warner, Alone of All Her Sex, p. 320. 31. Fincham, ‘Our Lady of Fatima’, p. 24. 32. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. IX. 33. Borges, ‘The “Apparitions” at Fatima’, pp. 131–2. 34. Kondor/Lucia, p. 76. See also p. 170; Foley, Marian Apparitions, p. 231. 35. Borelli, Fatima, pp. 34–41; Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, pp. 6–13; Baldwin, Fatima, pp. 18–20; Foley, Marian Apparitions, pp. 231–4; Pearlman, Fatima, pp. 54–9; Johnston, Fatima, pp. 24–7; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 83. 36. Kondor/Lucia, p. 170; see also pp. 171–3, 141–2; Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 43. 37. Pearlman, Fatima, pp. 55–6, 59; Borelli, Fatima, p. 34; De Oliveira, Fatima Commented, p. 15; Johnston, Fatima, p. 25. 38. See Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, p. 11; Johnston, Fatima, pp. 26–7. 39. For the Marian apparitions to the children, see back n. 18 and Kondor/Lucia, pp. 174–5, 44–5, 143–7; Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, pp. 13–56; Baldwin, Fatima, pp. 20–30; Foley, Marian Apparitions, pp. 234–45; Pearlman, Fatima, p. 68 and passim; Johnston, Fatima, pp. 27–52; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 82–3; Bullivant and Arredondo, O My Jesus, pp. XIV– XX; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 21–5; Antoine Marie, Letter (17 January 2018); Dictionnaire, pp. 316–46. 40. See Netton, ‘Islamic Pilgrimage’, pp. 119–21. 41. For a selection of the voluminous literature on the Miracle of the Sun, see, inter alia, Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, pp. 52–60; Baldwin, Fatima, pp. 27–30; Foley, Marian Apparitions, pp. 245–50; Pearlman, Fatima, pp. 161–181; Borelli, Fatima, pp. 92–5; De Oliveira, Fatima Commented, pp. 61–5; Johnston, Fatima, pp. 50–66; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 25; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 83–4, Kramer (ed.), Devil’s Final Battle, pp. 8–12; Nagasawa, Miracles, pp. 43–4; Piotrowski, ‘I will work’, p. 47; Antoine Marie, Letter (17 January 2018), p. 2; Dictionnaire, pp. 320–2. Relevant cinema/DVDs include Fatima: The Thirteenth Day: A Story of Hope; Fatima: Heaven’s Peace Plan; The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima; Miracles (full details in the Bibliography). 42. Kondor/Lucia, p. 182. 43. Borelli, Fatima, p. 95; De Oliveira, Fatima Commented, p. 65. 44. Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, pp. 57–8; Crean, A Catholic Replies, p. 56; Broussard, 20 Answers: Miracles, pp. 47–8. 45. Foley, Marian Apparitions, pp. 247–8; Johnston, Fatima, pp. 60–2; Broussard, 20 Answers: Miracles, pp. 46–7; Crean, A Catholic Replies, pp. 55–6.

notes | 241 46. Crean, A Catholic Replies, p. 56; Broussard, 20 Answers: Miracles, p. 47. See also Foley, Marian Apparitions, pp. 246–7, 249; Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, p. 57. 47. Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, pp. 58–9. 48. See Crean, A Catholic Replies, p. 155; Baldwin, Fatima, p. 28. 49. Johnston, Fatima, pp. 54–5. 50. Ibid., pp. 62–3; Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, pp. 59–60; Foley, Marian Apparitions, pp. 246–7. 51. Johnston, Fatima, pp. 55–9; Foley, Marian Apparitions, p. 247; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 25; Crean, A Catholic Replies, p. 56; Baldwin, Fatima, p. 29; Broussard, 20 Answers: Miracles, p. 48. 52. See Pearlman, Fatima, p. 42; Borelli, Fatima, p. 94. 53. Johnston, Fatima, pp. 58–9; see also pp. 59–60. 54. Foley, ‘Spiritual Battle’, p. 13. 55. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 22; Birmingham, Concise History, pp. 156–78 esp. p. 160. 56. Birmingham, Concise History, pp. 160–1, 174; Kramer, Devil’s Final Battle, p. 23. 57. Walford, Heralds, p. 112; see also pp. 122, 182–6; Piotrowski, ‘Repent and Believe’, pp. 8–10. 58. Interested readers may study the three secrets and their controversies in detail in the following texts: (1) see firstly Lucia’s own words on the subject in Kondor/ Lucia, pp. 122–3, 199–233, together with Ratzinger, Message of Fatima; (2) after those two texts, the text written by Cardinal Tarcisio Bertone, The Last Secret of Fatima, is essential reading. See also Socci, The Fourth Secret of Fatima. (3) The secrets are also surveryed, inter alia, in: Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 29–39; Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, pp. 84–7; Walford, Heralds, pp. 112–21; O’Connor, I Am Sending You Prophets, pp. 238–48; Pearlman, Fatima, pp. 95–6; Borelli, Fatima, pp. 54–82, 119–31, 144–51; Kramer, Devil’s Final Battle, passim; Piotrowski, ‘First and Second Secrets of Fatima’, pp. 11–14; Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 44. See also Scott, Miracle Cures, pp. 61–3 for a more sceptical interpretation. 59. Birmingham, Concise History, p. 160. 60. Ibid., p. 174. 61. Borges, ‘The “Apparitions” at Fatima’, pp. 130–1. 62. Thiel, Fatima Shock!, p. 233. 63. Dawkins, God Delusion, pp. 116–17; Crean, A Catholic Replies, pp. 57–8.

242  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 64. Borges, ‘ The “Apparitions” at Fatima’, p. 131. 65. Foley, Marian Apparitions, p. 249; Borelli, Fatima, p. 95; Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, p. 57; Baldwin, Fatima, p. 29; Johnston, Fatima, p. 60; Kramer, Devil’s Final Battle, p. 12. 66. Johnston, Fatima, p. 60. 67. Foley, Marian Apparitions, p. 258. 68. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 64–5; see also Scott, Miracle Cures, p. 60. 69. Kondor/Lucia, pp. 84–8; Madigan, What Happened at Fatima, pp. 29–31. 70. Johnston, Fatima, pp. 26–7. 71. Kondor/Lucia, p. 222; Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 49; Ratzinger, Message of Fatima, pp. 25–9. 72. See CCC, p. 22 # 67. But see also O’Connor, I Am Sending You Prophets, pp. 245, 353. See, too, Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 49. 73. Tester, Review of Our Lady of the Nations . . . by Chris Maunder, p. 363. 74. See Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 45–9; Ratzinger, Message of Fatima, p. 2; Dictionnaire, pp. 632–3; Norget et al. (eds), Anthropology of Catholicism, p. 221, see also p. 224. 75. Kondor/Lucia, p. 223; see Dictionnaire, p. 39. 76. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, p. 194; Tester, Review of Our Lady of the Nations, p. 364. 77. See above pp. 13–14. See also Dictionnaire, pp. 1195–224. 78. Tester, Review of Our Lady of the Nations, p. 364. 79. Foley, Marian Apparitions, p. 252. 80. Ibid., p. 260. 81. Norget et al. (eds), Anthropology of Catholicism, p. 79. 82. Kraemer, Devil’s Final Battle, pp. VII, 21. 83. Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 30, 35–6. 84. Ibid., p. 36; Fincham, ‘Our Lady of Fatima’, p. 20; Crean, A Catholic Replies, p. 141; Walford, Heralds, pp. 112–13. 85. Kondor/Lucia, p. 177; Kramer, Devil’s Final Battle, p. 12. For the claimed miraculous cure from bronchial pleurisy of Padre Pio after his intercession of Our Lady of Fatima, see Campanella, ‘Padre Pio and the Fire of God’s Love’, p. 18. 86. Foley, ‘Greatest Miracle’, p. 11. 87. Torres, ‘Zola, Lourdes and the New Religious Crowd’, p. 20; Norget et al. (eds), Anthropology of Catholicism, p. 79.

notes | 243 88. Torres, ‘Zola, Lourdes and the New Religious Crowd’, p. 21; see Dictionnaire, pp. 560–8. 89. Torres, ‘Zola, Lourdes and the New Religious Crowd’, p. 21. 90. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 70; de la Cruz, Mother Figured, p. 268 n. 10. Compare the Filipino experience of a ‘dancing sun’: see ibid., pp. 2, 193, 195, 206. 91. Thavis, Vatican Prophecies, p. 55. 92. Piotrowski, ‘Repent’, pp. 8–10. 93. De Mattei, Second Vatican Council, pp. 2–3; Dictionnaire, pp. 732–3. 94. De Mattei, Second Vatican Council, pp. 2–3. See also Kelly, Oxford Dictionary of Popes, pp. 310, 319. For the original dogmatic documents, see Denzinger, Enchiridion, pp. 573–5, 808–909. 95. See Q.41:53; Wehr, Dictionary, p. 36, s.v. ‘āya’; Fatani, ‘Aya’ in Leaman, Qur’an, p. 85; Jeffery, ‘Āya’, EI2, Vol. 1, p. 773. 96. Badawi and Abdel Haleem, Arabic–English Dictionary of Qur’anic Usage, pp. 68–9, s.v. ‘āyatun’. 97. Neuwirth, ‘Structure and the Emergence of Community, p. 142. 98. Q.41:53. 99. Q.36:38–9; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1178. 100. Q.84:16–18; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1711. 101. Q.56:75; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1493. 102. Q.91:1–2; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1742. Compare Q.53:1 and Q.74:32–4. 103. See Hawting, ‘Oaths’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 561. 104. See Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an, p. 213; Neuwirth, ‘Cosmology’, EQ, Vol. 1, p. 44; Varisco, ‘Moon’, EQ, Vol. 3, pp. 414–15; Kunitzsch, ‘Sun’, EQ, Vol. 5, pp. 162–3; Kunitzsch, ‘Planets and Stars’, EQ, Vol. 4, p. 108; Rodinson, ‘Al-K·amar II’, EI2, Vol. 4, p. 518; Schacht, ‘Hilāl I: In Religious Law’, EI2, Vol. 3, pp. 379–81. 105. Q.77:8–9; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1664. 106. Q.81:1–2; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1693. 107. Q.82:1–2; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1699. 108. Beverley, ‘Muhammad’ in Leaman (ed.), Qur’an, p. 423. 109. Q.54:1. 110. Yusuf Ali, p. 1454; see Badawi and Abdel Haleem, Arabic–English Dictionary of Qur’anic Usage, pp. 491 (s.v. ‘inshaqqa’), 698 (s.v. ‘furija’), 716 (s.v. ‘infa†ara’). 111. Q.54:1. 112. Q.54:1; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1454.

244  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us 113. Yusuf Ali, p. 1454; Khan and al-Hilali, Interpretation, p. 670. 114. Pickthall, Qur’ân, p. 404. 115. Abdel Haleem, Qur’an, p. 259; Qarā’ī, Qur’ān, p. 748; Arberry, Koran Interpreted, Vol. 2, p. 247; Khalidi, Qur’an, p. 437. 116. Asad, Message of the Qur’ān, p. 931. 117. Maulana Muhammad Ali, English Translation of the Holy Quran, p. 663. 118. Droge, Qur’ān, p. 363. 119. Dawood, Koran, p. 112. 120. Nasr, Study Quran, p. 1300. 121. Badawi and Abdel Haleem, Arabic–English Dictionary of Qur’anic Usage, p. 491. 122. Ibn Kathīr, Tafsīr, pp.1787–9; see Nagasawa, Miracles, p. 25. 123. See Irwin, ‘al-Suyū†ī’, EAL, Vol. 2, p. 746. 124. (My trans.) Tafsīr al-Jalālayn, p. 528. 125. Q.54:2; trans. Yusuf Ali, p. 1454. 126. Jalālayn, Tafsīr, p. 528. 127. Al-Bukhārī, Translation of the Meanings of Sahîh, [dual Arabic–English edn], Vol. 4, pp. 501–2: Kitāb al-Manāqib, nos 3636, 3637, 3638. 128. Al-Ghazālī, Iªyā’, Vol. 2, p. 383 (my trans.). For the full listing see pp. 383–7. 129. Ibid., p. 385. 130. Ibid., p. 383; see also Peters, God’s Created Speech, pp. 97–9. 131. See Gril, ‘Miracles’, EQ, Vol. 3, p. 398. 132. See Q.3:144, Q.7:157, Q.62:2. 133. Q.69:41–2. 134. Zebiri, ‘Argumentation’, p. 275. 135. Glassé, Concise Encyclopaedia, pp. 271, 274; see also Geivett and Habermas, In Defence of Miracles, p. 204. 136. Asad, Message of the Qur’ān, p. 931 n. 1; Abdel Haleem, Qur’an, p. 529 note c; Maulana Muhammad Ali, Quran, p. 663 note a (1); Droge, Qur’ān, p. 363 n. 2. 137. Asad, Message of the Qur’ān, p. 931 n. 1; Maulana Muhammad Ali, Quran, p. 663 suggests a similar explanation. 138. NJB, p. 1747 note f. 139. Ibid., p. 1629 note j. 140. Q.41:53. 141. Q.2:39. 142. Q.54:2.

notes | 245 143. John 10:25–6; trans. NJB, p. 1768. 144. Matthew 12:38–40; see NJB, p.1629 note j; Luke 11:29–30; John 6:30–33. 145. See Knapp, Dawn of Christianity, p. 196 and passim. 146. Nasr, Study Quran, pp. 1299, 1300 n.1. 147. Muhammad al-Ghazali, Journey through the Qur’an, p. 415. 148. Yusuf Ali, p. 1454 n. 5128. 149. Nasr, Study Quran, p. 1299. 150. Abdul-Raof, Qur’an Outlined, p. 109. 151. Matthew 24:29; trans. NJB, p. 1650. 152. Yahya, Allah’s Miracles in the Qur’an, p. 326. 153. Ibid., pp. 325–6. 154. Ibid. For the abjad system, according to which each letter in the Arabic alphabet is endowed with a numerical value, see Weil and Colin, ‘Abdjad’, EI2, Vol. 1, pp. 97–8. 155. Yahya, Allah’s Miracles in the Qur’an, p. 326. 156. Bigliardi, ‘Interpretation of Miracles’, p. 282. 157. See Q.33:40. 158. See Q.71 passim; Q.7:73–9, 85–93. 159. See Rodinson, ‘Al-K·amar II’, EI2, Vol. 4, p. 518. 160. Nasr, Study Quran, p. 1300 n. 1. 161. Asad, Message of the Qur’ān, p. 931 n.1; Yusuf Ali, p. 1454 n. 5128; Robinson, Discovering the Qur’an, p. 29. 162. See Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, pp. 139–41, 182; O’Regan, ‘Our Lady’s Wishes’, p. 26; [Leaflet] Padre Pio (trans. of a copy of a personal letter written by Padre Pio addressed to the Commission of Heroldsbach appointed by the Vatican. The revelations described in the letter span the dates 31 December 1949 – 7 February 1950); Gallagher, Padre Pio, p. 189. 163. See Q.54 passim. 164. Q.54:54–5. 165. Compare Luke 15:7. 166. See Q.41:53. 167. See Q.91:1–6; see also Yusuf Ali, p.1742 nn. 6148, 6149, 6150. 168. See Torres, ‘Zola, Lourdes and the New Religious Crowd’, pp. 6, 20, 23, 37. 169. See the Qur’ān and Gospels passim. 170. See above p. 163. 171. See Q.54:2, 6–8. 172. See Maunder, Our Lady of the Nations, passim.

246  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Notes to the Envoi 1. See Lonergan, Method in Theology, passim. 2. Ibid., p. 127. 3. For the construction of this narratological sieve, see pp. viii–ix, 25–6, 187 n. 8. 4. See Whitehouse and Laidlaw (eds), Ritual and Memory, p. 137; Gerrig, ‘Memory’, p. 299. 5. See McDonough, ‘Hope’, EQ, Vol. 2, pp. 448–9 for an Islamic appreciation. For a Christian perspective see Benedict XVI, Spe Salvi: On Christian Hope, passim. 6. Munro-Hay, Quest for the Ark of the Covenant. 7. See authors>G>George_Bernard_Shaw> (last ac­ ces­sed 4 September 2017) 8. Ibid. 9. See (last acc­ essed 4 September 2017). 10. For an excellent Introduction to St Augustine, see Chadwick (trans), Saint Augustine: Confessions, pp. IX–XXIX. 11. Augustine, On the Gospel of John, Homily 24:2 in Augustine, Homilies on the Gospel According to St. John, Vol. 1, pp. 373–4. For the original Latin text, see Augustine, ‘In Joannis Evangelium S. Augustini’, Tractatus 24, Caput 2 in Migne (ed.), Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, Vol. 35, col. 1593. 12. Augustine, On the Gospel of John, Homily 24:2, p. 374. 13. Q.41:53.

bi bli og ra phy | 247

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Index Aaron, 50, 51 Abbott, H. Porter, 25–6 ʿAbd al-Jabbār, 21 ʿAbd al-Mu††alib, 76 Abdel Haleem, Muhammad, 173 Abdul Raof, Hussein, 178 Abraha, 149 Abraham see Ibrāhīm Abruzzo, 37 Abū Dharr al-Ghifārī, 79 Abū ˝alªa, 43 Abyssinia see Ethiopia Acutis, Carlo, 36 Adad, god, 124 Adam, 17, 18, 90, 91, 126, 127, 143, 144, 151 Adorers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, 101 agency, Divine, ix, 4, 49, 80, 84, 85, 115, 121, 124–5, 126, 128, 129, 143, 153, 158, 159, 160, 175, 178, 179, 181, 182, 184, 186 Ahl al-Kitāb (People of the Book), 153 Aijalon, Vale of, 158 ʿajā’ib, 4 ʿalaq (blood clot), 86–7, 89, 90, 91 Alatri, Miracle of, 49 Alexander Cycle, 129 Water of Life, 129 Alexander 111, Pope, 13 Alf Layla wa Layla, 26, 47 Ali, Yusuf, 29, 30, 53, 172, 173, 177 Aljustrel, 162 Allāh, 45, 46, 48, 106, 107, 111, 124 Allegri, Renzo, 36, 93 Alverno, Mt, 96–7 Ambrose, St, 131 Anā ’l-Óaqq see al-Óallāj anámnēsis, 16, 24, 33, 47 Ancona, 139 angels, 34, 38, 55–6, 75–6, 81, 83, 84,

90–1, 96, 121, 123, 125, 126, 128, 130, 131, 134, 139,140, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 150, 151, 152, 153, 156, 157, 159, 162–3, 169, 185 cherubim, 150 Dionysian ninefold order of angels, 150 seraphim, 150 see also Gabriel; Fatima Anglo-Saxons, 134 Annunciation, 131, 150 Sūra Maryam, 150 see also Mary, Virgin Anthony, St, 35, 40 St Anthony’s bread, 35 apocalypse of St John, 132, 149, 150 apparitions see visions and apparitions Aquerò see Mary, Virgin Aquinas, St Thomas, 15 Arabia, 148 ʿArafāt, 164 wuqūf, 164 Aram, King of, 73 Arco, Anna, 69 Arditti, Michael, 64–5, 69–70, 82, 83, 84, 85 Jubilate, 64, 69–70, 84, 85 ark, boat, fulk, safīna, 121, 122, 125, 129, 130, 139, 153, 154, 155, 156 Ark of the Covenant, 130, 131, 132, 149, 150, 151, 155, 156, 160, 185 al-tābūt, 130 Armstrong, Neil, 22–3; see also moon landing Ashʿariyya, 5, 21 Ashurbanipal, King, 120 Assumption, Dogma of, 170; see also Mary, Virgin Assyria, Royal Library of, 120 Atlantis, 128, 156, 185 atonement, 16

282

i ndex | 283 ʿA††ār, Farīd al-Dīn, 110, 111, 112, 113 Ilāhī-Nāmā, 110 Tadhkirat al-Awliyā’, 110, 111 Augsburg, 147 Augustine, Abbey of, 7 Augustine of Hippo, St, 1–2, 9, 17, 131, 186 authority, Church, viii, 9–10, 13, 63, 65, 66, 68, 69, 70, 105, 171 authority, Islamic, viii, 114, 152 awliyā’, 5 āya, āyāt, 18; see also signs, semiotics Ayoub, Mahmoud, 118, 125, 156 Ayyūb see Job al-Azraqī, 145, 152 Babylonia, Babylonian, 122, 149 Bachelard, Gaston, 127 Badawi, Elsaid M., 173 Baghdad, 106, 108, 113 Baªīrā, 149 baptism, 54, 56, 73, 89 Barlow, Frank, 98 Barthes, Roland, 25, 46 Basinger, David, 1 Ba‚ra, 26, 105 al-Bay∂āwī, 42–3 al-Bayt see Kaʿba Becket, St Thomas à, 7, 97–8, 99, 154; see also Canterbury; Fitz Urse; Hugh of Horsea belief, viii, 2, 3–4, 6, 8, 9, 14–15, 16, 22–3, 39–40, 47, 62, 64, 65, 69, 70, 81, 85, 93, 100, 102, 112–13, 115, 141, 142, 152, 154, 156, 157, 161, 164, 165, 167, 169, 179, 182, 183, 186 Benedict, monk of Canterbury, 97 Benedict XIV, Pope, 12, 13, 192 n99 Benedict XV, Pope, 162 Benedict XVI see Ratzinger Benedict of Nursia, St, 34 Bening, Simon, 102 Bergoglio, Jorje see Francis, Pope Bernadette see Soubirous, Bernadette Bethesda, Pool of, 55–6 Bilgames, 123; see also Gilgamesh Birmingham, David, 167 Black Death, 136; see also plague Black Stone (al-ªajar al-aswad) see Kaʿba blood, 86–119 liquefaction, 94, 98–9, 100, 103, 105 writing in blood, 105, 106, 109, 111, 112, 113, 114, 118

blood clot see ʿalaq blood libel, 95 boat see ark Boccaccio, Giovanni, 26 Decameron, 26, 47 Bolsena (Santa Cristina), 86, 87, 91–4, 97, 98, 101, 114, 115 Chiesa di Santa Cristina, 92, 93 Lago di Bolsena, 92 Boly, 60 Bordeaux, apparitions at , 38, 40 Borges, Fr Prof. Anselmo, 162, 167 Bosnia-Herzegovina, 13 Boss, Sarah Jane, 64 Bosworth Field, Battle of, 133 Bouhouhorts, Croisine, 68 Boyd, Charlotte, 137 BRAIS see British Association for Islamic Studies Brethren of Purity see Ikhwān al-Íafā’ Britheva, 98 British Association for Islamic Studies, vii British Museum, 120 Brixen, 103 Bronze Age, 128 Brown, Colin, 15 Brown, Peter, 7, 8 Bucaille, M., 90 Budge, E. A. Wallis, 120 Buenos Aires, 38–40 al-Bukhārī, 20, 74, 75, 142, 174–5 Íaªīª, 75 Bultmann, Rudolf, x, 11–12 Burton, Richard, 145 al-Bū‚īrī, 24 Burda, 24 Butler, Alban, 104 Lives, 104 Bynum, Caroline Walker, 89, 94, 95, 99, 100 Byzantium, 148 Sūrat al-Rūm, 148 Campania, 34 Cana, wedding feast at, 87–8, 97 Canaan, 158 canonisation, 12–13, 101, 161 Canterbury, 7, 97, 132, 135, 154 Carlos 1, King, 161 Carolingian Age, 9 catalyst, narratological, ix Catherine of Sienna, St, 37–8

284  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us caution, viii, 4, 9, 12–13, 14, 62, 64, 102, 104, 112, 115, 135, 141, 151, 160, 167, 168, 177, 183 Chalcedon, Council of, 149 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 26, 154 Canterbury Tales, 26, 154 Chelsea, 136 China, 20 Chodkiewicz, Michel, 2 Christian–Jewish disputes, 49 Christianity in Arabia, 147–9 Chrysippus of Jerusalem, 131 Chrysostom, St John, 17–18, 114, 118 Homily of Praise, 114, 118 clay, healing, 116 Clifford, Richard J., 29, 30 Cline, Eric, 127 Cobbold, Lady Evelyn, 145 Coelho, Domingo, 165 Coimbra University, 165 Coleman, Simon, 155 Colet, John, 142, 155, 156 commandments, ten, 130, 149 communism, 41 Copts, 148 Corbin, Henri, 118 Co-Redemptrix, Mary, 130, 227n120; see also Mary, Virgin Corpus Christi, Feast of, 94 cosmology, 117, 158–83 Counter-Reformation, 61 Crane, Peter, 15–16 Crean, Thomas, 3 Cromwell, Thomas, 136 Cruz, Joan Carroll, 93 cures and healing, miraculous, 7, 8, 10, 12, 14, 40, 52, 53, 54, 55–6, 57, 60–1, 63, 64, 65, 66, 68, 69, 70, 71–2, 73, 78, 79, 80, 82, 84, 85, 88, 94, 98, 100, 112, 116, 134–5, 136, 139, 140–1, 142, 147, 175, 185 Cuthbert, St, 97 da Silva, Correia, Bishop of Leiria, 169 Damascus, 148 David, prophet, 131 David of Augsburg, 88–9 Davies, Norman, 58, 161 Dawkins, Richard, 2, 3, 167 de Almeida, Avelino, 165–6 de Metz-Noblat, Joseph, Bishop of Langres, 101 Decalogue see commandments, ten

Degreteau, John, 38 Delort, Fr, 38 deluge see flood delusion, 41, 103 Dennett, Daniel C., 3, 13 Deucalion, 127 dhikr, 24, 106 Dhū ’l-Óijja (Month of Pilgrimage), 164, 172 Dionysius the Carthusian, 88–9 Dionysus, god of Wine, 88 disbelief, doubt, scepticism, viii, 2–3, 9, 10, 11, 12, 15, 20, 39–40, 42, 47, 49, 51, 52, 62, 64, 65, 67, 68, 70, 81, 85, 91, 92, 93, 98, 99, 100, 102, 103, 104, 112–13, 115, 133, 135, 141, 142, 153, 154, 156, 157, 160, 161, 164, 165, 166, 167–8, 170, 171, 174, 176, 177, 179, 182–3, 186 Dissolution of the monasteries, 133, 135, 136, 142 Dominic, St, 34 Donation of Constantine, 103 Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 11 The Brothers Karamazov, 11 doubt see disbelief, doubt, scepticism Douglas, Mary, 90 dreams, 48, 76, 80, 100, 134 Dubowska, Sister Julia, 40–1 Duffy, Eamon, 11, 61, 102 Ea, god, 122, 124, 125 East Anglia, 133 eclipse, 158, 176 ecstatic utterances see sha†aªāt Edward VI, King, 154 Egypt, 17, 28, 31, 33, 51, 60, 72 war with Israel (1967), 60 Eliade, Mircea, 91 Elim, 52 Elisha, 31, 73 Elizabethan Age, 136 embryology, 90 Enlightenment, 11 Ephrem, St, 131 Erasmus, Desiderius, 133, 140, 141, 142, 155, 156 Eric, King, 13 Ernst, Carl, 109 eschatology, comparative, 180–1 Ethiopia, 148 Eucharist, 16, 27, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 46, 47, 48, 89, 102, 111, 115

i ndex | 285 Eucharistic miracles, 34, 36–41, 42, 45, 47, 48, 49, 87, 95, 101, 115, 185 Eugenius 111, Pope, 13 Euphrates, River, 128 Exaltation of the Holy Cross, Feast of, 96 Exultet, 17 Ezekiel, 150 Fatima, apparitions at, 59, 100–1, 160–71, 174, 177, 178, 180, 181, 182 Angel of Peace, 162–3 Angel of Portugal, 163 consecration of Russia, 164, 166 Cova da Iria, 160, 164, 167, 169 Lucia, Francisco, Jacinta, 161–70, 181, 182 secrets of Fatima, 164, 166, 169, 241n58 see also Miracle of the Sun Ferretti, Ludovico, 38 First World War, 100–1, 161, 164 Battles of Arras, Ypres and Passchendaele, 101, 161 Fitz Urse, Reginald, 97; see also Becket; Hugh of Horsea Flight into Egypt, 8 flood, deluge, storm, 120–9, 130, 131, 143, 144, 153, 154, 156, 157, 180 Foley, Donal Anthony, 166, 169 ‘folk’ Islam, 23–34 food, 27–49 Foucault, Michel, 127 frame stories, 26, 46–7, 85, 155 Francis, Pope/Bergoglio, Jorge, 14, 39, 99, 137 Francis of Assisi, St, 96–7, 105, 107; see also stigmata fraud and deception, 5–6, 41, 44, 62, 102, 103, 181, 186 Freeman, Charles, 92 fulk see ark Gabriel, Archangel (Jibrīl), 73, 75, 76, 82, 85, 89, 125, 126, 128, 131, 134, 139, 143, 144, 146, 150, 153, 163; see also angels; Fatima Galilee, Sea of, 55 Garabandal, apparitions at, 59 Gardet, L., 5 Garnier, Mother Marie-Adèle, 101 Garrett, Prof. Dr Almeida, 165 Gave, River, 60 Gell, Alfred, 116 George, Andrew, 120

al-Ghazālī, Abū Óāmid, 21–2, 49, 175–6 Iªyā’, 175 al-Ghazali, Muhammad, 177 Gibeon, 158, 159, 160 Gilgamesh, 120–30, 156 Epic of Gilgamesh, 120–2 Gillett, H. M., 133, 137 Godiva of Canterbury, 98 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 56 Faust, 56 Gómez, Ricardo Castañón, 39 Goscelin of St Bertin, 7 Goulder, Mgr Laurance, 138 Grabar, Oleg, 145 grace, 73, 139, 140 Gramlich, Richard, 19 Green, Nile, 106 Gregory I, Pope St, 102, 103 St Gregory’s Mass, 102 Gregory VII, Pope, 13 Gregory, Philippa, 153 Three Sisters, Three Queens, 155 Grignion de Montfort, Louis-Marie, 67 Gril, Denis, 4, 19, 20 Guild of Our Lady of Ransom, 137 Guillaume, Alfred, 43, 44 Hades, 18

Óadīth, 20, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 78–80, 144,

152, 159, 172, 211n263 Hagar see Hājar Haggada, 159 Hājar, 24, 73, 75, 76, 77, 81, 82, 83, 85, 143, 155, 157, 170 Óajj see pilgrimage al-Óallāj, 105, 107–14, 119 Anā ’l-Óaqq, 108, 109–14 Kitāb al-˝awāsīn, 108 Halm, Heinz, 118 al-Halu, Layla, 79–80 Óanafiyya, 26 al-Óaqq,109, 110, 112 Harrington, Daniel J., 32 Hassan, Nasra, 23 Hastings, Battle of, 134 Hawting, Gerald, 143 Hazrat Bibi Fatima, Miracle of, 23–4 healing see cures and healing, miraculous Hebrew etymology, 29–30 Hell, 167, 181, 182 Vision of Hell, 163, 182 see also Fatima, apparitions at hematidrosis, 107

286  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Hemmings. F. W. J., 65 Henry II, King, 98 Henry VII, King, 133, 136 Henry VIII, King, 133, 142, 154, 155 Hermes, 153 Herod, King, 31 hesychasm, 107 hijra, 174, 176 Hillenbrand, Carole, x, 152 Himyarites, King of, 148 Óirā’, Mt, 174 Holy Sepulchre, Church of, 131 Holy Spirit, 54, 55, 73 Hong-sun, Julia Youn, 102 hope, 185–6 hospitality, 34, 35 Host, profanation of, 91, 94, 95, 99–100, 101 Hoyland, Robert, 148 Hubal, 147 al-Óudaybiyya, 74 Hugh of Horsea, 97; see also Becket; Fitz Urse Hujwīr, Afghanistan, 106 al-Hujwīrī, 106, 107, 109, 110, 112 Kashf al-Maªjūb, 106, 107 Hume, David, 2–3, 8, 12, 15 al-Óusayn, 116–17, 118, 119, 156 Iblīs, 108 Ibn al-ʿArabī, 2 Ibn Ba††ū†a, 5, 20, 78, 144–5 Riªla, 78 Ibn Óanbal, 159 Ibn Isªāq, 44, 142 Sīra, 44 Ibn Jubayr, 77–8, 144–5, 211n263 Ibn Kathīr, 72, 73, 75, 76, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 143, 144, 151, 159, 160, 173, 174, 206n219 Ibn al-Nadīm, 109 Ibn ˝alªa, ʿUthmān, 142 Ibrāhīm, 34, 72, 75, 76, 80, 81, 83, 127, 142, 143, 144, 151, 152, 155 Ice Age, 127 idols in the Kaʿba, 142–3, 147, 151, 152; see also Hubal; Manāt Ikhwān al-Íafā’, 25 Rasā’il, 25 ikons, 145–7, 151, 152 Glykophilousa, 146 Hodegetria, 146 instruments of the Passion, 146–7

Our Lady of Perpetual Succour, 146, 153 Virgin of the Passion, 146 Virgin of the Thumb, 146 illness, misfortune, 6 illusion, 5–6 Immaculate Conception of Mary, Dogma of , 61, 62, 64, 66, 67, 68, 171; see also Mary, Virgin immortality, eternal life, search for, 121, 122, 123, 129 Index of Forbidden Books, 66 India, 108 indulgences, 6, 103 Ingielewicz, Fr Jacek, 40 Innocent 111, Pope, 13 inshiqāq al-qamar see Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon intention, 78–9, 80, 82 intertextuality, ix, 31, 32, 33, 44, 46, 48, 73, 76, 80, 85, 87, 89, 107, 112–13, 115, 117, 118, 121, 125, 132, 140, 141, 149, 150, 156, 157, 175, 178, 179, 182, 184, 185 intervention, Divine, 6, 16, 121, 124, 129, 156, 158, 159 Iran, 108, 111, 148 Iraq, 120, 128 Iron Age, 134 ʿĪsā see Jesus Isaacson, Rivka, 69 Isªāq, 72 Ishmael see Ismāʿīl Ismāʿīl, 73, 75, 76, 77, 80, 81, 82, 83, 85, 127, 142, 143, 144, 155, 157, 170 Israel, 60 war with Egypt (1967), 60 Israel, children of, people of, 17, 27, 28, 30, 31, 33, 34, 48, 51, 130, 131, 158, 159, 160 Italy, 139, 155 Jackson, Deirdre, 9, 55, 71, 97 Jaki, Fr Stanley, 167 Jalālayn, 174 James 1, King, 10 James, St, Apostle, 34 Janab Sayyida Tahira see Hazrat Bibi Fatima Januarius, St (San Gennaro), 98, 99, 100, 103, 104, 105 Jericho, 159, 160 Jerusalem, 131, 132, 133, 135, 160 Jesus (ʿĪsā), 3, 8, 9, 31–4, 38, 41–6, 55, 61, 73, 74, 86, 87, 107, 111, 145–7, 149,

i ndex | 287 150, 151, 152, 153, 164, 168, 169, 177, 181, 185 agony in Garden of Gethsemani, 107 baptism, 54 blind man at Siloam, 55 Calvary, 16, 32, 86, 111, 114, 115 Cana, wedding feast at, 55 divinity and humanity, 16 Emmaus, 33, 34, 35 feeding of 5,000/4,000, 31–4, 42, 43, 47, 80, 121 incarnation, 15, 16, 17, 18, 45 infirm man at Bethesda, 55–6 Jesus Prayer, 107 Last Supper, 32–3, 34, 35, 36 new Moses, 54, 121 passion, crucifixion and death, 16, 17, 18, 32, 33,88–9, 94, 111, 113, 117, 146–7, 149 resurrection, 3, 15, 17, 18, 32, 33, 35 Jibrīl see Gabriel al-Jīlānī, ʿAbd al-Qādir, 22 jinn, 19, 90–1 Job, 71–2, 73, 77 Johansen, T. K., 128 John, Jeffrey, 121 John XV, Pope, 13 John Paul 11, Pope, 96, 169 John the Baptist, 6, 31, 54, 56, 106, 107 Johns, Anthony H., 53, 72 Jordan, River, 73, 159 Joseph, St, 8, 164 Joseph (Yūsuf ), 72, 100 Joshua (Yūshaʿ b. Nūn), 158, 159, 160 fatā, 159 Judaism, Jews, 23–4, 32, 33, 66, 90, 95, 130, 148; see also Israel, children of, people of al-Junayd, 106, 108, 110 Juynboll, G. H. A., 43, 44 Kaʿba, 75, 78, 79, 81, 126–7, 130, 139, 142–53, 155, 156, 160 al-Bayt, 143 al-Bayt al-Maʿmūr,151 Black Stone, 126, 144, 145 ikons in, 145–7, 151, 152, 156 Kadesh, 50, 51 karāmāt, 4, 5, 21, 22; see also muʿjizāt Karbalā’, Battle of, 116, 125, 156 karibu, 149–50 Katherine of Aragon, Queen, 154, 155 Khadīja, 149

al-Khajūj, 144 Khalifa, Nouha, 26 Khansā (Hang-Chow), 5 king’s touch, 10 al-Kisā’ī, 126, 127, 143, 155, 159, 160 Knock, apparitions at, 59 Knysh, Alexander, 106 Kol, King, 13 Kouyunjik, 120 Lahore, 45, 46 Lanciano (Anxanum), 37, 38, 40, 87, 91 Lane, Edward William, 5 Larmer, Robert A., 1 Last Day, Day of Judgement, 172, 173, 174, 176, 177, 178, 180, 181, 182 Latapie, Catherine, 61 Laurentin, René, 60, 68, 82, 84 Lawrence, Bertrand Sévère, Bishop of Tarbres, 63, 68 Lawrence, Bruce, 18 Layard, Sir Austen Henry, 120 Le Goff, Jacques, 7, 34 Lenin, Vladimir Ilyich, 161 Leo XIII, Pope, 138 Lisbon, 165 Linoli, Edoardo, 37 Logos doctrine, 45, 46 Lonergan, Bernard, viii, 2–3, 184 Method in Theology, viii, 184 Longinus, 37, 87, 88, 89, 94, 101 Loreto, Holy House at, 139, 155 Loreto, Sisters of, 38 Lot, 180 Lourdes, 9, 12, 56–70, 76, 77, 78, 82, 84, 85, 138, 140, 141, 160, 169, 170, 177; see also Peyramale, Dean Marie Dominique; Pius X Basilica Lourdes Medical Bureau, 63 Lucian of Samosta, 9 Lucie-Smith, Alexander, 69 Luke, St as painter, 146 Luzzatto, Sergio, 12 McCaffrey, James, 16 McLaughlin, Brian P., 4 Macquarrie, John, 3 Madonnas and Miracles Exhibition, vii Magdeburg, 6 magic, sorcery, 9, 10, 11, 22, 49, 116, 167, 174, 176, 177 Main, John, 107 Makkī, ʿAmr b. ʿUthmān, 108

288  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Mālik b. Anas, 43, 44, 74 Malta, 128 Mamre, oak of, 34 Manāt, 147 manna, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 34, 46, 47, 48, 50, 52, 53, 121 Manuel II, King, 161 Marah, 50, 51, 52 Marcion of Sinope, 3 Marie, Antoine, 39 Marsden, Fr Francis, 14, 36, 92 Marto, Manuel Pedro (Ti-Marto), 165 martyrdom, Shīʿite, 118 al-Marwa, 24, 76, 81, 83, 85; see also al-Íafā Mary I, Queen, 154–5 Mary, Virgin, 8, 9, 13, 14, 16, 42, 56–70, 73, 82, 84–5, 88, 95, 100–1, 117, 130, 131, 132–42, 145–7, 149, 150, 151, 152, 155, 156, 160–71, 182, 185 Aquerò, 56, 60, 82, 85 Star of the Sea, 141 see also Lourdes; New Ark of the Covenant Maryam see Mary, Virgin Mason, Herbert, 108 Mass, 6, 16, 17, 33, 37, 40, 70, 86, 91, 92, 96, 101, 102, 104, 114, 115; see also Gregory I, Pope Massah, 30, 50, 51 Master of Mary of Burgundy, 7 Book of Hours, 7 al-Masʿūdī, 126 Matthew of Canterbury, 98 Mattioni, Michele, 93 Maunder, Chris, 59, 67, 100, 161, 162, 168 Mayblin, Maya, x Mecca, 20, 76, 77, 79, 80, 83, 140, 141, 142, 144, 145, 147, 149, 151, 173, 174, 175, 181, 182 Mechtild of Magdeburg, 101 Medina, 44, 176 Mediterranean Sea, 128 Medjugorje, apparitions at, 12, 13, 14, 59, 62, 168, 169–70, 192n110 Medjugorje seers (Mirjana et al.), 170 memory and memorialisation, viii, 9, 16, 17, 62, 64, 67, 70, 102, 104, 113, 116, 128–9, 141, 142, 152, 153, 154, 155, 156, 167, 169–70, 179, 180, 182, 185–6 Meribah, 30, 50, 51 Merseburg, See of, 6 metánoia, 107, 181; see also repentance Michael, Archangel, 146, 150, 163

Milan, 131 Mildred, St, 7 Minā, 173, 181, 182 Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon, 19, 20, 22, 171–81, 182, 183 Miracle of the Sun, 160–70, 174, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183 Miracles, attitudes to, ix definitions, 1–6 significance, ix, 184 see also Hazrat Bibi Fatima; karāmāt; muʿjizāt miʿrāj, 19, 20 Mojaddedi, Jawid, 109 Molière, 25 Monophysitism, 148 Montmartre, Paris, 101 moon, 181, 182, 183 in Qur’ān, 171, 173, 178, 179, 182 landing, 22–3, 178 standing of, 158, 159, 160 see also Armstrong, Neil; Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon Morocco, 79 Moses, 27, 28, 31, 38, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 56, 77, 121, 130, 159; see also rock and Moses; staff, branch and Moses Mosul, 120 motifs, metamotifs, viii, 184 and passim definition, 26 Mucci, Fr Prof. Giandomenico, 59, 103 Muhammad, The Prophet, 4, 19, 20, 21, 24, 43, 44, 45, 46, 49, 73–4, 75, 77, 80, 89, 116, 142, 145, 146, 147, 148, 149, 151, 152, 155, 172, 173–4, 175, 176, 177, 179, 180, 181, 182, 185 Farewell sermon, 155 not a miracle worker, 44, 45, 73, 176, 178 opening of chest, 20 see also miʿrāj Mujāhid, 79 muʿjizāt, 4, 5, 22, 174, 175; see also karāmāt Müller, Cardinal Gerhard, 192n110 multifacetedness, viii, 26, 84, 114, 118, 155, 181, 184, 186 multivalency, 126, 186 Muʿtazila, 5, 20, 21, 26 mystery, sense of, 4, 6 myth, 64, 102, 127 128, 135, 136, 141, 151, 167, 185 Virgin’s milk, 141

i ndex | 289 Naaman, General, 73 Nabataeans, 148 Najrān, 148 Naples, 98, 99, 103, 104 narratology, viii–ix, 25–6, 46–9, 62, 82–5, 114–19, 122, 153–7, 181–3 definitions, 25–6 Nasr, Seyyed Hossein, 177 Nasser, President, 60 Nazareth, Holy House at, 134, 135, 139, 155 Neoplatonism, 25 Nevers, Convent of Saint-Gildard at, 67, 69 New Ark of the Covenant, 130, 131, 132, 149, 150, 151, 155, 156; see also Mary, Virgin New Testament, x and passim Nicholas IV, Pope, 93 Nicholas II, Tsar, 161 Nicholas of Cusa, Cardinal, 103, 105 Nicholson, Reynold A., 107, 110 Nicodemus, 54 Ninevah, 120 Nippur, 122 Noah, Noe, Nūª, 120, 121, 122, 123, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 131, 139, 143, 156, 180 Sūra of Noah, 124 Noailles, Fr A., 38 Noe see Noah, Noe, Nūª Norfolk, 132 Norman Conquest, 134 Nūª see Noah, Noe, Nūª numerology, 31–2, 42, 47 abjad, 178 Old Testament, 3 and passim O’Neill, Michael, 14 Origen, 9 original sin, 61, 73, 118–19 Orthodox Church, 17, 35, 107, 146 Orvieto, Umbria, 91, 93 Cappella del Corporale, 93 Orvieto Cathedral, 92–3 Otto 11 of Germany, 6 Our Lady of Mount Carmel, 164; see also Mary, Virgin Our Lady of Perpetual Succour see ikons; Mary, Virgin Our Lady of Sorrows, 164; see also Mary, Virgin Our Lady Who Unties Knots, 147; see also Mary, Virgin

Ovid, 127 Metamorphoses, 127 Oxford Movement, 137 Padova, 35 Padre Pio see Pio of Pietrelcina, St Pagani, Vincenzo, 139 Palestine, 29, 32 Paradise, 33, 48, 81, 119, 144, 145 Paris, 79 parousía, 181 Parrinder, Geoffrey, 42, 43, 45, 152 Paschal Vigil, 17 Passover, 16, 33, 34, 35 Patella, Michael F., 107 Patten, Fr Alfred Hope, 137, 142 Paul 11, Pope, 156 Paul, St, 147–8 Epistle to the Galatians, 148 Pelagius 11 Pope, 102 Pepys Library, Magdalene College, Cambridge, 135 Perkins, Pheme, 88 Persia see Iran Peter of Prague, 92–3 Petre, Sir William, 136 Petrograd, 161 Peyramale, Dean Marie Dominique, 61–2, 67, 68; see also Lourdes Pezet, Fr Alejandro, 38 Pharaoh, 108, 180 Pharisees, 55, 179, 181; see also Nicodemus Philip, Earl of Arundel, 136 The Wracks of Walsingham, 136 pilgrimage/ªajj, ix–x, 6, 8, 24, 81, 84, 85, 92, 93, 130, 132, 136, 138, 139, 141, 143, 144, 145, 151, 152, 153, 155, 156, 157, 159, 160, 164 manāsik, 24, 33, 81, 85, 90, 143, 144, 155 ʿUmra (Minor Islamic pilgrimage), 79 walking pilgrimages, 138 Walsingham Walkers, 138 Pio of Pietrelcina, St, 12, 96, 105, 107; see also stigmata Pius II, Pope, 37 Pius IX, Pope, 61, 67, 171 Pius XI, Pope, 67 Pius XII, Pope, 170 Pius X Basilica, Lourdes, 70 plague, 6, 135, 136 plagues of Egypt, ten, 16, 31, 51

290  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us Plato, 4, 128 Timaeus, 128 Po Valley, 128 Poland, 40–1 Polynesian religion, 115–16 Popiełusko, Fr Jerzy, 41 Porter, J. R., 158 Portugal, 160, 161, 165, 166, 169 Portuguese Missionary Society, 167 Portuguese Press, 165–6, 169, 170 power, Divine, 10, 48, 49, 51, 53, 54, 55, 56, 85, 86, 115, 119, 129–30, 131, 160, 171, 176, 180, 181, 182, 185 presence, Divine, 1, 4, 44, 48, 51–2, 65, 70, 81, 94, 95, 101, 104, 129, 130, 131, 142, 147, 152, 154, 157, 160, 169, 179, 185, 186 sakīna, 130, 228n127 Promethius, 127 Protestantism, x, 11–12, 35, 142, 147 Pynson, Richard, 135, 140 Pynson Ballad, 133, 134, 135, 138–9, 140, 141, 155, 157 Qādiriyya, (Íūfī Order), 22; see also Íūfīs, Íūfism quails, 27, 28, 29, 30, 32, 47, 53 Qur’ān, 4 and passim Qur’ān as miracle, 18–22 and passim Quraysh, 174, 175, 177, 179, 181 Raju, Alison, 92 Rama∂ān, 24, 90, 172 Ramli, Harith Bin, vii Ratzinger, Joseph/Benedict XVI, Pope, 88, 89, 99 Red Sea, 148 Redemptorists, 146 Reformation, 11, 136, 137, 142 relics, 7, 8, 10, 141 Renaissance, 10 repentance, 105, 106–7, 163, 164, 170, 180–1, 182 repetition, ix, 26, 47, 48, 50, 52, 84, 115, 118, 156, 184 Rephidim, 50 representation of the human form, prohibition on, 152 revelation, private, 64, 168, 171, 183, 192n110 Revolution, French, 67 Revolution, Portuguese, 161 Revolution, Russian, 161

revolutions, 19th-century European, 58, 63 Richard 111, King, 133 Richeldis de Faverches, Lady, 134, 139, 140, 157; see also Walsingham Robertson, Morven, 128 rock and Moses, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54 rock and Santa Christina, 92 Roman Catholic revival, 137 Romans, 134 Rome, 92, 132, 133, 146, 147, 160 Rubin, Miri, 58, 149, 162 Ruini, Cardinal Camillo, 14 Runcie, Archbishop Robert, 137 Sabbath, Jewish, 28–9, 159 sacred, sense of, 4, 6 al-Íafā, 24, 76, 81, 83, 85; see also al-Marwa safīna see ark Sahin, Harun, 90 St Alphonsus, Church of, Rome/Chiesa di San Alfonso, 146, 153 St Peter Am Perlach, Church of, Augsburg, 147 Saints, cult of, 6–7 and passim Saggs, H. W. F., 127 Salazar, Antonio de Oliveira, 166 Íāliª, 180 Salsabīl, 81 salvation history, 16, 17, 47, 54, 94, 101, 181 Samaritan woman, 54–5 Santa Christina see Bolsena Santiago de Compostella, 132, 133 Santorini, 128 Sara (Sarah), wife of Ibrāhīm, 34, 75–6, 83 Sasanians, 148 scepticism see disbelief, doubt, scepticism Schimmel, Annemarie, 106, 108, 109 School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London, vii Schütz, Bernhard, 93 Scott, Robert A., 14, 59 Scott, Timothy, 46 Second Vatican Council, 58, 166, 168 secrets and apparitions, 59, 164, 169; see also Fatima, apparitions at Seeing is Believing Workshop, vii semiotics see signs, semiotics, āyāt Sennacherib, King, 120 Shaʿbān, month of, 77 Shādhiliyya (Íūfī Order), 24; see also Íūfīs, Íūfism Shamesh, sun god, 158 sha†aªāt, 109, 110, 112

i ndex | 291 Shaw, George Bernard, 186 Shaw, Jane, 11 Shīʿa, 5, 116–17, 118, 125, 156 al-Shiblī, 108 Shihadeh, Ayman, vii shrines, 51–2, 56–70, 92, 132–42, 153, 154, 155, 160; see also Canterbury; Walsingham Shuʿayb, 180 Shuruppak, 122 Sigeric, Archbishop of Canterbury, 91 signs, semiotics, āyāt, 4, 6, 19, 24, 25, 32, 33, 46, 47, 51, 54, 56, 94, 101, 105, 111, 114, 129–30, 132, 149, 153, 162, 171, 174, 175, 176, 177, 179, 181, 182, 186 Siloam, Pool of, 55 Sinai, 29, 51 Singer, Stella A., 133 Slipper Chapel, Houghton St Giles, 137 Smith, George, 120 Smith, Mark S., 51 SOAS see School of Oriental and African Studies, University of London Sokołka, 38, 40–1, 200n109 sorcery see magic, sorcery Soubirous, Bernadette, 57–70, 76, 83, 170; see also Lourdes; Mary, Virgin; Peyramale, Dean Marie Dominique Soubirous, François, 67, 82, 84, 85 Spinoza, Baruch, 9 splitting of the moon see Miracle of the Splitting of the Moon springs and wells, 52, 53, 61, 64, 66, 68, 71–81, 125, 139, 140, 154; see also Salsabīl; Zamzam staff, branch and Moses, 50, 52, 53 stars in Qur’ān, 171, 172, 173 stigmata, 12, 94, 95–7, 100, 105, 107, 219n180; see also Francis of Assisi, St; Pio of Pietrelcina, St stone see wood and stone storm see flood, deluge, storm Strickland, Agnes, 133, 154 The Pilgrims of Walsingham, 133, 154 structuralism, structure, 25, 84 Íūfīs, Íūfism, 5, 22, 24, 86, 87, 105, 106, 107, 108, 109, 112, 117, 118, 119; see also Qādiriyya; Shādhiliyya Sumption, Jonathan, 8–9 sun, 181, 182, 183 in Qur’ān, 171, 172, 173 standing of, 158, 159, 160

Sun god, 122 see also Miracle of the Sun superstition, 6 Sūra of the Cave (Sūrat al-Kahf ), 159 Sūra of Joseph (Sūrat Yūsuf ), 48 Sūra of the Moon (Sūrat al-Qamar), 173–4, 178, 180 Sūra of Noah (Sūrat Nūª), 124 Sūra of the Table (Sūrat al-Mā’ida), 41–6, 47, 48, 53 Swinburne, Richard, 2 al-˝abarī, 29, 43, 52, 53, 90, 91 Tabernacles, Feast of, (Sukkot), 55 Table, Miracle of see Sūra of the Table tafsīr, 80, 90, 172, 176, 179, 209n219 tamarisk, 29 al-Tanūkhī, 26 †awāf, 149–50, 151 tawªīd,46 taʿziya/taʿziyih, 111–12 Tester, Keith, 168 testing, 28–30, 42, 47, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 123 Thamūd, 180 Thavis, 98, 99, 100, 103 themes, metathemes, viii, 184 and passim definition, 26 Thibaut, Mgr, Bishop of Montpellier, 68 Thiel, Bob, 167 Thiselton, Anthony C., 11 Thomas, David, 19, 20 Thomas, Sir Keith, 10 Thousand and One Nights see Alf Layla wa Layla throne, Divine, 151, 152 Tigris, River, 111, 113, 128 Torres, Eduardo, 170 transubstantiation, 35–6, 37, 40, 46, 86, 91, 92, 99, 100, 102, 104 Trent, Council of, 14 Trimingham, J. Spencer, 147–8 Trinity, 34, 149 Trotsky, Leon, 161 trumpets, horns, 159, 160 Tudor Age, 133, 135 Turkey, 22, 99 Tustar, Khuzistan, Persia, 105–6 al-Tustarī, Sahl ibn ʿAbd Allāh, 105, 106, 107, 108 Tyburn, London, 101 Tyburn Nuns see Adorers of the Sacred Heart of Jesus

292  |  i sla m, chri sti a ni ty a n d th e mir a cul o us types and antitypes, typology, ix, 17, 18, 31, 32, 48, 54–5, 85, 89, 115, 118, 121, 125, 151, 152, 156, 182, 184 ʿulamā’, 9 Umbria see Orvieto umma, 119 universality, viii, 184 Urban IV, Pope, 93, 94 Transiturus de hoc mundo, 94 Uruk, 122 Uta-napishti, 122, 123, 125 Vaglieri, Veccia, 116 Vatican, 12, 14, 99, 170 Vauchez, André, 9, 13, 91 Venetian plain, 128 Vesuvius, 98 Victorian Age, 145, 154 Vinzent, Markus, 3 Virgin Birth, Dogma of, 61 visions and apparitions, 13, 38, 56–70, 84–5, 100–1, 102–3, 134–5, 139, 142, 155, 156, 157, 160–71, 181, 185, 192n110; see also Fatima; Garabandal; Knock; Lourdes; Medjugorje; Walsingham; Zaytun Vowell, Prior of Walsingham, 136 Waller, Gary, 134, 135, 141, 154 Walsingham, 8, 130, 132–42, 144, 153, 154, 155, 156 England’s Nazareth, 133 Walsingham litany, 132 see also Richeldis de Faverches, Lady; Slipper Chapel, Houghton St Giles al-Wāqidī, 74, 145, 151 Kitāb al-Maghāzī, 74 Waraqa ibn Nawfal, 149 Warner, Marina, 61, 62, 162 water, viii, 23, 30, 50–85, 113, 142, 152, 156, 157, 175

Weigel, George, 66 wells see springs and wells Werfel, Franz, 64, 65, 66–9, 70, 82, 84 The Song of Bernadette, 64, 66–9 see also Lourdes; Mary, Virgin; Soubirous, Bernadette West, Morris, 30 The Devil’s Advocate, 30 Westminster, 133 wholeness, viii, 64–5, 68, 70, 81, 85, 104, 113, 129, 142, 152, 170 Willesee, Mike, 40 Wilson, Angus, 83–4 wine at wedding feast of Cana, 87–8 Winterson, Jeanette, 121 wonder, sense of, 2, 4, 6 wood and stone, 120–57 Woodward, Kenneth, 49, 74, 96 wrath, Divine, 6, 123, 124, 129, 136, 153 Yahweh, 124 Yahya, Harun, 178 Yaʿqūb, 72 Yeary, Clifford, 35 al-Zamakhsharī, 20 Zamzam, spring, well of, 24, 76–81, 82, 83, 140, 152 zandaqa, 109 Zaytun Old Cairo, apparitions at, 59, 60 Zdrodovvski, Fr Filip, 40 Zechariah, 89 Zola, Émile, 62–3, 64, 65–6, 67, 68, 69, 70, 82, 83, 84, 85, 177 Lourdes (novel), 63, 65–6, 67, 68, 69, 70, 83, 84 Paris (novel), 84 Rome (novel), 84 Rougon-Macquart cycle of novels, 84 Zoroastrians, 148 Zugibe, Frederick, 39