Learning from Other Religious Traditions: Leaving Room for Holy Envy (Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue) 3319761072, 9783319761077

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LEARNING FROM OTHER RELIGIOUS TRADITIONS LEAVING ROOM FOR HOLY ENVY Edited by Hans Gustafson

Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue Series Editors Gerard Mannion Department of Theology Georgetown University Washington, D.C., USA Mark D. Chapman Ripon College University of Oxford Oxford, UK

Building on the important work of the Ecclesiological Investigations International Research Network to promote ecumenical and inter-faith dialogue, the Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue series publishes scholarship on interreligious encounters and dialogue in relation to the past, present, and future. It gathers together a richly diverse array of voices in monographs and edited collections that speak to the challenges, aspirations, and elements of interreligious conversation. Through its publications, the series allows for the exploration of new ways, means, and methods of advancing the wider ecumenical cause with renewed energy for the twenty-first century. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14561

Hans Gustafson Editor

Learning from Other Religious Traditions Leaving Room for Holy Envy

Editor Hans Gustafson Jay Phillips Center for Interfaith Learning University of St. Thomas St. Paul, MN, USA

Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue ISBN 978-3-319-76107-7    ISBN 978-3-319-76108-4 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4 Library of Congress Control Number: 2018935187 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2018 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors, and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, express or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Pete Mcbride/Getty Images Printed on acid-free paper This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer International Publishing AG part of Springer Nature. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

Foreword

The Legacy of Krister Stendahl: Let Holy Envy Replace Supersessionist Claims1 As Hans Gustafson explains in the opening chapter of this book, the intent of the book’s contributors is to move forward and embody the vision that Krister Stendahl had for how religions and religious practitioners can learn to relate to each other—with a holy envy that enables them to see, affirm, and possibly learn from what is good and valuable in other traditions. But Stendahl, with an astounding prescience and courage that anticipated later theological developments, also recognized that there is a major obstacle to such holy envy, an obstacle that he clearly identified in his own religion but also noted in many others: he called it supersessionism. It is the belief and the attitude that one’s own is the privileged religion intended by God (or the Ultimate) to replace or absorb all other religions. It’s difficult, if not impossible, to recognize and be envious of the truth in another religion when you’re convinced that you have the full and final Truth.

1  This Foreword is adapted from a lecture delivered as the first of the “Krister Stendahl Memorial Lectures” in  Stockholm, Sweden, on  October 13, 2009, and  later published as “Christianity and the Religions: A Zero-Sum Game? Reclaiming ‘The Path Not Taken’ and the Legacy of Krister Stendahl,” Journal of Ecumenical Studies, volume 46, number 1 (Winter, 2011), 5-21. It is here reprinted with permission of the University of Pennsylvania Press.

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What I’d like to do in this Foreword is trace how Stendahl both recognized this Christian problem of supersessionism, first regarding Judaism but also toward other religions as well, and also how he tried to resolve this problem. With Stendahl’s help, this Foreword hopes to lay the theological foundations (for Christians, but with implications for other religions) that will sustain and motivate the practice of holy envy. I begin by drawing on the help of the recognized scholar of natural science, anthropology, and religious history, Robert Wright. In his 2009 book The Evolution of God, 2 he suggested that the role of religion (especially the Abrahamic religions) is to expand our moral imaginations by pushing us to an embrace of radical interdependence and radical compassion for all beings. He posits that religion stands on a threshold. Will it make the step from a zero-sum religious mentality to one of non-zero-­ sum? In The Evolution of God, and his previously released and richly awarded book, Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny,3 Wright put forth a rather simple argument supported with a broad array of biological, anthropological, and historical data. In the early pages of Nonzero, he summarized his central claim: “My hope is to illuminate a kind of force— the non-zero-­sum dynamic—that has crucially shaped the unfolding of life on earth so far.”4 Or in an op-ed piece in the Sunday New York Times of August 23, 2009, he stated crisply: “… non-zero-sum dynamics … are part of our universe.”5 In other words, there has been a widespread misunderstanding of Darwin’s “survival of the fittest”; the fittest are really not the strongest and the meanest but, rather, the smartest and the most cooperative. As Wright put it, “interdependence is just another name for non-zero-sumness.”6 The consequences of the path religion takes in the face of this threshold are global: “If the Abrahamic religions [we can say, all religions] don’t respond to this ultimatum adaptively, if they don’t expand their moral imaginations, there is a chance of chaos on an unprecedented scale.”7 Wright has suggested that for religions to play this role and to make this shift from a zero-sum jealous God to a non-zero-sum embracing God,  Robert Wright, The Evolution of God (New York: Little, Brown and Co., 2009).  Robert Wright, Nonzero: The Logic of Human Destiny (New York: Pantheon Books, 2000). 4  Wright, Nonzero, p. 5. 5  Robert Wright, “A Grand Bargain over Evolution,” New York Times, August 23, 2009. 6  Wright, Evolution of God, p. 411. 7  Ibid.; see also p. 430. 2 3

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they are going to have to get off their high horses. Claims to be “the only true religion,” or the superior religion meant to absorb all the others, are inherently generators of zero-sum relations: For my religion to be true, yours must be false. Or: for my religion to be true it must be superior to yours. Such religious claims all too easily promote non-zero-sum conflict, which so easily becomes violence. As Wright trenchantly observed: “A premise shared by all who commit violence in the name of the Abrahamic god is that this god is special—the one true god.”8 If that statement is true, than the Abrahamic religions are in a sorry state, for as Wright has also accurately observed, “Among the things Muslims, Christians, and Jews have had in common over the years is a tendency to exaggerate their past specialness.”9 Can Christianity Move to a Non-Zero-Sum Understanding of Itself and Other Religions? The question we face today—and the question that, amazingly, Krister Stendahl already posed back in the 1960s and 1970s—is: Can the Abrahamic religions overcome “this tendency to exaggerate their specialness”? In Wright’s terms: Can they move from a zero-sum competition with other religions to that of a non-zero-sum engagement? Specifically for Stendhal’s context, can the Christian church engage other religions in a game in which every religion, by and large, wins and preserves its identity, rather than a game in which Christianity has to win by proving its superiority? Or, Stendahl formulated the question for his times this way: Is it possible for Christians to abandon their supersessionist claims and affirm the ongoing validity not only of the Jewish religion but also of other religions?  he Impossibility of Superseding Supersessionism T A large number of Christians would respond that such a move beyond supersessionism and zero-sum is fundamentally impossible. In my book, Introducing Theologies of Religions,10 I tried to sort and sift the different 8  Ibid., p. 129; see also p. 159. This assertion of Wright is grave; we have to understand it accurately. He is not saying that the belief that mine is the only true God leads necessarily to violence; he is saying that, when religious violence is carried out, it is usually sustained by the belief that my God, or my religion, is the only true one. 9  Ibid., p. 431. 10  Paul F. Knitter, Introducing Theologies of Religions (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2005).

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Christian approaches to other religions into four distinctive models: Replacement, Fulfillment, Acceptance, and Mutuality. (This is an expansion of, and an addition to, the older line-up of these models as Exclusivism, Inclusivism, and Pluralism.) If all the Christians of the world had to vote which theological party they adhered to, the majority, I reluctantly pointed out, would cast their ballots for either the Replacement (Exclusivist) or the Fulfillment (Inclusivist) parties. For Catholics, theologians who have tried to move beyond the Fulfillment Model have frequently run into problems with either the Vatican or local bishops.11 For both of these dominant theological parties, the call to abandon Christianity’s zero-sum view of other religions and to shift to a non-zero-­ sum approach—to what is called the Mutualist or Pluralist party—is simply impossible. It is impossible for one thundering reason: They claim that it would amount to abandoning a belief that is absolutely essential to what it means to be a Christian. From the very first decades of the early church, these Christians point out, and throughout the meanderings of church history, Christians have believed and announced that Jesus Christ is the unique, the one, the final, the absolute savior of all humanity. If I might make the point inappropriately but clearly: To ask Christians to give up their belief that Jesus is the only savior is like asking Americans to give up baseball. It is part of who they are. It maintains their doctrinal continuity with past generations, and it provides the energy to be a disciple of Jesus and to follow him. Therefore, most Christians would insist that the assertion that Jesus is the only savior (based on the belief that he is the only Son of God) is, as John Taylor has trenchantly phrased it, a non-negotiable.12 Christians, in the engagement with other believers, cannot negotiate whether Jesus is the only savior. If they did, they would lose their Christian identities and the Christian contribution to the interreligious dialogue. S tendahl: Christianity Needs a New Departure Point What I am calling the legacy of Stendahl would challenge these declared non-negotiables of Christianity. He would smile kindly and ask his fellow 11  Examples include: Roger Haight, S.J.; Jacques Dupuis, S.J.; Michael Amaladoss, S.J.; Jon Sobrino, S.J.; Peter Phan; Tisa Balasuriya, O.M.I.; and Jacob Kavunkel, S.V.D.  The Vatican has moved against only priests or religious, over whom it has juridical power. 12  John V. Taylor, “The Theological Basis of Interfaith Dialogue,” in Gerald H. Anderson and Thomas F. Stransky, eds., Mission Trends No. 5: Faith Meets Faith (New York: Paulist Press; Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1981), pp. 128–154.

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disciples of Jesus to sit down and take another, more careful, look. Such a look would be motivated by what he identified, along with Wright, as the global and life-threatening dangers of zero-sum religious claims of final superiority. For Stendahl the dangers, indeed the evils, of supersessionist or non-­ zero claims have been illustrated most blatantly and horrendously in the relations of Christians to Jews. This relationship in his words has been “marked and marred by supersessionism and its replacement mechanisms.”13 “… [T]he supersessionist drive,” Stendahl reminded his fellow believers, has led religious people “into adversarial patterns where the younger had to trump and trounce the older.”14 He provided examples of the workings of supersessionism that expand its dangers well beyond the perils for Judaism: There is Abel over Cain, Isaac over Ishmael, Jacob over Esau, Joseph over his older brothers, Israel over Canaan—and the pattern continues, not only Church over Synagogue, but Islam over both Judaism and Christianity, and Protestants over Catholics in the Reformation [and, we could add, Christianity over all other religions]. In no case is complementarity or coexistence an option chosen; there is always the claim to exclusive legitimacy.15

Stendahl described such supersessionist, non-zero claims to “exclusive legitimacy” in rather uncharacteristically harsh language, as “the ultimate arrogance in the realm of religion … unavoidably [leading to] spiritual colonialism, spiritual imperialism.”16 This, according to Stendahl, is what so upset St. Paul among the first Christians of Rome—“their attitude of superiority”17 and conceit toward their Jewish brothers and sisters. This is what stirred Paul to write Chaps. 9, 10, and 11 in Romans, dealing with “the mystery” of the abiding election of Israel. Stendahl wryly gave his own description of what Paul was doing in these chapters: “It is as if Paul did not want them to have the Christ-flag to wave, since it might fan their conceit.”18 13  Krister Stendahl, “Qumran and Supersessionism—and the Road Not Taken,” Princeton Seminary Bulletin, N.S. vol. 19, no. 2 (1998), p. 134. 14  Ibid., p. 136. 15  Ibid., p. 137; my emphasis. 16  Krister Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective We Are All Minorities,” The Journal of Religious Pluralism, vol. 2 (1993); available at http://www.jcrelations.net/en/?item=783 17  Ibid. 18  Krister Stendahl, Meanings: The Bible as Document and as Guide (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), p. 243.

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Stendahl summarized the problem of supersessionism: “The road taken, the road of supersessionism, has proven to be a dead end, even a road to death.”19 Further, “we are heirs to traditions that have—it seems— in their very structure the negation if not the demonization of the Other. So the serious theological question is: What to do? How do we counteract the undesirable effects of the supersessionist instinct?”20 Note that Stendahl defined supersessionism not just as an ethical issue but as a “serious theological problem.” If we are going to avoid “negating” or “demonizing” others, we are going to have to do some serious, difficult, unsettling theological reconstruction. Such reconstruction, he continued, may have to do with items we thought were “non-­negotiables.” Stendahl was adamant that we cannot blame our mistreatment of Jews on a few bad Christian apples. Rather, there may be some bad theological or doctrinal apples, some of them lying at the center of the Christian table: We must rather ask openly and with trembling whether there are elements in the Christian tradition—at its very center—that lead Christians to an attitude toward Judaism which we now must judge and overcome. It is an odd form of anti-intellectualism to believe that the theology is all right but the practice and sentiments of individuals are to blame. It may well be that we should be more responsible for our thoughts and our theology than for our actions. To trust in “men of good will” and to leave the theological structures unattended is bad strategy.21

He concluded, tersely but pointedly: “It is clear to me that Christian theology needs a new departure.”22 Since Jesus Christ is the point of departure, the starting point, for all Christian theology, Stendahl was suggesting a new Christology. With a beautiful image that sparkles frequently in his different writings, he describes the goal of this new Christology: “How can I sing my song to Jesus fully and with abandon without feeling it necessary to belittle the faith of others? I believe that question to be crucial for the health and vitality of Christian theology in the years ahead.”23  Stendahl, “Qumran,” p. 142.  Ibid., p. 138. 21  Stendahl, Meanings, pp. 219–220. 22  Ibid., p. 224. 23  Ibid., p. 233. 19 20

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In the remainder of these reflections, I would like to rehearse and comment on what Stendahl called his “song to Jesus”—a song he could sing fully without denigrating the songs of others. After describing what I believe he would find to be an appropriate title for his song, I’d like to run through three stanzas that I think will enable us to sing along with him. The title of his song is “The Path Not Taken.” The three verses deal with ecclesiology, missiology, and Christology. Stendahl’s New Song: “The Path Not Taken”  he Path Not Taken Then Can Be Taken Now T In his 1967 article “Judaism and Christianity,” Stendahl announced that something “went wrong” at the very beginning of the relationship between the new Christian community and its parent, Judaism: Something went wrong in the beginning. I say “went wrong,” for I am not convinced that what happened in the severing of the relations between Judaism and Christianity was the good and positive will of God. Is it not possible for us to recognize that we parted ways not according to but against the will of God? … But if it be true that “something went wrong” in their parting of ways, we should not elevate the past to an irrevocable will of God, but search for the lost alternative.24

What is this “lost alternative” that we can now try to reclaim? Stendahl described it as a “benevolent typology”25 that regards both Judaism and Christianity as two different ways of carrying on God’s broader project of mending the world. Stendahl’s description of this shared project: “There is a familiar shape to God’s ways with the world, God’s ever repeated attempts at the mending of what was broken, even restoring the imago dei in which humanity had been created.”26 God’s covenant with Judaism was an expression of God’s determination to “mend the world” (tikkun olam). The Gentile Christian ­community could have viewed itself (I would add, and for a while did) as another form of that same effort, that same covenant. Stendahl suggested that the early  Ibid., p. 224.  Stendahl, “Qumran,” p. 136. 26  Ibid. 24 25

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church could have looked upon itself as a “Judaism for Gentiles.”27 Why was this non-supersessionist road not taken? That, as they say, is a long story, one that has since been investigated and described more extensively than Stendahl did, or could do, at his time. His assessment of why this path was not taken is as accurate in its succinctness as it is in need of further elaboration. He stated that the conversation with Judaism that Paul was working out in Rom. 9–11 “was broken off mainly by Christian expansion and superiority feelings.”28 If Stendahl is especially known as a pioneer pointing to and exploring this path not taken toward Judaism, he should also be recognized as a pioneer who went even further. He realized—well before other theologians realized—that the supersessionism that has led to the denigration and exploitation of Judaism by Christians has also been extended throughout church history, with similar negative effects, to other religions. He boldly contended, at a time when such contentions were rare, “that we have valid reasons to extend … the Jewish-Christian … model of Paul’s toward interreligious attitudes in general.”29 He urged the Christian churches “to apply Paul’s principle of agape, of mutual esteem [between Christians and Jews] also to the whole oikoumene, to the wider ecumenism which under the guidance of the Spirit will increasingly call for our  Ibid.  Krister Stendahl, Paul among Jews and Gentiles and Other Essays (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1976), p. 37. Recent scholarship has confirmed Stendahl’s image of a road not taken. “We would argue that for social and historical reasons, and not for any theological inevitability, the possibility of two covenantal modalities was an option that was not pursued” (Philip A.  Cunningham and Didier Pollefeyt, “The Triune One, the Incarnate Logos, and Israel’s Covenantal Life,” paper given at the “Jesus and the Jewish People” Conference 4 at the Swedish Theological Institute, Jerusalem, June 9–12, 2009). John Pawlikowski, echoing Cardinal Carlo Maria Martini, spoke of an unnecessary “schism” between Christianity and Judaism that now confronts us with “a certain mandate to heal the rupture” (John Pawlikowski, “Nostra Aetate at Forty: Where Has It Brought Us in Catholic-Jewish Relations?” paper given at the International Conference, “Nostra Aetate Today,” Pontifical Gregorian University, Rome, September 26, 2005). These scholars actually offer a confirming correction to Stendahl’s assertion that the path was not taken. It was taken, at least for a while. For a number of centuries, the early Christian church self-consciously existed “together with Judaism.” “This sense of a separate Christian identity apart from Judaism only emerged gradually well after his [Jesus’] death. We now are aware as a result of the research of scholars such as Robert Wilken, Wayne Meeks, Alan Segal and Anthony Saldarini that this development took several centuries to mature. Evidence now exists for regular Christian participation in Jewish worship, particularly in the East, during the second and third centuries and, in a few places, even into the fourth and fifth centuries” (Pawlikowski, “Nostra Aetate at Forty”). 29  Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective”; my emphasis. 27 28

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attention.”30 This is about as explicit a call as one can find in Stendahl’s writings to what came to be called a pluralistic or mutualistic theology of religions. This is the theological challenge of Stendahl that, at the beginning of my research for this essay, I wanted to compare with Wright’s call for a non-zero-sum understanding of religious diversity. But, in my research, I was amazed (and reassured) to discover that Stendahl had beaten me to it. In making his appeal that Christians supersede supersessionism not just toward Jews but also toward Muslims and Buddhists and Hindus, Stendahl himself described this as a move to non-zero-sumness: “Matters of religion do not represent a zero-sum problem. That’s Paul’s message. It is not a zero-sum proposition where adding to the other means deducting from the one.”31 For it is simply not true that our faith and our devotion would be weakened by recognizing the insights and the beauty and the truth of other faiths…. The spiritual perception is not bound by that ‘zero-sum’ reasoning where a plus for the one is a minus for the other. I do not need to hate all other women to prove that I love my wife. Quite the contrary. The very attitude of hate or condescension or negativism towards others pollutes the love of one’s own.32

So, Stendahl’s “path-not-taken-then-but-to-be-taken-now” is a superseding of supersessionism; it is a non-zero-sum theology of religions. For many Christians, then and still today, questions remain: Just how did Stendahl manage, theologically and practically, to “sing about Jesus fully” and at the same time not “belittle” but be fully open to other religions? Here, I would like to comment on what I am calling three key stanzas of Stendahl’s song. In them, I believe, he suggested a theology that can combine full commitment to Jesus with a full openness to others. In each of these three areas, Stendahl has offered theological building materials that contemporary theologians have been using, or need to use more extensively, in order to expand and to pave this path, once abandoned, but now to be re-taken.

30  Krister Stendahl, Energy for Life: Reflections on a Theme, “Come, Holy Spirit, Renew the Whole Creation” (Geneva: WCC Publications, 1990), p. 50. 31  Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective”; my emphasis. 32  Stendahl, Energy for Life, p. 50; my emphasis.

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 cclesiology: A Church in Service of the Basileia E In the area of ecclesiology, Stendahl previewed a revisionary image of the church (revisionary especially for us Roman Catholics) that is calling upon Christians, laity but especially dignitaries, to get their ecclesial priorities straight. The Asian Catholic bishops have called it a regnocentric ecclesiology.33 It is based on what scripture scholars tell us were the priorities of Jesus: The core, the central concern, the organizing principle, of his preaching was not his community that came to call itself an ecclesia, nor was it even himself. It was, Stendahl has reminded us, the Basileia tou Theou. “Of all the some hundred themes that [Jesus] could have lifted up from the Jewish tradition … and of all the infinite number of themes available to him in his divine fullness, he chose this one: the kingdom.”34 Stendahl went on to note the dangers, the grave dangers, of forgetting this: “[I]t remains a fact worth pondering that Jesus had preached the kingdom, while the church preached Jesus. And thus we are faced with a danger: we may so preach Jesus that we lose the vision of the kingdom, the mended creation.”35 The primary motivation and energy that should guide the Christian church in its dealing with the world, and especially with other religions, is not to promote itself through conversions; it is not even to bring others to experience Jesus as their Lord and Savior (though these are commendable concerns). Rather, it is to work with others, and with other religions, in promoting the Basileia—in John Cobb’s translation: “the Commonwealth of God.”36 With his typical imaginative humor, Stendahl described how such a regnocentric ecclesiology will clarify Christians’ priorities: “What is the first thing that God asks when God comes to the oval office in the morning? Is it for a printout of the latest salvation statistics of the Christian churches? Or is it a question like: Has there been any progress toward the Kingdom and, by the way, what has the role of the Christians been in that?”37 33  Jacques Dupuis, “The Church, the Reign of God, and the ‘Others’,” Federation of Asian Bishops Conference Papers, no. 67 (1993), pp. 1–30. 34  Stendahl, Meanings, p. 235. 35  Ibid., p. 236. 36  John B. Cobb, Jr., “Commonwealth and Empire,” in David Ray Griffin, John B. Cobb, Jr., Richard A. Falk, and Catherine Keller, The American Empire and the Commonwealth of God: A Political, Economic, Religious Statement (Louisville, KY: Westminster/John Knox Press, 2006), pp. 137–150. 37  Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective.”

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Such a “Basileia-centered” understanding of the church, which affirms the building of God’s commonwealth on earth as the primary purpose of the church, will allow—indeed, it will require—that Christians are as committed to Jesus’ vision of the Basileia as they are open to what they have to learn from other religions about achieving a world of greater compassion and justice.38  issiology: A Particular Mission Within the Universal “Missio Dei” M An ecclesiology that holds the Basileia to be the primary goal of the church provides the foundation for a missiology that places “the mission of the church” within the much broader “missio Dei” (the mission of God). The image of the missio Dei is broadly embraced in both Protestant and Catholic missiology.39 Stendahl, however, has drawn out the sobering but assuring effects of such an embrace: To understand and carry out the mission of the church as part of, rather than the entirety of, the missio Dei means that the church is to consider itself, first, a minority among the peoples and religions of the world, and second, Christians should consider themselves as part of a laboratory in which they are “guinea pigs” that God uses to experiment with what the Basileia requires of us. In calling the Christian religion a minority, Stendahl reminds us that all religions, before God, are minorities. What this means, he feels, can best be learned from our Jewish parents: We are born as a minority religion, as a religion among religions. And we are heirs to the Jewish perspective on these things: that’s what I learned from the scriptures. It says, to Israel, that Israel is meant to be a light to the nations. That’s what Jesus speaks about: a light to the nations. The Jews have never thought that God’s hottest dream was that everybody become a Jew. They rather thought that they were called upon to be faithful and that God somehow needed that people in the total cosmos. What a humility…40

38  I have tried to describe the nature and implications of such a Basileia-centered or “globally responsible” dialogue in Paul F. Knitter, One Earth, Many Religions: Multifaith Dialogue and Global Responsibility (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1995). 39  Stephen B. Bevans and Roger P. Schroeder, Constants in Context: A Theology of Mission for Today (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 2004), Chap. 9. 40  Krister Stendahl, “Why I Love the Bible,” Harvard Divinity Bulletin 35 (Winter, 2007): 6.

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Drawing out the implications of this image, Stendahl concluded that not only is the church a minority but also God intends it to remain a minority: The images in the gospel of Matthew are minority images: “You are the salt of the earth.” Nobody wants the world to be a salt mine. “You are the light of the world and let your light so shine before the people that they see your good deeds and become Christians.” That’s not what it says. It says: that they see your good deeds and praise your Father who is in Heaven, have some reason for joy, that’s what it says.41

As a minority, the church, however, is a necessary minority. Stendahl’s notion of the church as a minority religion in which God carries on “experiments” for mending the world is both humbling and affirming: I think we can be very clear that Matthew thinks of the mission of the Church on a minority model, as did Paul… . It is a minority image, it is the establishment, as I like to say, of Laboratory II. Israel was Laboratory I, and when God felt that some good things had been achieved in Laboratory I, God said “Let’s now try it out on a somewhat broader basis … on a Gentile basis”; but still a laboratory with Christians as the guinea pigs, Christians as another “peculiar people.”42

We Christians are “only” guinea pigs for the reign of God, but we are necessary guinea pigs: “The church is a new witnessing community, a minority whose witness somehow God ‘needs’ in his total mission, the missio Dei.”43 So again, we see how Stendahl, in calling on Christians to make place for other religions, was at the same time affirming the necessary place that Christianity holds. To further grasp this balancing act of viewing the church as a minority but at the same time as a necessity, we have to turn to Christology—to how Stendahl’s work both reflects and provokes contemporary efforts to work out what can be called a “dialogical Christology.”

 Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective”; emphasis in original.  Ibid. 43  Stendahl, Meanings, p. 242; idem, Energy for Life, p. 48. 41 42

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 hristology: The Uniqueness of Christ Calls Us to “Faithful C Particularity” Christ: A Particularity That Is Universal but Not Absolute I cannot suggest that Stendahl developed a clearly packaged Christology. He did not. But I am suggesting that he has provided the pieces out of which systematic theologians can assemble what I would like to call a “dialogical Christology”—an understanding of the person and work of Jesus the Christ that does not exclude but actually requires a dialogue with other religions. Such a dialogical understanding of Jesus is implied in how Stendahl understood the relation between particularity and universality. What I am trying to get at is contained in a simple but weighty statement from his 1993 article, “From God’s Perspective We Are All Minorities.” He held up as an ideal for Christians: “to be a particular, even a peculiar people, somehow needed by God as a witness, faithful, doing what God has told them to do, but not claiming to be the whole.”44 These very words can be applied to Jesus and so become a foundation for a dialogical Christology: Jesus was a particular, a peculiar Jew, needed by God as a witness, faithful, doing what God told him to do, but not claiming to be the whole. To put this in a little more precise, but somewhat technical language: Jesus was a “concrete universal”—a particular presence of God with a message that was universally necessary for all humankind, but still not all of God’s universal presence and message. Throughout his writings, Stendahl warned against universals or universalizing the Christian message. What he meant with these admonitions was not to deny the universal relevance of Christ and the gospel; indeed, he endorsed a “Witness Model” that calls the church to witness to the ends of the earth. What he saw as dangerous was a “universal message,” or a universal savior, that forgets that it remains a particular message and a particular savior. No particular message can contain the whole message of God. No savior can bring all the salvation that God offers to humanity.45 This, according to Stendahl, is the real, the deeper meaning of monotheism.  Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective.”  Krister Stendahl, “Towards World Community,” in Jewish-Christian Dialogue: Six Years of Christian-Jewish Consultations—The Quest for World Community, Jewish and Christian Perspectives (International Jewish Committee on Interreligious Consultations and the World Council of Churches’ Sub-unit on Dialogue with Peoples of Living Faiths and Ideologies) (Geneva: World Council of Churches, 1975), pp. 60–61. 44 45

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The meaning of monotheism, and the point of the first commandment are not that there is one God, but really that there is nothing worth calling God but God… . It is not a question that “one” is better than “many”. … monotheism is an undercutting of all kinds of divine claims for less than divine things. … [a] suspicion against all absolutifying of what is not absolute.46

I think that Stendahl would be very comfortable with the way John Hick describes the divinity of Jesus: He is “totus Deus” but not “totum Dei”—totally divine but not the totality of Divinity.47 He is truly Son of God and savior, and therefore bears a message that is universally urgent for all peoples; but he is not the only Son or Daughter of God or only Savior, thus allowing space for others who may also bear universally urgent messages.48 In fact, Stendahl suggested that he expected and welcomed other messengers with other saving messages, in other religions. Again he told us this with a twist of humor: “The longer I have lived, the more I have come to like plurals. I have grown increasingly suspicious of singulars. I have come to question the incessant theological urge toward oneness.”49 Reinterpreting Our Exclusivist Language: It Calls Us to a “Faithful Particularity” Such a dialogical Christology, fully committed to the following of and witnessing to Jesus the Christ and yet open to what others may have to witness to us, is evident in Stendahl’s well-known exegesis of what we might call the “no-other zingers” in the Second Testament. Two of the top contenders are Acts. 4:12: “There is no other name under heaven given among mortals by which we must be saved”; and Jn. 14:6: “No one comes to the Father except through me.” I had the privilege of being in the chapel of Union Theological Seminary in Richmond, Virginia, in October, 1979, when Stendahl delivered his “Notes for Three Biblical Studies” on these exclusivist texts. I have been 46  Krister Stendahl, “In No Other Name,” in Arne Sovik, ed., Christian Witness and the Jewish People: The Report of a Consultation Held under the Auspices of the Lutheran World Federation Department of Studies, Oslo, 1975 (Geneva: Lutheran World Federation, 1976), pp. 51–52. 47  John Hick, God and the Universe of Faiths (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1973), p. 159. 48  I tried to expand on this kind of a dialogical Christology in Paul F. Knitter, Jesus and the Other Names: Christian Mission and Global Responsibility (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1996). 49  Stendahl, Meanings, p. 1.

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quoting him ever since. The hermeneutical lens through which he approached these exclusive-sounding, one-and-only pronouncements is to understand them not as “dogmatic” or “propositional” or philosophical language intending to give us “absolute” knowledge about the nature of Jesus or the structures of the universe. Rather, these texts are to be felt and dealt with as beautiful and powerful examples of “confessional and liturgical and doxological language … a kind of caressing language by which we express our devotion with abandon and joy.”50 The intent of this caressing or love language is to say something positive about Jesus and about the way he had transformed the lives of his disciples and could transform the lives of others. The intent of this language was not to say something negative about Buddha or any other religious leader or religion. Stendahl pointed out the obvious: “Nowhere in these chapters [Acts 2–4] enter any questions about gentile gods, gentile cults, or gentile religion. Thus there is no way of knowing whether Luke, who wrote this, would consider this saying relevant to a discussion on Buddhism—if he knew anything about Buddhism, which is most doubtful.”51 Therefore, “Acts 4:12 is not a good basis for an absolute claim in an absolute sense, but … it is a natural confession growing out of the faith, growing out of the experience of gratitude… . Here is a confession, not a proposition. It is a witness, … not … an argument.”52 Stendahl is therefore urging us not to discard such “one and only” confessional language but to use it as “home language”—within our own communities as “the language of prayer, worship and doxology.”53 It is not language to be used in our relationships with friends whose confessional or love language is directed to Muhammad or Buddha or Krishna. The language that I use at a candlelight dinner at home when I tell my wife she is the most beautiful woman in the world, I would not use at a social dinner with friends and their partners.  Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective”; idem, Meanings, p. 239.  Stendahl, Meanings, p. 238; see also idem, “In No Other Name,” p. 49. 52  Stendahl, Meanings, p. 240. Stendahl’s judges as “just not apropos” the way Christians have used Jn. 14:6 to denigrate and reject other religions: “It is odd that one of the few passages that are used by those who have closed the doors on a theology of religions in Christianity, should be a passage which is dealing not with the question of the periphery or the margins or exclusion, but which, on the contrary, lies at the very heart of the mystery of what came to be the Trinity: the relation between the Father and the Son” (Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective”). 53  Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective.” 50 51

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These passages from the Second Testament that sound so exclusive of others are really calls to what Stendahl terms “faithful particularity.”54 They summon us to be faithful to the particular Jesus and his message, to live it out in our lives and let others know about it. But, such faithful particularity in no way excludes, indeed it welcomes, the example and witness of “faithful particularities” in other religions. Relating the Particularity of Jesus to the Universality of the Spirit There is another aspect of what I am calling Stendahl’s germinal dialogical Christology that, as far as I can tell, was one of the smallest of seeds that he planted. Today, however, it is fast growing into one of the most fecund new developments in the theology of religions. I am referring to what is being called a “pneumatological theology of religions” that is based on a “Spirit Christology.”55 In his little book Energy for Life: Reflections on the Theme, ‘Come Holy Spirit, Renew the Whole Creation’, which he wrote in preparation for the World Council of Churches Assembly in Canberra (1992), Stendahl foresaw the promising possibilities of taking the Holy Spirit more seriously in our efforts to understand and engage other religions. He calls the Spirit the energy that animates not only the ecumenical churches of the W.C.C. but also the “wider ecumenism.” In doing so, he happily warned, we are dealing with an “energy” that is active in other religions “in ways which cannot be controlled or manipulated by us.”56 The Spirit, as the Gospel of John also warns, “blows where she will.” We cannot predict or control her. Stendahl went on to remind us implicitly that we cannot control this work of the Spirit in other religions even with our Christological ­categories. The Spirit may be up to things that, while they will not contradict what we know through Jesus, may well go beyond what we know in Jesus. Insightfully and rather courageously, he reminded the churches of the West of the negative consequences that have resulted from the Latin church’s insistence on the Filioque—that is, the West’s insistence that the  Stendahl, “Qumran,” p. 140.  For a coherent proposal for a Spirit Christology, see Roger Haight, Jesus: Symbol of God (Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Books, 1999), pp. 455–464. One of the most prolific proponents of a Spirit-based theology of religions is Pentecostal theologian Amos Yong’s Discerning the Spirits: A Pentecostal-Charismatic Contribution to Christian Theology of Religions (Sheffield: Academic Press, 2001). 56  Stendahl, Energy for Life, p. 49. 54 55

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activity of the Spirit must proceed not only from the Father but also from the Son. Such a channeling of the Spirit, Stendahl confessed, has led him and many Western Christians “to believe that the Holy Spirit was ‘only’ conveyor and communicator of the gospel and its blessings.” There was nothing more to convey and communicate outside of the gospel. Stendahl concluded that “the so-called filioque, added to the creed in the West in the Middle Ages … far from being a case of theological hair-splitting, became for me a reminder of how the church at times tends to be over-­ anxious not to allow the Spirit its free range.”57 Again, suggestively and ahead of his times, Stendahl was urging Christians to “allow the Spirit her free range” as they engage other religions. If we do so, if we allow ourselves to be surprised by this free-ranging Spirit, we may discover aspects about what God is up to in creation, or how God is mending the world, that we do not know about in Christ and the gospel. With such a Spirit-based approach to other religions, the rather esoteric and abstract theological musings about the inner life of the Trinity can become real for us in the interreligious dialogue: The Spirit who surprises us in what she is doing in other religions will “dance with” (the Greek Fathers called it perichoresis) what we know through the Word incarnate in Jesus. And this dialogical dance will challenge and enliven us all. These seeds of a pneumatological theology of religions that Stendahl planted are being watered by contemporary theologians—and they are growing. Reclaiming the Distinctive Particularity of Jesus: A Voice for the Voiceless But, although we must be ready for surprises from the universally freeranging Spirit in other religions, we need to say more about what the Word incarnate in the particular Jesus has to offer in the meeting with other religious believers (and of course, also with non-believers). Here, in our final reflections, we take up this question: If God reveals God’s self in particularities, what is the particular revelation in Jesus of Nazareth? The biblical version of this question is: “Who do you say I am?” It is a question, of course, that can never be given a once-and-for-all, one-and-only answer. Rather, it is a question that will receive differing answers as it prods and enriches the Christian community down through the ages and within differing cultures.  Ibid., pp. vii–viii.

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We must ask, then: What is the particular, distinctive, message that we believe God is delivering in and through the Risen Christ, alive in his new body, the church? Or, in our context of religious pluralism: what is the distinctive contribution that Christians must bring to the table of ­dialogue? Please note, when I ask about a “distinctive contribution,” I am not asking for what will make Christianity better than or superior to other religions. Rather, I am asking about what Christians have to bear witness to in order to be faithful to Jesus’ message in our day and age. I am asking not about what elevates Christians above others, but what distinguishes them among others. Again, I believe that Stendahl’s work helps us answer that question. His was one of the earliest voices in North America and Europe to hear, and to corroborate with his scriptural expertise, the message coming from the liberation theologians of Latin America. With them, he recognized that the message and mission of Jesus were “distinguished” by his central concern for the Basileia, the Reign of God. With them, he affirmed that this reign was not just for the life to come in the next world or only for the spiritual needs in this world. Rather, “The kingdom of God, the kingdom of heaven, stands for a mended creation with people and things—a social, economic, ecological reality.”58 But, Stendahl did not stop there. We are not yet touching the further distinguishing quality of Jesus’ message and of his understanding of how God is mending the world. Stendahl, in this same passage, continued: “The kingdom with its justice is for the wronged and the oppressed; the little people who hunger and thirst for bread and for justice; the peacemakers who are so easily liquidated.”59 Stendahl located the distinctiveness of Jesus and of the Christian contribution to the interreligious dialogue in what liberation theologians have called—and what the W.C.C. and the Vatican have echoed as—the preferential option for the poor and marginalized. Here, we have an understanding of the particularity of Jesus and of the Christian message that is based both on recent biblical scholarship about the historical Jesus and on the needs of a globalized world wracked by dehumanizing poverty due to economic disparity. Jesus, in his efforts to promote the Commonwealth of God, proclaimed God’s love for all people as well as God’s immediate love for those people who are being  Stendahl, Meanings, p. 235.  Ibid.

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exploited by other people. This preferential love led him not only to take the side of “little people,” but also to be executed and removed— “desaparacido” as Latin American campesinos put it—as one of them. This, then, is the particular message of Jesus and his followers—a message that has universal urgency. If we want to talk about non-negotiables, maybe it would apply here. While Christians have much to learn about God and about spiritual practice from other religions, this is what they have to contribute to the conversation: If anyone claims to have experienced God, or enlightenment, or Truth and it does not call them to work for justice, especially for those who have been marginalized, then something is missing in their religious experience. Such a strong claim can be, and must be, delivered humbly, sensitively, always non-violently, but it must be delivered. Otherwise, Christians are not Christians.

Conclusion So, I do believe, along with and with a lot of help from Stendahl (may he rest in peace), that Christians, with help from Christian theologians, can respond positively to the challenge posed by Wright—really, a challenge that is being posed by our present globalized and threatened world to all religions. For understandable reasons, a zero-sum theology of religions and manner of relating to other believers has characterized Christian belief and practice. But, the Christian Bible and tradition, as Stendahl tried to make clear, do provide the resources to retake the path that they missed in the first centuries of its existence. It is a path that will lead us Christians beyond supersessionism and zero-sum games not only regarding Judaism but also regarding the other great religious traditions of humanity. It is also a path on which Christians, together with followers of all religious traditions, will be able to feel a holy envy for the beauty and truth that they expect to find in each other’s teachings and practices. Paul F. Knitter

Preface

This edited volume grew out of the growing need for exemplars of finding beauty and value in traditions other than our own, especially during a time of increased religious diversity, misunderstanding, and negativity across lines of religious difference and identity. It is an effort to foster “appreciative knowledge,” a phrase made popular by Eboo Patel and the Interfaith Youth Core in the context of interreligious encounter. It is what Krister Stendhal famously referred to as “Holy Envy,” that process of acknowledging beauty in traditions other than our own. The nine contributors in this volume are scholars and practitioners of various religious traditions, and they hold significant knowledge (and appreciative knowledge at that) of a tradition or traditions other than their own. In their chapters, each reflects on those elements in other traditions they find beauty in, or demonstrate instances of a particular tradition displaying, and calling for, holy envy of other traditions. As with any text on religious and cultural worldviews, it is simply not possible to include them all. The traditions represented, and reflected on, in this volume are by no means the most important or the best. There are many traditions not represented in this volume that certainly deserve representation. These include the great indigenous traditions of the world, the Baha’i faith, the impressive Chinese traditions, secular humanism, and Jainism, to name only a few. Perhaps a future volume or similar project on Holy Envy will provide opportunities to reflect on these traditions, along with others. This volume was made possible with the support from the Jay Phillips Center for Interfaith Learning, which is an academic institute at the xxv

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University of St. Thomas (St. Paul, MN), which shares a collaborative relationship with the Jay Phillips Center for Interfaith Learning at Saint John’s University (Collegeville, MN). The center is dedicated to fostering understanding, cooperation, and friendship among people of diverse religious identities through academic study and civic engagement. A primary aspect of this mission is most certainly to encourage the building of appreciative knowledge and Stendahl’s call to always leave room for Holy Envy. All of the royalties generated by the sales of this book will be donated to the Jay Phillips Center for Interfaith Learning at the University of St. Thomas. Therefore, a big thank you is in order to all of the contributors for their significant time, reflection, and effort put into producing their chapters. Thank you to the all of the contributors and the readers! Your work will help further the constructive learning and engagement across religious identities and traditions. St. Paul, MN, USA

Hans Gustafson

Contents

Foreword by Paul F. Knitter   v 1 Suppressing the Mosquitoes’ Coughs: An Introduction to Holy Envy   1 Hans Gustafson 2 Nietzsche and the Jewish Jesus: A Reflection on Holy Envy  13 Benjamin E. Sax 3 Ibn al-‘Arabi and the Virtues of “Holy Envy” in Islam  37 Meena Sharify-Funk 4 The Ritual of Everyday Life: Hindu Women’s Rituals, Mujerista Theology, and the Catholic Theology of Gender  53 Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier 5 Ásatrú and Hindu: From Prophecy to Dialogue  69 Karl E. H. Seigfried

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Contents

6 A Hindu Gift of Bestowal: Śankara’s Concept of Grace in a Buddhist Context  97 John Y. Cha 7 Self-Reliant and Ecologically Aware: A Christian Appreciation of Buddhism 117 Clifford Chalmers Cain 8 The Nembutsu of Jōdo Shinshū Buddhism 137 Kristin Johnston Largen 9 Buddhists, Get Your Prayer On: Reflections on Christian Spontaneous Prayer by a Buddhist Chaplain 155 Harrison Blum 10 A Mormon Pilgrimage to Sikh Sacred Practice, Text, and Temple 169 Taunalyn Ford Rutherford Index181

Notes on Contributors

Harrison  Blum  is Director of Religious and Spiritual Life & Campus Chaplain at Emerson College in downtown Boston. He has worked as a chaplain in intensive care, psychiatric inpatient, community, and university settings. Blum is a Board Certified Chaplain and a Community Dharma Leader in the Insight Meditation tradition of Western Buddhism. He has presented on mindfulness equity and Buddhist chaplaincy at Oxford University, Harvard’s Divinity and Medical Schools, and the International Symposium for Contemplative Studies. He is the editor of Dancing with Dharma: Essays on Movement and Dance in Western Buddhism (McFarland, 2016). Clifford  Chalmers  Cain  is Harrod-C.S.  Lewis Professor of Religious Studies and Chair of the Department at Westminster College in Missouri. He teaches courses in world religions, religion and ecology, contemporary religious thought, religion and science, Holocaust studies, death and dying, and the meaning of life. His current research examines the interface between world religions and environmental studies, scientific themes/ issues and religious responses, and several ecologically attuned figures in history such as Francis of Assisi, Hildegard of Bingen, the Japanese Zen Buddhist monk Ryokan, and Pope Francis. The holder of a doctorate in theology and a doctorate in science, his graduate degrees are from Princeton Theological Seminary; Leiden University in the Netherlands; Vanderbilt University; and Rikkyo University in Tokyo, Japan. He has also studied for several summers at the United States National Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C. Dr. Cain is the author of nine xxix

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books; his most recent ones include Rapport: Prayers to God (2017), A User-friendly Universe? (2016), Revision: A New Look at the Conversation between Science and Religion (2015), and Many Heavens, One Earth: World Religions and Ecology (2012). John Y. Cha  is Associate Professor in Religion and Japanese Studies at Gustavus Adolphus College in Minnesota. His teaching and research interests include Buddhist philosophy, Indian intellectual history, comparative philosophy, and interreligious dialogue (primarily Buddhist/ Christian dialogue). He recently presented the following papers: “Buddhist Intellectual History at the Crossroads of Theory” at the International Conference on New Directions in the Humanities; “Reflecting Reality: Critical and Foundational Aspects of Indian Yogācāra Epistemology” at the American Academy of Religion annual meeting; “Causality and Its Cessation: The Process of Purification in Classical Indian Yogācāra Thought” at the 2nd Annual conference of the International Society for Buddhist Philosophy (ISBP); “The Problem of Identity and Difference in Indian Yogācāra Conceptions of Reality: Emptiness According to the Madhyanta-vibhaga and its Indic Commentaries” at the 1st Annual conference of the ISBP.  His most recent publication is “Language Conceptualization and Awakening: On the Paradox of Discourse in Classical Indian Yogācāra,” Journal of Cultural and Religious Theory, Vol. 2, No. 3, 2001. Hans  Gustafson  is Director of the Jay Phillips Center for Interfaith Learning at the University of St. Thomas (Minnesota), where he teaches courses in the area of (inter)religious studies and theology. He is the author of Finding All Things in God: Pansacramentality and Doing Theology Interreligiously (Pickwick 2016, Lutterworth 2017), and several other articles and chapters. He presents on religious diversity and encounter to various audiences in the community, academy, and places of work. He holds MA degrees in philosophy and theology, and a PhD degree in religion. He resides in Minnesota with his wife and three sons. Paul F. Knitter  is the Emeritus Paul Tillich Professor of Theology, World Religions, and Culture at Union Theological Seminary, New York, as well as Emeritus Professor of Theology at Xavier University in Cincinnati, OH. He received a Licentiate in theology from the Pontifical Gregorian University in Rome (1966) and a doctorate from the University of Marburg, Germany (1972) Since his 1985 book, No Other Name?, he has

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been exploring how the religious communities of the world can cooperate in promoting human and ecological well-being. More recently, his writing and research have focused on Christian-Buddhist dialogue, which is the topic of Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian (2009) and the co-­ authored book with Roger Haight, S.J. Jesus and Buddha: Friends in Conversation (2015). Since 1986, he has been serving on the Board of Directors for CRISPAZ (Christians for Peace in El Salvador). Kristin Johnston Largen  is Professor of Systematic Theology at United Lutheran Seminary and Associate Dean of Religious and Spiritual Life at Gettysburg College. She teaches a variety of theological courses, with a particular focus on soteriology. She also teaches comparative theology, and specializes in Buddhism and Hinduism. She is the editor of Dialog: a Journal of Theology, and serves on the editorial board of the Journal of Inter-Religious Dialogue. She is the author of What Christians Can Learn from Buddhism: Rethinking Salvation (Fortress Press), Baby Krishna, Infant Christ: A Comparative Theology of Salvation (Orbis Books), and Finding God among Our Neighbors: An Interfaith Systematic Theology vols. 1 & 2, (Fortress Press). Her forthcoming book is Shin Buddhism, Bodies and Rebirth (Lexington Books). Taunalyn Ford Rutherford  received her PhD in History of Christianity and Religions of North America at Claremont Graduate University in California. She completed ethnographic field work in India for her dissertation, “Conceptualizing Global Religions: Mormonism in India,” which examines the establishment of the first LDS stake in India. A portion of her work in India resulted in the publication of “The Internationalization of Mormonism: Indications from India” in Out of Obscurity: Mormonism since 1945 (Oxford University Press, 2016), which won the Mormon History Association’s best international article award. She is currently an adjunct professor of religion at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. In addition to publishing several other book chapters and articles she has presented numerous academic papers at national and international conferences, including “Colonialism and Caste in the LDS Church in India” at the 2015 national gathering of the American Academy of Religion in Chicago. As a member of the International Association of Mission Studies (IAMS), she presented her work at the IAMS assembly in Seoul, South Korea.

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Benjamin E. Sax is the Jewish Scholar at the Institute for Islamic, Christian, and Jewish Studies in Baltimore. He was director of the Malcolm and Diane Rosenberg Program in Judaic Studies and the founding faculty principal at the West Ambler Johnston Residential College at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia. After completing a Master’s degree at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem in Jewish Thought, he earned a doctorate in the history of Judaism at the University of Chicago. Karl E. H. Seigfried  is Adjunct Professor in the Humanities Department of the Lewis College of Human Sciences at Illinois Institute of Technology, where he is also Pagan Chaplain. He is Seminar Faculty at Newberry Library and serves as goði (priest) of Thor’s Oak Kindred, an inclusive organization dedicated to the practice of the Ásatrú religion in Chicago. His work has appeared in Journal of the Oriental Institute (India), Herdfeuer (Germany), On Religion (UK), and many other international publications. He is a featured columnist for The Wild Hunt, has written for the BBC, wrote all definitions relating to Ásatrú in the Religion Newswriters Association’s Religion Stylebook, and was co-author of the Heathen Resource Guide for Chaplains for the US Department of Defense. He is the first practitioner of Ásatrú to hold a graduate degree from the University of Chicago Divinity School, where he was President of Interfaith Dialogue and a member of the Spiritual Life Council. He studied literature and art history at Loyola University Chicago Rome Center (Italy) and holds degrees in literature and music from University of California at San Diego, University of Wisconsin at Madison, and University of Texas at Austin. Meena  Sharify-Funk  is an Associate Professor and the Chair for the Religion and Culture Department at Wilfrid Laurier University who specializes in Muslim thought and identity. Sharify-Funk has written and presented a number of articles and papers on Sufi hermeneutics, women and Islam, and the role of cultural and religious factors in peacemaking. She recently has co-authored Unveiling Sufism: From Manhattan to Mecca (2017) and Contemporary Sufism: Piety, Politics, and Popular Culture (2017). Her first manuscript was Encountering the Transnational: Women, Islam, and the Politics of Interpretation (2008) which examined the impact of transnational networking on Muslim women’s identity, thought, and activism. She also has co-edited two books, Cultural Diversity and Islam (2003) and Contemporary Islam: Dynamic, Not Static (2006).

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Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier  is Associate Professor of Theological Studies at Loyola Marymount University (Los Angeles, CA). She works in comparative theology, Hindu-Catholic dialogue, Asian/Asian American theology, and feminist theology. She is co-editor of Interreligious Friendship after Nostra Aetate (Palgrave Macmillan, 2015) with James L. Fredericks. She is also co-chair of the Los Angeles Hindu-Catholic Dialogue.

List of Images

Image 4.1 Kolam outside of a home in Chennai, India 61 Image 5.1 A “reverse echo” of Thor? A godlike figure appears to bless a couple with an axe in this Bronze Age rock carving in Tanum, Sweden. Much later Icelandic written sources mention Thor’s hammer being used to consecrate a bride at her wedding. (Illustration by Karl E. H. Seigfried) 72 Image 5.2 Three sons honored their deceased father with this carving on a Viking Age runestone in Södermanland, Sweden. Note the hammer of Thor in the center. (Illustration by Karl E. H. Seigfried)73

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CHAPTER 1

Suppressing the Mosquitoes’ Coughs: An Introduction to Holy Envy Hans Gustafson

On November 22, 2012, early morning snow flurries silently fell over the lake from gray overcast skies on the late autumn earth-toned Minnesota landscape outside my brother’s country house. Our mother died the day before after a battle with ALS,1 and my siblings, their spouses, my wife, and I were gathered with my father, who had been fighting pancreatic cancer for the last 8 years. We sat in silence watching the snow fall. My wife profoundly remarked in a somber tone, “It’s as if the earth is weeping for your mother.” My mother was gone. The days were rapidly growing darker and the reality that we were alone, that my father was now alone, was slowly settling in. We had all been virtually living together in my brother’s house for the past week to be with my mother in her final days and now, with her gone, it was time for all of us to get back to our own homes in an attempt to move on. Something wasn’t right. How could we simply move on back to our own spaces and our own lives, especially with 1

 Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (“Lou Gehrig’s disease”).

H. Gustafson (*) Jay Phillips Center for Interfaith Learning University of St. Thomas, St. Paul, MN, USA © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_1

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my father now alone? I shared with my siblings about the Shiva tradition in Judaism and suggested that with the long Thanksgiving weekend upon us, and even though we are not Jewish, that we allow ourselves to be inspired by this intimate practice and all move in (with all of our own ­children in tow) to my brother’s house for the remainder of the week, where my father was now living. In Judaism, Shiva (“seven”) refers to the seven days of mourning following the burial of a loved one and is observed by parents, children, spouses, and siblings of the deceased. They usually gather in the deceased’s home, sit on low stools or the floor, refrain from body grooming (shaving, haircuts, makeup, etc.), work, sex, and other activities of comfort. Prayer services are held with family, friends, and neighbors. My father was so taken with the idea that in the original draft of my mother’s obituary, he had a line inviting the public to come “sit Shiva” with us.2 We didn’t follow the strict code of Shiva. We had no right to “grab” or “claim” a Jewish tradition as our own. After all, we were not Jewish nor did we desire to represent ourselves as such. We did not want to practice Shiva. Shiva is for Jews to practice. Rather, we simply told friends and family that we all moved into my brother’s house for the week and that they were welcome to come spend time with us, which of course they all did. It was a time for us to stop, be together, and remember my mother. We needed it. I remember being envious that the Jewish tradition has such a rich practice of mourning built into their tradition, and I reflected on how nonJews could be inspired by this. This was a powerful instance of holy envy. The well-known theologian and Lutheran Bishop of Stockholm Krister Stendahl3 made popular the phrase “holy envy,”4 by which he meant to 2  We removed this line so as not to misrepresent ourselves as Jewish. Instead, we simply told friends and family that we all moved into my brother’s house for the week and that they were welcome to come spend time with us, which of course they all did. 3  George W.E. Nickelsburg describes Stendahl as a “professor, dean, historian of religion, theologian, churchman, [and] pastor” (Nickelsburg, “Preface,” v). Stendahl is beloved and well-known beyond the Christian traditions as well. Susannah Heschel, speaking on JewishChristian relations, has remarked on more than one occasion that “after the war God sent us Krister Stendahl” [Susannah Heschel, “Problems of Identity: Judaism and Christianity in the Modern European Context,” lecture (Skálholt, Iceland: 2011), and “From Rabbi to Nazi: The Vicissitudes of Jesus in Modern Theology,” The Krister Stendahl Memorial Lecture (Stockholm, Sweden: 2011); also quoted in Jesper Svartvik, “In Memory of Krister Stendahl on his Idea of ‘Holy Envy,’” lecture (Jerusalem: Hartman Institute, 2009). 4  The claim here is not that Stendahl first proposed the concept of envying rich religious traditions of others, but rather he made popular the phrase holy envy. I suspect, by no means, he was hardly the first to articulate such an idea. Parallel ideas most certainly are to

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always leave room for finding beauty in traditions and practices of others. Stendahl allegedly spoke about recognizing “elements” in traditions other than our own that we might envy as one of his three rules for interreligious understanding at a 1985 Stockholm press conference in which he offered support for the Church of Jesus Christ Latter Day Saints building a temple there, against which there was growing opposition. Later, his language evolved to become the now well-known phrase “holy envy.”5 In a 1993 article, Stendahl described holy envy as moments “when we recognize something in another tradition that is beautiful but is not in ours, nor should we grab it or claim it. … Holy envy rejoices in the beauty of others.”6 Michael Reid Trice captures well this attitude in the face of another tradition: I experience your expressions of the “holy” as beautiful. I admire that beauty, and am also somehow formed by it, and even yearn for those very expressions in my own faith life or community. I do not covet the beauty in you as though to control it; I am not required to convert from my own beauty as though to lose it. I experience this beauty as a gift, and invitation, and as a preamble to new cultivation and further invitation in the future.7

Jesper Svartvik, Krister Stendahl Professor of Theology of Religions at Lund University and the Swedish Theological Institute in Jerusalem, defined holy envy as “the willingness to discern, to recognize and to celebrate what is good, beautiful and attractive in other religions – and to let it remain what it is, i.e., something which is holy but which wholly belongs to the other.”8 be found in other thinkers. For instance, Lee Yearley famously spoke of “spiritual regret” [Lee H.  Yearley, New Religious Virtues and the Study of Religion, lecture (Tempe, AZ: Arizona State University, 1994)], as “the recognition of a ‘religious good’ in the other person’s tradition that we cannot share” but nonetheless admire. [Edward K. Kaplan, “Spiritual Regret and Holy Envy,” Spiritus 5, no. 1 (Spring 2005), pp.  105–06]. Mary C.  Boys acknowledges that “the concepts of spiritual regret and holy envy express an important dimension of interreligious learning: when we drink deeply from the wells of another tradition, we may see more clearly distortions and deficiencies in our own” [Mary C. Boys, JewishChristian Dialogue: One Woman’s Experience (New York, NY: Paulist Press, 1997), 58]. 5  See Trice, “The Future of Religious Identity: A Spirit of Generosity,” 28n and Landau, “An Interview with Krister Stendahl.” 6  Krister Stendahl, “From God’s Perspective We are All Minorities,” Journal of Religious Pluralism 2, 1993. 7  Trice, “The Future of Religious Identity: A Spirit of Generosity,” 28. 8  Jesper Svartvik, “In Memory of Krister Stendahl on his Idea of ‘Holy Envy,’” lecture (Jerusalem: Hartman Institute, 2009).

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Stendahl possessed the knack for popularizing catchy phrases, to be sure. His call to always leave room for holy envy offers a refreshing alternative to interreligious understanding by pivoting away from, what for centuries served as the Christian default modus operandi vis-à-vis other religions, apologetics, a practice that sought to defend, often arrogantly, the Christian God and Bible. Stendahl likened apologetics to the sound of “mosquitos coughing,”9 a rather pathetic sound indeed. Stendahl understood the need for traditions to evolve with the world and unceasingly strive for ever-new expressions in the context of the rapidly growing interreligious world. The editor of a volume dedicated to Stendahl, George W.E. Nicklesburg, declares that “Krister has emphasized the importance of Nachgeschichte  – the ongoing history of early traditions  – doubtless because he sees this as the bridge to the modern expression of these traditions.”10 Avoiding the task of replicating the sound of mosquitoes coughing, this volume represents rather an effort, from scholars and leaders of various religious identities, to reflect on instances of holy envy in various traditions. The contributors offer examples of this virtue of remaining open to finding beautiful elements in religious traditions other than one’s own – aspects that others might learn from and perhaps even incorporate into their own religious life if applicable and appropriate. These elements might include stories, practices, values, and concepts that inform and constructively help us to rethink and revise our own religious identities and practices. They raise questions, insights, and challenges in so doing, which serve as, all the more, constructive parts of the process. This book contains nine chapters that are either from, or draw on, traditions such as Ásatrú Heathenism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Judaism, LDS Mormonism, Lutheranism, Presbyterianism, Sikhism, Sufism, Western Buddhism, and Zen Mahāyāna Buddhism. The volume opens with Chap. 2 on “Nietzsche and the Jewish Jesus: A Reflection on Holy Envy” by Benjamin E. Sax, which explores how Nietzsche’s The Anti-­Christ 9  Stendahl writes, “Apologetics, defending the Bible—defending God, for that matter—is a rather arrogant activity. Who is defending whom? I love to use the old Swedish expression, ‘It is pathetic to hear mosquitoes cough’ [‘Det är löjligt att höra myggor hosta’]. I don’t know why that is funny, but in Swedish it is funny. And apologetics is mosquitoes coughing. It kills so much of the joy in reading and practicing the love of the scriptures” (Stendahl, “Why I love the Bible”). 10  Nickelsburg, “Preface,” v.

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inspired not only an unexpected charitable reading of Jesus’s life and thought in the New Testament, but also an unlikely sense of “holy envy.” The reader is reminded that the topic of Jesus can be rather tricky for Jews and, to be sure, the legacy of Christian anti-Judaism often provides the hermeneutical lens for how many Jews interpret the life and teachings of Jesus in the New Testament. Sax admits that incorporating and appreciating aspects of Jesus’s life and teachings into a Jewish religious way of engaging the world can be an anathema to classical and to many forms of modern Jewish thought. The irony and power of how Nietzsche’s Jesus could inspire a contemporary Jewish thinker to admire and connect to the Jesus of the New Testament is explored in this chapter. In Chap. 3, “Ibn al-‘Arabi and the Virtues of ‘Holy Envy’ in Islam,” Meena Sharify Funk explores ‘holy envy’ in Islam and argues that it can be understood as implicit to the thought of Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-‘Arabi (1165–1240 CE), a Sufi mystic and Muslim philosopher. In particular, Sharify-Funk focuses on Ibn al-'Arabi's conception of the insan al-kamil (the perfected human being), who is graced with the understanding that the essence of religion is inherently connected to the wonder of divine friendship (wilaya). Other concepts such as tajalliyat Allah (the self-­ disclosure of God) and wahdat al-wujud (unity of being) in Ibn al-‘Arabi’s thought that are analyzed as well. Inclusive implications emerge when these concepts are taken together to form a universalism, in which appreciation for differences surpasses mere toleration for differences or “deviations” from one’s own understanding of truth to become an authentic expression of spiritual belief and practice. In Chap. 4, “The Ritual of Everyday Life,” Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier recognizes the extraordinary ritual power Hindu women have in their everyday lives. In so doing, she asks what a Catholic theology of gender might learn from Hindu women’s everyday rituals such as kolam (ritual designs drawn on thresholds), household pujas (worship), and women’s vratas (vows), all of which transform women’s bodies and channel power ritually through them to their families and society. This ritual power comes through the gendered body, and not despite it. While Catholic theologies of gender also place significant emphasis on the gendered body, they can tend to be overly abstract and simplistic, which places women into one of two types (Eve or Mary). Tiemeier contends that a more realistic theology of gender must be centered not on types but instead on actual women in the midst of their lives. She compares Hindu

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women’s rituals with mujerista theology (Latina and Hispanic women’s theology) with an aim to reconstruct a broader ritual theology that decenters the male hierarchy, recenters the sacred on the gendered body engaged in the world, and expands the Catholic sacramental imagination into the ritual of everyday life. In Chap. 5, “Ásatrú and Hindu: From Prophecy to Dialogue,” Karl E.  H. Seigfried reflects on the Hindu traditions from a Heathen11 perspective. In particular, Seigfried proposes five steps to foster interfaith dialogue between Ásatrú12 and Hindu traditions. The term Heathen is commonly used a self-identifier by practitioners of Ásatrú, a new religious movement that revives, reconstructs, and reimagines Norse polytheism as a living religion in the contemporary world. Seigfried’s chapter is inspired by a comparative reading of prophetic material from the Old Norse poem Völuspá (an important text in the Ásatrú tradition) and the Sanskrit Mahābhārata (an important text in the Hindu traditions). The author admits his “holy envy” of the rich and detailed literary and philosophical traditions of Hinduism and inspires him to a close reading of the two texts, examination of analogues in other religions, reflection on a scholarly turn to non-­Abrahamic traditions, and a discussion of the implications for interfaith action. In Chap. 6, “A Hindu Gift of Bestowal: Śankara’s Concept of Grace in a Buddhist Context,” John Cha reflects on the possible role grace might play in liberation within Indian philosophical and theological systems that maintain non-dual worldviews. Even though it may appear that the efficacy of grace requires making a distinction between the giver of grace (e.g., god, spirit) and the receiver of grace (e.g., human person), Cha demonstrates how non-dual and monistic worldviews can embrace the concept of grace by drawing on the philosophy of the eighth-century Hindu advaitin Śankara. How might Śankara’s idea of grace enhance the soteriological thinking in Yogācāra Buddhism, and specifically in the philosophy of fifth-century Buddhist intellectual Vasubandhu? Cha endeavors to show that grace can indeed function in a non-dualistic context, specifically when attention is given to liberation occurring within the immanent sphere of the human condition. 11  Heathen (big “H”) specifically refers to Germanic polytheism and should not be understood to mean heathen (small “h”) in the generic sense of non-Abrahamic. 12  Ásatrú is from the Icelandic ásatrú from Old Icelandic ása (God) and trú (belief), and refers to the contemporary reconstruction and practice of pre-Christian GermanicScandinavian religion.

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In Chap. 7, “Self-Reliant and Ecologically-Aware: A Christian Appreciation of Buddhism,” Clifford Chalmers Cain opens with an educational and accessible introduction to the general similarities between Christianity and Buddhism and their founding figures, especially their key virtues of agape (love) in Christianity and karuna (compassion) in Buddhism. Cain urges Christians to revisit the question of whether God’s grace is “given” or “gotten.” Without denying the formative work by the European Christian reformers, Cain asks Christians to reconsider the value of self-reliance and human effort in the face of God. To do so, he draws on the Buddhist ideal of individual effort, discipline, and practice for earning liberation. Finally, Cain suggests that the Buddhist emphasis on the sacredness of all life can serve as a constructive interlocutor for Christians in their reading of Genesis 1 and 2 as they wrestle with whether to trample (radah) and subdue (kavash) the earth in Genesis 1 or to care for (abad) and protect (shamar) it in Genesis 2. The Christian envy of these Buddhist concepts, Cain argues, might serve Christians constructively in this world while promoting positive interreligious relations alike. In Chap. 8, “The Nembutsu of Jō do Shinshū,” Kristin Johnston Largen discusses a central practice of Shin Buddhism, called in Japanese nembutsu (also called nianfo), which is recitation of the name of Amida Buddha. It is a tangible expression and experience of the Buddha himself, and guarantees birth in Amida’s Pure Land, seen as either a step to or the same as enlightenment. Largen introduces Shin Buddhism and Shinran, describes the nembutsu, and discusses specific “enviable” aspects of this practice from a Christian perspective. In particular, these aspects are the clarity and purity of focus on one single practice, the recognition of the fallibility of human nature, Shinran’s own humility and his identification with the weak, and the emphasis on a transformed life in the present. The chapter demonstrates why the nembutsu is compelling and rewarding, not only for “insiders,” but for “outsiders” as well. In Chap. 9, Harrison Blum, a Buddhist chaplain, urges Buddhists to “get their prayer on” by learning from Christians. Blum’s insight grew out of his experience serving patient and their families in a level 1 trauma hospital in Boston, where he often found himself praying with and for families to a God he, as a Buddhist, wasn’t sure he believed in nor even existed. Blum reflects on the prayer traditions he learned as a child growing up in the Jewish tradition as well as some of the models of prayer in Buddhism. In this deeply moving chapter, he comes to realize that the Christian tradition of spontaneous prayer resonates with his primary Dharma practice

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and medium of Dharma teaching: dance, a practice that for him embodies the basic Buddhist tenets of impermanence and interconnection. Reflecting on Paul Knitter who wonders whether he is on the cutting edge or outer edge of his Christian community, Blum concludes his chapter by suggesting that those in the Buddhist dance movement are clearly expanding the cutting edge of Buddhism in the West and this might signal a further openness to also move beyond silent mediation toward a model more akin to the spontaneity he discovers in the spontaneous prayer practice among some Christians. In Chap. 10, “A Mormon Pilgrimage to Sikh Sacred Practice, Text, and Temple,” Taunalyn Ford Rutherford demonstrates her appreciation of Sikhism in the context of her own LDS Christian background. Drawing on ethnographic research, Rutherford examines three aspects of Sikh practice: devotion shown through Khalsa Sikh symbols, commitment to seva (service) including the practice of sharing langar (a community meal), and Sikh loyalty to their sacred scripture. A main thrust of the chapter examines the Sikh devotion to scripture embodied in the Harmandir Sahib (the Golden Temple) in the Indian city of Amritsar, Punjab, with attention to the pilgrims who work and worship at the temple. She argues that approaching the Sikh Guru Granth Sahib seriously and with holy envy can open bridges of understanding while providing inspiration to return to one’s own devotional and academic reading with enriched resources. * * * I conclude this introduction with two instances of holy envy of Chinese and Daoist thought that demonstrate the importance of Stendahl’s teaching. The first is a reflection from Rabbi Anson Laytner on Chinese Judaism in China, and the second is a personal reflection of mine on poem eight from the Dao De Ching. In his chapter on “Jews, God and Theodicy,”13 Rabbi Anson Laytner urges Jews to revise their concepts of divine providence by drawing on a Chinese Jewish view that emphasizes divine immanence. He concludes that “divine providence does not seem to play a role in [atrocities such as cancer, natural disasters, and bloody warfare]; a lot of what happens to us, individually and collectively, is simply a matter of luck”,14 and thus we are  Laytner, “Jews, God and Theodicy,” 37–54.  Ibid., 51.

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left with the charge to continue to repair the world (tikkun olam), regardless of whether or not there may be a divine hand behind every stroke of the cosmos. He arrived at this conclusion by examining, in particular, Jewish views coming out of Kaifeng, China, which borrow from Daoist and Confucian thought. As a good Western theological thinker is trained to do, Laytner systematically reflects on the Jewish concept of God, God’s role in world, and the role of humanity in light of Daoist and Confucian teachings. Laytner declares the “most striking [aspect] about the Kaifeng Jewish materials is their humanistic focus. As in traditional Jewish thought, Tian,15 though unknowable, could be known both through the creative power of nature and through the Torah.”16 For Kaifeng Jews, Tian, perhaps a term to imperfectly reference God, brings order to both the natural and human worlds (though certainly there may exist a false dichotomy in distinguishing sharply between these two). Drawing on Daoism, Kaifeng Judaism teaches that the role of the ordinary person is to “practice the Dao as expressed in the Torah, i.e., the mitzvoth, or commandments – honoring Heaven with appropriate prayers and rituals, respecting one’s ancestors and living ethically – in order to put oneself in harmony simultaneously with the Dao of the natural world and the Dao of Heaven.”17 Those with only a basic knowledge of Daoism understand that Dao is usually translated as “the way.” It is the way of reality, which can be mysterious. It is the harmonious way nature expresses itself, which can involve patterns and processes. It is often understood as the way of nature – the natural way – and humanity’s role, then, is to go with it, to unite with it in the way we live. To live in the way of the Dao is to attune to the force of nature, go with it, and refrain from struggling against it; like a skier or surfer gracefully going with gravity down the mountain or the wave like a dance, not a fight. Kaifeng Judaism teaches that Tian orders the Dao and Torah, and the “ordinary person has only to practice the Dao as expressed in the Torah and thereby live their life in harmony with the Dao of Heaven.”18 Holy envy surfaces here in two dimensions: one, in the Kaifeng Jews envying the Chinese principles of Tian and Dao and allowing them to impact the way they understand their religious 15  Tian (天) is an ancient Chinese term referring to either “Heaven” (figuratively or symbolically) or the actual (literal) sky. It can also refer to an impersonal divine force that controls the world or a cosmic moral principle that determines right from wrong. 16  Laytner, “Jews, God and Theodicy,” 47. 17  Ibid. 18  Ibid., 48.

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identity, their role in the world, and Jewish concepts of God and Torah; and two, in Laytner’s envying of the Kaifeng Jews in calling for a renewal of Western Jewish identity in the twenty-first century by stressing that “we need the freedom to perceive God in our own ways, to reinvent God, as it were, for our own day and our own needs.”19 I close with a personal account of the envy I hold for an aspect of Daoism that has helped shape my own vocational discernment process. Daoism teaches the principle of wu wei (無爲), which translates literally as non-doing, but in an active way. It can be understood as the ideal of effortlessness or doing-without-doing. It can sound like passivity, but it’s not. It is more like an athlete or musician who performs well but perhaps makes it seem effortless. Again, think of the surfer or skier dancing down the wave or mountain (not struggling against it or fighting it). Think of the golfer who swings her club flawlessly and makes it look almost effortless. No wasted or extra movement. Nothing missing. Daoism teaches us to be like nature in this way and, in particular, be like water. What is more evident in nature than water? The Dao De Ching famously emphasizes water. A popular line from poem eight teaches, “Best to be like water. … it pools where humans disdain to dwell.”20 Water goes where it can. It takes the most efficient path down the mountain, but not always the easiest path (e.g., waterfall). In so doing, it acts though it may not seem like it. Think of glaciers and rivers carving massive mountain valleys or waves slowly lapping on the shore as they continually reshape the coastline. Water goes to those low places “where humans disdain to dwell.”21 It rests in those places we don’t want to go, but perhaps ought to. Think here of those heroes in our world that work with marginalized groups that most of us have forgotten about, or try not to think about. Think of Mother Teresa in Calcutta serving the needs of the destitute, starving, and ­marginalized. I am no Mother Teresa, however I try failingly to be like  Ibid., 51.  Other popular translations of the opening line of poem eight read, “The best (person) is like water” (Wing-Tsit Chan, trans., A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy), “The highest form of goodness is like water” (John C.H.  Wu, trans., Tao Teh Ching), “Highest good is like water” (D.C. Lau, trans., Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching), and “The Highest good is like water” (Robert Hendricks, trans., Te-Tao Ching). 21  Other popular translations of this line reads, “It dwells in (lowly) places that all disdain” (Wing-Tsit Chan, trans., A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy), “It stays in places loathed by all men” (John C.H. Wu, trans., Tao Teh Ching), “(water) settles where none would like to be” (D.C. Lau, trans., Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching), and “It dwells in places the masses of people detest” (Robert Hendricks, trans., Te-Tao Ching). 19 20

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water in taking the path before me, which may not be the easiest, and I strive to make a difference in the places I am lead to. Further, in trying to be like water in the spirit of wu-wei, I try (often failingly) to act even if others take no notice of my action (like the waves lapping on the shoreline). I try to work humbly behind the scenes, when appropriate, but take seriously opportunities to make larger impacts. I probably fail most of the time, but I aim to keep trying. Daoism and wu wei inform my notion of humility in interreligious encounter as well. It has taught me that humility is not laziness, but far from it. Rather it is acting efficiently and productively without others noticing while remaining open to allowing others to act on, and continually reshape, me. This book, a project documenting instances of holy envy in various religious traditions, hopefully can also serve as an opportunity for the practices and beliefs of others to continually and humbly reshape us, and give us license to reshape our own practices and beliefs in light of those of our neighbors.

Bibliography Boys, Mary C. 1997. Jewish-Christian Dialogue: One Woman’s Experience. New York: Paulist Press. Dao De Ching (translations) A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy. Translated by Wing-Tsit Chan. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1969. Lao Tzu: Tao Te Ching. 1963. Trans. D.C. Lau. New York: Penguin. Tao Teh Ching. 1989. Trans. John C.H. Wu. Boston: Shambala. Te-Tao Ching. 1993. Trans. Robert Hendricks. New York: Modern Library. Heschel, Susannah. 2011a. From Rabbi to Nazi: The Vicissitudes of Jesus in Modern Theology. The Krister Stendahl Memorial Lecture. Stockholm: Sweden. ———. 2011b. Problems of Identity: Judaism and Christianity in the Modern European Context. Lecture. Skálholt: Iceland. Kaplan, Edward K. “Spiritual Regret and Holy Envy.” Spiritus 5, no. 1. Spring 2005. 103–106. Landau, Yehezkel. 2007. An Interview with Krister Stendahl. Harvard Divinity Bulletin 35(1), Winter. https://bulletin.hds.harvard.edu/articles/winter2007/ interview-krister-stendahl. Accessed 21 Sept 2017. Laytner, Anson. 2015. Jews, God and Theodicy. In Religious Identity and Renewal in the Twenty-First Century: Jewish, Christian and Muslim Explorations, ed. Simone Sinn and Michael Reid Trice, 37–54. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt.

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Nickelsburg, George W.E. 1986. Preface. In Christians Among Jews and Gentiles: Essays in Honor of Krister Stendahl on His Sixty-Fifth Birthday, ed. George W.E. Nickelsburg and George W. MacRae. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Stendahl, Krister. 1993. From God’s Perspective We Are All Minorities. Journal of Religious Pluralism 2: 1–13. ———. 2007. Why I Love the Bible. Harvard Divinity Bulletin 35(1), Winter. https://bulletin.hds.harvard.edu/articles/winter2007/why-i-love-bible. Accessed 21 Sept 2017. Svartvik, Jesper. 2009. In Memory of Krister Stendahl on His Idea of “Holy Envy”. Lecture. Jerusalem: Hartman Institute. Trice, Michael Reid. 2015. The Future of Religious Identity: A Spirit of Generosity. In Religious Identity and Renewal in the Twenty-First Century: Jewish, Christian and Muslim Explorations, ed. Simone Sinn and Michael Reid Trice, 19–36. Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt.

CHAPTER 2

Nietzsche and the Jewish Jesus: A Reflection on Holy Envy Benjamin E. Sax

“It is monstrous to talk of Jesus Christ and to practice Judaism. For Christianity did not believe in Judaism…” Ignatius of Antioch1 “…when Christianity is once destroyed, one will become more appreciative of the Jews.” Friedrich Nietzsche2

Introduction What do the nineteenth-century German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900) and the Jesus of the New Testament have in common? At first glance, this is an odd question. Jesus was the figure from whom the religion of Christianity emerged. Nietzsche, on the other hand, was the 1  Ignatius to the Magnesians, in The Apostolic Fathers: Revised Greek Texts, ed. J.B. Lightfoot and J.R. Harmer (New York: Macmillan, 1898), 145. 2  Walter Kaufmann, Nietzsche, Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1974), 361–62.

B. E. Sax (*) Institute for Islamic, Christian, and Jewish Studies, Baltimore, MD, USA © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_2

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philosopher who sought to end this religion. Yet, for many Jews, these men have something very important in common: both inspired generations to espouse, in some form or another, anti-Judaism and anti-­Semitism.3 3  Anti-Judaism and anti-Semitism denote different, though, interrelated concerns. AntiJudaism refers to a theology, ideology, or worldview that opposes the religion of Judaism, or the belief that Jewish practice is inferior or antiquated. Anti-Judaism can take many forms, though, its most prominent expression is most likely found in Christian supersessionist theological movements. Modern anti-Semitism however is distinct from Christian medieval contempt toward Judaism and Jewry. It is usually advanced ideologically, and its motives tend to be secular. “The term anti-Semitism,” wrote Hyam Maccoby, “was coined in the nineteenth century as a would-be scientific attempt to give a rational justification for Jew hatred when theological explanations had come to seem out of date.” [See Hyam Maccoby, “Anti-Judaism and Anti-Semitism,” in 20th Century Jewish Religious Thought, eds. Arthur A. Cohen and Paul Mendes-Flohr (Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society, 2009), 13.] For example, Wilhelm Marr (1818–1904) introduced the term “Anti-Semitism” to inaugurate the League of Anti-Semites (Antisemiten Liga). [See Wilhelm Marr, Der Sieg des Judenthhums ueber das Germanenthum vom nicht confessionellen Standpunkt ausbetrachtet (Bern: Rudolph Costenoble, 1879), 30–35.] Marr was a proud anti-Semite. His movement—The League of Anti-Semites—was most likely the first modern, popular political movement entirely based on anti-Semitism. You may notice that even in his title, Marr is contrasting Jews with Germans. Unlike an anti-Jewish position, he is not speaking theologically. His view was simple. Jews and Germans are distinct and stand diametrically opposed to one another. In fact, they are at war. Marr wrote: “Not individual Jews, but the Jewish spirit and Jewish consciousness have overpowered the world.” Jews, then, are part of a pernicious revolution against Europe. There are six important features of anti-Semitism:

1. Jews and Citizenship: Jews were perceived to be a “State within a State.” For an antiSemite, Jews are an anathema to the modern state. Any state requires national and cultural assimilation. Jews do so only publicly since they refuse to disassociate with their national and cultural aspirations, which is at odds with nations that afford them citizenship. Their first priorities are to other Jews, regardless of their perceived national identities. 2. Jews and Money: Jews were (are) perceived to have an uncanny attachment to money. With the emergence of capitalism, the Jewish proclivity toward money afforded them a great advantage in the modern world. Capitalism’s most egregious features—greed, oppression, etc.—are attributed to Jewry (i.e., Marx and others). 3. Excess of Jewish Influence in Public Life: Following (1) and (2), Jews have attained a disproportionate amount of influence in public life, ranging from media to finically supporting political movements that advance the interests of the “Jewish spirit” in overpowering the world. 4. Modernity Works for Jewry: Jews are guilty of introducing unsavory views into the world. They sell these positions through a variety of media. Culture, as a result, changes. Jews, as result, benefit from these changes. For example, Jews in entertainment influence society negatively. Also, Jews are accused of atheism.

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The central thesis of Rosemary Ruether’s widely read work Faith and Fratricide—that not only was Christianity’s supersessionist view of Judaism perforce a result of Jesus’s role as the messiah, but also was inexorably connected to this history of Christian anti-Jewish violence—has become a mainstream position in American Jewish culture.4 At the same time, despite the philosopher Walter Kaufmann’s best efforts to prove otherwise, “the prevailing wisdom” of the 1930s, 1940s, and early 1950s, which “held that Nietzsche was pro-Nazi,”5 seems to have found an afterlife in the our twenty-first-century American Jewish community: that is to say, when interpreted in today’s context, Nietzsche’s writings are anti-Semitic.6 I recognize that these positions have informed my thinking about both philosophy and Christianity. Even when I find aspects of what I read compelling, somewhere in my thoughts is a deep anxiety about the anti-Jewish implications and possible motivations of these points of view. Just as many Jews are reticent to enjoy the innovations in orchestration in the elaborate, somber, and quite famous opera, Der Ring des Nibelungen of Richard Wagner (1813–1883), due to his vociferous anti-Semitism, I too find myself uncomfortable drawing spiritual or intellectual inspiration from thinkers, leaders, and artists who may have inspired the very people who not only despise me, but also seek my destruction. 5. The Jewish Conspiracy: Jews are conspiring against the world. A “Jewish spirit” can, as a result of (1), (2), (3), and (4), manipulate in a clandestine manner the myriad forces of politics and modernity—from capitalism to socialism (by creating both, Jews are able to divide and conquer)—to prevent a peaceful and just world (A classic example is the Protocols of the Elders of Zion.). 6. Modern Dualism: This idea is a modern, secular variation on earlier theological ideas of the “demonic Jew” or the “Devil Incarnal.” [See Joshua Trachtenberg, The Devil and the Jews: The Medieval Conception of the Jew and Its Relation to Modern AntiSemitism (Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society, 1943), 11–56.] It is also based on the theological concept of supersessionism. This notion can also be expressed in racial theories that associate intellectual or moral acumen with racial biology in an attempt to explain the racial and intellectual division of human beings. Some races are good, others evil. Jews, in these theories, are biologically inferior morally and intellectually. 4  See Rosemary Ruether, Faith and Fratricide: The Theological Roots of Anti-Semitism (Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock Publishers, 1997). 5  Steven E. Aschheim, “Nietzsche, Anti-Semitism, and the Holocaust,” in Nietzsche and Jewish Culture, ed. Jacob Golomb (New York: Routledge, 1997), 3. 6  See Benjamin Silver, “Twilight of the Anti-Semites,” The Jewish Review of Books, winter, 2017: https://jewishreviewofbooks.com/articles/2397/twilight-of-the-anti-semites/

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However, I am very much committed to the theme of this book and I share Krister Stendhal’s hope that I leave room for “holy envy” in the lives and work of my many religious others. Because my “day job” is as a staff scholar at an institute that fosters interreligious engagement, I teach people to resist comparing the most compelling aspects of their own traditions to the worst in others. I teach people to dialogue, to ask clarifying questions of the other, and to build interreligious friendships. I also recognize that this is no easy task. Despite the prevalence of Jesus in modern American society—in fact as Stephen Prothero suggested, he is a prominent cultural icon7—most American Jews are at best ambivalent about this person and his teachings. I agree, though, with the New Testament scholar Amy-Jill Levine that this needs to change.8 Also, my scholarly background is in the theology and philosophy of German Jews. Nietzsche’s life and work are critical to my academic discipline. He is important too. In what follows, I share how the teachings of Jesus and the writings of Nietzsche, despite my own initial reservations about them, have not only taught me something important about my identity as an American Jew, but also how to think about changing the vitriolic discourse that characterizes much of the political and theological conversations in my country today. This chapter is divided into three parts. First, I share the mission of my work in interreligious dialogue in order to set up the challenges I plan to address below. Second, I describe the situation of my religious community in the United States. Third, I examine how the life and thought of Jesus and Nietzsche, as well as Nietzsche’s interpretations of Jesus’s teachings, inform my own idiosyncratic and unconventional Jewish sense of holy envy. 7  Stephen Prothero, American Jesus: How the Son of God Became a National Icon (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2003). 8  She writes, “If one the popular level we Jews are willing not only to acknowledge but also take pride in the Jewishness of such generally nonobservant Jews as Sigmund Freud, Albert Einstein, the Marxes (Karl and Groucho, although Karl was baptized as a child), and Jerry Seinfeld, why not acknowledge the quite observant Jesus? Such recognition need not entail citing the Gospels in a bar mitzvah talk or in a d’var. Torah, an interpretation of the biblical reading for the week, although I have heard rabbis in Reform and Conservative synagogues cite Homer (both the Greek poet and Bart’s father), Plato, the Buddha, Muhammad, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Jr., the Dali Lama, and even Madonna (the Kabbalah-besotted singer, not the mother of Jesus). At least Jesus is Jewish with regard to family, practice, and belief.” See Amy-Jill Levine, The Misunderstood Jew: The Church and the Scandal of the Jewish Jesus (New York, N.Y.: HarperOne Publishers, 2006), 8.

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Religious Difference as a Powerful Force for Good As readers of this volume already know, Krister Stendahl worked tirelessly to encourage churches to be civil and tolerant. By recognizing civility, when practiced as a democratic ideal, as a foundation of religious belief, he fought for the ordination of women and members of the LGBQTA community. He fought against the use of sexist language in liturgy and the study of scripture, once mentioning that Jesus’ maleness was no more significant than his eye color. He urged his coreligionists to discover truth in other religious traditions. In an interview in 2003, he famously remarked, “In the eyes of God, we are all minorities,” which for him was “a rude awakening for many Christians, who have never come to grips with the pluralism of the world.”9 Stendhal’s point is critical to interreligious work. Interestingly, though, most interreligious dialogue continues to focus on a shared humanity. Yet most of us who do this work learn something almost counter-intuitive: that we really are different, and that is why we must continually learn from one another. Most people of faith regard their humanity as refracted through the particularity of their religious community. Honest dialogue, indeed engagement, requires some acknowledgment that any religious faith, especially that of biblical or theistic orientation, perforce engenders some intolerance, possibly even some prejudice. Religious knowledge, after all, is privileged knowledge. We know too well how a claim to privileged knowledge not only suffuses individuals with hubris, but also with contempt for other religious traditions. We also know well how the liberal ethic of tolerance emerged to abnegate the indignation and wrath animated by conflicting theological claims. Tolerance should inspire ambivalence, which, of course, is preferable to the violence associated with intolerance. However, I not ambivalent to religious difference: A view of tolerance, in my experience with interreligious dialogue, usually emerges that challenges all religious people to account for their fidelity to their particular religious values while acknowledging the cognitive, spiritual, and theological dignity and integrity of competing worldviews. This is a critical challenge for all religious and even non-religious people: How do we educate our children, our friends, our families, and our congregations to embrace the particularistic values of our religious communities while simultaneously allowing a space for values that may be at 9  Douglas Martin, “Krister Stendahl, 86, Ecumenical Bishop, is Dead,” The New  York Times, April 16, 2008: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/16/us/16stendahl. html?mcubz=0

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odds with our own? In a world where calls to tolerance abound, we don’t teach these people to simply tolerate others. Tolerance is certainly important. However, in an ever-changing pluralistic and multicultural ­ world, tolerance is only a place to ask questions. We need a broader place to truly engage it. With this in mind, I would like to discuss briefly the situation of my religious community.

My Religious Community For the record, the concept of “holy envy” is not foreign to the history of Jewish thought. Many Jewish leaders and thinkers have been curious about their other religious interlocutors. The rabbis of the Talmud spoke about Makhloqet: an argument for the sake of heaven, or “sacred arguing.”10 Even though “sacred arguing” usually refers to Jewish law, the rabbis, at times, muse beyond their theological boundaries. For example, the rabbis of the Babylonian Talmud understood that “Greek wisdom and Greek language are distinct,” but they inquired as to whether or not “Greek philosophy is forbidden.”11 They recognized a foreign way of thinking and were even compelled by it. In fact, the history of Jewish thought provides countless examples of synthesizing foreign ways of thinking into Jewish philosophical worldviews. Jews, in the spirit of Stendahl, have always left room for “holy envy.” They have taken great pains to find ways to articulate the views of others in such a way that balances a Jewish need for religious self-determination with others need for it as well. Jews have also sought polemical ends. This is important. Dialogue is a two-way street. If I need to justify my religious worldview through someone else’s theological categories, then I am more likely to debate or polemicize against this individual or community, since my role in the conversation is justifying my own religious existence. I’ll discuss this problem in the next section. My current political-theological situation is in some ways very similar to my religious ancestors. Religious pluralism12 is inexorably woven into the cultural fabric of the United States. Yet, American culture is also Christian.  Mishnah Avot 5:17.  Babylonian Talmud, Sotah 49a. 12  Religious pluralism here refers to the civic engagement with religious diversity as articulated by Diana Eck and the Pluralism Project, and not the theological pluralism laid out in Alan Race’s well-known three-fold typology. 10 11

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The history of this country is characterized by both a desire to secularize (i.e., move beyond religion) and to ameliorate one’s religious condition. This paradox undergirds American cultural identity. Take, for example, me. I write as a Jew. I am also citizen of the United States. My theological worldview is informed by both realities. Like the German Jews I research, my “soul” (for lack of a better word) is bifurcated.13 Like the rabbis from whom I draw spiritual inspiration, I believe that dialogue always takes place in “exile”: There is indeed a sacred quality to the unsettling feeling that you are not fully in control of your relationships.14 I am a student, teacher, and scholar of the history of Judaism. I am not only a practitioner of interreligious dialogue, but I also teach others how to engage in meaningful interreligious dialogue. And, of I course, I have doubts; many, many doubts, whether they be theological, political, or even just existential. No less importantly, it turns out that despite my best efforts to prove otherwise, I am not all that different from my coreligionists in this country. A few years ago, the Pew Forum’s “Portrait of Jewish Americans” drew a lot of attention. One number that stood out was 22%. This is the number of Jews who describe themselves as having no religion. The survey brought to light the increasing number of Jews who identify as agnostic or atheist. Many Jews (55%) point to their ancestry and culture as essential to their Jewishness, and two-thirds of those surveyed suggest that belief in God is unnecessary. Jews by all measures tend to be less “religious” than the American public. Ninety-four percent of Jews in America say they are proud to be Jewish. So the authors of this study muse: What does being Jewish mean in America today? Large majorities of U.S. Jews say that remembering the Holocaust (73%) and leading an ethical life (69%) are essential to their sense of Jewishness. More than half (56%) say that working for justice and equality is essential to what being Jewish means to them. And about four-in-ten [sic] say that caring about Israel (43%) and having a good sense of humor (42%) are essential to their Jewish identity. But observing religious law is not as central to most American Jews. Just 19% of the Jewish adults surveyed say observing Jewish law (halakha) is essential to what being Jewish means to them. And in a separate but related 13  See Paul Mendes-Flohr, German Jews: A Dual Identity (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1999). 14  Ellen Singer (ed.), Paradigm Shift: From the Jewish Renewal Teachings of Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi (Northvale, New Jersey: Jason Aronson, Inc., 1993), 18.

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question, most Jews say a person can be Jewish even if that person works on the Sabbath or does not believe in God. Believing in Jesus, however, is enough to place one beyond the pale: 60% of U.S. Jews say a person cannot be Jewish if he or she believes Jesus was the messiah.15

Belief, it seems, is not important to American Jews. I wonder how many of those surveyed would have proudly proclaimed they were “Jewish atheists” or “atheistic Jews,” subtleties notwithstanding. Interestingly, as a doctrine, atheism is absent from the Hebrew Bible. To be sure, the Psalmist notes, “the fool has said in his heart, there is no God” (Psalm 14:1); he acts as if there is no God. In a similar vein, the rabbis were exercised by the denial of God’s providence and judgment, not by atheism. Thus, we have the famous Baraita of the four sages who enter the Pardes (orchard) where the divine presence resides.16 While Akiba departed the orchard in peace, Ben Zoma emerged insane, Ben Azzai died upon merely glimpsing it, and Elisha ben Abuya—the Akher (other)—departed it a heretic, but not an atheist. This parable supports the rabbinic injunction against those who presume “there is neither judge nor judgment.” In Genesis Rabba 26:6, Rabbi Akiva cites Psalm 10:13, “Why does the wicked man renounce God? He says in his heart, Thou wilt not avenge. Meaning that here is no judgment or judge; [in truth] there is judgment and there is a Judge.” For the rabbis, then, belief in God is not a conceptual category; it is axiological. The so-called heretic, the Epikoros, denies God’s providence and disregards divine law by abandoning Torah. Only in the modern era is the Epikoros equated to an atheist. Atheism as a philosophical position denying the existence of God (not merely divine providence) does not emerge until the Middle Ages. Jewish medieval philosophers such as Moses Maimonides (1135 or 1138–1204) strove to prove the existence of God. Yet atheism as an established philosophical category does not appear until the polemics against the Dutch-­ Jewish philosopher Baruch Spinoza (1632–1677). He espoused a form of deism in which divinity was understood as intrinsically linked to the natural world. Banished from his community in Amsterdam as a heretic, Spinoza in his Theological-Political Treatise challenged medieval Jewish biblical exegesis and philosophy and argued that the Bible should be 15  “A Portrait of Jewish Americans,” Pew Research Center, October 1, 2013: http://www. pewforum.org/2013/10/01/jewish-american-beliefs-attitudes-culture-survey/ 16  Babylonian Talmud, Chagigah 14b.

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interpreted in a way similar to the interpretation of nature, a radical position in the seventeenth century. What troubled the thinkers who followed him was his Janus-face—one face directed backward toward the religious tradition to which he was heir, the other directed forward toward the ultimate sublimation of all religions into a sustainable liberal democracy—which portrayed conflicting, if not entirely contradictory, aspects of his thought. The anti-Enlightenment thinker Friedrich Heinrich Jacobi (1743–1819) famously equated Spinozism to atheism. In his accusation that the Christian Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729–1781) and the Jew Moses Mendelssohn (1729–1786) were crypto-disciples of Spinoza, Jacobi argued that Spinoza’s natural philosophy inexorably leads to a denial of the biblical God and thus ethical nihilism. By arguing that a nihilistic atheism is the ultimate consequence of Spinozism, Jacobi confronted Enlightenment rationalists, demanding they account for subjectivity and religious faith. Jacobi thus opened up the modern debate regarding the compatibility of divine revelation and reason, or, as political philosopher Leo Strauss (1899–1973) put it, “Athens or Jerusalem.” Many seem to follow the injunction stipulated by Moses Mendelssohn, possibly anticipated by Spinoza, who argued that “Judaism knows of no revealed religion in the sense Christians understand the term.”17 In other words, the theological imperative to believe is absent in Jewish tradition. Atheism is not an anathema to Judaism. Fair enough. So, what then is truly heretical for American Jews, or even Jews in general, since atheism and secularism are, at the very least, part of Jewish tradition. Surely there is something out of bounds for Jews. The biographer of Leon Trotsky, journalist and political philosopher, Isaac Deutscher (1907–1967), argued in his acclaimed The Non-Jewish Jew for a notion of heresy as not only innate, but also, in his judgment, an exalted Jewish theological and cultural proclivity. He wrote: The Jewish heretic who transcends Jewry belongs to a Jewish tradition. You may, if you like, see Akher [Elisha ben Abuyah] as a prototype of those great revolutionaries of modern thought: Spinoza, Heine, Marx, Rosa Luxemberg, Trotsky, and Freud. You may, if you wish to, place them within a Jewish 17  Moses Mendelssohn, Jerusalem: Or On Religious Power and Judaism, trans. Allan Arkush (Hanover, N.H: Brandeis University Press, 1983), 89–90.

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tradition. They all went beyond the boundaries of Jewry. They all found Jewry too narrow, too archaic, and too constricting. They looked for ideals and fulfillment beyond it, and they represent the sum and substance of much that is greatest in modern thought, the sum and substance of the most profound upheavals that have taken place in philosophy, sociology, economics, and politics in the last three centuries.18

Heretical atheistic Jews changed the course of history. Their impassioned sense of universalism emerged from the narrow particularism of their religious communities. In fact, these communities allowed the space for this type of revolutionary thinking to come into being. It is not only innate, but should be celebrated. In fact, several years ago, David Biale published a study entitled Not in the Heavens: The Tradition of Jewish Secular Thought, where he argues that the “secularization of Jewish society often preceded, rather than followed, the intellectual expression of secularism.”19 By tracing the tradition of Jewish secularism back to the Babylonian Talmud, Biale makes the case that Jewish religion, Jewish nationalism, and even Jewish fundamentalism emerged in a dialectical relationship to this Jewish secular tradition or, in Deutscher’s language, innate revolutionary Jewish tradition. So not only are heresy and secularism major features of Jewish tradition, but in some cases they are even celebrated. However, if atheism is not really heresy, then where can we find heresy in Judaism that is treated as an affront to the religious tradition? Maybe a variation on rule of logic known as modus ponens (conditional if-then statement of inference) can help us here: If no belief is not heretical, then maybe belief is heretical. This, too, sounds suspicious. The Pew survey, however, alludes to a possible answer: Large majorities of U.S. Jews say that remembering the Holocaust (73%) and leading an ethical life (69%) are essential to their sense of Jewishness. Believing in Jesus, however, is enough to place one beyond the pale: 60% of U.S. Jews say a person cannot be Jewish if he or she believes Jesus was the messiah.

18  Isaac Deutscher, “The Non-Jewish Jew,” The Non-Jewish Jew and Other Essays (Boston: Alyson Publications, 1968), 26–27. 19  David Biale, Not in the Heavens: The Tradition of Jewish Secular Thought (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2011), xi.

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Preserving the memory of the Holocaust, leading an ethical life, and not believing in Jesus’ divinity or redemptive power seem to be the three ­positions the majority of American Jews agree upon in defining their Jewishness. Deutscher, interestingly, did not address the heresy of Christianity in defining his Jewishness. His atheism and his opposition to Zionism were part of a long Jewish tradition of dissent; yet his connection to Jewishness was grounded in the history of Judaism and of Jews, as well as in the preservation of those who perished in the Holocaust. Religion? I am an atheist. Jewish nationalism? I am an internationalist. In neither sense am I therefore a Jew. I am, however, a Jew by force of my unconditional solidarity with the persecuted and exterminated. I am a Jew because I feel the pulse of Jewish history; because I should like to do all I can to assure the real, not spurious, security and self-respect of the Jews.20

But how would a rejection of Jesus’ divinity or even just his teachings strengthen Deutscher’s definition of Jewishness for those American Jews surveyed in the Pew Forum? Certainly, Jesus taught his disciples to express solidarity with downtrodden and the oppressed. Couldn’t we still feel the “pulse of Jewish history” in some of Jesus’s teachings? Why are we so wary of this American cultural icon?

So, What’s Wrong with Jesus? When I taught at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia, I was asked— more often than I care to remember—whether Jews accept Jesus as the messiah? This is obviously a vexing question for most Jews (see Pew Forum survey above). In fact, many of my coreligionists interpret the question as: Why do you Jews reject Jesus? Notice the difference in the tone of the question from a positive (acceptance) to a negative (rejection). A provocative question usually provides a provocative answer. Historically, the question has been asked in the negative, so the answers usually reflect this negativity. In the famous Disputation of Barcelona in 1263, rabbi Moses Nachmanides (1194–1270) responded to the negative aspect of this question by arguing that, “from the time of Jesus until now, the whole world has been full of violence and plundering, and the  Isaac Deutscher, The Non-Jewish Jew and other Essays, 51.

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Christians are greater spillers of blood than all the rest of the people.”21 In other words, given the history of what has been done in Jesus’ name, especially to Jews, why do you still believe in Jesus? In his Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition, David Nirenberg argued that anti-Judaism is in the background of much of how we engage the world as inheritors of Western thought.22 These realities are no doubt in the background of this question. Given the violent history between us, why would you even ask? It already sets up the category of othering. What if this othering—setting up a world of binaries, which is part and parcel of the legacy of anti-Judaism—is implied by this question? Don’t we carry the legacy of anti-Judaism even if violence against Jews doesn’t result? Don’t we carry it in other forms of religious othering, such as Islamophobia? What if this question itself embodies the very religious othering that stands against my own organization’s mission? When is it possible to ask the question positively without its being heard negatively? For many Jews, the question is perceived as narcissistic. It embodies a very ancient power dynamic: To engage in dialogue with you (as Jews) requires not only an explanation as to why you (Jews) are not like me (Christians), but also an explanation as to why you (Jews) refuse to be like 21  Hyam Maccoby, ed. and trans., Judaism on Trial: Jewish-Christian Disputations in the Middle Ages (London: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization, 1982), 121. 22   See David Nirenberg, Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition (New York, N.Y.: W.W. Norton, 2013). Nirenberg’s study examines how theories of language, politics, and culture relate to actual events. For example, empirically speaking, Jews living in medieval Christian and Islamic societies did not enjoy the same rights and privileges as their Muslim and Christian neighbors. However, the idea of “Judaizing” culture as something nefarious was absent in Islamic society, while prevalent in Christian society. Even though in both cases Jews are empirically distinct (politically speaking, having fewer rights and privileges), in Christian society Jews were theologically a threat to the Christian imagination, and thus to Christian society. This is where we see the influence of Augustine: more particularly, the Augustinian paradox of preservation and persecution. Jews, for Augustine, were the “living letter.” In his oft-cited Contra Faustum, Augustine remarked, “no one can fail to see that in every land where the Jews are scattered they mourn for the loss of their kingdom, and are in terrified subjection to the immensely superior number of Christians” (12.12). The survival of Jews, as people baring the mark of Cain, is evidence that they are scriniaria (“the writing desk”) of Christians. Jews endure as “testimony to the tenets of the church, so that we honor through the sacrament and what it announces through the letter.” These passages have been used to justify violence toward Jews. They have also been used to demonize Judaism. Yet they have also been used to protect (more appropriately, preserve) Jews. Hence, we have the Augustinian paradox: While the potential for violence against Jews is real (and has a long track record), it is not perforce a logical extension of an Augustinian worldview.

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me (Christians). Most people who ask do not consider this point. Rather, they ask from the positive perspective: They are simply curious. They live within a world where the love and life of Jesus Christ is ever present. They want to understand why others don’t see or appreciate His love. They don’t see the question as an expression of power. They may not even consider the history. Put another way, coffee drinkers don’t understand why someone wouldn’t drink coffee—the taste is sublime, the effects are redemptive, and the health benefits irrefutable—so they are concerned about those who chose to live without it. Why deny yourself something so healthy, so wonderful, indeed, so sublime? Even though I recognize the positive aspect of the question—I am, after all, a lover of coffee—personally speaking, I still hear the negative aspects of it. When I lived in Appalachian Southwest Virginia, as I mentioned earlier, I heard this question about Jesus more often than I care to remember. I also interpreted it less charitably; that is, I experienced the question in its negative form. During this period of my life, I was invited to write an essay for a volume on Jewish theology. Interestingly, I attempted to make the case that “[d]efining oneself through others is a central characteristic of Jewish experience. Making sense of this experience is the task of Jewish theology.”23 I argued that Jewish tradition for me is not some fundamental truth, a permanent object independent of me, but rather a truth(s) within me that I interpret, in the spirit of Martin Buber (1878–1965) and others, as “events” which are always in the process of being rewritten, reinterpreted, and recreated. Because I experience Judaism as an event, I recognize the impossibility of acquiring this experience as knowledge and/or tradition, as an object to be imparted to others. It’s a moving target. Sounds great. But did I really believe what I wrote? I certainly defined myself through others, but did I truly try to “make sense” of it? Do I even believe my argument now? I still have a difficult time hearing the question without my own commentary to it. Yet, according to my essay, I have a responsibility to hear my interlocutor without drowning him or her in my own voice. How can I participate in the space of interreligious engagement if my commitment to Judaism is always a work in progress? But no less importantly, how do I allow for a space for my Christian interlocutors 23  Benjamin E. Sax, “The Theology of the In-Between,” in Jewish Theology in our Time: A New Generation Explores the Foundations and Future of Jewish Belief, ed. Elliot J. Cosgrove (Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2010), 176.

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who want to ask me about my possible relationship to their messiah if theirs is a work in progress as well? Their experience is no less real than my own. Their relationship to their religious tradition is no less complicated than my own. Their views about the Bible are no less interesting. What really stands between me and this question, between Christians and Jews? Is it just history? Is it just power? The question, independent of the one who asks it, simply makes Jews uncomfortable. It is difficult for us at times to gauge intention. So, how do we invite each other into complex, ever-changing theological universes given so many uncomfortable histories and realities that stand in between us? For the philosopher of dialogue Martin Buber, the “I-thou” relationship—where one addresses the irreducible otherness of people or God—is a spontaneous, non-contrived meeting between people and other people, or between people and the ineffable Being, what we call God. Our experience of people, as well as of divinity, is simply not something we can control. Interreligious engagement, for me, does not explain the world, religion, or God, but rather merely describes our relationship to each. The Enlightenment sage, playwright, theologian, and dear friend to Moses Mendelssohn and perhaps to all German-speaking Jews, Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, once remarked that if presented with the choice between knowledge of absolute truth and the eternal quest for it, he would prefer the latter, since the former is for God alone. As with Lessing, one goal in our work in interreligious engagement is to interpret, decipher, and communicate meaning—as opposed to “knowing” it. Any encounter with the other is entirely a “lived event” and thus not reducible to one interpretation or experience. Before our Christian interlocutors can ask us about Jesus, they need to ask themselves if they are truly ready to hear our answers. Before we answer, we need to consider if we fully heard the question. Interestingly, as it turns out, by listening to my religious others, I have learned that Jesus can not only teach me a great deal about this “we” in interreligious dialogue, but also in how we must relate to one another. Jesus and “holy envy” may not go hand in hand in Jewish theological self-­ understanding (Buddhism, it seems, carries more weight for my community24), but it is where I currently find my religious and political self at the moment. I’ll explain below. 24  Amanda Porterfield, The Transformation of American Religion: The Story of a Late Twentieth-Century Awakening (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 158–162.

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A Return to the Jewish Jesus? A few years ago, I attended and participated in an annual international academic conference on the study of religion. As part of my commitment to the academic study of religion, I participate in it every year. During this particular meeting, I was enticed by a session on the role the figure of Jesus played in contemporary Hebrew literature. One panelist consistently spoke about how Hebrew writers, particularly Joseph Klausner (1874–1958), successfully incorporated traditional Christian views of Jesus into their writing. I asked this panelist what exactly made these views “traditional?” The panelist’s answer—that Jesus’ life and teachings are mythical and not miraculous—sounded suspiciously close to the views of nineteenth-century European “Life-of-Jesus: theologians.” A leading voice in this movement was David Friedrich Strauss (1808–1874). Part of his argument included the provocative position that miraculous sections of the New Testament were Christian appropriations of ancient, possibly even Jewish myths. His view was highly controversial, so was this a really traditional view? A century earlier, on our continent, Thomas Jefferson published his version of the Bible entitled The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth, which also diverted focus away from miracles and revelation in favor of the Jesus’s life and teachings.25 Of course, the word “tradition” itself is bedeviled by definitional ambiguity. We usually use it to denote some sort of authority. I’ll save my musings and misgivings on this point for another day. Yet, the fact that the panel existed at all was evidence to a return of these types of views, i.e. who, in fact, was Jesus? Unlike in the nineteenth century, we now take for granted that Jesus was Jewish. Interestingly, Jews have been arguing this point for many years. The Jewish Jesus played a role in shaping the Jewish religious imagination well before the twenty-first century. In the sixteenth century, a prominent Karaite scholar, Isaac ben Abraham of Troki (1533–1594) wrote: “Jesus gave no new law,” but rather, like a good rabbi, “confirmed the commandments given through Moses.”26 What was radical about Jesus’s teachings was not the teachings themselves, but rather the interpretations of them by subsequent Church leaders. Abraham Geiger, founder of 25  Thomas Jefferson, The Jefferson Bible: The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth (Boston: Beacon Press, 1989), 9–10. 26  Isaac of Troki, Faith Strengthened, trans. Moses Mocatta (New York: Ktav Publishing, 1970), 274.

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Reform Judaism and a historian of the Wissenschaft des Judentums movement, argued similarly that Jesus should be understood in his Jewish context (to the chagrin of nineteenth-century Protestant theology).27 Not long thereafter, Kaufmann Kohler (1843–1926) argued that Jesus and his theology was the harbinger of Reform Judaism.28 One wonders how these luminaries would respond to the question posed by the bumper sticker: “What would Jesus do?” Their claim is that Jesus would behave like a first-­ century Galilean Jew. This position, to be clear, is polemical: Jesus’s teachings, in this view, are unoriginal (not radical), and deeply Jewish. In the past few years, there has been a proliferation of academic studies exploring the Jewish context of the life of Jesus. What remains uncertain is the degree to which the reclamation of the Jewish Jesus carries a polemical undercurrent. In his controversial book The Jewish Gospel’s: The Story of the Jewish Christ, Daniel Boyarin argues that coming to terms with a Jewish Jesus should have a profound effect on contemporary Jews and Christians. “One the one hand,” he writes, “Christians will no longer be able to claim that Jews willfully, as a body, rejected Jesus as God… On the other hand, Jews will have to stop vilifying Christian ideas about God as simply a collection of ‘un-Jewish,’ perhaps pagan, and in any case bizarre fantasies.”29 His argument is straightforward: early Christian theology was not a radical break from its ancient Israelite heritage, but rather “a highly conservative return to the very much ancient moments of that tradition,” especially those articulated in the highly idiosyncratic biblical book of Daniel. Jesus’s interpretation of the Hebrew Bible—as delineated in the New Testament—characterized more than anything else the Judaism of his day. Sound familiar? What would Jesus do? Well, for one thing Jesus would have kept kosher and he would have unambiguously defended Torah. Scholars are already engaged in a spirited debate over the merits and indeed the uniqueness of this research. I do not intend to join them. Recently I taught Boyarin’s book, especially questions concerning the Jewishness of the historical Jesus. I discovered that these questions, for my students, were remarkably unremarkable. A dear colleague of mine put it even more bluntly: “who cares?” The bumper 27  Abraham Geiger, Judaism and Its History in Two Parts, trans. Charles New Burgh (New York: Bloch, 1911), 130–136. 28  Kaufmann Kohler, Jesus of Nazareth from a Jewish Point of View (New York: Funk & Wagnalls, 1899). 29  Daniel Boyarin, The Jewish Gospels: The Story of the Jewish Christ (New York, N.Y.: The New Press, 2012), 6.

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sticker—“what would Jesus do?”—it turns out, is not really all that provocative (unless of course I place it on my car!). The people who study at my institute are very well informed: they take for granted that Jesus was Jewish and was living in a Jewish context. We, in our classes, pride ourselves in pursuing difficult questions. Boyarin’s interpretations of First Enoch, Fourth Ezra, and the book of Daniel are not easy to grasp, indeed. “What does this text mean?” is a difficult question. But these interpretations of opaque texts do not seem to evoke the existential torment he expects of us. Honestly, how could they? Rather, we were passive readers learning from Boyarin, rather than active ones debating him feverishly as if the entirety of our tradition was at stake. I’ve wondered, more than once: is he speaking to the already converted? Maybe. Over the years, I have noticed that what inspires debate in interreligious dialogue is not the data of the research or even interpretation of the texts, but rather the intention of the scholar. When we read sacred texts, do we discover truths or invent them? Does it even matter? To answer, please indulge me in a brief anecdote: I usually share this story with my students. Before the Czech-born, German-Jewish writer Franz Kafka was diagnosed with tuberculosis, he would spend time in the afternoon meandering around a park in Prague. One day he stumbled upon a weeping child. She had lost her doll. He decided to sit with her. With discernible empathy, he explained to her that her doll was not lost, but in fact traveling around the world. Not only that, but the doll sent him postcards describing her many adventures. Kafka promised to share these postcards with the little girl. For months, they would sit and read the doll’s postcards (written, of course, by Kafka). After he was diagnosed with tuberculosis, Kafka couldn’t write to the child anymore. Instead he purchased a new doll and gave it to her. The girl was not convinced that this doll was hers. Kafka explained that the doll’s experiences had changed her, while her essence remained the same. Whether or not this encounter actually happened, this story captures the poignancy of the problem of the historical Jesus. If the doll, in this case, represents a historical Jesus, then the history of Christianity would represent its experiences. Despite the myriad interpretations of Jesus in Christianity and the discernible differences between dominations of Christians, Boyarin and others seem to argue that an essence may in fact remain. Discovering this essence—in this case, the Jewishness of Jesus –

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would then seem to be a key to understanding difference between Jews and Christians. Indeed, Jack Miles enthusiastically makes this case in the forward of the book: Jews and Christians are long lost siblings!30 Again, so what? There are critics of Boyarin’s work, to be sure. However, critiques of his work may not help us here. It seems almost superfluous to focus on the question at hand, i.e., the Jewishness of Jesus, or the varying academic responses to it. The Jewish Jesus is part and parcel of our current scholarly Zeitgeist. Can we really think outside the box? We need help. Even though, sadly, scholars of religion are not always part of the theological mainstream, in the case of the Jewish Jesus, they may have made it there! So, in this case, the Jewish Jesus needs a different interreligious interlocutor. I know who can help us here. A critic of nineteenth century life-of-­ Jesus theology was the mercurial philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900). Maybe he can help us engage twenty-first century life-of-­ Jesus scholarship. Nietzsche’s rancor for Christianity is well known. Less known, however, was his frustration with theologians, philosophers, and historians who tried to rescue the life of Jesus from the history of Judaism and Christianity. In many ways, this activity, for Nietzsche, was far more problematic. Whereas conventional Christian theology was, in his words, “decadent,” “unhealthy,” “self-deceptive,” and “nihilistic,” a theology embedded in a biography of Jesus was far more insidious because it evoked a scientific aura: theology masked in rational discourse. Life-of-Jesus theology was tautological, since the premise always inferred the conclusion that Jesus not only mattered, but also really mattered. I read Nietzsche. In fact, I’ve read a lot of his work (dare I say, all of it). He is always somewhere in my thoughts. He is on other people’s thoughts as well. Returning to bumper stickers for a moment (I do pay attention when I drive, honestly!), I saw a bumper sticker recently that read: “God is dead.” – Nietzsche “Nietzsche is dead.” – God Touché!

30  Jack Miles, “Forward,” The Jewish Gospels: The Story of the Jewish Christ (New York: The New Press, 2012), ix–xxii.

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In his controversial work, The Antichrist (Der Antichrist, 1895), Nietzsche continued to chastise Christianity, but in the spirit of life-of-­ Jesus theology, he too attempted to rescue Jesus from subsequent Christian theology, albeit differently.31 Another well-known life-of-Jesus theologian Joseph Ernest Renan (1823–1892) mainstreamed the view that Jesus was a hero, a genius, a man beyond his time.32 We shall see momentarily why this view was so problematic for Nietzsche. Following earlier near eastern hero traditions, even Boyarin argues that the suffering Jesus of the New Testament is actually a midrash on the book of Daniel—Daniel 7, to be precise. Not surprisingly, the first six books of Daniel follow the classical script for a near eastern hero. Jesus then remains a transitional and transformational figure historically. This position is not that controversial after all. Nietzsche, in contrast, calls Jesus an idiot.33 Yes, you read that correctly. Jesus was an idiot. At first glance, Nietzsche is not at all subtle. However, for us to understand the life of Jesus, presumably we would need to know the language of Jesus’ time and place. Etymologically, the word itself, “idiot” denoted an “ordinary person.” In Latin, an idiot is someone uneducated. However, in Greek (the language of the Gospels), an idiot is a person who is unskilled at a profession. An idiot in Athenian democracy was self-absorbed, a narcissist. In a democracy, you are born an idiot. You are self-centered. You are interested only in your private affairs. To move beyond your idiocy, indeed to become a citizen, you must cultivate an interest in activities in the public arena, i.e., beyond your own, private affairs. Denying the basic truths of this world—for example, the world independent of us—is also idiotic in a classical sense. Ideology is idiotic. So is theology. Idiocy is an illness. It denotes not only poor judgment, according to Nietzsche, but also is dishonorable. Jesus, in this sense, was an idiot. Now we have controversy! But is it? Nietzsche’s Jesus, Jesus the idiot, or even Jesus the Jewish idiot, denied the relevance of the material world—i.e., the world independent of us. Reality, according to this historical Jesus, was distorted. Take for instance, Jesus’s remark: “The kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17:21). True reality is governed by an inner world, a world where God  Friedrich Nietzsche, “The Anti-Christ: A Curse on Christianity,” trans. Judith Norman, in The Anti-Christ, Ecce Homo, Twilight of the Idols, and Other Writings, ed. Aaron Ridley and Judith Norman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 3–68. 32  Ibid, 26–27. 33  Ibid, 27. 31

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prevails. Of course, this line—“the Kingdom of God is Within You”—is also the celebrated title of Leo Tolstoy’s work (1894) exploring an anarchist Christian political theology. Looking eastward, some have argued that Jesus as an idiot is a direct commentary on Fyodor Dostoevsky’s novel “The Idiot” (1869). Nonetheless, as a result, indeed as a moral imperative, to be like Jesus is to resist the world. “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” Jesus famously remarked, “and unto God, the things that are God” (Matthew 22.21). I wonder if this position need not be a truce. Jesus, according to Nietzsche, resists Caesar’s world because it is not important. Jesus’s inner world—the Kingdom of God—is real even within each fleeting moment. However, denying the importance of the world is also truly idiotic. Does Jesus really deny one world in order to inhabit another? We shall return to this point soon. For Nietzsche, nineteenth-century life-of-Jesus theologians focused too much on Jesus’ assumed radical break with ancient Israelite tradition. This is probably because of their anti-Semitic leanings.34 However, it would have been more useful, according to Nietzsche, to compare Jesus’ teachings to that of Hinduism and Buddhism. This inner world, “the kingdom of God”—as a denial of the real world—can only be realized as redeemed by a new way of living, not by engaging a new way of believing, or of faith. Only what transpires in our inner world is true, indeed real. It is only these experiences that can be eternalized or perfected. However, it is not a clear rejection of our outer world, Caesar’s world. Nor is necessarily a rejection of another’s inner world, the Kingdom of God. The phenomenal world—the world independent of us—is merely a conglomeration of metaphors, signs, and symbols. In other words, nature and space, and even history are metaphors, signs, or symbols. The phrase “son of Man” that appears in the Book of Daniel is crucial to understanding Boyarin’s argument that Jewish texts predating the life of Jesus possessed an idea of a incarnated divine figure in a person. Nietzsche would probably be unimpressed since again, we have conventional Jewish polemics against Christianity vindicated by scholarly research. How does this help a sincere conversation between Jews and Christians? What if the “son of Man” meant for Jesus, whether innovating or digressing from Israelite tradition, something else entirely? What then? What if this something could establish a common, equal ground, for debate? Again, let’s look to Nietzsche. 34  See Susannah Heschel, The Aryan Jesus: Christian Theologians and the Bible in Nazi Germany (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2008), 26–66.

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Nietzsche argued that Jesus, as the “son of Man” in fact had no interest in actually redeeming anyone. He merely lived as a guide to living.35 His legacy is found precisely in this life. Scholars of the life of Jesus, for Nietzsche, should consider this guide. We would then read sacred passages quite differently. Take for example the famous scene in Luke (23:42–43): “Then he said, ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your Kingdom.’” He replied, “Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” Nietzsche understands Jesus’ reply as saying: “you are with me now, only if you comport yourself in my divinity.” In other words, by not recognizing the trials and tribulations of the real world, i.e. the world independent of yourself, your life can be a kingdom of God each moment, like Jesus’s. Even the worst physical suffering cannot take away the light of an inner Kingdom, a Paradise. Faith as a private affair? Suffering as illusory? Only an idiot could entertain this! Suffering is inexorably related to empathy. Empathy is related to biology and to theology. Does Jesus really turn away from this physical, empirical world? How could Jesus really reject one world in favor of another? I wonder how contemporary Jews and Christians could engage this question together.36 Twenty-first century life-of-Jesus theologians and historians now focus too much on Jesus’s assumed dependence on ancient Israelite tradition: possibly even the Judaism of his “inner Kingdom.” On the surface, this seems more reasonable. We can also build theological bridges on this view. However, as Boyarin points out, scholars continue to describe the salient teachings in the New Testament ex eventu (“after the fact”), “from the earliest followers of Jesus, who developed these ideas in the wake of his death and their experience of his resurrection appearances.”37 So we still read the life of Jesus through others, which, in many ways, becomes a theological game of cat and mouse. The question—what would Jesus do?—assumes an essence that may in fact be in the eyes of the beholder. Jews and Christians seem to agree. At this point, though, it may be more fruitful for these communities to ask: “What would Nietzsche do?”

 Nietzsche, The Anti-Christ, 39–40.  See Samuel Sandmel, We Jews and Jesus: Exploring Theological Differences for Mutual Understanding (repr., Woodstock, VT: SkyLight Paths and Jewish Lights, 2006). 37  Boyarin, The Jewish Gospels: The Story of the Jewish Christ, 158. 35 36

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Conclusion The cynical “agree-to-disagree” truce that now marks much contemporary public discourse regarding religion—i.e., to believe what you want to believe (including the life of Jesus)—is an irresponsible form of idiocy. It is also a form of power. Jesus’s legacy, for me, may be found in precisely this point. If you’re going to be an idiot, at least be like Jesus, in a Nietzschean sense. That is to say, to take your faith seriously requires you to demand that others take their faith (or lack of it) seriously. To live in service to our inner kingdom of God, we invite others to join us simply by listening to them and learning from them. Those people or communities less open to difference fear losing an element of their religious integrity or dignity by listening. This does not have to be the case. A true idiot shuts himself off to the world. Jesus was not a true idiot. An idiot in the spirit of Jesus lives between the phenomenal world and his or her own inner world. There is real value in entertaining threats to our theological certainty. This is why Nietzsche’s work is so important to theology. In the same way, it is also why Jesus’s teachings are so important to my own Jewish theology.

Bibliography Aschheim, Steven E. 1997. Nietzsche, Anti-Semitism, and the Holocaust. In Nietzsche and Jewish Culture, ed. Jacob Golomb. New York: Routledge. Biale, David. 2011. Not in the Heavens: The Tradition of Jewish Secular Thought. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Boyarin, Daniel. 2012. The Jewish Gospels: The Story of the Jewish Christ. New York: The New Press. Deutscher, Isaac. 1968. The Non-Jewish Jew. In The Non-Jewish Jew and Other Essays. Boston: Alyson Publications. Geiger, Abraham. 1911. Judaism and Its History in Two Parts. Trans. Charles New Burgh. New York: Bloch. Heschel, Susannah. 2008. The Aryan Jesus: Christian Theologians and the Bible in Nazi Germany. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ignatius to the Magnesians. 1898. In The Apostolic Fathers: Revised Greek Texts, ed. J.B. Lightfoot and J.R. Harmer. New York: Macmillan. Isaac of Troki. 1970. Faith Strengthened. Trans. Moses Mocatta. New York: Ktav Publishing. Jefferson, Thomas. 1989. The Jefferson Bible: The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth. Boston: Beacon Press.

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Kaufmann, Walter. 1974. Nietzsche, Philosopher, Psychologist, Antichrist. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Kohler, Kaufmann. 1899. Jesus of Nazareth from a Jewish Point of View. New York: Funk & Wagnalls. Levine, Amy-Jill. 2006. The Misunderstood Jew: The Church and the Scandal of the Jewish Jesus. New York: HarperOne Publishers. Maccoby, Hyam. (ed. and trans.). 1982. Judaism on Trial: Jewish-Christian Disputations in the Middle Ages. London: The Littman Library of Jewish Civilization. ———. 2009. Anti-Judaism and Anti-Semitism. In 20th Century Jewish Religious Thought, ed. Arthur A.  Cohen and Paul Mendes-Flohr. Philadelphia: Jewish Publication Society. Marr, Wilhelm. 1879. Der Sieg des Judenthhums ueber das Germanenthum vom nicht confessionellen Standpunkt ausbetrachtet. Bern: Rudolph Costenoble. Martin, Douglas. 2008. Krister Stendahl, 86, Ecumenical Bishop, is Dead. The New  York Times, April 16. http://www.nytimes.com/2008/04/16/ us/16stendahl.html?mcubz=0. Accessed 18 Oct 2017. Mendelssohn, Moses. 1983. Jerusalem: Or On Religious Power and Judaism. Trans. Allan Arkush. Hanover: Brandeis University Press. Mendes-Flohr, Paul. 1999. German Jews: A Dual Identity. New Haven: Yale University Press. Miles, Jack. “Forward.” In The Jewish Gospels: The Story of the Jewish Christ, by Daniel Boyarin. New York: The New Press, 2012. Nietzsche, Friedrich. “The Anti-Christ: A Curse on Christianity,” translated by Judith Norman. In The Anti-Christ, Ecce Homo, Twilight of the Idols, and Other Writings, edited by Aaron Ridley and Judith Norman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014. Nirenberg, David. 2013. Anti-Judaism: The Western Tradition. New  York: W.W. Norton. Pew Research Center. 2013. A Portrait of Jewish Americans. October 1. http:// www.pewforum.org/2013/10/01/jewish-american-beliefs-attitudes-culturesurvey/. Accessed 18 Oct 2017. Porterfield, Amanda. 2001. The Transformation of American Religion: The Story of a Late Twentieth-Century Awakening. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Prothero, Stephen. 2003. American Jesus: How the Son of God Became a National Icon. New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. Ruether, Rosemary. 1997. Faith and Fratricide: The Theological Roots of Anti-­ Semitism. Eugene: Wipf and Stock Publishers. Sandmel, Samuel. 2006. We Jews and Jesus: Exploring Theological Differences for Mutual Understanding. Woodstock: SkyLight Paths and Jewish Lights.

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Sax, Benjamin E. 2010. The Theology of the In-Between. In Jewish Theology in our Time: A New Generation Explores the Foundations and Future of Jewish Belief, ed. Elliot J. Cosgrove. Woodstock: Jewish Lights Publishing. Silver, Benjamin. 2017. Twilight of the Anti-Semites. The Jewish Review of Books, Winter. https://jewishreviewofbooks.com/articles/2397/twilight-of-the-antisemites/. Accessed 18 Oct 2017. Singer, Ellen, ed. 1993. Paradigm Shift: From the Jewish Renewal Teachings of Reb Zalman Schachter-Shalomi. Northvale: Jason Aronson, Inc.. Trachtenberg, Joshua. 1943. The Devil and the Jews: The Medieval Conception of the Jew and Its Relation to Modern Anti-Semitism. Philadelphia: The Jewish Publication Society.

CHAPTER 3

Ibn al-‘Arabi and the Virtues of “Holy Envy” in Islam Meena Sharify-Funk

Beware of being bound up by a particular religion and rejecting all others as unbelief! If you do that you will fail to obtain a great benefit. Nay, you will fail to obtain the true knowledge of the reality. Try to make yourself a (kind of) Prime Matter for all forms of religious belief. God is wider and greater than to be confined to a particular religion to the exclusion of others. For He says: ‘To whichever direction you turn, there surely is the Face of God’. God does not specify (in this verse) a particular place in which the Face of God is to be found. He only said: ‘There is the Face of God.’ The ‘face’ of a thing means its real essence. So God has admonished by this verse the hearts of the ‘knowers’ so that they might not be distracted by non-essential matters in the present world from being constantly conscious of this kind of thing. (Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-‘Arabi)1 1  Toshihiko Izutsu, Sufism and Taoism: A Comparative Study of Key Philosophical Concepts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 254.

M. Sharify-Funk (*) Religion and Culture, Wilfrid Laurier University, Waterloo, ON, Canada © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_3

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Most treatments of religious pluralism in Islam focus on forms of interreligious appreciation sanctioned by scriptural and traditional legalistic sources.2 They concentrate quite naturally on Quranic passages affirming Christians and Jews as “People of the Book,” on prophetic narratives concerning the piety of Christian monks, and on the scope provided in Islamic law for coexistence with non-Muslim minorities living within various Muslim empires. Countless tales can be told of instances in which Muslim leaders, from Umar bin al-Khattab to Salah al-Din al-Ayyubi, commanded their followers to respect the lives and sanctities of non-Muslim neighbors, following teachings of Muhammad and the example of his covenants with communities that did not embrace his prophetic mission. While some works are quick to acknowledge that traditional Islamic societies were not necessarily interfaith utopias, sound scholarship has provided rich portraits of pluralistic arrangements that are worthy of acknowledgement and appreciation.3 What is often neglected in literature on Islamic pluralism, however, is a rich spiritual heritage, particularly within Sufi thought and practice, which explicitly affirms religious pluralism and the diversity of humanity’s spiritual lineages, in ways that connect profoundly with the contemporary search for spiritual frameworks capable of embracing “the other” and finding inspiration in his or her unique religious path. The opening quote for this chapter is taken from an influential text by the thirteenth-century Sufi mystic and Muslim philosopher Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-‘Arabi (1165–1240  CE). Far from being an “outlier” in Islamic spirituality during the medieval and premodern eras, Ibn al-‘Arabi was celebrated from North Africa to Southeast Asia as a grand synthesizer of spiritual thought, and the study of his works was officially encouraged 2  Religious pluralism is a highly contested topic with many different scholarly definitions. For this chapter the author wants to underscore those definitions that emphasize the value of the other’s identity and the necessity of empathy. Carl R. Rogers defined the emphatic state as “entering into the private perceptual world of the other and becoming thoroughly at home in it” [Carl R. Rogers, A Way of Being (NY: Houghton Mifflin, 1980), 142]. Religious pluralism in this understanding is not a mere tolerance of the other but the pursuit of sacred meaning with the other. 3  For examples of such scholarship, see Maria Rosa Menocal, The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain (Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 2002); John Andrew Morrow, The Covenants of the Prophet Muhammad with the Christians of the World (Angelico Press/Sophia Perennis, 2013); Annemarie Schimmel, The Empire of the Great Mughals: History, Art and Culture (London: Reaktion Books, 2004).

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within the Ottoman Empire. For Ibn al-‘Arabi and many other Muslim mystics who influenced him, the diversity of the world’s religions was itself a sign of God and a source of theophanic insight necessitating an attitude akin to what Krister Stendahl described as “holy envy”. In Ibn al-‘Arabi’s teachings, respect for integrity manifest within non-Muslim systems of belief and worship was essential for being a fully realized Muslim – a spiritually developed person who surrenders to the grace of Truth no matter what symbolic form it might take. For this chapter I explore the content and implications of Ibn al-‘Arabi’s teachings on this subject, focusing particularly on his conception of the insan al-kamil, or the perfected human being, who is graced with the understanding that the essence of religion is inherently connected to the wonder of divine friendship (wilaya). Other concepts in Ibn al-‘Arabi’s thought will also be analyzed such as tajalliyat Allah (the self-disclosure of God) and wahdat al-wujud (unity of being). Together, these concepts describe a universalism with profoundly inclusive implications, within which appreciation for differences surpasses mere toleration for differences or “deviations” from one’s own understanding of truth to become an expression of spiritual practice. In addition to encouraging deep respect for difference, Ibn al-‘Arabi’s teachings on “the perfected human” and “friend of God” also suggest the possibility of sanctity and love of God outside the parameters of one’s own religious system, making it essential to seek the holy in all different forms. Failure to recognize God’s presence in the face of the other amounts to a negation of His all-encompassing reality and of the ultimate divinity of all reality.

Who Is “the Perfected Human?”4 It is indisputable that Ibn al-‘Arabi was a remarkably prolific and influential author, and, according to conservative estimates, wrote over four hundred books. Some of these were quite short, while others, such as his famous Futuhat al-Makkiyya or ‘Meccan Revelations,’ are several thousand pages long. Besides the Futuhat, Ibn al-‘Arabi’s most provocative and controversial work is his Fusus al-Hikam, or “Bezels of Wisdom.” In the Fusus, a text that Ibn al-‘Arabi says was given to him by the spiritual form of the Prophet Muhammad, Ibn al-‘Arabi explores the metaphysical 4  The concepts of insan al-kamil and awliya’ are also developed in my co-authored book entitled, Unveiling Sufism: From Manhattan to Mecca (Sheffeld: Equinox Publishers, 2017). Some excerpts were taken from pp. 154–159.

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meaning of named prophets mentioned in the Qur’an, such as Abraham, Noah, Moses, Aaron, and Jesus. Most scholars agree that the Fusus expresses the quintessence of Ibn al-‘Arabi’s teachings, and that he composed the work to concisely summarize the entirety of his thought. According to Ibn al-‘Arabi’s teachings in the Futuhat, Fusus, and other works, the Names (qualities) of God (Reality) are scattered throughout the universe and are only brought together in the completed human being (insan al-kamil), who integrates the totality of existence in one place. The perfected human being gathers together the full range of realities found of the universe, realizing his being as a creature in form and al-Haqq (the Reality/Absolute) in essence. The perfected or completed human being is thus a microcosm of the universe. As humans approach this state of perfection, they are able to reflect more and more of God’s qualities, such as compassion, mercy, knowledge, and power, fulfilling the cosmic role of the vicegerent, or representative of God in the world. Ibn al-‘Arabi’s thought on the perfected human being represents a metaphysical unpacking of the Islamic creed. God’s oneness (tawhid) is explicated in terms of wujud, the Arabic term for “being.” Because it derives from the trilateral verbal root wa-ja-da, which means literally “to find” and, in passive form, “to be found,” wujud has been understood to encompass not just the condition of “being” but also the general meaning of finding. To speak of God as wujud is thus to discuss the divine in terms of that which finds and that which is found. For Ibn al-‘Arabi wujud, or Being, is ultimately one and only God truly has it: “Tawhid is expressed most succinctly in the formula, ‘There is no god but God.’ God is wujud, so ‘There is no wujud but God.’ Everything other than God is not wujud and can properly be called ‘nonexistence’ (‘adam).”5 We can see here why Ibn al-‘Arabi is often associated with the doctrine of wahdat al-wujud, or the “Oneness of Being.” Although Ibn al-‘Arabi never used the term wahdat al-wujud, with it only coming into vogue among some of his later followers and detractors, most scholars agree that his works imply the term’s ontology. When discussing Ibn al-‘Arabi’s understanding of reality, it is important to emphasize that Ibn al-‘Arabi spoke of the Absolute as, in its most comprehensive sense, the “One/Many” or al-wahid al-kathir.6 Although in its 5  William C.  Chittick, Ibn ‘Arabi: Heir to the Prophets (Oxford: Oneworld Publications, 2005), 40. 6  William C. Chittick, Imaginal Worlds: Ibn ‘Arabi and the Problem of Religious Diversity (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1994), 15.

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essence wujud is one (Allah), this essence is ultimately not separable from the multitude of forms in which it expresses itself, and thus does not exist separately from the many, or universe. Following the Qur’an, which asserts that, “God is the light of heaven and earth” (24:35), Sufis have invoked analogies of light to describe God’s relation to the world. If we think of God as pure light, then the world consists of the colors light reveals when shining through the prism of possibility. Without light the colors are cannot appear, and in a sense the colors we see through a prism are all simply light despite their apparent diversity. However, light as an integrated reality cannot be equated with the different colors, and in itself remains colorless. Hence, for Ibn al-‘Arabi, the subjects and objects that make up our world only exist through God. In themselves they are non-existent (not wujud), and merely ideas (al-a‘yan ‘entities’) in the eternal knowledge of God, but they temporarily manifest a borrowed existence via God’s existence (wujud). So the world and everything in it then is huwa la huwa or ‘Him/not Him,’ simultaneously God and not God, a dream-like realm ‘in between’ absolute existence (for which non-existence is impossible) and absolute non-existence (for which existence is impossible).7 It is for this reason that Ibn al-‘Arabi labeled the world khayal or imagination. As in a dream, what is seen is an imagined version of reality, not reality itself. The imaginal forms (amthal) however symbolically express reality (wujud), as they are locations of God’s self-disclosure (tajalli). Ibn al-‘Arabi writes, “the Real discloses Himself within forms and undergoes transmutation within them.”8 Followers of Ibn al-‘Arabi have mapped out the process of God’s self-­ disclosure, beginning with Reality’s most fundamental aspect, God’s essence (al-dhat) and encompassing God’s Beautiful Names (Asma’ al-­ Husna) as recorded in the Qur’an. Many of the names for God presented in the Qur’an exist in pairings of qualities that appear to contrast each other. For example, the Qur’an describes God both as al-Batin, the inherently unknowable and un-manifest essence, and as al-Zahir – the apparent, known, and manifest. While stipulating that God’s essence remains forever unknown, Sufis have nonetheless asserted that God can be known through his Names, and have long focused on using God’s Beautiful Names as means to know God by invoking Him, and thereby seeking to manifest God’s qualities within oneself. Within Ibn al-‘Arabi’s school of 7  William C. Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-‘Arabi’s Metaphysics of Imagination (Albany: State University of New York Press, 1989), 82. 8  Ibid., 230.

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thought the Names are understood as relations between the manifest God and the entities of the possible things. The Names represent God as divinity (uluhiya), expressed through God’s actions as Lord (rububiya). God’s acts bring the possible entities into existence within the intermediary realm between materiality and spirituality, the realm of forms or images (amthal), which themselves take shape in the sensible, material world, the realm of sensory witnessing (mushahada). According to these teachings the visible world we experience is in one sense God as the Manifest (al-­ Zahir) through His Names, even as God in his essence remains the un-­ manifest (al-Batin) and hence is transcendent to the world. Thus the world is simultaneously God in terms of the Names, and not God in terms of the Essence (huwa la huwa). The “perfected human” (and indeed all humans, because all humans have the potential to be perfect) are tasked then with learning the language of symbols, of learning to read the world as a plethora of symbols of higher realities, as particularized expressions of the infinite forms inherent in the formless Absolute (al-Haqq). Given the breadth of this vision and its affirmation of the world as a place of Divine self-disclosure, various questions can be asked about its implications for religious diversity: Is the perfected human necessarily a Muslim? Can the perfected human be found outside Islam? Can the diversity of the world’s religions serve as a sign of God? For Sufi Muslims, aspiring toward direct knowledge of God (‘ilm al-­ laduni) through constant awareness of God’s presence is the defining intention of Islamic practice, and is possible for any devout Muslim. The cultivation of sensitivity to God’s presence is intimately tied to the Sufi goal of becoming a complete or whole and perfected human being. For Muslims, this mysticism is derived from ‘the miracle of Islam,’ the Qur’an, while the Messenger of the Qur’an, the Prophet Muhammad, is the model of living its mystical message. For Sufis then, the historical origin of Sufism can be traced to the life of the Prophet Muhammad and the revelation he transmitted, the Qur’an. “Sufi” becomes the label later Muslims would give to those who practiced the intensive spirituality taught by Muhammad especially to his cousin and son-in-law Ali, to his daughter Fatima, and to his close companion and father-in-law, Abu Bakr. This intensive spirituality is most often understood as nothing less than the perfection of the Islamic faith and its very core, hence later Sufis could lay claim to being the true “Heirs of the Prophet,” or inheritors of the fullness of prophetic knowledge, and the “Friends of God” preserving the purity of Islam and the spiritual integrity of the world itself.

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While this narrative of Sufism’s origin reflects the self-understanding and spiritual identity of most traditional Sufis, it is important to explain that many Sufis were more often than not inclined to perceive continuity between Islam and prior religious and spiritual traditions, and were ­committed to affirming the presence of divine wisdom as manifested in diverse sources. Thus many Sufis would emphasize that according to the Qur’an, “Islam” is the name given to the message of all of the prophets sent to humanity – including the key figures of Judaism and Christianity such as Noah, Abraham, Moses, and Jesus. Muhammad, then, is simply the last prophet to bear this universal message. In light of this metaphysical and transhistorical as well as inclusive definition of Islam, all the prophetic and saintly figures before the historical Islam would be considered “Muslims,” those who surrendered to God. Just as early Muslim spiritual thinkers developed understandings of “Islam” that included universal as well particular elements, embracing prior revelations as well as their particular dispensation, so, too, did they develop ways of thinking about the Prophet Muhammad that associated him with prior agents of divine revelation. One tendency in this regard was to consider the historical Muhammad to be a manifestation of a deeper ontological reality associated with the light of prophecy (nubuwiyyah) and servanthood (‘ubudiyyah) to God. One way of understanding these connections made use of the term Nur Muhammad, the light of Muhammad, and is attributed to Ja‘far al-Sadiq (d. 765). Al-Sadiq was one of the most important early Sufi commentators on the Qur’an, as well as a renowned scholar of religious sciences, a descendent of the Prophet, and, for Shi‘a Muslims, the sixth Imam. From the Qur’an, one particular verse, known as ‘the Light verse’ (24:35), inspired him. It states: Allah is the Light of the heavens and the earth; the likeness of His Light is as a niche wherein is a lamp – the lamp in a glass, the glass as if it were a glittering star – kindled from a Blessed Tree, an olive tree that is neither of the East nor of the West, whose oil well nigh would shine, even if no fire touched it: Light upon Light; Allah guides to His Light whom He will. And Allah strikes similitudes for man, and Allah has knowledge of everything.

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Early Muslim scholars such as al-Sadiq, suggest that the lamp (misbah in Arabic) in this verse is actually a symbol for Muhammad (connecting this to the Qur’an’s description of Muhammad as a lamp in the verse mentioned earlier). Schimmel describes this reading of the text in the following terms: Through him the Divine Light could shine in the world, and through him humankind was guided to the origin of this Light. The formula ‘neither of the East nor of the West’ was then taken as a reference to Muhammad’s comprehensive nature, which is not restricted to one specific people or race and which surpasses the boundaries of time and space.9

It is with this more universal meaning of Muhammad that we find al-Sadiq explaining why other prophets like Mary, Moses, Joseph, and Abraham are also “muhammad.” In this case, they are described as such based on the meaning of the name, as ‘one who is praised.’ So the Nur Muhammad can be conceived as a light from which emerge other lights, being the other prophets, who, like Muhammad, are praised (muhammad) for their state of total submission to God, and transmission of the divine word.10 This connection between Nur Muhammad and the concept of the divine word draws a comparison to the logos doctrines Greek, Jewish, and Christian thought. Logos is an ancient Greek term that refers to the creative power of the Divine Word (logos meaning ‘living word’) as it manifests through a messenger. The manner in which the word is associated both with both light and with a living, divine presence connects with another important theme drawn from the Qur’an and explicated in the writings of Ibn al-‘Arabi: the “Friends of God.”

Who Is a “Friend of God?” The friends of God  – for them there is no fear, neither do they grieve. (Qur’an 10:62)

Besides articulating a metaphysics of “oneness” and an influential understanding of the perfected human being, Ibn al-‘Arabi systematized the Sufi doctrine of walaya or sainthood. This involved the intricate delineation of  Annemarie Schimmel, And Muhammad is His Messenger: The Veneration of the Prophet in Islamic Piety (Lahore, Pakistan: Vanguard Books, Ltd., 1985), 124–5. 10  Farhana Mayer, Spiritual Gems: The Mystical Qur’an Commentary Ascribed to Ja‘far alSadiq as Contained in Sulami’s Haqa’iq al-Tafsir from the text of Paul Nwyia (Louisville, KY: Fons Vitae Publishers, 2011), liii. 9

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a hierarchy of saints, a specified number of whom perpetually occupy various levels of holiness and fulfill the divine functions allotted to them by God. God appoints His friends to watch over the world, and they form a hierarchy of power and blessing that secretly preserves the world ­throughout its term of existence. The conception of a benevolent saintly hierarchy, so central to Sufism, can be traced through Ibn al-‘Arabi to the great scholar of hadith and mystic Hakim al-Tirmidhi (d. 869) as well as to the Qur’an and to a number of hadith attributed to the Prophet Muhammad. The Qur’an describes both the awliya’ Allah (10:62) and the awliya’ al-shaytan (4:76), the “friends of God,” and the “friends of the devil,” indicating an existential choice each human faces between following God’s guidance and following a path of egotism, mischief, and destruction. Focusing on the general meaning of the term wali, “closeness,” early Islamic thinkers posited the existence of a hierarchy of God’s friends or “saints” who occupy levels of increasing closeness or proximity to God. Those who respond to God’s guidance and draw closer to Him are given commensurate responsibilities to carry out on His behalf, in a manner similar to that suggested by the Qur’anic concept of khilafah, or vicegerency (2:30), according to which the purpose of human life is to act a custodian of the created world on behalf of God. As the first to write extensively on the subject of sainthood or walaya, al-Tirmidhi evoked a degree of controversy among more exoteric scholars when he wrote the Kitab Khatm al-Awliya’ or The Book of the Seal of the Saints to explicate this idea. Al-Tirmidhi proposed that the function of prophecy (nubuwwa) ends with the Day of Resurrection, when the divine law is redundant. In contrast, sainthood (walaya) is eternal, without end. Hence al-Tirmidhi argued that sainthood is superior to prophethood. Though this was frequently misinterpreted as placing the saints above the prophets, what al-Tirmidhi was actually saying was that although the nature of walaya was superior, the prophets were saints first and foremost, and hence walaya was superior to nubuwwa in the persons or natures of the prophets, who themselves were superior to the saints who followed after them.11 Early Sufi authors wrote sparingly on the subject, some describing a hierarchy of levels of sainthood, though not really explicating this in detail. 11  Chodkiewicz, Michel. Seal of the Saints: Prophethood and Sainthood in the Doctrine of Ibn ‘Arabi (Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society, 1993), 30.

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Others like Abu Yazid al-Bistami (d. 874) simply said, “the saint of Allah has no feature by which he is distinguished nor any name by which he can be named.”12 Later Sufis distinguished between limited and absolute ­sainthood: the one whose sainthood is absolute no longer experiencing the appetites of the self, emptied of personal will and desire, acting through God and God acting through him. Descriptions of the nature of the different levels and roles of sainthood were generally incomplete and in many cases contradictory among early Sufi authors. It was in the writings of Ibn al-‘Arabi however that we see the Sufi conception of walaya presented in a systematic fashion, and in a manner that intersects most directly with an attitude of appreciation toward prophets embraced by followers of Judaism and Christianity. In his famous and lengthy work the Futuhat al-Makkiyya, he describes the different levels of sainthood in remarkable detail. He suggests that there are on the earth, at any one point in time, a total of 589 saints, occupying 35 different levels. The idea of this complex hierarchy of saints did not originate with Ibn al‘Arabi, but is found in a variety of hadith, whose authenticity has long been disputed, but whose influence on the Islamic tradition is notable. At the peak of this hierarchy is the qutb or “pole” around whom all else revolves. Ibn al-‘Arabi describes the qutb as ‘“both the center of the circle of the universe, and its circumference. He is the Mirror of God, and the pivot of the world.”’13 The qutb is the leading figure of the four awtad or “pillars,” each of whom protects one of the four directions. At any point in time there are four saints on earth fulfilling the role of the awtad, however, these saints are earthly representatives of the four prophetic awtad who exist in a spiritual form, perpetually. According to Ibn al-‘Arabi, these four are Idris, Jesus, Elijah, and Khidr. Hence the earthly, saintly hierarchy represents a heavenly prophetic hierarchy of protectors. After the four awtad are the seven abdal or “substitutes,” each of whom watches over one of the seven geographical regions or climates of the world. Furthermore, each of them follows ‘in the footsteps’ of a prophet, including Abraham, Moses, Aaron, Idris, Joseph, Jesus, and Adam. In a hadith referenced to support this understanding, Abu Hurayra reports that the Prophet Muhammad said to him: “In a moment a man will come towards me through a door; he is one of the seven men by means of whom God protects the inhabitants of the earth.” An Ethiopian man enters,  Ibid., 36.  Ibid., 95.

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described as bald with his nose cut off, carrying water on his head, a slave who washes and sweeps the mosque.14 This innocuous, anonymous individual, who in worldly terms would be generally perceived as having a low status, is in fact one of the seven individuals tasked by God with the cosmic role of protecting all living things within their respective region. Later hagiographic tales only confirm this theme of a hidden council of saints tasked by God with preserving the world, generally consisting of people either obscure or not known for their religiosity. Ibn al-‘Arabi further specified that this hierarchy of saints watching over the world consisted of both men and women, and that “each category that we speak of contains both men and women,” such that any of the saints, from the highest qutb to the lowest of the 35 levels of sainthood, can be either male or female. As Ibn al-‘Arabi affirmed again and again, “There is no spiritual quality belonging to men to which women do not have equal access.”15 While studying with numerous Sufi teachers in Muslim medieval Spain, Ibn al-‘Arabi specifically mentions that the most realized of souls were his female teachers. The following is an account by Ibn al-‘Arabi about his female teacher, Shams, Mother of the Poor: Among people of our kind I have never met one like her with respect to the control she had over her soul. In her spiritual activities and communications she was among the greatest. She had a strong and pure heart, noble spiritual power and a fine discrimination….She was endowed with many graces. I had considerable experience of her intuition and found her to be a master in this sphere. Her spiritual state was characterized chiefly by her fear of God and His good pleasure in her, the combination of the two at the same time in one person being extremely rare among us.16

For Ibn al-‘Arabi, although God alone is wujud, or absolute being, human beings have the potential to manifest or reflect wujud comprehensively, unlike all other creatures and things, which only manifest specific aspects of wujud. This is the meaning of the Quranic statement, analogous to that of the Bible, that humans are created in the image (surah or form) of God. This potential for human comprehensiveness means that humans can reflect all of God’s qualities or Names. The fully realized human being  Ibid., 90.  Ibid., 98. 16  Ibn al-‘Arabi. Sufis of Andalusia (The Ruh al-Quds and al-Durrat al-Fakhirahi). Translated by R.W.J. Austin. (Sherborne: George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1971), 142. 14 15

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or insan al-kamil (the perfected human), manifests all of God’s qualities, reflecting God’s wisdom and compassion into the world. To do so however, the human has to be emptied of all created qualities, annihilated (fana‘) with respect to egoic characteristics, to clear the ground for God’s qualities to manifest and subsist (baqa‘) in the perfected person to permit a contingent sense of identification with the divine. It is on these grounds that some Sufis have defended the ecstatic proclamation of al-Hallaj, a Sufi martyr of the tenth century, “I am al-Haqq” (“the Truth” or “the Reality”). The process by which someone takes on God’s qualities is known al-­ takhalluq bi akhlaq Allah, or “characterizing oneself with the characteristics of God.” This is certainly one way to understand the entirety of the Sufi path: a gradual process of embodying more and more of God’s qualities like generosity, justice, forgiveness, patience, wisdom, and love. As one invokes and more importantly lives these qualities, the aspirant fulfills more of the original human disposition (fitra) of innate goodness, which is created in the image or form of God. Once the individual manifests all of God’s Names, they become marked by comprehensiveness and perfection. Thus they are able to act as a representative of God on earth, and carry out tasks of guardianship and protection of life, as envoys of God. It was this grand systematization of Sufi thought in terms of a metaphysics of unity and a cosmology of sainthood that earned Ibn al-‘Arabi the title of the shaykh al-akbar, or the “Greatest Master.” Some Sufi practitioners believe that Ibn al-‘Arabi was the “Seal of the Saints.” Just as Prophet Muhammad is believed by Muslims to have been the final prophet, hence sealing the line of prophets on earth (which according to Islamic theology is a line that begins with Adam), so Sufis believe that Ibn al‘Arabi was the final saint to inherit the comprehensive spiritual knowledge of the Prophet Muhammad, making him the seal of the saints, as Muhammad was the Seal of the Prophets. Ibn al-‘Arabi was understood to have played a providential role in preserving for posterity the comprehensive spiritual knowledge he inherited from the Prophet, a knowledge that none after him would be given. Although he did not directly comment as to whether a member of the world-preserving saintly hierarchy might possibly be a follower of another religion, the explicit naming of prophets from the biblical tradition as models for Islamic sainthood represents a point of profound openness to interfaith dialogue and appreciation.

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Conclusion: “Holy Envy” in Islam My heart has become capable of every form: For gazelles a meadow, A cloister for monks, For idols, a sacred temple, The pilgrim’s Ka‘aba, The tables of the Torah, The scrolls of the Qur’an. I follow the religion of Love: Wherever its caravan turns Along the Way, That is my Religion, The Faith I keep. —Muhyi al-Din Ibn al-‘Arabi17

To hold a sacred admiration for different manifestations of the Divine is at the core of Ibn al-‘Arabi’s understanding of metaphysics. When humans recognize that they can experience the remembrance of God and that their hearts can “become capable of every form” then they are living what Izutsu labels Ibn al-‘Arabi’s “eternal Religion.”18 Although Ibn al-‘Arabi was aware of the human tendency and need to adhere to a particular historical religion and indeed admonished Muslims to follow a stringent Islamic practice, he also challenged his readers to accept religious diversity as a source of theophanic wisdom and to embrace forms of contemplative knowing that transcend the limits of theological rationality. His words made explicit a current that had been implicit among prior generations of Sufis: Generally speaking each man (i.e., of the class of the ‘igornant’) necessarily sticks to a particular religion (‘aqidah, i.e., religion as a system of dogmas) concerning his Lord. He always goes back to his Lord through his particular religious belief and seeks God therein. Such a man positively recognizes God only when He manifests Himself to him in the form recognized by his 17  See Ibn al-Arabi, Tarjuman al-Ashwaq, translated by Reynold A. Nicholson (London: Fletcher & Sons Ltd., 1978), 67 and Michael A. Sells, Stations of Desire: Love Elegies from Ibn ‘Arabi and New Poems (Jerusalem: Ibis Publishers, 2000), 75. 18  Ibn al-‘Arabi in Izutsu, Sufism and Taoism: A Comparative Study of Key Philosophical Concepts (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), 254.

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traditional religion. But when He manifests Himself in other religions, he flatly refuses to accept Him and runs away from Him. In so doing, he simply behaves in an improper way towards God, while imagining that he is practicing good manners toward Him. Thus a man who sticks to the belief of his particular religion believes in a god according to what he has subjectively posited in his mind. God in all particular religions (i’tiqadat) is dependent upon the subjective act positing (ja’l) on the part of the believers. Thus a man of this kind sees (in the form of God) only his own self and what he has posited in his mind.19

In Ibn al-‘Arabi’s spiritual teachings, God is continually unveiling himself in all created forms, albeit in ways that can only be appreciated by those who consciously seek to draw near to the Divine through invocation and contemplation of the Divine names. This Divine self-manifestation emphatically includes religious traditions other than historical Islam. Drawing upon Quranic as well as prophetic and Sufi teachings concerning universal prophecy, he drew into authoritative form a paradigm in which prophets manifested spiritual virtues and could be understood to accompany those who walked a spiritual path. According to Ibn al-‘Arabi, God never manifests Himself in the same way twice, or to two people in the same way. Each person, at each moment, has a unique experience of Reality. Or, put alternatively, God manifests himself to each person, at each moment in a new and different way. Creation is forever new (tajdid al-khalq); God’s self-manifestation is forever changing. This idea became a Sufi axiom: La takrar fi’l-tajalli – “There is no repetition in self-disclosure.”20 Furthermore, the spiritual aspirant should be careful never to exclude the traditions and exponents of another religious tradition as potential sources of this self-disclosure, thus leaving an open door for wide-ranging explorations of “holy envy.” Historically, Sufi declarations of appreciation for spiritual wisdom and sanctity outside historical Islam have included not just prophets and practitioners of the Abrahamic religions, but also Greek philosophers, Zoroastrian teachings, and the Hindu Upanishads. Along with his reputation as a shaykh or spiritual master, Ibn al-‘Arabi is deemed by many scholars and Sufis to be Sufism’s greatest metaphysician. His works are understood to have provided an unparalleled explication of the different levels of reality, of the relationship between God and  Ibid., 254.  Chittick, The Sufi Path of Knowledge, 103.

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the world, and of the significance of the human being in the universe. Although his many works contain a dizzying variety of discourses, ranging from the meaning of Islamic ritual to esoteric interpretations of Islamic apocalyptic imagery, from astrology and numerology to the varieties of spiritual experience, his metaphysics can be understood as revolving around two foci: the Absolute (al-Haqq) and the Perfected Human (insan al-kamil). His teachings concerning spiritual aspiration toward the Absolute and the perfection of the human being provide great scope for appreciating – and indeed for receiving inspiration from – all that is holy in diverse spiritual paths and traditions.

Bibliography Addas, Claude. 2000. Ibn ‘Arabi: The Voyage of No Return. Cambridge: The Islamic Texts Society. al-Jaza’iri, Emir ‘Abd al-Qadir. 2011. The God Conditioned by Belief. In Universal Dimensions of Islam: Studies in Comparative Religion, ed. Patrick Laude. Bloomington: World Wisdom. Chittick, William C. 1989. The Sufi Path of Knowledge: Ibn al-‘Arabi’s Metaphysics of Imagination. Albany: State University of New York Press. ———. 1994. Imaginal Worlds: Ibn ‘Arabi and the Problem of Religious Diversity. Albany: State University of New York Press. ———. 1998. The Self–Disclosure of God: Principles of Ibn al-‘Arabi’s Cosmology. Albany: State University of New York Press. ———. 2005. Ibn ‘Arabi: Heir to the Prophets. Oxford: Oneworld Publications. Chodkiewicz, Michel. 1993. Seal of the Saints: Prophethood and Sainthood in the Doctrine of Ibn ‘Arabi. Cambridge: Islamic Texts Society. Corbin, Henry. 1998. The Voyage and the Messenger: Iran and Philosophy. Berkeley: North Atlantic Books. Hirtenstein, Stephen. 1999. The Unlimited Mercifier: The Spiritual Life and Thought of Ibn ‘Arabi. Oxford: Anqa Publishing. Ibn ‘Arabi, Muhyiddin. 1978. Tarjuman al-Ashwaq. Trans. Reynold A. Nicholson. London: Fletcher & Sons Ltd. ———. 1980. Kernel of the Kernel. Trans. Ismail Hakki Bursevi. Gloucestershire: Beshara Publications. Izutsu, Toshihiko. 1983. Sufism and Taoism: A Comparative Study of Key Philosophical Concepts. Berkeley: University of California Press. Mayer, Farhana. 2011. Spiritual Gems: The Mystical Qur’an Commentary Ascribed to Ja‘far al-Sadiq as Contained in Sulami’s Haqa’iq al-Tafsir from the text of Paul Nwyia. Louisville: Fons Vitae Publishers.

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Menocal, Maria Rosa. 2002. The Ornament of the World: How Muslims, Jews, and Christians Created a Culture of Tolerance in Medieval Spain. Boston: Little, Brown and Company. Morrow, John Andrew. 2013. The Covenants of the Prophet Muhammad with the Christians of the World. Kettering: Angelico Press/Sophia Perennis. Murata, Sachiko. 1992. The Tao of Islam: A Sourcebook on Gender Relationships in Islamic Thought. Albany: State University of New York Press. Rogers, Carl R. 1980. A Way of Being. New York: Houghton Mifflin. Schimmel, Annemarie. 1985. And Muhammad is His Messenger: The Veneration of the Prophet in Islamic Piety. Lahore: Vanguard Books, Ltd. ———. 2004. The Empire of the Great Mughals: History, Art and Culture. London: Reaktion Books. Sells, Michael A. 1994. Mystical Languages of Unsaying. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. ———. 2000. Stations of Desire: Love Elegies from Ibn ‘Arabi and New Poems. Jerusalem: Ibis Publishers.

CHAPTER 4

The Ritual of Everyday Life: Hindu Women’s Rituals, Mujerista Theology, and the Catholic Theology of Gender Tracy Sayuki Tiemeier

Introduction While I have always admired Hindu philosophies and spiritualities dedicated to the true self (like many Christians who are drawn to Hinduism), it is Hindu women’s practices that I truly envy. I yearn for such practices in my own Catholic life and appreciate the many ways in which Hindu women’s practices honor women’s bodies, link families, and impact society. They remind me of the deep connection I felt to my Japanese American grandmother many years ago when she taught me how to tend her Buddhist home altar. It felt intimate, sacred, and powerful—a knowledge and tradition that she was passing down to me from our ancestors. In this essay, I reflect on what a Catholic theology of gender can learn from Hindu women’s rituals. Everyday rituals such as the kolam (ritual designs drawn on thresholds), household pujas

T. S. Tiemeier (*) Loyola Marymount University, Los Angeles, CA, USA © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_4

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(worship), and women’s vratas (vows) all transform women’s bodies and channel power ritually through women to their families and society. Hindu women therefore have e­ xtraordinary ritual power in their everyday live. This power comes through the gendered body, and not despite it. While the Catholic theology of gender also places great emphasis on the gendered body, it tends to be overly abstract and simplistic, putting women into one of two types (Eve or Mary). A more realistic theology of gender must be centered not on types but instead on actual women in the midst of their lives. Hindu women’s rituals in comparison with mujerista theology (Latina and Hispanic women’s theology) help us to begin to think about what this might mean. Ultimately, I aim to reconstruct a broader ritual theology that decenters the male hierarchy, recenters the sacred on the gendered body engaged in the world, and expands the Catholic sacramental imagination into the ritual of everyday life.

The Catholic Theology of Gender When Pope Francis commissioned a group to study the possibility of women deacons,1 there was much speculation about the eventual possibility of female priests in the Catholic Church. However, the pope has been clear that he believes the issue of women priests to be closed.2 In an interview, Pope Francis cited the 1994 Apostolic Letter, Ordinatio Sacerdotalis (“On Reserving Priestly Ordination to Men Alone”), wherein Pope John Paul II declares, “the Church has no authority whatsoever to confer priestly ordination on women and that this judgment is to be definitively held by all the Church’s faithful.”3 When pressed about the possibility of women priests, Pope Francis noted, “But women can do many other  See Joshua J.  McElwee, “Francis Institutes Commission to Study Female Deacons, Appointing Gender-Balanced Membership,” National Catholic Reporter, August 2, 2016, https://www.ncronline.org/news/vatican/francis-institutes-commission-studyfemale-deacons-appointing-gender-balanced 2  See Joshua J. McElwee, “Pope Francis Confirms Finality of Ban on Ordaining Women Priests,” National Catholic Reporter, November 1, 2016, https://www.ncronline.org/ news/vatican/pope-francis-confirms-finality-ban-ordaining-women 3  John Paul II, Ordinatio Sacerdotalis (Vatican: May 22, 1994), https://w2.vatican.va/ content/john-paul-ii/en/apost_letters/1994/documents/hf_ jp-ii_apl_19940522_ordinatio-sacerdotalis.html 1

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things better than men.”4 While the Church has a Petrine apostolic dimension,5 it also has a Marian dimension,6 which is “the feminine dimension of the church.”7 But before Mary there was Eve. Some have interpreted the creation of Eve (after Adam) as a divinely willed gender hierarchy. Some have even put the blame for the first sin on Eve and all subsequent women. 1 Timothy 2.8-15 famously says, “I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor. Yet she will be saved through childbearing, provided they continue in faith and love and holiness, with modesty” (NRSV). Writing about women’s modesty, Tertullian (ca. 150–225  CE) tells Christian women, “You are the devil’s gateway…you are she who persuaded him whom the devil was not valiant enough to attack…On account of your desert – that is, death – even the Son of God had to die.”8 Eve, then, represents women’s weakness, sinfulness, and submission. Mary, on the other hand, is interpreted as a second Eve who rights Eve’s wrong (while Christ is the second Adam). Mary represents virginity, motherhood, ideal womanhood, the Church, and the proper order of salvation. In addressing why the God-man (Jesus) should be borne by women, Anselm (1033–1109  CE) points out, “[A]s man’s sin and the cause of our condemnation sprung from a woman, so the cure of sin and the source of our salvation should also be found in a woman. And that women may not despair of attaining the inheritance of the blessed, because that so dire an evil arose from woman, it is proper that from woman also so great a blessing should arise, that their hopes may be revived.”9 Eve, Mary, and women are tied fundamentally in salvation history. 4  Francis, as quoted in Joshua J.  McElwee, “Pope Francis Confirms Finality of Ban on Ordaining Women Priests.” 5  “Petrine” refers to the apostle Peter. Catholic tradition interprets passages about Peter in Christian scripture in such a way that Jesus has given Peter himself special authority to lead the Church, as well as those priests, bishops, and popes who follow in Peter’s footsteps. 6  In Catholic tradition, Mary, the mother of Jesus, represents the Church. The Church models itself on the actions of Mary, and this is the “Marian dimension.” 7  Francis, as quoted in Joshua J.  McElwee, “Pope Francis Confirms Finality of Ban on Ordaining Women Priests.” 8  Tertullian, “On the Apparel of Women,” in Eve & Adam: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Readings on Genesis and Gender, ed. Kristen E.  Kvam, Linda S.  Schearing, and Valarie H. Ziegler (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999), 132–133. 9  Anselm, Cur Deus Homo, 2.8, Internet Medieval Sourcebook, http://sourcebooks. fordham.edu/basis/anselm-curdeus.asp#BCHAPTER VIII

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While Mary has been quite important for both Catholics and Orthodox, the hierarchy of the Catholic Church has placed particular emphasis on the ways Mary reveals a theology of gender complementarity (a theology of two distinct but cooperative genders.) The late Pope John Paul II (d. 2005) sees Mary as the paragon of womanhood, arguing that Mary as virgin and mother reveals the two dimensions of women’s vocation (either consecrated virginity or motherhood).10 Women are “more capable than men of paying attention to another person.”11 Mary is, as the pope says in a letter to women, “the highest expression of the ‘feminine genius.’”12 This “genius” makes women equal but different, unfit for the priesthood but fit for their own unique vocation. Subsequent popes have continued to use the language of “feminine genius,” arguing for women’s equality while upholding a male-exclusive priesthood. For example, Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI seeks to articulate a modern gender complementarity, one where men and the male hierarchy collaborate with women and see them as vital to society and the church. To develop this, Benedict highlights women’s biological capacity to give life, which is fundamentally oriented to others. This capacity “structures the female personality in a profound way. It allows her to acquire maturity very quickly, and gives a sense of the seriousness of life and of its responsibilities.”13 Indeed, “although a certain type of feminist rhetoric makes demands ‘for ourselves,’ women preserve the deep intuition of the goodness in their lives of those actions which elicit life, and contribute to the growth and protection of the other.”14 This capability for the other makes women essential both in the family and in society.15 The Church should not subscribe to an outdated view of women in society or the Church16; even so, women should not be ordained. Their role in the Church is unique. 10  John Paul II, Mulieris Dignitatem (Vatican: August 15, 1998), 17, https://w2.vatican. va/content/john-paul-ii/en/apost_letters/1988/documents/hf_jp-ii_apl_19880815_ mulieris-dignitatem.html 11  Ibid., 18. 12  John Paul II, “Letter of Pope John Paul II to Women (Vatican: June 29, 1995), 11, https://w2.vatican.va/content/john-paul-ii/en/letters/1995/documents/hf_jp-ii_ let_29061995_women.html 13  Joseph Ratzinger, “Letter to the Bishops of the Catholic Church on the Collaboration of Men and Women” (Vatican: May, 31, 2004), 13, http://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/ congregations/cfaith/documents/rc_con_cfaith_doc_20040731_collaboration_en.html 14  Ibid. 15  Ibid. 16  Ibid., 16.

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Pope Francis has followed in the papal Marian gender tradition. He has also continued Benedict’s efforts to articulate a more active sense of women’s “genius.” He imagines a prophetic, active Mary. As the “Mother of Evangelization,” she is “present in the midst of the people.”17 Even as Pope Francis wants to bring a prophetic, activist, female voice into the world, the administration of the sacraments remains the same. Pope Francis has brought forth a powerful female mode of justice for refugees, migrants, and all those who suffer, but it is not yet clear how that prophetic, active, justice-oriented role translates for women within the Church hierarchy. I have to admit, the theology of gender complementarity has been a source of much angst for me. Papal declarations on Mary and womanhood are beautiful, but they seem abstract and unrealistic. I have two children. While they certainly have opened me up to the other in ways I could not have imagined, motherhood is far more messy and complex than any of the documents suggest. And I know my husband is as capable of nurturing and protecting my children as I am. The emphasis on biological pregnancy and mothering seems reductionistic (reducing women to their biological functions); the lack of a serious theology of men seems suspicious. (After all, why doesn’t the Church’s theology of gender complementarity articulate a theology of men as fathers? Why aren’t men’s biological functions of similar significance?) And I can’t deny that the theory of “separate but equal” gender vocations smacks to me as an American of past false promises by racial segregationists, who also promoted a philosophy of “separate but equal.” As a result of my concerns over complementarity, I was drawn away from Catholicism and toward Hinduism, particularly in its search for the true self. My study of Hinduism has made me appreciate Hinduism, its many diverse traditions, and its deep holiness. Surprisingly, it has also brought me closer to Christianity. The more I learned about Hindu meditational practices, the more I came to value Christian contemplative practices. The more I learned about Hindu views of non-violence, the more I appreciated Christian pacifism. The more I studied Hindu non-dualism (a Hindu philosophy that argues for the sacred unity of all things), the more I welcomed Christian teaching on the sacramental holiness of all 17  Francis, Evangelii Gaudium (Vatican: November 24, 2013), 284, https://w2.vatican. va/content/francesco/en/apost_exhortations/documents/papa-francesco_esortazioneap_20131124_evangelii-gaudium.html

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beings. And the more that I engaged Hindu approaches to gender and sexuality, the more that came to understand Christian ones. While I can’t say that I can buy the entirety of the Catholic hierarchy’s theology of gender complementarity, I can say that I have come to appreciate the deep gendered bodiliness of religious thought and practice—and even the relevance of the gendered body for ritual. With that, I now turn to Hindu constructions of the body, gender, and women.

Body, Gender, and Hindu Women’s Rituals Although liberation for many Hindus involves transcending the phenomenal world of karma (action) with its endless cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, the physical world is still very important. In the Taittiriya Upanishad,18 the self (atman) consists of five layers: food, life-breath, mind, perception, and bliss. The outermost layer (the body) is “food,” called so because the body comes from food: From food, surely, are they born; All creatures that live on earth. On food alone, once born, they live; And into food in the end they pass.19

The Upanishad later makes the connection between action in this world (giving/receiving food) and knowledge of true reality (“food” of knowledge). Thus, the physical and spiritual are fundamentally connected. In the Taittiriya Upanishad, recitation, physical austerities, and hospitality are all noted practices that are connected to liberating knowledge of reality (Brahman). The body situates the self in a natural and social order. This order gives each person a sacred duty (dharma) in the overall harmony of the universe. One’s dharma depends on gender, class, and place in life (i.e., student, householder, retiree, renunciant). One’s bodily state is important in the fulfillment of dharma, religiously and socially. The body itself fluctuates between two related but distinct axes: auspiciousness/inauspiciousness 18  The Upanishads are a collection of holy texts that explore the true nature of ritual, self, and reality, and teach paths to liberation. Some Upanishads are part of the Vedas (the oldest and most sacred of Hindu scriptures). 19  Taittiriya Upanishad 2.2.1, in Upanisads (Oxford World’s Classics), trans. Patrick Olivelle (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), 185.

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and purity/impurity. Auspiciousness (favorability, fortune, propitiousness) relates to things, people, and places as they intersect with time, events, or actions.20 That is, auspiciousness is “an absolute value which manifests as a quality of events in the lives of human actors…and involves the dimensions of time…and space.”21 Purity, on the other hand, does not have to do with events but with the perfection of being (the condition of a body as complete or incomplete).22 These axes interact. For example, childbirth is usually seen as an auspicious event,23 but it is pollutive to mother and child.24 This pollution is purified over time and with ritual practices to restore the bodies to their full state of being. The material body is made up of three qualities (gunas) of matter: sattva (goodness, lucidity), rajas (passion, action), and tamas (inertia). These qualities are in all bodies to various degrees, and they shape the person. Of rajas, the Bhagavad Gita25 says, “greed, exertion, the beginning of action, restlessness and lust are born when [rajas] has grown strong.”26 When tamas predominates, there is “absence of light, absence of exertion, neglect, and confusion.”27 However, “When [sattva] has grown strong, the embodied one goes to dissolution; when one enters the stainless realms of those who know the highest.”28 Although Krishna29 counsels in the Bhagavad Gita that those who are devoted to him transcend the gunas,30 the cultivation of sattva is praised. From sattva comes joy and wisdom.31

20  T.  N. Madan, “Concerning the Categories Subha and Suddha in Hindu Culture: An Exploratory Essay,” in Purity and Auspiciousnes in Indian Society, ed. John B. Carman and Frédérique A. Marglin (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1985), 13. 21  Ibid., 17. 22  Ibid. 23  Ibid., 15. 24  Ibid., 18. 25  The Bhagavad Gita is a part of the Hindu epic, the Mahabharata. In it, Krishna, incarnation (avatar) of Vishnu, counsels Arjuna on the eve of a great battle and teaches the truth of sacred duty (dharma), self (atman), the world, reality (Brahman), action (karma), and liberation. 26  Bhagavad Gita 14.12. Gita references from Bhagavad Gita (Penguin Classics), trans. Laurie L. Patton (London: Penguin Books, 2008), 158. 27  Bhagavad Gita 14.13. 28  Bhagavad Gita 14.14. 29  Krishna is believed by many Hindus past and present to be an incarnation of the Hindu deity, Vishnu. 30  Bhagavad Gita 14.26. 31  Bhagavad Gita 14.6.

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A “sati” is a good woman.32 A good woman is one who takes care of and protects her husband and family. She is a pativrata, a women devoted to her husband. Women’s dharma, then, is to be the devoted guardian of the family; it is the woman who often leads Hindu home practices. These practices include home pujas (worship), vratas (vows), rites of passage, and festival observances.33 By attending to her husband and family, by conducting home rituals, the woman cultivates sattva and becomes ritually powerful; she channels and bestows blessings on family and the home.34 Vratas maintain the household to which the woman is dedicated.35 While any person (regardless of class or gender) can conduct them, vratas have been particularly important for women’s religious practice.36 Vratas are ritual vows made to a deity with the goal of receiving some kind of blessing.37 The elements of a vrata vary, but they often include: the declaration of intent, a puja, officiants, gifts, fasting, a ceremony ending the fast, the vrata narrative, and ritual art.38 Through their votive observances, women seek any number of things, including: husbands; happiness in marriage; health for self and family; children; closeness to the divine; wealth; liberation from the cycle of karmic existence (birth, death, rebirth); power; etc.39 32  While “sati” has come to refer to the act of widow burning, it primarily refers to the woman herself. See John Stratton Hawley, “Introduction,” in Sati, the Blessing and the Curse: The Burning of Wives in India, ed. John Stratton Hawley (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 12–13. 33  Lindsey Harlan, “Words That Breach Walls: Women’s Rituals in Rajasthan,” in Women’s Lives, Women’s Rituals in the Hindu Tradition, ed. Tracy Pintchman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 65–66. 34  Lindsey Harlan, “Perfection and Devotion: Sati Tradition in Rajasthan,” in Sati, the Blessing and the Curse: The Burning of Wives in India, ed. John Stratton Hawley (New York: Oxford University Press, 1994), 80–81. 35  Mary McGee, “Desired Fruits: Motive and Intention in the Votive Rites of Hindu Women,” in Roles and Rituals for Hindu Women, ed. Julia Leslie (Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press, 1991), 88. 36  June McDaniel, Making Virtuous Daughters and Wives: An Introduction to Women’s Brata Rituals in Bengali Fold Religion (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003), 30. 37  Ibid., 29. 38  Anne Mackenzie Pearson, “Because It Gives Me Peace of Mind”: Ritual Fasts in the Religious Lives of Hindu Women (Albany: State University of New  York Press, 1996), 133–157. 39  McGee, “Desired Fruits: Motive and Intention in the Votive Rites of Hindu Women,” 79.

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That women preside in the home through their ritual practices does not mean that they are confined to the “private” sphere with limited influence. Not only do women lead these practices, they are seen as authoritative in religious and ritual matters.40 This religious power extends to the socio-­ political. In managing and hosting the divine and others through their rituals, women shape their religious and social world.41 Hardly confined to the “private sphere,” women in their rituals influence their family, anyone who comes into their home, and all those they encounter after their leave their home.42 Women’s religious practice subverts the private-public divide (Image 4.1). The subversion of private and public space is exemplified in the kolam (or rangoli). Kolams are women’s ritual designs drawn with rice-flour on thresholds, such as the threshold of a home. They mark space as well as time (dawn/dusk, winter solstice month, and the rice harvest).43 A kolam

Image 4.1  Kolam outside of a home in Chennai, India  Ibid., 76.  Ibid., 76–77. 42  Ibid., 80. 43  Vijaya Rettakudi Nagarajan, “Threshold Designs, Forehead Dots, and Menstruation Rituals: Exploring Time and Space in Tamil Kolams,” in Women’s Lives, Women’s Rituals in the Hindu Tradition, ed. Tracy Pintchman (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 85. 40 41

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at the threshold signifies auspiciousness as well as hospitality. A kolam is an invitation to the divine44 as well as to those strangers who may seek welcome and food.45 Kolams harness and channel “positive intentionalities,” power that moves both inward (into the home) and outward (to the world).46 As Vijaya Nagarajan says, “The positive intentionalities travel from the women’s hands, through the [kolam], through the feet of those passing through its energy field, and into their bodies. In this way, both the tangible [kolam] and the auspicious effects of its creation are carried into the larger world.”47 In a similar way, the pottu (or bindi), a ritual mark placed on a woman’s forehead between the eyes, signifies the auspiciousness of a woman householder and channels blessings through her body.48 Women, then, have wide ranging and fluid power. To be sure, Hindu theologies of women have a dark side that have resulted in blaming women for tragedy and excused dehumanizing violence against women.49 If women are charged with protecting their husbands and family through their religious practice, women are easily blamed when things go wrong. The rare sati ritual (where, in theory, the widow’s burning of herself and her husband occur through the wife’s own virtuous power, and not through any external fire) has been seen as a way to right any wrongs, demonstrate the wife’s virtue, liberate herself and her husband, and leave lasting blessings or curses on the community.50 This ­complex and ambiguous ritual demonstrates the extent to which women bear a heavy responsibility, and yet potentially wield great personal, familial, and socio-political power. That there has sometimes been widow 44  See Vijaya Nagarajan, “Rituals of Embedded Ecologies: Drawing Kolams, Marrying Trees, and Generating Auspiciousness,” in Hinduism and Ecology: The Intersection of Earth, Sky, and Water, ed. Christopher Key Chapple and Mary Evelyn Tucker (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2000). 45  Nagarajan, “Threshold Designs, Forehead Dots, and Menstruation Rituals: Exploring Time and Space in Tamil Kolams,” 88. 46  Ibid., 88. 47  Nagarajan, “Rituals of Embedded Ecologies: Drawing Kolams, Marrying Trees, and Generating Auspiciousness,” 465. 48  Nagarajan, “Threshold Designs, Forehead Dots, and Menstruation Rituals: Exploring Time and Space in Tamil Kolams,” 87. 49  For a fuller discussion on this topic, see Anantanand Rambachan, A Hindu Theology of Liberation: Not-Two is Not One, Reprint ed. (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2015). 50  See John Stratton Hawley, ed., Sati, the Blessing and the Curse: The Burning of Wives in India (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1994).

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abuse and burning (imposed on women) in the name of sati also shows the ways in which women are not always empowered through Hindu ritual life and the extent to which power dynamics are entrenched in religion. With this caution in mind, I now return to the Catholic context.

Mujerista Theology, Hindu Women’s Rituals, and the Ritual of Everyday Life While the issue of whether women ought to be ordained priests is important, I am more concerned with the theological assumptions about gender that not only undergird the Catholic Church’s sacramental theology but also affect the ways the hierarchy treats women in and out of the pews. Assuming that a woman is either Eve or Mary, sinner or holy, devil’s gateway or Virgin Mother is neither good theology (because we are simultaneously graced and sinful) nor is it real. It abstracts women out of their real lives, creating impossible standards for them. A more realistic theology must not force women into impossible types (Eve-Mary) but instead must emphasize real women engaged in their actual lives. Hindu women’s rituals can help here. A brief comparison of Hindu women’s rituals with mujerista theology, which also is centered on everyday life, is instructive.51 For Ada María Isasi-Díaz, the source of mujerista theology is daily life, lo cotidiano.52 But lo cotidiano is not about ritualizing the religio-social duty of women, nor is it a neutral term about finding God in the little things of life. Lo cotidiano of Latinas is a matter of life and death, it is a matter of who we are, of who we become, and, therefore, it is far from being something objective, something we observe, relate to, and talk about in a disinterested way. Finding ways to earn money to feed and clothe their children and to keep a roof over their heads is part of lo cotidiano for Latinas. Finding ways to ­survive corporal abuse is part of lo cotidiano. Finding ways to effectively struggle against oppression is part of lo cotidiano.53

 For a fuller discussion on mujerista theology, see Ada María Isasi-Díaz, En La Lucha/In the Struggle: Elaborating a Mujerista Theology, 10th Anniversary Ed. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2004). 52  Ada María Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology: A Theology for the Twenty-First Century (Maryknoll: Orbis Books, 1996), 66. 53  Ibid., 67–68. 51

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For mujerista theology, lo cotidiano is about “the struggle to survive, to live fully,”54 it is in the daily struggle for flourishing where the divine is found. Indeed, mujerista theology claims that God is present particularly in the marginalized and the oppressed.55 However, lo cotidiano is not about accepting a world that is structured in patriarchal and oppressive ways; it is about honoring Latinas’ and Hispanic women’s shared labor for liberation.56 Isasi-Díaz is careful not to romanticize lo cotidiano, defining it explicitly through conscious problematization of daily life.57 It is action and reflection. It is embedded in embodied and socio-political realities, though not passive acceptance of what it. It is the struggle for more, for life, for justice. Mujerista theology, like Hindu women’s theology of dharma, emphasizes rituals embedded in daily life and the active role of women in ensuring a good life.58 Mujerista rituals, [L]ocate the sacred in the midst of the marginalized, of the poor and the oppressed, instead of in institutional churches that often do little or nothing to be in solidarity with Hispanic women’s struggle for liberation. In so doing this, mujeristas claim for ourselves religious authority, the authority to make contact with the divine in our own way, according to our own experience, and using our mujerista selves, made in the image of God, as a metaphor for the divine. Thus mujerista rituals threaten the control of the divine which the churches have claimed as their exclusive possession—and quite successfully so—for many centuries…As mujerista liturgies relocate the sacred, wresting religious power from the church and limiting its ability to legitimate present society, our rituals begin to threaten the social cohesion of patriarchal society…Mujerista liturgies produce a mística, that is, a social cohesion that enables participants to do what they have not been able to do alone.59

Mujeristas ritualize lo cotidiano to denounce oppressive forces, and to celebrate and enliven the community in struggle for liberation.60  Ibid., 131.   Ada María Isasi-Díaz, “Mujerista Discourse: A Platform for Latinas’ Subjugated Knowledge,” in Decolonizing Epistempologies: Latina/o Theology and Philosophy, ed. Ada María Isasi-Díaz and Eduardo Mendieta (New York: Fordham University Press, 2012), 64–65. 56  Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology: A Theology for the Twenty-First Century, 67–69. 57  Isasi-Díaz, “Mujerista Discourse: A Platform for Latinas’ Subjugated Knowledge,” 48–49. 58  Isasi-Díaz, Mujerista Theology: A Theology for the Twenty-First Century, 170–202. 59  Ibid., 197–198. 60  Ibid., 193. 54 55

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The orientation on social justice in mujerista theology and liturgy is quite different from the emphasis on women’s dharma in Hindu theology; even so, Hindu women do highlight consciousness and personal, familial, and social flourishing in their rituals. Moreover, Isasi-Díaz offers an important lens for understanding Hindu women’s rituals without romanticizing them. She recognizes the ambiguity of women’s lives, lives that are often limited by interlocking systems of power (sexism, racism, economic exploitation, etc.). Although Hindu women’s rituals are complex and sometimes fraught, we can appreciate the ways in which Hindu practice is so deeply embodied. Moreover, Hindu women are ritual agents with incredible power for themselves, their families, and the broader society—precisely because they are women, and not despite it. If mujerista theology tends to emphasize women in community struggling together, Hindu women’s rituals tend to emphasize the individual responsibility and bodily power of a woman embedded in her community. This is something that can enrich Christian discussions of body, ritual, and gender. In her ritual practice, a Hindu woman renders her body powerful. Her body is the medium through which, and the instrument by which, individual, familial, social, and even cosmic flourishing occurs. In Catholic theological terms, the gendered body is the sacramental, efficacious (effective) sign of God’s self-communication. The gendered body, in its ritualized everyday life, is a powerful, efficacious sacrament of the divine. In the early centuries of Christianity, Christians met in homes. Ritual and religious life was embedded in everyday, domestic life. There was no separation between the sacred and the profane (non-sacred). Hindu women’s rituals demonstrate a similar unity, as well the power of a woman through her everyday ritualized life. Mujerista theology clarifies that that in the relocation of the sacred to lo cotidiano, it is a relocation of the sacred to the everyday struggle for life and justice. We must decenter our sacramental imagination from what Christians do on Sundays (and other special occasions) in a Church building by a male hierarchy. Women’s bodies channel the liberating divine in their everyday practices. We must expand our sacramental imagination to the body engaged in the ritual of everyday life. In the end, Hindu women’s ritual practices have been revelatory to me of the profound sacrality of everyday life. Women can, do, and should ritualize faith in and through their bodies, bringing together the sacred and the profane and mediating the divine in the home, in the church, and in society.

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McElwee, Joshua J.  2016a. Francis Institutes Commission to Study Female Deacons, Appointing Gender-Balanced Membership. National Catholic Reporter, August 2. https://www.ncronline.org/news/vatican/francisinstitutes-commission-study-female-deacons-appointing-gender-balanced. Accessed 20 Oct 2017. ———. 2016b. Pope Francis Confirms Finality of Ban on Ordaining Women Priests. National Catholic Reporter, November 1. https://www.ncronline. org/news/vatican/pope-francis-confirms-finality-ban-ordaining-women. Accessed 20 Oct 2017. McGee, Mary. 1991. Desired Fruits: Motive and Intention in the Votive Rites of Hindu Women. In Roles and Rituals for Hindu Women, ed. Julia Leslie. Rutherford: Fairleigh Dickinson University Press. Nagarajan, Vijaya Rettakudi. 2000. Rituals of Embedded Ecologies: Drawing Kolams, Marrying Trees, and Generating Auspiciousness. In Hinduism and Ecology: The Intersection of Earth, Sky, and Water, ed. Christopher Key Chapple and Mary Evelyn Tucker. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. ———. 2007. Threshold Designs, Forehead Dots, and Menstruation Rituals: Exploring Time and Space in Tamil Kolams. In Women’s Lives, Women’s Rituals in the Hindu Tradition, ed. Tracy Pintchma. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pearson, Anne Mackenzie. 1996. “Because It Gives Me Peace of Mind”: Ritual Fasts in the Religious Lives of Hindu Women. Albany: State University of New York Press. Rambachan, Anantanand. 2015. A Hindu Theology of Liberation: Not-Two Is Not One. Reprint ed. Albany: State University of New York Press. Ratzinger, Joseph. Letter to the Bishops of the Catholic Church on the Collaboration of Men and Women. Vatican: May, 31, 2004. http://www.vatican.va/roman_ curia/congregations/cfaith/documents/rc_con_cfaith_doc_20040731_collaboration_en.html. Accessed 20 Oct 2017. Tertullian. 1999. On the Apparel of Women. In Eve & Adam: Jewish, Christian, and Muslim Readings on Genesis and Gender, ed. Kristen E.  Kvam, Linda S. Schearing, and Valarie H. Ziegler. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Upanisads (Oxford World’s Classics). Trans. Patrick Olivelle. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998.

CHAPTER 5

Ásatrú and Hindu: From Prophecy to Dialogue Karl E. H. Seigfried

Introduction Written from a Heathen1 perspective, this chapter presents first steps toward interfaith dialogue between Ásatrú and Hindu traditions – steps inspired by a comparative reading of prophetic material from the Old Norse poem Völuspá (“Prophecy of the Seeress”) and the Sanskrit Mahābhārata (“Great Epic of the Bhārata Dynasty”). The term Heathen is commonly used as a self-identifier by practitioners of Ásatrú, a new religious movement that revives, reconstructs, and reimagines Norse polytheism as a living religion in a modern context. Discussion of my “holy envy” of the rich and detailed literary and philosophical traditions of Hinduism leads to a close reading of the two texts, examination of analogues in other religions, reflection on a scholarly turn to non-Abrahamic traditions, and discussion of some implications for interfaith action.

1  Heathen (with initial capital) specifically refers to Germanic polytheism and should not be understood to mean heathen (without initial capital) in the generic sense of “non-Abrahamic.”

K. E. H. Seigfried (*) Department of Humanities, Lewis College of Human Sciences, Illinois Institute of Technology, Chicago, IL, USA © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_5

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Iceland’s Völuspá has been described as “one of the most powerful and eloquent monuments of Scandinavian mythology,”2 yet medievalists and theologians promote a reading of the Icelandic poem in terms of Christian sources, references, and worldview. For example, it is commonly asserted that the poem’s description of the cataclysmic final battle between gods and giants is directly influenced by New Testament accounts of Doomsday. My own experience studying India’s Mahābhārata led me to push back against the standard scholarly spelunking for Christian influence in Völuspá. Elements of Vyāsa’s prophecy in the Indian work are strikingly similar to those of the seeress’s prophecy in the Icelandic poem. The conceptual congruence of poetic prophecies composed a thousand years and five thousand miles apart suggests that the Old Norse poem may reflect more of ancient (and therefore Heathen) thought and less of Christian theology than has often been asserted. In order to forward my argument that the Old Norse poem can be read without reference to Christian belief and practice, I will also briefly sketch structural points of contact between the prophetic performance of Völuspá and recent ethnographical work on modern-day seeresses in Japan and Turkey. I do not forward theories of primordial Indo-European genetic connections between Iceland and India nor suggest the existence of an ur-­ prophecy from which both works descend. In other words, I am absolutely not promoting outdated racialist concepts about Aryan blood kinship between Nordics and Hindus, and I am not arguing that there is some single original vision that inspired the Icelandic poem and the Indian epic. Rather, I am interested in parallels between the two received texts and the implications for living practitioners of Ásatrú and Hinduism. The commonalities between these poetic moments open a space in which Heathens and Hindus can begin to build on the shared concepts in their belief systems.

The Ásatrú Religion On April 20, 1972,3 twelve people who wanted to revive the pre-Christian polytheistic religion of Iceland gathered at Hotel Borg in Reykjavík to found the Ásatrúarfélagið (“Ásatrú Fellowship”).4 The old faith of Odin, Thor, Freyja, and the other Norse gods and goddesses had been officially  Lindow, Norse Mythology, 319.  Berg, “Sveinbjörn Beinteinsson,” 269. 4  Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson, email communication. 2 3

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abandoned for Christianity at the national assembly in the year 1000. Although private practice continued for some time afterward – and folk practices continued much longer still – it wasn’t until the Icelandic government officially recognized the Ásatrúarfélagið as a religious organization in 1973 that the old gods were once more openly worshiped in the country. Forty years later, membership in the group had grown by 8233% and Ásatrú was the largest non-Christian religion in Iceland. Some form of the religion can be found in ninety-eight countries, with the United States having by far the largest number of practitioners.5 The term Ásatrú itself is modern Icelandic for “Æsir faith” and means belief in or loyalty to the major tribe of the Norse gods. Practitioners generally refer to themselves as Heathens. More generally, Heathenry is an umbrella term for modern religions that revive, reconstruct, or reimagine pre-Christian Germanic polytheistic religions  – not only Icelandic and Norse beliefs and practices, but also those of the Anglo-Saxons, Franks, and other ancient groups that spoke Germanic languages. There does not seem to have been a native word for the old religious practice in any Germanic language before the clash with Christianity. After the new religion came to the north, the term Heathen (Old Norse heiðinn, Old English hǽðen, Old High German heidan) was used for those who believed in the old way, and it is in this sense that it is used by modern practitioners.

Ásatrú and Hindu As a Heathen, I feel “holy envy” for the rich and detailed literary and philosophical tradition available to Hindus today. We have the Poetic Edda, written down by thirteenth-century Christians over two centuries after Iceland’s conversion; they have the Ṛg Veda, written down by believers well over two thousand years ago. We have a handful of poems in the Poetic Edda; they have a seemingly endless library of works, including the nearly one hundred thousand verses of the Mahābhārata alone. Perhaps more importantly, we have less than fifty years of modern Heathen thought; they have millennia of philosophical reflection on their faith traditions. The roots of Ásatrú can be traced back four thousand years, when rock carvings were made in Sweden that show “reverse echoes” of the gods that we know from the Viking Age (Image 5.1). There are images of a spear 5

 Seigfried, “Worldwide Heathen Census.”

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Image 5.1  A “reverse echo” of Thor? A godlike figure appears to bless a couple with an axe in this Bronze Age rock carving in Tanum, Sweden. Much later Icelandic written sources mention Thor’s hammer being used to consecrate a bride at her wedding. (Illustration by Karl E. H. Seigfried)

god and an axe god that may be very early versions of the deities we know as Odin and Thor. The carvings seem to record rituals that are consistent with what we know from later archeological, historical, and literary records. The earliest records of Germanic polytheism therefore date to approximately 1800 BCE, which is also the traditional date for the birth of Abraham; the origins of Ásatrú are as far back in time as that of the Abrahamic religions. Yet these are shadowy suggestions, not detailed literary records. We have various texts by classical writers, but they are fragmentary and provide outsider descriptions of beliefs and practices. Even the first-century monograph Germania by the Roman Tacitus is questionable in its polemical portrayal of the Germanic tribes as sometimes noble, sometimes shockingly violent savages in a text centered more on critiquing Roman society than on what we would now consider ethnographic work. Scholars and Heathens alike focus so obsessively on medieval Icelandic texts since that nation’s poetry and prose provide the most detailed accounts of preChristian Germanic polytheism.

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The Icelandic sources, however, appear after writing came north with Christianity. Although runes did exist as a native northern alphabet, they were used on the European continent, the British Isles, and the Nordic countries to carve large memorial stones and to engrave small portable objects, not to preserve long texts (Image 5.2). None of the Heathen poems that we have were written on parchment by Heathen hands. None of the medieval Icelandic prose works known as sagas were composed by Heathen authors. Instead, we have a collection of materials written down by Christians who either learned the poems via oral tradition or created new prose works based on those traditions. Whether classical or medieval, most of what survives is etic (from the perspective of outside observers) and relatively little is emic (from the perspective of inside practitioners). Hinduism has a very different history. There was never a culture-wide enforced conversion to Christianity across the Indian subcontinent as there was across northern Europe. Today’s Hindus therefore have access to the mythology of the Ṛg Veda, which dates to approximately 1500 BCE, stretching back nearly as far as the shadowy and suggestive carvings in Sweden. With over one thousand hymns, the size of the Ṛg Veda alone dwarfs the less than forty poems contained in what is now known as the

Image 5.2  Three sons honored their deceased father with this carving on a Viking Age runestone in Södermanland, Sweden. Note the hammer of Thor in the center. (Illustration by Karl E. H. Seigfried)

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Poetic Edda of Iceland, of which several are fragmentary or defective and only one-third center on the deities of mythology rather than the heroes of legend. The Ṛg Veda is merely the first entry in the catalog of Indian texts. Of the three other Vedas, I am most jealous that today’s Hindus have access to the Atharva Veda of approximately 700 BCE, which gives instructions for magic manifested via performative speech acts. Heathens are frustrated by Odin bragging in the poem Hávamál (“Sayings of the High One”) that he knows eighteen magic spells yet merely lists their effects without giving instructions on how to achieve them. Hindus, if they are interested in such things in the twenty-first century, have a lengthy text from nearly three thousand years ago that gives detailed directions for an enormous amount of magical practices. Given the subject of this chapter, it is important to note that there are elements in the Atharva Veda that line up amazingly closely with what we do know of the magical practices of historical northern European polytheism. After the Vedas, the Brāhmaṇas of approximately 800  BCE provide commentaries on the earlier texts and relate the myths to both sacrificial practice and religious symbolism. The Upaniṣads preserve philosophical texts that began to be composed around 600 BCE. The Purāṇas, composed between approximately 350  CE and 950  CE, are a vast body of myth and legend. From the interregnum between the Maurya Empire (circa 321–185 BCE) and Gupta Empire (circa 320–540 CE) come three major texts, each of which is centered on one of the puruṣār thas, the three aims of human life: dharma (religion, justice, righteousness), artha (success, wealth, politics), and kāma (pleasure, desire, sex). In order, they are The Laws of Manu, the Arthaśāstra (“Treatise on Success”), and the Kāmasūtra (“Treatise on Pleasure”). These are only some of the ancient texts that inform modern Hinduism. The vast number of Indian works dwarfs the pitifully small collection of ancient Heathen literature, none of which was written down by actual practicing Heathens. In India, this groundwork has been built upon by many centuries of poetry, prose, philosophy, theology, art, music, and other forms of religious expression. From the ancient eras, Heathens can choose from the slim pickings of classical texts, early histories, and medieval poetry and prose (none of which were written down by practitioners) and the random finds of archeology (created by Heathen hands, but nearly incomprehensible without the lens of written materials). Aside from reprints, retellings, and scholarly analysis, there is a

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nearly a thousand-year void of written material that is only alleviated by collections of Heathenish folklore in the Christian era recorded by the likes of the Grimms. Not until after the 1972 founding of Ásatrú do we have written works by authors self-identifying as believers in the old gods and practitioners of the old way – or, more accurately, as practitioners of new religions that revive, reconstruct, or reimagine ancient beliefs and practices. Today, modern Hindus have an overwhelming amount of materials old and new in which to ground themselves. It is this rich and beautiful tradition that gives me “holy envy.” This feeling led me to study the texts of Hinduism for insights to fuel my own work as both public theologian of Ásatrú and goði (“priest”) of Thor’s Oak Kindred, the religious group I founded in Chicago. Ásatrú and Hinduism are connected through their Indo-European roots – ancient connections of language, culture, mythology, ethics, and religious practice.6 By studying the Hindu sources, I have been able to fill in some of the conceptual gaps in the Old Norse sources. My understanding of enigmatic Norse gods such as Heimdall has been enriched through the study of the Indian texts, and the comparison of multiple Hindu texts with Germanic folklore has influenced the design of rituals through which I lead the members of Thor’s Oak Kindred. At the most fundamental theological level, my work in Ásatrú has been enriched by my study of Hindu concepts; my conception of the Heathen idea of wyrd7 has been shaped by the Hindu system of karma, for example.

The Prophecy of Iceland Völuspá (“Prophecy of the Seeress”) is the first poem in the collection now called the Poetic Edda. The great majority of the poems included come from the Icelandic vellum manuscript known as the Codex Regius, in which an unknown scribe wrote them down in the 1270s. Arguably the most important single source for the old Heathen worldview, Völuspá is an allusive and elusive poem that obliquely refers to many events and characters in the mythological past, present, and future. Without the expansions and explanations by Icelander Snorri Sturluson in his Edda (written c. 1220 but with extensive knowledge and use of the poems), much of  Not, as stated earlier, by the racial connections asserted in older scholarship.  For a discussion of this complex theological concept, see my “Wyrd Will Weave Us Together.” 6 7

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Völuspá would be incomprehensible. However, Snorri’s text often raises questions as to whether its author/compiler is writing from knowledge of oral tradition or simply making stuff up. Although many explanations have been offered for the voice(s) of Völuspá’s narrator(s), the internal evidence supports the idea that the single voice is that of a völva (“seeress”) who speaks during a vision in which she channels the three Norns, mystical women who speak of what has ­happened, what is now happening, and what must happen. After addressing an audience that seems to encompass all of humanity, the seeress tells of the era before time, the creation, the major acts of the gods and goddesses, and – most importantly for this chapter – concludes with a prophecy regarding the final destruction of the world at Ragnarök (“Doom of the Powers,” with Powers being gods) and the birth of a new world after the conclusion of the mythic timeline. Scholarly consensus on Völuspá is that the poem is heavily influenced by Christianity – despite its narration of pagan subject matter, its replication of elements from other pagan poetry, its recitation of pagan mythological concepts appearing in other written sources, its use of imagery paralleling that found in pagan material culture, and its complete lack of any Christian material (characters, doctrines, teachings, etc.). Specifically, the poem’s description of Ragnarök is regularly claimed to have been heavily influenced by Christian accounts of the Last Judgment. John Lindow’s observation that “there is much in the poem that is reminiscent of Christianity… it seems to indulge in millennial thinking” is at the milder end of the spectrum.8 Christopher Abram makes a stronger case, writing that the poem is “post-Christian” (his emphasis) and asserting that “Völuspá’s heightened, apocalyptic tone and its distinctive imagery… imitates or parodies Christian motives.”9 Ursula Dronke writes of “external features of Vǫluspá that appear to reflect Christian modes” and “the analogy between inner motivation in the poem and a Christian theological theme.”10 Pétur Pétursson gives the most common view, stating that “one thing is certain: that the poem is syncretic, neither wholly heathen nor wholly Christian” and arguing for the direct influence of Christian Doomsday imagery.11 Back in the early 1900s, Danish scholar Axel Olrik saw “the moral state of the world, the blowing of the Gjallarhorn, the  Lindow, Norse Mythology, 318.  Abrams, Myths of the Pagan North, 166–7. 10  Dronke, Poetic Edda, Volume II, 94. 11  Pétur Pétursson, “Völuspá and the Tree of Life,” 313. 8 9

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disappearance of the sun, the world-fire and the description of the new world as being influenced by Christianity.”12 Strangely enough, all of the elements mentioned by Olrik except the last appear in the Mahābhārata prophecy, and the idea of a new world arising from the destruction of the old is a key part of Hindu cosmology. While the agreement of so many contemporary scholars on any issue regarding medieval poetry is itself striking, it is particularly noteworthy that the general academic consensus has not much changed since the days of Olrik, who died before the end of the First World War. It has always seemed a bit odd to me that this particular interpretation – that the major cosmological poem of Norse mythology is built on Christian motives that are never stated or alluded to in the text – has become hardwired into the discipline of Scandinavian Studies, like the easily disprovable statement repeated by every major scholar that Thor has a red beard in the Eddas.13 It wasn’t until I read the Mahābhārata that I could point to something concrete enough to push back at the discipline’s promotion of the Christian influence trope.

The Prophecy of India The Mahābhārata (“Great Epic of the Bhārata Dynasty”), along with the Rāmāyaṇa, is one of the major Sanskrit poems of ancient India. Composed at some time between 300 BCE and 300 CE, the Mahābhārata tells of a family rivalry that reflects much larger cosmic struggles – “the eternal battle between gods and demons [is] to be played out as a human conflict between two sets of cousins.”14 The gods are represented by the heroic Pāṇḍavas; their leader is Yudhiṣthira, son of Dharma (the divine personification of religion, justice, and righteousness). The demonic side is represented by the Kauravas; their leader is Duryodhana, “born on earth from a portion of Kali,”15 a goddess whose name can be translated as Doomsday (as can the Old Norse name of Muspell, the fire giant who burns the world at Ragnarök). Through eighteen books, the massive text follows not only the main plot of the power struggle between Yudhiṣthira and his cousin Duryodhana, but also gives the back stories of a host of characters central, tangential,  Simek, Dictionary of Northern Mythology, 259.  Seigfried, “Blond Thor.” 14  Mahābhārata (Smith), xv. 15  Ibid., 22. 12 13

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and distantly related to the main storyline. Gods and ghouls regularly appear, fantastic locations are visited, and magical powers arise from boons awarded by the deities. The drama builds toward the final battle between the massed forces in alliance with each of the cousins. As the two sides gather on the battlefield, the poet and seer Vyāsa appears and makes a grand prophecy of the destruction to come. The parallels between Vyāsa and the Norse god Odin are striking. Credited with writing the Mahābhārata itself, Vyāsa is associated with both poetry and prophecy. Odin is the supposed author of Hávamál, the central wisdom poem and longest entry in the Poetic Edda, and his name is related to Old Norse óðr (“furious”) and Old Irish faith (“seer”). He is the deity who wins the Mead of Inspiration and shares it with human poets. He is also married to Frigg, who knows “all fate,”16 and he turns to prophetesses and ancient giants for knowledge of what is to come. Vyāsa is the grandfather of the Pāṇḍavas, the heroes of this great Indian epic; Odin is the progenitor of the Völsungs, the heroes of arguably the greatest of the Icelandic legendary sagas, Völsunga saga (Saga of the Völsungs). In their respective texts, Vyāsa and Odin wander into the story whenever one of their descendants is in need, offer a bit of help, then wander out again. In the Mahābhārata, Vyāsa tells his prophecy to the blind Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra, father of the Kauravas; in Völuspá, the völva tells her prophecy to the one-­ eyed Odin, also known as Blindr (“Blind”).

Comparing Prophecies of the Final Battle The parallels between these two figures are greatly amplified by the correspondences between the prophecy of the völva and that of Vyāsa, which range from mundane to profound, from technical to spiritual. Even before Vyāsa’s prophecy begins, the events “on the eve of the great war” run parallel to the events of Ragnarök. In the Mahābhārata, the enemies of the Pāṇḍavas approach from the east (M7); in Völuspá, frost giants, fire giants, and Loki himself arrive from the same direction (V47–48).17 At the time of the great battle in India, “the entire earth seemed empty” as “men of all races, gathered at one place” fill the region (M7), as “[m]any thousands, millions, tens of  Poetic Edda (Larrington), 85.  From this point on, all citations to the two texts are made inline; Mahābhārata citations give the page number in Māhabhārata, Book Six: Bhı̄sm ̣ a, Volume One, and Völuspá citations give the verse number in Larrington’s Poetic Edda translation. 16 17

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millions, hundreds of millions of heroic people have gathered on the field of the Kurus” (M43). The seeress suggests a similar world(s)-wide ­preparation for Ragnarök that includes the major (supernatural) peoples of the cosmos: What disturbs the Æsir?18 What disturbs the elves? All Giant-land is roaring. The Æsir are in council. The dwarfs groan before their rocky doors, wise ones of the mountain wall… (V49)

There is no need to turn to Christian concepts for the idea of a battle so large that all the world is involved. When the Pāṇḍavas first see their opponents approach, Krṣṇa and Arjuna “blew their divine conches in elation.” At the sound, “the enemy troops soiled themselves with feces and urine. The host was terrified at the sound, just as are other animals at hearing a lion roar” (M9). As Ragnarök begins and the World Tree is set on fire, “Heimdall blows loudly, his horn is in the air” (V45). The idea of a god blowing his horn to signal the sighting of the great enemy is independent of any Christian idea that “the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible.”19 The sound announces not the raising of the dead but the coming of the enemy; the instrument associated with resurrection through Christ in the New Testament plays a very different role in the Old Norse prophecy. In light of the Sanskrit text, perhaps Heimdall is blowing his horn just as much to terrify the giants as he is to alert the gods. As the two sides in the Mahābhārata ready for battle, mystical portents appear. The dust rising from the ground is so thick that “[t]he sun, suddenly enshrouded in it, appeared to have set. [The rain deity] Parjánya poured a shower of flesh and blood over the troops on all sides… Then a wind arose, carrying gravel along the ground and injuring hundreds and thousands of warriors.” The cosmic nature of the conflict is underscored: “That clash between the two forces was wondrous, resembling that of two oceans when the end of an eon had come” [M11]. Strikingly similar imagery appears in Völuspá before the battle of Ragnarök, which is clearly an eon-ending conflict of cosmic proportions. The Sanskrit metaphor of clashing oceans is paralleled in the Icelandic source as the World Serpent prepares for battle: “the great serpent writhes in giant rage; the serpent  The Æsir are the major tribe of Norse gods.  1 Corinthians 15:52.

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churns the waves” (V47). Other elements appear in the verses leading up to the beginning of the final battle as the prophetess speaks of the monstrous wolf that will swallow the moon: In the east sat the old woman in Iron-wood and gave birth there to Fenrir’s offspring; one of them in trollish shape shall be the snatcher of the moon. It gluts itself on doomed men’s lives, reddens the gods’ dwellings with crimson blood; sunshine becomes black all the next summers, weather all vicious… (V39–40)

In both sources, the sun is darkened by the build-up to the great battle below. The line about sunshine becoming black in Völuspá is often interpreted as referring to volcanic ash darkening the skies and thus used as part of the argument that the poem is of late Icelandic vintage and therefore composed in the era of Christian influence.20 The parallel imagery in the Mahābhārata, however, suggests that the poetic idea may be a leftover of standard imagery regarding massive battles in a culture that relied on the formulas of oral tradition to preserve poetry. The appearance of volcanoes in the Mahābhārata will be discussed below. When Vyāsa finally arrives, he is described as “the holy sage… the best of all those versed in the Vedas, the grandfather of the Bharatas, the divine eyewitness to all events, knowing past, present, and future” (M17). This underscores the Vyāsa-Odin parallels described above, and the congruencies continue when Vyāsa addresses the blind Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra, telling him that the kings on both sides of the battle are doomed to die in the coming battle. Despite the darkness, Vyāsa advises Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra, “Be aware of the passage of time, and do not give way to sorrow” (M17) and tells him, “Do not grieve! It is Fate… You should not give way to sorrow. It cannot be averted” (M19). One of the most fundamental characteristics of Odin in the Icelandic sources is that, although his quest for knowledge of the future results in repeated confirmation that he and his children will die in the final battle of Ragnarök, he never gives up his struggle to build his forces and prepare to fight when the battle arrives. He is deeply “aware of the passage of time,” of the fact that Ragnarök “cannot be averted,” yet he never does “give way to sorrow.”  See, for example, Poetic Edda (Larrington), n284.

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Vyāsa also offers the blind king the boon of having a seer by his side: Here is Sánjaya, Your Majesty, who will keep you informed of the course of the battle. Nothing will escape his sight throughout the war. Sánjaya will indeed be endowed with divine vision, Your Majesty. He will describe to you the events of the battle, and will be aware of everything. Whether out in the open or hidden away, whether occurring by day or by night, or merely conceived in the mind, Sánjaya will know everything. (M19)

The idea of the all-seeing helper reporting back to the ruler is fundamental to the portrayal of Odin in Icelander Snorri Sturluson’s Old Norse Edda (c. 1220): Two ravens sit on [Odin’s] shoulders and speak into his ear all the news they see or hear. Their names are Hugin [“Thought”] and Munin [“Memory”]. He sends them out at dawn to fly over all the world and they return at dinner-­time. As a result he gets to find out about many events. From this he gets the name raven-god.21

As mentioned above, the seer speaking to the blind Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra is paralleled by the seeress addressing the half-blind Odin. Like so many elements of both the Sanskrit and Old Norse sources, these supernatural elements seem to reflect fundamental human desires to transcend the limitations of our own physical natures. Having presented Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra with this boon, Vyāsa begins his prophecy about the great battle. Parallels with Völuspá immediately emerge. Vyāsa first speaks of “dreadful omens,” telling how birds gather, “delighted to foresee that battle is imminent… Fierce herons, their hideous cries portending horror, fly southwards” (M19). In Indian mythology, the way to the underworld and the region of death are to the south. In Völuspá, birds also mark the beginning of the final conflict. The first sits by “the giantess’s herdsman”: near him crowed in Gallows-wood, that bright-red rooster who is called Fialar. Golden-comb crowed near the Æsir, he wakens the warriors at Father of Hosts’ hall [i.e., Odin’s Valhalla]; and another crows below the earth, a sooty-red cock in the halls of Hel. (V41–42)  Snorri Sturluson, Edda, 33.

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In both sources, the cries of birds predict the bloodshed to come. Like Hindu mythology, Norse myth retains the idea of the directionality of the path to the underworld realm of the dead, yet – in a cosmology arising far to the north – places it the opposite direction from Hindu myth; one hero seeking to travel there is famously told “downwards and northwards lies the road to Hel.”22 In Vyāsa’s vision, the order of the natural world begins to break down. He sees “the sun, the moon and the stars glowing all at once, making no distinction between day and night. All this portends terror” (M21). At the beginning of the mythic era presented in Völuspá, as chaos still reigns in the universe, Sun did not know where she had her hall, the stars did not know where they had their stations, the moon did not know what might he had. (V5)

It takes the guidance of the gods at “the thrones of fate” for the celestial bodies to find their correct paths in the skies above. Although the imagery appears in different points in their mythic timelines, both the Sanskrit and the Old Norse poems use the image of wandering bodies in the sky to symbolize chaos – either before the gods set order or as the order begins to break down. Vyāsa says that “the moon, devoid of luster, became invisible or resembled a fire in the lotus-colored sky” (M21), a failing of a body that lights the night and image of the sky aflame paralleled by the Icelandic seeress’s statement that “the bright stars vanish from the sky… hot flame plays high against heaven itself” (V54). Vyāsa describes further chaos on and above the earth, telling Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra that he hears “the ferocious screams of a boar and a cat fighting in the sky” (M21) and stating that “[t]he earth constantly quakes, and Rahu approaches the sun” (M23). Rahu is the Indian demon of the eclipse, the “foe of moon and sun,”23 and Vyāsa says he “is eclipsing [the c­ onstellation] Rohiṇı ̄ as well as the moon and the sun” (M25). He is the son of the monstrous Siṃhikā, who is killed in the Rāmāyaṇa by the monkey Hanuman; after “[s]he stretched her jaws as wide apart as heaven and hell,” he flies into her mouth and rips her apart from the inside.24 Völuspá features similar imagery on earth and in the sky. As in the Indian prophecy, the  Ibid., 50.  Mahābhārata (Buitenen), 146. 24  Rãmāyaṇa, 63. 22 23

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earth shakes; the World Tree itself “groans” and “shudders” as Loki is freed from his bonds beneath the earth, where he is associated (by Snorri) with earthquakes (V45). Animals appear in the sky, as mentioned in the verses discussed above about the wolf that will swallow the moon. Elsewhere in the Poetic Edda, Odin names the two cosmic wolves who pursue the sun and moon as Sköll (“Mockery”) and Hati (“Hater”).25 The myth of Rahu’s mother is incredibly similar to Snorri’s description of the wolf Fenrir at Ragnarök: “Fenriswolf will go with mouth agape and its upper jaw will be against the sky and its lower one against the earth.”26 The method of his death is also similar to that of Siṃhikā; Odin’s son Víðarr (“Wide Ruler”) “will come forward and step with one foot on the lower jaw of the wolf… With one hand he will grasp the wolf’s upper jaw and tear apart its mouth and this will cause the wolf’s death.”27 In both cases, the helper of the main figure faces the gaping mouth of the monster and tears the beast apart. As Vyāsa describes the falling of the world into chaos, he gives examples of the natural ways of things breaking apart: Donkeys are born from cows. Sons indulge in sex with their mothers. Forest trees are displaying unseasonable flowers and fruits. Pregnant women, before their children can be born, give birth to monsters. Carrion-eating beasts and birds feed on each other… The whole mean rabble laughs, dances, and sings loudly, foreboding great terror. Urged by Time, children draw armed figures and chase one another with cudgels in their hands. Eager to fight, they trample down each other’s strongholds. (M23)

The seeress of Völuspá offers a similar vision of the breakdown of order in which she also lists violations of human social relationships and a time when the predation of carrion-eaters becomes monstrous (a “wolf-age”): Brother will fight brother and be his slayer, sister’s sons will violate the kinship-bond; hard it is in the world, whoredom abounds, axe-age, sword-age, shields are cleft asunder, wind-age, wolf-age, before the world plunges headlong; no man will spare another. (V44)  Poetic Edda, 54.  Snorri Sturluson, Edda, 53. 27  Ibid., 54. 25 26

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In both texts, the coming of the final battle causes the social order to disintegrate. The laws of kinship, sexual propriety, and use of force are all broken. After he has concluded his prophecy, Vyāsa states, “Whoever destroys family custom, thus destroys his own body” (M33). In traditional societies with elaborate systems to control these primal elements and prevent their disruptive energies, such breakdowns of social order are as terrifying as dissolution of the cosmic order. In both poems, the social and cosmic disintegrations are presented as parallel. Vyāsa’s evocative description of weapons to be used in the battle gives agency to the arms themselves: Blazing rays of light emanate from bows, and swords glow fiercely. Evidently weapons anticipate that war is about to break out. As the radiance of arms, water, armor and banners is fire-like, a great destruction will occur. (M25)

A few lines later, Vyāsa says, “The very weapons… seem now to be ablaze.” A similar description of the sword of the fire-giant Surtr (“Black One”) appears in Völuspá: Surt comes from the south with branches-ruin [i.e., fire], the slaughter-gods’ sun glances from his sword. (V50)

The next verse states that “Beli’s bright slayer [will advance to fight] against Surt” (V51). Snorri identifies “Beli’s bright slayer” as the god Freyr (“Lord”) and gives the outcome of the duel, stating that “[t]he cause of his death will be that he will be without the good sword that he gave [his servant] Skirnir.”28 Given the agency of the weapons in Vyāsa’s prophecy, it is important to note that the weapon Snorri is referring to is described in the Poetic Edda as “that sword which fights by itself against the giant race.”29 As part of his vision of the transformation of nature with the coming of battle, Vyāsa says that “the earth will turn into a river of blood, full of eddies and strewn with banners for rafts” (M27) and goes on to describe further images of violence:

 Ibid.  Poetic Edda, 58.

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On the fourteenth of the dark fortnight there was again a heavy rain of flesh. Rákshasa demons remain insatiable though their mouths are filled with blood. Rivers have turned their streams backward. River-water has turned to blood. (M29)

Earlier, he tells Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra that, at dawn and dusk, he sees “the sun surrounded by headless, limbless corpses when it rises and sets” (M21). The Völuspá seeress likewise presents grisly images of rivers of death, monsters that feast on corpses, and dead bodies rising: From the east there flows, through poison valleys, a river with knives and swords, Fearful it is called. (V36) There she saw wading in turbid streams false-oath swearers and murderers, and the seducer of another man’s close confidante; there [the serpent] Nidhogg [“Hateful Striker”] sucks the corpses of the dead – a wolf tears at men… (V38)

Rivers  – sources of water for drinking, food, cleaning, and spiritual cleansing – have become terrifying and polluted. The battle begins, and the dead return as “heroes tread the hell-road” (V50). As nature and society break down, so do the boundaries between the living and the dead. As Vyāsa’s vision comes to a close, he gives a final image of destruction: Sounds of explosions can be heard from the mountains of Kailása, Mándara and Hímavat, lord. Thousands of summits are collapsing. As a result of the earthquake each of the four great oceans has swollen and seems to be overflowing its shores and perturbing the earth. Fierce winds are blowing, carrying gravel and uprooting trees. Crushed by mighty winds and struck by lightning, trees, even sacred ones, are falling down in both villages and towns. (M29)

The first lines strengthen the idea that the volcanic imagery in Völuspá is part of a long tradition of such conceptions regarding the end of the world, rather than a specifically Icelandic creation. When the seeress says, “The sun turns black, land sinks into the sea” (V54), she is making the same juxtaposition of volcanic explosions and overflowing waters overwhelming the earth. There is also a reference to sacred trees being uprooted in the Old Norse poem:

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The ancient tree groans and the giant gets loose, Yggdrasill shudders, the tree standing upright. (V45)

Not only is the earthquake of Vyāsa’s vision paralleled here through the image of Loki (the giant) freeing himself and causing the World Tree Yggdrasill to shake, but the idea of the sacred tree being attacked also appears. Whether a representation of the earth, of the universe, of physical trees revered by humans, or of the otherworldly tree that protects the gods, Yggdrasill is the great sacred tree of Norse cosmology. When Vyāsa’s vision is complete, Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra replies: I believe that this was predestined long ago beyond a doubt. If the kings are slain in combat in accord with the warrior code, they will reach the world of heroes and find nothing but felicity. These tiger-like men, laying down their lives in a great battle, will achieve glory in this world and the highest everlasting bliss in the world to come. (M31)

The idea of pre-determined fate also appears in Völuspá in the description of the Norns, the three mystic women whom the seeress herself channels: they laid down laws, they chose lives for the sons of men, the fates of men. (V21)

The idea that heroic warriors who die in battle achieve both worldly renown and an afterlife in “the world of heroes” is very prominent in Norse mythology. The Valkyries (“Choosers of the Slain”) bring dead warriors from the battlefield to Valhalla (“Hall of the Slain”), where Odin hosts them and the Valkyries serve them endless food and drink. In Völuspá itself, the second-to-last verse parallels the response of Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra at the end of Vyāsa’s vision: A hall she sees standing, fairer than the sun, thatched with gold, at Gimle [“Protected from Fire”]; there the noble fighting-bands will dwell and enjoy the days of their lives in pleasure. (V61)

Both poems present visions of supernatural afterlife reward for the warriors who give up their lives in the final battle  – one just after the conclusion of the prophecy, one just before. From the omens before the battle to the rewards for the glorious dead after the battle, the prophecies of Vyāsa and the völva run in parallel.

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Indo-European Analogues I have gone into great detail in my comparison of the Indian and Icelandic prophecies in order to show the great number of correspondences between the two texts at the micro level. Large and general similarities could easily be waved away as coincidental. Such a great number of parallels at the granular level, however, suggest that the relationship is more than generic. If these are ancient elements, they should show up in the literary products of other Indo-European belief systems. In fact, some of these concepts do exactly that. In the fourth book of Strabo’s Geography, written in the early first century, the Greek author (born in what is now Turkey) describes a belief of the Druids, one of the groups of men who “[a]mong all the Gallic peoples… are held in exceptional honor.” The Druids are considered the most just of men, and on this account they are entrusted with the decision, not only of the private disputes, but of the public disputes as well; so that, in former times, they even arbitrated cases of war and made the opponents stop when they were about to line up for battle, and the murder cases, in particular, had been turned over to them for decision. Further, when there is a big yield from these cases, there is forthcoming a big yield from the land too, as they think. However, not only the Druids, but others as well, say that men’s souls, and also the universe, are indestructible, although both fire and water will at some time or other prevail over them.30

Note the role of the wise man addressing those “about to line up for battle,” which is reminiscent of the scene set before Vyāsa’s prophecy in the Mahābhārata. Also note the belief in limited indestructibility of the soul and the universe, and the idea that they last until the destruction of both by fire and water at some indeterminate future time. This system is paralleled by Völuspá’s description of Ragnarök, in which even the dead shall die. Vyāsa himself presents a similar worldview, when he says to Dhṛtarāsṭ ̣ra after his vision has concluded, “Time destroys the universe and creates the worlds anew. Nothing is eternal here” (M31). In Strabo’s text, we have a member of pre-Christian Indo-European culture (Greek) writing about another pre-Christian European culture (Celtic) with lore and beliefs similar to those presented in both the Old Norse and Sanskrit poems. Does all of the foregoing discussion suggest that we are dealing with a specifically Indo-European belief system?  Strabo, Geography, 245 (4.4.4).

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In her discussion of Völuspá, H.R. Ellis Davidson states that “[t]here seems no doubt that a vigorous tradition about the end of the world… existed in pre-Christian times of the north” and “was strong enough to survive until late in the heathen period.”31 She goes on to write, “The sinking of earth into the sea, the triumph of cold, fire and darkness, the breaking loose of monsters long held in check – such images lie deep in men’s minds, and we can understand their long survival.”32 Davidson’s classic work is now over half of a century old, yet her suggestion of the longevity of powerful images provides support for the idea that Völuspá contains pre-Christian religious concepts and raises the question of whether non-Christian, non-Indo-European cultures have similar beliefs and practices. There is recent evidence that they do.

Non-Indo-European Analogues A remarkable parallel to the structure of Völuspá can be found in the visions of Zöhre Ana in contemporary Turkey, a country with a language that is not part of the Indo-European family tree.33 Raised in the Alevi branch of Shi’a Islam, Zöhre Ana is considered an evilya (“saint”) not only by many Alevis, but also by a large number of Sunni Muslims. She is renowned for her recitations of divinely inspired poetry known in Turkish as nefesler (singular nefes). This term comes from a word for “breath,” which is interesting in relation to the likely origin of the word Æsir – the god tribe of Odin, the deity who inspires poetry – in an Indo-European root meaning “breath.”34 During her mystical performances, Zöhre Ana enters the Umman (“ocean”) and channels deceased evilya, much as the völva (“seeress”) channels the Norns. In one nefes, she calls on the spirits of “brave heroes” to come to her, ending by stating, “I lay to rest these martyrs of mine.” Zöhra Ana’s statement on the return to repose of the spirits, perhaps down into the “ocean,” reminds us of what the völva says of the Norn she channels after the prophecy has concluded: “now she will sink down” (V62). 31  Davidson wrote this before the practice of capitalizing Heathen to refer to Germanic paganism began. 32  Davidson, Gods and Heroes, 209–10. 33  All information on Zöhre Ana and nefesler in the following section is from Dole, Healing Secular Life, 98–110. 34  Lindow, Norse Mythology, 50.

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The structure of the typical Zöhra Ana nefes closely parallels that of Völuspá, with some minor shifting of elements. The deceased evilya first addresses the audience and states that “all people were born of Adam and Eve” (cf. V1, “all the tribes… the offspring of Heimdall”), recounts the main past events of his life (cf. V3–27), places himself in the genealogy of divine figures (cf. V2), mocks those who seek to understand divine will (cf. V28–30), and offers a harsh critique of modern society (cf. V44). Christopher Dole writes that “the narrating subject shifts repeatedly over the course of the nefes, becoming at points a composite of Zöhre Ana and the visiting saint.”35 The same could be said of the narrator of the Old Norse prophecy, who shifts between the voices of the human narrator and the three supernatural Norns being channeled. In both prophecies, the grounding in the past is used to critically examine modern events and project their consequences into the future. Even further afield, the rituals of female seeresses in Japan offer another striking parallel to Völuspá’s structure.36 Like Turkey, Japan has a national language that is not part of the Indo-European family. Like the itinerant völur (“seeresses”) described in the Old Norse Eirik the Red’s Saga, the female mediums in Japan known as itako are travelers. They are also blind, which suggests that the connection between prophecy and visual impairment extends beyond the Indo-European world’s one-eyed Odin seeking prophecy, blind Dhṛtarāsṭ ṛ a listening to Vyāsa’s prophecy, and various figures of Greek myth who are both blind and prophetic; there is a common concept of the loss of physical sight being accompanied by the gift of second sight or of receiving the prophecy from gifted others. During the summer festival of ritually memorializing the dead, the itako come to Osorezan (“Mount Dread”) to provide their clients with dialogues with the dead and insights into the future. They perform rituals known as kuchiyose (“to call by mouth”), analogous to the völva’s varðlokkur (“ward enticers”), chants sung to attract spirits to the seeress before her prophecies.37 When the itako prophesy at private homes, they indeed perform incantations to call the spirits up from the world of the dead, like their Nordic counterparts; this is abbreviated in kuchiyose during the summer memorial festival, since the dead are believed to be already present at the mountain.  Dole, Healing Secular Life, 107.  All information on itako and kuchiyose in the following section is from Ivy, Discourses of the Vanishing, 169–191. 37  Sagas of Icelanders, 659n. 35 36

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As with the Turkish ritual, the structure of the Japanese practice is quite similar to the Old Norse poem. The patron pays the itako for the service (cf. V30). Speaking through the medium, the dead person addresses the audience directly and offers thanks for being called back (cf. V1). Depending on the gender and standing of the dead, the itako changes her use of “status language” (cf. the völva’s shifting pronouns in the poem’s different sections). The dead then gives an account of the past events of his or her life, centered on experiences that involve the patron (cf. V3–27). This is followed by acknowledgment of the patron’s questions (cf. V28), then warnings about the patron’s behavior and predictions about the future (cf. V31–61). Finally, the deceased individual returns to the world of the dead, and the itako resumes speaking with her own voice (cf. V62). Throughout, the Japanese ritual features formalized language to mark the language as magical – a linguistic action similar to the use of refrains in the Old Norse poem (cf. V28, 43). Marilyn Ivy emphasizes “the repeated, formalized unintelligibility of the itako’s chants,” and argues that “[t]he formalization, unintelligibility, repetition, and ornamentation of the itako’s words are exactly what Marcel Mauss designated as the hallmarks of magical discourse.”38 Icelandic theologian Pétur Pétursson takes an opposite view of the same rhetorical devices in Völuspá: “The poet seems often to be deliberately ambiguous about what he was referring to and he sometimes seems to be consciously disguising his basic assumptions and motives, using strange names and metaphors.” Despite these being hallmarks of Old Norse poetry in general, he gives this as evidence of “the Christian aspects of the poem.”39 Ivy’s description of the kuchiyose addresses the issues of incomprehensibility, and her idea of shifting voice can easily be applied to Völuspá in a way that seems more plausible than the explanation forwarded by Pétur. Ivy writes of a shift between incomprehensible, formulaic moments and understandable ones, between monologic chanting and dialogic exchange, between the medium and the dead as the ostensible communicator. This shifting between levels divides the authority of the speaker; there is no one source of speech, yet despite this shifting the itako’s voice qua voice does not change. The voice comes from the medium’s body, but the words come from somewhere  Ivy, Discourses of the Vanishing, 178.  Pétur Pétursson, “Völuspá and the Tree of Life,” 313.

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outside the body, from the dead. The unity of the voice and the presence of the person behind it are thrown into question, as the speaking subject and the subject of speech move away from one another.40

A similar shifting of voice in the Old Norse poem likewise throws the identity of the speaker into question, and one can make different arguments for where exactly in the text the persona of the narrator shifts, for example from one Norn to another. However, the underlying concept is important: the itako and völur present themselves as channeling entities from the other world and – within a given performance – shift between their own voices and those of their supernatural visitors. While the Indian and Celtic prophecies show that Völuspá’s vision of the end times contains material in common with related Indo-European polytheist cultures, the Turkish and Japanese examples show that even unrelated non-Christian societies make use of a very similar structure for ritual communication with the dead and the disclosure of prophetic vision. Together, these spatiotemporally widespread examples provide evidence of worldwide non-Christian content of prophecy and structures of communication with the other world, all of which bolsters the theory that Völuspá reflects a non-Christian visionary mode and prophecy of the last days that needs no turn to Christian influence to explain its composition and content.

Conclusion 1: Academic Implications After all of this detailed comparative work, it is important to discuss the lessons from this project. It is even more important to avoid the trap of earlier anthropology, where study of the Other (and especially those seen as “primitive”) was so often done “in the hope of utilizing them as a kind of time-machine, as a peep into our own historic past, as providing closer evidence about the early links in the great Series.”41 As a practitioner of Ásatrú, I do not want my study of the literary and mythological heritage of other religions to be part of a colonialist practice that treats Hinduism as some sort of decoder ring for Norse mythology or a hammer to use against other academics in defense of my own idiosyncratic interpretations of Icelandic sources.  Ivy, Discourses of the Vanishing, 179.  Ernest Gellner quoted in Fabian, Time and the Other, 39.

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Instead, a primary goal of this cross-cultural comparative study is to join together two ancient traditions and find commonalities that will allow living practitioners of both Ásatrú and Hinduism to push back against the ongoing practice of Western academics in general (and English and American scholars in particular) to interpret non-monotheistic religions of any kind in terms of Christian tropes. This Christian-centrism simultaneously normalizes Christian and monotheistic worldviews while excluding non-Abrahamic and polytheistic worldviews. For centuries, Western academia has produced and discussed scholarship on polytheistic mythologies and religions written by Christians and those from Christian backgrounds. Even in our supposedly multicultural present, how many American college students will read an analysis of Christian myth written by a Hindu? How many graduate students in religious studies, even? For that matter, how many PhD candidates or professors? We still haven’t reached a level of multiculturalism where the river can flow in the other direction. In the twenty-first century, the Christian philosopher Paul Ricoeur is still taught as a model for the scholarly study of religion, despite his statement that he had violated the perfection of his own hermeneutic circle “as soon as I admitted that I read the ensemble of the myths from a certain point of view, that the mythical space was for me an oriented space.”42 As recently as 2014, Ricoeur was required reading for all first-year graduate students at the University of Chicago Divinity School, where he was held up as the primary role model for the study of all religious traditions. At the same time, a colleague of mine privately admitted that he had hidden the fact that he was a practicing Hindu and an ordained monk while studying religion at the Divinity School, due to an institutional approach that, while it demands “rigorous, uninhibited, unintimidated, theoretically and empirically informed, wide-ranging, irreverent and appropriately critical study”43 of religions in general, tends to apply that dictum with great and savage fierceness to members of minority religions while giving a pass to self-confessed Christian scholars. In such a world, and in such an atmosphere, we must push for a new type of comparative study that welcomes scholarship by practitioners of non-Abrahamic religious traditions on a truly equal footing with scholars positioned within the dominant faiths and that treats the literature, mythology, and theology of each faith as equally deserving of attention  Ricoeur, Symbolism of Evil, 354.  Lincoln, Gods and Demons, 135.

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and respect. One way to do this is for those who practice marginalized and underrepresented religions to recognize the deep connections between their traditions in both ancient sources (as discussed in this chapter) and current practices (a huge subject for another time). By examining the parallels between the Mahābhārata and Völuspá at such a fine level of detail, we can both push back against the generally accepted Christian-centric readings of the Old Norse source and find points of contact for future dialogue between practitioners of Ásatrú and Hinduism.

Conclusion 2: Interfaith Implications This specific Ásatrú-Hindu dialogue has wider implications for the larger interfaith movement. From its beginnings in Christian ecumenicalism through its expansion to include branches of the three Abrahamic religions, institutional interfaith interaction has largely excluded polytheistic and semi-polytheistic faiths such as Ásatrú and Hinduism. We must find a way to make interfaith dialogue more inclusive, and this chapter opens a door. The above analysis shows deep and ancient connections between the mythology and worldview of the Icelandic and Indian literary sources – a connection arguably deeper than those of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam, given that there is no fundamental(ist) clash of doctrines or clash over scriptural interpretation between Ásatrú and Hinduism in the way that there is between the Abrahamic faiths. Neither Ásatrú nor Hinduism are or have been missionary religions; Hindus are generally born into the tradition, and Heathens tend to describe their relationship to the religion similar to the way in which Jóhanna G.  Harðardóttir, Staðgengill Allsherjargoða (“Deputy High Priestess”) of Iceland’s Ásatrúarfélagið, speaks of it: “I found out that I was Ásatrúar when I was very young, and I don’t know why. Nobody told me to. It’s just something that I had in myself. I think it’s really something that is not taught to you. It’s part of your personality.”44 Heathens and Hindus have yet to really begin their discussion, and there is much work to be done on the theological connections between Ásatrú and Hinduism, such as the parallels between Vedic and Eddic deities, between karma and wyrd, and between the Bhagavad Gı̄tā (“Song of the Lord”) and Hávamál (“Sayings of the High One”).

 Seigfried, “Interview with Jóhanna G. Harðardóttir,” Part Four.

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What place is there for practitioners of Ásatrú and Hinduism in today’s interfaith organizations? Given the millennia of violent confrontation between followers of the Abrahamic faiths, it is understandable that there is such a commitment to promoting the unifying and universalist idea that “there are many paths to God.” The worldview of Heathens and Hindus, however, suggest that “there are many gods along the path.”45 If interfaith dialogue is to become truly inclusive, it must – somewhat paradoxically – move away from its tendency to seek commonalities between all faith traditions, to try to find some imagined core that is shared by all religions. Such a project is inherently monotheistic as it seeks the One Truth shared by all. To embrace real diversity, interfaith dialogue must instead model itself on the inherent diversity of polytheistic traditions, and “take the harder but ultimately more rewarding path of going on to acknowledge that various religions offer rather different solutions to the basic human problems, and, indeed, that they also recognize different problems.”46 In addition to continuing the campaign to make their voices heard in an American interfaith movement dominated by the Abrahamic traditions, perhaps followers of Ásatrú and Hinduism should focus on the great benefits of engagement with each other. So many times, in personal conversations, Hindus have been greatly surprised when I mention the many connections between our traditions in ancient and modern times. It is long past time for us to exchange ideas and work together to deepen our understanding of each other, which will lead to deeper understandings of ourselves. If the larger interfaith world wants to share in the insights resulting from such work, it is up to the leaders of the Abrahamic faiths to open their doors, invite us to sit at the table as equal partners, and work with us to redefine the parameters of the discussion.

Bibliography Abram, Christopher. 2011. Myths of the Pagan North: The Gods of the Norsemen. London: Continuum. Berg, Jónína K. 2008. Sveinbjörn Beinteinsson: A Personal Reminiscence. Tyr: Myth–Culture–Tradition 3: 263–272. Davidson, H.R. Ellis. 1964. Gods and Myths of Northern Europe. London: Penguin Books.  Seigfried, “Do You Believe in Interfaith?”  Doniger, On Hinduism, 139.

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Dole, Christopher. 2012. Healing Secular Life: Loss and Devotion in Modern Turkey. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Doniger, Wendy. 2014. On Hinduism. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Dronke, Ursula. 1997. The Poetic Edda, Volume II: Mythological Poems. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Fabian, Johannes. 1983. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Colombia University Press. Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson. Email Communication (July 10, 2016). Ivy, Marilyn. 1995. Discourses of the Vanishing: Modernity, Phantasm, Japan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lincoln, Bruce. 2012. Gods and Demons, Priests and Scholars: Critical Explorations in the History of Religions. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Lindow, John. 2002. Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals, and Beliefs. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Pétursson, Pétur. 2006. Völuspá and the Tree of Life: A Product of a Culture in a Liminal Stage. In Old Norse Religion in Long-Term Perspectives: Origins, Changes, and Interactions, ed. Anders Andrén, Kristina Jennbert, and Catharina Raudvere, 313–319. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Rãmāyaṇa. Trans. Robert P.  Goldman. New  York: New  York University Press, 2006. Ricoeur, Paul. 1967. The Symbolism of Evil. Boston: Beacon Press. ———. 1969. The Symbolism of Evil. Trans. Emerson Buchanan. Boston: Beacon Press. Seigfried, Karl E.  H. 2011a. Blond Thor: Stan Lee Wasn’t Wrong. The Norse Mythology Blog, September 30. http://www.norsemyth.org/2011/09/blondthor-stan-lee-wasnt-wrong.html ———. 2011b. Interview with Jóhanna G. Harðardóttir of the Ásatrúarfélagið. The Norse Mythology Blog, January 17. http://www.norsemyth.org/2011/01/ interview-with-johanna-g-harardottir-of.html ———. 2014. Worldwide Heathen Census: Results & Analysis. The Norse Mythology Blog, January 6. http://www.norsemyth.org/2014/01/worldwideheathen-census-2013-results.html ———. 2016. Wyrd Will Weave Us Together. The Norse Mythology Blog, November 30. http://www.norsemyth.org/2016/11/wyrd-will-weave-us-together.html ———. 2017. Do You Believe in Interfaith? The Norse Mythology Blog, March 28. http://www.norsemyth.org/2017/03/do-you-believe-in-interfaith.html Simek, Rudolf. 1993. Dictionary of Northern Mythology. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer. Strabo. 1923. Geography, Volume II: Books 3–5. Trans. Horace Leonard Jones. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Sturluson, Snorri. 1995. Edda. Trans. Anthony Faulkes. London: Everyman. The Mahābhārata. Trans. John D. Smith. London: Penguin Books, 2009.

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The Mahābhārata 1: The Book of the Beginning. Trans. J.A.B. van Buitenen. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973. The Māhabhārata, Book Six: Bhı̄sm ̣ a, Volume One. Trans. Alex Cherniak. New York: New York University Press, 2008. The Poetic Edda. Trans. Carolyne Larrington. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. The Sagas of Icelanders. London: Penguin Books, 2001.

CHAPTER 6

A Hindu Gift of Bestowal: Śankara’s Concept of Grace in a Buddhist Context John Y. Cha

The final sound of the bell reverberates through the meditation hall and then fades into the stillness of silence. Several moments later, our meditation instructor asks us to take a slow deep breath and then opens the session for a question and answer period. During the twenty or so minutes of sitting, some report they experienced a state of peace and calm, while others the rushing of thoughts and feelings, and a few, sleepiness. Anyone who has meditated over a period of time has experienced a range of phenomena similar to the above reports. Whether repeating a mantra, observing the breath, or contemplating scripture, our minds often drift into inner dialogue, imagined scenarios or the cloudiness of fatigue. And, perhaps, all too rarely, the practitioner may reach a profound state of inner calm or luminous awareness. But how do these “states” of calm and luminosity arise? Some would claim that with experience the meditator will naturally be able to let go of the mental noise in consciousness, perhaps akin to an experienced driver not having to think about shifting gears, or a professional athlete responding with the right moves without any

J. Y. Cha (*) Gustavus Adolphus College, St. Peter, MN, USA © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_6

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pre-­meditation. These may be apt comparisons. What I want to suggest, however, is that these moments of meditative calm and/or insight do not arise merely as a result of cultivated practice (though, practice is for most people a necessary condition), but rather come to us as a bestowal, something akin to grace. Discussions about current practices of mindfulness (primarily “secularized” forms utilized for stress relief and wellbeing) rarely, if ever, include the concept of grace. Unless one belongs to a tradition that includes practices of devotion to a bodhisattva or Buddha (what comes to mind most readily is Jodo Shinshu), the attainment of calm and relaxation is seen as an individual experience acquired through a form of practice, rather than as something bestowed. I began this chapter with a meditation scenario, not to introduce an investigation into current modes of contemplative practice, but just as an experiential reference to be kept in mind as we enter into a conceptual analysis of how a certain notion of grace from a Hindu philosophical tradition can be fruitfully utilized in a Buddhist one. One should not forget that intellectual practices such as debate, speculative reasoning, and commentarial composition are imbedded within a larger soteriological context, that the proximate goals of cognitive formation and philosophical insight are a foregrounding (at least ideally) to the eventual goal of liberation. As we will see in the writings of the Indian religious philosophers Śankara (Hindu Vedānta tradition, eighth century C.E.) and Vasubandhu (Buddhist Yogācāra school, fifth century C.E.), meditative practices and the acquisition of non-conceptual awareness are the subtexts for many of their philosophical dialogues and commentarial expositions. However, one must be equally careful not to view intellectual practices as merely derivative of, or aids to, spiritual experiences. Indeed, one can make the case that traditionally contemplative practices have their foundations in some type of metaphysics or ontology; Indic traditions, for example, put great emphasis on philosophical and metaphysical systems, giving authoritative status to their respective darśanas, their philosophical worldviews. It is with this issue in mind—that both contemplative and intellectual practices are mutually foundational—that I examine the concept of grace in Śankara’s Vedānta, and how grace may play a role in liberation. Furthermore, I investigate the possibility of how utilizing Śankara’s understanding of grace in Vasubandhu’s thought may bring insight into how liberation occurs within the Yogācāra Buddhist context. I specifically chose Śankara’s works because, where it is mentioned, grace is discussed with a

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non-dual ontology as its subtext. It should be kept in mind that Śankara viewed himself as a commentator/teacher of the Upanishads, and his task as establishing the teachings of the non-duality of brahman (universal spirit) and ātman (one’s true self) as articulated in these religiously authoritative texts. The question then becomes: since Śankara claims that the Upanishads reveal a non-dual ontology, in which the essence of the individual (ātman) is identical to the essence of Reality (brahman), how can grace be possible? In other words, if there is no distinction between brahman and ātman, there is, seemingly, no one to bestow grace upon another. However, if grace is possible within Śankara’s non-dual ontology, can an exploration of the possible function of grace in Yogācāra philosophy, which is also non-dual (this is not to say that Advaita Vedānta and Yogācāra are conceptually or doctrinally identical) have a fruitful outcome? If it is true, as the Yogācāra claim, that the division between the perceiver and object perceived is mere illusion, there seems to be a parallel challenge to include grace within Yogācāra soteriology. I will try to speculate specifically on the possibility of grace within a Yogācāra Buddhist context, and finally on its possibility in a non-dual context, generally.

The Indian Religious Context: From Cosmology to the Human Condition For many Indic religious traditions, the understanding of suffering contains a cosmological dimension. Suffering is bound up with the cycle of rebirth, or transmigration, and is sometimes depicted, for example in Buddhism, as a wheel constituted by different realms within which sentient beings reincarnate on the basis of their karma. Liberation from suffering is equated with freedom from this cycle; through the eradication of the karma producing afflictions, such as greed, hatred and delusion, rebirth comes to an end. Some version of this cosmological dimension— oversimplified in the summary above—certainly informs the soteriological systems of these traditions. However, we also find an understanding of suffering that includes an immanent human dimension. For example, in Śankara’s work, A Thousand Teachings,1 a student explains his experience of worldly existence to his teacher: 1  Sengaku Mayeda, trans. A Thousand Teachings: The Upadeśasāhasrı̄ of Śankara (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1979).

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Your Holiness, how can I be released from transmigratory existence? I am aware of the body, the senses, and [their] objects; I experience pain in the waking state, and I experience it in the dreaming state after getting relief again and again by entering into the state of deep sleep again and again.2

While assuming the cosmological, transmigratory dimension of suffering, pain is also understood as an existential human condition.3 The focus here is the student’s suffering experienced in this world, rather than an abstract metaphysics that contextualizes suffering in general (which, of course, the Vedānta do have). Another example of a shift from the cosmological to the individual, this time in a more psychological sense, comes from a Vasubandhu’s Yogācāra work, The Twenty Verses.4 Here, the cosmological nature of the triple world changes to a mental one (“The triple world is Mind-only”).5 Transmigration is now understood as a flow of immanent experiences in a stream of consciousness—the Yogācāra concept of person is described as a personality stream (samtāna)—that is karmically conditioned, with its attendant states of pain and grief. As we see in the two brief examples above, suffering is understood as an immanent worldly experience. And from this experiential perspective, the soteriological response to the pain of existence is one of an aspirant’s spiritual practice and formation. This formation hypothetically culminates in insight, or knowledge (vidyā), of Reality, resulting both in the eradication of ignorance (avidyā) and liberation from the painful exigencies of life. However, a problem that arises in the types of soteriological systems found in Advaita Vedānta and Yogācāra is the paradoxical relationship between human agency and spiritual emancipation. On the one hand, intention and effort are required on the spiritual path; indeed, according to Śankara, two of the four requirements of a student of Advaita is the perfection of  Ibid., 234.  Ibid., 70. In his introduction to the translation, Mayeda distinguishes between an “external” and an “internal” perspective on transmigration; the former focuses on past, present, and future existences, while the latter on the present experience of suffering. The passage above is an example of the “internal” perspective, which focuses on the immanent human condition. 4  Stephan Anacker, trans. The Seven Works of Vasubandhu: The Buddhist Psychological Doctor (New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1986), 161–162. In this portion of the text, Vasubandhu discusses the perceptions of everyday phenomena occurring to our personality streams (samtāna). 5  Ibid., 161. Anacker notes this phrase comes from the Avatamsaka-sūtra: Daśabhūmika IV, p. 32. 2 3

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meditative practices and a strong desire for liberation.6 On the other hand, intention and effort are generally considered karma producing and hence will keep the person trapped in the karmic cycle of transmigration. In the end, liberation from suffering cannot be a product of a causal process. That is to say, awakening can never be the direct result of meditation and other forms of mental cultivation; though they are a necessary condition, they are not sufficient. What is interesting here is that Śankara may offer a solution to this paradox. In a few of his works we find assertions that liberation is ultimately brought about through grace,7 that spiritual freedom is ultimately bestowed upon the aspirant by Brahman. Before commencing an analysis of Śankara’s philosophy and concept of grace, I will provide an overview of the concept of spiritual formation.

Spiritual Formation In a number of Indic religious traditions, including Buddhist ones, formation includes ethical, cognitive, and contemplative dimensions.8 According to Paul Griffiths, these soteriological systems have two objectives; an immediate one that involves cognitive formation and a distant one, which is liberation itself.9 The aspirant must first form her conceptual understanding of the nature of the world, Reality, and the modes of practice that lead one to emancipation. What is desired here is something akin to isomorphic formation; that is to say, the aspirant not only must conform her behavior and dispositions to ethical ideals, but her cognitive dimension must mirror the tradition’s conception of Reality itself. Griffiths calls this phenomenon a kind of homology, an aspiration toward versimilitude10; an aspirant is correctly formed when her dispositions, behaviors, and 6 ́  Swami Gambirānanda, trans. Brahma-Sūtra-bhāsya of Sankarā cār ya (Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama, 1977) 9. The four prerequisites are: “…discrimination between the eternal and the non-eternal; dispassion for the enjoyment of the fruits (of work) here and hereafter; a perfection of such practices as control of the mind, control of the senses and organs, etc.; and a hankering for liberation.” 7  Bradley J. Malkovsky, “Śamkara on Divine Grace,” New Perspectives on Advaita Vedānta, ed. Bradley J. Malkovsky (Leiden: Brill, 2000), 70–83. 8  For example, the Theravāda tradition which divides the eight-fold path into three groups; ethical formation, mental cultivation, and wisdom. See, Rāhula’s What the Buddha Taught, pp. 46–49. 9  Paul J. Griffiths, On Being Buddha: The Classical Doctrine of Buddhahood (Albany: SUNY Press, 1994), 43–44. 10  Paul J. Griffiths, “The Limits of Criticism,” Pruning the Bodhi Tree, ed. Jaime Hubbard and Paul Swanson (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1997), 149.

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c­ ognitions reflect the ideals articulated in her school. It also should be mentioned that this kind of cultivation for both the Vedāntin and Yogacārin seeks not new forms of knowledge, nor discoveries of truths superseding their traditions; rather, they seek to retrace their steps, if you will, back to the omnipresent, unchanging, transcendent Reality that is the source and ground of all existence. In both the Vedāntin and Yogācārin traditions (as well as many other Indic schools) it is their religiously authoritative texts that function as ultimate referents for this endeavor; given their source, whether it is the Indic orthodox assumption of the authorless, and timeless, Vedas, or the heterodox Buddhist texts emanating from a bodhisattva or Buddha, and recorded by some spiritually advanced person, texts prescribe the ideal sought and describe the ground that is already omnipresent.11 This retrospective trajectory—that is, seeking to disclose the Reality of what one already is—also takes the transitory and unsatisfactory existence, not to be determinative of, nor reciprocal with, that underlying Reality. Hence, terms such as adventitious (āgantuka), mode of appearance (ākāra), and circumscriptive aspect (upādhi), are used to describe this secondary or derivative mode of existence, that is, the world (and all beings, etc., within it). However, what is at issue here is how each system conceives of the status of the world (and human being). Many scholars of Yogācāra and Advaita Vedānta have interpreted these systems as advocating a kind of idealism—for the Yogācāra, that the world is a mental construction, likened to a dream—or acosmism—for the Advaitin, the world is mere illusion. In both cases, if we take the idealist and acosmist interpretations, the consequences of this would be the rendering of grace as superfluous to liberation, at best, and utterly non-existent in the process of emancipation, at worst. However, Śankara provides an analysis of the generation of illusion and the possibility of awakening from a view that focuses on the human condition, which, I want to argue, does allow the functioning of grace in liberation. In the next section I will discuss some general themes of Śankara’s thought and provide a non-idealist/non-acosmic view of his vision of Brahman and the world. 11  Sheldon Pollock, “The Idea of Sastra in Traditional India” in Shastric Traditions in Indian Arts, edited by Anna Libera Dallapiccola (Stuttgart: Steiner, 1989), 20. He explains the authority of texts (śāstra): “Cultural knowledge is transcendent in origin, and its authority is therefore unimpeachable. Since this knowledge is always already revealed to human beings via śāstra their mastery of the practices inscribed therein is a function of conformity to the preexistent paradigm.”

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A Phenomenological/Existential View of Śankara’s Non-duality A more complete dialogue between a student and teacher quoted above is reproduced here, providing a solution to the student’s concern about the pain of worldly existence. We see that the inquiry into the problem of suffering includes the issue of the true nature of the one who is apparently suffering: [Student]: “Your Holiness, how can I be released from transmigratory existence? I am aware of the body, the senses, and [their] objects; I experience pain in the waking state, and I experience it in the dreaming state after getting relief again and again by entering into the state of deep sleep again and again. Is it indeed my own nature or [is it] due to some cause, my own nature being different? If [this is] my own nature, there is no hope for me to attain final release, since one cannot avoid one’s own nature. If [it is] due to some cause, final release is possible after the cause has been removed.” [Teacher]: “Listen my child, this is not your own nature but is due to a cause…. The cause is nescience; it is removed by knowledge. When nescience has been removed, you will be released from transmigratory existence which is characterized by birth and death, since its cause will be gone and you will no [longer] experience pain in the dreaming and waking states.”12

The student is concerned about his true nature; if he is in essence transmigratory, he is doomed forever to the pains of worldly suffering. However, the teacher assures him that rebirth is not his real nature, that ignorance (avidyā) is the cause of rebirth and suffering, and its removal results in emancipation. Later in that dialogue, the teacher reveals that ātman is the student’s true nature, and that his experiences as an agent and experiencer in this world are an illusion. What follows is a philosophical back and forth, the ultimate goal of which is to convince the student of his true identity so as to allow the student to move forward with spiritual practice, trusting in the Advaita teachings. However, in order to examine this process of emancipation, some interpretation of Śankara’s non-dual philosophy is called for. Śankara’s introduction to his most well-known commentary, the Brahmasūtra-Bhāsya (henceforth Commentary) offers a concise overview and analysis of his non-dual philosophy (see Gambirānanda’s translation,  Mayeda, A Thousand Teachings: The Upadeśasāhasrı̄ of Śankara, 234.

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pages 1–6). This opening section functions as an interpretive framework that guides his Commentary; moreover, his introduction also provides insight into Śankara’s view of human existence, an existence that is entangled in the net of illusory consciousness (mithyā-­jñāna), but which also possesses a kind of obscure awareness of it’s true nature (ātman). In the Commentary, Śankara locates our potential for liberation in this pre-thematic understanding of self (pratyag-ātman). However, full realization of our true nature as ātman is obscured by an illusion generating process called superimposition (adhyāsa). Superimposition can be explained as our erroneous identification with the worldly phenomena we experience; we take the Self (ātman) to be not-­self, for example, mistaking ourselves to be a body or a stream of mental processes, rather than the awareness thereof. It is important here that Śankara uses everyday human experience to explain the workings of superimposition, the significance of which is easily overlooked if we focus only on abstract, epistemological theory. As we will see this fact proffers a justification for our interpretation of Śankara as doing theology in the context of human experience and as a result, opens the door to the possibility of grace in his thought. About two-thirds into this portion of the text, Śankara compares the existential responses between humans (learned ones) and animals. Despite their status as brahmins who have acquired the requisite learning to perform Vedic functions, the human reaction to favorable and unfavorable conditions differ little from the animals’; for both are fearful of dangerous conditions and are attracted to favorable ones. The point Śankara is making is that learning does not cultivate a state of transcendence, for both the learned humans and animals react in ways that betray attachment to bodily/worldly conditions. For Śankara, the cause of this entrapment in the net of aversion and desire is an absence of thorough discernment (viveka) between the real (sat) and unreal (asat), which results in continued superimposition. Without this discernment, the natural tendencies of worldly discourse and practices continue to occlude the distinction between reality and unreality, which, in turn, gives rise to illusory consciousness (mithyā-jñāna).

Grace When discussing grace in the context of Advaita Vedānta, we should acknowledge that there is no scholarly consensus regarding its importance or possibility in Śankara’s soteriology. More recently, scholars like Bradley

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J. Malkovsky have argued for the centrality of grace in Śankara’s theology.13 It is beyond the purview of this chapter to discuss the complicated issues involved; for the purposes of this chapter, I will utilize Malkovsky’s interpretation of the matter. Malkovsky identifies three uses of grace in Śankara’s thought: (1) Brahman, called the Lord (Iś̄ vara) by Śankara in these cases,14 is the controller of the law of karma; (2) the Lord bestows supernatural powers to those aspirants accomplished in yogic discipline; (3) the Lord is the ultimate cause of liberation.15 It is the third aspect that concerns us here; liberation is not the final result of spiritual discipline, though this is necessary, but is conferred upon aspirants by the Lord. Malkovsky rightly points out that liberation needs to be examined not merely as freedom from transmigration, but as the removal of ignorance (avidyā). Indeed, he claims that this eradication of avidyā, and the conferral of wisdom, is the ultimate good. And one of the main characteristics of wisdom is discerning the real from the unreal. As he analyzes in the introduction to the Commentary (see Gambirānanda), ́ Sankara understands the distinction between real and unreal in the following manner: the field of cognition that presents phenomena as objects (representation)—including sense objects, mental objects, thinking (manas), ego-coṅ ra), and intellect (buddhi)—is erroneously identified with the cept (ahamkā field of cognition of one’s own subjectivity. This subjectivity, however, isn’t the mere opposite pole of objectivity; it is the non-­representational, non-intentional awareness of intentional consciousness. This “awareness of awareness” is not explicit or clear unless one has discerned (viveka) the radical difference between objects and the awareness of objects. At this point we should keep in mind that this distinction is not of the Cartesian type that distinguishes ideas ́ and matter; for Sankara, as discussed above, ideas themselves (as well as other mental activity, such as intention, will, etc.) are the objects of this awareness. In the verse portion of his A Thousand Teachings, Śankara opens with a dedicatory verse, which includes a brief description of ātman: 13  Malkovsky provides a detailed summary of the various positions about the role of grace in Śankara’s thought. See, Bradely J. Malkovsky, The Role of Divine Grace in the Soteriology of Samkarācār ya, (Leiden; Boston; Köln: Brill, 2001), 135–159. 14  According to Paul Hacker, Śankara identifies the Lord with Brahman; see “Distinctive Features of the Doctrine and Terminology of Śankara: Avidyā, Nāmarūpa, Māyā, Iś̄ vara,” Wilhelm Halbfass, ed., Philology and Confrontation (Albany: SUNY Press), 85–96. 15  Malkovsky discusses these three aspects in detail in Malkovsky, “Śamkara on Divine Grace,” 73–75.

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Salutation to the all-knowing Pure Consciousness which pervades all, is all, abides in the hearts of all beings, and is beyond all objects [of knowledge].16

This dedicatory verse indicates the nature of reality; it is pure consciousness or awareness, it is that which inheres in all beings, is identical with everything, but cannot be an object of knowledge or perception. However, while the verse indicates some kind of identity between Pure Consciousness (i.e., brahman) and all things, it is not the case that they share the same ontological status. In his commentary to the Taittira Upanishads, Śankara quotes: “Names and forms in all their states have their self in brahman alone, but brahman has not its self in them.”17 And yet, this difference between phenomena (names and forms) and brahman as absolute reality, provides the world a given a level of ontological reality. Though created and sustained by brahman, the world is real, even if derivative. This interpretation can be encapsulated by the phrase, coined by Sara Grant, “a non-reciprocal dependence relation.”18 Here, the brahman/world relationship is taken to mean that the world is pervaded by brahman, has brahman as its origin and continued sustenance, and yet enjoys an ontological status that gives it a reality and significance that would be absent were it a mere illusion. We can interpret Śankara’s thought, therefore, as one that offers a theology that (1) points to the irreducibly divine nature of beings, the radical immanence of ātman within all beings, however obscured by ignorance, while (2) discloses the transcendence of this very nature, beyond any individuation of the person. Based on this all-too-brief summary of Śankara’s thought, perhaps we can speculate the following interpretation of the human condition: human being never affects or causes brahman or brahman’s presence; it is only in human being’s (and all phenomena) absolute dependence on brahman that the brahman discloses itself to and in human being. And yet, brahman as the reality underlying all things points to

 Mayeda, A Thousand Teachings: The Upadeśasāhasrı̄ of Śankara, 103.  TaiUpBh II.6.1; quoted in Malkovsky, “Śamkara on Divine Grace,” 71. 18  Malkovsky utilizes Grant’s interpretation of Śankara’s concept of relationality. For an analysis of this concept of relation, see; Sara Grant, Toward An Alternative Theology: Confessions of a Non-Dualist Christian (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2002), 40–43. 16 17

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brahman as already pre-given19 in both our being and perception. This recognition of absolute dependence on brahman and the bestowal of brahman’s disclosure to human being as human being’s essence is the nature of grace. Since “recognition” and “bestowal” are not two movements, but two dimensions of a singular event, it is essentially non-dual.

Yogācāra Buddhist Thought: A Summary In this section I will attempt to summarize the philosophy of Yogācāra on the basis of select works by Vasubandhu, his own treatises as well as his commentaries on other texts. While relying on a few works, I will focus on Vasubandhu’s well-known commentary on a text that clearly defines the difference between phenomenal existence and reality, as well as the soteriological process toward awakening. This text, The Discernment Between Phenomena and Reality (Dharmadharmatā-vibhāga), hereafter, Phenomena and Reality, presents us with a philosophical “vision” (darśana) that systematically maps the disappearance of worldly phenomena—categorized under the term “the mental construction of the unreal” (abhūtaparikalpa)—and the appearance of Reality—referred to as Suchness (tathatā). This disappearance of phenomenal existence and the simultaneous appearance of reality occurs through the process called “the transformation of the basis (āśrayaparāvrtti),”or perhaps better defined by Griffiths as “radical reorientation.”20 However one translates the term āśrayaparāvrtti, what the text seems to say is that what remains after liberation is reality as a pure flow of awareness, the content of which is devoid of any dualistic appearance. What we should keep in mind, however, is that the appearance of reality happens within the radical reorientation of the aspirant, that is, a reorientation of the personality stream (samtāna), thus implying that the status of the person and her perceived world holds, in some measure, ontologically.

19  Bradley J. Malkovsky states, “We run the risk here of overlooking the pre-given divine immanence in our search for God…. The Indian or Upanishadic breakthrough was in the revelation not merely of interpersonal relatedness but also of knowledge of God as the supreme “I” residing within, whose reflection each of us is in a limited way” (Malkovsky, “Śamkara on Divine Grace,” 76). 20  See Griffiths, On Being Buddha, 77–78.

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Bearing in mind the earlier discussion on formation, Buddhist concepts of reality function as theoretical/doctrinal frameworks (including systematic metaphysics and path structures) used for cognitive formation and contemplative practice, the purpose of which to have the practitioner’s mind reflect reality.21 As with other texts of this type, Phenomena and Reality is authoritative (at least to some schools) given its traditionally assumed authorship.22 Thus, understanding Phenomena and Reality’s metaphysics is essential to understanding the text as an ultimate referent for the aspirant’s intended practice. In its opening verse, Phenomena and Reality introduces two main subjects: / kiñcit parijñāya yatah praheyam sāksāc ca kiñcit karanı̄yam anyat / atas tayor laksanato vibhāgam cikı̄rsatā śāstram idam pranı̄tam //23 Having comprehended that something should be relinquished and something else should be directly realized, hence, this treatise is composed wishing to analyze the characteristics of these two.

Phenomena and Reality identifies “these two” subjects as phenomena (dharma) and their ultimate reality (dharmatā), under which “all these”— all teachings by the Buddha—are to be categorized. According to Vasubandhu’s commentary, these include traditional doctrines such as the five aggregates, the eighteen spheres, twelve faculties, etc. Phenomena and Reality goes on to define phenomena and reality in terms of the traditional teachings of samsāra and nirvāna. And finally, phenomena are designated as the mental construction of the unreal, and reality as Suchness. In other words, “phenomena” and “reality” are used as categories under which various conditioned and unconditioned existences are placed, and as we will see later, as terms indicating that ontologically reality is immanent or, more strictly, non-objectifiable, while epistemologically reality is transcendent in that the representation of any object to a subject is not what it truly is. All objects are mere representations, as the school’s other title suggest (vijñapti-mātratā, or representation-only). 21  For an excellent discussion on the Buddhist conception of śāstra, see Paul J. Griffiths, On Being Buddha: The Classical Doctrine of Buddhahood (Albany: SUNY, 1994), 42–45. 22  As one of the five treatises authored by Maitreya according to the Tibetan tradition. 23  Rāhula Sānkrtyāyana, “Sanskrit MSS. in Tibet,” Journal of the Bihar and Orrisa Research Society, vol. XXIV (1938), 163.

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The Relation Between Phenomena and Reality: Neither Identical nor Different The relation between phenomena and reality is explained in Phenomena and Reality as follows: Both are neither identical nor different, because there is a distinction between what is real and what is not real, and because there is no distinction [between them].24

The Commentary explains: “Both” refer to phenomena and reality, and [their] identity and difference are not acceptable. Why is that? Because there is a real distinction between what is real and what is not, and also there is no distinction [between them].25

According to Phenomena and Reality and Vasubandhu’s Commentary, both phenomena and reality are neither identical nor different, but difference and identity are explained in different contexts. They are not identical for ontological reasons, as The Commentary explains: First of all, the identity of phenomena and reality is not admissible. Why is that? Because there is a real distinction between what is real and what is not real. As for reality, it is real; and since phenomena are not, how can both the unreal and real be identical?26

Ontologically, reality exists because it is the only reality, while phenomena have no ontological status, given that they are reified/represented objects to a subject. The Commentary continues, explaining their identity: 24  / gñis po dag gcig pa daṅ tha dad pa ma yin te / yod pa dan med pa’i khyad par daṅ khyad par med pa’i phyir ro / [Klaus-Dieter Mathes, “Untersuchung der Phänomene und ihrer Natur. Eine Lehrschrift der buddhistischen Yogācāra-Schule in tibetischer Überlieferung” (Magister Artium Thesis, Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Univesität zu Bonn, 1990), 61)]. 25  / gñis po dag ces bya ba chos daṅ chos ñid dag ni gcig pa ñid daṅ tha dad pa ñid du mi ‘dod do // de ci’i phyir źe na / yod pa daṅ med dag kyaṅ khyad par yod pa daṅ khyad par med pa’i phyir ro / (Mathes, “Untersuchung der Phänomene und ihrer Natur,” 73). 26  re źig chos daṅ chos ñid gcig pa ñid du ni ‘thad pa ma yin te / de ci’i phyir źe na / yod pa daṅ med pa dag khyad par yod pa’i phyir ro // chos ñid ni yod pa yin la chos ni med pa yin pas yod pa daṅ med pa khyad par can dag ci ltar gcig ñid du ‘gyur / (Mathes, “Untersuchung der Phänomene und ihrer Natur,” 73–74).

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Also, there is no difference [between phenomena and reality]. Why? Because there is no distinction between what is real and what is not. In what manner is there no distinction? Because reality is disclosed (prabhāvita) only through the non-existence of phenomena; [that is to say] because [reality is realized when] there is no distinction between the object perceived, etc.27

The question here is what “non-existence of phenomena” as the reason for their identity, means, beyond the general idea of removing duality. In order to clarify this notion, we can refer to another text included in the same corpus, The Distinction Between the Middle and Extremes (Madhyānta-­ vibhāga), hereafter, Middle and Extremes, as well as Vasubandhu’s Commentary (Bhāshya, hereafter Comm.), and the Sub-commentary (Tı̄ka, hereafter Sub-comm) by another well-known commentator, Sthiramati (fifth century C.E.). The text, its commentary and sub-­ commentary, all assert that after the removal of dualistic construction, something remains. In his Sub-comm, glossing “that which is remaining here exists in this place,” Sthiramati is clear on what remains after removing duality from the construction of the unreal (another term for phenomena); “Moreover, what is remaining here? The construction of the unreal and emptiness (śūnyatā; synonym of reality). [And] “the comprehension of reality as it is” [means] seeing both “existing here” without the [twin errors] of superimposing existence (adhyāropa) and completely negating existence (apavāda).”28 For the Middle and Extremes of course, one of the hermeneutical concerns regarding the middle path (madhyamā pratipat) is to avoid the extremes of existence and non-existence, Vasubandhu’s Comm stating that duality does not exist, while both phenomena (as construction) and reality (as emptiness) do.29

27  tha dad pa ñid kyaṅ ma yin no // ci’i phyir źe na / yod pa daṅ med pa dag khyad par med pa’i phyir ro // ji ltar khyad par med ce na / chos ñid ni chos med pa tsam gyis rab tu phye ba yin pa’i phyir te / gzuṅ ba la sogs pa’i khyad par med pa’i phyir ro // (Mathes, “Untersuchung der Phänomene und ihrer Natur,” 74). 28   / kim punar ihāvaśistam? abhūtaparikalpa: śūnyatā ca / tad ubhayam ihāstı̄ty anadhyāropānapavādena paśyan yathābhūtam prajānāti / [Ramchandra Pandeya, Madhyāntavibhāga-śāstra: Containing the Kārikā-s of Maitreya, Bhāsya of Vasubadhu and Tı̄ka by Sthiramati (Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1999), 12]. 29  See, for example, MV I.3:

na śūnyam nāpi cāśūnyam tasmāt sarvam vidhı̄yate

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And the Comm explicitly states, as noted above, that some aspect of mental construction remains after the removal of the dualistic construction.30 If we return to the concept that in the Yogācāra the emphasis on “The triple world is mind-only” is a shift to the psychological and a de-emphasis on the cosmological, the analysis of liberation becomes one of a transformation of consciousness rather than a metaphysical explication (although metaphysics remains important, as some portions dealing with ontology of the above examinations show). The classic explanation of this transformation is the doctrine of the three-natures, or trisvabhāva. This teaching can be summarized as follows31: 1. The first nature is called the “constructed” (parikalpita), and refers to the dualistically conceived objects and subjects of experience. Duality occurs both perceptually and conceptually, that is, inherent in the ordinary perceptions and the concepts we use to comprehend our world, there is a constructed division between the self and other. 2. The second nature is called the “other-dependent” (paratantra), and refers to the actual flow of consciousness, structurally prior to the dualistic perceptions and conceptions we experience. 3. The third nature is called the “perfected” (parinispanna), and is the pure, non-dualistic and non-conceptual awareness. It is the second, other-dependent nature that is devoid of the dualistic constructions of the first nature. In reviewing this formula, many branches of the Yogācāra consider the second nature the only reality; the first nature is seen as deluded percepsattvād asattvāt sattvāc ca madhyamā pratipac ca sā //3// (Pandeya, Madhyāntavibhāga-śāstra, 13). Therefore, everything is determined to be not empty and also not non-empty Because of existence, non-existence, and existence; and that is the middle path. (MVBh glossing MV 1.3 c-d) 30  For an analysis of what remains according to the Madhyānta-vibhāga, see Nagao, “What Remains in Sunyata: A Yogacara Interpretation of Emptiness,” Mahāyāna Buddhist Meditation: Theory and Practice, edited by Minora Kiyota (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawaii Press, 1978), 66–82; Hugh B. Urban and Paul J. Griffiths, “What Else Remains in Śūnyatā? An Investigation of Terms for mental Imagery in the Madhyāntavibhāga corpus,” Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies, vol. 17, no. 1, 1994. 31  For an excellent discussion on the three-natures see, Paul Williams, Buddhist Thought: A Complete Introduction to the Indian Tradition (New York: Routledge, 2006), 156–160.

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tion, that is, the flow of consciousness that is afflicted by dualism. The third nature is also relegated to the perception realm, but this time, it is the pure flow of consciousness after the dualistic constructions of the first nature are relinquished through spiritual cultivation. In terms of radical reorientation, it is the purified second nature, the non-dualistic flow of consciousness, termed the “perfected” in the context of perception.

The Basic Definition of Radical Reorientation I would like to bring my discussion on Yogācāra to a close by providing the basic definition of radical reorientation according to Phenomena and Reality and Vasubandhu’s Commentary: The insight into essential nature (svabhāvapraveśa) [means] Suchness (i.e., reality) is purified from the disappearance and appearance of the adventitious defilements and Suchness.32

The Commentary makes it clear that “what remains” as radical reorientation’s essential nature (svabhāva) is only Suchness when the adventitious defilements disappear: That which is Suchness purified from the disappearance of the adventitious defilements and from the appearance of only Suchness/reality is the essential nature of radical reorientation. Thus, that which is comprehension [of this reorientation] is called the unsurpassed insight into essential nature.33

The disappearance of the defilements and the appearance of Suchness as the only existence, indicates that ontologically, Suchness is the only real. However, as we have seen in the review of the three natures, Suchness/ reality in the context of Yogācāra is the flow of consciousness, devoid of the obscurations of dualistic constructions. This implies that liberation is a transformative event occurring in the personality stream (samtāna) of the “person,” and not the complete negation of our immanent reality as the flow of consciousness. 32  svabhāvapraveśas tathatāvaimalyam āgantukamalatathatāprakhyānaprakhyānāya / (Mathes, “Untersuchung der Phänomene und ihrer Natur,” 99). 33  yat tathatāvaimalyatvam āgantukamalāprakhyānāya tathatāmātraprakhyānāya ca sa svabhāva āśrayaparivrtteh / evam yat parijñānam ayam ucyate svabhāvapraveśo niruttara iti / (Mathes, “Untersuchung der Phänomene und ihrer Natur,” 99).

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Conclusion: Grace in Yogācāra Soteriology Given the psychological orientation of Yogācāra as well as its understanding of reality as the pure flow of consciousness, it may be difficult to see how grace may play a role in liberation. However, keeping in mind that the soteriological systems of Yogācāra, even more so than what Śankara prescribes, requires human effort and intentionality, and by definition are karma producing activities. No one commences spiritual formation from the standpoint of awakening (unless one is already a Buddha destined to teach the dharma in a specific age), which poses the problem of all effort keeping the aspirant locked in the cycle of karma. And yet, as we have seen in the three-nature theory, the only reality is the flow of consciousness, whether or not it is obscured by dualistic constructions or purified of them. This broaches on one of the controversies in the Buddhist discussion of the mind; is it transformed from delusion to awakening, or is it intrinsically pure, only to be disclosed through purification? Many of the metaphors used, such as the purity of water only clouded by silt, the intrinsic purity of gold which is still to be separated from dirt, or the original spaciousness of the sky regardless of the clouds therein, lean toward the latter conception of some intrinsic or original luminosity of mind. And if that is correct, the case could be made that all spiritual endeavors may be a response to a call, a call, paradoxically, of mind seeking mind. This is not to suggest that the Advaitin conception of brahman is identical to a Buddhist understanding of the originally pure mind—a pure mind can still “flow,” however, the philosophical issues involved in this are beyond the scope of this chapter. Recall my proposed explanation of grace given in the section on Advaita above: … human being never affects or causes brahman or brahman’s presence; it is only in human being’s (and all phenomena) absolute dependence on brahman that the brahman discloses itself to and in human being. And yet, brahman as the reality underlying all things points to brahman as already pre-given34 in both our being and perception. This recognition of absolute 34  Bradley J. Malkovsky states, “We run the risk here of overlooking the pre-given divine immanence in our search for God…. The Indian or Upanishadic breakthrough was in the revelation not merely of interpersonal relatedness but also of knowledge of God as the supreme “I” residing within, whose reflection each of us is in a limited way” (Malkovsky, “Śamkara on Divine Grace,” 76).

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dependence on brahman and the bestowal of brahman’s disclosure to human being as human being’s essence is the nature of grace. Since “recognition” and “bestowal” are not two movements, but two dimensions a of singular event, it is essentially non-dual.35

Perhaps we can suggest the following: … human being as the personality stream never affects or causes the presence of non-dual consciousness; it is only in the personality stream’s (and all phenomena) absolute dependence on the originally luminous mind that the luminous mind discloses itself in the personality stream (radical reorientation). And yet, the originally luminous mind as the reality underlying all constructed phenomena points to itself as already pre-given in perceptions. This recognition of absolute dependence on originally pure mind and the bestowal of mind’s disclosure in the personality stream as its essence, is the nature of grace. Since “recognition” and “bestowal” are not two movements, but two dimensions a of singular event, it is essentially non-dual.

Revisiting the opening scenario of meditation, we could provide a tentative analysis of the way in which we enter into the stillness of mind. Since we are conscious before, during, and after meditation, despite the various “states” that could arise, maybe our very consciousness itself is intrinsically calm, and maybe in the very effort to practice mindfulness, this calmness comes to us, rather than being a mere effect of our contemplative efforts.

Bibliography Alston, A.J. 1980. Śankara on the Absolute. Vol. I. London: Shanti Sadan. ———. 1985a. Śankara on the Creation. Vol. II. London: Shanti Sadan. ———. 1985b. Śankara on the Soul. Vol. III. London: Shanti Sadan. ———. 1989c. Śankara on Rival Views. Vol. IV. London: Shanti Sadan. ———. 1989d. Śankara on Discipleship. Vol. V. London: Shanti Sadan. ———. 2004. A Śankaran Sourcebook. London: Shanti Sadan. Anacker, Stephan. Trans. 1986. The Seven Works of Vasubandhu: The Buddhist Psychological Doctor. New Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass. Brahmasūtra with Śankarabhāshya. Works of Śankarācār ya in Original Sanskrit. Vol. III. Dehli: Motilal Banarsidass. Gambirānanda, Swami. Trans. 1977. Brahma-Sūr tra-bhāsya of Śankarācār ya. Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama.  See my proposed summary herein, 11–12.

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———. Trans. 1982. Eight Upanisads: With the Commentary of Śankarācār ya. Vol. I: Iś̄ a, Kena, Katha and Taittirı̄ya. Calcutta: Advaita Ashrama. Grant, Sara. 2002. Toward an Alternative Theology: Confessions of a Non-dualist Christian. Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press. Griffiths, Paul J. 1994. On Being Buddha: The Classical Doctrine of Buddhahood. Albany: SUNY Press. ———. 1997. The Limits of Criticism. In Pruning the Bodhi Tree, ed. Jaime Hubbard and Paul Swanson. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Gupta, Bina. 2012. An Introduction to Indian Philosophy: Perspectives on Reality, Knowledge, and Freedom. New York: Routledge. Malkovsky, Bradely J. 1997. The Personhood of Śamkara’s Para Brahman. The Journal of Religion 77: 541–546. ———. 2000. Śamkara on Divine Grace. In New Perspectives on Advaita Vedānta, ed. Bradley J. Malkovsky. Leiden: Brill. ———. 2001. The Role of Divine Grace in the Soteriology of Samkarācār ya. Leiden/ Boston/Köln: Brill. Mathes, Klaus-Dieter. 1990. Untersuchung der Phänomene und ihrer Natur. Eine Lehrschrift der buddhistischen Yogācāra-Schule in tibetischer Überlieferung. Magister Artium Thesis, Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Univesität zu Bonn. Mayeda, Sengaku. Trans. 1979. A Thousand Teachings: The Upadeśasāhasrı̄ of Śankara. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press. Nagao. 1978. What Remains in Sunyata: A Yogacara Interpretation of Emptiness. In Mahāyāna Buddhist Meditation: Theory and Practice, ed. Minora Kiyota. Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press. Pandeya, Ramchandra. 1999. Madhyānta-vibhāga-śāstra: Containing the Kārikā-s of Maitreya, Bhāsya of Vasubadhu and Tı̄ka by Sthiramati. Dehli: Motilal Banarsidass. Rāhula, Walpola. 1974. What the Buddha Taught. New York: Grove Press. Sānkrtyāyana, Rāhula. 1938. Sanskrit MSS. in Tibet. Journal of the Bihar and Orrisa Research Society XXIV: 137–163. Urban, Hugh B., and Paul J. Griffiths. 1994. What Else Remains in Śūnyatā? An Investigation of Terms for Mental Imagery in the Madhyāntavibhāga Corpus. Journal of the International Association of Buddhist Studies 17 (1): 1–25. Williams, Paul. 2006. Buddhist Thought: A Complete Introduction to the Indian Tradition. New York: Routledge.

CHAPTER 7

Self-Reliant and Ecologically Aware: A Christian Appreciation of Buddhism Clifford Chalmers Cain

This chapter will describe and demonstrate a Christian appreciation of Buddhism. It will do so in five sections—first, a discussion of the historical comparison between Buddhism and Christianity regarding their emergence from mother religions, Hinduism and Israelite tribal religion, respectively; second, a comparative historical analysis of the central figures of both faith traditions, Siddhartha Gautama and Jesus of Nazareth; third, an ethical examination of the chief virtues of both traditions, “compassion” (karuna) for Buddhism and “love” (agape) for Christianity, and a comparison of the teachings of Siddhartha and Jesus; fourth, the contribution of Buddhism to Christianity in regard to self-reliance in one’s spiritual quest; and fifth, the contribution of Buddhism to Christianity regarding ecological awareness and environmental responsibility. As a Christian, I find myself especially resonating with the Buddhist emphasis on the responsibility of each person in/for one’s spiritual journey. I am envious in a holy way of Buddhism’s assertion that the onus is on me to live-out and to live-up to the ideals and goals of my religious tradition. As an eco-­ theologian

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(one who attempts to tap the resources of religious and spiritual traditions to address environmental concerns), I find significant “green” elements in Buddhism of which I am spiritually envious and which lend themselves to a recovery of some “green” elements in my own Christian faith, a discovery of other “green” elements in it, and then a potential transformative “greening” of Christianity.

The Birth of Buddhism and Christianity Both Buddhism and Christianity emerged and evolved from a mother religion—Buddhism from Hinduism, and Christianity from Israelite tribal religion.1 Just as a child manifests some similar characteristics from her/his mother, so these two, respective offspring religions represent their mother religions. And just as any child also manifests characteristics that are dissimilar from his/her mother, so Buddhism and Christianity are different from their mother religions. Buddhism understands the cycle of life as involving reincarnation based on the law of karma (from good comes good, from evil comes evil). In other words, the universe is moral, and in one’s next life—one’s reincarnated coming-to-be—one takes up life from the position of moral development that was previously achieved. If one was characterized by 1  For a number of years, Christian scholars and Christian persons of faith regarded Christianity to be the child of the mother religion, Judaism. This has been unfortunate on at least two counts: First, it ignores the historical underpinnings of the emergence of the Jesus movement (later, Christianity) alongside Rabbinic Judaism (later, contemporary Judaism today). More recent and more accurate scholarship points to Christianity and Rabbinic Judaism as “siblings” being born from Israelite tribal religion or Second Temple Judaism [the iteration of Jewish faith coinciding with the return of some Jews from exile in Babylon in the late sixth century BCE/BC and the rebuilding of the first Temple established by Solomon in the tenth century BCE and destroyed by Babylonian King Nebuchadnezzar in the early sixth century BCE]. When this Second Temple was destroyed by the Romans in 70 CE/AD, the two groups remaining from among a number of groups were the Pharisees—the antecedent of Rabbinic Judaism—and the Jesus movement—the antecedent of Christianity. Second, the “older” scholarship tended to give rise to, to promote, and to validate a dismissal of Judaism as the “old” and inferior religion that was replaced—superseded—by the “new” and superior religion, Christianity. Thus, both Rabbinic Judaism and Christianity are the children of preRabbinic Judaism or Israelite tribal religion or “Second Temple Judaism.” Those interested in more details about this more historically and theologically accurate “sibling” understanding can find helpful information in Irreconcilable Differences?: A Learning Resource for Jews and Christians, edited by David F.  Sandmel, Rosann M.  Catalano, and Christopher M. Leighton (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 2001), pp. 17–31.

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more vice than virtue in one’s previous life, then the level of the subsequent existence is lower than before; if he/she was characterized by more virtue than vice, then his/her next existence is higher than before. This is consistent with the mother religion, Hinduism, which also subscribes to reincarnation and the law of karma. However, Hinduism holds that within your physical form is an atman or “soul,” which is the really real, the truly “you.” When you die, your atman is joined to another physical form based on your merit (or lack thereof) in the life that has just ended. In this way, you are rewarded or punished for your “sins of remission” and “sins of omission” (to use Christian phraseology) in your previous life. You get what you deserve; you deserve what you get. What is not consistent with Hinduism is that Buddhists do not believe that you have a soul (an atman in Hinduism). That is, Buddhists hold that there is no indestructible, eternal essence within you that survives death and is matched with a new physical form/body in your next life. There is no “you” that transmigrates from one material form to another. This is the Buddhist doctrine of anatman. Instead of a soul, then, Buddhists believe that “you” are composed of five dimensions (the “Five Aggregates”). At death, these dimensions—the physical, perceptions, emotions, consciousness, and the will—“come apart,” and based on how you lived your life previously, five dimensions come together again to form the new “you.” Thus, change characterizes all of life in the world, and nothing—no-thing—is unchanging or eternal. This is the Buddhist doctrine of anicca: Nothing is permanent; everything changes; no thing is everlasting. Thus, Buddhism maintains some characteristics of the religion out of which it emerged, and it also deviates from that religion. Beyond this, the mother religion, Hinduism, though in one sense is a “monotheistic” religion (because an eternal Essence called Brahman is present in all material things) is in another sense a “polytheistic” religion because it believes in many gods. In fact, Hindu scholars posit the total number as 330 million gods, perhaps as a way of implying that there are more gods than a person can count!2 Buddhism, by contrast, does not believe in gods. In the path toward the spiritual goal of enlightenment (nirvana), persons are on their own. No gods are there to help; it’s up to the individual. Indeed, not even the 2  Stephen Prothero, “The Mathematics of Divinity” in Chapter 4, “Hinduism,” God Is Not One, HarperCollins, 2010.

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central figure of Buddhism—Siddhartha Gautama called the Buddha—is able to help: He cannot transfer spiritual merit to the devotee, although he can point the way toward nirvana because he himself achieved it. In this sense, he is an inspiration to the devotee. This is definitely the case in the oldest form of Buddhism, Theravada, which claims about 20% of the world’s Buddhist population. A newer branch of Buddhism, Mahayana (somewhat similar to Protestantism in Christianity, because there are many “sects”—or denominations—in this brand of Buddhism), has elevated the Buddha to a kind of “god.” In this Buddhist variety, the Buddha can assist the believer in his/her spiritual journey. Prayers can be offered to the Buddha for assistance, and spiritual merit can be transferred to the follower. It is clear that, although Buddhism maintains some characteristics of the religion out of which it emerged, it also deviates from that religion. Similarly, Christianity maintains some characteristics of the Israelite tribal religion out of which it emerged, and it also deviates from that religion. Christianity holds the Hebrew Scriptures (called the “Old Testament” in the Christian Bible)—the story of the faith history of Israel—to be revelatory and authoritative. But it also has an additional collection—the New Testament—which presents the story of Jesus and the story of the early Church. So, the offspring, Christianity, shares part of the Bible with its mother, Israelite tribal religion, and its sibling, Rabbinic Judaism. But the interpretation of the identity of Jesus is where the mother, sibling, and other child/sibling especially part company: For Christianity, Jesus is the Messiah, the Christ (literally, the “anointed one,” a popularly expected figure in that time) and the Son of God (a member of the God-­ head, simultaneously divine and human). From the perspective of Israelite tribal religion and Rabbinic Judaism, Jesus could not have been the Messiah, because the job description included routing the Romans and ushering-in the Kingdom of God. Jesus appeared to do neither of these— the Romans crucified him for sedition and were still in power following his ministry, and would remain so for over 400 more years; and the kingdom of God—a this-worldly rule of God—did not enter history: The same undesirable values of hate, war, and injustice had not been replaced by the kingdom’s values of love, peace, and justice. In addition, from the perspective of Israelite tribal religion and Rabbinic Judaism, Jesus could not have been the Son of God. To posit another “God” in addition to the one, true God, was to commit blasphemy (“blasphemy” is defined as an “insult to God,” and since God is “one,” an

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assertion that there is ‘another’ deity violates a strict monotheism, or belief in one God). While Jesus may have been a “son” of God—i.e., one who strove to follow God and obey the commandments—Jesus was not the Son of God. So, both offspring were born of antecedent traditions, and both children reflect characteristics that are reminiscent of these traditions, but also different from them.

The Central Figures of the Two Religions The central figure of Christianity, Jesus, and the central figure of Buddhism, Siddhartha, lived in different centuries (traditionally, the sixth century BCE/BC for Siddhartha and the first century CE/AD for Jesus). Also, the circumstances of their birth and youth were different: Siddhartha was born into wealth. The prince of a regional king (raja) in Lumbini in what is present-day Nepal, he was wrapped by his father in a cocoon of luxury. An omen at Siddhartha’s birth predicted that he would either become a world ruler, following in his father’s footsteps, or a spiritual figure who would save persons from delusion and unhappiness. His father, an ambitious man, desired a political figure for a son, not a spiritual offspring. So, Siddhartha wanted for nothing and was thoroughly spoiled by his father. By contrast, Jesus was born in a stable—or in some traditions, a cave— behind an inn which had posted “no vacancy.” His mother was not attended by maids-in-waiting (as was Siddhartha’s), and he was visited by local ruffians—shepherds (who at the time were regarded in a category with cutthroats, robbers, and prostitutes)—and by some astrologer-priests (not “kings” in the normal sense of the word) from Persia called “magi.” Some New Testament scholars regard Jesus as a Mediterranean peasant who worked in his father’s carpentry shop (“carpenter” can also be understood as “architect”) in Nazareth in northern Israel. With these quite different beginnings, both Siddhartha and Jesus had a spiritually transformative period and experience at about the same age. Siddhartha had come to observe suffering [the First Noble Truth of the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism is that life involves suffering (dukkha)] when he was able momentarily to venture forth beyond the insulating walls of the royal palace: He saw a sick man, an old man, a corpse, and finally, a wandering, begging Hindu holy man or monk (these experiences are known in Buddhism as the “Four Sights”). This upset him because he had not experienced suffering before. And that experience

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tormented him so much that he decided to leave, when he was 29 years old, the palace and his wife (Yashodhara) and newborn son (Rahula) in order to devote the next six years of his life to finding an “answer” to the suffering he had witnessed (his departure is termed as the “Night of the Great Renunciation”). At the end of his quest and over a half a decade later, he sat under a wild fig tree (the bo or bodhi tree) in what is presentday Nepal and came to an enlightening insight—he would have his spiritual answer to the existential predicament that he experienced. At a similar age, Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist in the river Jordan in Israel when Jesus was 30 years old. The New Testament’s four Gospels do not share much of his childhood, except for a circumcision and naming ceremony as a baby eight days after birth, a flight to Egypt to avoid a dastardly plan by Herod the Great (a half-Jewish puppet-king placed in power by the Romans and responsible to them) to eliminate any contenders and threats by killing boy babies, and an encounter with Temple officials in Jerusalem when he was 12 years of age. But the story picks up with Jesus’ baptism as a rite of purification or confirmation of Jesus’ call to ministry, and when John the Baptist is beheaded by ‘another’ Herod, Jesus’ ministry begins with a 40-day sojourn in the Negev desert in the southern part of Israel followed by a visit to his hometown synagogue in Nazareth in the northern part of Israel and his taking upon himself the content of the Hebrew Bible (what Christians call the “Old Testament”) reading from Isaiah 61 (found in Luke 4) and contending that he was anointed/appointed by the Spirit of God to be a ransomer of captives, a healer of the sick, the bearer of good news to the poor, a liberator of the oppressed, and the announcer of the Jubilee Year.

Similarities in the Teachings of Siddhartha and Jesus Siddhartha would teach compassion (karuna) as his chief moral virtue; Jesus would teach love (agape) as his. The two are not exactly synonymous, but neither are they totally unrelated. Siddhartha’s ethic was based on the startling but unavoidable fact that all living things (human and non-human) experience suffering. He taught that compassion—an empathic identification with the pain and plight of others—should be the ethical response to such wide-spread suffering. Since one experiences suffering as an individual, unless one is thoroughly egocentric, he/she will recognize that other people, and other living things beyond the human

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sphere, experience suffering. And the reaction to this fact that is warranted and is necessary, is to respond with compassion and to vow to help relieve the suffering that one finds in the world. Jesus would teach love (that variety of love called agape—a love with which God loves, a love that does not have to be deserved, earned, or bought by the recipient) as the proper way to relate to others. When he was challenged to name the most important commandment in the Law (the Torah, the first five books of the Hebrew Bible, the Old Testament)—a controversial issue in Jesus’ time with any answer highly debated—Jesus replied that the “greatest commandment” was to love God with all of one’s being; Jesus added to this answer a second commandment, to love others as one loved one’s self. This love was to be extended to all, including not only the marginalized—widows, orphans, strangers, and the poor—but also one’s enemies. While one is certainly to love one’s self as a child of God, one is also expected to extend love to others as also children of God, or else be mired in egocentrism. The teachings of Siddhartha, which sprang forth from karuna, and the teachings of Jesus, which were stimulated by agape love, have numerous similarities between them: Siddhartha: “Abstain from killing and from taking what is not given. Abstain from unchastity and from speaking falsely. Do not accept gold and silver.”3 Jesus: “You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder; you shall not commit adultery; you shall not steal; you shall not bear false witness; you shall not defraud; honor your father and mother.’”4 Siddhartha: “Consider others as yourself.”5 Jesus: “Do to others as you would have them do to you.”6 Siddhartha: “Hatreds do not ever cease in this world by hating, but by love; this an eternal truth … Overcome anger by love, overcome evil by good. Overcome the miser by giving, overcome the liar by truth.”7 Jesus: “Love [agape] your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you … Give to everyone who begs from you …”8

 Khuddakapatha 2.  Mark 10:19 5  Dhammapada 10:1. 6  Luke 6:31. 7  Dhammapada 1:5 and 17:3. 8  Luke 6:27–30 (cf. Romans 12:21: “Overcome evil with good.”). 3 4

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Siddhartha: “Whoever would tend me, he should tend the sick.”9 Jesus: “Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.”10 Siddhartha: “Just as a mother would protect her only child at the risk of her own life, even cultivate a boundless heart towards all beings. Let your thoughts of boundless love pervade the whole world.”11 Jesus: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you. No one has greater love [agape] than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.”12 Siddhartha: “The faults of others are easier to see than one’s own …”13 Jesus: “Why do you see the speck in your neighbor’s eye, but do not notice the log in your own eye?”14 Siddhartha: “That great cloud rains down on all whether their nature is superior or inferior.”15 Jesus: “Your father in heaven makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous.”16 Siddhartha: “Stealing, deceiving, adultery; this is defilement. Not the eating of meat.”17 Jesus: “There is nothing outside a person that by going in can defile, but the things that come out are what defile.”18 Siddhartha: “Riches make most people greedy, and so are like caravans lurching down the road to perdition.”19 Jesus: “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!”20 Siddhartha: “Let the wise man do righteousness [which is] a treasure that others cannot share, which no thief can steal, a treasure which does not pass away.”21 Jesus: “Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust consume and where thieves break in and steal; but [instead] store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust consumes and where thieves do not break in and steal.”22

 Vinaya, Mahavagga 8:26:3.  Matthew 25:45. 11  Sutta Nipata 149–150. 12  John 15:12–13. 13  Udanavarga 27:1. 14  Luke 6:41. 15  Sadharmapundarika Sutra 5. 16  Matthew 5:45. 17  Sutta Nipata 242. 18  Mark 7:15. 19  Jatakamala 5:5. 20  Mark 10:23. 21  Khuddakapatha 8:9. 22  Matthew 6:19–20. 9

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Siddhartha: “… It is the law of humanity that though one accumulates hundreds of thousands of worldly goods, one still succumbs to the spell of death. All hoardings will be dispersed, whatever rises will be cast down, all meetings must end in separation, life must finally end in death.”23 Jesus: “[Jesus] told them a parable: ‘The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, “What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?’ Then he said, “I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.” But God said to him, “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich towards God.’”24

Both Siddhartha and Jesus had detractors: Siddhartha: “They agreed among themselves: ‘Friends, here comes the recluse Gautama who lives luxuriously, who gave up his striving and reverted to luxury.’”25 Jesus: “The Son of Man came eating and drinking, and they said, ‘Look, a glutton and a drunkard, a friend of tax collectors and sinners!’”26

Both Siddhartha and Jesus hung out with persons of questionable reputation as a way of bringing them into their respective movements: Siddhartha: “… To demonstrate the evils of desire, the Buddha [Siddhartha] even entered the brothels. To establish drunkards in correct mindfulness, he entered all the taverns.”27 Jesus: “When the Pharisees saw this [Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners], they said to Jesus’ disciples, ‘Why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?’ But when Jesus heard this, he said, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick, for I have come to call not the righteous but sinners.”28

Both were tempted by the demonic as they progressed in their spiritual development:  Danavarga 1:20–22.  Luke 12:16–21. 25  Majjhima Nikaya 26:26. 26  Matthew 11:19. 27  Vimalakirtinirdesha Sutra 2. 28  Matthew 9:11–13. 23 24

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Siddhartha: “Then Mara the evil one drew near to the Buddha and said, ‘Let the Exalted One exercise governance, let the Blessed One rule’ [and the Buddha refused].”29 Jesus: “ … Then the devil led Jesus up and showed him in an instant all the kingdoms of the world. And the devil said to him, ‘To you I will give their glory and all this authority …’ Jesus answered him, ‘It is written, “Worship the Lord your God, and serve only him.’”30 Siddhartha: “During the six years that the Buddha practiced austerities, the demon followed behind him step by step … ”31 Jesus: “When the devil had finished every test, he departed from Jesus until an opportune time.”32

Both performed miraculous acts, such as walking on water: Siddhartha: “The Buddha [Siddhartha] walks upon the water without parting it, as if on solid ground.”33 Jesus: “When Jesus saw that they were straining at the oars against an adverse wind, he came toward them early in the morning, walking on the sea.”34

Both Siddhartha and Jesus were understood in terms of the entry of “light” into the world and the overcoming of “darkness”: Siddhartha: “When a Buddha descends from heaven, there appears in this world an immeasurable, splendid light surpassing the glory of the most powerful glow. And whatever dark spaces lie beyond the world’s end will be illuminated by this light.”35 Jesus: “Jesus spoke unto them, saying, ‘I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.’”36

Both had had titles joined to their given names—Buddha to Siddhartha Gautama and Christ to Jesus of Nazareth. Both were itinerant teachers, Siddhartha as a guru, and Jesus as a rabbi. However, their deaths differed, and this difference affected their length of ministry: Siddhartha died at the age of 80 due in part to eating poisonous mushrooms served unintentionally to him at dinner by a blacksmith; Jesus died at the age of 33  Samyutta Nikaya 4:2.  Luke 4:5–8. 31  Lalitavistara Sutra 18. 32  Luke 4:13. 33  Anguttara Nikaya 3:60. 34  Mark 6:48. 35  Digha Nikaya 14:1:17. 36  John 8:12. 29 30

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(t­ raditionally) at the hands of the Romans by a cruel instrument of death—the cross and crucifixion—regarded by that government as a revolutionary. And the sacred scriptures of both traditions describe dramatic natural signs upon their deaths: Siddhartha: “At the Blessed Lord’s final passing, there was a great earthquake, terrible and hair-raising, accompanied by thunder.”37 Jesus: “Then Jesus cried again with a loud voice and breathed his last. At that moment the curtain of the Temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. The earth shook, and the rocks were split.”38

Both traditions had key figures who spread the faith outside the area of its birth. Asoka, the Buddhist emperor in the third century BCE/BC, sent out missionaries beyond India, and the faith found fertile soil in countries such as China, Japan, and Korea. This was fortuitous, in that the mother religion in India from which Buddhism sprang—Hinduism—would take from its offspring, Buddhism, much that it found of value and would thereby absorb it. As a result, and though Buddhism has enjoyed a resurgence in its land of origin, when one visits contemporary India, Buddhists are relatively scarce. Christianity benefitted from a similar key figure: Paul of Tarsus (a city in present-day Turkey), a key player in the first century CE/AD in terms of Christian theology and Christian evangelism, began as a vicious opponent of the Jesus movement (the Way), but then had a life-changing experience on the road to Damascus (to which he was going to repress the movement’s growth there). He then became a courageous proponent of the movement, suffering imprisonment, risking his life, and finally sacrificing that life for the spread of the movement he initially tried to snuff-out. Along the way, he expanded the focus of conversion from appealing to Jews to become Christians to now appealing to non-Jews (Gentiles) to become Christians and especially outside of the Holy Land or land of Canaan. As a result, the Jesus movement grew remarkably. Thus, although there are Christians living in Israel today, when one visits that country, he/ she finds relatively few Christians in the land of its birth. In terms of the existence of the Divine, the Transcendent, God or gods, Siddhartha the Buddha didn’t disavow the gods, he just didn’t think they  Digha Nikaya 16:6:10.  Matthew 27:50–51.

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accounted for much. Praying to them did not seem to alleviate human misery. Hoping for divine activity in human life didn’t seem to pay-off; waiting for help from the gods seemed futile. So, instead, he emphasized human activity to alleviate suffering, first in one’s self and then in those around her/him.39 Siddhartha had woken up to the potential in humanity; he was awake, he was enlightened, he was “Buddha.” Therefore, based on the earliest form of Buddhism, a person must rely on her/his own efforts, for the spiritual goal “is not bestowed by grace nor achieved for us by a supernatural savior …”40 As a result, Buddhists are non-theists; they do not necessarily deny the existence of God or gods; rather, they simply do not incorporate them into their faith perspective nor rely on them to help them live-out that faith. By contrast, Jesus the Christ referred to, and relied, on a deity—God— whom he addressed intimately as Abba [an Aramaic—the language Jesus spoke—term translated as “Father” or even more commonly in that time as “Daddy”). In Jesus’ worldview as a faithful Jew and as a rabbi, God not only existed, but was indispensable to living the spiritual life and following the commandments.

Self-Reliance in the Spiritual Quest As significant as this difference is, Christianity could learn some helpful insights from Buddhism’s emphasis on self-reliance: For, is salvation (God’s acceptance; forgiveness of sins) for Christians something that is totally ‘given’ or something that is totally ‘gotten’? That is, is redemption (of whatever sort) the result of what you do for yourself or the result of what is done for you? In his Letter to the Galatians in the Christian New Testament, Paul of Tarsus emphasized that in Christianity, it is faith that saves the believer. That is, God’s grace (acceptance by God; the overcoming of alienation between humans and God and among humans which is a divine gift) accepts a person in spite of her/his unacceptable actions and s­ hortcomings. God does for Christian disciples what they cannot do for themselves. For, if Christians were left to their own devices, their own inner powers, they would fall far short of being the kind of people God expects.

 Karen Armstrong, Buddha (Penguin Books, 2004), pp. 6–7.  Armstrong, op. cit., p. 78.

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Therefore, Paul declares that the commandments in the Bible (the “Law,” the Torah) cannot save humans: That is, since obeying all of the commandments is impossible for human beings (with their weaknesses and imperfections), the Law only illustrates the need for deliverance by a Power from “outside.”41 And in the previous chapter of Galatians, Paul had written, “We know that a person is put right with God only through faith in Jesus Christ, never by doing what the Law requires … Do not reject the grace of God.”42 Based on these scriptures, it appears that salvation or redemption is something completely given or provided, and not gotten or accomplished. But then Jesus’ words in Matthew 25 impact the discussion: Here Jesus announces judgment (whether one is saved or not) on the basis of “whether or not charity was withheld from the insignificant.”43 He points to his own identification with those who suffer and with the oppressed, and by implication highlights his ministry as an example par excellence of showing charity to the marginalized—the hungry, the thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick, and the imprisoned. So, at the last judgment—the final evaluation of the moral quality of Christian believers—the “sheep” at Jesus’ right hand—i.e., those who fed the hungry, gave the thirsty a drink, took in the stranger, clothed the naked, ministered to the sick and visited the imprisoned—will go into eternal life and “inherit the Kingdom.”44 But the “goats” at his left hand— i.e., those who withheld charity from the insignificant—will go into eternal punishment.45 It would appear here that human action—“good works”—is what fully qualifies one for Kingdom membership (salvation). The scripture passage says absolutely nothing about the faith of the persons who have been categorized as “sheep” and “goats.” It does not mention God’s grace but rather humans’ acts. Those persons who have unknowingly served Christ by serving the helpless and the hopeless will be the ones who are saved. The same debate is found between Paul’s Letter to the Romans and the Letter of James: In Romans 3, Paul says:

 Galatians 3:2–3.  Galatians 2:16a, 21. 43  The Anchor Bible Commentary, Vol. 26, p. 306. 44  Matthew 25:46, 34. 45  Matthew 25:46. 41 42

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God’s way of putting people right with God has been revealed, and it has nothing to do with Law … God puts people right, through their faith in Jesus Christ. God does this to all who believe in Christ … By the free gift of God’s grace, they are put right with him through Christ Jesus who sets them free … A person is put right with God only through faith, and not by doing what the Law commands. God’s grace leads us to the eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord.46

By contrast, the words of James 2 emphasize one’s own efforts, the contribution of human action: My brothers and sisters, what good is it for a person to say, “I have faith,” if that person’s actions do not prove it? Can that faith save him? Suppose there are brothers or sisters who need clothes and don’t have enough to eat. What good is there is your saying to them, “God bless you? Keep warm and eat well!”—If you don’t give them the necessities of life? This is how it is with faith: If it is alone and has no actions with it, then it is dead … How was our ancestor Abraham put right with God? It was through his actions, when he offered his son Isaac on the altar. So you see that a person is put right with God by what he does, and not because of his faith alone. For just as the body without the spirit is dead, so also faith without action is dead.47

This debate erupted in all its fury in the sixteenth-century Protestant Reformations (there were multiple movements for change or reform). The “Father of Protestantism,” Martin Luther, proclaimed that we are saved by faith alone (sola fide) and that the Letter of James is “an epistle of straw.” Luther’s argument was ignited and fueled by the Roman Catholic Church’s practice of indulgences, in which the accumulated good works of the saints in a “treasury of merit” were supposedly “tapped” to reduce souls’ time in purgatory and thereby aid in persons’ salvation. So, in Christianity, is redemption something done for believers or is it something that believers do for themselves? Is entrance into the Kingdom of God “given” or “gotten”? Is eternal life a gracious “gift” or a “self-achievement”? It can be argued that Protestant Christianity emphasized so thoroughly sola fide (salvation by grace through faith alone) and sola gratia (salvation through God’s grace alone) that human effort and human responsibility  Romans 3:21a, 22, 24, 2; 5:21b.  James 2:14–17, 21, 24, 26.

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were demoted. This downplaying of human potential and human responsibility, while historically understandable, is theologically dangerous. Just as the swing away from divine grace (humans are justified—redeemed or saved—through the undeserved love, acceptance, and grace of God) to a seemingly one-sided focus on human meritorious action of the saints is theologically dangerous (as Luther so adamantly indicated), so letting it all be about God is also one-sided and can let humans “off the hook.” Human actions are truly important, and must be given an appropriate status and emphasis. Saved persons must behave like saved persons. Although the heavier weight from a Christian angle of vision needs to be on the side of salvation as a gracious gift (here Christianity holds a difference of opinion from its sibling, Rabbinic Judaism), Buddhism helps Christianity remember and recover the importance of human action: What one does, matters. For, although the Christian tradition has affirmed the imperfection of human beings and their difficulty, indeed, incapability of completely achieving salvation for themselves, this recognition cannot lead to a disregard for the necessity of moral action and a striving to do what’s good. Grace ought not to lead to inaction or to immoral behavior; instead, gratitude for this grace ought to lead to virtuous action. In fact, on his deathbed, the Buddha’s last words were, “Strive earnestly to work out your own salvation.” Five hundred years later, Paul of Tarsus also advised, “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling.”48

Ecological Awareness Buddhism also has much to teach Christianity about humans’ relationship to the natural world. Christianity inherits from the Judeo-Christian tradition a somewhat ambivalent attitude toward the environment/nature/ creation. In Genesis 1, humanity is instructed to have dominion (radah— stomp or trample) over the rest of creation and to subdue it (kavash—conquer or vanquish). By contrast, in Genesis 2, Adam and Eve are instructed to till (abad—serve, care for) and tend (shamar—defend, protect) the Garden, God’s creation. Most Christians consciously or unconsciously draw their marching orders from Genesis 1, letting the counter-balancing “kinder, gentler” divine mandate of Genesis 2 be ignored or forgotten.

 Philippians 2:12.

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Buddhism inherits from Hinduism the primary moral virtue of ahimsa. That is, one should live one’s life as non-injuriously as possible, as non-­ violently as one can be, toward all other living things. Thus, living out this virtue is not restricted to how human beings relate to one another, but is extended to how humans relate to non-human beings as well. Ahimsa is undergirded by a respect for the sacredness of all life, human and non-human. In this respect, it is reminiscent of the thought of the famous Swiss medical doctor, virtuoso organist, Christian theologian, and missionary, Albert Schweitzer. When Dr. Schweitzer was crossing a river in Gabon in Africa, he came to the sudden realization that all of life was striving to exist. That is, all species have a will-to-survive, not just the human species. As a result, he came to appreciate all of life, and concluded that the only appropriate philosophical attitude and the only fitting moral response to this fact was a deep and profound “reverence for (all) life.” … Ethics has not only to do with mankind but with the animal creation as well. This is witnessed in the purpose of St. Francis of Assisi. Thus we shall arrive that ethics is reverence for all life. This is the ethic of love widened universally. It is the ethic of Jesus now recognized as a necessity of thought … Only a universal ethic which embraces every living creature can put us in touch with the universe and the will which is there manifest …49

But Buddhist thought and practice go even beyond ahimsa. For in addition to a reverence for life—an intent to live life in a less harmful way—is the Buddhist emphasis on compassion (karuna). “Ahimsa can only take one, part of the way to spiritual health. Instead of simply avoiding violence, an aspirant must behave gently and kindly to everything and everybody …”50 When one realizes the suffering among other species, among all species, how should one respond to this? Just as Schweitzer would respond almost 2500 years after Siddhartha, “reverence for life,” so the Buddha so long ago responded, “compassion.” Indeed, the realm of compassionate ethical concern, the vista of moral virtue, is not homocentric (man-centered) or anthropocentric (human-­ centered). Instead, all sentient beings—all conscious subjects—deserve, are entitled to, compassion. “Compassion, in which all ethics must take root, can only attain its full breadth and depth if it embraces all living creatures and does not limit itself to mankind.”51  Albert Schweitzer, Out of My Life and Thought (Henry Holt and Co., 1933).  Armstrong, op. cit., p. 64. 51  Schweitzer, op. cit. 49 50

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Beyond this, all of life is interrelated and interdependent. In Buddhist thought, nothing—no-thing—exists in isolation from every other thing. The Buddhist designation for this is sunyata or “nothingness” or “emptiness.” Thus, everything is interconnected. Pratityasamutpada (literally, “dependent origination”) is the Buddhist term that points to this interconnectedness. These insights could help Christians apply the moral mandate of Genesis 2—“till and tend,” (i.e., “serve and protect,” “care for and defend”)—to Christian stewardship in the twenty-first century. Clearly, a paradigm shift—for the society and for the religion—is in order: The directives of Genesis 1—“have dominion” and “subdue”—are not sustainable and environmentally healthy for our time. For the natural world has been viewed via the old paradigm as a storehouse of raw materials there for our taking. And we Christians in the West have taken! As a result, we are overly dependent on fossil fuels—running out of one of them, oil, and poisoning the atmosphere with another one of them, coal. We are thereby causing climate change. Beyond this, we are cutting down trees at an alarming rate, a football field every minute—and this deforestation reduces carbon dioxide absorption and increases soil erosion. And plant and animal species are vanishing at a truly alarming rate (up to 250 plant and animal species per day; 73,000 species per year) chiefly because of human impact on the environment. Harvard biology professor emeritus, E. O. Wilson, argues that we have not seen such an erosion of plant and animal life on the planet since the disappearance of the dinosaurs. This not only threatens the well-being of other planetary life but also jeopardizes the quality and survival of Homo sapiens. Since life is interrelated (the persistent insight of environmental science and of Buddhism), what affects one species affects all species. Such a situation causes instability in the ecosystem. Thus, a concern for the status and welfare of all species is not just other-directed, it is also self-serving: Humans’ continued thriving and surviving depend on this ecological health. A human re-consideration of the status of other living things and an affirmation of the rights of other species could mitigate this exploitation and lighten their rush to extinction. Buddhism’s insights of ahimsa, karuna, sunyata, and pratityasamutpada could bring recovery, discovery, and even transformation to Christianity and its understanding of human relationship to the natural world, to God’s creation.

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“[The Buddha] did not omit a single living thing—plant, animal, demon, friend, or foe—from this radius of benevolence.”52 This thought and ethical principle are echoed in the much-later, and Christian, words of Father Zosima in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov: “Love all of God’s creation, the whole and every grain of sand in it. Love every leaf, every ray of light. Love the animals, love the plants. Love everything. If you love everything, you will perceive the divine mystery in things.”53

Bibliography Anguttara Nikaya 3:60. 2012. Trans. Bhikkhu Bodhi. Wisdom Publications. Armstrong, Karen. 2004. Buddha. New York/Toronto: Penguin Books. Danavarga 1:20–22. 1946. Trans. Ayu Subhadra, Universalist Press. Dhammapada 10:1. 2007. Trans. Eknath Easwaran. Nilgiri Press. Digha Nikaya 14:1:17. 2005. Trans. Maurice Walshe. Wisdom Publications. Dostoevsky, Fyodor. 2002. The Brothers Karamazov. New  York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux. Hans S. Gustafson. 2013. Sacramental Spirituality in the Brothers Karamazov and Wendell Berry’s Port William Characters. Literature and Theology, 27 (3): 345–363. Jatakamala 5:5. 1989. Trans. Peter Khoroche. University of Chicago Press. Khuddakapatha 2. 1978. Trans. Bhikkhu Nanamoli. Pali Text Society. Lalitavistara Sutra 18. 1882. Trans. Rajendralala Mitra. Calcutta: Asiatic Society. Majjhima Nikaya 26:26. 1995. Trans. Bhikkhu Nanamoli. Wisdom Publications. Manser, Martin H., Bruce M.  Metzger, and John Barton, eds. 2003. New Testament, the New Revised Standard Version. Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press. Prothero, Stephen. 2010. God Is Not One. New York: HarperCollins. Sadharmapundarika Sutra 5. 2004. Trans. M.G.  Chitkara. APH Publishing Corporation. Samyutta Nikaya 4:2. 1975. Léon Feer. Pali Text Society.

 Armstrong, op. cit., p. 70.  Fyodor Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (New York: Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, 2002); cf. Hans Gustafson, “Sacramental Spirituality in the Brothers Karamazov and Wendell Berry’s Port William Characters,” Literature and Theology, 2013, pp. 1–19: Here Gustafson analyzes these two writers and asserts that in both there is a “sacramental spirituality that results in a way ‘of apprehending the whole of reality’ as a new ‘way of seeing’” which “allows for the retention of an immanent God that dwells in the world.” In this way, nature is holy because of Divine presence and is therefore deserving of our love. 52 53

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Sandmel, David F., Rosann M.  Catalano, and Christopher M.  Leighton, eds. 2001. Irreconcilable Differences?: A Learning Resource for Jews and Christians. Boulder: Westview Press. Schweitzer, Albert. 1933. Out of My Life and Thought. New  York: Henry Holt and Co. Sutta Nipata 149–150. 1994. Trans. H. Saddhatissa. London: RoutledgeCurzon. The Anchor Bible Commentary. 1971. Vol. 26, ed. W.F. Albright and C.S. Mann. Garden City: Doubleday. Udanavarga 27:1. 1965. Ed. Franz Bernhard. Göttingen: Vanderhoek and Ruprecht. Vimalakirtinirdesha Sutra 2. 1997. Trans. Burton Watson. Columbia University Press. Vinaya, Mahavagga 8:26:3. 1881. Trans. T.W.  Rhys Davids and Hermann Oldenberg. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

CHAPTER 8

The Nembutsu of Jō do Shinshū Buddhism Kristin Johnston Largen

Introduction1 I am a Lutheran theologian—a Lutheran pastor, in fact, who teaches at a Lutheran seminary, where most of my students are preparing for ministry in the Lutheran Church and other mainline Protestant denominations. It very difficult—almost impossible—for me to imagine Martin Luther looking favorably on the idea of “envying” something, anything, in another religious tradition. What does the Christian need that she doesn’t already possess in Christianity? What could she possibly learn, or even desire, from any religion that lacks Christ? “Holy envy” is perhaps not self-evident, and yet, in our twenty-first-century world, it is all around us; and as we develop friendships and family relationships across religious borders, we learn more about the different religions that help make people who they are. And when these are people we love, people we admire, naturally we come to admire things about their religious commitments, practices and beliefs as well. For me, through research and through friendships—one in particu1

 Thanks to Richard K. Payne for his helpful suggestions to this chapter.

K. J. Largen (*) United Lutheran Seminary, Gettysburg, PA, USA © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_8

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lar—I have come to appreciate much about Jō do Shinshū Buddhism (hereafter Shin Buddhism), and see wisdom, beauty, and grace there. This is particularly true in the case of the recitation of the nembutsu. The central practice of Shin Buddhism is recitation of the name of Amida Buddha, called in Japanese nembutsu (also called nianfo). The nembutsu is a tangible expression and experience of the Buddha himself, and guarantees birth in Amida’s Pure Land, seen as either a step to or the same as enlightenment. This chapter begins with an introduction to Shin Buddhism, its founder Shinran, and the tradition’s main characteristics. It then moves to a description of the nembutsu, and concludes with the specific “enviable” aspects of this practice, which are as follows: the first is the clarity and purity of focus on one single practice; the second is the recognition of the fallibility of human nature; the third is Shinran’s own humility and his identification with the weak; and finally the fourth is the emphasis on a transformed life in the present. These help make clear why the nembutsu is both compelling and rewarding, not only for “insiders,” but for “outsiders” as well.

Jō do Shinshū Buddhism When most people in the US think of Buddhism, they think either of Zen Buddhism, or Tibetan Buddhism and the Dalai Lama, or perhaps some form of vipassana meditation. Rarely, if ever, do they think of Jōdo Shinshū Buddhism, the name of which translates as true or essential Pure Land teaching (“Jōdo” is Japanese for “pure land,” “shin” means “true,” and “shū” means “teaching” or “school”). One of the main reasons for this is that, in the US, Shin Buddhism is practiced primarily by Buddhists of Japanese descent, although this is changing slowly; it was the Japanese who brought Shin Buddhism to the US over 100 years ago. Today, Shin Buddhism in the US is organized as the Buddhist Churches of America (BCA),2 headquartered in San Francisco, which has a relationship with one of the two main temples of Shin Buddhism, the Nishi Hongwanji, located in Kyoto, Japan. During the late 1800s, priests were sent from Japan to tend to the religious needs of recent Japanese immigrants. The first priests arrived in San Francisco in 1893, and the first temple was constructed there in 1899. Initially, this branch of the Nishi Hongwanji 2  See their website here: http://buddhistchurchesofamerica.org/, accessed January 26, 2017.

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was called the “Buddhist Missions of North America (BMNA).” However, after WWII and the persecution experienced by the Japanese in the US, the name was changed to “Buddhist Churches of America” in 1944, in the hopes that this would facilitate greater acceptance into American society. Shin Buddhism is a sect of Mahāyāna Buddhism, which came to Japan from northern China through Korea in the sixth century, and rapidly established itself. The Tendai and Shingon sects of Buddhism were particularly important during the Heian era (794–1185). In 1175, Hō nen, an ordained Tendai monk, left Mt. Hiei, the center of Tendai monasticism, and established the first independent Pure Land school in Japan. This school, Jō do-shū Buddhism, focused on one specific practice, the nembutsu; that is, the repeated intonation of “namu amida-butsu,” which means “I entrust myself to Amida Buddha.” This particular act was not new; recitation of the name of a Buddha was an early Mahāyāna practice similar to other recitation practices in India. However, what was new with Hō nen was the exclusive emphasis on this practice, and the belief that it alone was enough to ensure rebirth in the Pure Land. Honen’s disciple, Shinran (1173–1263), continued to spread his understanding and interpretation of Honen’s teaching; and eventually, after his death, his followers formed a separate sect, called Jō do Shinshū. Shin Buddhism, then, was founded by Shinran, who lived in Japan during the Kamakura period (1185–1333) and who also began his religious life as a Tendai monk, like Hō nen. Shinran took Hō nen’s teachings, particularly about the nembutsu, and made them even more accessible and reassuring to “householders,” those who could not or would not renounce their lives in the world to become monks or nuns. It was intended to be an “easier” practice—that is, something that one could do in the midst of working, raising a family, running a house, etc.; a practice for those who were poor and illiterate, and even those weighed down by negative karmic burdens. In Buddhism, “karma” refers to the effects of actions that are motivated by specific intentions; and all such actions generate karma— either good or bad, which might best be thought of as fruits of one’s behavior. The primary consequence of karmic action is rebirth in either a higher or lower realm, depending on the moral quality of one’s actions. The reality is that most people are very often ignorant and selfish, and lead lives that generate negative consequences, and thus also a negative rebirth. For this reason, it is said that “Shin Buddhism comes alive for those who live in the

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valley and in the shadows.”3 In the course of the development of his thought, Shinran himself left the monastic life and married a woman named Eshinni, and they had six children.

Amida Buddha and the Pure Land Shin Buddhism sometimes is referred to as “Pure Land Buddhism,” because of its focus on Amida Buddha and his Pure Land. However, that is not entirely accurate, as Pure Land Buddhism is a much broader category that encompasses more sects than Shin. Pure Land Buddhism has its origins in the early Mahāyāna teachings of Nāgārjuna and Vasubandhu, and developed in the first century CE in India. It emphasizes meditating on Amida Buddha, also known as Amitābha Buddha (which means “infinite light”) and Amitāyus Buddha (which means “infinite life”), in hopes of being reborn into the beautiful and auspicious “pure land” that he created through lifetimes of dedicated religious practice. Any individual reborn in a Buddha’s pure land was assured of attaining enlightenment, because he would then be taught the truth about existence directly by the Buddha. Such efficacious teaching could not fail to lead to awakening. As Pure Land Buddhism developed in China, it took two forms, a “clerical” form and a “populist” form.4 The clerical form stressed the use of the nembutsu as an aid to meditation, and emphasized the practice of the individual for the realization of awakening. By contrast, the populist form “despaired of achieving immediate enlightenment by self-exertion and instead relied on the compassion of the Buddha Amitābha to save his devotees by transmigratory rebirth into his Pure Land, and to bring about their eventual full enlightenment there.”5 For this form, the nembutsu was not a “practice” through which one achieved something, but rather an experience of entrusting (sometimes translated as “faith,” but this can be a bit confusing), that is, a means of establishing a relationship with Amitābha Buddha and trusting in his ability to save one from the round of rebirth, saṃsara. It was this latter form of Pure Land Buddhism that became particularly important in Japan.  Taitetsu Unno, River of Fire, River of Water, (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1998), 11.  Allan A. Andrews, “Genshin’s Essentials of Pure Land Rebirth and the Transmission of Pure Land Buddhism to Japan,” in Shin Buddhism: Historical, Textual, and Interpretive Studies, ed. by Richard K. Payne, (Berkeley, CA: Institute for Buddhist Studies and Numata Center for Buddhist Translation and Research, 2007), 127. 5  Ibid. 3 4

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The three primary texts of Pure Land Buddhism are called the “Three Pure Land Sutras,” and they are the Infinite Life Sutra, the Amitabha Sutra, and the Amitayurdhyana Sutra. All three of these texts describe Amitābha and his Pure Land, called Sukhāvati, and the benefits of being reborn there. In the Mahāyāna schools, there are many Buddhas, awakened beings who intercede for the enlightenment of all sentient beings, each of whom has a land, some of which are considered “pure.” Amitābha’s Sukhāvatı̄ is by far the most popular. At the beginning of his story, Amida Buddha is presented as a human figure. In the Larger Sutra of Immeasurable Life it is said that he once was a monk named Dharmakara who made forty-eight vows all aimed at the ultimate awakening of all sentient beings. He promised that he would establish a pure land that would be of the highest quality, a “western paradise,” and anyone reborn there would be taught the dharma by Amida himself and thus be guaranteed of becoming a bodhisattva. The heart of these vows, called the “Primal Vow,” is vow eighteen, which reads as follows: If, when I attain Buddhahood, sentient beings in the lands of the ten quarters, who sincerely and joyfully entrust themselves to me, desire to be born in my land, and call my Name, even ten times, should not be born there, may I not attain perfect Enlightenment. Excluded, however are those who commit the five grave offences and abuse the right Dharma.6

After diligent practice for five kalpas (a kalpa is over 4 billion years), Dharmakara fulfilled his vows and became Amida Buddha, with an inexhaustible store of merit—that is, a kind of power or treasure that is generated through good deeds that can positively affect someone’s rebirth—that he made available to any who would call on his name. However, one might also view Amida Buddha not as a historical figure, but as the embodiment of Buddhist compassion and wisdom, and the deep desire to bring all sentient beings to awakening. In this way of thinking, Amida symbolizes the universal reach of the Dharma, the universal benevolent disposition of the Buddha, and the ubiquitous presence of the Buddha-nature, which exists in all sentient beings. Amida, then, is more than simply one particular Buddha; he is the core truth at the heart of Buddhism, and the key to understanding the true nature of all reality,  The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2007), 69. 6

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including the true nature of one’s own existence.7 In this sense, “Amida Buddha is not a god standing outside, apart from us, but is our inner aspiration and inspiration as the reality revealed through the experience of entrusting. The Infinite embraces the finite, enabling spiritual transformation. Through hearing and reciting the name, we encounter reality itself which frees and transforms the reality of our own being.”8

Jō do Shinshū Buddhism In his book River of Fire, River of Water, Taitetsu Unno begins his introduction to Jō do Shinshū Buddhism with a Pure Land Buddhist parable, attributed to a seventeenth-century Chinese Buddhist teacher, Shan-tao. The story goes like something this.9 A traveler—let’s envision her as a young woman—has begun a journey, and she finds herself in dangerous, uncharted territory. She suddenly realizes she is being chased by robbers, and she also hears the sounds of wild animals pursuing her. She begins to run, and quickly comes to divided river, split by a white path. The path is very narrow, and runs from the near shore to the far shore. On the one side, the river is made of fire with flames leaping up high into the air; on the other side, the river is made of deep rushing water, with fast, dangerous currents. The path is constantly threatened from both sides by waves and flames, and it doesn’t appear to be passable. The young woman stands paralyzed at the edge of the path, with no options. At this moment, she hears a calm voice behind her, urging her to go forward, assuring her that there is no danger, and she can pass safely. At the same time, she hears an encouraging word ahead of her: “Come as you are with singleness of heart. Do not fear the flames and waves; I shall protect you.” In response to the voices and in spite of her fears, she steps out onto the path and begins to walk across. However, as she moves forward, she hears the voices of the robbers calling out to her trying to entice her 7  Kenneth Tanaka discusses these two different interpretations, and offers a harmonizing solution in his “Amida and Pure Land within a Contemporary Worldview: From Shinran’s Literal Symbolism to Figurative Symbolism,” in Path of No Path: Contemporary Studies in Pure Land Buddhism Honoring Roger Corless, edited by Richard K. Payne, (Berkeley, CA: Institute of Buddhist Studies, 2009), 215–242. 8  The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2007), 171. 9  Taitetsu Unno, River of Fire, River of Water, (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1998), xxii-xxv. I retell the story here in my own words.

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back; but continuing to focus on the compelling call of the voice ahead of her, she crosses the path and arrives into the waiting arms of a dear friend, who, as it turns out, is Amida Buddha. This is the meaning of the parable. This side of the river, the near shore, represents the world of delusion, samsara; and the far shore represents Amida’s Pure Land—the world of awakening. The river of fire represents anger, and the river water, greed; together, they are the two strong passions that most often threaten to destroy us, and others. The beasts and robbers that pursue the traveler are the delusions and passions that cloud our minds from the truth of existence. The calm voice coming from behind is the voice of the historical Buddha, Sakyamuni; and the beckoning voice from the far shore is that of Amida, the Buddha of Immeasurable Light and Life. And the traveler? Well, she is, of course, you and I. This parable, then, describes beautifully and vividly how Amida Buddha longs to rescue each of us from our own ignorance, and seeks to make our passage from peril to safety as easy as possible. This is, in many ways, the heart of Shin Buddhism: humanity, in our foolishness, is in danger of perishing, and cannot by our own efforts save ourselves; into this desperate situation comes Amida Buddha, reaching out to us and bringing us into the safety of his Pure Land, where we are assured awakening.

Main Characteristics of Shin Buddhism As already noted, one of the key aspects of Shin Buddhism that differentiated it sharply from other sects of Buddhism in Japan in the twelfth century was the so-called “ease” of the path. In contrast to both Zen and Shingon Buddhism, for example, Shin Buddhism did not extol a monastic lifestyle, extensive religious practices, regular rituals or repeated meditation. Instead, Shin Buddhism was geared toward those who live in our current age of darkness, called mappō , or the age of the decline of the dharma. Humans born in this age are believed to have little capacity for strenuous religious devotion, or difficult religious practices. Thus, in order to attain enlightenment, they need help. A key statement by Hō nen describes this point well: “In the path of the Sages one perfects wisdom and achieves enlightenment; in the path of Pure Land one returns to the foolish self to be saved by Amida.”10 Humans are unwise and inept; without Amida’s help, they are doomed to the negative cycle of rebirth. 10  As quoted by Taitetsu Unno in “The Practice of Jodo-Shinshu,” in Living in Amida’s Universal Vow: Essays In Shin Buddhism, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World

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Sometimes in this context, the contrast between “other-power” (tariki) and “self-power” (jiriki) is used to describe how awakening in Shin Buddhism is no way seen as the result of an individual’s efforts. According to Shinran, other-power means entrusting oneself to Amida, to the power of Amida’s vow, and recognizing that the promise of birth in the Pure Land is settled without any effort or work on one’s own part. Self-power, by contrast, is the effort an individual makes to attain rebirth on her own, through her own will and work. It is a person trying to make herself worthy of rebirth, and putting her trust in her own abilities. For Shinran, this always was doomed to fail, because people simply are not able to earn rebirth this way. Buddhists believe we live in a dark age of ignorance and resistance to the Dharma. It is only through Amida’s power that one’s birth in the Pure Land can be assured, and one’s life transformed. Thus, it is important to be clear that a person is not rewarded with birth in the Pure Land after saying the nembutsu a certain amount of times. Rather, the nembutsu is itself an expression of Amida’s own vow and presence—Amida’s power—and the gift of rebirth, which is gratefully acknowledged. The point is clear: Religious awakening does not depend initially on who we are or what we do; rather, it is becoming attuned to the working of great compassion at the heart of existence. This attunement is realized through deep hearing (monpo) of the call from the depth. Nothing is required of us, other than the engagement with deep hearing. Since this is the only requirement—no precepts, no meditative practices, no doctrinal knowledge, it is known as the ‘easy path’.11

All that is required of an individual is shinjin, or “true entrusting.” (This Japanese word also is sometimes translated as “faith.”) Shinjin is this “deep hearing,” not the hearing with one’s ears, the way one usually listens to music, or to the sound of a companion’s voice, but rather, it points to something more profound, something all-encompassing, something that transforms our entire being, grasps us and reveals to us the truth of who we are, the truth of reality.12 “For Shinran, faith [shinjin] is not the believer’s individual act of volition, a conscious decision in favor of Amida and Pure land; instead, it is a state wherein humanly contrived choices Wisdom, 2004), 64. 11  Taitetsu Unno, River of Fire, River of Water, (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1998), 12. 12  The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2007), 136.

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cease and one reposes effortlessly in Amida’s embrace.”13 Shinjin is not grasping the truth, but being grasped by it. The key to shinjin and its fullest expression is the recitation of the nembutsu.

The Nembutsu Richard Payne defines the practice of nembutsu (In Sanskrit, buddhānusmṛti, which literally means “remembering the Buddha”) as “hold[ing] the Buddha in mind, either through visualization of an image or through recitation of the name.”14 Traditionally, the aim of this practice is birth in the Pure Land of Amida Buddha, Sukhāvatı̄. As noted previously, the nembutsu has its roots in Indian and Chinese Pure Land Buddhism, in which the recitation of the Buddha’s name was combined with other practices, such as virtuous actions and meditation, in order to ensure that the practitioner would be born in the Pure Land upon death. As this practice came into Japan and took root there, it took shape as a “constant practice”—the repeated recitation of the name in a specific place for a specific duration of time.15 In this form, it was an extremely rigorous practice, only possible for the most determined monastics, who had the time and energy to devote to it. In the twelfth century, Hō nen made the first key modification to the practice of the nembutsu, asserting that the nembutsu alone was enough— it did not need to be supported by any other practices. Hō nen taught that “all roots of good other than saying the Name are absolutely unnecessary: the sole practice of reciting the nembutsu is sufficient in itself.”16 Shinran built upon this understanding and developed it into what might be called “the nembutsu of everyday life.”17 He interpreted it as a practice that was meant to be done in the midst of the quotidian: “On this path, when one 13  James C. Dobbins, “Shinran’s Faith as Immediate Fulfillment in Pure Land Buddhism,” in Religions of Japan in Practice, edited by George J. Tanabe, Jr., (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999), 280. 14  Richard K. Payne, “How Not to Talk about Pure Land Buddhism: A Critique of Huston Smith’s (Mis)Representations,” in Path of No Path: Contemporary Studies in Pure Land Buddhism Honoring Roger Corless, edited by Richard K. Payne, (Berkeley, CA: Institute of Buddhist Studies, 2009), 164. 15  Takamaro Shigaraki, Heart of the Shin Buddhist Path: A Life of Awakening, translated by David Matsumoto, (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2013), 48. 16  Ibid., 47. 17  Ibid., 50.

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continued to say the nembutsu in the midst of one’s everyday life— whether busily engaged in any kind of occupation, or whether awake or asleep in one’s home—one would eventually be able to experience awakening and encounter the Buddha in the same manner as a renunciant monk.”18 In this way, the nembutsu becomes the fabric of one’s very life, its heartbeat and its hum. Seen in this light, the transformative power of the nembutsu is clear: the nembutsu meets us where we are, as it were, and takes hold of us right in the midst of working late, raising children, and cleaning house. It can be recited in any circumstances, at any time, in any conditions, and it is a comfort and reassurance that is thus always present, and does not depend on one’s own state of mind or state of purity. “The wonder of the nembutsu path is that it makes no demands upon a person to become wiser, better, or more perfect. But it does ask us to become authentically real as human beings by awakening to the boundless compassion that sustains us.”19 This practice, then, is accessible to the everyday person, and offers to even the average individual the same possibilities of merit generation and positive rebirth previously only available to monks and nuns. Thus, to be clear, while recitation of the nembutsu goes back to the beginnings of Pure Land Buddhism in India in the first century CE, what was unique about Shinran’s interpretation of it was that he did not view it as a human practice that was meant to gain something—merit and the reward of entering the Pure Land—but rather he saw it as an expression of gratitude for Amida Buddha having established the Pure Land as a direct path to awakening. For Shinran, the recitation of the nembutsu is the actualization of the power and presence of the Buddha in one’s own being. At its core, the nembutsu is not the individual calling out to Amida, but Amida calling out to the individual. In the nembutsu “…the Buddha himself stands before us offering tangible proof of the vow’s efficacy through the communication of his Name under cover of the Nembutsu; henceforth this will suffice to ferry across the troubled waters of saṃsāra any being who will confidently trust his sin-weighted body to this single vehicle…”.20  Ibid.  Taitetsu Unno, River of Fire, River of Water, (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1998), 15. 20  Marco Pallis, “Nembutsu as Remembrance,” in Listening to Shin Buddhism: Starting Points of Modern Dialogue, edited by Michael Pye, (Sheffield, England, Equinox, 2012), 109. 18 19

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Holy Envy There are four aspects of Shin Buddhist teaching in general—and the nembutsu practice in particular—that stand out as especially “enviable.” The first is the clarity and purity of focus on one single practice, the second is the recognition of the fallibility of human nature, the third is Shinran’s own humility and his identification with the weak, and finally the fourth is the emphasis on a transformed life in the present. I discuss each of these in turn. The first “enviable aspect” is the clarity of focus on one single practice. In many religions, there is an extensive menu of practices and beliefs that people can choose to focus on in their quest for liberation or salvation; and sometimes these options can be confusing or distracting. Which one is the best? Is the most fruitful form of religious practice joining the priesthood, or a monastery? Is the best way to nurture a relationship with God through mystical devotion, or selfless service? Sometimes, too, one practice seems constructive for a time, but then it doesn’t seem to “work” any more, and so an individual moves on to something else, and then something else, without ever settling deeply into a meaningful spiritual life. Shin Buddhism puts those concerns to rest by making clear that there is one and only one practice that is necessary, one and only one practice that is fruitful, and that is the nembutsu. Shinran writes, “As for me, I simply accept and entrust myself to what my revered teacher told me, ‘just say the nembutsu and be saved by Amida’; nothing else is involved.”21 There is no need to meditate for hours, make sacrifices or perform rituals: the only thing that is needful already has been done by Amida himself; recitation of the nembutsu is how one realizes this saving vow in one’s own life. Shinran says, “…the moment you entrust yourself thus to the Vow, so that the mind set upon saying the nembutsu arises within you, you are immediately brought to share in the benefit of being grasped by Amida, never to be abandoned.”22 This is the power of the nembutsu, and it is immediate, sure, and irresistible: “…for those who entrust themselves to the Primal Vow, no good acts are required, because no good surpasses the nembutsu. Nor need they despair of the evil they commit, for no evil can obstruct the working of Amida’s Primal Vow.”23 It is refreshing and reassuring to have such a clear, single-minded path to awakening. 21  The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2007), 61. 22  Ibid., 76. 23  Ibid., 77.

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The second “enviable aspect” is the recognition of the fallibility of human nature, and the realization that spiritual attainment cannot simply be for those extraordinary “saints” of the world, nor can it be dependent upon perfect performance or consistent improvement. Instead, Shinran emphasized both that enlightenment is not exclusively or even primarily for “good” people, but for everyone, and also that enlightenment must come in the midst of the messiness of real life, not abstracted from it. In Tannishō , Shinran writes one of his most famous statements: “Even the good person attains birth in Pure Land. How much more so the evil person!” He recognizes that this is the reverse of what people usually assume, but he justifies the statement by arguing that a “good” person typically is performing works and relying on their own merit. As understood in Shin thought the core of Amida’s Primal Vow is that such karmic efforts are unnecessary, recitation of his name as few as ten times being sufficient to assure birth. Indeed, for this reason, Shinran says that “the primary intent of [the vow] is for the evil person to attain Buddhahood. Thus, the evil person’s reliance on Other-power constitutes above all else the true cause of birth in Pure Land.”24 This is one reason why Shin Buddhism was so appealing to the common person. People are usually aware of their own limitations, particularly when it comes to doing good; our evil, and the evil of others, is so often before us. Thus, Shinran’s message was particularly powerful for “the common masses who live at the base of society, who have scant ability to practice good acts, and who instead commit all sorts of karmic evil.”25 Shinran was clear-eyed about the nature of human beings, and he held no false illusions about what the vast majority of people were capable of, specifically as it relates to religious practice. Shinran did not run from this reality, but instead embraced it; and located the practice of the nembutsu, and the shinjin it elucidated, right in the heart of it. People did not have to become other than they were in order to attain birth in the Pure Land, in order to be rescued by Amida. This was a source of great comfort and great hope. For this reason, then, James Dobbins writes,

24  As quoted in James C. Dobbins, “Shinran’s Faith as Immediate Fulfillment in Pure Land Buddhism,” in Religions of Japan in Practice, edited by George J. Tanabe, Jr., (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999), 286. 25  Takamaro Shigaraki, Heart of the Shin Buddhist Path: a Life of Awakening, translated by David Matsumoto, (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2013), 51.

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Shinran’s great innovation was to place this experience [of shinjin] in the context of people’s encounter with their own wrongdoing and corruptibility. Faith does not mean perfection in the sense of overcoming all wrongdoings and evil inclinations. Evil inevitably persists. Indeed, people of faith succumb to it in certain circumstance, when karmic tendencies are too intense to suppress. But evil does not nullify faith. Faith endures amid the vicissitudes of human action, good or bad.26

Related to this is the third “enviable aspect,” which is Shinran’s own assessment of himself as a “foolish person.” Unlike many other religious leaders, Shinran never lauded his own spiritual gifts or elevated himself above others. Rather, he always recognized his own weakness and put himself in solidarity with the weak and the karma-laden. Alfred Bloom calls Shinran “one of the most confessional of all Buddhist teachers, exposing his inmost spiritual condition as a foolish being to his disciples.”27 Shinran identified with those trapped by their own egos, and stuck in a negative cycle of rebirth, and for this reason he had a great deal of compassion for those who despaired at the possibility of even attaining a positive rebirth, let alone attaining awakening; he knew himself to be one of those who, without Amida, would be lost as well. He even gave himself a nickname, Gutoku, which he used during his period of exile; it means foolish, or ignorant. Using that name he described himself this way: “I know truly how grievous it is that I, Gutoku Shinran, am sinking in an immense ocean of desires and attachments…How ugly it is! How wretched!”28 For this reason, he could say with deep honesty and conviction of feeling, “When I ponder on the compassionate Vow of Amida, established through five kalpas of profound thought, it was for myself, Shinran, alone. Because I am a being burdened so heavily with karma, I feel even more deeply grateful to the Primal Vow which is made to decisively save me.”29 In the same way the Primal Vow is for every individual person who feels bound by their past actions, karma. 26  James C. Dobbins, “Shinran’s Faith as Immediate Fulfillment in Pure Land Buddhism,” in Religions of Japan in Practice, edited by George J. Tanabe, Jr., (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999), 281. 27  The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2007), 47. 28  Ibid., 48. 29  Shinran, epilogue to the Tannisho, http://cdn.preterhuman.net/texts/religion.occult. new_age/Pureland/Japanese%20Pureland/Shinran_Works/The%20Tannisho.pdf

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Finally, the fourth “enviable aspect” is the emphasis on a transformed life in the present, and the impetus to live out of compassion for others. One might assume that the whole point of Shin Buddhism is birth in the Pure Land, and therefore, its focus is on the next life, rather than this one. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth. Instead, the primary focus “…is on the here and now. Not the here and now grasped by the controlling ego-self, but the here and now cherished as a gift of life itself to be lived creatively and gratefully, granted us by boundless compassion. The bountifulness of great compassion makes possible our liberation from the iron cage of our own making.”30 The point is that when one is grasped by Amida, one’s entire world view changes, and one is able to see things as they really are—and act accordingly. Things that previously were obscured are now revealed clearly; things that were confused are now clarified; things that were dark are now illuminated by the true light. And this changes everything: “Shinran indicates that in trusting faith the true mind of Amida works within our lives to bring the Buddha’s wisdom and compassion to bear on our daily activities and our relations to others.”31 Dennis Hirota describes the change in our current lives that occurs in the nembutsu practitioner this way: “Because of this transformation [that occurs with our entrusting ourselves to Amida’s vow], there is a fundamental change in our ongoing lives in the present. While we are still possessed of passions, at the same time our lives are characterized by the unobstructedness of the compassionate activity that grasps us.”32 Living through the power of Amida’s light and life, we are freed from self-importance, self-protection and ­self-­delusion, and enabled to live out of Amida’s own compassion and wisdom, caring for others without attachment. Shinran described ten benefits that are realized in this life with the attainment of shinjin. Included in these are both benefits to oneself, for example, “The benefit of being protected and sustained by unseen powers,” and “The benefit of being protected and cared for by all the Buddhas”; but also included are the benefits that are for the sake of others, such as “The benefit of constantly practicing great compassion,” and “The benefit  Taitetsu Unno, River of Fire, River of Water, (New York, NY: Doubleday, 1998), 13.  The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2007), 8. 32  Denis Hirota, “On Attaining the Settled Mind: The Condition of the Nembutsu Practitioner,” in Religions of Japan in Practice, edited by George J. Tanabe, Jr., (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1999), 258. 30 31

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of being aware of Amida’s benevolence and of responding in gratitude to his virtue.”33 The point is that once our own shinjin is firm and settled, we are to continue nembutsu practice to facilitate our acting with compassion on behalf of the world, and to express our gratitude toward Amida through consideration for others. Shinran did not only teach nembutsu for the sake of the individual, but for the sake of all sentient beings, and for their favorable rebirth as well. The practice of nembutsu opens to the individual a road for deep engagement with the world. If the first movement for the individual is a “going forth” into the Pure Land (or, one might say, of the Pure Land blossoming in one’s self), then the second movement is a “returning” to the world. Ruben Habito describes it this way: With the recitation of the nembutsu, “…an individual experiences deep inner peace and quiet joy, with the assurance of entry into the Pure Land….Having accomplished the first direction of ‘going forth’, a person who has experienced the inner peace and joy of shinjin now makes the turn of ‘returning to the world’.”34 In this way, the person is becomes a conduit of Amida’s deep saving care for the whole world, both on the receiving end of Amida’s compassion, and the giving end—the means by which others also are able to experience that compassion.

Conclusion In light of Shinran’s emphases on the frailty of the human condition and the inability of humans to achieve enlightenment by their own power, the necessity of relying on Amida Buddha for deliverance, and the role of shinjin (faith) in the relationship between Amida and the individual, more than one Christian theologian (Karl Barth is perhaps the most notable among these) has compared him to Martin Luther. However, in this chapter, I hope to have shown that Christians do not need to see themselves, or their own tradition, in Shin Buddhism in order to appreciate it. On the contrary, its worth and its strengths are better appreciated when understood in their own religious context, and seen in their own religious world 33  The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting, edited by Alfred Bloom, (Bloomington, IN: World Wisdom, 2007), 161. 34  Ruben L. F. Habito, “Shinran’s Pure Land Buddhism as a Way of Being Religious: Some Twenty-first-century Tasks for Shin Buddhist Theology,” in Path of No Path: Contemporary Studies in Pure Land Buddhism Honoring Roger Corless, edited by Richard K.  Payne, (Berkeley, CA: Institute of Buddhist Studies, 2009), 197.

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view. When seen this way, the unique transformative power of the nembutsu is clear, and the value of Shinran’s message—for the believer, for society, and for world—is evident: As we continue to practice the nembutsu as ‘living’ within our ordinary lives—saying the nembutsu as we continue to direct our lives toward the Buddha and being ever mindful of the Buddha—inevitably, this religious experience of reversal will eventually come about. An experience of awakening…will take place. Awakening means that we experience a recollection deeply in our hearts and realize the truth of something long forgotten…and that we understand something so deeply that we are convinced of its reality beyond any doubt.35

For the Shin Buddhist, what one comes to realize through the nembutsu is the non-duality of one’s own Buddha-nature, one’s originally enlightened nature, with one’s flawed self, flailing in the seas of karma and rebirth. Being assured of birth in the Pure Land, one is freed from fears about the future, and can be fully and boldly alive in the present.

Bibliography Andrews, Allan A. 2007. Genshin’s Essentials of Pure Land Rebirth and the Transmission of Pure Land Buddhism to Japan. In Shin Buddhism: Historical, Textual, and Interpretive Studies, ed. Richard K. Payne. Berkeley: Institute for Buddhist Studies and Numata Center for Buddhist Translation and Research. Bloom, Alfred, ed. 2007. The Essential Shinran: A Buddhist Path of True Entrusting. Bloomington: World Wisdom. Dobbins, James C. 1999. Shinran’s Faith as Immediate Fulfillment in Pure Land Buddhism. In Religions of Japan in Practice, ed. George J. Tanabe Jr. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Habito, Ruben L.F. 2009. Shinran’s Pure Land Buddhism as a Way of Being Religious: Some Twenty-First-Century Tasks for Shin Buddhist Theology. In Path of No Path: Contemporary Studies in Pure Land Buddhism Honoring Roger Corless, ed. Richard K. Payne. Berkeley: Institute of Buddhist Studies. Hirota, Denis. “On Attaining the Settled Mind: The Condition of the Nembutsu Practitioner.” In Religions of Japan in Practice, edited by George J. Tanabe, Jr. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1999.

35  Takamaro Shigaraki, Heart of the Shin Buddhist Path: A Life of Awakening, translated by David Matsumoto, (Boston: Wisdom Publications, 2013), 59.

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Pallis, Marco. 2012. Nembutsu as Remembrance. In Listening to Shin Buddhism: Starting Points of Modern Dialogue, ed. Michael Pye. Sheffield: Equinox. Payne, Richard K. 2009. How Not to Talk About Pure Land Buddhism: A Critique of Huston Smith’s (Mis)Representations. In Path of No Path: Contemporary Studies in Pure Land Buddhism Honoring Roger Corless, ed. Richard K. Payne. Berkeley: Institute of Buddhist Studies. Shigaraki, Takamaro. 2013. Heart of the Shin Buddhist Path: A Life of Awakening. Trans. David Matsumoto. Boston: Wisdom Publications. Shinran. Epilogue: To the Tannisho. http://cdn.preterhuman.net/texts/religion. occult.new_age/Pureland/Japanese%20Pureland/Shinran_Works/The%20 Tannisho.pdf. Accessed 20 Oct 2017. Tanaka, Kenneth. 2009. Amida and Pure Land Within a Contemporary Worldview: From Shinran’s Literal Symbolism to Figurative Symbolism. In Path of No Path: Contemporary Studies in Pure Land Buddhism Honoring Roger Corless, ed. Richard K. Payne. Berkeley: Institute of Buddhist Studies. Unno, Taitetsu. 1998. River of Fire, River of Water. New York: Doubleday. ———. 2004. The Practice of Jodo-Shinshu. In Living in Amida’s Universal Vow: Essays in Shin Buddhism, ed. Alfred Bloom. Bloomington: World Wisdom.

CHAPTER 9

Buddhists, Get Your Prayer On: Reflections on Christian Spontaneous Prayer by a Buddhist Chaplain Harrison Blum

There was never any knowing, at first, why the pager went off. Most likely someone was dying, or had just died. Maybe a car crash or serious accident. Best case scenario, it was someone asking for a blessing over their stem cell transplant. All I’d know initially though, in the first few moments of being woken from sleep by that shrill chirping, was that someone needed support. And so, in a matter of minutes, I’d brush my teeth, slip back into my shirt and tie (left knotted loosely around the collar for quick dressing), and call back the extension left on the pager. Such were shifts as an overnight chaplain at a Level I trauma hospital in Boston. By days, I was assigned to the medical intensive care unit (MICU), where most patients were intubated and in critical condition. Some patients did improve and were downgraded to lesser levels of care. Others seemed to linger in perpetual limbo. Inevitably, some did succumb to their illness. In my experience, death is not often pleasant, even when it comes

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with the blessings of old age. Death is also not necessarily a one-­ dimensionally tragic event. I have witnessed people at their finest while loved ones, or they themselves, were leaving this life. As the dying’s hands are held, I have seen the purest love amidst the depths of fear and sadness. I enjoyed working with death and dying. Providing religious, spiritual, and emotional support to the critically ill and their families felt like an answer to my calling to offer meaningful presence to those in need. Through conversation, gentle touch, and silence, I showed up—not to remove people’s pain, but rather their isolation amidst that suffering. Serving as a chaplain on the MICU, I became versed at accompanying patients and loved ones through the dying process. I would often have days or weeks to get to know the patient and family, to develop rapport and a sense of how to best support them. Often I was present at the moment of death. On overnight shifts however, as the sole on-call chaplain covering an 800-bed hospital, need could arise on any unit and it was unusual to have already met the patient I was being paged for. As such, an overnight visit often compressed the pastoral care relationship into a matter of minutes or hours. On one such night, a page brought me to a dimly lit and mostly empty unit in the basement of the hospital, a place usually reserved for early morning operation prep. A deceased patient had been moved there in the middle of the night to allow space for his large family to gather around him and grieve, and I arrived to find a dozen people circled around the deceased—crying, wailing, and praying. They were loud and they were upset, for good reason, after losing a loved one unexpectedly. Large families can present a certain challenge for a chaplain. There’s a certain subtlety called for to read the room and discern what each individual needs, as well as the collective group. In this case, beyond this family’s need, I became aware of a few other patients curtained off down the hall, trying to get some sleep before surgery the next day. There were also a few hospital staff within hearing range, unaccustomed to sharing space with the grieving and visibly uncomfortable with the volume and expressiveness orbiting the dead man as he lay on the bed. I began by doing what a good chaplain mostly does—I bore witness, I heard their cries of distress to God. I saw them fall upon each other and the floor. I held their hands. I let them know I was a chaplain, here as they needed. As I stood with them, I learned some of their names, how they were related, and stories of how this man had touched their lives.

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I also checked in with the other hospital staff, assuring them that this family’s grief was ok, and that no, I wouldn’t ask them to quiet down or move just yet. After some time, their sobs and wails began to subside slightly, and I intuitively stepped forward to lead prayer. Placing both hands on the dead man’s chest, I called out to God to witness this family’s pain and hear their prayers. I spoke passionately, raising my voice as I lifted up their love for their deceased. While my norm—established by training and chosen as process—was to first seek consent when praying with patients and loved ones, I sensed that the greater hospitality in this case was to provide what was needed rather than delay with inquiry and consensus. As I continued to pray, the family gathered around the bed and held hands. What had previously been scattered clusters of mourners became a constellation of love circled around the bed, affirming my words with a peppering of “Amens.” Once I had finished, deep breaths, hugs, and handshakes were shared, and the family began to leave the room, embarking into this new phase of their lives. A Zen master was once asked about the goal of spiritual practice. “An appropriate response,” he answered. Growing up in the Reform Jewish tradition for the first half of my life, and practicing Theravada Buddhism for the second, spontaneous prayer has not often been modeled for me within my own traditions. Largely through my Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE) chaplaincy training, as well as in observation of Christians in prayer, I have become convinced of the appropriate response improvised prayer can offer. In the above example, and in hundreds of other cases, I have been earnestly thanked by Christians for praying with and for them in my own words. For my part, I am humbled and grateful to have joined so many Christians in prayer, a space that has modeled for me how heart and mind can join body and spirit in the spoken word. Indeed, it has been within Christian prayer circles that I have shared some of my most sacred moments with others. I love potato latkes and the tune of the Havdalah blessing, but I haven’t connected strongly with traditional Jewish prayer, or at least Jewish prayer as I’ve been exposed to it. Standing, sitting, and standing again in synagogue as a young man with the Gates of Prayer book laid open in one palm, I’ve scanned the pages in search of resonance, only to retreat from themes of obligation and worship. Simply put, it was hard to commit myself fully to a religion so focused on a God I didn’t know if I believed in, with prayers to that God pre-written and delivered to me.

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It was thus that as a seventeen-year-old in a world religions class I felt like something of a spiritual free agent. The chapter we read on Buddhism struck a chord, and I’ve been studying, practicing, and, in more recent years, teaching it ever since. I sometimes say that Buddhism put out the welcome mat I needed. Sure, all religions focus on cultivating awareness and personal growth in certain ways. In my experience, Buddhism did the best job featuring those elements in the window rather than hidden away in some back room. It was also significant that the religion doesn’t hinge on a God that I had not personally known. In my twenty years of Buddhist practice, I’ve continually been freshly impressed with the detail and efficacy of Buddhist insight practices. Through meticulously described techniques of meditation and self-­ reflection, Buddhism teaches practitioners to refine their present moment awareness of sensations, thoughts, and emotions. From this foundation of clarity, the tradition describes exact procedures to train one’s intentions to produce fruitful thoughts, statements, and actions. Beyond vague and societally en vogue conceptions of Buddhism as cool or peaceful, the religion presents a rigorous path demanding discipline and persistent attention to our shadow sides, our less than life-giving desires. Indeed, it is through loving observation of our mental and emotional life—especially their pitfalls—that we come to learn a better way of being. When I hear people describe Buddhism as more of a philosophy than a religion, I point out that hundreds of millions of people around the world practice Buddhism as a religion. It’s not for us to redefine Buddhism for them. I’m also not swayed by the limited idea that religions need to be based in the idea of a higher power. For all practical purposes, Buddhism is a religion—a comprehensive worldview embraced in community that includes practices of devotion and spiritual-cultivation. It’s also a science of the mind, an exquisite psychological inquiry into the nature of perception, desires, and happiness. The deeper I’ve come to know the teachings, the more convinced I am that it didn’t just have a more alluring welcome mat or storefront. Rather, it’s a completely different product all together. To jump metaphors, some people talk of religions as different paths to the same peak. I’m more inclined to view them as different paths up different peaks, albeit all of them with a nice view from the top. To consider Buddhism—with no faith in God and no idea of a personal soul—to be just another expression of monotheistic truths rings too much of an oversimplified melting pot. People are different and religions are different, and

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that’s a good thing. The unique beauty and impact of the Buddhist path, however, also gives rise to its room for growth. Buddhism’s internal focus can create deficits in the relational realm, its utilization of silence can undermine the power of the spoken word, and its embrace of measured observation can cast into irrelevance, if not disapproval, the prophetic voice. Buddhism harbors advanced spiritual technologies for cultivating awareness, and a growing edge for bringing that awareness into expression. To expand each of these points, the personal, internal focus of much Buddhist practice can deepen practitioners’ expertise of themselves, but not necessarily of themselves in relationship. It’s a subtle distinction, and certainly increased self-knowledge can improve interactions with others. Take, though, what is for many the paragon of Buddhist practice—the silent retreat. The structure itself, though practiced communally, is designed to reduce and restrict a practitioner’s interactions with the outside world, particularly with other people. While an experienced beneficiary of silent retreats myself, I (and many others) have been surprised when the blissful clarity upon retreat’s end does not fully translate into everyday life conversations a day or two later. Secondly, the silence within Buddhist practice—from month-long retreats to daily twenty-minute sits, can do more to expand awareness within rather than among practitioners. I don’t mean to undervalue each person’s silent experience, or to even suggest that this experience can fully be conveyed in words. Rather, I simply wish to highlight the ability of words—sometimes and to some extent—to usher silent wonder and personal insight into the communal experience. Right Speech is one aspect of the Buddha’s Eightfold Path, though Buddhist teachers much more often teach on the more silent, introverted aspects of the path, such as Right Wisdom, Right Concentration, or Right Effort (or more simply put, clarifying perception, deepening meditation, and purifying thought). Finally, Buddhism suggests the paradigm shift from a subjective to an objective view of one’s self and the world. While not necessarily suppressing the emotional realms, a detached, analytical relationship to emotions, thoughts, and sensations is valued. To the extent that this is true, the measured voice is privileged over a prophetic one. Buddhist books about allowing anger notwithstanding, in most Buddhist circles it’s still thought of as more wise or evolved to speak about one’s anger than to speak from it. I speculate (and hope I’m wrong) that the same could be said for speaking about inspiration instead of from it.

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My experience with Buddhism is just that, my experience. I also suspect that elements of my experience are not only my own. To be specific, I’ve practiced mostly within the Insight Meditation tradition in the US. Insight Meditation is about forty years old as a Western Buddhist tradition, though traces its lineage to traditional Southeast Asian Theravada Buddhism. It was founded by Western practitioners who studied in Asia, mostly with Thai and Burmese Buddhist masters, in the 1970s and then brought the teachings back (initially to the US east and then west coast), setting up their own retreat centers. Scholars might disagree (I’ve always been more of a practitioner than a scholar), but I sometimes refer to Theravada Buddhism as “old school” or “Old Testament” Buddhism. Theravada lineages base their teachings on the Pali Canon—the oldest surviving complete written accounts of the Buddha’s teachings, which themselves were written hundreds of years after the Buddha gave them. I’ve also practiced at Shambhala centers, Goenka vipassana retreats in Nepal and the US, and Tibetan Buddhist retreats in Northern India. Throughout these contexts, the majority of time was spent in silent meditation practice or listening to a teacher deliver a Dharma talk. These two approaches are invaluable, yet also represent just two of the Three Jewels of Buddhism—Buddha (as an example of our human potential), Dharma (the laws of nature, or teachings of the Buddha), and Sangha (spiritual community). In meditation we touch into our Buddha nature. In listening to a teacher we are reminded of the Dharma. Too often lacking, though, is a focus on Sangha, on sharing notes with fellow practitioners as we walk the path together. Of course, there are exceptions, and even indications of changing trends. Some young adult, or 35 and under, practice groups gather in a circle instead of rows and include conversation or council practice. In 2007 Gregory Kramer published Insight Dialogue: The Interpersonal Path to Freedom—a wonderful adaptation of silent Buddhist practice into a dialogical model. In the Insight Meditation tradition, the Kalyana Mitta (spiritual friends) group format is growing, in which practitioners meet for meditation and discussion, often in people’s homes. In my own work advising Buddhist student groups at Boston colleges, first at Northeastern University and now at Emerson College, I structure the weekly meetings largely around conversation. After a check in and guided meditation, we spend about half our time in discussion of the week’s Dharma topic. Likewise, in my work as a Staff Chaplain on an inpatient adolescent psychiatric unit, a good portion of my daily mindfulness

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meditation groups were reserved for patient feedback about the experience. After each guided meditation I asked, “What happened?” The floor was then open for these teenagers to speak about what they noticed with body sensations, thoughts, and emotions during the practice. More than just giving patients a chance to articulate to themselves what happened, this post-meditation sharing often emerged into full conversations with both patients and staff validating and normalizing each other’s experiences in meditation, and life more broadly. While Buddhists and meditators may be starting to talk with each other more in Western practice contexts, we are not necessarily speaking from a prayerful place. The classic Buddhist prayer model is metta, or loving-­ kindness, meditation. In its traditional form, a practitioner offers a series of well-wishes for another or themself in the format of: “May you be happy. May you be peaceful.” Certain words traditionally end these wishes, or blessings, though practitioners might alternatively choose the words that feel most needed. While metta practice thus offers something of an opportunity for improvised prayer, the practice is most often done in silence, with the focus more on cultivating the practitioner’s intentions than impacting those being prayed for. When such words are uttered out loud and in community, they are often delivered with a calm voice and even cadence, perhaps by a teacher modeling the practice or closing a meditation period. These expressions too often strike me as the mind’s wishes for the heart, but not the heart itself given voice—the steady mind speaking to the quivering heart rather than offering a listening ear. They are also typically addressed to a universal audience—attempting the inclusion of everyone to a degree while risking the embrace of no one fully. “May all beings live with ease. May all beings be free of suffering.” Certainly these prayers may be deeply held, but there is something sacrificed, something lost, by addressing our transcendent truths without also planting our heels, our prayers, in our mundane realities. The general wish for ease and well-being does not go far enough to acknowledge, validate, and encourage the details of someone who has just lost a job or experienced a microaggression or simply had a hard day. I chatted with a Catholic colleague of mine, Brother Sam Gunn, about faith and prayer as we drove out to a Northeastern interfaith student retreat. He told me that he considers faith to be a gift, something to receive humbly with gratitude rather than claim with pride. Between the lines, I heard him name the mystery of why some people experience faith

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in God, or even feel they know God, while others do not. I fall into the latter category, though I have prayed to God on others’ behalf over a thousand times, mostly in medical situations. As such, I sometimes speak of having a default relationship with a God I don’t know if I believe in. Despite my ambiguous relationship with God, I’ve offered these prayers sincerely and with a deep respect for the intimate space prayer invites me to share with others. My chaplaincy training, largely guided by Catholic priest Ron Hindelang, taught me to listen to and then lift up patients’ concerns in the language most accessible to them. This manner of spontaneous prayer was distinctly different from both the rote prayers of my childhood and the metta prayers of my Buddhist practice. I also began to learn, to my surprise, that it was new for some of the patients for whom I prayed as well. I’ve been told many times by Catholics and Christians of various denominations, “I didn’t know prayer could be like that.” Coming from an experience of rote prayer themselves, many of these patients were hearing personal, emotionally rich prayer for the first time, with themselves as the focus of the petition. While I’ll never know the lasting impact, my hope is that this modeling served them not only in the moment, but also in the future by giving them permission to experiment with a more colloquial and personal prayer practice of their own. My greatest challenge in learning to pray for others was not listening to their vulnerability or putting that ache into words, but finding my own authentic voice for those words. My love and concern for patients was real and my extemporaneous speaking skills proficient, but addressing my wishes to a God I had not personally known felt, at first, like a sham. Was it enough for the patient to believe in God? What responsibility did I have as a prayer leader to believe in God myself? And was it ethical to allow patients their (possible) mistaken assumption that I, as a chaplain praying to God, believed in the same God they did? Through a process of rigorous research and introspection, I found a ground to stand on. I read Jay Michaelson’s God is One: The Radical Path of Nondual Judaism, which expanded and then dissolved the finite limitations I had put on the God I did not believe in. Rabbi David Cooper’s God is a Verb further opened my thinking to God “as a process rather than a being.”1 I reflected on God as held differently by different people, with 1  David Cooper, God is a Verb: Kabbalah and the Practice of Mystical Judaism (New York: Riverhead Books, 1998), p. 69.

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the anthropomorphic version being just one of many. I touched more deeply into my own experience of not knowing, and in it an openness to what could become known—both for myself and others. I gained confidence that I did not have to know God directly to tell God about the ­suffering and wishes of others. I realized that God’s domain, God’s relationship with patients, was much bigger than the dynamics of my own personal beliefs. Patients would sometimes thank God for acting through me. Who am I to dispute their worldview as being less valid than my own? Indeed, a central teaching of Buddhism, articulated eloquently by eighth-century Buddhist monk Shantideva, is to “practise [sic] the supreme mystery: exchange of self and other.”2 That is, we are instructed to loosen our attachment to our own views and sense of self. We are invited to realize that every other person is also operating from the perspective of centrality, and encouraged to shift our allegiances to the open, empty, and un-owned space that holds us all. Furthermore, Buddhism (to my knowledge) doesn’t directly claim that God does not exist, and is thus more agnostic than atheist as a tradition. The Buddha was asked series of metaphysical questions: Has the universe always existed, or was there a beginning? Is there a soul that is the same as, or different from, the body?3 The Buddha chose to remain silent in response to each question. When later asked by a disciple why he did not answer, the Buddha replied that answers to such questions are subtle and prone to linguistic challenges, and that misunderstanding an answer could exacerbate confusion. More importantly, the Buddha limited his teachings to what could practically help to reduce human suffering. As such, he focused more on the realms of thoughts, emotions, and actions, and refrained from weighing in on larger theological questions. To entertain only Jewish insights into God’s vastness and Buddhist sentiments on open mindedness would have been shortsighted; after all, establishing a sincere space of interfaith prayer is a two-way street. I need to speak from truth, while the person I am praying for ideally feels that their truth is put into words. I thus turned to Christian sources to check my emerging confidence in sharing prayer. I spoke and prayed with Christine Mitchell, a progressive Catholic chaplain and researcher on 2  Bodhicaryavatara, translated by Kate Crosby and Andrew Skilton (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998), p. 99. 3  Cula-Malunkyovada Sutta: The Shorter Instructions to Malunkya, accessed 5/19/2016; http://www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/mn/mn.063.than.html

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spirituality in medicine, about the first letter of John in the New Testament naming God as love, and afterward started to begin prayer with patients by invoking “God of love.” I asked local Pentecostal worshippers in my neighborhood about their sense of how Jesus loves us, and began to ­connect the non-judgmental approach of mindfulness with the unwavering love of Jesus. I also poured through Paul Knitter’s Without Buddha I Could Not be a Christian (which, interestingly, he dedicated to his atheist brother). Knitter writes, “I have come to realize that I have to look beyond the traditional borderlines of Christianity to find something that is vitally, maybe even essentially, important for the job of understanding and living the Christian faith: other religions.”4 Knitter’s book relates his process of studying Buddhism toward more fully embracing his life as a Christian. In my own way, I was doing the same—exploring beyond Buddhism to support my very Buddhist calling to serve others as a chaplain. While he states that he wrote the book primarily for a Christian audience, I found many of the connections he made elucidating—equating God’s love with Buddhist InterBeing,5 God’s presence with energy flowing through us, and trust in God with not knowing.6 While Knitter identifies one growing edge of Christian practice to be welcoming more silence, we Buddhists would perhaps do well to grow in the opposite direction. Knitter writes, “We kill religious language when we don’t allow it to soar.”7 Buddhists may be more interested in getting grounded than soaring, but why can’t we do both? I recently attended a Dharma and Arts Symposium at the Barre Center for Buddhist Studies in Massachusetts. Much of what we discussed pointed to the connection between the inquiring mind and the expressive mind—the idea that the still, quiet, and insightful mind is also the source of poetry, painting, and dance. Dance has been a primary Dharma practice and medium of Dharma teaching for me for over ten years. In sensing and then allowing the body’s 4  Paul Knitter, Without Buddha I Could Not be a Christian (London: Oneworld Publications, 2009), p. xi. 5  The idea that amidst the apparent separations between subject and object, between self and other, each supposedly distinct person or object is actually part of something greater and connected. For more see Thich Nhat Hanh, The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching (New York, NY: Broadway Books, 1998). 6  Knitter, pp. 34–35, 45, and 160 respectively. 7  Knitter, p. 54.

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impulses to move, practitioners can dance with three of Buddhism’s principle tenets—impermanence, interconnection, and the (lack of) stress resulting from (not) resisting the first two. Indeed, much of the Buddha’s teachings serve to reorient people away from the futility of trying to live as separate beings in a permanent world. While humbling, accepting the inevitability of change and the limits of our self-determination—from passing moments to pivotal life events—is a life-giving shift. It’s life-giving as the view is aligned with the reality of how things are. Despite any degree of discipline, wisdom, and independence, we cannot stop time, and ultimately we cannot even keep that which is most near and dear to us—our lives themselves. On the dance floor, the body’s sensations are always changing. In receiving more than controlling somatic awareness and movement, dancers can embody and express an experience of communion. While not linguistic in nature, dancing as a spiritual practice in this way does invoke a prophetic voice—a voice expressed in movement rather than words. The final section of my “Dharma Jam” format, in fact, invites practitioners to quite literally dance their prayers of compassion. Leading up to these embodied prayers, Dharma Jams begin in standing meditation and progress through three phases aligned with Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. This progression flows from stillness into dance, from an internal to a relational focus, and is supported by recorded or live music. In my anthology Dancing with Dharma: Essays on Movement and Dance in Western Buddhism,8 twenty-seven authors from six countries write on their work at the intersection of Buddhism, movement, and dance. What’s outstanding about this group, aside from their innovative work, is that a full third of them have founded their own Buddhist centers or organizations—a high percentage to be leading the emergence of Buddhism in the West. Toward the end of his book, Knitter reflects on his integration of Buddhist elements into his Christian practice and wonders to himself, “Am I on the cutting edge or the outer edge of my Christian community?”9 These Buddhist movement and dance practitioners are clearly expanding the cutting edge of Buddhism in the West, perhaps a sign that the Dharma is ready for further expressions beyond silent meditation and Dharma talks. 8  Harrison Blum, Dancing with Dharma: Essays on Movement and Dance in Western Buddhism (Jefferson, NC: McFarland Press, 2016). 9  Knitter, p. 217.

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At least one Buddhist chaplain I know, working in a hospital setting, introduces himself as such at the beginning of every patient visit. His rationale is that he wants patients to know what they’re getting up front. I prefer a different tact—I want patients to get what they’re getting before I tell them what it is. Certainly I will inform them I’m Buddhist if they ask, or if I sense that they are clearly projecting onto me a religious identity other than my own. I’d rather begin visits, though, with shared presence rather than categorical disclosures. Walking into a patient’s room one afternoon and introducing myself as a chaplain, he asked if I was Catholic. I knew he was Catholic from reading his chart, and I answered him honesty, as I always do. “No,” I said, “I’m Buddhist.” He replied, “Oh, maybe you can help me then.” We proceeded to have a rich conversation about his faith struggles in light of his medical battles. I don’t remember whether that pastoral visit ended with prayer, but many of them do, regardless of my or the patient’s (lack of) faith. There’s a qualitative shift that occurs in the transition from conversation to prayer—a shift into a space that is simultaneously more internal, more connected, and more transcendent. Monotheists might ascribe the power of that space to the presence of God, and they may well be right. My own Buddhist, agnostic sensibilities, however, are also able to furnish attunement, empathy, and expansion through prayer. As Buddhists, it’s this third aspect of prayer—its transcendent or expansive quality—that we most likely stumble upon. We’re well trained to see into ourselves and hold others with compassion. Invoking a power beyond ourselves, though, could be outside our comfort zone. It is also, I propose, directly aligned with the Buddhist view of not-self, expressed as InterBeing above. Prayer invites the speaker to be both less and more than their personal self. In prayer, we become a vessel for grace—the mysterious blessings of ease upon heart and mind. In the Satipatthana Sutta, among other places, the Buddha advises us to reflect on the body as comprised of the four elements: earth, water, fire, and air. Prayer invites the speaker to give voice as nature aware of itself. In prayer, we empty the self, join with each other, and dissolve into what is. In prayer, we become nature blessing nature. I imagine entering my local Buddhist center and beginning the evening’s program of meditation and a Dharma talk with prayer dyads. Seated on cushions, facing each other, one person shares about their day, week, or life while the other listens. After a brief pause, the listener offers a prayer

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informed by what was shared. The practice is to receive more than create the prayer, to discover more than perform the words. After praying both ways, the dyads dissolve into the larger group—a group more attuned to practicing as a community. I imagine more Buddhists tapping into the tradition of Dharma poetry—from the ancient enlightenment poems of the Therigatha to Beat poet riffs of the 1950s—in the form of spontaneous blessings, songs, and dances. I imagine the wind’s rustle, the birds’ songs, and the sun’s warmth affirming our own lips as messengers of the Dharma. I imagine us getting over ourselves, and daring to speak from a depth beyond ego fears, risking language rather than securing silence. At a Dharma talk last night, Buddhist teacher Doug Phillips spoke about Zen koans, puzzling questions or stories meant to shake up the rational mind and bring us beyond analytical thinking. Well-known koans include “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” and “What was your original face, before your parents were born?” After relaying one such koan to the group, a student responded expressing her frustration over the lack of resolution in the story. She protested, “I feel like you’re inviting us more into bewilderment than enlightenment.” Doug countered that perhaps the two are not as different as we might think. It might be a bit bewildering for Buddhists to take on a more personal, spontaneous prayer practice. Who, or more likely—what, would we be addressing our prayers to? How would we hold a practice that addresses specific concerns of specific people within a tradition that counsels us to dissolve our identification with ourselves and each other? I don’t know these answers, and if I did (as in the koan from last night) I might not say. Rilke advises us well to “live the questions.” To quote dance/movement therapist Joan Wittig from my book, “Though not all improvisation is therapy, all good therapy is improvisational in nature.”10 I wonder if we could say the same for spiritual presence. Yes, we engage in spiritual and religious practices over time, resulting in routines—routines that can support us in accessing whatever sensibility or state we’re seeking to cultivate. That state itself though strikes me as being necessarily improvisational in nature. How else could we be freshly 10   Joan Wittig, “Fostering Equanimity and Mindfulness through Dance/Movement Therapy and Authentic Movement,” in Dancing with Dharma: Essays on Movement and Dance in Western Buddhism, edited by Harrison Blum (Jefferson: McFarland and Company, Inc., 2016), p. 43.

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and fully in the sacredness of the moment, ready to offer an appropriate response? From the still places of our silence, Buddhists might find prayerful voice to be an underdeveloped skillful means of responding.

Bibliography Blum, Harrison, ed. 2016. Dancing with Dharma: Essays on Movement and Dance in Western Buddhism. Jefferson: McFarland Press. Bodhicaryavatara. 1998. Trans. Kate Crosby and Andrew Skilton. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cooper, David. 1998. God Is a Verb: Kabbalah and the Practice of Mystical Judaism. New York: Riverhead Books. Cula-Malunkyovada Sutta: The Shorter Instructions to Malunkya. From http:// www.accesstoinsight.org/tipitaka/mn/mn.063.than.html. Accessed 19 May 2016. Hanh, Thich Nhat. 1998. The Heart of the Buddha’s Teaching. New  York: Broadway Books. Knitter, Paul. 2009. Without Buddha I Could Not Be a Christian. London: Oneworld Publications. Wittig, Joan. 2016. Fostering Equanimity and Mindfulness Through Dance/ Movement Therapy and Authentic Movement. In Dancing with Dharma: Essays on Movement and Dance in Western Buddhism, ed. Harrison Blum. Jefferson: McFarland and Company, Inc.

CHAPTER 10

A Mormon Pilgrimage to Sikh Sacred Practice, Text, and Temple Taunalyn Ford Rutherford

As a young college student, I traveled to India and became enamored of the various religious traditions I encountered there. This sparked a life-­ long interest in the religions of India. Through research and fieldwork in India, I have come to appreciate surprising parallels and intersections between Sikhism and my own LDS Christian background (my denomination is officially called The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints more commonly known as Mormon or LDS).1 During a trip to India in 2014 for my doctoral research, I traveled to the Sikh holy city of Amritsar, to see the Harmandir Sahib, often referred to as the Golden Temple, which is the most famous gurdwara (Sikh house of worship) in the world. I wanted to better understand how Sikhs experience this place of 1  For more on comparative studies of Sikhism and Mormonism see Taunalyn Rutherford “Studying Sikhs and Meeting Mormons: A Comparative Study of Women in Two of the Newest World Religions” Sikh Formations: Religion, Culture, Theory (Taylor and Francis Online, 24 November 2016).

T. F. Rutherford (*) Brigham Young University, Provo, UT, USA © The Author(s) 2018 H. Gustafson (ed.), Learning from Other Religious Traditions, Pathways for Ecumenical and Interreligious Dialogue, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-319-76108-4_10

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pilgrimage.2 My experience in Amritsar exceeded my expectations and increased my “holy envy” for the Sikh tradition. From my perspective, which is primarily influenced by my Mormon tradition, there are several elements of Sikhism that I find worth envying and even emulating. I have seen each of the elements that I will discuss in the following essay demonstrated in the actions of Sikhs with whom I have interacted in India as well as the United States including: dedication to wearing symbols of Sikh devotion; seva (service) including the practice of sharing langar (a community meal); and the most particularly the Sikh appreciation of and loyalty to their holy scripture. First, I am drawn to the distinctive identity of Sikhs, evident in what Sikhs “do and wear and how they view themselves” most of which “can all be traced to Guru Gobind Singh’s Baisakhi of 1699.”3 Gobind Singh, the tenth Sikh Guru, initiated the Khalsa (meaning pure in Punjabi) during a new-year celebration in 1699. The Khalsa is an order of Sikhs who have been initiated and made commitments to adhere to certain standards of dress and living. In addition to taking the name of Singh (meaning Lion) for males or Kaur (meaning princess) for women, those initiated into the Khalsa, also known as amritdhari Sikhs, wear five symbols each beginning with the letter K in Punjabi and thus known as the “Five Ks.” These include: underwear (kacha), a comb tucked into the hair (kangha), a bracelet (kara), unshorn hair (kesh), and a sword (kirpan). The covering of the unshorn hair with a turban for males or a scarf for women has become one of the most iconic of the symbols of Sikh identity although not technically one of the Five Ks. The most common of the Five Ks that I see worn by the majority of Sikhs (and that I’ve even seen worn by Mormons from a Sikh heritage) is the kara, a steel bracelet. Worn on the dominant hand, the noise made by the steel bracelet when it comes in contact with another surface in daily work is a powerful reminder to use 2  Amritsar is the religious capitol of the Sikhs and the Harmandir Sahib or Golden Temple is its spiritual and cultural center. Most Sikhs desire to make a pilgrimage to the Golden Temple and many have a photograph of it in their homes. See Owen Cole, Understanding Sikhism (Edinburgh: Dunedin Academic Press, 2004), 3–4. I find an interesting parallel between Amritsar and Salt Lake City which is the headquarters of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Mormons from many parts of the world will travel to Utah to visit the Salt Lake Temple, which is also an iconic symbol of the church and an informal type of pilgrimage for many LDS. 3  Nikky-Guninder Kaur Singh, Sikhism: An Introduction (New York: I.B. Tauris, 2011), 48.

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the hands for good purposes. I appreciate this easily donned identity marker and admit that I have purchased one that I wear from time to time for fashion, but it also speaks to me of integrity when I have it on my wrist.4 I admire individuals like amritdhari Sikhs in modern secular society who choose to embrace pre-modern religious standards against the pressures they face to conform to contemporary culture. I acknowledge the diversity in global Sikhism that defies a monolithic description of Sikh identity, however even those Sikhs I know who choose to identify as Sikh without becoming amritdhari, honor the practices and devotion required to fully embrace a Khalsa Sikh identity. I also admire my Sikh friends who, while not embracing a full amritdhari identity, strive to live their lives in emulation of the very best of Sikh teachings.5 The importance of seva or service in the Sikh identity is another aspect of the tradition that is worthy of emulation. Having taught my students about the ways Sikhs prioritize this virtue in my World Religions classes, I was particularly delighted when our taxi driver, who drove us from the Golden Temple back to our car, didn’t charge us for the service. When I asked how much we owed him he said simply, “seva” which I immediately understood, and which spoke volumes about the commitment of this Sikh to his tradition. My friends at the local gurdwara in Salt Lake City, Utah practice the principle of seva when I bring students from my religion classes to visit. They have been so welcoming and willing to sacrifice precious time away from their busy lives to take visitors on tours, answer our questions and even be interviewed for and quoted in my research. For anyone who enjoys Indian cuisine, it is easy to be envious of the Sikh tradition of langar. Visitors are often invited to arrive at the gurdwara in time to experience the singing of kirtan followed by the ardas (liturgical prayer recited at the conclusion of ceremonies with everybody 4  It is generally considered acceptable for non-Sikhs to wear a kara. Wearing a kara also reminds me of a practice in LDS Christianity of wearing a “CTR” ring. LDS children are sometimes given a small inexpensive ring with the letters CTR on a small green shield, which stands for “choose the right.” Ideally, when faced with a decision between right and wrong, children are taught to consider what Jesus would do and then the letters on the ring will help them remember to choose the right. More expensive CTR rings are produced and sold by independent vendors and worn by many LDS as teens and adults. 5  I also see a parallel between amritdhari Sikhs and members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints who have been endowed (initiated in temple rituals and covenants) and who adhere to certain standards, including wearing a symbolic temple garment under their clothing as a reminder of their promises made in the temple.

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standing up) and the karahprashad (ceremonial offering of food distributed at the end of Sikh worship). Then all are invited to stay and enjoy a free vegetarian meal called langar. Sitting side by side with people and “breaking bread” with them in an atmosphere of equality and welcome that originated in the early years of the Sikh tradition is delightful. Part of the thrill of visiting the Golden Temple in Amritsar was visiting the langar hall in the Dharbar Sahib or the compound surrounding the Golden Temple. The massive numbers of volunteers preparing, serving, and cleaning up the food in such an organized way was an experience of a lifetime. At the 2015 Parliament of the World’s Religions held in Salt Lake City, members of the Sikh community in Utah served langar to over 10,000 attendees from around the world daily.6 One Sikh who participated in serving langar emphasized the equalizing and unifying aspect of the practice, “The gurus started this tradition to say, ‘Regardless of who you are, where you come from, what your background is you’re welcome into this space’.”7 The various above-named elements of Sikhism, which I admire, demonstrate values inherent in the tradition. Diana Eck, in defending the Sikh tradition in the US explained, “Sikhs share three distinctly and deeply held American values—the importance of hard work, a commitment to human equality, and the practice of neighborly hospitality.”8 Eck related these Sikh values with “American values” but these are values that resonate across national and religious divides. They echo the teachings of my own Christian tradition. When I see such values so clearly evident in the lived religion of Sikhism it challenges me to be better. The Sikh qualities I have discussed thus far encompass more external practices. However, in what follows, I also examine the centrality and value placed on the sacred text of Sikhism, the Adi Granth (original volume) or Guru Granth Sahib. I use the term “sacred text” but I realize that for Sikhs, the Granth is more than just scripture. Sikhs refer to their scripture as the Guru Granth Sahib. Knowing that guru refers to a spiritual leader or enlightened master and that sahib is an honorific term shows how highly Sikhs regard this text. For them it is 6  See Antonia Blumberg, “Sikhs Serve Thousands Free Lunch at Utah Conference to Demonstrate Equality,” in The Huffington Post, Oct. 17, 2015. Accessed 19 October 2017. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/sikh-langar-parliament-of-worldreligions_us_5622c61be4b02f6a900c9e68 7  Ibid. 8  Diana L. Eck, “In Sikhs’ View, There Is No Stranger.” Dallas Morning News. August, 9, 2012.

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“much more than a mere book; it is the abode of the gurus, the repository of the words of Akal Purakh (Eternal Being) transcribed by their Sikh masters. It is the Divine in material form.” The Guru Granth is even personified as the living guru of the Sikhs. The Granth is a collection of “divine poetry” from the Sikh Gurus as well as an “inclusive text” that contains poetry from Hindu Bhaktas and Muslim Sufis.9 The last living person to be called guru or master was Guru Gobind Singh who died in 1708. “A day before he passed away, he appointed the Holy Book as his successor.”10 This was not only a brilliant political move by Guru Gobind Singh to unite his people and remove further threat of martyrdom, it also elevated Sikh scripture in a way that makes it unique among religious traditions. With the passing of Guru Gobind Singh the line of living gurus ended and the Guru Granth Sahib came to be considered the embodiment of the Eternal Guru. The Guru Granth is central to worship in Sikhism both physically and theologically. The gurdwara (meaning door to the guru) exists to house the guru in a manner reminiscent of the early days when “the ten human Gurus ‘held court’ with their community.”11 The main hall of a gurdwara is called the “darbar hall” (darbar meaning court) referring to royal courts “where Guru Granth Sahib is enthroned,”12 under a regal canopy. The Granth is surrounded by royal symbols as it, together with God, “holds court” with the sangat (community of Sikhs) in gurdwaras. When Sikhs first enter the gurdwara, they bow before the Guru Granth Sahib and usually contribute an offering. An officially sanctioned and beautifully embellished copy of the Guru Granth is prominently displayed on a throne-like platform with cushions and covered with beautiful cloths called rumalas, when it is not being read by a granti (reader of the Granth). Sikhs revere the Guru Granth through outward actions adding to the personification of the text including the fanning of the book with a chauri as one fanned 9  Hindu Bhaktas and Muslim Sufis share an appreciation for religious devotion as well as striving for mystical consciousness. Prior to the beginnings of Sikhism elements from both of these traditions were practiced by sants who sought to overcome the divisions in Hinduism and Islam. See Michael Molloy, Experiencing the World’s Religions: Tradition, Challenge, and Change, Sixth Edition (New York: McGraw-Hill, 2013), 193. 10  Nikky-Guninder Kaur Singh, “The Guru Granth Sahib” in Sikhism in Global Context, p. 40. 11  Townsend, Charles M. “The Darbar Sahib” in The Oxford Handbook of Sikh Studies eds. Pashaura Singh and Louis E. Fenech (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 430. 12  Townsend, “The Darbar Sahib,” 430.

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royalty in ancient settings. Each night the gurdwara’s copy of the Granth is carried to a special room where it is placed in a bedchamber to retire. This royal symbolism is particularly evident when visiting the Golden Temple where the grand procession from throne to bedchamber at night and back again in the morning is a sight that gathered pilgrims throng to view. Most traditions find pride in their holy scriptures but the “ennoblement of the Adi Granth as the Guru Grant Sahib, the Living Guru, along with the performative aspects of their relationship with the Guru Granth Sahib, add additional dimensions to this pride” in the Sikh tradition.13 In my own tradition, the term “word” is equated with Jesus as the Christ who is referred to as the Word. Furthermore, reading and adhering to the words of Christ is part of accepting salvation through his teachings and sacrifice. This is perhaps why the Sikh perspective on their holy scripture resonates with me. In the World Religions courses I teach at Brigham Young University my students, nearly all of whom are Mormons, are asked to approach their study of each world religion by seeking to identify something that they find particularly admirable about the tradition. I use Stendahl’s concept of “holy envy” as I assign my students to complete a site visit and attend a worship service in a tradition other than their own. Students will discuss their visits in class as well as in a paper. One component of the paper is to find something “enviable” in the tradition. The majority of my students envy the respect and admiration Sikhs give to the Guru Granth Sahib. Their LDS Christian tradition has taught them to revere the word of God. The Book of Mormon equates the word of God with God himself and warns that ignoring the word of God is the equivalent of trampling “the very God of Israel under their feet.”14 Students know this, yet for many their scriptures gather dust on the shelf and are too often neglected—even on their smart phones. When they observe Sikhs honoring their holy book in the gurdwara, many reevaluate their perspective on their own care for and study of Holy Scripture. One semester, a group of my students visited the local gurdwara. A member of the sangat, who was also a college student, took my students under her wings, helped them feel welcome, and generously answered questions. At the end of their visit she gave one of my students a gutka (a small collection of hymns from the Granth). My student recounted how 13  Townsend, “Gurbani Kirtan and the Performance of Sikh Identity in California” in Sikhism in Global Context (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2012), p. 215. 14  The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ, 1 Nephi 19:7.

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her Sikh tour guide was adamant that if she gifted this book to her she had to observe certain rules about its care, like washing her hands and the proper storage of the book. These students agreed that because of their visit to the gurdwara, they would never view scripture in the same way. They felt the exposure to the way the Sikhs give such high regard to their scripture helped the students to reevaluate their own approach to scripture. The Sikh Guru Granth differs from traditions where scripture is studied and preached in more cognitive ways because it is primarily a poetic work organized by meter and musical patterns, set to classical Indian ragas and intended to be sung as a form of worship. The language of the Guru Granth Sahib is Punjabi and it is written in a script call Gurmukhi. Gurbani kirtan “is the musical and oral performance of the most sacred Sikh scriptures.”15 The word gurbani can be translated as utterances of the guru and refers to the “singing of sacred verses accompanied by harmonium and tabla drums.”16 Kirtan is central to Sikhism because “it elucidates the devotee’s constant active engagement with and enactment of the sacred text.”17 Kirtan is an important element in understanding Sikh identity and devotion. Listening to and participating in kirtan is what a Sikh does at the gurudwara. Charles Townsend has conducted ethnographic research on kirtan in Sikh communities in Southern California. In answer to the question, “what do you do at the gurdwara?” one participant answered, “The first thing you do is—after you bow—you try to fully immerse yourself in kirtan. … Gurbani is the Word of God, so you almost take it as, OK, God is kind of singing to you through his messengers and He’s trying to tell you something, so you should sit down and listen to that.”18 There is also emphasis on learning to perform kirtan for youth in the gurdwara. I have observed performances of kirtan by youth who are learning to sing or play the harmonium or tabla. They performed prior to the more professional sounding ragis and granthis who specialize in per15  Charles M.  Townsend, “Gurbani Kirtan and the Performance of Sikh Identity in California” in Sikhism in Global Context, p. 209. 16  See “Introduction” in The Oxford Handbook of Sikh Studies eds. Pashaura Singh and Louis E. Fenech. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 2. Otherwise, definitions in this paper are drawn mainly from Nikky-Guninder Kaur Singh, Sikhism: An Introduction see “Glossary of Names and Terms,” 235–239. 17  Michael Nijhawan, Dhadi Darbar: Religion, Violence, and the Performance of Sikh History (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2006), 44. 18  Townsend, “Gurbani Kirtan,” 211.

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formance of kirtan. The practice reminds me of how youth in my own tradition are often encouraged to play the piano so that they can master playing the hymns that are sung at worship services. Kirtan has a distinct sound that is characteristic of Sikh worship, celebration and commemoration. I remember years ago our Sikh neighbors, who knew of my interest in learning about Sikhism, invited me to a special family event at their home. If my memory serves me right, it was a celebration and dedication of their new home. When I arrived at the home I heard the chanting accompanied by harmonium and tabla so familiar in Sikh culture. A large, beautifully embellished copy of the Granth was centrally placed and various men in the family took turns reading and performing the kirtan. I didn’t really understand the significance of the ceremony until years later. Through research, I understood that this was an akhand path (a continuous reading of the entire Adi Granth, lasting approximately 48  hours). This continuous performance of the Gurbani Kirtan is one of the ways Sikhs honor their sacred book of scripture and make it central in their celebrations of life events. I still remember the anticipation I felt at observing this Sikh tradition for the first time. I also remember eventually feeling uncomfortable because the recitation seemed to go on and on. My friends had told me that I could leave when needed, however I apologized profusely for not being able to stay for the entire recitation. I didn’t realize then that the conclusion was still about 45 hours away. I admire this concept of focusing on the word at important moments in life. In my own tradition we sometimes have scripture marathons, where youth try to read scriptures for an extended period of time, and challenges to read The Book of Mormon in a certain amount of time. None of these practices however are as structured and ceremonious as an akhand path. Because the Adi Granth is made up of hymns or poetry it is difficult to translate, and the sacred nature of the Granth makes translation problematic as well. Thus, as Sikhism spreads to countries outside of India, the practice of kirtan presents a challenge for a younger generation unfamiliar with the original language. There is debate over the appropriateness of translation, and the compromise that I have observed in many of the gurdwaras I’ve visited in Utah and California is to project the English translation of the kirtan on a screen in the front of the darbar hall. As an outsider, my experience with kirtan is greatly enhanced by being able to cognitively understand the words being sung. Because of my Christian background I tend to prioritize the meaning of scripture over the mystical experience of listening to it being read or simply meditating on the Word. Seeing the

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Sikh approach to scripture challenges some of my assumptions about needing to analyze and achieve a strong cerebral understanding of holy writ. The emphasis on the experience of listening to kirtan, without ­necessarily focusing on a discursive message, also makes translation less of an issue. The Sikhs I have interviewed seem less concerned with understanding each word of kirtan, and comment on the beauty and power in simply listening. This quote from Townsend’s interviews is typical of the way I have heard Sikhs describe Gurbani kirtan, “It is some of the most beautiful music you’ll ever hear in your life, because it puts you in that blissful state of mind.”19 The concept of focusing on the state of consciousness brought about because of the sound is characteristic of “some key pan-­ Indian concepts about the nature of scriptural sound.” The Sikh perception of the “Guru Granth Sahib as Naad (the Divine Word), an embodiment of the eternally sounding vibration which underlies all of existence” reflects the “the way Shruti (divinely revealed) scriptures—such as the Vedas—are viewed by many Hindus.”20 There is a sense that listening to the sound of Gurbani kirtan is transformative and is a way for Sikhs to connect to God. It is also an important way to connect with the global Sikh community. There is an important aspect of Sikh scripture performed in Gurbani kirtan that also makes it communal. Coming to the “door of the Guru” or the gurdwara to hear kirtan creates community that provides an experience of the sacred text different from the experience of reading scriptures in private. As Sikhs have moved to various places in the world they have taken kirtan with them and their practice resembles what happens on a daily basis at the Harmandir Sahib or Golden Temple in Amritsar. What impacted me most in visiting the Golden Temple was the way the word was so central to every aspect of the experience. A distinctive aspect of worship at the Darbar Sahib is the practice of “continuous musical performance of the Divine Word.”21 The Guru Granth Sahib is the centerpiece within the temple and of the activities in and surrounding the temple. What was particularly noticeable at the Darbar Sahib was the ways in which the teachings of the Granth became visible in the actions of devotees. This lived “performance” of the Granth had the most profound influence on me.  Townsend, “Gurbani Kirtan,” 215.  Townsend, “Gurbani Kirtan,” 222. 21  Townsend, “The Darbar Sahib,” 438. 19 20

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Inside the Golden Temple and lining the marble pathways surrounding it, devotees were seated in prayer and meditation and noticeably engaged in reading their gutka prayer books and even accessing the Granth on their cell phones. Their interest in the word reflected a devotion I found enviable. I was not aware of any people around me flashing pictures or selfies with the building in the background. Instead there was a worshipful atmosphere both within and without that centered on the holy Word. I toured the Darbar Sahib with some friends who are also LDS.  I recorded some of our reactions to the visit so I could compare the ways we each experienced our inter-religious pilgrimage. One particular aspect of our visit stood out for all of us. It was the cleaning of the Harmandir Sahib at the end of the day. We happened to arrive late at night at the suggestion of our Sikh driver. This allowed us to watch as the Granth was ceremonially “put to bed” in the Takal and to see the reflection of the Golden Temple on the lake. We also witnessed the nightly cleaning of the temple. When the more official gurbani kirtan ended those who have the responsibility, or more correctly, the opportunity to clean, continue the kirtan singing. Although we didn’t understand the words being sung or even realize that these were words from the Guru Granth Sahib we did recognize the joy that was exuded in both the seva and the singing. One of my fellow guests articulated, The thing that impressed me about the experience in the Golden Temple was … at the end of the day they started cleaning everything. Polishing the brass, polishing the gold, polishing the silver on the doors, sweeping, everything; which is not totally unusual, but they did it with such joy and happiness, and zeal—like it was a privilege, like it was an honor to be asked to clean and polish and I try to relate that to personal experiences with cleaning the LDS temples in Salt Lake and Houston where we’ve lived because we quite often have assignments to go and do that from time to time. I remember how difficult it was to get volunteers to go to the temple and clean and polish, and there just seemed to be different attitude about that task. In Utah it seemed like it was a task, an assignment. What I saw at the temple was an attitude of what an honor to be asked to do this. For some of these people it may be the high point of their life—they cleaned the temple. I even saw a woman who was using her scarf to polish.22

22  William Black, oral history, interview by Taunalyn Rutherford, April 25, 2014, Amritsar, India, notes in possession of author.

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I wonder if the difference in the reactions to cleaning the temple that this man observed in Sikhism and Mormonism stemmed from a lack of ­internalization of the principle of service to god. One really should not need a lengthy sermon, or hours of reading various scriptural verses to understand that the ethos of scripture is to learn to love and serve god. I also wonder if the singing of kirtan by these Sikhs who were cleaning aided in making the work more of a joy. The atmosphere at the Darbar Sahib made me wonder if sometimes my Western, Enlightenment mindset, so focused on hermeneutics and exegesis, sometimes misses the point of scripture reading—transformation. If I’m not striving to bring my actions in harmony with the words I read in my daily devotional reading of the scriptures, I’m completely missing the point of the Word. As Sikh scholar Nikky-Guninder Kaur Singh argues, “While our world is getting to be a smaller place, we are apprehensive of losing our self, losing our ‘identity’. So instead of opening ourselves up and appreciating others, we are becoming more narrow and insular.” She also cautions that we are increasingly “threatened by each other’s religions.”23 Kaur Singh suggests an antidote to this apprehension: “It is simply a matter of reading scriptures from across religions.” She feels that because “scriptures are the quintessence of every religion” and because they “provide kaleidoscopic glimpses into the beyond, and simultaneously provide ethical models for living here on earth” they have the possibility to “help build bridges of understanding.”24 I have experienced the thrill when someone, not of my tradition, makes an effort to seriously read and understand a Mormon scriptural text. Regardless of whether they are convinced of scriptural truth claims, it is affirming to have someone take seriously that which is the center of your faith. As I have tried to approach the Sikh Guru Granth Sahib seriously and with holy envy, I have found bridges of understanding. Not only to my Sikh friends, but greater understanding of my own tradition. Seeing the relationship that Sikhs have to their sacred practice, text and temple have increased my understanding of my own relationship to scripture better and given me resources and new ways to enhance my own devotional and academic reading.

23  Nikky-Guninder Kaur Singh “The Guru Granth Sahib: A Global Reservoir” in Sikhism in Global Context, edited by Pashura Singh (New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2011), 41. 24  Ibid.

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Bibliography Blumberg, Antonia. 2015. Sikhs Serve Thousands Free Lunch at Utah Conference to Demonstrate Equality. The Huffington Post, October 17. http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/sikh-langar-parliament-of-world-religions_us_5622c6 1be4b02f6a900c9e68. Accessed 19 Oct 2017. Cole, Owen. 2004. Understanding Sikhism. Edinburgh: Dunedin Academic Press. Eck, Diana L. 2012. In Sikhs’ View, There Is No Stranger. Dallas Morning News, August 9. Molloy, Michael. 2013. Experiencing the World’s Religions: Tradition, Challenge, and Change. 6th ed. New York: McGraw-Hill. Nijhawan, Michael. 2006. Dhadi Darbar: Religion, Violence, and the Performance of Sikh History. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Rutherford, Taunalyn. 2016. Studying Sikhs and Meeting Mormons: A Comparative Study of Women in Two of the Newest World Religions. In Sikh Formations: Religion, Culture, Theory. Taylor and Francis Online, November 24. Singh, Nikky-Guninder Kaur. 2011. Sikhism: An Introduction. New  York: I.B. Tauris. ———. 2012. The Guru Granth Sahib: A Global Reservoir. In Sikhism in Global Context, ed. Pashura Singh. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. Townsend, Charles M. 2012. Gurbani Kirtan and the Performance of Sikh Identity in California. In Sikhism in Global Context. New Delhi: Oxford University Press. ———. 2014. The Darbar Sahib. In The Oxford Handbook of Sikh Studies, ed. Pashaura Singh and Louis E. Fenech. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Index1

A Abraham, G., 27, 28n27, 40, 43, 44, 46, 72, 130 Abrahamic, vi, vii, 50, 72, 93, 94 Acosmism, 102 Advaita, 99, 100, 102–104, 113 Afterlife, 15, 86 Agape, xii, 7, 83, 117, 122–124 Ahimsa, 132, 133 Anatman, 119 Ancestors, 9, 18, 53, 130 Anthropology, vi, 91 Antichrist, 31 Apologetics, 4, 4n9 Atheist, 19, 20, 23, 163, 164 Attachment, 14n3, 104, 149, 150, 163

Bhagavad Gita, 59, 59n25, 59n27, 60n28, 60n31, 93 Bible, 4, 4n9, 20, 26–28, 47, 120, 122, 123, 129, 129n43 Bodhisattva, 98, 102, 141 Body, xxii, 2, 5, 53, 54, 58–63, 65, 74, 82, 84, 85, 90, 100, 103, 104, 119, 130, 146, 157, 161, 163–166 Brahman, 58, 59n25, 99, 101, 102, 105–107, 105n14, 113, 114, 119 Buddhahood, 141, 148 Buddhism, xix, 4, 6, 7, 26, 32, 99, 117, 138, 157–160, 163–165 Buddhist, xiii, 6, 7, 53, 97, 117, 119, 120, 127, 128, 132, 133, 138, 141, 142, 144, 147, 149, 152, 155–168

B Beautiful, x, xix, 3, 4, 57, 75, 140, 173, 177 Beauty, xiii, xxiii, xxv, 3, 138, 159, 177

C Catholic, viii, ix, xiv, xv, 5, 130, 161–163, 166 Chinese, xxv, 8, 9, 9n15, 142, 145

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes..

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INDEX

Christ, xvii–xxiii, xxxv, 25, 55, 79, 120, 128–130, 137, 169, 174 Christian, vi–xvii, xxi–xxiii, 2n3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 14n3, 15, 17, 18, 21, 24–33, 24n22, 38, 44, 53, 55, 55n5, 57, 58, 65, 70, 71, 73, 75–77, 79, 80, 90–93, 117–134, 137, 151, 155, 169, 172, 174, 176 Christianity, vn1, vii–xi, xiin28, xvi, xixn52, xxii, xxxv, 2n3, 7, 13, 15, 23, 29–32, 43, 46, 57, 65, 71, 73, 76, 77, 93, 117–121, 118n1, 127, 128, 130, 131, 133, 164, 171n4 Church, vii–ix, xii, xiin28, xiv–xvii, xx–xxii, 3, 17, 24n22, 27, 54–57, 55n5, 55n6, 56n13, 63–65, 120, 130, 137, 169, 170n2, 171n5 Community, xi, xiv, xvi, xix, xxi, 3, 8, 15–23, 26, 33, 34, 38, 62, 64, 65, 158, 160, 161, 165, 167, 170, 172, 173, 175, 177 Compassion, vi, xv, 7, 40, 48, 117, 122, 123, 132, 140, 141, 144, 146, 149–151, 165, 166 Consciousness, 14n3, 65, 97, 100, 104–106, 111–114, 119, 173n9, 177 Contemplation, 50 Cosmology, 48, 77, 82, 86, 99–101 D Dance, xxi, 8, 9, 83, 164, 165, 167 Dao, 9 Daoism, 9–11 Death, xiin28, xxxv, 33, 55, 58, 60, 63, 81, 83–85, 103, 119, 125, 127, 139, 145, 155, 156 Deism, 20 Democracy, 21, 31 Devotion, xiii, xix, 8, 98, 143, 147, 158, 170, 171, 173n9, 175, 178 Dhammapada, 123n5, 123n7

Dharma, 8, 58, 59n25, 60, 64, 65, 74, 77, 108, 113, 141, 143, 144, 160, 164–167 Dialogue, 6 Divine, xiv, xviii, 5, 8, 9, 20, 21, 32, 39, 40, 42–45, 48–50, 60–62, 64, 65, 77, 79–81, 89, 106, 107n19, 114n34, 120, 127, 128, 131, 134, 134n53, 173, 177 Dying, 155, 156 E Earth, vi, xv–xvii, 1, 7, 41, 43, 46, 48, 58, 77, 78, 81–86, 124, 127, 166, 179 Ecological, xxii, 117, 131–134 Embodiment, 141, 173, 177 Enlightenment, xxiii, 7, 21, 26, 119, 138, 140, 141, 143, 148, 151, 167, 179 Equality, 19, 56, 172 European, 2n3, 7, 27, 70, 73–75, 87–91 Evil, ix, 15n3, 55, 118, 123–126, 123n8, 147–149 F Father, xvi, xviii, xixn52, xxi, 1, 2, 16n8, 57, 73, 78, 81, 121, 123, 124, 130, 134 G Gender, 5, 53, 90 Goddesses, 70, 76 God(s), 4, 17, 39, 55, 107n19, 119, 127, 128, 142, 156, 173, 175, 177 Grace, 6, 7, 39, 47, 97, 128–131, 138, 166 Gratitude, xix, 131, 146, 151, 161 Gurdwara, 169, 171, 173–177

 INDEX    

H Hadith, 45, 46 Harmony, 9, 58, 179 Heathen, 6, 6n11, 69–76, 69n1, 93, 94 Heathenism, 4 Heaven, xvi, xviii, xxii, 9, 9n15, 18, 41, 43, 82, 124, 126 Hebrew, 20, 27, 28, 120, 122, 123 Hel, 81, 82 Hell, 82 Heretic, 20, 21 Hindu, 5, 6, 50, 97–114, 119, 121, 173, 173n9 Hinduism, 4, 6, 32, 53, 57, 69, 70, 73–75, 91–94, 117–119, 119n2, 127, 132, 173n9 Holocaust, 15n5, 19, 22, 23 Hospitality, 58, 62, 157, 172 Humanity, viii, xi, xvii, xxiii, 9, 17, 38, 43, 76, 125, 128, 131, 143 Humility, xv, 7, 11, 138, 147 I Identity, vii, viii, xiin28, xxv, xxvi, 2n3, 4, 10, 14n3, 16, 19, 38n2, 43, 91, 103, 106, 109, 110, 120, 166, 170, 171, 175, 179 Impermanence, 165 Interfaith, xxv, xxvi, 6, 38, 48, 69, 93–94, 161, 163 Interreligious, viii, xxi, xxii, xxv, 3, 3n4, 4, 7, 11, 16, 17, 19, 25, 26, 29, 30, 38 Intolerance, 17 Isaac, ix, 21, 22n18, 27, 28n26, 130 Islamophobia, 24 Israel, ix, xv, xvi, 19, 120–122, 127, 174 Israelite, 28, 32, 33, 117, 118, 118n1, 120

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J Japanese, 7, 53, 90, 91, 138, 144 Jerusalem, xiin28, 3, 21, 122 Jesus, 3, 13, 14n3, 16–23, 16n8, 24n22, 25–34, 27n24, 40, 120, 164, 169, 174 Jewish, vii, ix, xii, xiv, xv, 2, 2n2, 4, 5, 7–10, 13, 14n3, 16–23, 16n8, 24n22, 25–34, 27n24, 44, 118n1, 157, 163 Jews, vii, ix, x, xii, xiii, xv, xvii, 2, 5, 8, 9, 14–16, 14–15n3, 16n8, 18–24, 24n22, 26–28, 30, 32, 33, 38, 118n1, 127, 128 Judaism, vi, ix, xi, xii, xxiii, 2, 2n3, 4, 9, 14n3, 15, 19, 21–23, 24n22, 25, 28, 30, 33, 43, 46, 93, 118n1, 120, 131 Justice, xv, xxii, xxiii, 19, 48, 57, 64, 65, 74, 77, 120 K Karma, 58, 59n25, 75, 93, 99, 101, 105, 113, 118, 119, 139, 149, 152 Khalsa, 8, 170, 171 Kolam, 5, 53, 61, 62 L Liberation, xxii, 6, 7, 58, 58n18, 59n25, 60, 64, 98–102, 101n6, 104, 105, 107, 111–113, 147, 150 Loki, 78, 83, 86 Lutheranism, 4 M Marginalized, xxiii, 10, 64, 93, 123, 129 Mary, 5, 44, 54–57, 55n6, 63

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Meditation, 97, 98, 101, 114, 138, 140, 143, 145, 158–161, 165, 166, 178 Messenger, xviii, 42, 44, 167, 175 Metaphysical, 39, 40, 163 Metaphysics, 44, 48, 49, 51, 98, 100, 108, 111 Mindfulness, 98, 114, 125, 160, 164 Monastic, 140, 143, 145 Monistic, 6 Monotheism, xvii, xviii, 121 Monotheistic, 92, 94, 119, 158 Mormon, 8, 169–179 Mormonism, 4, 169n1, 179 Moses, 20, 21, 21n17, 23, 26, 27, 40, 43, 44, 46 Mother, 1, 2, 16n8, 47, 55n6, 56, 57, 59, 63, 83, 117–121, 118n1, 123, 124, 127 Muhammad, xix, 16n8, 38, 39, 42–46, 48 Mujerista, 6 Multiculturalism, 92 Muslim, vii, xiii, 5, 24n22, 38, 39, 42–44, 47–49, 88, 173, 173n9 Mystical, 42, 76, 79, 88, 147, 173n9, 176 Myth, 27, 74, 82, 83, 89, 92 Mythology, 70, 73–75, 77, 81, 82, 86, 91–93 N Nature, xvn38, xix, 7, 9, 10, 21, 32, 44–46, 58n18, 79, 81, 84, 85, 100, 101, 103, 104, 106, 107, 111–114, 124, 131, 134n53, 138, 141, 142, 147, 148, 152, 158, 160, 165–167, 176, 177 Nembutsu, 7, 137–152 Nietzsche, 4, 13, 14n3, 16–23, 16n8, 24n22, 25–34, 27n24

Norn, 76, 86, 88, 89, 91 Norse, 6, 69–71, 75, 77–79, 79n18, 81, 82, 85, 86, 89–91, 93 O Odin, 70, 72, 74, 78, 80, 81, 83, 86, 88, 89 Omnipresent, 102 Ontological, 43, 106, 109 Ontology, 40, 98, 99, 111 P Pentecostal, xxn55, 164 Philosophy, 6, 15, 16, 18, 20–22, 53, 57, 74, 99, 101, 103, 107, 158 Pilgrimage, 8, 169, 170, 170n2, 178 Pluralism, viii, xxii, 17, 18, 19n12, 38, 38n2 Poem, 6, 8, 10, 10n20, 69–71, 73–78, 80, 82, 84–86, 90, 91, 167 Poet, 16n8, 78, 90, 167 Poetics, 70, 80, 175 Poetry, 72, 74, 76–78, 80, 88, 90, 164, 167, 173, 176 Polytheism, 6, 6n11, 69, 69n1, 72, 74 Polytheistic, 70, 71, 92–94, 119 Pope, 54, 56 Power, viiin11, 5, 9, 23, 24, 26, 34, 40, 44, 45, 47, 54, 60–65, 76–78, 105, 120, 122, 128, 129, 141, 144, 146–148, 150–152, 158, 159, 166, 177 Prayer, xix, 2, 7, 9, 120, 155, 171, 178 Presbyterianism, 4 Pride, 16n8, 29, 161, 174 Prophecy, 6, 43, 45, 50 Prophetic, 6, 38, 42, 43, 46, 50, 57, 69, 70, 89, 91, 159, 165 Protestant, ix, xv, 28, 130, 137 Providence, 8, 20

 INDEX    

R Rabbi, 2n3, 8, 16n8, 18–20, 23, 27, 126, 128, 162 Rabbinic, 20, 118n1, 120, 131 Rebirth, 58, 60, 99, 103, 139–141, 143, 144, 146, 149, 151, 152 Revelation, xxi, 21, 27, 42, 43, 107n19, 114n34 Ritual, 5, 9, 51, 72, 75, 89–91, 143, 147, 171n5 Rune, 73 S Sacramental, 6, 24n22, 54, 57, 63, 65, 134n53 Sacred, 6, 8, 18, 19, 29, 33, 38n2, 49, 53, 54, 57, 58n18, 64, 65, 85, 86, 127, 157, 169, 172, 175–177, 179 Sacrifice, 147, 161, 171, 174 Sainthood, 44–48 Salvation, xiv, xvii, 55, 128–131, 147, 174 Secular, xxv, 14–15n3, 21, 22, 171 Secularization, 19, 22, 98 Seeress, 70, 75, 76, 79, 81–83, 85, 86, 88, 89 Siddhartha, 117, 120–128, 132 Sikh, 8, 169 Sikhism, 4, 8, 169–173, 169n1, 170n2, 170n3, 173n9, 174n13, 175, 175n15, 176, 179 Sociology, 22 Soteriological, 6, 98–101, 107, 113 Soteriology, 99, 104, 113–114 Soul, 19, 47, 119, 125, 130, 158, 163 Stendhal, Krister, vii, 16, 17

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Subjectivity, 21, 50, 105, 159 Submission, 44, 55 Suffering, 31, 33, 57, 99–101, 100n3, 103, 121–123, 127–129, 132, 156, 161, 163 Sufi, 5, 38, 41–50, 173, 173n9 Sufism, 4, 42, 43, 45, 50 Sunni, 88 Symbol, 8, 32, 42, 44, 170, 170n2, 173 Synagogue, ix, 16n8, 122, 157 Syncretic, 76 T Talmud, 18, 18n11, 20n16, 22 Temple, 3, 8, 49, 118n1, 122, 127, 138, 169 Theodicy, 8, 9n13 Theological, v, vi, viii, viiin12, x, xiin28, xiii, xviii, xxi, 3, 6, 9, 14–15n3, 16–19, 19n12, 21, 24n22, 26, 30, 33, 34, 49, 63, 65, 75, 75n7, 76, 93, 118n1, 131, 163, 173 Theology, x, xiii, xixn52, xx, xxn55, xxi, xxiii, xxxv, 2n3, 3, 5, 6, 14n3, 16, 25, 25n23, 28, 30–34, 48, 53–65, 63n51, 70, 74, 92, 104–106, 127, 151n34 Theophanic, 39, 49 Thor, 70, 72, 73, 75, 77 Tolerance, 17, 18, 38n2 Toleration, 5, 18, 39 Torah, 9, 16n8, 20, 28, 49, 123, 129 Transmigratory, 99–101, 100n3, 103, 105, 119, 140 U Universalism, 5, 22, 39 Upanishads, 50, 58, 58n18, 99, 106

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INDEX

V Violence, vii, viin8, 15, 17, 23, 24n22, 62, 84, 132 Vipassana, 138, 160 Virtue, 3n4, 4, 5, 7, 38–51, 38n2, 38n3, 49n18, 119, 122, 132, 151, 171 Vocation, 10, 56, 57 W Water, 10, 10n20, 47, 84, 85, 113, 126, 142, 143, 146, 166

Worship, xiin28, xix, 5, 8, 39, 54, 60, 71, 126, 157, 169, 172–178 Wyrd, 75, 93 Y Yggdrasill, 86 Z Zen, 4, 138, 143, 157, 167 Zionism, 23 Zoroastrian, 50